And Then He Loved Me (A Highlander Novella Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  The door opened again. Isla had returned.

  She carried her basket, as before, but now also held a stoneware mug in one hand and a jug in the other. She said not a word, but went right to the bedside, next to Lady Cameron, relieved herself of the basket and jug and set to feeding the contents of the mug to the earl.

  James felt eyes on him as he watched Isla work. He turned and found his mother staring at him, one brow lifted. With a roll of his eyes, he pressed a kiss to his father’s forehead and left the room.

  ISLA WATCHED JAMES walk out of the room, stared at the door after it had closed behind him before she caught herself and found Lady Cameron’s eyes on her.

  She fed all of the boiled mix of hemlock, henbane and opium to the earl. The dosage was small; she was not trying to speed up death, but she wanted it to be peaceful.

  Sometime later, when the earl’s breathing had regulated, Isla kept company with Lady Cameron while she maintained her vigil beside her husband of thirty-three years.

  “I am sorry that you will lose your husband, my lady,” Isla said, filling the silence with her ineffectual words.

  “I lost my husband the day the seizure, whatever it was, took him from me.”

  “All the same, ‘tis not easy when there is no hope.”

  Lady Cameron considered her. “Did you feel that way when your father passed, Isla?”

  She shook her head. “But I did when Edine died.” She missed her still.

  “Isla, did you know I had a daughter?”

  “I dinna, my lady.”

  “Her name was Marguerite. Oh, but she was a joy. She was nearly as beautiful as you.” Her smiled dipped a bit, turned into a pained grimace. But she continued, “She was the most joyful person, never a harsh word or mood. I’ve never known anyone like her.” Lady Cameron gave a little laugh, wiping at her watery eyes. “Honestly, I do not know where she came from. Maybe love does that—she was adored, by me and her father, by her brother, by everyone she met—maybe that’s what made her so joyful.”

  “What happened to Marguerite?”

  Lady Cameron’s shoulders fell under the heavy brocade of her gown. Her fingers glided over her fine skirts. “She was killed.”

  Isla said nothing, just waited.

  “Her father had arranged for her to be married to a baron in the south. She was sixteen. We gathered her trousseau, packed her trunks and sent her off to meet her husband. James accompanied her and Lord Cameron and I were to follow in a few days’ time.” She took a deep breath and said on the exhale, “Their party was attacked by English. James was only twelve. He tried. They all did. Only three survived, James being one of them. He held his sister as she died upon the road outside of Berwick. That’s all he’d ever told me. The captain, Stephen—he... he was half in love with Marguerite—hanged himself two days later. He couldn’t live with what he deemed his own failure.”

  A long silence stretched out before Isla whispered through her tight throat, “I am verra sorry, my lady.”

  Lady Cameron nodded, stared at the hands in her lap for a long time. “Life is not guaranteed. But you know that.” She raised her gray eyes to Isla. “Maybe more than some, or most.”

  “Does losing your husband have you thinking about your daughter?”

  Lady Cameron’s voice shook when she answered. “Not a day goes by that I do not think about Marguerite. But yes, more so today.” And she put her head in her hands and wept.

  Isla was filled with the woman’s despair. She gave no thought but jumped up and went to the woman, falling to her knees. She didn’t know how to comfort her, just laid her head in the woman’s lap and cried with her.

  After many long minutes, Lady Cameron had regained her composure. “Apologies, dear Isla.” She took Isla’s face in her hands. “You poor thing.”

  Isla shook her head. She was not the anguished one.

  Lady Cameron then shook her hands wildly, dispelling her grief. Isla smiled encouragingly. Lady Cameron let out a little chuckle and said, “Did you also know that there is a certain tale that circulates about Robert the Bruce’s mother? ‘Tis true, She was Marjorie, Countess of Carrick, and it is told that Robert de Brus, our king’s father, was sent to deliver the news to Marjorie of the death of her husband in the Holy Land. She grieved not long and found herself quite taken with the bearer of this sad news. Maybe Robert de Brus thought it unseemly to return the sentiment, as he was indeed a companion-in-arms to her deceased husband, but she would not be rejected. It’s said she actually held the man captive until he agreed to marry her, and well we know he did.”

  Isla was both aghast and humored by this. She tried to stifle the giggle, but the story was so ridiculous, the grieving woman’s timing was so wretched, that Isla could not stop the laughter. She covered her mouth, her eyes crinkling as she stared at Lady Cameron, who tittered herself until she allowed her own heartfelt and rousing laughter to fill the air. More tears came, but these were good natured, until Isla thought to ask, “But my lady, why do you tell so sad a tale and follow it with such an absurd one?”

  Lady Cameron touched Isla’s cheek again, gave her a mother’s warm grin. “Because, my dear, one is to remind you to live life now, there may be no tomorrow. And the other is to teach you that sometimes the things that we want, need to be, well, convinced, of the desire.”

  Isla hadn’t any idea what the latter referenced, but she thought immediately of James Cameron. She frowned and stared hard into Lady Cameron’s eyes, horrified at the incredulous thought that the man’s mother seemed to be telling Isla to kidnap him.

  THE SECOND EARL CAMERON died peacefully many hours later. James had long since returned to the chamber, had taken a chair at the end of the bed. Servants had several times brought food throughout the day and night. Isla had twice thought she should leave, had spoken this wish to leave them to their grief. Lady Cameron had insisted she stay.

  Lady Cameron wept softly when the moment finally came. She held her husband’s hand and promised they would meet again. She begged him to tell their daughter that she loved her and missed her terribly. James had only ducked his head, no sound accompanying his own weeping. Isla’s heart had broken. She wrestled with indecision before she rose and went to him, had knelt at his feet as she’d done earlier with his mother. She placed her hands on his large thighs. He covered her hand with his but never lifted his head. Soon after, the new earl Cameron, laird of Wolvesley and all Friock, left the room once again.

  Chapter 12

  James sought out Isla. He had some strange notion—he blamed his mother—that he should make Isla smile, that someone whom he now imagined had so much love to give, so much kindness should indeed smile more, should love life. He was going soft, maybe. He could not imagine what else might have driven him to this end. In the back of his mind, however, he knew he would leave in less than a month to join King Robert. And maybe his mother was right, maybe it would be good to have someone waiting for him so that he made sure he would come home.

  He saw her not in the village, saw no sign of the rickety old cart or Edine’s ancient nag. He directed his steed away from Wolvesley, over the muddy road of early spring.

  It had been a week since his father had died. The old earl’s funeral had been rather a spectacle, which he’d decided his father would have loved, always one to partake of a hearty meal and good company. He’d spoken only briefly to Isla, having thanked her for her care of his father and his mother. She’d been quiet and uncomfortable in the large crowd, her eyes darting around while people stared at them standing together for those short moments.

  As he gained the meadow, outside the trees, he saw first the plume of smoke rising from the chimney above her cottage. A good sign. He reached the cottage and dismounted, adjusting his tunic and sword, feeling much younger than his twenty-eight years, feeling both giddy and unnerved. He scolded himself for such weakness. Jesu, next he’d be wrapped in a cold sweat, his palms clammy.

  Fynn greeted him from inside with a ba
rk. The door was pulled open as he neared.

  She stood before him, an apron of light linen over her woolen kirtle. The wimple was missing, her hair lush and shiny, bound by something at her nape. Isla kept one hand on the door, watching him even as Fynn ran to him and pranced in circles around him.

  “Sir James.”

  “Isla.”

  Silence then. All the words he’d imagined and planned and practiced escaped him just now so that he could only stare at her.

  Isla lifted a brow at him, parted her lips. She backed up and opened the door wider, ducking her head slightly even as she kept her eyes on him.

  James accepted her silent invitation, and strode forward, mentally shaking himself. She’s just a lass, he reminded himself, but recognized this as a lie as soon as the thought was complete. Isla Gordon was anything but just a lass.

  When he was through the door, she closed it. James watched as Isla walked over to the hearth, stirring something in one of the kettles hung over the red embers. When she faced him again, she wiped her hands on the apron and James thought she appeared, as she rarely had around him, poised, calm. He wished he could say the same.

  Fynn sat down, next to James, seeming as content as the laird to only stare at Isla.

  “I set John Farmer’s broken leg just yesterday. He gifted me a jug of ale. Would you like a mug?”

  “Aye, thank you, lass.” He stood, just inside the door, feeling large and overdressed, his sword heavy at his side. Isla poured out the ale while James looked around. Not much had changed, he thought, since Edine had died. He saw nothing that made this Isla’s home now but supposed she hadn’t much in the way of personal items to make it her own.

  Isla came to him, lifted the mug to him. James took this and then a swallow.

  “How is your mam?”

  The ale wasn’t half bad. “Actually, she is doing remarkably well. The entire keep is livelier. She’s out of the sickroom, has returned it to her personal solar. She’s busy, in the hall and the kitchens and the larder, has resumed her role as lady of the castle.”

  Isla smiled. “That is verra good news. And Gavin? Still giving trouble?”

  “We’ve come to an understanding,” James said. When Isla lifted an inquiring brow, he added, “He’s at an age, wants to challenge everyone and everything. He now understands he can challenge nothing, must only obey.”

  This seemed to impress her. He was equally impressed. Something was different in her. She was making conversation with him, hadn’t asked him what questionable intent had brought him ‘round, seemed entirely at ease with his presence in her home.

  “I snared a rabbit today,” she said, a certain pride in her tone. “Shall you stay for stew?”

  James glanced around, looked again at Isla, wondering if he’d stepped into the wrong cottage. Where was Isla of the suspicious bent? What had happened to his angry lass?

  “Aye, I’d like that.”

  And she came near again, nearer still, extended her hand, glancing at his sword. James complied and removed the item, handing it to her. She stood the sword and sheath against the wall behind the door and then indicated that he should sit. Fynn’s head turned, his eyes following every one of her movements.

  James sat on the short bench while she filled two bowls from the kettle and set them on the table. From a linen bag, hung on a hook tacked into the stone of the hearth, she pulled a loaf of bread and set that on the table as well. She filled another mug and joined him, sitting across from him at the table, which was very short, so that his knees bumped the underside and he felt like a giant in an elf’s home.

  “Oh,” she said with a laugh and jumped up again to fetch two spoons, returning again to the table. Fynn sat at the end of the table, tall enough that his head saw everything available to him, though he made no move to claim it.

  James looked down at the bowl. He hadn’t had rabbit stew since he was last on campaign, and that had been watery and by the third day of it, the very thought had turned his stomach. This offering smelled fresh, seemed hearty, and looked very appealing. But he did not dig in. Not yet.

  “Isla, what are you about?”

  The spoon she’d filled stopped halfway to her mouth. She tilted her head at him, raising a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Right here. Now. You.”

  The spoon was lowered, set back into the bowl. Fynn watched it closely. She folded her hands between the bowl and her chest. “We’ve seen a bit of death lately, have we not?”

  James had witnessed so much death in his lifetime he could not honestly recall or name every person he’d known whose death he had beheld. He supposed Isla was much less accustomed to this, and these close personal deaths over the last few months must feel like too much. “Aye, we have.”

  “I want to live.”

  He smiled at this, captivated by so simple a statement, given so matter-of-factly, enchanted more by her steady gaze, her resolve.

  “So you invite the laird to dine on rabbit stew with you?”

  Isla’s response was a glorious smile, soft, mesmerizing. “Your mother told me about Marguerite.”

  This shocked James. He said nothing.

  “I dinna say so to stir painful memories. I tell you because I watched your mother’s face light up when she spoke of Marguerite. She must have been wonderful. And I...well, I am not.”

  His brow dropped instantly.

  She continued, “I’m not friendly or joyous or happy. But I want to be.” She shrugged, and added, “Otherwise, what is the point?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of life.”

  James was greatly intrigued by the theme of this conversation, by the very idea that his little angry Isla desired something more. “What do you intend?” He dipped his spoon into the stew, brought it to his lips. It was good, admittedly surprisingly good.

  “I intend to be happy,” she said, “or rather, to create my happiness.”

  “Did my mother put you up to this?” he wondered.

  Isla laughed at this, the sound washing over him, the sight of it as heady as her kiss.

  “She did not, not fully. Mayhap she planted seeds.” She reached her hand out, didn’t extend it all the way to his, but set her long thin fingers onto the table. “Laird, I’ve lived all wrong ‘til now. I plan to start doing it right, you see.”

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. Her calling him laird caused some tightening of his chest. He could not help but ask, “What will you do differently?”

  “I will stop waiting for life to happen to me. I will make it happen.”

  “Be more specific,” he said, tearing the loaf in two, handing half to her.

  Isla took the bread and waved it airily until inspiration hit. “Something simple: saying good day rather than burying my head. They may not respond, but that is out of my hands. I’ve done my part. I can smile and carry on.”

  “A good start. What else?”

  Now her gaze met his again. “There’s you, of course.”

  “And what would you do differently with me?” He held his breath.

  “I would not be so fearful of what might happen.”

  James was completely fascinated now, the stew forgotten. It was not easy to formulate the proper questions, when she spoke so. She stared, while he considered. “But will you wait for what might happen, or will you make it happen?”

  “I want the choice to be mine,” was all the answer she gave.

  “I wonder if I still hear my mother’s voice in these words.”

  Isla giggled beautifully now. “She told me that our king’s mother kept his father a prisoner when first they met, until he agreed to marry her.”

  James lifted a brow at this, he’d heard the tale as well. Robert Bruce had never quite denied this rumor, but then neither had he ever acknowledged it as truth.

  “Will you hold me hostage, lass?” This was a very provocative idea, indeed.

  Isla shook her head, sent him an angelic look. “Maybe without force. I do h
ave bannocks, and they’re sweetened with honey and cinnamon.”

  His smile swelled while his heart thumped. “Aye then, you may consider me a willing captive, lass.”

  Isla dipped her head, bit her lip. James watched her take a deep breath. When she raised her head, she asked, “What comes after the kissing?” This was rushed out, her voice slightly higher. And she bit her lip again. Making life happen obviously still involved some shyness. James was completely and irrevocably besotted.

  “So much more.” Aye, and he wanted to show it all to her.

  “And you want that...with me?” The soft candlelight could not hide the pinkening of her cheeks.

  He moved his head up and down. Damn, if she wasn’t turning him on with these innocent questions. “Aye, I want it all.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, so deep and low.

  Her breath came in short little rasps just now. She still held her spoon, but it hadn’t moved in many minutes. Fynn had given up on the hope that some bits might come his way and had gone to find his rest in front of the hearth.

  “For how long?” She wanted to know.

  If he’d been asked this question a week ago, a month ago—hell, an hour ago—he may not have known or given the right answer. But Isla today, Isla of the artless smiles and Isla the Suddenly Brave changed that. “I think for a verra long time, lass. Mayhap forever. What say you to that?”

  “I say I needn’t have spent so much time on the bannocks.”

  He chuckled, the laughter coming from somewhere deep within him, some new and joyous place. But enough of the space between them already. James pushed the bench back and stood, keeping his eyes on hers. Those remarkable green eyes, which had started this whole thing. Those magnificent eyes watched him, no longer with anger or hostility, but with courage and some hopeful quality. He extended his hand. Without hesitation, Isla placed her small hand in his. He pulled her to her feet.

  They stood face to face, James’s arm sliding around her. He tucked a stray tress behind her ear. She placed her hands on his biceps.