Chapter Twelve
Where is he?
Isabella knew a wave of keen disappointment when she woke and discovered herself alone.
The bed beside her was still warm, where Hamish had lain. She herself was still warm from the imprint of his body pressed against hers. But the highlander had gone.
She lay back on the pillows and allowed a swell of frustration to ripple through her. Last night had been magical. There was no other word to describe it. Finally, she knew the thrill of a man’s touch. Her sisters had not been exaggerating all these years.
But she had hoped for more kisses this morn.
Her eyes traveled over to the bright shafts of sunlight filtering through the shutters.
Is it still morn?
After a lifetime of troubled sleep, in these last hours, she had slept deeper than a babe. No demons woke her, no fits of fear seized her. Hamish had been the balm she needed to soothe her turbulent mind.
But did that mean she had slept too long?
Isabella sat up in a tangle of covers, perplexed to find the chamber pleasantly warm. Then she saw the fire flickering in the grate, and realized that Hamish must have built it up for her before he left.
’Twas kind and practical, just like him.
Happy again, she stretched her arms above her head and rotated her head. What bliss to not be cramped with cold and doubt.
I will go and find him.
She dressed quickly—and daringly—in a woolen tunic and braccae which she found in Esme’s closet. ’Twas a far cry from the taffeta gowns in shimmering silk which she wore in Westchester, but more fitting for the current climate and circumstance.
’Tis more important to be warm than elegant, Isabella told herself.
Besides, a mischievous voice spoke in her ear, Hamish has seen you dressed in nothing at all.
Heat rose to her cheeks, but she did not allow herself to feel any lingering guilt or shame.
Last night, she had done what she wanted to do, rather than what she knew she ought to do.
’Twas the first time in her life that she had followed her impulses—or her heart—rather than the dictates of others.
And it had brought her a deeper pleasure than she’d known was possible.
Whatever happened next, she did not intend to regret her decision.
She flinched at the chill of the long gallery after the warmth of her bedchamber. Stepping over the fallen door reminded her of Alaric, and the paralyzing terror that had imprisoned her in the moments before Hamish appeared.
Together, she and Hamish had turned fear into joy.
It was strange to walk across the long gallery without the swish of skirts about her calves. Strange, but also liberating. The woolen braccae were snug, not allowing the merest hint of a draught.
Mayhap I will dress this way more often.
As soon as the thought occurred to her, she pushed it away, lest her imaginings take her to the cold stare of Lord Gaunt.
’Twas unsettling to think of the future and what it may or may not hold.
Better to stay rooted in the present. She turned the corner in the feasting hall and stopped in surprise.
Siegfried was sitting before the fire, fast asleep and snoring lightly.
Isabella swallowed a giggle and crept past him. Hamish must be outside, she realized. There was no telling when he might return.
No matter, I will look for him.
Galvanized into action, Isabella wandered toward the kitchen; a place she had only ever entered under the cover of darkness, fearful of every creaking floorboard in those long-since nights when she tried to evade Hamish’s notice.
It was pleasing to see the room flooded with light.
Isabella rummaged in the well-stocked larder until she found a bucket of red apples, most likely picked from the orchard.
She bit into one and closed her eyes, enjoying the sweet flavor flooding her mouth.
Her eyes landed upon a number of cloaks hung by the back door and she smiled with relief.
This was what she sought.
Her own traveling cloak brought back painful memories of the day she had left Westchester.
Besides, it had never been fashioned to withstand such freezing temperatures as these.
She ran her hands over the heavy, coarse wool of the dark and muted cloaks hanging before her, and nodded with satisfaction.
These would do very well, so long as she could find one which didn’t swamp her small frame.
Finally attired in a cloak which must once have belonged to Esme, Isabella pushed open the back door and stepped out into the morning sunlight.
Warmth!
Or at least, the appearance of it.
The sun’s rays had strength and purpose, and the brightness was almost too much to bear.
Isabella blinked at the dazzling sunlight and its reflection in the ice which still covered swathes of the courtyard, where water had once settled.
Icicles hung from the mullioned windows and snow lay thickly in the distant fields.
Her breath plumed before her, but if she tilted her face toward the sun, she could believe the thaw was not far away.
Once the thaw came, they would ride to Wolvesley and she would ask for Tristan’s help, as she had promised. But this was the future which she still did not wish to consider. Once they reached Wolvesley, questions would be asked about her betrothal to Gaunt.
Isabella would prefer to think of the present. Of the glorious expanse of sunshine on snow and the melodious singing coming from the barn.
She cocked her head and listened again, smiling when strains of the lilting song reached her. There was no doubt, it was Hamish.
A man motivated by love for his sister.
A man who could sing.
And a man who had made her body sing just hours earlier.
Rolling her eyes at her run of thoughts, she set off across the cobbles, picking her way around the most slippery patches of sheer ice.
The singing grew louder as she neared the barn, though she did not recognize the tune.
She was relieved to reach the half wooden door without incident.
She leaned her weight upon it and caught her breath.
“How well do I love thee, how well do I love thee,” sang Hanish.
Does he sing of me?
The eager question sprang to Isabella’s mind before she could stop it.
Nay, she realized soon after. Hamish was singing of love for the glens and lochs of his native Scotland.
She breathed in the scent of hay and horses, familiar from her childhood. Their mother had insisted that all her children learn how to ride and take care of horses from a young age.
Isabella stilled, her fingers gripping the rough wood of the door, uncaring of splinters.
Ye Gods, she had not spared a thought for her destrier since handing over the reins to Alaric on the day she’d arrived.
Her breath caught in her throat. The mare was willing and kind-natured. And Isabella had all but abandoned her.
Her mother would be rigid with disappointment.
Isabella pushed open the door and stepped into the barn, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
Mayhap hearing her footsteps, Hamish ceased his singing.
In the sudden silence, Isabella discerned a short row of horses, happily munching at their hay racks.
The stalls were clean and well-swept. The small horse nearest to her turned liquid eyes in her direction, deemed her of little interest and returned to his hay.
Isabella stepped closer, discerning the chestnut legs of her destrier standing in the middle of the row.
There were five horses in total; the small grey standing a little apart from the others.
At the far end of the row stood a beautiful glossy-black beast with well-shaped legs and a blaze of white across her face.
This was the horse to which Hamish tended, a brush in each of his hands. He paused in his task, and eyed Isabella over the horse’s withers.
“Have ye come here alone?” he asked abruptly.
Isabella had been hoping for a softer greeting. She tried not to worry about her shapeless clothing and undressed hair. “Siegfried is asleep,” she offered, immediately regretting it. She didn’t want to get the older man into trouble.
Hamish grimaced. He resumed his rhythmic grooming, although his eyes strayed toward her.
“Ye must take care, Isabella. Alaric has escaped.”
She put a hand to her heart. “From the bakehouse?”
He nodded. “Aye. The door is clean off its hinges.”
“’Tis my fault for suggesting it.” She couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder as if the cruel-eyed warrior might have followed her across the cobbles.
“’Tis not yer fault,” he countered. “But I would prefer it if ye stayed inside with the door bolted.”
A clutch of fear made her shiver. The golden light of the courtyard seemed a long way away. She shuffled her feet on the well-swept floor and nodded toward the gleaming flanks of her destrier.
“Thank you for taking care of her for me.”
He nodded briefly. “She’s proven useful in keeping Luar apart from that devil.” He indicated a big bay-colored horse with a bad-tempered gaze. “Alaric’s,” he explained. “My Luar is particular about her stable mates.”
Luar pressed her face into Hamish’s chest and sighed, as if to agree. Hamish rubbed gently at her ears and patted her neck, talking so quietly that Isabella could not catch the words.
The man clearly loved his horse.
Her mother would approve, but Isabella felt her chest tightening with childish jealousy.
Hamish showed easy affection for Luar, but none for the lady he had lain beside last night.
The frisson of connection that had always existed between them had gone, like a puff of smoke from an extinguished fire.
Perchance I dreamed it.
Perchance it was no more than lust.
Isabella pushed away her disappointment. There was naught to be gained by standing in the shadows. She had not sunk so low that she would compete with a horse for a man’s attention.
“I shall return to the hall,” she said, “and bolt the door.”
“Wait.” Hamish paused, but did not move from Luar’s side. “I should walk with ye.”