Isla's Heart

Avoidance

Conall kept his distance from Isla for a fortnight, sensing he'd caused a divide between her and Catriona. Pleasing Lady Catriona in this situation seemed the best course of action and he treaded lightly on what he perceived to be shaky ground. Avoiding the little fire haired girl proved an easy task, for every time she caught hold of him approaching she'd become very intrigued by her sewing or a passing clan's member.

Once she'd even gone out of her way to engage Gills in a discussion of his travels. He was fairly certain she found the old man's company not to her liking and this only proved her shared desire to avoid contact with him. The fact that this epiphany caused his stomach to turn sourly gave him pause. The situation had grown far out of his control and he was uncertain of how to reign all the players back into a game he could understand.

Lady Catriona dogged his every move within the keep and only gave him peace when he was surveying the lands or helping villagers mend their huts and walls. There were times she was very pleasant, proving to be a skilled flirt and quick with a funny quip, but there was something just within her blue gaze that made him weary. He could not quite but his finger on the meaning behind the emptiness there but it often chilled him towards her. Perhaps, the one month wait he'd proposed at the behest of his father's steward had been a mistake? All the Lady Catriona might need to soften her brittle heart was a good romp in his bed.

With his stomach well full of a good meal and the thought of the Lady Catriona off doing whatever women did when they were alon, he sat heavily in a chair by the peaceful fire. The warmth soaked through his skin and warmed his tight muscles. Ah, but the day had been a long one. He'd never thought to find any activity as demanding as a good battle but the responsibility of Lochiel Keep was proving just as exhausting.

This day had brought a hunt to restore the keep's rations as well as the surrounding villager's stores. Something he was told his father had not done, instead letting them fend for their own lives. Slowly but surely he was gaining the respect of his clan and if this was all he ever accomplished in his life he would die a content man.

A sudden movement in his peripheral had him instinctually reaching for the sword that always hung at his hip. Isla stood there, pale and staring at the weapon. "I'm sorry, Lady Isla. I was resting and you caught me by surprise." He motioned to the seat across from him with a sweeping hand. "Please, sit. I've not had a chance to see how you've recovered from your tumble."

Her unusual eyes scanned the great hall, the burning torches reflecting brightly off their darkness. She returned her worried gaze to him, "Thank you milord but I'm very tired and wish to be abed." She touched her injured cheek bringing his attention to what looked like the welt marks of a handprint drawn upon her ivory skin. "I am healing well. The potion you gave me has eased the wound." She offered a small smile but fled his sight before he could waylay her.

Strange.

Before he'd felt her avoidance of him was due to embarrassment of their last encounter, but there had been fear in her sad eyes as she'd taken in the hall, as though she was afraid of being caught in conversation with him. Sighing heavily he leaned his tired head against the high backed chair he occupied. More likely she was in fear of him and the strange way he'd reacted to her the day she'd taken her spill. It had been an idiotic thing to do, dragging her up to his chambers that way. She must think him some kind of monster she'd only been saved from because her sister had come to her rescue. But then, they didn't seem to be an allied force of late.

Trouble! A bunch of trouble they all were. Mayhap the keep was as cursed as his father hoped.

Bitter old man!

The hall was quiet now, just the sound of the crackling fire bouncing off the cold stone walls. Loneliness was not an emotion Conall was intimate with. There'd always been something to keep him busy. Weapons to sharpen, battles to plan, and hard labor to be done. Sitting in repose now he felt so alone it left him uncomfortably empty. He missed the sound of rambunctious men milling around camp fires bragging about their latest battles or female conquests. Most of the men at the keep slept in the barracks and as such spent most of their time there. He visited nightly to take part in games and bets but they were not equals as they'd once been. He was their Laird, not a friend, even when he tried to act as one. He was probably mucking the whole thing up.

Closing his eyes he let his mind wander and blast him if it didn't take him back to holding the light as a feather Isla in his arms. He'd taken notice of her figure upon first meeting her, as most men did with any woman, but at the time she'd seemed mostly a child to him. Her head barely reached his shoulder and now after touching her he knew that her bones were just as delicate as they appeared. What he had missed that first meeting was the ample sway of her hips and fullness of her breasts that she kept hidden beneath oversized gowns. And what was she thinking always dressing in such drab gowns? She'd look beautiful in a deep blue or forest green.

Her skin would be smooth as the silks he'd sampled in France, he was sure of it. Would there be freckles in other places besides her pert nose? They grew on you the more you took notice of them. He scoffed at himself. She did not need the illusion of youth, she was barely out of the nursery. Sure, he'd already been through many a war by the same age, but that was different, he'd not been a sheltered maiden.

Though, he would say even with her nervous ways and uncertain feet there was a core of strength there, hiding in wait for when she'd need it most. When she'd cowered from him in fear but acceptance at the training fields, he knew she'd been sure he'd strike her. It had bothered him that she'd think such a thing of him, he'd never hurt a woman in his life. His strength and rage were saved for the field, but upon further rumination on it, he realized she'd merely done what was habit. Someone, and he would bet on her father, had struck her on many an occasion.

A sudden surge of rage spread through his languid body causing his hands to fist and his stomach to tighten as though preparing for battle. How dare a man attack someone no bigger than a child, and no more outspoken than a mouse? What could she have possibly done to deserve such punishment? He'd known her a small amount of time but he was certain her quiet ways and sad eyes were her standard manner. What was more, Lady Catriona seemed not to have any of the same afflictions. Even when he was notably annoyed with her she never cringed, or held her tongue for that matter. Oh no, she let her thoughts fly without much thought of consequences.

Jumping from his seated position he started pacing the floors once again. Fixating on these things would not help him do his duty. He was to marry Lady Catriona in a month's time and no amount of comparing the girls would change that. Lady Catriona may be... Difficult, but he was sure that once she became his wife he'd be able to bend her to his will. If not with his words than with his body.

Luckily he had no brother to fling her affection upon, she was stuck with him. He'd not let what happened between his parents happen to his union. He stopped his rapid pace as an image of taking the Lady Isla against the hall's hard walls flashed before him.

STOP! And inner voice warned loudly.

Once more he groaned and thought that trouble was upon them all.

Damn you Alasdair Cameron! Damn you!