Chapter Nine
Hamish found the bakehouse easily enough. ’Twas a four-square building with stone walls and a heavy oak door which locked from the outside with an iron key. The floor was earth, but the interior was dry.
He pushed Alaric inside, deaf to his threats and protests, and turned the key. Only then did he allow his emotions to surface.
God’s blood, Alaric had been within moments of inflicting grievous harm to the lady. Hamish did not wish to ruminate on what form that harm might have taken. It was enough that he had seen the blood on Isabella’s face, and Alaric’s hands on the neckline of her gown.
Such a swell of rage overtook him that he swung his fist into the stone wall of the bakehouse, taking grim satisfaction in the sharp pain as his knuckles slammed against the granite. Perhaps aware of the blow, Alaric began to shout once again from inside.
“Silence,” Hamish roared, all dignity abandoned. “Unless ye want my blade against yer throat.”
That quietened the prisoner, although Hamish’s blood still pounded in his ears.
I would ne’er forgive myself if harm came to Isabella de Neville.
He put his back to the wall and leaned his weight against it, gazing out across the white fields that glinted silver in the last of the day’s light. His breath plumed ahead of him, hanging in the cold air like some kind of ethereal spirit.
His failure to protect Brianne had led to her death.
His failure to protect Elena had led to her being taken captive.
And now I have failed to protect Isabella.
Not failed, he corrected himself. Forsooth, her attacker was behind this locked door. But he had come dangerously close to failure.
For certs, he had not been vigilant enough.
The memory of Isabella’s anguished blue eyes caused a pain to lodge somewhere under his ribs. He would give any amount of coin to never see such an expression on her beautiful face again. He wanted only to keep her safe.
Hamish dragged a hand through his unkempt hair and forced himself to acknowledge the truth of the matter.
I am falling for the lady.
He could not remember feeling this way about anyone.
Certainly not Belinda, the sweet-natured clanswoman he had reached an understanding with in those long-gone, carefree days before Uncle Donald’s betrayal.
Hamish and Belinda would have wed, were it not for the family feud that had splintered the peace of Greenock.
Instead, Belinda and her sisters had fled to the islands. And Hamish could not blame them for it.
But were it Isabella that had run off in the night, he would have likely run after her.
He inspected his aching knuckles, unsurprised to find them dripping with blood.
“Ye are a fool, Hamish McIvor.”
He spoke the words loudly into the darkening sky, but his only response was the distant hooting of an owl.
Behind the stone walls of the bakehouse, Alaric had grown quiet.
Mayhap he was planning an escape. For certain, he would be plotting revenge.
But for now, he was contained and could cause no further harm to anyone.
The problem of what to do with Alaric could wait for the morn.
With a deep sigh, Hamish began walking back toward the house.
He was now so accustomed to feeling his way across the ice that he hardly noticed his feet sliding across the cobbles.
Nor the numbing cold that had laid claim to his extremities.
It was only when he entered the feasting hall and stood before the fire there, that he began to tremble.
“Ye need ter drink this.” Siegfried appeared beside him and thrust a finely-wrought goblet into his hand. “I warmed some wine for the lady.”
The wine was fragrant with spices. Hamish did not protest, but drank deeply, twitching as feeling returned to his hands and feet.
“This cold will defeat us all, faster than any enemy,” declared Siegfried.
“It will nay last much longer,” Hamish replied with more confidence than he felt. Then he remembered his resolution to speak only the truth. “At least, that is what I tell myself.” He threw his comrade a small smile.
“The lady says ye have no plan. And that ye shall have to kill her afore she will work with ye.”
“I will ne’er harm her.” Hamish fixed his gaze into the red and orange flames which burned with the same intensity as his newly acknowledged feelings for Isabella.
“That is what I told her.” Siegfried folded his arms beneath the folds of his faded cloak. “Which is when Alaric decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“I see.” Hamish had wondered what first sparked the incident. Though with a man like Alaric, any small thing might do it. He turned to his father’s loyal friend. “Ye were right about him. I shouldna brought him here.”
“It gives me no pleasure.” Siegfried lifted his face to the smoke-blackened rafters as if seeking guidance from above. “But Alaric was also right. We do need a plan, Hamish. We canna stay here indefinitely. If the lady willna work with ye, we need to move on.”
“I know it.” Hamish drained the goblet and placed it down on a low side table.
The warmth of the fire, the comfort of the wine, and the steadiness of Siegfried had all combined to make him sleepy and slow.
He would like to sit in this overstuffed chair, drink more wine and talk long into the night with his old ally.
Nay, if he were being truthful, he would like to talk long into the night with Isabella.
As if conscious of his thoughts, Siegfried said, “I laid her fire, as ye asked. And she ate some bread and cheese. I was about to take up water to clean her wound when I heard ye come in.”
“Ye are a good friend.” Hamish clapped him on the shoulder. “I ken ye didna wish for any of this.”
“No more did ye,” Siegfried interjected. “We all must live the lives we are given.”
“And none of us know what the Good Lord has in store fer us,” Hamish finished for him. They both smiled into the fire, remembering how Hamish’s mother would offer such words of comfort to her children and men-at-arms alike.
“What will ye do?” Siegfried asked softly.
“I shall go ter her. Tend ter her wound.” Hamish shrugged. “I shall make one final bid for her aid. If she refuses me again, then we must leave this place.”
“Without her?” Siegfried’s bushy eyebrows inched up his lined forehead.
“Aye.” Hamish inclined his head toward the shuttered windows. “As soon as the thaw comes, that is. Until then, we must muddle along as best we can.”
“And Alaric.”
Hamish laughed and grasped the man’s arm. “I pray, friend, dinna ask for more of me right now. I dinna have the answers ye seek.”
“The answers will reveal themselves,” Siegfried prophesied.
“Aye. Things are always brighter come the morn,” Hamish quoted another of his mother’s favorite sayings.
Siegfried nodded toward the back of the hall. “There is a pitcher of water and some linen cloths back there.”
“Thank ye.”
What Hamish wanted more than anything was a warm bath.
Failing that, a comb for his tangled hair and the time for a shave.
It seemed many moons since he rose that morn.
He glanced down at his crumpled tunic and wondered if any suitor had ever appeared before Isabella de Neville in such disarray.
At least the snow kept his boots free of dust and his breeches free of mud.
In any case, he was not appearing before the lady as a suitor.
His new alliance with truth-telling did not extend to making a damn fool of himself.
But he knew that the strange push-and-pull conversational games that he and Isabella had been engaged in ever since they arrived here must now come to an end.
This is the end of the line.
He could no longer issue threats and expect them to be believed. If he could not enlist Isabella’s support, he must count his losses and leave Ember Hall without her.
Hamish shook his head as he wearily climbed the stairs. What that meant for Elena, he could not allow himself to consider.
Then he paused at the entrance to her chamber, brought up short by the sight of the fallen door.
He had been determined to enter whether she gave her blessing or not, but the fact that she had no choice in the matter made him uncomfortable.
He raised his eyes beyond the door, to see that Siegfried had indeed set a fire.
The flames licked around a bank of logs, smoking only slightly.
Isabella was sitting on the hearth rug, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.
Her eyes were closed, although surely the lady could not sleep in such an unstable position?
Still, his heart began to beat faster at the sight of her lovely face in repose. The usual lines of watchfulness were smoothed away, giving her a look of youth and innocence.
How old is she, wondered Hamish.
Younger than he, he would wager.
She was so poised, so alert, so quick-thinking, that she oft gave the impression of having lived through many summers.
So distrusting of men, his inner voice added. With a wisdom that speaks of experience.
Hamish realized with a jolt that Isabella had opened her eyes and was looking straight at him. He offered a short bow.
“My lady.”
She winced. “Must we attend to such formalities? I have not the energy to leap to my feet and curtsy.”
His lips twitched. “On this occasion, we may put them to one side.” He stepped over the door and placed the pitcher of warmed water on the nightstand. Candles flickered from sconces around the chamber; their warm glow of light reflected in the looking glass.
Were it not for the broken door and splattering of blood on the wooden floor, this could be a heartwarming domestic scene.
Hamish cleared his throat. “I have come to tend to yer wound.”
Isabella’s eyes slid from his. “’Tis kind of you to bring water, but I can see to myself well enough.”