Chapter Seven #2
“Dinna fuss. I am much recovered.” He pushed away his blankets and prepared to stand, but Hamish came forward and clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Stay awhile longer by the fire. That is not a request. ’Tis an order.”
The older man sank down again, resting his gnarled hand atop Hamish’s for a moment. “It gladdens my heart to hear ye mention yer father so oft,” he said quietly. “He was taken afore his time, but he lives on in ye.”
“Many of our kin were taken afore their time.” Hamish searched for Brianne, but she did not appear. He made an effort to shake off a swell of grief. “Will ye manage things here if I go on out ter the barn?”
The horses needed water, no matter that the well was frozen. And Hamish did not like to leave Alaric so long unattended. Not when dislike of the English permeated his every thought.
“Will ye make up yer mind? Ye just told me ter sit by the fire.”
Hamish was glad to see a flash of mirth cross over Siegfried’s familiar features. As much as he longed for news of Isabella, he could not risk his old comrade’s health.
“Ye are ter sit here until that log has burned low.” He pointed to the smoldering log in the grate. “Is that clear, old man?”
“Get outta here.” Siegfried flapped his hands and Hamish nimbly dodged out of the way.
“I shall be back,” he called over his shoulder.
Outside, a brisk wind blew his cloak around him, causing a shiver to run the length of his body. The cold air stung his eyes and when his feet slipped from under him on the ice, Hamish found himself cursing the English and the ill-conceived plan that brought them here.
Most of all, Lord Gaunt, he reminded himself, rubbing his back and pushing himself onto his knees. Hamish had never longed to run any man through with his sword, but he would gladly end the life of the man who had laid claim to both his lands and his sister.
“Dinna allow anger into yer heart.”
The piping voice spoke directly into his ear.
“That is what Mother always said,” Brianne added, kneeling beside him on the cobbles.
“Aye.” Hamish heaved himself upright. “I was wondering when ye might show yerself.”
“Well, ye have been so busy with herself in there.” Brianne jerked her head toward the hall, her chestnut curls almost flattened by the hostile wind.
“I have not seen her for two days,” he corrected her.
“But ye have thought of little else,” Brianne said, stretching out her legs as if she sat on some grassy knoll on a warm summer’s day. “And when ye are thinking of her, ye dinna think of me.”
He put a hand to his forehead. “I shall always think of ye.”
God’s blood. No one could ever take Brianne’s place in his heart and mind.
The sister I should have protected.
Another gust of wind made him gather his cloak about him. Hanish set off again for the barn, before he froze to death in this very spot.
Had it ever been so cold and bleak in the highlands?
Most likely it had. ’Twas only that this land was unfamiliar. Moreover, for the first time in his life, Hamish was not surrounded by friends and family—whose laughter and smiles could warm the coldest of places. He had only Siegfried.
And Alaric. A man he did not trust.
And Isabella. A woman who would not speak to him.
’Tis a grim setup,” he told himself, speaking out loud in an attempt to assert some dominance, if only over his own limbs.
At last, he reached the barn, where the liquid eyes of the horses and the scent of the hay made things feel more normal.
He patted Luar, noting with a surge of pleasure that Alaric had melted the ice fetched by Siegfried and filled with water buckets of their three horses.
But Isabella’s destrier and the old grey mare had no water within reach.
Hamish swallowed his curse and moved into the anteroom used as a store, where he found an axe and a fresh bucket. He tightened the strings of his cloak and set off again, headed for the small stream running to the side of the paddocks.
It was easy to see where Siegfried had cut the ice earlier. Hamish got straight to work, digging down with the axe until he was able to lift a big block of ice into the waiting bucket.
Ye Gods, it was cold work. His hands were red and stinging. But better that than white and bloodless. He reminded himself that Siegfried had first gone to the well, and spent fruitless minutes attempting to draw water there.
By the time he had successfully secured a second block of ice, Hamish could no longer feel the cold in his fingers.
He contemplated sitting down to rest, but dimly recognized that he needed to get inside, and quickly.
The walk back to the barn was a blur, but he stumbled toward the brazier and held his hands over the warmth.
Just in time, he recalled that it was dangerous to apply heat too quickly.
He took a step backward and rotated his shoulders to get his body moving again.
’Twas too easy for a man to come to harm in these conditions. Easier still for a lady who, for reasons he did not entirely understand, was refusing food and warmth.
Hamish stamped his feet and blew over his painful fingers. The situation with Isabella could not be allowed to continue. Mayhap Siegfried would achieve what he had not. Mayhap he would return to the hall to find both of them sitting afore the fire, toasting bread and warming wine.
A fine sight that would be. But it didna answer the question of what he would do the next day. Or the day after that. If Isabella would not talk to him about her brother, how could he proceed?
A wicker from the horses’ stable brought him back to the present. He must melt the ice and top up the water buckets. There would be time enough afterwards to contemplate the hopelessness of his situation.
The winter sun was beginning its downward descent by the time he had finished. Hamish stood for a moment in the shelter of the barn door, admiring the pale golden light which formed a halo effect about the rooftop and mullioned windows of the hall.
He had been wrong before. These lands were not bleak.
They had a wild beauty that was not dissimilar to his beloved highlands.
He looked to his right, to where a path wound past the paddocks and out onto the moors.
The snow was still crisp upon the moors.
If only he could get Luar safely across the cobbles, she would be sure-footed and certain as soon as she reached the crisp snow.
He and Isabella could ride away to safety.
His lips curled into a grimace at this, for where would he be safe?
What place could ever be safe for a man without a home?
Hamish bowed his head, feeling the weight of responsibility press upon him. He must make a decision soon. The longer they lingered here, the greater the risk of discovery. Of retaliation even, by Isabella’s family or Gaunt’s army.
Though no army would advance in weather such as this.
Hamish heaved out a sigh and began the tentative process of crossing back to the hall, but an elaborately carved door set into an adjacent wall caught his eye.
Grand carvings for an outbuilding, he mused.
He pushed at the door and it opened with a faint groan of protest. It was not until he had walked inside that Hamish realized he had stumbled across a modest chapel.
Modest in size, at least. It was smaller than their family chapel at Greenock.
But ’twas far from modest in appearance.
Painted glass cast rainbow-hued patterns onto plastered walls which were adorned with frescoes so intricate that Hamish could not resist examining them; his worries temporarily forgotten as he made out a glorious pattern of intertwined stems and leaves twisting about the mullioned windows.
Hamish sank onto the nearest pew and rested his elbows on his knees.
Golden light shone around him, almost like a blessing.
He wondered how many years it was since he sat inside a house of God and concluded it was several.
The glorious hills and valleys of Greenock were where he went to worship.
But his mother had been a spiritual woman.
For her sake, he placed his hands together and prayed to the Almighty for guidance.
Show me how to proceed, he begged silently.
He longed to be back in Greenock. To be recognized as the rightful Laird of Greenock. Not for the grandeur or riches involved—the good Lord knew there was little enough in the castle coffers. But simply because that was who he was and where he belonged.
He cared for the people of Greenock. For the families he had known all his life.
Would Gaunt spare a thought for the wellbeing of the young or old when he raised his tithes?
Nay. For certain he would not.
Hamish willed his instinctive flash of anger away and forced himself to think of Elena. His kind-hearted, loving little sister who was held prisoner by his sworn enemy.
Hamish’s chest tightened and his breathing became fast and short as panic clamped iron arms about his ribs. For this reason, he tried to avoid thinking too oft of Elena’s plight. Fear for her safety would overwhelm him.
What am I doing so far away, when I should be staging a rescue?
A feeling of hopelessness overtook him. If he died here, perchance at the hands of Isabella’s brother, then Elena would have no one to rescue her.
Why will Isabella not help me?
She was a kind, decent woman, he was sure of it. Moreover, wit and intelligence shone from her eyes. Why would she not attempt to come to terms with him?
The wintry sunlight shining through the painted glass intensified, until Hamish was obliged to shield his eyes from the glare.
And then he knew.
His mother had always told him—told all three of them—that naught was more important than truth.
But I have not been truthful with Isabella.
He sat straighter in the wooden pew as he realized the implications of this. He had allowed her to think of him as a villain. A ruffian.
I am the man with the power to decide if ye live or die, Isabella.
God’s bones, why had he said that?
At the time, he was trying to assert his control in any way he could.
To stop her fleeing from the hall and coming into danger.
To impress upon her that she needed to abide by his rules.
Her beauty and poise had over-awed him, leaving him fumbling and bewildered.
’Twould have been better to simply tell the truth.
That he never intended her harm.
That he longed for the safe return of his younger sister.
That he was a man of some honor, despite appearances to the contrary.
Hamish smiled to himself. At last, he had found his path forward. These problems were easy enough to remedy.
He stretched his arms above his head and rotated his head and neck, slowly becoming aware of shouting coming from outside.
Hamish snapped into action, striding to the chapel doorway and stepping out onto the cobbles. He made out the tall figure of Siegfried, his cloak billowing about him, standing at the bottom of the hall steps.
“What is it?” he hollered back, scrambling for purchase on the ice.
“Come quickly.” Siegfried’s words were half snatched by the wind. “’Tis Alaric. He is breaking into the Lady’s chamber.”
Hamish did not spare another thought for the ice. He began to run.