Page 8 of Taming the Highland Misfits

“What dae ye mean, Mistress?” she asked, looking scandalised. “I am a clean-livin’ lassie. I would never?— ”

“That is not what I meant, Maura,” Isla assured her, holding back her laughter. “I meant he might propose marriage.”

“Sorry, Mistress.” Maura put her hand on her chest and laughed in relief. “I would like him tae, but he is too young an’ daft.”

“He will see sense eventually, I’m sure,” Isla said soothingly. “Come, let us pick out the dresses.”

They spent an enjoyable half hour sorting through Isla’s gowns, and when they had picked out four in various colours, Maura put them on one by one, ooh-ing and aah-ing at herself in the mirror. She could hardly contain her excitement.

“Thank ye, Mistress!” she gushed, clapping her hands. “I never ever thought I would be able tae wear a dress like this. It is so lovely!”

Isla felt warm inside in a way she had not felt in an age. Seeing Maura’s pretty, delighted face gave her almost as much joy as it did her maid. “Come,” she said happily, “let us enjoy a glass of wine together before dinner.”

“Wine?” Maura’s eyes grew wide with amazement. “What have I done tae deserve this, Mistress?”

“You make my life easier and better,” Isla replied, smiling as she poured out a crystal goblet of wine and handed it to Maura. “It means a lot to me, so thank you, Maura.” She clinked her glass against her maid’s, and watched her as she took a sip of the ruby red liquid.

“Oh, my goodness, Mistress!” she cried as she ran her tongue around her lips, “this is wonderful!”

“I am glad you like it,” Isla said warmly. She drained her glass, then took a critical look at herself in the mirror. It was time for the worst part of her day; dinner with her father. She deliberately never made much of an effort to look smart for her evening meal, since her father would likely only criticise what she wore anyway, so she was wearing no jewellery, and her luxuriant hair was tied into a tight knot at the base of her neck.

Her dress was made of dark brown wool with a high neck and long sleeves, and there was nothing alluring about it at all. She frowned and squared her shoulders as if she was going into battle. In effect, she was. She and her father had not said a civil word to each other for years.

Each step down the staircase seemed to be weighted with dread. Isla was always reprimanded for eating too quickly, but the only reason she did so was because she wanted to be in her father’s company for as short a time as possible.

As usual, Robert Thomson was waiting for her with a peevish frown on his face. It was clear that he had had a few glasses of wine already, although he was by no means drunk, just even more combative than usual.

“At last!” he huffed, before the door had even closed behind Isla. “I thought you would never arrive!”

“You are quite capable of eating without me, Father,” she remarked frostily. She began to eat her roast chicken, which was beautifully cooked, but she could not enjoy it with her father’s eyes fixed upon her so determinedly.

“I had a visit from Crawford today,” he said airily.

Isla felt a lump of dread drop into her stomach, but she schooled her face to stay unconcerned. “Oh, yes?” she asked.

“He wanted to see you,” Robert replied. “He did not tell me exactly why, but I presume it was to make your betrothal official with a proposal. Where were you?”

“Visiting my friend Mary, of course,” she replied. “As I always do on a Thursday.”

“Hmm…” her father looked at her suspiciously, but let it go. “I will send him a note and ask him to dine with us.”

Isla felt as if she wanted to be sick, but again she kept her face straight and said nothing. They finished their meal in hostile silence, and Isla left to go and walk in the gardens. The evening air was cool, with a slight breeze, and Isla felt a little calmness settle on her as she breathed in the scent of roses and the freshness of spring wildflowers.

Isla sat down on a bench under an arbour of flowering ivy and looked at her house. It was a beautiful place, built of red sandstone, and its myriad of windows glowed gold in the warm twilight. It was the place in which she had lived all her life, yet she could no longer call it home, because it had not been home since the death of her lovely mother. She remembered as if it was yesterday the day she had found her corpse—No—she shook her head; she would not go there again. She pushed the memory away to concentrate on the situation she found herself in at that moment; it was no good looking into the past, since it only brought more pain.

‘I have to get away,’she thought desperately.‘I cannot even stand to look at Iain Crawford or his father. Being with both of them for the rest of my life would be a living death.’

She became too restless to sit any more and began to pace the garden, then realised that she would achieve nothing by wallowing in her misery. She had to make some kind of escape plan, and with this aim in mind, she strode over all the beautifully tended flowerbeds, heedless of the damage she was causing, and went up to her bedroom.

She marched along the passageway, her mind going over all her possible means of escape, when she heard the scream.

It was quickly stifled, and followed a second later by a threatening growl of laughter.

Isla ran along the last few steps to her door and barged through it, leaving it shuddering on its hinges. The sight before her eyes horrified her more than anything else she had ever seen in her life. Her father had pushed Maura onto the bed and was pinning her down with his body, his hands holding both of hers above her head so that she could not fight back. He was kneeling on the floor between her legs, and was pushing her skirt up to her thigh as she tried to wriggle away from underneath him.

“Stop fighting me!” he yelled, although truthfully he looked as though he was enjoying her resistance. When he heard the door bang and saw his daughter storming towards him he let Maura’s hands go, and she immediately reached out and began to claw at his face. Her nails scored deep, bleeding lines down his cheeks and he roared in pain, clamping his hands onto his face. Isla took an unholy pleasure in seeing him suffer.

While he was distracted, Isla pushed him backwards towards the fireplace. It was not enough to topple him over, but while he was off balance she was able to grab the poker from among the fire tools. When he looked at her she was standing holding it up in front of her with murder in her eyes. “Take one more move towards her and I will bring this down on your head,” she growled. “That is not a threat, but a promise, Father!”