Was she frightened of him now?
18
Ida hung up her tools in the stable and gave Cotton one last pat on her neck. “Sleep well mah friend,” she whispered as the mare nudged her shoulder, looking for another carrot. Ida smiled and headed toward the cottage, glad to be done with her chores for the evening. The weather had turned bitterly cold and it felt like snow was in the air, meaning a brutal winter was approaching them. Ida much preferred the warmth of the summer over the cold any day, but at least the harsh weather would keep her uncle inside more. He had told her before that the cold weather caused his bones to ache and he couldn’t very well trudge through the snow for his ale.
Ida certainly wasn’t going to do it for him.
Pausing at the stable doorway, Ida could see the faint outline of the sparring ring in the distance, empty now that night was upon them. Earlier, she had watched Ian spar with one of his men and it had been something she had never witnessed before.
First of all, he had worn no shirt. While Ida knew that Ian was brawny under his clothing, his form had been on full display in the cold air. She hadn’t been the only lass watching from afar, noting the scars that dotted the Wallace laird’s bare chest. Ianhad been a warrior before he was a laird and it was apparent that he had not shied away from the fight.
While some might think that he wasn’t the fine specimen of a man with all his scars, Ida felt like it was a testament to all that he had overcome.
That, and she felt the tightening of her stomach while gazing at him, her cheeks becoming heated and her heart pounding in her chest.
But that wasn’t the only thing that had caught her attention. When Ian had vaulted over the fencing with ease, a sword in his hand, Ida knew she was about to see why he was labeled as a warrior.
He hadn’t disappointed her. Ian’s movements had been slow and deliberate but almost like he was dancing. For a large Scot, he moved with grace, his muscles straining under the thrusts as he faced his opponent.
When the sword sliced through his forearm, Ida gasped and moved away, holding her hand to her mouth. She couldn’t watch him any longer, but not because she was disgusted by his fighting.
Ida knew deep down in her heart that Ian meant more to her than she had realized.
With a sigh, Ida moved inside the cottage, the smell of their stew for dinner still heavy in the air. It was far too apparent to Ida that she had feelings for the laird. She cared about him, about his cause and everything Ian stood for.
It didn’t hurt that he was very handsome as well.
“Och, Ida do ye want the rest?”
Realizing she had been lost in her thoughts, Ida shook her head as she joined her uncle at the table, where their bowls still sat from earlier. Some nights, Ida received food from the keep but on others, like this evening, she preferred to make her own meal. The rabbit stew had been perfect to warm their insides onthis cold night, but no matter how much she enjoyed her fare, her heart still remained heavy at the decisions she had made. “Nay, ye eat it.”
Her uncle wasted no time grabbing the last bit from the iron pot, and ladling it into his bowl. Tonight, his eyes were mostly clear, but it pained him to go out in the cold which was the only reason he wasn’t drunk. Ida kept no spirits or ale in the cottage and if he wasn’t willing to go get it, then he had to go without.
She didn’t mind nights like these, reminding her of her uncle before his loss that had torn his life apart. “Uncle,” Ida began, her throat suddenly tight. “Do ye… do ye wish that they were still here?”
His spoon paused in his bowl and his rheumy eyes found hers. “Wot?”
“Yer family,” she prodded. He didn’t like to talk about them at all and why she was trying to get him to do so now Ida didn’t understand, but a part of her needed his answer for her own decision.
Uncle laid the spoon down, drawing in a sharp breath. “How can ye ask mah that lass?”
There was no anger in his voice, but more laced with the pain she knew he lived with every day.
Ida fiddled with her sleeve nervously. “I just wonder how different things would be if they were.” It might not change her path with her parents dying, but it would have his.
His jaw clenched under the heavy greying beard and his eyes flashed with anger. “Wot are ye doing lass?”
She didn’t want to anger him, but it was time for her to tell him about Ian. “I.. Laird Wallace.”
Her uncle’s fist came down on the table hard, rattling the bowls that were still present. “Donna say his name in mah house!”
“Why?” she shot back, feeling her own ire rise. “Because he’s a Wallace? Ye have done nothing tae even see if he is like the ones ye remember!”
“Because I donna have to!” her uncle fought back, his body trembling with anger and rage. “Tis was his da that killed mah son!”
Ida sat in stunned silence. “Wot?”
The fight seemed to leave her uncle and he slumped against the chair, looking everywhere but at her. “Aye lass. Tis was his da that cut down mah son in front of mah. Mah boy, he thought he could take on the laird and I couldna stop him.” He wiped a hand over his face. “The laird took pity on mah when I cried over mah son’s dead body, leaving mah in this hell that I call life.”
