Page 22 of Taming the Highland Misfits
Finley looked surprised for a moment, then his lip curled in disgust. “Aye, I dae—for my sins.” He almost spat the words out. “Filthy, fat, drunken lout! Why?” He stared at Isla, watching the sadness that appeared on her face and dreading what she was going to tell him.
“Because my father wants me to marry him,” she replied, looking at the floor as she shook her head slowly and covered her eyes with her hand. “I had to escape, Finley. I cannot stomach that man’s company for even a moment, and the thought that I might have to sleep with him—” she broke off and shuddered with disgust.
Finley hated Iain Crawford. He had always reminded Finley of the huge pink hog that he fattened up during the year to slaughter in the winter. Nobody liked Iain Crawford; even his father despised him, and he wondered what had motivated Robert Thomson to promise his daughter to such a disgusting creature. Something did not feel right. He had seen the man dozens of times, always drunk, and had nothing but contempt for him.
“Then ye did the right thing tae run away, Isla,” he told her approvingly. “He wouldnae have given ye a good life.”
“I was worried that you would be angry with me.” Isla was immensely relieved.
“Never!” Finley said vehemently. “He is a monster an’ I wouldnae wish him on any woman, Isla. ye had a lucky escape an’ I could never be angry at ye for that. An’ it is no’ my place tae tell ye what tae dae wi’ your life.”
Isla smiled at him warmly. He was so kind and accommodating, and she was thrilled to know that he understood what she was going through. He was the first man ever to do so.
Finlay lay in bed that night thinking about Alec Crawford, Iain’s father. He hated both of them, but he could say with certainty that he hated Alec more. He had never been able to prove it, but he felt sure Alec had had something to do with his mother’s death. It had been a long time since he had thought of the odious man, but Isla had brought him back into his mind again, and he could not get him out.
9
The next day, Isla felt so happy that she could have leapt up to touch the sun. Her problems were still with her, but somehow they seemed less of a burden. She felt light and free for the first time in a long while, and as she put on another of her new dresses, she knew the reason why. It was because of Finley; not just the man himself, but the little house, the garden, the carvings that he had made, and the warm, hospitable atmosphere he had created.
Here, she could be herself; he asked nothing of her, not even for her help around the house. Finley never criticised her, insulted her, or spoke negatively to her in any way, and he seemed to be a particularly contented person, comfortable within his own environment, and within himself. Isla wondered how he had achieved this, given the tragic death of his mother and father.
She herself had never really managed to overcome her mother’s passing; she still woke up from time to time and for the first few seconds after she opened her eyes expected her mother to be at home with her. The disappointment when she remembered her death often brought her to tears.
However, she told herself she would not think about that now. Now, as it was nearing midsummer, she would rejoice in the bright sunshine outside, her safety in the cosy cottage, and her kind and handsome host. It still seemed incredible to her that such good had emerged out of such evil.
Now she was feeling much better, and looking forward to another day of being with Finley, finishing the little sculpture she had started, and perhaps even cooking with him again. She was not fond of the idea of chopping onions again, but perhaps he could teach her how to do something with eggs; that should not tax her brain too much! She laughed at the thought.
Isla moved from the small bedroom into the kitchen and glanced around, looking for Finley, but there was no sign of him, even though she had expected to see him stirring porridge over the fire. His sleeping mat had been folded and stacked by the wall, and she suspected that he had likely gone out to use the privy or to fetch water. Her tummy was rumbling with hunger, so she thought that she might as well start cooking the porridge herself.
It would be another new experience, she thought, as she lit the fire, to add to the rest of the myriad of new things she had learned to do in the last few days. She began to hum a little tune to herself as she assembled the ingredients for the porridge, then realised she had no idea how to measure them. She had watched Finley of course, but he had merely tipped the water and grain into the pan and stirred it—there seemed to be no measuring at all. But then he had been doing it for years, she reminded herself, and she had never cooked before in her life.
For the first time ever, Isla felt a little angry with her mother for not teaching her how to cook, before she remembered that she had only been trying to protect her from the heat of the stove. What a pity her mother had not succeeded in protecting herself.
Suddenly Isla realised that her maudlin thoughts were about to sink her into a mire of self-pity, and she gave herself a mental shake. She wouldnotbe miserable—especially not on a day like this.
* * *
Finley had been outside collecting water from the burn that ran a few hundred yards away from the cottage and was walking back slowly, putting off the evil moment when he would have to see Isla again. He was tarrying because he did not want her to see the guilt he was feeling about the secret he had hidden—and was still hiding from her. As well as that, he could not wrest his thoughts away from what she had told him about her betrothal.
As he neared the cottage he saw her through the open door standing by the fire, the only stove he had. She was stirring something in a pot, and he could not help but smile. She looked so happy, so eager to please, and she was a joy to have around, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to say goodbye to her, and the thought saddened him profoundly.
Finley walked into the kitchen carrying a bucket of water in each hand, and Isla’s eyes widened in amazement as she saw him. She could not have carried even one of the buckets with both hands, but Finley made it look quite effortless. The muscles in his arms were bulging and straining as he put the buckets on the floor, and Isla thought it was that which was making him frown at her; he must be in pain.
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, but was taken aback when he gave her a terse, “Aye.”
Finley stepped over to the pot of porridge and looked into it, groaning as he saw the thick, lumpy mess. His first impulse was to take it out and feed it to the pig, but instead, he poured some water into it and stirred the porridge until it was smooth. “You should have waited for me,” he grumbled.
A little hurt by his abruptness, Isla answered, “I had no idea where you were. I was hungry, and I thought I would surprise you when you came back. I am sorry if I did wrong.” She turned away, but he caught her arm.
“I’m sorry Isla, I didnae get much sleep last night, so I am a wee bit crabbit this morning,” he said sheepishly.
“I forgive you.” She smiled, then her expression changed to one of concern. “You had a bad night’s sleep? Is something worrying you?”
For a second, Finley almost panicked as he tried to think of a suitable lie, and shook his head. “Just a headache.”
Isla was about to ask him if he had taken some willow bark tea, but something warned her not to, despite his apology. He still looked angry about something, and she judged it best to stay quiet and let him tell her what it was in his own time.
They ate their porridge in silence, and Isla did not raise her eyes from her bowl once. Something heavy and oppressive seemed to have settled over Finley; she had no idea what it was, but it worried her, and yet she could not bring herself to ask him because she was afraid of the answer.
