Chapter Seventeen
Hamish snuggled further down into the blankets and turned his face from the weak shaft of sunlight that had disturbed his repose.
With his eyes still closed, his sluggish brain calculated that it must be past dawn.
The long hours of the night were behind him.
Against all the odds, he had slept deeply and he could already tell that his aching body was much recovered.
Hamish frowned, stretched his long limbs on the comfortable straw pallet, and slowly opened his eyes.
Nay, he was not dreaming, he still lay in the cell where de Neville’s men had thrown him the day before.
In front of him was the iron-studded oak door, bolted from the outside, no doubt.
The cell was dimly-lit by an air shaft above his head.
The stone floor was bare and the granite walls ran with damp. But Hamish was warm.
Am I feverish?
He sat up and his blankets fell away. Someone had come here in the night and tucked them around him. Someone with a soft voice and ministering hands. A face snagged the edges of his memory. A woman, fair-haired, slender and strong.
Isabella?
Nay, this woman was a sight older than Isabella. She had dressed his wound and held wine to his lips. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, she had even insisted the guards bring in a second straw pallet to sit atop the first. No wonder he had slept so well.
Hamish swung his legs to the floor, moving cautiously in case his arm put out a painful protest. All was as he remembered, from the double pallet to the flask of wine in the corner. Beside it was a cloth-covered basket. He shuffled over, squatted down and found bread.
Bread!
He tore off a chunk and crammed it in his mouth, not able to recall when he had been so grateful for such simple fare. He washed it down with the wine, which was sweet and strong.
No wonder his memories of the night were so hazy, with wine as potent as this.
Hamish rubbed at his eyes, wishing for a basin of water with which to wash.
He was travel-stained from the journey, with mud splats on his breeches and dried blood encrusted on the sleeves of his tunic.
But these were trivial problems, when his sword arm no longer throbbed with pain and his body was rested.
But where is my sword?
Hamish scanned the square-shaped cell, which was empty aside from the pallet, and concluded his sword had been taken from him. His fists tightened at the loss, but only a fool would send an armed man to a prison cell.
And Tristan de Neville was no fool.
Hamish breathed deeply. A display of temper would get him nowhere. He must use his wits to get out of this mess. And hope that somewhere out there, in the comfort of the keep, Isabella was pleading his cause.
Please God, let her not abandon me now.
Nay, Isabella would not abandon him in his hour of need. She would find a way through the maze they’d landed in, just as she found a way to bind up his arm whilst they were high on the moors.
He said her name, evoking the brave, beautiful woman he loved and taking comfort from the sound and feel of the syllables.
In the moments after he spoke, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the wall, and he remembered the slight figure he had glimpsed last night.
Did another human soul languish down here with him?
Hamish cleared his throat, ready to ask who suffered alongside him, but the march of booted feet into the dungeon cleared all such thoughts from his mind.
He wanted to stand tall to meet whoever was coming, but the low ceiling did not allow for that.
Instead, he sat down on the pallet with a straight back and his arms folded across his chest. But despite his best efforts, the bright glare of torchlight coming through the door made him lean away and shield his eyes.
He could not see who held the torch. But the man was tall and consequently obliged to slump his shoulders in the confined space.
He spoke over his shoulder. “You can leave us now.”
The voice was unmistakably that of Tristan de Neville.
Hamish held himself still and met Tristan’s blue gaze squarely.
The earl’s son had come before him in a rippling fur cloak atop a dark tunic trimmed with gold thread.
His golden hair, the same hue as Isabella’s, was neatly combed to curl just above his shoulders.
He exuded power and wealth, but Hamish would not be cowed.
“Good morn,” Hamish offered.
Tristan snorted a little in surprise. “Is it? I would not have thought it a particularly good morn for you.”
“On the contrary, yer wine is good and whoever tended to my arm is a skilled healer.” He looked down at the neatly-tied white bandage appreciatively.
“I shall convey your thanks to my sister. Whatever hospitality you have enjoyed is thanks to her.”
There was a challenge in Tristan’s voice. Thinking quickly, Hamish decided to acknowledge but not meet it.
“I understand.”
Tristan allowed a beat to pass. “I have always believed in giving a man a fair trial. ’Twas my father who taught me that. He has been the judiciary since before I was born. But I am afraid my father’s leniency does not extend to any man who inflicts harm on his family.”
Hamish’s heart thudded inside his chest. He wanted to speak up and declare that he had never harmed Isabella, but thought it wiser to let de Neville continue.
“Nonetheless, here I am. Last night you asked for a chance to explain your actions. This is your chance.”
“I ne’er inflicted harm on Isabella.” Hamish’s mouth had grown dry. “I swear to it.”
“And you never intended it?”
“Nay.” Hamish put a hand to his head. “In truth, perchance we did not rule out the prospect of force, but that was before I met her and knew her—” And loved her. He took a ragged breath. “She has been treated with the respect she deserves.”
How to convey his feelings to Isabella’s brother, when he would likely take his head from his shoulders if he learned the full truth?
“She commands that respect,” he added, thinking of their first meeting at Ember Hall and how Isabella had not once shown fear or faltered in her step.
“That I know.” Tristan walked fully into the small cell, which barely seemed big enough to hold both of them. He sank down beside Hamish on the pallet and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
The path was now clear between Hamish and the open door.
But he knew that if he made a dash for freedom, de Neville would pounce quicker than a cat upon a mouse.
Hamish reminded himself that he was unarmed and injured.
Whilst Tristan glowed with good health and held one hand on the shining hilt of his sword.
“I can see you have a fondness for my sister. But that does not alter my thinking one way or the other. You will not be the last man to fall for the charms of Isabella. Nay, what I want to know is this, what hold do you have over her?”
Hamish’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His answer could be pivotal to his freedom, but he could not for the life of him think what to say.
’Twas not his place to claim Isabella’s heart. Not when he languished in a dungeon with naught to his name.
Tristan made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. “Answer me this then. What are you doing here, at Wolvesley Castle? It appears you rode here, on your own horse, of your own free will. In God’s name, why?”
“’Twas Isabella’s plan,” Hamish croaked. “She learned of my misfortune, of the events that led me to take her hostage, and she wanted to help me.”
Tristan raised his eyebrows and waited for him to continue.
“She is a good woman,” Hamish said hurriedly.
“I am not here to debate the qualities of my sister.”
Hamish looked down at the damp stone floor. This was the chance he’d sought; to petition for Tristan’s help. But he had imagined such a conversation taking place in comfort, perchance with them sitting by a roaring fire. At the very least, with de Neville sitting and Hamish standing.
“Isabella thought to ask for your assistance in speaking to the King for the return of my lands in Scotland. I was—I am—the rightful Laird of Greenock.”
Ye Gods, he felt less and less like a rightful Laird with every day that passed.
Tristan’s eyes grew as wide as Isabella’s often did. He slowly shook his golden head. “Why the devil would she think I might do that?”
Hamish took a breath. He could not afford to let this opportunity escape him, no matter how dire the setting. “Because she believes you to be a fair-minded man. That has always been your reputation, my lord, even in the highlands.”
’Twas true, even if the words stuck in his throat.
But Tristan folded his arms. “If that is the extent of your argument, then we are done.”
Hamish held up the palms of his hands. “Also because Lord Gaunt could ne’er prosper in the highlands. He knows naught of farming the land up there. Under his rule, my people are likely to starve.”
Tristan pursed his lips, but did not appear convinced.
Hamish ploughed on, his voice growing stronger as he spoke of the lands he loved.
“’Tis a harsh life, so far north. Naught comes easily, save the snow and the biting wind.
I have known farmers lose a whole flock of sheep when they did not watch the skies for signs of a coming storm.
Harvests can fail in a sennight of heavy rain.
Ye have to work with nature. Ye have to work hard.
Ye have to care.” He beat his own chest for emphasis, his words echoing around the stone walls.
“The glen is a place of great beauty. The lands can be fruitful. The people are loyal. But ’twill all be ruined under a laird more concerned with feasting than farming. ”
Tristan turned his head and gazed at Hamish. “Your family have always lived there?”
“Aye.” Hamish did not allow himself to consider his Uncle Donald.
“My father was the laird before me, and his father before him, and so it continues. The McIvor belong at Greenock. ’Tis a part of my soul.
” His fist clenched over his heart and he took a steadying breath, aware that he had shouted his final words.
“You do not believe Lord Gaunt equal to the task?”
Hamish resisted the urge to spit on the stone floor. “I dinna believe him capable or willing to keep my people safe. To protect them from raiders. Nor to feed their children.” He shook his head. “I dinna believe him capable of wiping his own arse, my lord.”
Tristan failed to hide his smile. “You speak of my future brother-in-law.”
His words wounded Hamish, but he did not let it show. “I canna speak for that.”
“Yet you speak eloquently of your love for your lands and your people. I find myself half convinced.”
Hamish knew a rush of relief, but before he could voice his thanks, Tristan continued.
“In truth, I am not certain there is aught I can do to remedy this situation. But I am willing to try.”
“Thank ye.” Hamish had never meant those words more.
Tristan gave him a shrewd look. “I do not do this as a favor to my sister. ’Tis because I hear the passion in your voice.
I know what it is to be responsible for lands and livelihoods.
’Tis a responsibility that should ne’er be shirked, nor undervalued.
” He rose gracefully from the pallet and extended his hand to Hamish.
After a moment of surprise, Hamish took it and stood facing him, a Scottish warrior and English knight. They shook hands, the import of the occasion slightly marred by the low ceiling and their stooping shoulders.
“Let us go and speak to Lord Gaunt.”
Tristan led the way out of the cell.