Chapter Six #2
She winced again at the comparison, swinging her legs down toward the floor and flexing her ankles experimentally.
Perchance it had not been a good idea to sleep in her leather boots. Her toes were cramped and numb. But she had not dared to remove the boots last night. Both because of the cold and a clearly-defined notion that she should remain on her guard at all times.
She stared with dismay at her crumpled riding habit. When she had donned it yesterday, she had imagined Jonah’s embrace and the smiling regard of the housemaids.
“She looked beautiful,” she had thought they might report, to anyone who cared to listen.
What a mistake. She would have been far wiser to dress for warmth.
Isabella considered what clothing her maid might have packed in her saddlebags. Again, it seemed unlikely that practicality would have been at the forefront of any decision-making.
Where even are my saddlebags?
They certainly had not been brought up to her chamber, her dresses hung in the closet and her combs placed on the dresser. Isabella tightened her lips as she considered the possibility that all of her belongings remained out in the courtyard, where the Felsham guards had left them.
What she wanted was warm water in which to bathe. And a maid to comb out the impossible tangles in her long hair. But there was not even cold water in the pitcher.
Stifling a swell of self-pity, Isabella walked stiffly over to the closet, opened the door and glumly regarded the contents.
“You should be grateful there is aught here at all,” Frida’s sensible reprimand sounded in her mind.
She rifled through faded woolen day dresses and over tunics, until she found a dated gown in blue taffeta overlain with lace. The excess of material made the dress heavy enough to chase away any chill, she thought, holding it before her and assessing the length.
Perfect.
Then her eye fell on the long row of pearl buttons snaking up the back, and she hung it back in the closet with a sigh.
Such a gown would require the ministrations of a maid.
In the end, Isabella dressed herself clumsily in woolen stockings and a shapeless dress that might once have been a shade of green.
It was warm, at least, and surprisingly comfortable.
She found a comb on the nightstand and dragged it through her hair, pulling several strands out in her displeasure.
Once the worst of the tangles were gone, she plaited it and secured the end with a thin blue ribbon from the dresser drawer.
Esme used to love ribbons and gowns and jewels.
Isabella hardly recognized this spartan wardrobe.
But, she reasoned, her sister would have likely taken the brightest and most beautiful of her clothing to Wolvesley.
And the shapeless gowns that remained were possibly those she had worn deep in the months of her pregnancy.
Isabella gave her head a little shake as she bunched up the extra fabric at her waist.
What irony!
All she wanted was a child of her own.
All she had was her sister’s maternity clothing.
There was naught for it but to cinch a belt about her waist and drape a shawl about her shoulders.
Isabella was glad the looking glass was clouded, for it could not possibly show her anything that she wished to see.
The flash of rings on her fingers made her pause and reach for her emerald necklace, reassuring herself that it was still there.
Should I hide my jewels?
She could secrete them amidst the linens in the dresser. But if the highlander wished to rob her, he would hardly hesitate at ransacking a deserted bed chamber.
Besides, she would not know herself without them. Dressed as she was, Isabella’s jewels were the only proof she bore that she was the dowager Countess of Felsham.
The daughter of the Earl of Wolvesley.
The future Lady of Greenock.
She shuddered a little at the last. If Hamish considered himself the Laird of Greenock, did she still aspire to that particular title?
That is a question for another day.
Breathing deeply to quell her nerves, she stepped out into the long gallery, blanching a little at the ongoing cold and silence that greeted her.
Her footsteps sounded too loud across the wooden floor, but after a moment’s consideration she continued on her way, tripping with deliberate heaviness down the stairs.
How else could she announce her arrival into the great hall?
At first, she thought her efforts and anticipation were all in vain, for the vast hall was empty. Then she saw the highlander standing quietly beside one of the long windows. He had opened the shutters and was gazing out at the view of rolling fields.
Fields which had turned white.
Isabella paused at the threshold, one hand going to her throat and fastening, out of long habit, around her precious necklace.
“Snow,” she said.
“Aye,” Hamish agreed, without looking around. “A little at least.”
Isabella crossed the hall and stood on her tiptoes so she could get a better view without coming too close to her captor. The fields were blanketed with white, but the grey granite of the meandering stone walls was visible here and there. As she watched, a clump of snow fell from the barn roof.
“’Tis already thawing,” he added.
Isabella said nothing. Snow made travel difficult. It meant that her absence from Greenock would not be questioned so soon.
The thaw could not come quickly enough.
Hamish turned toward her and startled a little, a smile coming over his full lips.
’Tis my outfit, Isabella thought, but she stood taller and lifted her chin.
“I half thought we wouldna see ye this day, Lady Isabella. I ken how the English like their slumber, but ’tis near noon.”
Again, she stayed quiet, determined not to tell of a night spent clenched with fear. She had drifted into sleep as the first rays of dawn broke through the shutters.
Hamish had also changed his clothes since yesterday. Now he was dressed in breeches and a blue shirt, with a dark padded jacket which further emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His hair had been combed and hung just above those powerful shoulders. His eyes fixed upon hers.
“Were ye perchance waiting for a maid to waken ye? ’Tis a pity if so. It seems there are none to be found in these parts.”
Isabella wrenched her eyes away from him. He was taunting her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of a response.
“I am hungry,” she said instead. “I wish to break my fast.”
He gave her a low bow. “Whate’er the lady wishes.” He waved his hand toward the trestle table, which had been pulled from the far wall and laid with foodstuffs.
Much as she wished to show disinterest, Isabella could not prevent her legs from carrying her over to the dais; nor her hands from reaching out for a hunk of bread and pushing it into her mouth.
The bread was hard, but she chewed and swallowed with the beginnings of relief.
“Where is the wine?” she asked.
Hamish gave a little shrug, his eyes glinting. “Mayhap in the cellar. There is a jug of ale, milady.”
Isabella had never relished the taste of ale. But thirst drove her to pour some of the brown liquid into a nearby tankard.
Has he deliberately brought up the meanest fare and cheapest crockery?
Isabella scanned the table and concluded that yes, he probably had.
But the ale tasted surprisingly good and she refilled the tankard and drank again. Then she spread a hunk of bread with butter and ate it quickly. Only after she had swallowed the last crumb did she realize that she was still standing beside the table.
And the highlander was watching her every move.
Isabella pulled out a chair and sank into it, crossing her legs at the ankle and attempting to recover her dignity.
“Are there no berries? No cheese?” She motioned toward the table, which was set with only bread, butter, and some unidentifiable cold meat. She shuddered at the smell of it.
Hamish came to stand at the opposite end of the table. He sloshed some ale into a fresh tankard and drained it in one gulp.
“Ye ken where the kitchen is located?”
Not since squabbling with her siblings in the schoolroom had anyone spoken to her so bluntly.
She met the challenge in his eyes with one of her own. “Not really.”
His lips quirked as if hiding a smile. “’Tis back there.” He motioned behind him.
Isabella sat back in her wooden chair and twisted a ring about her finger, affecting a bewildered nonchalance. “What of it?”
“I do not have ye held in chains. Ye can go yerself and look for whatever it is ye fancy.”
He is baiting me again.
Isabella did not allow herself to dwell on the idea of being held in chains. Surely he would not dare!
“I am asking you to fetch the berries and the cheese,” she said instead, slowly and clearly. “And whatever else you can find. Surely more than this.” She wrinkled her nose with displeasure.
Surprise blanketed his features for a moment. Then came an expression that Isabella could not properly place.
“Mayhap ye would like to take charge, milady?
It was amusement that glinted across his eyes, Isabella realized. Hamish was enjoying this.
And so am I.
Isabella splayed her fingers onto the edge of the table, allowing the winter sunlight to illuminate her jewels.
“I have never worked in a kitchen,” she confessed.
Yet it was not entirely true. She had stood beside her sisters and learned to bake at an early age, impatient to eat the honey cakes from the moment they came out of the big ovens.
Her mother had insisted they all knew the workings of a house and kitchen.
But then she had married young and moved to Westchester Hall, where everything ran smoothly without any intervention from her.
Isabella could not recall the last time she had set foot in any kitchen.
My purpose is purely decorative, she thought dryly.
She looked quickly at Hamish, half inclined to vocalize this conclusion and wondering if he might laugh in appreciation.