Chapter Eight
Sometime earlier, Isabella had stood quietly at the end of the long gallery and watched as Hamish made halting progress toward the river. She knew that the younger man with dark eyes—the one she so disliked—had long since climbed the stone steps to their sleeping quarters.
Does this mean the course is clear?
Her stomach growled with hunger and she decided she would have to take the chance. The older man, Siegfried had not yet come into view but of the three, she considered him the lesser threat.
He did not make her heart pound with fear. Nor her pulse pound with—something else.
She walked quietly to the end of the gallery and paused at the top of the staircase.
All was still and silent, save the distant crackling of logs.
Hamish must have made up the fire in the feasting hall, which meant she could thaw her chilled limbs.
Even though Isabella had found Frida’s winter woolens and a whole chest of warm shawls, the seeping cold of her bedchamber had taken root inside her very bones.
When she looked outside at the endless expanse of white covering fields, walls and buildings, she thought she might never be warm again.
The stairs creaked as she descended, but there was naught she could do about that. Yesterday, she had withdrawn at every creak, her trembling feet tentatively seeking silent purchase, but Ember Hall was an old house. She could not creep about the place without making some degree of noise.
I should not have to creep about.
Isabella straightened her sister’s shawl as a hot flush of indignity travelled through her. Nay, she should not have to tiptoe like a common thief, always looking over her shoulder. But this was the only way she could feed her belly and avoid a confrontation with Hamish.
It was the best solution she had, for now.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the feasting hall. She was over halfway there. In another minute, she’d be within reach of the kitchens. Her stomach rumbled louder at the prospect of bread and cheese. But then she froze.
The feasting hall was not empty.
The older man, Siegfried, sat before the fire, his hands calmly folded above a heavy rug pulled over his knees. His blue eyes blinked in surprise before he nodded a greeting.
“Lady Isabella.”
Should I flee?
Uncertainty coursed through her veins.
Siegfried did not move, but his voice was kind when he said, “Why not come and warm yourself by the fire?”
Why not indeed? This was her brother’s house, after all.
She lifted her chin and stepped forward, as if she were entering the tower room at Westchester.
It seemed a long way from the foot of the stairs to the fireplace, and Siegfried’s eyes never once left her face.
Isabella kept her head held high and her back straight, ignoring the fact of her shapeless shawl and audibly rumbling stomach.
The warmth of the fire was like a caress and she all but whimpered with relief.
“Sit down,” Siegfried invited, indicating the nearby chair.
But Isabella had no intention of moving backward from the blaze. She sank down on her knees, grateful for the softness of the hearthrug, and held out her hands.
“Drink this.” He held out a goblet of wine.
Wine. Not ale.
Isabella hesitated only for a moment, before taking the goblet and drinking deeply. The wine brought a rush of feeling to her limbs, so she felt young and alive once again. She drained the goblet and placed it down beside her.
Unperturbed by her silence, Siegfried went on. “I am glad to see you down here, Lady Isabella. Hamish is most concerned for your wellbeing.”
She snorted in a most unladylike way. “I doubt that.”
They were the first words she had spoken to anyone in two days, but her voice came out as level and strong as ever, and she was grateful for it.
Siegfried was sitting to her left. From the corner of her eye, she saw him put his head to one side and regard her thoughtfully.
“You should not doubt his concern, milady. Hamish is a man of wisdom and compassion.”
She was not inclined to hear such praises.
“He is a man without a plan.” She fixed her gaze on the flickering flames and tried not to recall their last conversation—or the spark of connection she had imagined between them.
A log cracked in the grate and smoke drifted toward her, making her cough and inch backward as the acrid taste filled her lungs.
A single noise came from the back of the hall, but Isabella was busy clearing her throat and wafting away smoke. She did not pay it any heed.
Siegfried rested his elbows on his knees. “Perchance I am speaking out of turn. But I believe his plan depends upon ye.”
“Then there is no plan.” Her eyes still watered. Isabella eyed the second chair, but did not want to prove the older man right.
“He could have killed ye when he discovered ye have nay currency with Gaunt,” he said calmly.
He might still, her mind supplied.
Oblivious to this, Siegfried continued. “But he wants to work with ye, not against ye.”
A second coughing fit seized Isabella, leaving her dizzy and a little nauseous. Too late, she realized she should not have drunk so much wine on an empty stomach.
“I will never work with a Scot,” she declared, stumbling to her feet. “If that is his only plan, then Hamish will have to kill me after all.” She clenched her hands into fists, partially in defiance and partially in an effort to steady herself.
Siegfried got to his feet and the rug tumbled to the floor. He held out his hand. “Let me help ye.”
“I do not need your help.” Her vision was dissolving into dots. She shook her head to try and clear them. “I do not need anything from you. Any of you. You should return to Scotland.”
“We will not return until you come to an agreement with Hamish.” Siegfried’s voice was calm, but his logic was relentless.
“Then you will never return,” Isabella cried out, knowing her manner was undignified but unable to remedy it. “You will stay here until my brother arrives with his army and they will cut you into pieces and I will watch.” Even as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. “Or until you kill me.”
Siegfried did not so much as flinch. “Hamish will not harm ye.”
“But I will.”
The voice came from the back of the feasting hall. Siegfried startled backward but a cold rush of fear robbed Isabella of the ability to move.
It was the dark-eyed warrior. He had been crouching in the shadows, watching and listening.
“Alaric,” Siegfried began in warning.
But the younger man strode forward and held out a hand to silence him. “Dinna speak to me. Dinna try and stop me. This ends now. Ye heard the lady. She will ne’er come to any agreement. ’Tis her life or ours. And I ken which I choose.”
The length of his speech gave Isabella the time she needed to regain her senses. This man meant her harm and although Siegfried looked ready to defend her, he would be no match against a warrior so much younger and stronger.
She could run outside, but he would catch her easily. Her only hope was to flee to her chamber and lock the door.
Isabella did not waste another moment. Whilst the two Scots glared at one another, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Never had she ascended the stairs so quickly.
She stumbled briefly on the long gallery, but the sound of footsteps behind her urged her on.
She recalled how she had long been able to out-run her brother Tristan, despite his height and breadth.
She may be slight, but she was fleet-footed.
Like a charger, her mother had once laughed, not a warhorse.
She over-shot her chamber door, but quickly recovered. In moments, she had wrenched it open, flung herself safely through and shot home the bolt.
Safe.
Isabella took a ragged breath, aware that her shawl had slipped from her shoulders at some point. No matter. Her blood pumped around her body and chased away any remnants of cold with a mixture of exertion and adrenaline.
Then a crash sounded against the fastened door, sending her reeling backward. She stood helplessly in the center of the bedchamber as the crashing noise sounded again. A loud, resounding thump reverberated across the wooden floor and settled somewhere beneath her ribs.
The iron bolts across the heavy wooden door were holding fast for now, but for how much longer would they keep her safe?
She could hardly believe that the narrow-eyed warrior had turned upon her with such ferocity. And that no one was coming to protect her.
Not even Hamish.
Isabella stifled a sob.
Thump.
She jumped backwards as the door jolted in its hinges, and looked about in desperation for something she could use to defend herself.
Esme had taken the majority of her belongings to Wolvesley, leaving only an old comb on the polished dresser and some faded ribbons in a drawer.
Isabella shook her head, her loose hair swinging over her shoulders. There was naught suitable.
Then she spied something long and thin, propped in a sewing basket and leaning against the plastered wall by the large closet.
Her eyes widened as she realized what she was looking at.
Some years past, Esme had urged the man employed as her personal guard—now her beloved husband—to teach her how to wield a sword.
Adam had whittled her a wooden sword for training.
And there it was!
Isabella rushed over and grasped it by the hilt. The sword was light in her hand and may not yield much damage. But it was a darn sight better than nothing.
Thump!
The man, Alaric, must be hurling himself at her door, determined to break in and…
Here, Isabella’s inner monologue became silent. What exactly would he do when he had broken down the door? Ravish her? Beat her? Kill her?