Page 6 of Taming the Highland Misfits
“Mistress, anythin’ said between us will no’ go beyond these four walls,” Maura promised. “I swear. Sometimes we a’ need somebody tae talk tae, an’ I know ye have no’ many friends.”
“And no brothers or sisters,” Isla said sadly. “It must be wonderful to have all that love around you. I wish I had just one sister or brother, but after my mother died, I had no hope of ever having any.”
“Why did your father no’ marry again?” Maura asked curiously. “I always wondered about that.”
“I don’t know,” Isla replied, “but I am very glad, because whatever poor woman he married would have had her life ruined just as my mother did. My father is a monster, Maura, but I am sure you know that.”
“Aye, we a’ know tae keep away fae him, Mistress.” Maura nodded slowly. “Especially when he has a drink in him.”
“Has he ever laid a finger on you, Maura?” Isla asked.
“No, Mistress,” she answered, shaking her head vigorously.
“Thank God.” Isla breathed a sigh of relief. She realised that the bathwater was becoming cold, so she washed herself quickly and stood up to step out of the bath. She had no embarrassment about Maura seeing her naked, since there was no modesty between Mistress and maid.
Maura fetched a towel and began to dry her, stroking her delicate skin gently.
“Mmm…” Isla purred satisfied. “That feels wonderful, Maura,” she sighed gratefully as Maura dried her hair and wrapped her in her gown, tying the sash around Isla’s slender waist.
Isla sat down as Maura went to fetch her hair brush and began to brush her dark hair with long slow strokes that made her scalp tingle deliciously.
“Now, Mistress,” she said gently, “did ye want tae tell me any more?”
“Yes, Maura.” She nodded and took a deep breath. “My father wants me to marry Iain Crawford.”
Maura stopped brushing Isla’s hair in mid-stroke. Her eyes widened as they met Isla’s in the mirror, and her jaw dropped. She shook her head in denial. “No!” she cried. “No mistress! He cannae dae that. The man is a horrible smelly drunk. None o’ the women in the town want anythin’ tae dae wi’ him, even though ‘tis said he is filthy rich.”
“He can and he will,” Isla said angrily. “I am willing to wager he is making preparations as we speak, Maura. Once my father sets his mind to something, it takes a great deal to change it. This time he is absolutely determined, and will not be swayed. I am at my wit’s end.” She sighed deeply. “I cannot imagine—” she hesitated and blushed deeply, “sharing a bed with that man. He is foul.”
“I willnae disagree wi’ ye there, Mistress.” Maura’s voice was grim.
They were silent for a while since it seemed that there was nothing left to say. Isla’s fate was sealed.
Or so it seemed.
* * *
Finley was tired of this life. He had spent the whole of the previous day chopping firewood for his little house, not because he needed any more of it, but because it gave him something to do other than sit and think. After he had chopped enough of it, he dragged it home on a sledge and spent the rest of the afternoon unloading it.
He was ravenous, so he cooked himself one of the rabbits he had caught the previous day and ate every single part of it without stopping, washing it down with three cups of ale.
He built a fire, washed, and tidied the cottage, then he took out his knife and a small block of wood and began to carve it into the shape of an owl. He had taught himself woodcarving when he was a boy, and had loved it ever since. His little cottage was decorated with his handiwork; wooden animals, flowers, mushrooms and whatever other creature took his fancy, all fashioned by his skilful hands.
Finley worked until his fingers were too tired and sore to continue. He stretched and stood up to poke the fire, then paced restlessly for a while before he took out one of his stolen treasures; a bottle of one of the finest French wines he had ever heard of. He could not pronounce the name, but he knew enough about wine to realise that this was a superior vintage. He looked at it for a while, deciding whether or not to sample it. The bottle was full–he had found no reason at all to drink any of it since he had stolen it from its owner, but tonight he felt flat and depressed. So, he decided to treat himself.
He popped the cork and drank it straight from the bottle. He stoppered it again and put it away, then sighed. The hardest part of his day was the evening, when there was nothing to do but think.
Since the death of his mother, Finley had had good days and bad days; that is to say, some were nightmarish, and some were just about bearable, but he had never had a happy one. After Agnes McGill’s death his father had drunk himself to death, and all his brothers and sisters, who were older than he was, had dispersed to live lives of their own.
Finley’s life had taken another path.
His dreams that night had been full of images of his mother. Sometimes she was holding him and singing to him, but mostly she was lying in her coffin. Finley dreaded sleep as much as he needed it, but he managed, by sheer willpower, to force himself into a fitful slumber.
The next day he was awake in the twilight hour just before dawn, readying himself for the day. He donned a mask and hat to cover his face and head, and a stout leather doublet that would protect him from all but the sharpest of swords. His knee-length leather boots were weapons in themselves, since they were so thick and hard that they could inflict serious injury by either kicking or stamping on someone. He slipped a dagger into them and affixed his short broadsword to a belt around his waist.
His horse was a dark grey stallion called Duff, who could be bad-tempered with strangers but was fiercely loyal to his master. His size made him look terrifying, which was just as well, considering what Finley did for a living.
They rode out towards the main road into Inverblane, keeping under trees and in the shadows as much as they could. When they were near, but just out of sight of it, he met two other men, both masked and mounted as he was. They greeted him wordlessly with nods, and they waited in tense silence until they heard the sound of carriage wheels on the road.
