Where to begin?
Of course, with James Cameron and his kiss. Isla sighed, threading two ends of the linen together, tucking her father’s hand inside.
Why had she allowed it? Why had she enjoyed it? Had she proven the general assumption about her true? Did James Cameron know what these closeminded villagers thought of her? Is that why he’d dared to kiss her in the first place?
The quiet of the night was broken. Loud voices came from down the lane. Isla frowned but continued sewing. She recognized the high pitched speech of her brother, though it sounded higher, slurred even. Her frown only deepened. Drunkards she well recognized. Was even now sewing a shroud around the best of them.
The door crashed open. Isla lifted her eyes to find Gavin’s limp arm slung around the shoulder of none other than James Cameron. That man had the good grace to stop suddenly, seeing what Isla was about, had the decency to appear somewhat embarrassed for either the interruption or for her brother’s unseemly behavior.
Isla continued sewing, putting her eyes back to her task.
“I found him passed out in the stables.”
“I was only sleeping, Cameron,” Gavin slurred with greater volume than this hour or this house required.
“You can drop him in da’s bed.” She’d replaced the straw and linens earlier, after she and Gavin had moved the body onto the table. “There’s a bonus for you if you manage to drop him on his head.” A quick glance up showed James Cameron trying not to smirk at this, as there was still a dead body on the family’s table.
With great effort to ignore how he seemed to fill the small cottage with so much more than just his size, Isla stole glances as he maneuvered her brother toward the end of the room. Gavin continued to blabber. He gripped the tunic of the Cameron son, chirped something Isla could not make out. James untangled his fingers and told him sternly that was enough, he needed to settle, or he’d throw him out in the street. Her brother giggled. Isla rolled her eyes.
And then James Cameron was standing before her, next to the precious candle at the end of the table.
“Lass, you should no be doing this yourself.”
“I should not.” She thought James Cameron had indeed not imbibed as her brother had, maybe not at all. “Where did he come by so much ale?”
He shrugged. “I’m no sure. He wasn’t the only one disturbing the stables, though.”
More slurred mumbling came from the bed.
“Is this to be his life now? This is what a soldier does?” She didn’t mind that her voice sounded shrill, even to her own ears. Until she thought, keep going and you’ll be just like the one you’re shrouding.
“This is always unacceptable behavior. He’ll no be given a pass because his father has died.”
Tears came, she knew not why—for no reason at all, or for everything. Her throat closed up, but she choked back the self-pity. One hot tear rolled down her cheek.
“Lass...” He started to step around the table.
“Please leave,” she croaked. He hesitated. “Please.”
Her fingers kept moving, though she’d have to remove all these last seams and redo them. He was still for a long time. Isla struggled not to look up at him. She didn’t want to see pity in his gaze.
“Good night, Isla Gordon.”
He left and Isla breathed again.
JAMES STOOD IN THE tiny churchyard, icy winter rain pelting his face, his eyes on Isla Gordon, who stood with her head bowed while the rheumy-eyed little priest rushed through the funeral rites. Bloody rain.
“A soul has fled the body. This is the will of the Father....”
The linen wimple was gone, James noticed. While the hood of the cloak hung loosely over her head, strands of her hair, dampened and darkened by the discourteous rain, scampered free on one side of her face, and draped down onto her chest. She’d barely met his gaze today, had quickly hidden her surprise at his coming. He’d spent several minutes after that wondering if her pursed lips were a result of his presence, or the lack of so many others. Aside from himself and Isla and Gavin there were only three other mourners as part of the funeral cortege, so that he was relieved that he’d thought to come down in a cart, having some last minute idea that they wouldn’t have had their own conveyance to transfer the body from the cottage to the cemetery.
Gavin stood solemnly at his sister’s side, his glumness likely doubled by the effects of his hangover. Served him right. The lad would be a fine soldier one day, but there was much work to be done with his insolence and the stubbornness, which surely must be a familial trait.
When the paternoster had been recited, the priest clamped shut his prayer book and murmured something to Isla, which had her nodding politely, though her glassy eyes hinted at a detachment.
Gavin turned to leave, to follow the priest out of the rain. James grabbed his arm, disappointed with the lad’s complete disregard for his sister.
“You report to Callum, lad,” he said firmly. “You’ve to compensate for your excess and poor behavior last night.”
The lad looked as if he might argue. James lifted a brow at him, dared him. With a tightening of his mouth, reminiscent of his sister, Gavin shook off James’s hand and stalked away.
James glanced around, wondered if Gordy Cameron was only in attendance to gain the notice of the lovely Isla. The lad twisted a hat in his hands, while his bare head took all the drenching rain, and his eyes dogged Isla though she’d yet to retreat, only stared down at the shrouded but soaked body of her father.
James went to her side, touched his hand to her elbow. She did not startle or pull away, but then neither did she look at him.
“Very kind of you to be present, sir.”
“Come up to the keep, Isla. Lady Cameron would have a word with you.” Now she turned to him, lifted tired eyes, which somehow still managed to mesmerize him. She nodded and James guided her to the cart.
She said not a word on the short drive up to the keep, and James allowed her the silence.
Inside the hall, she flipped down the folds of her hood. For only the second time, James was treated to the sight of her glorious hair, rich and lustrous. She tucked the stray strands behind her ears. He swallowed and led her up the stairs, into the solar, where his mother waited.
Lady Isobel Cameron rose from her chair and came forward to greet Isla, her hands extended. With some reticence, Isla lifted her hands and they were clasped by the older woman. They stood head to head, being the same height, though Lady Cameron’s quality burgundy gown of velvet contrasted sharply with Isla’s usual drab gray.
“Such wretched weather,” Lady Cameron bemoaned. “You poor dear. I offer condolences. “Tis hard to lose the second parent.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Come, sit.”
Isla settled herself into a carved wooden chair. Lady Cameron turned to James. “Thank you, James. And please excuse us.”
He hadn’t expected that, had just settled against the wall near the door. With a bit of annoyance, he sent one more studying glance at Isla, who continued for the most part, to ignore him. Nodding, James left the ladies to their discussion.
ISLA WAITED NERVOUSLY for the woman to reveal the reason for this invitation. She’d met her before, was now quickly reminded of her very orderly and efficient means of conversation. Was impressed once again by the lady’s regal demeanor, which was made lovelier by her kindness.
Isla glanced quickly around the room. While it was not overlarge, the high ceilings made it seem so. Isla had once heard her mother use the word sumptuous. She’d thought it an odd sounding word, had asked her mother its meaning. “Extravagant. Grand,” her mam had said, and had laughed. “Something that looks and feels costly.” Taking in all the trappings here—tapestries, embroidered pillows, the amazing woven rug of burgundy, pink, and blue upon the stone floor—Isla deemed this chamber sumptuous.
Lady Cameron reached across the distance between their chairs and patted the wet fabric of Isla’s cloak at h
er knee. “My dear, truly I am sorry for your loss. You are too young to be left alone. Now James had intimated that your brother—Gavin, yes?—will be received fully into the army. That will take all pressure off you to see to his well-being in addition to your own.”
“But, my lady—in no way do I want to sound ungrateful—but, I would feel better if Gavin remained with me,” Isla dared to say.
Lady Cameron was unperturbed by Isla’s dissent. “No doubt you would, my dear. But you know as well as I, even the two of you together cannot manage the lease, the planting and such. It should be sold to Robert. And Gavin will be settled. And you shall have a position here at the keep, which of course will include rooms. I don’t suppose you have kin within the village?”
“There is no shared kinship, my lady. None at all.”
Lady Cameron fixed Isla with a sympathetic smile. “They are a tough lot, are they not?”
Isla offered only a noncommittal shrug, a bit deflected by the woman’s offer of employment, which both intrigued and frightened Isla.
“You are very kind to concern yourself with my well-being, my lady—”
“Think nothing of it, lass. It is my duty.”
“—but I’ve accepted an arrangement with Edine.” Of course, she had done no such thing. But she understood two things just now: one, with Gavin’s situation settled, she would be beholden, answerable to no one and this fascinated her immensely; and two, she knew without a doubt that her own best interests would insist that she not be in such close proximity to James Cameron. Isla Gordon lived a very simple life, wasn’t sure that she’d ever dreamed of being anything; peasants hadn’t the luxury of dreams. But she was quite sure she had never aspired to be a laird’s whore.
Lady Cameron seemed taken aback by this. “I was not aware....”
Isla smiled at her, for truly she was a lovely lady. “It was Edine’s suggestion. She was aware of father’s...coming demise and is, herself, in need of assistance.” It was not her place to mention that Edine had hinted that she, too, was unwell.
“I see. And this appeals to you?”
“I dinna ken, my lady, but I am charmed by the prospect.”
Lady Cameron considered Isla thoughtfully, eventually cast a kind smile upon her. “That is all we can hope for just now, then.”
Chapter 7
Gavin was quickly removed to the soldiers’ barracks within the walls of the castle, taking what few possessions he might. Isla was saddened by his disinterest in her circumstance though once he’d departed with nary more than a wave, as if he’d see her later in the day, Isla passed it off as a condition of his age, he thought only of himself.
She spent the day after the funeral still at the cottage, while some nostalgic emotion surprised her with wanting to stay. It was all she had ever known. She’d lived all her twenty years in this one room. By mid-afternoon, however, having no one to cook for, as the loaves Gavin had fetched this morning—still three, per Frances’s kind heart—were more than she alone needed, Isla rolled up the three gowns she possessed, one being a relic of her mother, showing its age as her precious mam was gone now more than ten years. She had only two chemises and two pair hose, though dreamed of new ones to replace these scratched and torn and oft-repaired ones. Other than that, she imagined Edine had all the kitchen necessities and so would leave the pottery jugs and two kettles, only taking her favorite ladle, as a generous woodworker from the castle had carved and gifted it to Isla only last year. That utensil represented a rare kindness from someone in this village, and she did cherish it.
She slept one more night in the cottage, the very first time she’d ever slumbered upon the raised bed and in the morning, she rolled up her few belongings into the coverlet, tied the ends tight and slipped her arm under the top knot. She glanced around the room, thought it sad but then helpful that she had no memories to make the parting more sorrowful, and she left the cottage.
The day was cool and bright. Isla looked up and down the lane, saw only a few people about, none of whom she desired to give parting words, and turned right and headed away from Wolvesley. She’d only once ever been to Edine’s place, the very day her father had broken his leg, the beginning of the end for him. Then, she’d had only brief direction from Meg, “at the end of the lane, where the white birch tree lay on its side, turn right into the woods and walk as straight as you can, follow the ruts in the mud from Edine’s cart until the heath meadow—straight across there and look for the smoke from Edine’s chimney.”
When Isla reached the end of the road, near the fallen birch, whose bark was no longer so white, she heard a clamor behind her, back in the village proper. She turned to see only a party of soldiers riding through, Camerons in their brown and gray tabards, likely heading out to the practice field. She was too far to ascertain the faces of either her brother or James Cameron and when they disappeared behind the house nearest the castle, she went on her way, heading into the wood.
As she walked through the wood, Isla began to have second thoughts, felt a worry twist around her belly. What if Edine’s offer had only been a politeness? What if she had no aptitude for healing? What if—
A rider came. Isla spun around, hearing hoofbeats coming. Withdrawing the knife from her belt, she stepped off the bare trail where Edine regularly moved back and forth between home and village. She hadn’t seen anyone or anything but was taking no chances and hid behind a wide branched pine. The sound of a slow moving horse came closer. Isla’s heart thudded. She hated being fearful, hated more the helplessness she felt.
“Isla?” Came a call, not overloud, from the path. She recognized James Cameron’s voice, debated for several seconds whether to show herself or not. She would have to put off until later her reasons for this debate. He called again and Isla stepped out from behind the tree and back out onto the path, returning her knife to its sheath. James Cameron sat atop a great beast of a horse before her.
She looked up at him, wondered that he never was troubled by the cold; only his tartan plaid sheltered him, and nothing ever covered his head.
“I’m off to Edine’s,” she said when he seemed content only to stare at her, his piercing blue eyes so steady upon her person.
He nodded, considering this, and then the small satchel of her possessions.
“Come up, I’ll drive you.” He extended his large hand.
Clutching the satchel more tightly to herself, she refused him. “Thank you but I prefer to walk.” She cast a wary eye over the huge horse.
James Cameron then surprised her by dismounting and leading the apparently docile horse by the reins. Isla fell into step beside him then, wondering if he’d recognized that she wasn’t entirely at ease walking through the woods by herself.
“You sure this is what you want?” He asked. “’Tis a very lonely existence.”
Isla shrugged, hugging the satchel now with both hands against her belly and chest.
“I’d lived in that same house all my life, surrounded by all those people of the village, some so close I could spit from my front walk to reach the next, and I’ve never had friends, or been... welcome. I should think this would be a fine fit for me.”
“Why have you no friends?”
Because her father had made sure she didn’t. Because lasses whom she’d scampered around the village with in her youth were long since married and had families. Because people thought her a witch, she’d often enough heard, simply because of her eyes. Because she seemed to only attract the attention of men. “I’m no sure.”
He pointed out a large and protruding root, so that Isla was careful to step over it. “Where were you going just now?’
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?” Spilled out before she thought better of it.
He turned his head toward her, but Isla kept her eyes on the path. “I thought you’d like some company through the woods,” he said.
That was not the truth, not exactly. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but she was very s
ure she was correct. They walked for several minutes without a word exchanged.
“You dinna say much, do you?”
Now Isla looked up at him. Her brow crinkled. “Am I supposed to be saying ... much?”
He laughed at this, kicked a stone as he walked. “Lass, you’re a hard one to figure. I’m trying to ken you.”
Me? Whatever for? Oh, the kiss. It all made sense. Because she seemed to only attract the attention of men, even a laird’s son, it seemed.
“Your mother is very gracious,” she said, not because he’d accused her of being stingy with her words and she felt any need to rectify this, but because she was happier to lead and be able to deflect away from herself, if his intent was to have conversation.
“Aye, she is a great lady,” he agreed. “Comes from a family up north, met my father in Scone, when Alexander’s court lived there.”
“Have you ever been to court?”
“I have. ‘Tis no much more than overly dressed persons, each with secret agendas, who will as quickly stab you as they’d make a pact with you. Have you ever been outside Wolvesley?”
“I have no.”
“Have you no longing to see more? See everything?”
Isla shrugged. “Like what?”
James Cameron laughed and waved his hand across the air above him. “Just everything. Big cities, different people. The North Sea, so wide and large, there seems no end in sight. Castles so big Wolvesley might fit ten times in their yard. The standing stones on the isle—”
And Then He Loved Me (A Highlander Novella Book 1) Page 5
