Chapter Nineteen
Hamish felt as though he could hardly breathe. What was Gaunt planning?
And what sickening role had he devised for Elena in all this?
Whatever the answer, at least Hamish would set eyes on his beloved sister soon. If only he had his sword at his hip, then he could rescue Elena and flee from the place. If Gaunt fell victim to the swing of his broadsword, then that would be his own foolish fault.
He gazed into the fire and wrestled for control of his spiraling thoughts. He must be realistic. Not only was he unarmed, but Tristan de Neville stood but feet away. However much the man seemed to dislike Lord Gaunt, Hamish had an idea he would not welcome bloodshed by his fireside.
And what about Isabella?
He could not walk away from her.
His rational mind protested at that, pointing out that Isabella had the protection of the Earl of Wolvesley, and not one, but two brothers.
Hamish found he did not care. There had always been something in Isabella’s clear blue eyes that called to him, like a torch on a dark night guiding him home.
That feeling had strengthened since their ride across the moors, when he saved her from Alaric and she, in turn, saved him from bleeding out on the rocks.
They were bound to one another; with bonds he had no wish to break.
Even now, he was conscious of the way she stood and the way she breathed.
In different circumstances he would go to her and take her hand, to offer what comfort he could, for although Isabella did not need to lean on any man, he fancied she might like to, just for a moment.
He lifted his gaze and met hers. Aye, he was right about it all.
He could never leave her.
And she longed for him, just as he longed for her. He could read it all in her expression. But of all the men present by the fireplace, he was least able to go to her side.
Do not give up hope.
Was that Brianne’s voice whispering in his ear? Perchance ’twas just the memory of her. The sentiment was true either way. Like a warrior outnumbered on the battlefield, Hamish must carry on with his fight.
He steeled himself as the steady tramp of footsteps announced the arrival of the guard. He could not see Elena behind the tall, muscular bodies of the liveried soldiers who marched in a straight line toward them. It took all his restraint to stand still and wait for her arrival.
She had better be fed and healthy, he thought, or God help him, he would strangle Gaunt with his own bare hands.
“Elena McIvor,” the first guard announced.
Lady Elena McIvor, Hamish corrected him silently, grinding his teeth in anger.
The guards melted away, and there stood his sister.
Elena had always been a slight young woman.
Where Hamish and Brianne were sturdy and strong, Elena was as slender as a willow branch.
But she was the daughter—and the sister—of a laird, and she stood tall and proud, even though strands of hay clung to her long auburn hair and smudges of dirt marred the pale perfection of her cheeks.
Her wary gaze found Hamish and for a long moment they looked at one another across the grandeur of the English castle which such strange twists of fate had brought them both to.
Hamish swallowed painfully. He wanted to reassure Elena, to tell her that all would be well. But what power did he have to ensure that?
She had no visible cuts or bruises, nor was she in any way shackled. For this he was grateful. But her long skirts hung in tatters and her shawl had turned from cream to grey. He glanced down at his own filthy, blood-stained clothing and was saddened by how low the McIvor clan had sunk.
Isabella was the first to break the silence. She walked toward Elena and took her hands.
“Lady Elena, I am pleased to meet you, despite these sorry circumstances.” She gestured to the servants. “Fetch a chair for our guest, if you please. And wine.”
Elena’s eyes widened with surprise. At first, she flinched at Isabella’s touch, making Hamish fear once again that she had been ill-treated by Gaunt’s men. But then she relaxed and smiled.
Who could not smile at Isabella?
“I have not been publicly addressed as Lady Elena for many days now.” Her voice was raspy through lack of use.
“We could dispense with the formalities. I am Isabella. And I am grieved to discover you have been here at Wolvesley without our knowledge.” Her eyes flashed daggers at Gaunt. “We shall have a chamber made ready for you.”
“Once we are finished here, she shall return to the dungeon. She is my prisoner, Lady Isabella. Not yours.”
Hamish’s hand went to his sword and encountered only air. He opened his mouth, but it was the younger de Neville brother who spoke first.
“Take care, Lord Gaunt, not to overstep the mark. The de Nevilles believe in treating women and children fairly, whether they are prisoners or not.”
Hamish’s surprise grew stronger when he saw Elena throw him a small smile.
He looked again at the man he had originally paid little heed to.
Tristan was the son everyone talked of. This was undoubtedly his brother; he had the same coloring and even the same set to his shoulders.
He may stand a head shorter than both Hamish and Tristan, but there was no denying the conviction in his flashing eyes.
Lord Gaunt waved a languid hand. “Then you shall appreciate the offer I am about to make.”
Isabella audibly tutted as she helped Isabella into a chair and poured the wine which had been hurriedly brought over. “I shall find you something to wear, my dear. When did you last eat?”
Did Elena look again at the younger de Neville brother? Hamish thought she did. But her gaze was fully on Isabella when she answered.
“I have already broken my fast, thank ye milady.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Isabella handed Elena a goblet of wine and Hamish felt a powerful rush of love.
He had always believed Isabella to be a remarkable woman, but here she was, taking care of his sister as fiercely and instinctively as if she were her own sibling.
With her golden hair shining in the light from the candelabra overhead, she could have been a ministering angel.
Isabella turned to face Gaunt. “Let us hear this proposal of yours, and quickly.”
Lord Gaunt sat back in the tapestried chair, apparently enjoying the attention he was receiving from all sides. He ignored Isabella’s request and a tense silence fell across the room.
Hamish found his fists were clenching once again.
His gaze slid over Lord Gaunt and came to rest on the de Neville brothers.
Both of them were immaculately turned out, in fur-trimmed cloaks and spotless tunics shot through with gold thread.
They looked like men who had never faced the hardships of battle, but he knew, in Tristan’s case at least, that this was not the case.
Tristan had fought long and hard on battlefields up and down the country, and over the water in France, but his luck had held, and he had never been seriously injured.
Would Tristan’s good fortune extend to the McIvor? Could Hamish count on his support, whatever bold plan Gaunt came out with?
Hamish found the answer would not come to him. But strangely, he sensed he could count, absolutely, on the support of Tristan’s brother; whose gaze kept swinging to Elena; whose name Hamish did not even know.
The silence continued; its weight so heavy that Hamish found it difficult to breathe.
The de Neville coat of arms hung over the wide fireplace. Hamish focused on this display of English military might rather than risk his temper spiking at Gaunt’s cunning smile.
“Pray speak, man. I have other business to attend to.” The earl’s voice was gruff with impatience.
“’Tis a delicate matter, my lord. I am only searching for the right words.” Gaunt licked his lips with the tip of his tongue and from the corner of his eye, Hamish saw Isabella shudder. “I need a son.” He paused. “For that, I need a bride.”
Hamish felt a hammer blow strike his chest as he realized with sudden, sickening clarity, when Gaunt was headed.
“I have always appreciated beautiful things,” he continued.
“Isabella de Neville is a woman of great beauty. But in these last days, I have come to appreciate that Elena McIvor has some share of beauty too. And she is young.” His small eyes gleamed lasciviously.
“With many childbearing years ahead of her.”
“Nay,” Hamish said forcefully. “I am her brother and I forbid the match. Elena has seen only seventeen summers.”
Gaunt held his gaze, a mocking smile playing about his mouth. “A fine age for a bride.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “You are saying, Gaunt, that you will release Isabella from her betrothal contract. And return Greenock to the previous laird. But in return, you claim the hand of Lady Elena?”
“I claim the hand of Lady Elena along with the jewels which Lady Isabella freely offered.” He put his head to one side, thinking. “And I will retain Lady Isabella’s dower, which is only fair. I doubt the Greenock coffers will offer much coin for the last remaining daughter of the McIvor line.”
“Preposterous,” exploded the younger de Neville brother.
Tristan turned to him. “Jonah, shall I fetch you a chair. Does your leg pain you?”
Only then did Hamish note that the young man’s left leg was narrow and twisted.
Jonah shook his head impatiently. “I am quite well, thank you.” But he heeded his brother’s inferred reprimand and pressed his pale lips together, saying nothing more.
“You cannot expect that we will agree to these terms,” Isabella said calmly. She looked down at the jewels in her hand, as if weighing their value. But from the casual way she had offered them earlier, Hamish guessed that Isabella’s real concern was for Elena.
With every fiber of his being, he hoped that were true. For he would rather be consigned to hell than see his sweet sister marry Lord Gaunt.
If only I had my sword.
He was castrated and powerless without it.
“Ye canna marry Elena,” he said flatly.
“She is my prisoner under the terms of war. I can do with her whatever I like. Just as Lady Isabella is contracted to be my betrothed.” Gaunt smiled at the assembled company. “My terms are generous, under the circumstances.”
Isabella pressed her hands together as if praying for aid. She turned sideways to look at Elena and seemed to reach a decision.
“Very well, Lord Gaunt. You leave me no choice. I will honor our betrothal contract on the understanding that Greenock Castle is returned to Hamish McIvor, along with the freedom of his sister.” Her voice trembled only slightly.
Hamish felt as if his heart was beating out of his chest. Iron bars clamped around his ribs and squeezed tightly.
“Isabella, think carefully upon this,” her father warned.
“There is naught to think about.” She stepped out from behind the chair and dropped into a perfunctory curtsy. “I beg leave to rest, these proceedings have quite exhausted me.”
“Give us until the morn for our answer,” Tristan spoke up. “That is little enough to ask, Lord Gaunt. You may remain here, as our guest. And Lady Elena can also be shown to a guest chamber.”
Gaunt shook his head. “Elena will return to the dungeon with my own men guarding her.”
“Your men can stand guard outside a bedchamber as easily as the dungeon.” Jonah’s voice was cold.
“I will take her myself to a chamber in the western tower, with a door which bolts from the outside and a window far too high and narrow for anyone to jump from. Will that meet your requirements?” He looked down at Lord Gaunt as if he would like to strike him.
“It will do very well.” The earl concluded in a tone that brooked no argument. “Come the morn, I will write to the King myself.”
Hamish found he could breathe a little easier at the prospect of Elena leaving the dungeon. He looked for Isabella, but all he saw was the swish of cream silk as she passed out of the arched double doorway leading from the hall.
He reached out for the support of the plastered wall as his heart began to slow.
They had until the morn.