Chapter Thirteen
Isabella banked up the fire in her chamber that Siegfried had lit earlier in the evening. If she’d learned anything during her time at Ember Hall, it was the importance of keeping a good fire blazing.
But the bright flickering flames could not dispel the darkness and doubt in her heart. Nor could the warmth lull her into a state of relaxation.
She had never been less relaxed in her life.
Instead of laying on the bed, she paced across the floorboards, kicking the rugs out of the way so they could not trip her nor slow her thinking.
What am I to do?
From the first, she’d recognized her bone-deep attraction to the highlander.
Ye Gods, the man was beautiful—if someone so undeniably masculine could be described in that way.
But he was beautiful; from the sharp curve of his cheekbones to the fiery hues in his untamable hair.
She felt no shame in appreciating his good looks.
Forsooth, enough men had openly appraised her looks over the years. She had sensed the lust in their gaze when they looked at her, and she thought it was high time she experienced the same.
But now she had the terrifying notion that what she felt for Hamish was more than lust.
Ever since she came across him singing in the stables, something had shifted inside her. Mayhap it was the simple words of the song on his lips that had unleashed some yearning she’d kept long under wraps.
“How well do I love thee, how well do I love thee.”
She wanted to hear him say as much to her. To see love in his gaze and feel it in the touch of his hands.
Just yesterday, she had suggested to Hamish that they might be friends.
She clutched her arms about her chest and let her weight rest against the fastened door of the closet.
What lunacy is this?
How could so much have changed with one circle of the sun?
She didn’t want to be his friend. She wanted to be his lover. His wife.
But she’d seen the expression of distaste that passed over his face when she spoke of being the Lady of Greenock. Heard the conviction in his tone when he said she was not raised for a life of productivity and purpose.
Hamish had turned out to be another man who thought Isabella de Neville was purely decorative, like her prized emerald necklace.
She kicked again at a sheepskin rug, satisfied when it slid away across the floor. But the rug had covered blood stains which even Siegfried’s dedicated ministrations had not lifted from the grooves of the wood. Isabella turned her face to the closed shutters at the window.
One thing was clear. She risked making a fool of herself if she spent more time with a man she loved, who did not love her in return.
She thought of the long ride to Wolvesley, and how uncomfortable that would be.
She thought of Tristan’s all-encompassing gaze. If he saw them together, her clever brother would quickly divine her feelings for Hamish. And that would surely undermine everything they hoped to achieve.
Both the release of Hamish’s sister and the return of his lands.
Isabella was not one to renege on a promise. But nor did she have any intention of being taken for a fool. Not by anyone.
She crossed over to the window and lifted the shutters, but the silvery light of the moon was blanketed by heavy clouds and she could see almost naught.
Her pulse quickened. Hamish had spoken of a thaw on the morrow. Perchance he was right.
She released the shutter and backed away from the window, as the beginnings of a plan slowly began to form in her mind.
*
Isabella did not sleep a wink, but passed the night in turn sitting in the wooden desk chair and standing by her window, waiting. When the first pink rays of dawn appeared, she opened the shutters and gazed outside, listening intently.
The world was still white and cold, but above the solitary song of a nearby ruddock, she discerned a steady dripping sound.
The sound of melting icicles.
Isabella smiled to herself.
The thaw was upon them, just as Hamish had predicted. Even as she carefully closed the shutters, she heard the unmistakable thwump of snow falling from the roof. There was not a moment to lose.
Isabella had never undressed for bed. Still wearing the practical garb of yesterday, she noiselessly pushed open her chamber door and stepped out into the gallery.
Here, she half anticipated the feeling of strong arms closing around her.
A mouth pressed close to her ear, asking, “And where might you be going?”
Did she anticipate or long for all of this?
Either way, her journey along the gallery suffered no interruption.
She crept down the stairs, knowing now which steps creaked and which did not.
The faint glow of the hall fire made her pause for long enough to establish that Hamish was slumped in a nearby chair; his long arms hanging downward.
She listened for his breathing, slow and heavy, and pushed down her regret at leaving him without saying goodbye.
He would not allow me to say goodbye, she reasoned.
For certain, he would not allow her to make the long ride to Wolvesley alone, especially not with a vengeful Alaric on the loose.
But there is no other way.
She would rather risk meeting Alaric—a low risk, she reasoned—than face hours, or days, of awkwardness by Hamish’s side.
Quelling the tears that threatened to blur her much-needed senses, she forced herself to walk away from Hamish and into the kitchen.
Her hastily concocted plan had included the packing of provisions for the journey south, but Isabella found she could not countenance such a delay.
There would be food enough waiting for her at Wolvesley.
She tied Esme’s cloak about her shoulders and slowly drew back the bolt on the outer door.
A strong gust of wind made her clutch the handle and stagger to one side, but the biting chill of the last days had diminished.
It was breezy and cold; inclement indeed.
But the freeze had lifted and her leather boots splashed through softened snow and melting puddles.
With no danger of slipping on the ice, Isabella strode out with more confidence.
My plan may yet succeed.
She entered the barn and spoke softly to the horses, but she had not even thought to look for a saddle when she realized she had a problem.
Her trusted destrier stood placidly between Luar and a heavily-muscled dapple-grey, both of whom flattened their ears at her approach, as if sensing she was an adversary.
Isabella took a deep breath. Her mother had taught her that horses could read fear as easily as words on a parchment. If she stayed calm, all would be well.
But Luar was not so easily fooled. She scraped at the floor with her hoof and whinnied a warning when Isabella next approached; a warning that might carry all the way back to the hall. From her brother, Isabella had learned all about the close bonds between a warrior and his warhorse.
She would not risk bringing Hamish to the barn.
But at the other side of the row, Alaric’s bad-tempered bay swung his head and snapped his teeth at her.
Isabella retreated with a small wail of distress. How could she ride to Wolvesley without a mount?
Then she spied the small grey pony standing apart from the others, and her fears subsided.
Though tall, Isabella hardly weighed more than a child.
She found the tack neatly piled in a stable to the side of the barn, and it was not hard to identify which would fit the pony.
Talking gamely to the creature, which must have belonged to one of her nieces or nephews, she tacked him up with no further difficulty.
The sun was beginning to rise in the sky by the time she led him outside. How much time had she wasted?
No more, she promised herself.
She looked for the mounting block to no avail. Then she considered the height of her mount, and pulled herself into the saddle with relative ease.
Isabella smiled. Let any man underestimate her at his peril.
She pressed her heels into her horse’s sides and urged him into a canter as soon as they were off the cobbles.
She would need to dismount to open the gate, but that would be easy enough.
Her mother had been right all these years, ’twas far more practical to ride in braccae than any riding habit, no matter how fine the stitching.
*
The last time Hamish had saddled Luar so quickly was when the battle horns were sounding before the siege of Greenock. Usually he took the time to talk gently to his sometimes-skittish mare, but this morn she seemed to sense his urgency, and she stood quietly whilst he tugged up her girth.
Hamish led her out into the courtyard, shouted a farewell to Siegfried, and sprang onto her back.
Spray from the puddles of melting snow flew up around them as they galloped toward the open gate.
His cloak whipped out behind him and he cursed the wind which stung his eyes and made Luar shy to one side.
But praise be, Isabella had ridden a direct course over the moors. He could see the clear imprint of hoofbeats in the softening blanket of snow. His aim was to follow them—and find her—before the thaw obscured her tracks.
Isabella had been correct when she told him that he could not guess at the workings of her mind. For never would he have predicted that she would flee in the early hours, like an escaped prisoner. Or a traitor.
Is she about to betray me?
Pain rippled through his chest, and his howl mingled with the cruel wind which whistled through the distant trees.
But even if Isabella had lied to him about enlisting the help of her brother—about everything—then he still could not abandon her to an unknown fate at the possible hands of raiders and chancers.
And Alaric.
Foolish woman.
Did she not know how dangerous this could be?