The Lion (Clan Ross of the Hebrides Book 1) by Hildie McQueen (ereader for android .TXT) 📕

Beatrice and Gideon had stolen away. Or perhaps that he’d called her drab. No, that was partially true. Still, he did not have to say it out loud.

“I do not believe he cares for our family.”

“Tell her how he insulted us,” Beatrice prodded with a stern, but unconvincing expression.

Their mother’s eyes widened. “What did he do?”

In that moment, Isobel wasn’t sure what to divulge. If she told her mother about his insinuation, she would immediately confront him, and it would turn into an uncomfortable situation since the family bìrlinns would not return to pick them up for weeks. Then there was the personal insult to her appearance.

“He was unkind to me; said I was drab. Then he… well he…should not have said those things to me.”

Her mother neared and put her arms around Isobel’s shoulders. “Oh, darling. I am so sorry. Yer father and I have often remarked that it will take a special man to understand ye. That ye dress for practicality and care not for fabrics that will only end up torn or stained when ye go on yer treks about the countryside.”

Now she felt silly; her mother was right. Her betrothal to a man she’d considered herself madly in love with had ended horribly.

The more he’d tried to mold her into what his family considered to be a proper lady, the more she’d hated it. Too young to know better, she’d tried to please him, even laying with him.

In the end, his family had terminated the betrothal, and she’d waited months before telling her parents that she was no longer a virgin. By then, her betrothed was married.

If she married, it would be for love and to a man who would not only overlook her lack of fanciful dresses, but also the unseemly fact that she was not a virgin.

“I will be speaking to Mariel,” her mother said, referring to Lady Ross. “I changed Darach’s nappies and will not stand for him insulting ye.”

“Please do not say anything,” Isobel said and abruptly changed the subject, hoping to dissuade her mother. “What exactly are the plans for the festival?”

Thankfully, her mother instantly cheered. “It will be held in the field just outside the gates. There will be food, music, and of course dancing. There will be an axe-throwing contest and whatever other unappealing things men like to do.”

“Women should be able to compete in things as well,” Beatrice chimed in.

“Goodness,” her mother said. “I came to fetch ye for midday meal. Let us hurry downstairs.”

They walked into the great hall. Unlike the days before, today it was only half full of people eating at the tables. The high board was filled as well, with Darach and three of his brothers along with Catriona and his mother.

Isobel kept her gaze away from the laird when she acknowledged Lady Ross and Catriona with a smile. They went to a table where Ella sat and joined her.

“Mother will be anxious that we may discuss the festival without her present,” Ella said with a wicked smile. “But I cannot keep from it. There is so much to decide.”

They quieted while a servant placed food before them, and another filled their goblets with ale.

Finally, Beatrice, who looked about to burst, said. “Can there be a competition for women? Why should only the men compete at the festival?”

Ella’s eyes went wide. “That would be good. Except, what would we compete at?”

“Archery?” Isobel offered, despite that she wasn’t sure how good she was.

“Stoolball,” Ella said with conviction. “We will have to wear shorter skirts.”

Lady Macdonald shook her head. “Nonsense, I will not have ye running about like milkmaids.”

All three younger women laughed. “Mother,” Isobel said. “We can change for the game and then put our dressier clothes back on.”

Her mother gave her a dubious look and then diverted her attention to the high board, no doubt wishing Lady Ross would come and take her side.

“We can discuss the women’s competition another time,” Ella said. “Now, we must plan a trip to the village to find items for the festival.”

They begin listing what all was needed and despite herself, Isobel began to look forward to the day the festival would begin.

After the meal, the women agreed to meet in the sitting room to work on a tablecloth that would be displayed at the festival. It would cover the table where the visiting lairds would sit. In Isobel’s opinion, it was a waste of time. No one would see their hard work since it would be covered with trenchers of food.

She sneaked into her bedchamber, grabbed her sketchbook and chalks, then hurried down the stairs and out the front door. Once outside, she went to a guard, who seemed flustered at her sudden appearance.

“Is it permissible to walk across the field? I wish to go to the wood’s edge.” She pointed out where she hoped to have good scenery to sketch.

“Aye, ye may. Would ye like escort, Miss Macdonald?”

“No, thank ye. I will stay where the men atop the roof can see me.”

Before he could try to talk her out of it, or her mother came out, she hurried through the open gates. Once a short distance away, she let out a breath. Since childhood, Isobel had been unable to remain inside the walls of a home for long before needing to be away.

It was as if she could breathe more freely, and her mind was at ease when taking her walks. She touched the strap of the knapsack that held her art supplies, not ready to sit yet. The field before her was enticingly uneven, patches of tall plants in some areas, while others were covered in low-growing clover. There was a narrow path that ran from the estate, down the incline on which it was built and on through a patch of trees. The path was well worn and must have been cleared for horses and carts traveling through the forest to whatever lay beyond.

Isobel turned away, deciding to go up a steep hill to