Page 14 of Taming the Highland Misfits
The next day, Isla slept, and slept, and slept. Finley was concerned and went into the bedchamber several times to make sure she was still breathing. He was reassured to find that she was, but after almost a full day had elapsed, he began to wonder if something else apart from the bump on her head was making her sleep. Was this her body’s way of healing, or would she slip back into unconsciousness, never to wake up again?
He paced the floor for a long time, then went outside to bring in some firewood from the pile outside. He prepared dinner, which consisted that evening of rabbit stew, then peeked into the bedroom again, considering whether to wake her up or not.
He decided to wait, but his ears were pricked for any sound from the bedroom. For want of anything better to do, he picked up his carving knife and began to work on a piece of pine. He had no idea what he wanted to carve, but suddenly an idea came to him and he smiled in satisfaction, then began to cut into the wood.
A few hours later he finished his creation then sat back and looked at it with satisfaction; he was sure that it would do what he had designed it to. At that moment he heard a long moan coming from the bedroom. He dropped everything and rushed inside, to see the young woman standing beside the bed, wobbling on her feet as if she was about to collapse.
Finley strode over to her and put his arms around her, then helped her to sit down on the bed again before drawing the blankets over her. “Dinnae try tae get up yet, lass,” he told her. “Ye arenae ready yet. If ye need tae wash or anythin’, let me help ye. I am sorry, but ye are in nae condition tae help yourself.”
Isla nodded. She was only half aware of what he was saying, and all she knew was that her head was throbbing, likely due to the effects of the medicine wearing off.
“Can I have some more willow bark tea, please?” she asked, putting her hand on her forehead. Her head was throbbing, and even opening her eyes was painful.
“I will get ye some,” he told her. “Mind, I am no’ a trained healer, an’ although I know a wee bit, I cannae be sure that I am givin’ ye the right dose.” His voice was anxious. What if he gave her too much and killed her? After all, she had slept for a very long time, so perhaps he had already given her too big a dose.
“What you gave me yesterday was fine,” she replied. “I think I just needed to sleep. I’ll tell you what will help me, though.”
“Tell me,” Finley said instantly. “If it will help, I will dae it.”
“Tell me your name,” she said. “I need to know who is helping me so that I can thank him.”
Finley hesitated for a moment before he spoke slowly.
“My name is Finley. Finley McGill,” he told her at last, dropping his gaze from hers.
Isla stared at him, and at last, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Finley McGill—Finley the blacksmith’s apprentice whom she had adored as a young girl, who had abruptly disappeared from her life when she was around twelve years old. She remembered him as a strong youth, his muscles flexing as he hammered hot pieces of metal at the forge, sweat dripping from his forehead. She had known then that he would grow into a fine man, but not as fine as this. He was magnificent.
“Finley!” she cried joyfully. “I am so glad to see you! Do you not recognise me?”
He stood for a moment staring down at her. He still could not place her, yet those eyes looked so familiar.
“My name is Isla,” she told him. “Isla Thomson. Now do you remember me?”
Recognition slammed into him like a punch in the stomach. She was Isla Thomson, of course! This was the little girl he had not seen for ten years, the one who, in her innocent, childish way, had always loved him. How could he not have known? He should have known those warm brown eyes the first time he saw her, but it had been such a long time that he only remembered her as the girl she had once been.
She was not that girl any more, though. She had developed into a curvaceous, desirable woman whom any man would be proud to call his own.
He had been so stunned by her revelation that he had not said anything, and for a second he stared at her stupidly before he recovered his wits. He grinned broadly. “My God—wee Isla!” he marvelled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You have changed a wee bit since the last time I saw ye!” He let his gaze travel from her head to her toes and back again, then he leaned down and drew her into his arms for a fierce hug.
Isla sighed in pure contentment and let herself indulge in breathing in the earthy, unmistakable scent of his body. It brought back the delicious sensations she had felt before when she was watching him walking out of the room, and she felt the urge to pull him tighter and keep his body pressed to hers.
Finley moaned softly as he held Isla close to him, his senses suddenly afire for her. He felt his manhood stiffen, and his entire body heat up. If she had allowed him, there would have been nothing more he would like to have done than to take her right there and then in his bed.
Eventually, she drew away and smiled into his eyes. “I cannot believe it,” she said in wonder. “You are so tall—and so handsome!”
“Thank ye!” He felt embarrassed all of a sudden, since he was so unused to compliments. The only person who had ever praised him was his mother. “Isla—I never imagined the wee lassie that hung around the forge watchin’ me would ever grow up tae be sae lovely.”
They laughed, glad to be back in each other’s company again, before a sudden twinge of pain reminded Isla that her wound was still there and making itself felt again.
“Are ye sure ye trust me tae make the tea?” he asked doubtfully.
Isla smiled, nodded and squeezed his hand. “I do,” she replied, then watched him walking out of the room again. She put her hands up to her hair and realised what a tangled mess it was. She sighed, and once again tried to undo the knots with her fingers, but despite her best efforts, she achieved nothing and eventually gave up, growling in frustration.
When Finley came back into the room with her tea, he set it down on the table beside her and looked at her sympathetically. “I can help ye wi’ that,” he offered.
“Thank you,” she replied, smiling at him awkwardly. “But as I told you before, I prefer not to use other people’s combs and brushes.” She felt faintly annoyed that he had not remembered her wishes.
“Ye dinnae have tae,” he replied, before he went over to a cupboard in the corner of the room, opened the door, and took out a comb. He handed it to her, but she looked at it doubtfully. “Before ye ask, it isnae mine,” he told her.
