Chapter Four #2
She gave her head a little shake. “But Lord Gaunt cares little for me. For certain, he will not relinquish an entire estate for my sake.”
It was the truth, though she felt far from certain that declaring it was wise. But she could not travel all the way to Scotland with these men, only to have Lord Gaunt refuse their conditions at the end of a long and painful journey. She winced at the very idea of it.
Better to face facts now than after an arduous ride north. However hard and unpleasant those facts may be.
Hamish blinked, as if he did not fully understand.
Then he sighed deeply and dragged a hand through his long, russet-colored hair, making his braids jump and dance.
“I suspected as much when I saw you approach with just two guards. Two,” he emphasized, glaring at her as if this was some personal failing.
His voice echoed around the cavernous room. Isabella buried her growing fear, drew her cloak about her and eyed a nearby armchair. Her back ached even more than her head.
“I was told that you were called the Rose of England,” he continued.
Isabella gave up and crossed over to the tapestried chair, sinking into it as gracefully as she could. She crossed her legs at the ankle and looked unflinchingly up at him. “What of it?”
He folded his arms across his broad chest. “’Tis bold of ye, Isabella, to tell me that ye are a woman who would not be missed.”
She grasped the arms of the chair and leaned forward, her aches and pains forgotten.
“I said no such thing. I am Isabella de Neville. The Rose of England. And if any harm befalls me, Hamish, you will be made to suffer the consequences.” She articulated her words clearly, so they fell like hoofbeats on cobbled ground.
He looked bewildered. “But ye just said that Gaunt cared little for ye.”
She tossed back her hair. “And I care little for Gaunt. He plays no part in this. Does my name mean so little to you, highlander? Angus, my father, is the Earl of Wolvesley. My brother is Tristan—”
“—de Neville,” he finished for her, his eyes wide as if he had just come to this realization.
“That’s right.” She took a breath. “You know him?”
“I know of him.” Hamish stared past her, his gaze loose and unfocused.
Isabella allowed a beat to fall, grateful for the chance to calm herself.
But when several seconds passed with no further comment from her captor, she grew uncomfortable.
The cold of the hall was seeping into her bones.
If only she’d chosen her warmer riding habit made of wool rather than this one with the elegant trim.
She pulled her cloak further over her shoulders and tried to find some warmth in its folds.
What is he thinking now?
She attempted to look at Hamish without him noticing, but as soon as her eyes swung toward him, his gaze clashed with hers.
Her lips parted as a frisson traveled through her.
What is this strange effect he has on me?
“You are the sister of Tristan de Neville,” he repeated. “The knight who negotiated for peace between England and Scotland?”
Isabella sat up straighter, ignoring her fluttering pulse and thinking instead of her family. “The very same. My brother-in-law, Callum, is Laird of Kielder.”
She hoped to increase the common ground between them, but Hamish appeared unmoved by her Scottish connections. “I have a sister,” he said, his words thick and slightly slurred. “I had two sisters, but one died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pressed her hands beneath her legs, hoping to warm her chilled fingers. Her breath plumed in front of her, hanging in the frigid air.
Hamish’s gaze refocused as he noticed her discomfort. For a long moment, they looked at one another. “I will make up the fire.”
She watched him lay the logs and spark the tinder, noticing how the grace of his movements was at odds with his height and brawn. When the first flame caught, he sat back on his haunches and gazed at the orange glow as if he had forgotten she was there.
The front door slammed and footsteps sounded across the flags in the hall. Isabella stiffened with fear, but the man, when he appeared, had grey hair and a grey beard.
He was not the dark-haired warrior for whom she had such an instinctive aversion.
“I have brought your things,” he said without preamble, sliding a pack across the wooden floor toward Hamish.
“Thank ye, Siegfried.” Hamish glanced toward Isabella. “I’ll join ye outside momentarily.”
“Alaric is impatient to be off,” Siegfried stated calmly. “He is right. We should try to cross the border before night falls.”
Hamish made a dismissive gesture. “We will not travel this day.”
Siegfried raised his bushy eyebrows but only gave a short bow in response. “Very well. I shall await further instruction.”
“Outside,” clarified Hamish.
But Siegfried had already left, his booted footsteps sounding heavily down the hall.
Isabella cleared her throat. “He could have stayed. It’s the other one I don’t want inside.”
Why am I trusting him with this?
Isabella could not explain it. She trusted Hamish as instinctively as she trusted her father and brothers.
Alaric?” Hamish gave her a considering glance. “Siegfried doesn’t like him either.”
The fire had fully taken hold and Isabella longed to hold her chilled hands out to the blaze. “Then why do you travel with him?”
“He is a skilled warrior.” He stood up wearily and indicated that she should also stand. “Here, milady.” His voice was still mocking, but kindlier. “Let me move your chair closer to the fire.”
His chivalry was only partially surprising. The dynamic between them was fluctuating and uncertain, with Hamish sometimes her captor and sometimes her subject. But she could not forget that he had a sword at his hip, whilst all she had was her wits.
Isabella took her seat once again, and her muscles began to unclench in the newfound warmth of the blaze. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
He inclined his head.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, daring to press her temporary advantage.
Hamish gave a tight smile. “I am thinking that, after all, I have a bigger prize than I anticipated.”
“I am the prize?” Isabella was a little affronted. It was as if the years had melted away and she was once again a bright and sparkling object to be scrutinized and valued by the men bidding for her hand in marriage.
“A rare beauty. And a wise man’s sister.” Hamish rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “The situation requires more thought. ’Tis not as I expected, but perchance it is better.”
All my life I have been a pawn of men, Isabella thought. This is no different.
“I am glad to have the warmth of the fire whilst you do all this thinking,” she replied tartly.
He tugged the cloak from his shoulders, the suddenness of his movements making her rear back in the chair. He glanced down at the length of material for a moment before throwing it on the flames. The acrid smell of burning made Isabella wrinkle her nose.
“Ne’er again will I wear another man’s standard,” Hamish muttered.
He looked better without the cloak, Isabella decided. The defined lines of his muscles were more visible beneath his tunic.
As if her silent observation had drawn his attention to her, Hanish slowly turned around. He put his hands on his hips and gazed down at her with unblinking eyes. “Are ye going to try and run away?”
She shrugged. “Where would I run to?” It was a genuine question, though she did not expect an answer.
He grunted. “Ye ken that ’twould do ye no good to put up a fight?”
“I ken.”
Mayhap ’twas neither wise nor polite to parody the highlander’s brogue, but Isabella had little idea how to handle this spiraling situation. All she was certain of was this—her earlier show of strength had resulted in a warm fire and a comfortable chair.
“I am not so foolish as to attempt combat with an armed man.” She nodded toward the helm of his sword, which gleamed at his hip. “I grew up with two brothers and learned that lesson at an early age.”
He blanched as she mentioned her brothers and she recalled how his voice had changed when he spoke of his sisters.
A family man.
Perchance this was another tool she could use against him.
For Isabella had no intention of putting up a fight. But neither was she prepared to accept her lot as a sacrificial victim. As Hamish stomped toward the front door, she leaned her head back in the chair and closed her eyes.
How would Tristan get out of this, she mused.
She had been raised as a Lady. But now she must think like a knight.