Chapter Fourteen
Isabella had not slept since the night she spent in Hamish’s arms. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, but she dared not close her eyes even for a moment.
If she fell asleep, she may well topple out of the tree.
To decrease the risk of that happening, she wedged her boot firmly between two slender branches and pressed her spine against the gnarled trunk.
She’d climbed up here with the desperate hope of glimpsing the familiar turrets of Wolvesley Castle.
But alas, all she could see was an endless sweep of soggy and dispiriting moorland with a patchwork pattern of melting snow.
No birds sang; the only sound was the eerie groan of the wind and the occasional snort from the grey pony below her.
She had no sense of how far they had traveled, and whether the greater distance was behind or ahead of them.
I should not have left Ember Hall.
Isabella was dangerously close to tears. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, knowing there was naught to be gained by giving into this tumult of emotion.
In fact, giving into her emotions was what had gotten her into this mess.
Her father, the Earl of Wolvesley, had told his children over and over that they should never run from their fears—they should face them.
But Isabella had run from Hamish like a frightened rabbit.
Tears clouded her vision once again at the thought of the russet-haired highlander. What would he have thought when he woke and found her gone?
The answer slid into her mind. He would have thought that she had betrayed him. Worse, he would continue to think that until Isabella could prove otherwise.
And how long would that take?
She considered, bleakly, that it might be months.
I cannot bear it.
Isabella snatched at the bare branches of the tree in frustration, but the healthy wood did not yield and she succeeded only at scratching her hands.
Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she addressed the grey pony who was looking up at her with an expression of surprise.
“I should have left him a message,” she said.
The pony pricked his ears as if trying to understand.
Isabella sighed. The pony was tired. Would he even get her to Wolvesley? Or should she turn back the way she had come? It was very difficult to decide. And a nagging thirst made everything so much harder.
But she couldn’t stay in a tree all day. Isabella pursed her lips. The sun was high in the sky now, but night fell quickly at this time of year. She had no more than four or five hours of daylight left to her.
I need to get moving.
She rolled her shoulders and flexed her ankles, which had grown stiff from being wedged between the branches, before climbing steadily downwards. When she was a few feet from the bottom, she found an opening and jumped.
She landed in the arms of a man.
She knew it to be a man because of the hard muscle of his chest and the iron grip of his forearms. And because of a foul, unwashed smell that made her want to gag.
“Lady Isabella,” he said. “We meet again.”
Alaric.
She strained against him, but he held her too tightly for her to wriggle free.
“Let go of me,” she commanded.
He laughed, and she winced at the sourness of his breath.
“I’m going to teach ye a lesson.”
Dread pooled in her stomach, but instead of being frozen with fear like before, this time the rush of fear galvanized her into action. Isabella elbowed him sharply in the stomach, ducked down and twisted out of his reach. She didn’t waste a moment looking back. She simply started running.
But she had only run a few paces when a heavy weight brought her face down in the damp heather.
“Nice try, milady.”
Isabella kicked out and made contact with something hard.
She turned to her side and grasped the first thing she found, which was a handful of Alaric’s long and unwashed hair.
She tugged it hard, hoping to rip it from his head.
But in turn, Alaric caught hold of her braid and retaliated.
She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her skull, but she would not give in.
Her eyes scanned the ground, looking for a stick or something she might use as a weapon.
“Let go of her.”
The command came from above. Isabella could not see him, but she was weak with relief at recognizing Hamish’s deep, gravelly voice.
“Yer like a faithful hound, Hamish McIvor, always runnin’ ter the rescue.”
“And ye are a snarling cur, Alaric. I say again, let go of her, else ye will regret it.”
Isabella heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed.
“Now,” Hamish added.
She almost sobbed when the unbearable pressure on her scalp released. Instead, she pushed down with her elbows and scrambled out of the heather until she could stand upright. She turned to see Hamish standing over Alaric, who was on his knees in a patch of snow, looking anything but repentant.
The tip of Hamish’s sword pointed at Alaric’s chest. His stance was wide and his cloak billowed out behind him. He glowered down at his captive before casting a glance in her direction.
“Did he hurt ye?”
Her eyes still watered from the pain, but she knew there was no lasting damage. She shook her head, pride preventing her from rubbing at the sore spot on her scalp.
“He did not.”
Hamish tapped Alaric with the sword. “Lucky for ye,” he murmured.
“Are ye truly goin’ to kill me with that?” Alaric’s eyes gleamed malevolently. “I dinna think ye have it in ye.”
“Sit still, man. I have not yet decided yer fate.”
Hamish grimaced and Isabella thought that she understood his predicament. They were miles from anywhere and Alaric surely could not be trusted. But could Hamish kill a man in cold blood?
From his expression, Alaric clearly did not think so. He twisted to one side and let his dark eyes rove over Isabella, making her squirm and long for the cover of the cloak she’d left hanging in the tree.
“I said, sit still,” Hamish growled.
Alaric chuckled. “Dinna fret so. I am only looking at the pretty lady who has ye dancing to her tune.”
Hamish shook his head. “I should kill ye and have done with it. Ye have brought me naught but grief.”
“I brought ye here, did I not? ’Twas my idea to kidnap the wench.” He threw another leering glance at Isabella.
Isabella looked away, not wanting to hear any more.
The idea that Hamish and Alaric had once conspired together, against her, made her skin prickle uncomfortably.
She felt the force of Hamish’s gaze turn upon her, but she could not bring herself to meet his eye.
Instead, she looked at the grey pony who was idly cropping at the grass beneath the tree.
A sudden movement from Alaric made her turn her focus back to the two men. Alaric had taken advantage of Hamish’s lapse in attention to lunge forward. Whatever he was doing caused Hamish to grunt with alarm, and as Alaric reached for something in Hamish’s boot, Hamish jerked down to stop him.
The next seconds passed slowly for Isabella. She saw the glint of a blade in Alaric’s hand. She saw that same blade plunge, unbelievably, into Hamish’s upper arm. She saw the crimson spurt of blood and Hamish’s grimace of pain and shock.
Then there was a flash as Hamish’s sword flew in a graceful arc to land in Alaric’s chest. Time slowed further as the young warrior swayed forward, before crumpling and laying still.
Hamish stepped away from the fallen man, dropped his sword and grasped his bleeding arm. It took a moment for Isabella’s rightful senses to return, but she ran toward him as soon as she was able.
“Are you hurt?”
“’Tis naught but a scratch.”
His pale face belied the claim. As did the plume of blood showing through his shirt. Isabella clasped her hands with desperation. Frida would know exactly what to do in this situation.
She narrowed her eyes.
What would Frida do?
“We must stop the blood,” she gasped. “Let me see.”
She didn’t want to look. The sight of blood had always made her slightly queasy. But there was no one else here to do it.
Hamish shook his head and flinched from her touch, but Isabella persevered, swallowing down her shock at the jagged edges of the deep cut.
“Sliced with my own blade.” Hamish raised his eyebrows in an attempt at humor.
“You had a dagger in your boot?” Isabella began to make sense of it all.
“Aye. Alaric knew all my tricks.” Hamish staggered and Isabella tugged at his good arm.
“Sit down before you fall down,” she ordered.
She spied a huddle of rocks which stood free from melting snow and urged him toward them.
Isabella’s thoughts were racing. She remembered a time when they were children, when an enraged Jonah had run at his infuriating older brother with a proper sword.
Not believing he would strike, Tristan had stood his ground—even inflamed the situation further with some jeering words—and Jonah had inflicted a cut on his leg that sent Esme fleeing for the physician.
Isabella clasped her hands together to stop them shaking, trying to stay with the memory even as the wind whipped through her woolen tunic and lifted her braid from her neck.
The physician had said the bleeding was not too quick and the wound was not too serious. But even so, he tied a tight bandage above the cut and told them this was the way to prevent serious blood loss.
“We need a bandage.”
Hamish tilted his face toward her. “I didna think ter bring my medical supplies.” His voice was cold, just like his eyes, and Isabella did not think it was all down to shock or pain.
He was cross with her. And he had every reason to be.
But this was not the time for her to plead for his forgiveness.
Instead, she ran the few paces back to the tree and fetched down her cloak, sparing a few words to calm the alarmed pony. Averting her eyes from the face of the dead man, she then plucked Hamish’s dagger from Alaric’s long fingers and returned to the highlander’s side.
“What are ye about?”