Page 28 of Taming the Highland Misfits
The evening light was, at last, succumbing to the onset of night, and Isla knew that she had to try to get some rest, even though the possibility of sleep seemed distant at best. She trudged into the cottage and lit a lamp, then made sure that the shutters were properly secured before going to the door to lock it. That was when she saw the figure on the road walking towards the cottage. In the last of the dying light, she could see that it was a man, and a tall one at that. Could it be Finley? It had to be. Who else would be walking towards the cottage at this time of night but him? Isla’s heart leapt with joy and relief.
‘Thank God!’she thought.‘Thank God he is back safely.’She did not waste another second. “Finley! Finley!” she yelled, and began to run towards him. “Thank heaven you’re back!”
The man stopped and looked at her for a split second, but she was still far away, and it was now too dark to see his face. Isla was not prepared for what happened next. Suddenly the man turned and dived into the little thicket of trees that grew a few hundred yards away from the cottage and disappeared.
Isla kept running for a while, but when she came to the edge of the copse, she stopped. She could have followed the man in broad daylight, but just before midnight, there was nothing but impenetrable darkness between the trees, so thick and black that it might have been a solid mass.
Isla hugged herself, shivering. “Finley! Are you there?” she cried once more. There was no answering call from among the trees, so she tried one last time. “Finley! Come out!” She waited for another full minute but heard nothing but the hooting of owls and the skittering of small night creatures in the bushes, and eventually she turned away and began to make her way slowly back to the cottage.
Disappointment and misery grabbed hold of Isla’s heart and twisted it painfully; she had been so sure that the figure on the path was Finley, but if it had been, why had he run away? It did not make sense, but then nothing had made sense since he went away. The man had probably been a stranger who had lost his way, she realised. Nevertheless, she tried to cling to her last bit of hope; surely he had not abandoned her? No, she would not believe it. He was coming back. She had to believe it.
12
As she walked slowly back to the cottage, Isla felt something that she had not experienced in years; grief. Granted, it was not the painful, crushing kind that had assailed her after her mother’s death, but it hurt nevertheless. She wanted to be with Finley, and for a time there had seemed to be some glimmer of hope and happiness, but that was gone now, and she was alone.
When Isla went inside the house she slumped into a chair in front of the fireplace. It was a warm night, so she had not bothered to light it. Now it sat, forlorn, empty, scattered with grey ash, without its warm cheerful flames. Isla had always thought of fires as living things with a spirit of their own, and the fact that this one was unlit made her feel lonely.
‘It looks just the way I feel,’Isla thought,‘empty.’She sat and looked at it for a moment, then turned away, sighing. She stood up to fetch herself a glass of ale, then remembered that it had run out the day before; all she had now was water from the burn and some tea from the herbs that Finley had shown her in the forest. She was too tired and dispirited to make tea, however, so she checked the shutters on the windows once more and turned towards the bedroom. Then she saw that the door was ajar, and she frowned in puzzlement.
‘Wait,’she thought.‘I closed that door before I left.’Isla’s heartbeat began to race as she contemplated the possibility that the man who had run away from her might have run around the edge of the little wood and gained entry to the house.
She picked up her sharp carving tool and the poker from amongst the fire tools, then advanced slowly towards the bedroom door. “Come out, whoever you are!” she demanded. She was trying to sound as fierce as she could, but she could hear the quaver in her voice. “I am armed!”
Isla stood outside the room for another few minutes, then took a deep breath and pushed her shoulder against the door as hard as she could. It flew open with a bang and came to rest against the wall, shuddering on its hinges. She raised the poker and held up the carving tool as she confronted the large man standing beside the bed, then she dropped both of them. Isla sank onto the bed since her legs had refused to hold her up any more.
Looking back at her was Finley, but he was not the Finley she knew. This version of Finley McGill was holding a blood-smeared broadsword in one hand and a bloody cloth in the other, and his face wore a telltale expression of guilt. His clothes were smeared with more blood, as were his beard and the ends of his red-blond hair.
Isla froze for a moment, her eyes wide with horror. It was obvious that he had tried to wipe the sword clean, but she had interrupted him in the middle of his gory task. Now he stood, shamefaced, his gaze fixed on the floor to avoid meeting her eyes.
Isla stood up and backed away from him, trying to put the bedroom door between them, but Finley was faster, and his long arm reached over her shoulder to push it shut.
She was terrified and cowered away from him. He was so close to her now that she could smell the blood on his clothes, and see it glinting on the hairs of his beard. She swallowed, and then tears of sheer terror gathered in her eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged. “I promise to go and tell no one what I’ve seen.”
Immediately, Finley tried to grasp her by one of her upper arms to pull her towards him, but Isla pushed him away as hard as she could. He looked into her terrified eyes and dropped the sword, which landed with a metallic clatter on the floor. “Isla,” he said gently, “I am not goin’ tae hurt ye.” He pointed to the ground. “Pick up the sword an’ put it in the kitchen. I will wait here.”
“I havenae got any other weapons, an’ ye have nae need tae be afraid o’ me.” He spread his arms out wide to show her. This time, his eyes met hers fully, and she saw the truth in them.
Isla wanted to believe him, but this was either another man in Finley’s shape, or a completely different side of him. Of course, she knew it really was him, but he was so different! What had happened to him in the time that he had been away?
She reached for the sword with one hand, but kept her head tilted upwards so that her eyes did not leave him for a single second. The weapon was much heavier than she had thought it would be, but she managed to pick it up eventually. Then she got to her feet awkwardly and held it out in front of herself as she backed through the door, keeping it pointed at him the whole time.
When she reached the kitchen she opened one of the window shutters and threw the sword outside. She wondered for a moment if she should have kept hold of the weapon, but then thought better of it. It was too heavy for her to wield, especially in such a small space, and no doubt Finley could have disarmed her easily. She took a deep breath, then slowly turned around to see him watching her from the doorway.
They both stood stock still, and a tense silence developed between them, which lasted for a long minute as they stared at each other. Eventually, Finley took a step forwards, and Isla, who still had the poker pointing at him, took a step backwards.
Finley ran his hand back through his hair in a gesture of extreme agitation.
“Isla, I mean ye nae harm. Please believe me,” he said gently.
“How can I believe you when you come in here with a sword dripping with blood and blood all over your clothes?” Isla demanded. The poker was becoming too heavy for her to hold upright, so she pointed it to the floor, but still kept a wary eye on Finley.
He shook his head, seemingly lost for words for a moment. “Please put the poker down first, Isla,” he asked. “Then I will explain everythin’.”
Isla hesitated for a moment, then let the poker drop to the floor, where it fell with a clang. She waited until she saw Finley sit down, and then she did likewise, but she did not relax. Instead, she perched on the very end of the seat within arm’s length of the poker, tensed for action in case he made a sudden move to attack her.
Finley watched Isla as she sat staring warily at him as if he was a predator and she was his prey. He hated the terrified look in her eyes. Of all the women in the world, she was the last one he would ever have hurt; he had managed, little by little, to gain her trust, and now he had shattered it. He felt wretched as he looked at the fear in her eyes, and completely ashamed that he was the one who had put it there.
When he had seen her at the door of the house, silhouetted against the light of the lamp, he had felt a rush of joy, but a moment later, when she ran towards him calling his name, he had panicked and ran into the trees. He had seen that she was looking around for him and, taking advantage of her slowness, he had ducked into the cottage, hoping to have cleaned himself up before she saw him.
