Chapter Thirteen #2
He gritted his teeth and spurred Luar to lengthen her stride so they careered over the moors as if they were being chased by demons.
No horse was faster than Luar. And surely, Isabella could not have gone far on the old grey pony.
Though she had a decent head start, for Hamish had slept deeply in the chair before the fire.
By the time Siegfried woke him, the sun had been high in the sky.
Perchance the Lady had drugged him.
His eyes narrowed as he crouched low over Luar’s neck. She had cooked the stew and served his portion, but he could not believe that Isabella would stoop so low as that.
But do I know her at all?
Has she been playing me all along?
Even as the thought occurred to him, he grimaced with acknowledgement that he was the one to take Isabella captive.
Theirs had hardly been a relationship of equals—in the beginning at least. But what had passed between them most recently had been pure and real.
As real as the circle of tall granite stones he was now galloping past. As pure as the love he felt for his family and his home.
But bigger and more urgent than anything he had ever known.
And she had felt the same connection with him.
He would go to his grave swearing as much.
He reined Luar back as they reached an ancient crossroads high on the moors.
For a moment, she spun in a tight circle as his eyes scanned the four diverging paths, increasingly desperate for a clue as to which direction Isabella had taken.
Then he spied the telltale hoofprints tracking a neat course up a slight incline some way apart from the main paths, and he grinned humorlessly.
Isabella was trying to throw him off.
He’d always said she was clever.
Perchance she was cleverer even than he had given her credit for. Forsooth, one woman, alone and unprotected, had bested three armed men.
Nay, he could not believe that everything they had shared was a lie. He was a man of flesh and blood, with hopes and dreams and desires, and he had responded to this and more in Isabella de Neville.
With a shake of his head, he urged Luar on once again. His charger pricked her ears and gave chase, and he sent up silent thanks for her loyalty and stamina.
But even a mighty warhorse like Luar could not run forever.
When the gushing of a nearby stream reached his ears, he slowed her to a trot until they found a shallow pool where she could lower her head and drink.
He dismounted and filled his own water skein, realizing that he too was thirsty.
Thoughts of Isabella had crowded his mind, chasing out everything else.
He patted Luar and loosened her girth and told her they could rest a while.
With his hand looped loosely through the reins, they wandered from the river and up a shallow hill, from which he fancied they would benefit from a sweeping view of all surrounding countryside.
He was not wrong. As they stood atop the summit, he spied a small copse of trees some way ahead of them. And in amongst the trees, he spied the unmistakable figure of a woman standing by a small horse.
“There she is,” he said in a strangled voice.
Luar’s ears flickered back and forth.
“But what is she doing?”
Hamish folded his arms and watched as Isabella tugged off her cloak and hung it from a branch. She then jumped high from the ground, wrapping her hands and feet around a much thicker branch and beginning to shimmy upwards.
“God’s blood, she be climbing a tree.”
Luar lost interest and began to crop at the grass. Hamish leaned against her warm flanks, relieved to have found Isabella and somewhat entertained by the display. The wind had thankfully dropped and the noonday sun had a determined strength to it, so he was no longer clenched with cold.
Who would have thought that Isabella de Neville had a habit of climbing trees?
As he watched, she swung into a more upright position and clambered to the midpoint of the tree. With her back against the trunk, she lowered herself until she sat astride a sturdy branch, where she swung her legs like a carefree child.
Hamish smiled. With the sun shining down upon her like a halo, there was no denying the beauty of the scene.
There was no denying his feelings for her.
“I am falling for ye, Isabella,” he whispered to the hills and the heather and the breeze.
“Finally,” said a voice to his left.
“Brianne.” It seemed a long time since he had glimpsed her chestnut curls and laughing eyes.
He knew there were those who would mock him for the value he placed on conversations with a woman who no longer walked this realm.
There were times when he privately acknowledged that their dialogue was rooted deep inside his imagination, with treasured memories adding a shine of authenticity.
But at other times, he heard and saw his sister so clearly, it was as if she had journeyed from the spirit world to counsel him.
She put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a stare. “I am pleased to hear ye own up to the feelings of yer heart.”
“I have nay choice in the matter. I canna pretend otherwise.” He shrugged.
“Ye should stick to the promise ye made about always telling the truth, nay matter how painful it may be.”
She sounded like some wise woman of the hills, not his high-spirited sister who had seen less than two and twenty summers.
He bowed his head. “I shall try.”
“But dinna drop yer guard. Ye ken? Methinks the hardest battle is still ahead of ye.”
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, inwardly protesting that no battle could be harder than the one which had ended with her demise. But his sister had gone. Only Luar’s pricked ears told him he hadn’t imagined the whole encounter.
But then he noticed that Luar was not looking at the place Brianne had stood. She was looking beyond it, to a dark figure creeping through the undergrowth toward the tree in which Isabella still sat.
Hamish dropped the reins and began to run.