Chapter Five #2
His eyes stung for a moment. “She is close with her family. I can tell by the way she talks of them.”
“And what of it?”
He put down the ladle and forced himself to put his fanciful notions into actual words. “Tristan de Neville is a favorite of the King. If anyone can speak for me—for the return of Greenock and the safe-keeping of Elena, ’tis he.”
Brianne tossed her curls, her expression almost as scornful as Alaric’s. “Has the pretty lady sent ye soft in yer head? Why would Tristan de Neville help the man who is holding his sister captive? Why would he not storm this place with his vast army and behead ye?”
“Most likely he would,” Hamish admitted, breathing in the meaty scent of the broth to distract himself from Brianne’s relentless commonsense.
“Which is why I need more time to think things through. And there is no rush.” He brandished the ladle.
“The Lady is not expected at Greenock for several days.”
“Ye shall need a sight more than several days to think yerself outta this predicament,” Brianne predicted.
The broth was ready, and Hamish deliberately pushed his sister’s words to the back of his mind.
He filled two bowls and carried them out to the hall, where the fire had reduced to mere glowing embers. Isabella sat where he had left her, as still as a stone statue in the darkness.
Why has she not lit candles?
Hamish tutted, placed the bowls on the trestle table and heaped more logs onto the fire. He waited until the lick of flames appeared, before turning to the lady.
“Why are ye sitting here in the dark?”
Her heart-shaped face was in shadows, her expression unreadable.
“I do not mind the dark.”
He grunted. “Will ye eat something with me?”
God’s blood, he had not intended to make it sound as if he was asking a favor.
Her nostrils flared at the scent of the broth as he offered her the bowl, but still she did not move.
“I have questions for you.”
Her voice was clipped and cold, her words hitting him like a splash of cold water.
Hamish blanched, poised awkwardly with a bowl extended in one hand. He recovered quickly enough and returned her serving to the trestle table.
He could nay force her to eat. Nor was he prepared to beg.
But his belly cried out for food and he had no intention of waiting any longer. He took his bowl to the second chair and sank into it with an audible groan, which he cursed himself for. Only after three hearty mouthfuls did he turn back toward her.
“Ask away.”
The broth was good and had taken off the edge of his hunger. Relaxing in a comfortable chair by a roaring fire, Hamish was inclined to be good-humored—even if his companion refused to eat and they both sat in near total darkness.
“My brother Jonah should be in residence here. Where is he?”
He paused with a spoon midway to his lips. Isabella’s voice betrayed no emotion, but he had already perceived how she was a master at masking her anxieties.
Does the lass think I have killed her brother?
He laid down his spoon. “I dinna ken for certain. But I imagine he is with yer parents at Wolvesley Castle.”
He felt the heat of her gaze upon his face. “How do you know this?”
“I dinna for certain, as I said.” He took another mouthful of broth and swallowed slowly.
Isabella made a strangled sort of sound. “How can I believe you? How can I trust that my brother is not lying somewhere, dead or worse?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What can be worse than dead?”
’Twas a fool’s question and she did not bother to frame an answer.
Hamish sighed and placed his bowl on the floor. There was naught for it but to tell the truth. He templed his fingers beneath his chin and gazed into the glowing fire. “Yer brother left Ember Hall of his own accord. He sent a messenger telling you not to come here, but ye did not receive it.”
He heard her shift beneath her blanket. “Because of you?”
“Aye.”
Why did he feel so ill at ease when he was the one with the power?
’Twas because when Isabella spoke, he did not feel like a man in control of the situation. Her golden hair fanned out over the dark wool of the blanket, and he found himself transfixed by the way that individual strands seemed to glow and dance in the light of the fire.
She leaned forward so her hair rippled over her shoulders. “What did you do?”
Enough of this.
He echoed her posture, his gaze burning into her even though he was not sure if she could properly see his face. “Why do ye ask?”
Isabella was not cowed. “I want to know what manner of man holds me hostage.”
How to answer that?
He could tell her that he played the lute as well as any bard. That in days of peace, he had penned poetry and even put some of it to music.
He could tell her that, if given the choice, he would have sacrificed his life to save his sister’s. That he would move heaven and earth to save his remaining sister from Gaunt’s clutches.
That all of this was to ensure Elena’s safety.
He had allowed Isabella to believe his interest was solely in the recovery of his lands and property. But by the side of Elena’s wellbeing, he cared little for the ancient stones of Greenock Castle.
Was now the time to divulge the secrets of his heart?
Nay. His heart was his own affair. Moreover, if she knew the truth, she would likely think him a weakling.
If she thought him weak, mayhap she would try to leave. Consequently finding herself face to face with Alaric.
Or face down in a ditch.
Hamish flexed his fingers. “I am the man with the power to decide if ye live or die, Isabella.”
A beat passed. He fancied he heard her gulp. “You have lit me a fire and brought me food. You seem disposed to let me live.”
“For now,” he agreed. “You may still be of use to me.” His voice caught and his next words were unplanned. “Perchance we can be of use to one another.”
But how could a displaced highlander be of use to one of the wealthiest women in England?
He could almost hear Brianne demanding the very same of him.
Hamish could not answer. It was a foolish notion. He only knew that he sensed some deep sadness in Isabella de Neville. A sorrow that could not be disguised by rich robes or fine words.
A sorrow I long to remedy.
Ye Gods, was Brianne right? Had the pretty lady sent him soft in the head?
He dampened his lips with his tongue, searching for words that might re-establish his dominance of the situation, if not of the lady herself.
He was her captor. She was his only viable means of negotiation for the return of all that he loved. He must maintain control.
Isabella rose to her feet. He heard her booted footsteps crossing the floor, followed by the slight squeak of a hinge as a cupboard door swung open.
A taper flared, and he made out her golden head bent low over a candle.
When she turned to him, her pale face was brightly illuminated by the flickering flame.
He saw dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her blue eyes.
Eyes that held wisdom as well as weariness.
She was not a young woman. But she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Her beauty was in her poise and grace, as well as her smooth skin and delicate features.
He closed his mouth, embarrassed to have stared for so long.
“I cannot guess what you mean. Perchance you abide by different rules up in Scotland, but allow me to make one thing clear. You are my enemy, Hamish. You hold me captive, against my will, threatening me with death one minute and then proffering help the next. It is clear to me that you have no plan. No clear idea what to do with me. And therefore I am as likely to be put to death as I am to go free. We cannot possibly be of use to one another whilst you treat me so ill.”
“What do ye mean, treat ye ill? I have brought ye food and bade ye eat it,” he spluttered.
Isabella lifted her chin. “I shall retire for the night. Do not attempt to follow me.” Her voice had acquired an edge of steel.
Where is she going?
Before he could ask, Isabella scooped up her blanket and walked quickly into the shadows at the back of the hall. He saw the flickering flame of her candle rise higher as she mounted the stairs.
Stairs which must lead to the family’s bedchambers.
“It will be as cold as the grave up there,” he spoke aloud.
Isabella did not respond. Seconds later, the light of her candle disappeared around the corner.
Hamish widened his eyes but stayed seated in his chair. If Isabella wanted to play lady of the manor, then so be it.
Perchance it was wise to put distance between them, for his thoughts were running amok. Mayhap a few hours’ sleep would lessen this spell that Isabella de Neville had put him under.
Mayhap come the morn, everything would be clearer.