Chapter Four
God’s blood, what a predicament.
The red-haired highlander held her gaze, as if daring her to scream or fuss.
But Isabella knew better than to risk his ire.
She’d calculated the scene as soon as they rode through the gates, realizing that something was amiss the moment she saw the shuttered house.
Not so much as a chicken was about, and the only sound was the gusting wind which groaned eerily through the deserted courtyard.
This was not the Ember Hall she knew, busy with family and children and laughter.
And these men did not serve Lord Gaunt.
She had been confused by the livery of the tallest man for a while, as no doubt he intended. But the cloak did not fit him. Moreover, he did not stand like a guard or soldier.
He stood like a leader. Authority shone in the set of his shoulders and the straightness of his back.
Conviction shone in the pale blue eyes which never left her face.
I am in danger.
Yet somehow, she knew that this man would not physically hurt her.
“The Laird of Greenock, you say.” She pretended to frown, shielding her eyes from the low winter sun. “It seems we are at cross purposes. You are not the Laird that I know.”
“Indeed, I am not.” His voice was calm and steady, though foreign to her because of the Scottish brogue. He looked over her shoulder and called out. “Take the Lady’s horse to the stable.”
Her destrier was the last link with the past, and most likely her last chance of escape.
She half thought to spring back into the saddle and gallop for freedom.
But the gates were closed, and the dark-haired warrior striding toward her looked like he would relish the chance to grapple her back to the ground.
She would not give him the opportunity.
Instead, she handed over the reins, repressing her shudder when he stood so close their shoulders brushed. His breath was sour as he looked down at her with a smirk.
“Thank ye kindly, milady.”
She stood tall, masking the fear which threatened to make her knees tremble.
“Thank ye, Alaric.” Hamish’s voice carried a warning, and the man turned away, leading her horse toward the barn.
Her instinctive fear lessened, but Isabella knew she must keep her wits about her.
She glanced at the hall, which appeared both familiar and strange.
Frida had always kept the shutters open to invite sunlight into her home.
On Isabella’s infrequent visits, Ember Hall had exuded a warm welcome, like her mother’s embrace at Wolvesley.
Now it seemed cold and forbidding. She shivered in another gust of wind and in that moment, knew what she must do.
“I have no intention of conducting this discussion out here.” She moved toward the saddlebags but then paused, unwilling to close the distance between herself and the well-muscled highlander.
“We can talk in the stables, if ye wish it.”
She shook her head, aware that her hair had come loose from its pins some time ago. She had thought she would go inside and beg the ministrations of a housemaid to re-secure it. But her disheveled appearance was no longer of such consequence.
She put back her shoulders and looked him square in the face. “We will talk in the house, like people, not animals.”
“It is locked,” he explained, as if she were simple.
“And I have a key.” She nodded toward the saddlebags. “Somewhere in there.”
A beat passed. The man scratched at his head, half frowning and half smiling in puzzlement. “Do ye ken what is happening here, Isabella? I am not yer friend. We are nay here for a tea party.”
“I believe I have grasped that much,” she made her voice equally condescending. “And I still say that we should talk indoors, like civilized people.” She lifted her chin. “Though that begs a question, highlander. Are you civilized people?”
For a moment, she thought she had pushed him too far. Some strong emotion flickered in his pale blue eyes, but then he guffawed. “Occasionally so.”
“Well then.” There was nothing for it but to squat awkwardly on the cobbles whilst her trembling fingers worked the stiff buckles. Alas, she had not paid attention to where her maid stowed Frida’s key. She had not thought it was important.
Had Frida foreseen this would happen?
Isabella paused, one hand rummaging through the soft linens inside.
Nay, surely she would have warned her if that were the case.
She fought a swell of dizziness as she reached for the second bag. She had not eaten since breaking her fast at Westchester at dawn. How long ago that seemed.
A heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “Are ye well?”
Her vision broke up into dots and then reformed. Isabella took a breath. “I am fine.”
“Will ye allow me?”
It was not a question. The highlander took the saddlebag from her and made short work of the buckles while Isabella summoned her strength and rose to her feet, ignoring the urge to steady herself by reaching for the man’s arm.
He is my enemy, she reminded herself.
It made no sense at all that he exuded such an air of calm.
“I have it.” He brandished the long iron key, seemingly waiting for her to take it from him.
Isabella was more accustomed to giving than receiving instruction. She folded her hands in front of her and nodded imperiously. “You may proceed.”
His voice rippled with surprise. “I may proceed?” His bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath his thatch of hair.
She nodded again, thinking hard. “But only you. Not your men. They must stay out here.”
She could not stand to be near the man with dark hair and shifty eyes.
Hamish rocked back on his heels, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “And why do ye think ye are in any position to make such demands?”
She met his gaze calmly. “Because you told me you were civilized and moreover, I sense this about you. Of course, you can do with me what you will. There is no one here to stop you. But I choose to believe that highlanders can also be men of honor. My brother, Tristan, has always insisted upon it.” She raised her eyebrows sharply. “Is he correct?”
Please God, let him be correct.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Again I say, occasionally so.”
“Then let us hope that this is one such occasion.” Isabella’s voice was arch; the voice of a lady who expected to be listened to. Though she warned herself not to overstep the mark as she followed the highlander’s long strides down the well-worn path to the arched front door.
But where is the mark?
Isabella had never before been in a situation with such ill-defined social rules.
She rested her hand briefly on the iron door handle. How many times had Frida, Esme, or Mirrie rushed out of this very same door to wrap her in a welcoming embrace?
Too many to count.
Oh, how she wished that one of them was here now.
Her sisters formed the backdrop to her life; in thought and memory, if not in person, now that they were all grown and scattered.
She took strength from the knowledge they had all lived and loved within these walls.
The scent of lavender greeted her as Hamish pushed open the heavy panel and she stifled a swell of longing for her family.
I must find the strength to do this on my own.
Hamish stood back to allow her to pass through the door ahead of him, and Isabella walked steadily down the stone-flagged hallway into the feasting hall.
Here, she half hoped to find her brother-in-law, Callum, slouching in a tapestried chair by the fire.
Or Jonah, hobbling through from the solar and scowling at the interruption.
But the house was silent and defiantly empty.
The long trestle table, which had hosted so many family dinners, was pushed up against the far wall.
For the first time that Isabella could remember, there were no slumbering hounds to raise their heads or thump their tails in greeting.
Isabella paused before the unlit fireplace, uncomfortable in the shadows and already regretting her decision to come inside. There was no warmth. No welcome. Nothing to be gained by this charade of confidence.
But what else do I have?
She folded her arms about her and nodded toward the log basket. “You can make up the fire.”
Mayhap with warmth and light she could think more clearly.
He stood beside her and she flinched at the proximity. Hamish had seemed a large, forbidding man outside in the courtyard. But inside, amongst the trappings of gentility, she was even more aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the watchful intelligence in his gaze.
He is not a man to cross.
“If you wish,” she added, glancing up at the smoke-blackened rafters as if they held particular interest.
“It was not part of my plan.”
His voice was loud in the pressing silence; his breath plumed in the chilly air. Isabella resisted the urge to shuffle away.
“What is your plan?” she asked instead.
Hamish walked over to the fireplace and rested a hand against the mantle. His expression, when he turned to face her, was neutral.
“Lord Gaunt has taken something that is mine.”
Her heart began to beat heavily in her chest. “Your castle?” she guessed.
“That is one thing, aye.”
“So in turn, you have taken something that is his?” She waited a moment. “Me?”
“Ye have it right.” He watched her carefully. “’Tis naught personal, ye understand.”
“I understand.” Her heart picked up speed as her thoughts raced ahead. She stalled for a moment by playing with the fur trim on her sleeve, but the words that had formed in her mind were determined to be heard. She lifted her chin. “Though I fear you do not.”
If her words shocked him, he didn’t let it show. “Explain yerself.”
“You seek to use me to bargain for the return of your lands?” Isabella folded her hands together to stop them from shaking. She wished she had thought to take a seat before beginning to talk. To sit down now would show a weakness she would prefer to keep hidden.
“I do.” Hamish regarded her steadily.