“Losh, Isla, I apologize for Alex an’ his big mouth. Him just comin’ out an’ saying that after yer faither left. I hope he did no’ embarrass ye?”
She shook her head. “Nay, Finlay. I was surprised, but ye must ken it would make me the happiest lass in the world if what Alex said was true.”
He ran one finger around the palm of her hand. “Aye, Isla, it is true. But I must set all the wrongs to rights afore we wed. I need me own gold because I am no’ the sort o’ man to take kindly to ridin’ on me wife’s apron strings.”
He kept looking at her soft, pink palm, tracing one finger over the lines on it as if he was a soothsayer, trying to read their futures in there. She was dying for another one of his rough, deep kisses, but it would have to wait for another day, another time. There was still so much to do.
“When do we sail back to Castle Dougal, Finlay?” Isla wanted to know.
He sighed. “I will take it as a sign that we are ready to go when three things happen: yer faither finishes makin’ me a new sword, all me men are healed and ready to travel back with me even if they cannae fight at the other side, and lastly, when we find some o’ that blasted gold that should be hidden here!”
He kissed the top of her head and then released her before standing up and walking to the doorway with her.
“I keep forgettin’ that ye are so young, Isla. Still, it was a brilliant idea ye had about the way those Northerners bury their valuables. I wish I could remember back to me schooling years, but me faither had me sleepin’ in the barracks just as soon as I could hold a sword. I had to learn me letters and calculations at night under the tutelage of an auld schoolmaster.”
Isla giggled. He had obviously conferenced with the quartermaster when she was down at the harbor because Finlay seemed to know where he was taking her. The smithy was unburned, the Dougal spies having discovered which buildings housed mercenaries and which ones housed villagers before the soldiers were ordered to set fire to the small harbor dwellings. Isla could hear her father already hard at work, recognizing the ringing and banging of the hammer on the anvil.
“Yer bedchamber an’ parlor are in here, lass,” Finlay said, guiding her inside and gesturing at the comfortable surroundings. “Don’ worry yer sweet head about the previous tenant. He has agreed to sleep over the smithy stables for the time being. I will see ye on the morrow.”
And with those words and one more kiss of her hand, the laird’s son walked inland to help his men search for burial mounds.
