Chapter Eight #2
She gulped and gripped the sword tighter, thinking of Alaric’s height and battle-honed strength. The looking glass over the dresser showed her a slight woman with disheveled hair, wearing a rose-pink woolen gown and holding the sword ahead of her like a fire poker.
She looked like her niece, Mary, playing at pirates.
She was foolish to think she could hold her own against a warrior.
She’d been foolish to ever leave this chamber and engage in honest conversation with the older man she instinctively trusted.
If she hadn’t sat beside him by the fire, disarmed by his kindly smile and the rich wine he poured for her, she would never have uttered the words that so angered his companion.
Foolish words, spoken by a foolish woman who should have known better.
Thump.
Still gripping the sword, Isabella dived beneath the large bed and scrambled to tuck her long skirts beneath her.
’Twas far from the best hiding place, but it may buy her some time.
She put a hand over her mouth as the door finally broke from its hinges and crashed to the floor.
Alaric strode into the chamber, a cruel smile playing about his thin lips.
He paused and looked from right to left, and in the brief silence, Isabella heard footsteps pounding up the staircase.
Hamish?
Please God, let it be Hamish.
She had thought him her enemy, but in comparison to the devil striding over to the closet and flinging open the door, Hamish was kindness personified.
“Are ye in here, Lady Isabella?” Alaric taunted, rooting through Esme’s gowns.
Isabella made her breathing as shallow and quiet as possible, daring to place hope in the possibility of rescue.
But as she watched, Alaric’s gaze moved over to the looking glass, which must have shown him a flash of pink beneath the bed.
I should have tugged down the rugs, Isabella realized, a moment too late.
He turned slowly and ducked down, so their eyes were on the same level.
“What are ye doin’ down there?” he crooned.
Without waiting for an answer, he grasped a fistful of hair and dragged her out, making Isabella’s eyes water in pain.
Through the blur of unshed tears, she saw him leering over her, his breeches stained and his tunic torn.
His stance was entirely relaxed; clearly he was not expecting her to put up any defense.
This was her moment.
She swung the sword upward, striking him full in the belly with all the strength she could muster. Alaric grunted and doubled over in pain, but he recovered in seconds.
“Ye want it rough, do ye?”
Isabella tried to scramble away, but her skirts had no purchase on the wooden floor. He dropped to his knees so he straddled her, and before she could make sense of what was happening, his fist flew toward her.
His fist landed and her face exploded with pain.
“I’ll teach ye to have more respect fer the Scots.” Alaric’s cheeks were the color of over-ripe plums. His eyes, always mean, had narrowed to slits. He leaned forward so she could smell the sourness of his breath, and his hands fastened around the neckline of her gown.
Isabella could not breathe.
He was going to tear the garment, top to toe. She could see the intention writ large across his angular face. His knees pressed against her ribs, holding her still and ensuring her gaze fell upon the front of his breeches.
She flinched away, desperately seeking a means of escape but already sensing the probability of defeat.
He was too strong. Too powerful. And too angry.
But even an angry man cannot force wool to tear without extreme effort. Alaric’s contortions bought her some time. She inched her hand toward the blade of the wooden sword, which had clattered to the ground just inches beyond easy reach.
With a howl of rage, Alaric pinned her wrist to the floor.
“Dinna try owt more, milady. Else ye will regret it.”
Leering down at her, he pulled the neckline of her gown toward his face and fastened his teeth about it. Isabella tensed with terror as the material began to give. She closed her eyes, unable to bear what was about to happen.
At first, she felt the release of pressure about her ribs.
Then came a muffled sound and her wrist was freed.
Slowly, Isabella opened her eyes to see Hamish hauling Alaric to his feet; one hand wrapped about his mouth and the other holding him firmly about the waist—trapping his arms by his side.
Alaric struggled, swinging violently from left to right, but Hamish merely tightened his grip.
“Enough!” he commanded, a slight break in his voice the only outward sign of any exertion.
Alaric’s eyes shot daggers at Isabella, still laying on the floor. Hamish swiveled the man around, so he faced the door, in time to see Siegfried stride through it holding a length of rope. Hamish nodded and the older man moved toward the bed.
Alaric spluttered something that was intelligible beneath Hanish’s hand.
“We have nay interest in aught ye have to say,” Hamish told him. He gave his prisoner a firm shove so he lay face down on the bed, then pinned him down with a knee placed on his back while he quickly bound his hands behind him.
“Thank ye, Siegfried,” he said mildly.
“I’ll kill ye both,” Alaric raged, lifting his head from the covers. His eyes swung to Isabella and fixed her with a glare so dreadful that she shuffled backward until she hit the wall. “But as fer ye, killing is too good fer ye. I’ll keep ye until yer begging fer death.”
She didn’t see Hamish swing back his fist. She only heard his fist connect with Alaric’s head and saw the younger man slump back down.
A fleeting smile flickered across Siegfried’s steady features. “He’s had that coming fer a while.”
Hamish merely grunted as he divested Alaric of his sword and flung it across the room to land with a clatter. “I should not have allowed him access ter the house.”
“Ye didna.” Siegfried’s voice was calm. “Ye expressly forbade it.”
Isabella found her eyes drawn to Hamish’s and as soon as their gazes met, she began to feel safe again.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “’Twas not your fault.”
A voice spoke in her mind in protest; pointing out that if Hamish were not holding her prisoner here, none of this would be happening. Isabella pursed her lips and silenced it.
For two days, she had stayed away from him. Now, she only wanted to drink him in. His broad shoulders, his blue eyes, his wide stance. Control and compassion radiated from him.
She wanted to put her arms around him and give him a kiss.
“Ye have taken a blow ter the head.” Hamish looked at her with concern as he manhandled Alaric back onto his feet. “Are ye feeling okay?”
Isabella nodded, even as her cheeks grew warm. Mayhap she was not thinking clearly after all.
“I’ll see ter the fire.” Siegfried gave her a small smile.
“Aye.” Hamish nodded toward Alaric. “Is there somewhere I can put him? Some place with a door that will lock?
Isabella rubbed at her arms, alarmed that her whole body had begun to shake. She dampened her lips with her tongue and reached for her customary composure.
“The bakehouse,” she declared. “The old bakehouse. ’Tis past the barn.
” She recalled that, years earlier, Tristan had ordered that Callum be locked up in the bakehouse.
That was when everyone believed Callum to be a spy for Robert the Bruce and an enemy of the de Nevilles.
What none of them realized was that his love for Frida eclipsed all else.
In turn, Frida risked everything by setting the man she adored free, infuriating her brother in the process.
For a while, it had seemed as if Tristan would never forgive her for it.
But all had turned out well in the end.
She twisted her neck to gaze into the empty fireplace and avoid Alaric’s cruel eyes.
For certain, she would not be staging any rescue of this particular prisoner. He could stay there and rot, for all she cared.
Isabella put a hand to her head, wincing as her fingers came away sticky with blood. Her thoughts were running along strange and vengeful paths.
Hamish wrestled Alaric toward the door. “I shall find my way. Stay warm, my lady.” He threw a glance at Siegfried. “Bring her wine and then stay with her.”
“Ye havna seen the last a me, milady,” Alaric taunted.
Isabella put her head in her hands, unable to bear the tension and hostility for a moment longer.
She heard the thump of footsteps descending the stairs, then the spark as a flame caught against kindling in the grate.
Cautiously, she looked through a crack in her fingers as Siegfried built up the fire, sitting back on his haunches until satisfied.
“There we are,” he said.
The flames flickered merrily with the promise of warmth and comfort. Isabella sniffed and shuffled closer to the blaze.
“Thank you,” she said shakily.
Siegfried regarded her steadily. “Neither Hamish nor I ever wanted ye to sit and freeze.”
Her fingers were white with cold and red with blood.
What had she been hoping to achieve by hiding out in a chilled bedchamber?
Isabella could hardly remember. These last days had become a blur.
Her stomach rumbled and she recalled that on her last foray to the kitchens, she had encountered Siegfried sitting calmly in the feasting hall.
“Or starve,” he added.
She inclined her head. “I would be grateful for something small to eat.” She abandoned any attempt at superiority, knowing she had naught to gain by it.
“I shall fetch something for ye.”
When the old warrior had left the room, Isabella allowed her hot tears to slide down her face.
If Hamish had not arrived when he did—
Nay, she would not allow herself to think such thoughts. Alaric was bound behind a locked door. He could not hurt her, even though his parting threat still rang in her ears.
Isabella linked her fingers together and took several deep breaths. She must get a tighter control of her emotions, else both Siegfried and Hamish would see her with puffy eyes and a running nose.
They had almost seen far worse.
She should not have spoken so carelessly downstairs. Sometimes it was wise to show power and strength; but sometimes humility was a better friend.
She fished in her pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, careful to avoid her injury, which throbbed with pain.
It seemed she had no further choice but to put her trust in Hamish.