Chapter Six
Isabella was numb to the winter cold of the long gallery. She strode across the wooden floorboards, sheltering her candle flame from draughts but oblivious to the steam of breath pluming ahead of her.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins, whilst her mind hummed with nervous energy. She had been driven from the feasting hall by impulse alone, like a horse bolting from one too many surprises. Almost companionable they had been, sitting by the fire like two people that—
Here, Isabella’s internal dialogue failed her.
How had they been together? Like friends? Nay, for no friend she had ever known had made her pulse flutter so.
Like lovers, her mind sneakily suggested.
Isabella’s candle flame flickered in her quick exhale of breath.
How should she know? The only lover she had known was her elderly husband. Kind as he was, the Earl of Felsham had never made his young bride’s heart pound in any way.
But what nonsense was this? Aye, they had conversed almost as equals. Sparring in a way Isabella had not enjoyed since youth. Her questions and accusations ricocheted from his rebuttals. His piercing blue eyes shining in the darkness.
But then he had spoken words that sent a fresh chill through her bones.
“I am the man with the power to decide if ye live or die, Isabella.”
Never had a foolish woman recovered her senses so quickly.
She knew she must put distance between them. Thank goodness she had the presence of mind to light a candle before she fled.
Although the highlander was right. It was as cold as the grave up here.
But that was not a comparison Isabella was minded to enjoy at the present time.
She paused by the long window, discerning the outline of the barns by the silvery light of the moon. Somewhere out there lurked the dark-haired warrior with cruel menace in his eyes. Whilst downstairs sat a highlander who talked calmly about deciding her death.
Isabella hesitated no longer. She turned toward the chamber door that had once belonged to her sister Esme, lifted the latch and sighed with relief when it opened. Once inside, she closed it firmly and shot the bolt.
I am safe.
Isabella’s knees weakened and she lent her weight against the solid panel of the door, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
What a terrible day.
How could it have been mere hours since she left Westchester Hall, imagining no worse fate awaiting her than marriage to a disinterested man?
Isabella tucked the blanket under her arm and pushed back her hair with shaking fingers. She had only stood still for a moment, but already the cold of the chamber had seeped into her bones.
I must light a fire.
Her eyes roamed the tapestried walls until she found the fireplace with an adjacent log basket waiting only for her ministrations. She carefully set her candle down on the mantle and squatted down by the grate.
How many times had she watched the maids light a fire?
Isabella frowned. Perchance the answer was none, for she had no clear idea how to proceed.
How difficult can it be?
Pursing her lips, she reached for the largest log and settled it in the grate. Was it merely a matter of setting her candle flame to the log?
But if her candle were to go out, she would be left in total darkness.
Pleased with her foresight, Isabella walked tentatively over to the nightstand, feeling with her hands until she encountered another candle. This, she lit with the first, the tremors in her hands abating a little as a second glow of light took hold.
Now she held a flame to the log, stiff with hope and anticipation. Alas, the log only smoked a little and made her cough.
Disappointment coursed through her, leaving her limp. Isabella settled her candle holder on the wooden floor and cradled her head in her hands, rocking sideways like a child.
But no one was coming to save her. Not her maid, not one of her siblings, and certainly not Lord Gaunt. Isabella took a deep breath and stood up slowly.
I shall light more candles, she decided.
Within minutes her heart lightened. With more candles lit, she was able to identify those waiting in the wall sconces. Soon, the chamber was transformed into a blaze of light.
Light which banished the shadows.
Shadows which had long threatened her ability to think and act rationally.
Isabella did not stop until every candle in the chamber was topped with a yellow flickering flame. Then she sat on the bed and pulled her blanket over her legs, pleased with how the candlelight illuminated the familiar polished wooden furnishings and bright tapestries on the walls.
“Light and warmth,” she muttered, as if to a child. “And soon will come the morn.”
Her comforting words reminded her of her mother, smoothing back her hair and speaking gently after Isabella was woken by a nightmare. Neither of her sisters had ever been troubled by bad dreams, but Isabella frequently woke in her childhood bed in a twisted tangle of blankets and fright.
Mayhap it was a harbinger of what was to come—of being held captive by a band of highland warriors.
She shivered and pulled the blanket further over her body. She had imagined climbing under the rugs on the bed, but could not shake the idea that they would be chilled and damp. The room needed heating thoroughly.
Mayhap I have long underestimated the work of a housemaid.
Isabella rubbed at her temples and took deep, soothing breaths. But despite her best efforts, her pulse pounded and her mind endlessly replayed the conversation downstairs.
Should I believe Hamish about Jonah?
The prospect of harm befalling her youngest brother had set Isabella’s whole body shaking and kept her prisoner in the armchair, when really she should have gone about lighting candles or stoking the fire, anything to banish the encroaching darkness.
Darkness meant night.
Night meant nightmares.
Isabella had long been afraid of the dark.
But when Hamish told her that he did not know where Jonah was—that he had not harmed him—she had perceived the gleam of truth in his blue eyes.
Aye, she believed him. Partially because she had no choice in the matter. But mostly because she fancied that, deep down, Hamish was a man of honor.
Isabella tutted in frustration. Had the events of the day turned the balance of her mind? The highlander was keeping her prisoner. On pain of death even. Yet here she was, delighting in his perceived honor and brilliant blue eyes.
She should threaten him with the retaliation of the Wolvesley army. Watch from the battlements as Tristan faced him in combat.
But this last image refused to come into focus. The two faces of her golden-haired brother and the russet-haired highlander swam before her eyes, but she could not force them to turn against one another.
’Twas a flight of fancy anyhow, for she had no way of getting word to Wolvesley. The skeleton staff that Jonah kept on at Ember Hall had seemingly been dismissed or given leave. Mayhap they had even accompanied her brother back to Wolvesley? Either way, there was no one to carry a message for her.
There was a village nearby, she dimly recalled, but she had no idea what direction it lay in. She had as much chance of getting lost on the moors as of finding sanctuary in the church. And either way, she risked being caught by the dark-haired warrior if she attempted to escape.
She had not been lying when she told Hamish that she would not attempt to flee.
Isabella settled herself back against the pillows, forcing herself to think of the glow of light against the looking glass rather than the proprietary sneer of the young warrior.
I am safe. The door is bolted. The window shutters are fastened tight.
She clenched her hands and took perverse pleasure in the pain of pressing her fingernails against the flesh of her palms.
Ye Gods, how low I have sunk.
Isabella had once been treated like a precious jewel; cosseted and sheltered and given aught she desired.
As a child, she had roamed free in the fields around Wolvesley with her siblings. But later, when the full flower of her beauty came into bloom, she came to be perceived differently to her sisters.
She became a woman defined by her looks. A woman who needed protection from nettle stings and harsh winds and mud.
How did that transformation happen? she wondered now. Surely it was not her loving parents that had imposed such restrictions upon her.
Mayhap it was her own doing. Her own desires to secure the most sparkling future, with naught but her looks to distinguish her.
And those famed looks were now fading, whilst she kept company with highland vagabonds in a freezing farmhouse.
And no one knows of my plight.
Her fingernails dug deeply into her palms as a wave of desolation swept over her.
But she was expected in Greenock within the sennight. When she did not arrive, surely Gaunt would act?
He would act, she reasoned, if only to appease her father. Search parties would be dispatched, and Ember Hall would be among their first ports of call.
Isabella flexed her feet beneath the blanket. All she had to do was stay alive until then.
Her stomach rumbled loudly, disturbing the peace of the candlelit chamber. Now that some of her fears had been put aside, hunger had taken hold.
She really should have eaten something downstairs. The broth the highlander prepared had smelled good. Come the morn, Isabella decided, she would accept whatever food he offered.
Nay, she would not accept it. She would demand it.
The only way through this was to remind everyone—including herself—that she was a woman of import.
*
The candles had burned low by the time Isabella awoke from uncomfortable slumber, half-sitting and half-lying atop the high bed. Shafts of pale light filtered between the gaps in the shutters, casting horizontal patterns onto the plastered wall behind her.
She pushed herself upright, groaning a little and rubbing at her sore neck. She was chilled and stiff. The chamber was no longer in the shadows, but it was still as cold as the grave.