Chapter Twelve #2
The very idea made her anxious. Isabella waved her hand. “No need. There’s a clear view from the barn door to the hall. I shall take my bearings before I step out.”
“I’ll watch ye then.” His voice was full and almost apologetic.
He doesn’t want to come near me, Isabella realized.
She lifted her chin. “As you wish.”
Swallowing her pain, she crossed to the arched doorway and plunged out into the freezing air with no more than a cursory look right and left.
As good as his word, Hamish came to stand at the opening, and she felt his eyes upon her as she made her way back to the hall.
Agitation made her careless, and she slipped more than once on the treacherous cobbles, but thankfully she did not fall.
She could not have borne the embarrassment.
Once she reached the door, she pulled it open and stepped inside without a backward glance. She shot home the bolt and only then allowed herself to sink her head into her hands.
What now?
*
Hamish stayed outside far longer than was necessary.
He saw to the horses, fetched ice and melted it over the brazier, fixed the door to the bakehouse and swept out what had been their sleeping quarters. Then he walked down to the outer wall, ascended the stone steps and scanned the white surroundings for any sign of Alaric.
He sighed with frustration; his breath misting the air in front of him.
Alaric had simply melted into the night. No footsteps showed in the frozen snow. No gate stood open to show which way he had headed. ’Twas as if he had been spirited away by the faerie folk. But Hamish recognized the actions of a man trained in stealth.
Would Alaric return?
The question that would no doubt keep him awake throughout the long night to come.
Shadows lengthened across the moors as the winter sun crept downward and a chill took hold of Hamish’s very bones. He should go inside and sit by the fire. But that meant facing Isabella and the rush of emotion that robbed him of rational thought whenever he was near her.
She had visited him in the stables for mere minutes, but ’twas long enough for him to forget all the excellent reasons he should steer a course away from Isabella de Neville.
Now he reminded himself of the difference in their status and expectations.
Of her wealth and connections, and the fact he had no home to offer her.
Even if he was restored as rightful Laird of Greenock, he struggled to envisage Isabella living a busy and purposeful life within its granite walls.
Any wife of his would be required to work—and hard at that.
There were times to relax, with ceilidhs and feasting and laughter.
But also times when food was scarce and enemies loomed close.
For certs, there was no coin to spare for fashionable dresses and grand visitors. He had difficulty picturing the daily reality of Isabella’s former life as Countess of Felsham; but surely much of her time had been spent in this manner, with formal dinners and stilted conversation.
A gust of wind lifted his uncombed hair from his neck and sent shivers of cold down his back.
He must not make the mistake of hankering after something that was not meant for him. He had told himself as much at the first light of dawn. ’Twas still true at sunset.
What was more, he would freeze to death if he stood out here and contemplated the obvious for much longer.
Blowing on his chilled fingers, Hamish tramped back down the steps and made his way to the hall, where he could just discern the glow of candlelight behind the shutters.
The door was bolted, as he had specified, but when he banged his fist upon the wood and shouted for entry, Siegfried soon appeared.
Hamish walked into light and warmth and the welcome scent of cooking. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he had not eaten since last night.
“Smells good.” He sniffed appreciatively and clapped his comrade on the back.
But Siegfried shook his head. “’Tis not on my account. The Lady is in the kitchen.”
Hamish’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead and Siegfried nodded in confirmation.
“I fixed the door to her chamber, but she said she has seen enough of those four walls and wanted to put herself to use.”
’Twas as if her actions answered the very questions he had ruminated upon when he stood on the wall walk.
Hamish gave himself a little shake, aware that he was as wide-eyed as a hound awaiting a feed.
“Are ye recovered fully, do ye think?” he asked of Siegfried as they rounded the corner into the feasting hall.
“As much as I will ever be.” The Seneschal flexed his fingers experimentally. “’Tis ye who should sit afore the fire, Hamish. Ye have been out in the cold all day.”
Hamish grunted, reluctant to explain himself. His gaze roved around the room, which somehow appeared more homely and welcoming than it had this morn. “Why is the table set only fer two? Is the Lady not eating with us?”
Siegfried buried his chin into the folds of his cloak. “I thought ter give the two of ye some time alone.”
Hamish huffed. “That is the last thing we need.”
A smile flickered across his friend’s face. “I also thought ye were a man in control of yerself.”
“Aye, well.” Hamish was noncommittal. “Surely ye have said none of this to the Lady?” The lure of the armchair proved too tempting for him to deny and he sank into it with a little grunt of pleasure.
“Give an old man some credit.” Siegfried stayed standing, but leaned his weight on the back of the opposite chair.
“I told her that I needed ter rest. She didna protest, ye understand. In truth, she was quick ter show me ter the solar and invite me ter make good use of it.” He nodded to an oak door set into the opposite wall.
“Why are ye doing this?” Hamish frowned.
“Ye need a clear head and no regrets if ye are ter take back control of Greenock.”
He struggled to follow. “And ye think I will have regrets?”
“I think ye need ter be persuaded as to whether or nay yon Lady Isabella is a proper match for ye. Aye, she has a pretty face and a quick wit. But could ye sit and talk with her night after night whilst the wind howls about the keep?” Siegfried cocked his head.
“Could she face the endless winters and toil?”
Hamish was momentarily lost in a daydream of he and Isabella sitting cozily by a roaring fire in his bedchamber at Greenock, whilst snow drifted outside.
“I doubt she kens the meaning of toil,” he said, forcing himself back to the present.
Siegfried nodded. “Exactly so.” He straightened up. “I shall take my leave.”
“Are ye not eating at all?”
“I have already sampled the Lady’s cooking.” Siegfried’s face was inscrutable. “My belly is full and I want only somewhere soft to lay my head. The thaw may come on the morrow.” He bowed to Hamish and swept away through the oak door.
Hamish settled himself more comfortably in the armchair. The fire threw out a good deal of warmth and were it not for his hunger and desire to see Isabella again, he might have dozed. When brisk footsteps sounded, he readied himself.
“I thought I heard you come in.” Isabella carried a heavy tray with apparent ease. Her hair hung in a single braid down her back and her cheeks flushed becomingly.
“Ye have been busy in the kitchen.” Hamish’s stomach rumbled audibly as he caught the scent of cooked meat.
“I have been pleased to keep myself busy.” She walked gracefully to the trestle table and began unloading her tray. “Idle hours sit heavily upon a person.”
Isabella was wearing braccae. They clung to her shapely legs and made it all too easy for him to recall how those same thighs had been wrapped around him last night.
Mayhap she was aware of the direction of his thoughts, for she hurriedly sat down.
“Will you not join me?” she addressed the opposite wall.
Hamish crossed the polished floor, aware that he had not cleaned the dust from his hands. Isabella would think him a highland heathen.
Surely the Earl of Felsham would never have sat down to dinner with dirt ingrained beneath his fingernails.
’Twas too late now. And the stew smelled too heavenly to resist. He tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it into the meaty broth, closing his eyes in pleasure as the rich flavors flooded his mouth.
“’Tis good,” he told her.
Her cheeks flushed again. “As I said, ’tis better to have purpose than not.”
He regarded her steadily, this woman that was full of surprises.
“I would have thought ye were accustomed to servants to cook yer food and serve it as well.”
At this point he noticed they had neither wine nor ale to wash down their food. Isabella had set goblets out on the table, but they were empty.
“I do not deny it.”
She was avoiding his gaze and he didn’t like it. “If ye were the Lady of Greenock, ye would work like this all the time. There are no hours of idleness in the highlands.”
Just as he cautioned himself for his combative tone—and demanded to know what he hoped to achieve by it—her transfixing eyes flew to his. For a moment, he was robbed of breath. His spoon sat in mid-air, his food all but forgotten.
“As the wife of Lord Gaunt? Or the wife of yourself?” The question was so softly asked that Hamish had to strain to hear it.
Reality was a harsh mistress.
He chewed up his meat and longed for a mouthful of ale.
Of course, the Lady still thought of Greenock as belonging to Gaunt. As it will, he jeered at himself, until her brother intervenes.
Isabella took a ragged breath. “Perchance I would relish the chance to work and have purpose.”
She was changing the subject, with all the tact and diplomacy of a countess.
He put down his spoon. “Ye would soon tire of it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Isabella’s fierce gaze now clashed with his. “How can you claim to know me so well?”
’Twas a mirror of the question she had asked last night.
“How do you claim to know the workings of my mind?” she had demanded as she stood in the circle of his embrace.
He could not think of that conversation—nor of what had come after it. “I ken that a lady like you was not raised to face a life of hardship,” he said instead.
“We never know what hardships we will face in life.”
He could not argue with that.
But what hardships had Isabella de Neville ever faced? For certain, she had not bedded down in a cave, nor wielded a sword upon the battlements.
And why would I wish such a fate upon her?
Hamish rubbed at his temples, at the beginnings of a headache.
“Ye would miss the grandeur and ease of yer old life,” he tried again.
Isabella’s gaze became unfocused as she toyed with her food. “I would miss the music,” she said abruptly.
“The music?” His interest was snagged. Music was also a big love in his life. At least, it had been, once.
“Aye.” She nodded. “Westchester was known for its evenings of music. I was fortunate in the services of a talented bard. There was naught he could not play.”
It was on the tip of Hamish’s tongue to tell her that he played the lute. But then he looked down at his dirty fingers and felt the words die inside him.
She would ne’er believe it.
Worse, she would think him a man of enthusiasm but little talent.
Isabella rose up from the table. “I see my tales of the past hold little interest for you.”
Every fiber of his being wanted to reach out and touch her. To tell her that every word she uttered was of interest.
But she is not meant for me.
“It has been a tiring day,” he said instead. “Siegfried thinks the thaw may come on the morrow. If so, there will be much to prepare.”
Her face changed, but her expression was difficult to read in the candlelight.
“In that case, I had best leave you to rest.”
Isabella walked hurriedly away, her light footsteps sounding up the stairs. Hamish gripped the table and silently cursed himself.
He should not have let her leave. Not without some declaration of—something on his part. God’s blood, he had bedded the woman and breathed not a word on the subject.
For certain, she would think him a heathen. A villain. Uneducated and unthinking. She had cooked for him, and he had scarcely even thanked him.
Not yer finest hour, Hamish McIvor.
He closed his mind to thoughts of how his mother and sisters would scold his behavior.
Perchance ’twas all for the best. There was no future for himself and Isabella de Neville. Hadn’t all that transpired this eve confirmed as much?
Hamish pushed his chair away from the table and returned to his place by the fire, fixing his gaze upon the orange flames and not allowing himself to dwell on the answer to his question.
For in truth, naught Isabella had said or done this eve made it hard for him to picture her as the Lady of Greenock.
Far from having a clear head, Hamish was more muddled than ever.