Chapter Twenty
Isabella ran through the marbled entrance hall and hurried down the wide stone steps to the fountain, only pausing when she reached the bottom and the pervasive chill of the November wind could no longer be ignored.
I should have brought a cloak.
But the cold was invigorating, and she relished the distraction from the claustrophobic circling of her thoughts.
So instead of returning to the keep, she pressed on, her long skirts trailing through the damp grass of the rose garden.
The wind whistled through the spiky branches of the beech tree, so that it seemed to wave a warning to her. But it was too late for warnings.
The damage was done.
Salty tears burned her eyes before the wind whipped them away.
Her goat skin slippers were no match for sludgy puddles of melting snow, and soon the damp had seeped all the way through to her stockings.
But she would sooner face mud and cold than the concern and disappointment of the people she loved.
She had an urgent desire to visit the lake: perchance gazing out over the clear expanse of rippling water might help to clear her mind.
But when she finally reached the shingled shoreline, Isabella saw that a fog lingered over the water, so she could see no further than twenty feet ahead.
Even the weather was conspiring against her.
Uncaring of dirt, Isabella sank down onto a fallen tree trunk and hugged her knees.
She had hoped to be transported back to her childhood, when the lake was a magical place where rules were relaxed and almost anything could happen.
The five de Neville siblings had played in the trees along the shore, skimmed stones on the water, paddled and even swam.
She recalled one summer when she privately decided to swim out further than either Frida or Tristan; determined to prove to them that she was stronger than they believed.
But she had not taken account of the bone-chilling cold of the deeper waters in the center of the lake; nor of the larger waves that washed right over her head.
Panic had her in its grip, before she felt the strong arms of her brother pulling her to safety.
Tristan had always been there when she needed him. But he could not save her from Lord Gaunt. As the future Earl of Wolvesley, and the son of the King’s judiciary, he could no more break contract with a peer of the realm than she could storm a keep.
She sighed deeply, the pain in her heart far exceeding the numbing cold of her hands and feet.
As powerful as they were, neither her father nor her brother could help her in this. ’Twas all down to her. Isabella would marry Lord Gaunt because saving young Elena from that same fate was the right and proper thing to do.
And because it would be her final gift to Hamish.
At the thought of his name, Isabella’s final vestiges of self-control left her, and she began to sob.
“Dinna cry, lass. I canna bear it.”
Mayhap the spirits of the lake had conjured the man she most wanted to see. Somehow he was here before her, gathering her into his strong arms so that, for a fleeting moment, she believed that everything may yet be well. He was warm, solid and reassuring.
She sniffed in a most unladylike fashion. “You should not have come.”
How could she take comfort from him when she was to marry another?
“I couldna stay away.”
She pressed her forehead into the center of his chest and breathed deeply. “You must. We cannot be together, you and I. You have seen how it is.”
“I canna let this happen.”
She pulled back and looked into his honest blue eyes. What she saw there convinced her that he meant what he said. He was a man used to fighting for what he believed in, using both brawn and brain and never giving up.
But this was a fight he could never win.
A flare of anger shot through her chest. She had been resigned to her fate. What good could it do for him to come here and stir up hope? Futile hope.
She pursed her lips, feeling the same flush of defiance as the young girl who had swum too far into the lake. “How can you possibly prevent it?”
He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Slowly he got to his feet, his shoulders slumped.
“Ye are right to doubt me, for I dinna ken what I can do ter save either ye or Elena.”
Regret coiled inside her. She rose up from the log and put her hands on his shoulders. “Nay, I am wrong to put distance between us when we have so little time left.” She cupped a hand around his stubbled cheek. “We should not spend it squabbling.”
“I am so very sorry.” Emotion rippled across his face. “And I canna bear the thought of ye and him—”
“Hush.” She put her finger to her lips. “There is no more to say.”
“Then what can I do to help?” His plea was anguished.
She rose up on tiptoes and entwined her fingers in his tousled hair, so that her lips were all but pressed against his when she gave her answer.
“Love me,” she whispered. “No more questions. No more regrets. Just love me.”
Hamish lifted her easily into his arms and carried her to a copse of trees on higher ground, where the melted snow had all drained away.
He spread his cloak on a bed of dry leaves and reverently, tenderly, did as she asked.
Their two souls joined as lovers, coming together after a storm, each freely giving what comfort and warmth they could.
Comfort which spiraled into peaks of pleasure, so that for a long time, Isabella forgot all about the ordeals ahead.
There was only now. Only Hamish. His large body covering hers, his lips crying out her name.
Their limbs tangled together so she no longer knew where she ended and he began.
They were as one, and naught could ever part them.
But after, when their pounding hearts had slowed and their breathing returned to normal, she felt a wave of desolation which was colder than the fog rolling in off the lake. Tears pooled in her eyes but she held herself still and quiet so he would not notice her distress.
Hamish raised himself onto his elbows. “Dinna hide yer sorrows from me. Not ever. I love thee, Isabella. And I would share the burden of any sorrows with thee.” Gently he stroked her tears away.
“I love you too,” she choked. “But there is no future for us.” She sniffed, but her tears would not be staunched.
“There is now. And there are the next hours. Who knows what the future may hold.”
Isabella held her tongue. She knew well enough what awaited her: marriage to a man she despised. A cruel man, prepared to bargain with the life of an innocent young woman to get what he wanted.
How could I ever have agreed to marry him?
She closed her eyes, remembering her overriding desire to bear a child: to be married and titled with a proper place in society. Back then, she had not known what it was to love and be loved.
She had not known what it was to live.
“Do not let this be it between us.” She held tight to his hands. “I could not bear it. Let us have one more night together.”
“One more night in the comfort of a proper bed,” he smiled down at her. “How can I deny thee? But will yer father and brother not chase me from the grounds if they find out?”
“That is the very least of our problems.” She traced a line from his cheek to his jaw. “I will make sure they do not find out.”
*
Isabella went directly to the ladies’ solar to her mother to ask for Hamish to be given use of the bedchamber adjacent to hers. By tradition, it was Esme’s. But Esme and Adam had already left for Ember Hall.
Morwenna set down her sewing and raised her blonde eyebrows. “That will cause certain people to be upset,” she said diplomatically.
“That is why I am talking to you now, so that certain people do not overhear.” Isabella remained standing, conscious of her mud-stained gown and the pale cushions on the window seat.
Morwenna patted the cushion beside her anyway. “Won’t you sit for a while, dear?”
“There is nothing to discuss.” Isabella was nearly trembling with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. “Father must have told you what is to happen. I must marry Lord Gaunt, as agreed.”
“Isabella—” her mother began.
Isabella held up her hand, refusing to be interrupted. “I will do my duty to this family. All I ask is for the man I love to be close to me for one more night.”
Morwenna’s delicate face creased with sympathy. “You love him?”
“I love him.” Isabella was firm. She crossed her arms and gazed stonily at the tapestries on the wall. “Remember, Mother, I am no maid in need of protection. I am a widow.”
“I do not need to be reminded of that.”
Isabella was dangerously close to tears. She thanked her mother, curtsied and left the solar, before anything more heartfelt could be said.
Next, she went in search of Mirrie.
Isabella had always had a fondness for her brother’s wife, even if, when they were children, Mirabel had seemed quieter and less courageous than the rest of them.
As she ascended the winding staircase and followed the torch-lit corridor to Mirrie’s private chamber, she reflected that it must take a certain type of courage to be married to Tristan.
Firstly, because Tristan was a force of nature, like a fierce wind that could not be stopped, or a mountain that could not be moved.
Secondly, because as one of the King’s favored knights, Mirrie would never know when he might next be called into battle.
And thirdly, because Isabella—along with her sisters—knew that Mirrie had secretly loved Tristan almost from girlhood.
Love, Isabella had recently learned, took courage.
She knocked on the chamber door with more hesitation than she would have done, some days prior. And when Mirrie opened the door, Isabella seized her hands with genuine affection.
“You are recovered from your illness?”
Mirrie quickly recovered from her surprise. “I am quite well now, thank you. Come in, Isabella.”