Chapter Eighteen #2
She rose and found herself pulled into a tight embrace.
Angus, the Earl of Wolvesley remained a tall, strong and formidable man, despite his advancing years.
His golden hair had turned to silver, but his blue eyes were as piercing as ever.
He wore his customary, green-colored fur cloak, which skimmed the floor beyond his polished boots.
Green was the traditional color of Wolvesley—which was one of the reasons Isabella had such fondness for her emerald necklace.
It had long-served as a reminder of home.
“I am glad to be back, Father.” She blinked away her tears, noting new lines etched around the earl’s eyes and mouth.
Another sign that Wolvesley Castle was not as invulnerable to change or threat as she might like to imagine.
As her father sank back into his chair, she allowed her gaze to flicker to the men standing to her right. Tristan was closest, almost a double of their father in his younger years in his height, bearing and the relentless energy which radiated from him.
Hamish stood by his side.
Isabella quickly looked away, her heart pounding. Hamish still wore his travel and blood-stained clothes of yesterday. But he stood tall, exuding a quiet charisma not unlike that of Tristan.
He is alive.
And he is here!
Whatever had transpired between Hamish and Tristan, it had resulted in Hamish being brought to the great hall, unbound and unrestrained. Isabella knew a tremor of excitement. Could their audacious plan come to pass after all?
She would not have labelled their plan audacious when they first hatched it out, isolated but cozy at Ember Hall.
But now that she had returned to Wolvesley, she baulked at her own brazenness.
Her family were the de Nevilles, her childhood home was England’s finest fortress.
And she had galloped through the gates, filthy and bloodstained.
She looked at the mighty pillars and vivid frescoes, and reflected that her mother was right to insist she bathed and changed before petitioning for further assistance.
Tristan gave her a sharp nod of greeting. “’Tis good to see you rested and looking more your usual self, sister.”
She ignored the barb and curtsied again, aware that all eyes were upon her, from the men-at-arms behind them, to the man she loved who stood just feet away. “I was saddened to hear of your son’s illness, Tris. How does Mirrie fare this morn?”
Tristan hesitated, perchance surprised by her overture of friendship after the harsh words that had passed between them. “Much better, thank you. I dare to hope she may join us later.”
“Happy news indeed.”
Isabella’s words were sincere. Kind-hearted Mirrie was once their father’s ward and had grown up alongside them, here at Wolvesley. Isabella loved her almost like a sister.
Tristan inclined his head and gave her a little smile, half teasing and half affectionate. It reminded her of how he’d looked as a mischievous little boy, when he and Frida were the best of friends.
“We have all been waiting for you, Bella.” He raised his eyebrows. “Am I allowed to call you that now?”
“You have been waiting for me?” She pressed a hand to her chest and looked from her father to her brother, not daring to pause when her gaze slid over Hamish. “I do not know whether to be honored or surprised.”
Tristan pulled a face. “You should not be surprised. You are, it seems, the key to all of this.”
Isabella had a dreadful premonition. They could not hope to continue this exchange without the input of a man currently missing from their party.
Sure enough, Tristan gave a short bow to their father and then shot a glance at Hamish. “I shall fetch Lord Gaunt.”
Both men nodded their agreement before turning their gaze back to Isabella. She realized that if she expected her father to believe that Hamish was a friend, then she must treat him as such.
“I am more pleased to see you than I can say.” She spoke clearly and without hesitation, knowing that her words carried throughout the hall, but refusing to be cowed by the shame of Hamish’s incarceration.
He bowed and smiled so sweetly it illuminated his whole face.
“’Tis my pleasure to look upon ye, Lady Isabella.”
She thought of how he had teased her for her fancy ways and almost made a haughty retort, but she swallowed her words just in time. She must not allow her father to discern the merest hint of impropriety between them.
Instead, she satisfied herself by meeting his steady blue gaze and smiling back. A frisson passed between them, and she looked quickly away, feeling a flush coming to her cheeks.
This would never do. Certainly not before her father’s all-seeing eyes.
Isabella took a step away from the fire and made a show of fanning herself. “’Tis warm in here. Perchance I grew over-accustomed to the chill of Ember Hall.” Immediately, she chided her thoughtlessness. “Hamish always ensured the fires were built,” she added lamely.
“We suffered an early snowfall. The freeze e’en reached us here,” Angus spoke up helpfully. “I wonder you managed to keep the animals fed and watered so far north.”
Hamish cleared his throat, correctly divining that an answer was expected from him. “’Twas a daily struggle, milord. The well froze early on and we were obliged to cut ice from the river and melt it.”
“Not an easy undertaking.” The earl stroked his beard, his curious gaze passing from Hamish to Isabella. “And a considerable change in circumstance for you, Bella.”
She affected a laugh. “I did not cut any ice, Father. I stayed safe indoors.”
“But ye did cook for us,” Hamish said unexpectedly.
A log cracked in the fire as Isabella wondered desperately how best to respond.
Once again, her father came to the rescue. “Your mother will be pleased to know you remembered how.”
Isabella summoned a smile. “I know everyone believes me to have led a life of idleness at Westchester, but I did not forget everything I learned as a child.” She was about to proclaim her proficiency in steering two horses over the moors, when she felt the touch of her father’s hand on hers.
“Forgive me, child, I am only teasing. I, for one, know you to be a woman of great competence. I am certain that Hamish here agrees.”
Hamish.
How would he react to being addressed without his title in the great hall of Wolvesley Castle?
But Hamish only looked at her father as if they shared some understanding.
“I agree entirely, milord,” he said.
Isabella held herself very still as Tristan marched back into the hall with a small man scurrying in his wake.
Lord Gaunt had not improved any during his sojourn in the highlands.
His expression was still sallow, his chin pointed and his expression mean.
When his dark eyes roved over Isabella, she felt an answering roll of nausea in her belly.
She wanted to back away, or at the very least seek protection behind her father’s large chair.
But she recalled Tristan’s words: you are, it seems, key to all this.
It was true. If she had not accepted Gaunt’s proposal, none of them would be in this situation.
Albeit, if she had not accepted Gaunt’s proposal, she might never have met Hamish.
The incongruity of it all made her head spin and she was obliged to grip the arm of her father’s chair and take a deep breath.
Her tightly-laced gown pinched her ribs, and she reflected, again, that there was much to be said in favor of more comfortable clothing.
Perchance if she were still attired as a farm laborer, Lord Gaunt would not be looking at her with such a lascivious gleam in his small eyes.
Her father cleared his throat. “Good morn, Lord Gaunt.”
“My lord Wolvesley.” Gaunt made an awkward bow to the earl but completely ignored Hamish. “Lady Isabella.” He bowed again and reached for her hand, which she had no choice but to offer. When he kissed the back of it, she could not help a wince of distaste.
A wince that was duly noted by Hamish and Tristan.
Hamish looked as if he might strike the man down. Tristan appeared merely contemplative. Lord Gaunt gave her hand a none-too-gentle tug, clearly wanting her to stand by his side. Isabella stood firm, wrenching her hand free and placing it, pointedly, on the back of her father’s chair.
“’Twas a surprise to find you here at Wolvesley, Lord Gaunt,” she said.
“Concern for your welfare brought me south, my lady. We expected you at Greenock some days since. And news reached me that my escort party had been murdered by highland savages.”
His voice sent shudders down her spine. If Hamish had not taken her captive, she may already be Gaunt’s bride.
What was I thinking?
Gaunt had flickered his dark eyes toward Hamish as he spoke, leaving no one under any illusions about who he held responsible for the murder of his escort party. Isabella found her vision breaking up into a maze of dancing dots.
Angus reached up to pat Isabella’s hand, as if aware of her discomfort. “As you can see, my beloved daughter is hale and hearty as ever…”
“I do see that,” Gaunt interrupted.
There was a moment of surprised silence.
“Aye, well.” Angus resettled his cloak about his shoulders, unaccustomed to being interrupted. “Let us move onto the business in hand. My son, Tristan, has something he wishes to ask of you.”
This was the moment they had hoped for. Isabella’s gaze flew to Hamish’s across the stone-flagged floor. She saw that his torn and stained clothing counted for naught. In these grand surroundings, he was as much at home as any visiting noble.
He was the proper Laird of Greenock. He had been raised for the role. And he would defend his lands and inheritance with the same fierce conviction of any de Neville knight, past or present.
Isabella began to breathe more easily. All may yet be well. She switched her gaze to Tristan and waited expectantly for him to begin.