Page 55 of Taming the Highland Misfits
They approached one of the guards, a red-headed, brown-eyed fellow who was almost as tall as Finley, and Isla spoke to him, as she and Finley had arranged between them. “May we speak to Laird Mullen, please?” she asked politely. “My name is Isla Thomson. He knows me.”
The big man looked curiously at Robert Thomson, frowning. “Who is your prisoner, Mistress Thomson?” he asked. “I need tae know the names o’ everybody that comes through the gate.”
“He is Robert Thomson, Isla’s father,” Finley answered gruffly. “He is a criminal, an’ we have brought him tae the Laird for justice.”
“In his capacity as a magistrate,” Isla clarified.
The guard went around the horse that was carrying Robert Thomson and looked at his face. They heard a feeble groan from the limp figure, and the guard opened the gate, looking grim. “He needs tae get down,” he said, concerned.
As soon as they were in the courtyard Finley slid Robert Thomson from the horse and laid him on the ground, while Isla called for water. She let him sip some from the cup that was brought, feeling guilty that she had caused him to suffer. It was no good telling herself that he deserved it; she knew he did, but she felt that by resorting to such cruelty she was bringing herself down to his level.
Finley took off the rope around his prisoner’s ankles, leaving his wrists bound, then pulled him to his feet. Thomson looked dazed, and the look he gave Finley was venomous; nevertheless, Finley pushed him ahead of him into the main entrance to the castle, where they waited to be shown into Laird Mullen’s presence.
They did not have to wait long before a maidservant came to escort them to Laird Mullen’s study. Her eyes widened at the sight of Thomson’s bound wrists, but she said nothing.
Laird Alasdair Mullen had been sitting behind his desk, but he stood up as they entered, frowning in a puzzled fashion as he saw the state of Robert Thomson. He was a tall, wiry man in his middle years with sandy hair, dark grey eyes, and an air of quiet authority about him. Isla had the feeling that people rarely disobeyed him.
He was staring at Isla’s father, who cut a rather pathetic figure as he shambled into the room. He was dirty and unkempt, his clothes were rumpled and his hair looked as if a bird had nested in it.
The Laird took his eyes off Robert Thomson and looked straight at her, recognising her for the first time. He half-smiled as he said: “Isla? Is that you? What is going on?”
Finley stepped forward and untied Thomson’s wrists, giving him a threatening look as he did so.
“M’Laird,” Isla said pleasantly, “it has been a long time since we saw each other last. I hope you are well. My father has a few confessions to make, and a lot of explaining to do, but first we will tell you why we are here.”
“Sit down, all of you,” the Laird invited. “We must all have some ale to wet our throats, since this looks like a long story.” His eyes were drawn back to Robert Thomson again. In truth, he had never liked the man; his intuition had always found something sneaky about him. However, he had never been able to put his finger on quite what it was, so he had carried on trading with him, keeping their interactions to the minimum.
Somehow, he was not surprised to find that he was involved in some shady dealings; what did shock him was that it was his daughter who had brought him in to hand him over.
Once the mulled ale had been served, the Laird sat back and sipped his for a moment, looking at each of them in turn. Since no one seemed to want to speak first, he said: “Isla, can you begin?”
Isla had held back, hoping that Finley would speak up, but Alasdair Mullen had never met him before, whereas he knew her. She took a deep breath and began her account.
It took a long time, and the Laird peppered her with questions to clarify various facts, but eventually, the whole story had been laid before him. He sat back for a few moments, thoughtfully sipping his ale as he digested what Isla had just told him.
Isla’s heart was beating nineteen to the dozen as she waited for him to speak. She had to restrain herself from screaming at him, and felt like standing up and shaking him, but she curbed her impatience.
Just as she thought Laird Mullen was never going to say a word, he spoke up. He addressed them all, even though he was looking straight at Robert Thomson. “I am not surprised at anything you said, Isla. Somehow I always knew something was going on in that tavern, and it does not surprise me one iota that your father was deeply involved in it. I have never liked this man.”
The Laird spoke as though Robert Thomson was not even in the room. “He is sneaky and cunning, and I always felt as though I had to look over my shoulder when I was with him. I never trusted him.” Then he shifted his gaze to Isla. “Thank you for telling me all this, Isla; now I can deal with the situation appropriately.”
“Can I not say anything in my own defence?” Thomson protested indignantly, his face red with rage.
“Of course you can,” the Laird answered reasonably. “There will be a trial and you may speak for yourself then, but until that time you will stay in my dungeon.” He held up his hand as Robert opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t worry, Robert. They are not evil-smelling and full of rats, as you have no doubt been led to believe, but you will not enjoy the creature comforts you are used to. I will see to it that you are well-fed and warm, and you will have blankets to keep you warm and one book to read, but you will be guarded and locked in.”
‘Which is much more than ye deserve,’Finley thought bitterly. However, he said nothing, merely glared at the sagging face of Robert Thomson, who was looking at the floor with an expression of dejection.
Looking at her father, Isla could not help relishing the surge of triumph inside her at the Laird’s words. She was not the only one who had seen the evil in her father; it clung to him like an odious smell, invisible but repugnant. Did everyone see and feel it, she wondered?
The Laird beckoned to one of the sturdy uniformed men who were standing outside the door to the study. “James, take this man downstairs and place him in the dungeons, in the cell farthest away from the gate, please. It is very quiet there, so there will be plenty of time for you to reflect on your sins, Robert.”
He turned around to his bookcase and selected a volume at random. “Ah! Very suitable!” His smile was wide and wicked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “‘A Commentary on the Gospel of St Matthew.’ This should make for riveting reading!”
He handed it to the guard, who took hold of Robert’s arm.
Robert Thomson cast a venomous glance at Finley. “I am not the only one who has sinned, McGill!” he spat, before he was led away.
Laird Mullen glanced at Finley before motioning them to sit down and have a glass of wine with him. Finley picked up the crystal glass carefully, unused to handling such delicate tableware. He took a sip of the fragrant wine, letting it wash over his tongue without really tasting it.
