Chapter Nine #2
Hamish had cleaned many a wound in the aftermath of battle, and he was well-accustomed to the self-reliance that made usually sensible men shun the ministrations of those looking to help them.
He stepped closer and squatted beside her, placing firm fingers on her chin and tilting her head so he could better examine the cut on her cheek.
“’Tis deep,” he remarked.
Isabella gulped. “I do not understand it. He only hit me.”
“Only hit you?” The remnants of his earlier rage still rippled through his voice.
Her breath caught and Hamish forced himself to simmer down.
He released her chin and stretched out his long legs upon the hearth rug, affecting nonchalance when in truth, every inch of him bristled with awareness of her proximity.
Another truth he would be keeping to himself.
Isabella folded her hands in her lap. “I mean, how did he break the skin? There is so much blood.” She looked askance at the smeared stains on the floor. They tracked a path along the grooved floorboards from under the bed to where she now sat.
Hamish grimaced, keeping his surging temper under wraps. “He wears a ring.” He indicated his right hand.
“Ah.” Understanding dawned across her delicate features.
“He will not hurt ye again. I will make sure of it.”
She did not ask how he would do this. And he was grateful, for he had no proper explanation.
All he knew was that he would go to his grave protecting this woman.
How he longed to put an arm about her shoulders and coax her head onto his chest. He could inhale the citrusy fragrance of her golden hair and all would be well in his world.
Hamish rose abruptly to his feet and fetched over the pitcher. “Dinna move,” he instructed her. “I will be as quick as I can.”
He dropped to his knees, dampened a linen cloth and dabbed gently at the wound, cleaning away the blood that had encrusted on her cheek.
Isabella closed her eyes, so he had full view of her curling eyelashes and porcelain skin.
His gaze lowered to her slender neck, but he could not allow himself to go further; not after the liberties that Alaric had wreaked upon her.
His hand shook and he told himself to concentrate on the task at hand, rinsing the cloth and applying minimal pressure until the cut was finally cleaned.
Hamish prayed it would not leave a scar. He could not bear for Isabella’s pure beauty to be marred by his neglect of her safety.
He sank down onto his knees and dropped the cloth into the pitcher. “I am finished.”
Still, she did not open her eyes. “Thank you, Hamish.”
“Are you in pain?” The thought troubled him.
“Only a little,” she replied hesitantly.
“Then why do ye not open yer eyes?” He wanted to look into their blue depths; to see the thoughts racing across her quick mind. Some said that the eyes were the window to the soul, and if that was the case, Isabella had shuttered her soul away from him.
She gave her head a little shake, her long hair rippling over her shoulders like a waterfall over rocks. “I cannot tell you.”
Purely on impulse, Hamish gently placed his hand on top of hers. “Please.”
Her breathing came faster, but she opened her eyes and he was immediately a prisoner of her transfixing gaze. “You will think me touched in the head.”
He could not help it. He reached out and touched her face, his hand slipping into her golden tresses. She leaned into his palm and he closed his eyes, unable to countenance his good fortune.
“Stay like that,” she whispered. “’Tis easier to speak if you are not looking at me.”
With his eyes closed, Hamish was near defenseless. She could reach for his sword or strike him over the head without his foreknowledge. But somehow, he trusted her.
“Speak then,” he whispered back.
She leaned closer, so her clean citrus scent almost overwhelmed him. “I was enjoying having you near me. I wanted to prolong it.”
Shivers of anticipation ran down his spine. “I was enjoying it, too.”
He should say something more profound. Words had always come easily to him, but now he floundered for them. He tried again. “I always enjoy being with ye, Isabella.”
He smelled smoke from the fire and heard the raggedness of her breathing. He dared not open his eyes lest he scare away whatever this magical thing was that was happening between them.
He felt the moment she moved away and severed the connection between them. Full of regret, he opened his eyes to find her staring blankly into the flames.
He sensed her next words before she said them. “You enjoy threatening me?”
“Nay. Never that.” His knees ached, but not more than his knuckles. Hamish swung his legs from under him and tentatively stretched them out. Now he was more on a level with Isabella.
Now, he fancied, they might have the honest conversation he had planned.
She pursed her lips, not knowing how much he wanted to kiss them. “Then why?”
“Because I am a fool.” He answered quickly. “I was a fool. I thought to scare ye into submission. In part because I was frightened for ye. If ye ran from here, ye might find yerself in worse danger. But also because I wanted yer help.”
“To reclaim your lands,” she said flatly.
“Is that not a good reason?” he demanded, a flair of temper taking precedence over finer thought.
“Greenock Castle has been in my family fer hundreds of years. The lands are the lands of my forefathers. The farmers that toil those lands look to me fer safekeeping.” He opened his arms. “Ye speak as if I shouldna fight to reclaim my home.”
“I do not think that.” She massaged her temples and pushed back her hair, as if deciding what she did think. “I can guess how I would feel if some imposter laid claim to my family estate of Wolvesley.”
“Aye.” He nodded firmly. “Ye would want yer family to take it back.” He propped himself back on his elbows, but Isabella’s silence made him look at her. “Well?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “I suppose.”
“Ye suppose?” Bewilderment chased away his temper.
Isabella met his gaze. “’Tis just that I cannot imagine any army strong enough to overpower us.” She shrugged.
Hamish sat up. “’Tis a strong failing of mine that I allowed yer English King to conquer Scotland,” he said sarcastically.
She hugged her knees and looked into the fire. Shadows flickered at the far corners of the wall, like dark spirits threatening to descend.
Hamish scowled at his feverish imagination. Then he scowled again, for allowing this ignorant English woman such power over him.
It is time to leave this place.
And this woman.
“’Tis a terrible thing that has happened in Scotland,” she said, stopping him as he was about to rise up from the rug. “Especially when we had reached an agreement of peace. My family celebrated that peace.”
He nodded, unable to articulate a response.
Isabella gave him a quick, assessing glance.
“I have led a cosseted life, I know it. But that does not mean that I have never known hardship or pain. Or that I have ne’er longed for something I simply cannot have.
” She balled her crumpled gown in her slender hands. “Something that is not meant for me.”
Hamish noticed the break in her voice but was still too riled to offer comfort.
“What I am trying to say is this.” She took a breath. “Are people not more important than property?”
He was caught by surprise. “I believe so, aye.”
“And any attempt to reclaim your lands will lead to lives being lost.”
“I cannot deny it.”
She nodded slowly, as if her point was proven. “Well then.”
He was not inclined to debate the ethics of war with a woman who had never stepped onto a battlefield. But he was not made so stupid with residual anger that he could not seize the opening she had unwittingly handed to him.
“My family has always been the most important thing to me. My mother, my father, my two sisters.” He paused.
“They are all gone now.” He spoke on, over her sharp intake of breath.
“All dead, apart from my younger sister, Elena.” Grief swiped him with sharp claws, but he pushed it away.
“Elena has been taken prisoner by yer Lord Gaunt.”
There, he had said it.
Isabella’s big blue eyes swung to his face. “Gaunt has taken your sister captive?”
He nodded.
“As you have taken me captive?”
He shook his head. “I doubt he has built her a fire or bathed any wounds she has.”
Please God, let her not be injured or afraid.
Isabella considered this. “He is not a kind man,” she agreed. “Nor is he my Lord Gaunt.” She twisted her fingers together. “I do not even like the man.”
“Ye are about to wed him,” he pointed out, dryly.
She sighed deeply, her eyes unreadable. “If I marry him, I may be able to set your sister free.”
Nay, that was not what he wanted. Though the idea had sound logic behind it. Hamish scratched at his growth of beard. He had yearned for the lady’s help, and she had offered it, freely, as soon as she heard of his sister’s plight.
But the notion of her marrying Lord Gaunt made him itch with anger all over again.
“I canna ask ye to wed such a man for my sake,” he said carefully. “I had hoped we might find another way forward.”
“You want to involve my brother, Tristan.”
In her refined English voice, the idea sounded preposterous. But Hamish had come too far to give up now.
“Aye,” he said simply.
“He is a family man, with a wife and two children. Innocent children,” she stressed.
“There are innocent children in Greenock whose lives are in the hands of Lord Gaunt.” The shadows in the corners reared up again as a candle sputtered its last. “The livelihoods of their parents now depend on Gaunt and whether he proves generous or self-serving.” He tried to keep his voice even.
“On whether he is knowledgeable with the land and the crops, or whether he allows the harvest to fail.”
When Isabella said nothing, he pressed on. “What do ye think? Is he a generous man? Does he care to keep up with farming practices?”
She shook her head. “I cannot imagine it.”
Hamish had said all he had to say. He got to his feet, feeling again the pain in his knuckles and the lingering regret of his own foolishness.
He had tried and failed. He would not persevere with false hope.
“I shall see yer door is properly mended come the morn,” he said. “And we shall leave ye here just as soon as the thaw begins.” He gestured toward the shuttered window.
Isabella also scrambled to her feet, a frown chasing across her brow. “You are leaving?”
“We shall return to Scotland, where we belong.”
She shook her head. “No. I meant are you leaving me now?”
He could not allow himself to look at her. Instead, he busied himself with picking up the water pitcher. “I have seen with my own eyes that ye shall have no lasting injuries.”
“And that is the only reason you came up here?” Her voice grew louder.
“I decided I would tell you the truth about my sister. So you knew I was no villain.” He grimaced. “And to ask one last time for the help of your brother.” Warm water slopped over his hand as he gestured too violently with the pitcher.
“But you do not stay to hear my answer?” Isabella raised her chin defiantly, daring him to look her in the eye.
As soon as he did so, he felt himself once again in her power.
“What is your answer?” he asked helplessly.
Candlelight haloed her golden hair. She was like a Goddess from the old religion which still had roots in the hills and valleys of the highlands.
“I will speak to my brother on your behalf.”
Relief made him weak. He placed the pitcher on the nightstand before he dropped it.
“Thank ye,” he began.
Isabella held up a hand to stop him. “I cannot promise his assistance.”
“I understand.”
Her eyes flashed. “And I ask for something from you in return.”
“Anything.” He meant it.
Isabella took a step closer and tilted her face up to his. “I want you to kiss me.”