Isla's Heart

The Journal

Isla sat silently by Conall's hearth fighting the images of Conall and Catriona that swam through her mind. They'd look beautiful together, as much as she hated to admit. Conall all bronzed taut perfection and Cat with her milky white skin and generous curves. Blonde elegance mixed with dark carnality.

Slapping her thighs she bounded from her seat and stomped around the room. He was off doing Lord knew what with her sister and he expected her to wait in his room like a pet. In a fit of temper she kicked the wall and yelped when pain shot up her leg. Still, it was better than the dealing with the nerves rattling her brain.

When pacing and kicking at whatever was unlucky enough to get in her way no longer kept her, she wandered towards one of the many chests that littered Conall's room. He'd left her here, had he not? Was she not entitled to look around?

Glancing at the door weighed her options ultimately choosing the chest furthest from the door. She'd obviously chose the correct chest as it was not filled with Conall's clothing, but instead trinkets and bound parchment.

She rummaged for awhile, touching and smiling at little keepsakes he'd collected from his travels. A patch of silk that held a piece of metal with French wording blazed on its surface. Several Gaelic crosses, fine jewelry with gems she'd never seen. Finally, her fingers traced along the heavy handed lettering.... Was it Conall's?

It was a journal, crudely put together, but Isla was mesmerized by its contents. She'd never learned to read but she'd always had a longing to do so. She wondered if these pages of finely crafted illiteration would lend her understanding of the man she'd grown to care for in such a short time? Often she felt as though he spent his days acting out whatever roll he thought he should be filling. Laird. Warrior.... Assassin. She'd seen him on more than one occasion rebuke an affectionate gesture from Gills, or ignore a complement given by a fellow clansman. Yet, she'd witnessed the gentleness he possessed just below his hard exterior.

How could he be so tender and yet so brutal?

He was not an artist, by any means, but she was enchanted by his drawings. Most were of camp life, she felt as though she could feel the atmosphere through his hard lines and shadows. Some, which she tried her best to ignore, were of the women that followed the men as they waged war. There was one in particular, with a sweet smile and messy hair, that he drew often. Nude. Always nude.

She slammed the book shut and hastily put it aside.

Enough of that.

Isla chose a different tomb, this one was tightly shut by buckles and had a carving of a wolf on the front. It was obvious someone had made it specifically for The Dark Wolf. A chill ran down her spine as she undid the buckles. The pages were covered in his handwriting, Isla hissed in frustration at her inability to make sense of the letters. But then she came upon a drawing of Alasdair. A younger Alasdair. It made her heart ache. Even in exile, Conall longed for the man that was not his father. There was also several drawings of Lochiel.

Sighing, Isla closed the book gently.

She'd heard on occasion Alasdair refer to Conall as a bastard. He'd always been well into his cups and she'd always assumed his brain was addled by drink. However, since coming to Lochiel she'd heard enough stories about the Cameron's sullied past to know he'd meant every word he'd ranted.

How could Conall's mother have done such a thing? Leaving a little boy to shoulder such pain and neglect? Conall should have been protected. A broken heart was no excuse for the price she'd made her son pay for her own mistakes.

Shaking, she thought about beating Alasdair and Moira Cameron about their selfish heads. They deserved to suffer for what they'd done to their sweet boy! It was no wonder Conall rejected love and affection. Never receiving love at such a young age made you weary of accepting it later in life. She related more than she cared to admit.

With Conall's exile explained, Alasdair's request that he return seem quite strange. Why would a man as proud and bitter as Alasdair bring home his bastard son.... Nephew? Why give him Castle Lochiel and the Cameron Clan? She was aware that all of Alasdair's brothers had died mysteriously over the years. There had always been whispers that Alasdair had done away with them as to keep everything for himself. Yet the Highlands had not yet full yielded to the English's tradition of handing property to an heir. Most clans still voted on a Chieftain.

The contract. All of it. Was very odd.

Thinking back to the last time Alasdair had visited her father's keep she tried to remember anything unusual he'd said or done. The first stages of his sickness had began and he'd appeared more subdued than usual. Rather than the active hunts he'd drag her father on in the past, they'd sat by the fire sharing drunken stories. She'd known better than to loiter nearby, but Catriona had often sat with them, refilling their glasses and encouraging their banter. Odd that she'd been so attentive. Isla had not thought on it before, but now it scraped along her nerves.

Gathering scattered belongings, quickly, she placed them back in Conall's chest and slammed the lid closed. There was something there, something she knew she should see clearly but could not. Pacing the room she ran through every day of Alasdair's last visit, every word she'd heard, every look she'd witnessed.

What was she missing?