Chapter Twenty-One
Hamish knew it was important to Isabella that he made an appearance in the great hall that night. He washed in a bowl of warm water brought to his chamber by a pink-cheeked serving maid, and he carefully shaved, hardly knowing the man looking back at him through the gold-edged looking glass.
Not a man; a victim.
No matter what he had faced in the past, Hamish had always believed, deep down, that he would prevail. Hardships he could and would endure, but victory would ultimately belong to him. He was a warrior. The Laird of Greenock. Crops may fail, but the McIvor did not.
Until today.
He placed the ivory comb on the nightstand and sighed so deeply that a nearby candle flickered and went out. His face in the looking glass was now obscured by shadows.
Very appropriate.
From this day forward, his life would be overshadowed by what might have been. Aye, he would return to Greenock with Elena by his side. But not a day would pass without him thinking of Isabella and the sacrifice she had made on his behalf.
Hamish’s fist crashed down, and the ivory comb jumped onto the floor. A beaker of ale, also brought for him by the pink-cheeked serving maid, wobbled precariously.
God’s blood; it was more than he could endure.
Brianne had not appeared to him since the day on the moors and he missed her. Right now, some sage advice from his wise and witty sister would be most welcome. But the large bedchamber remained defiantly empty. Perchance a Scottish spirit was not able to enter an English castle.
Perchance she didna want to enter.
If anyone had told Hamish that he would sit down to dine with the Earl of Wolvesley; he would have thought that person touched in the head. If Siegfried were here, he would issue some scathing comment. But Hamish had no argument with the de Nevilles. Only with Lord Gaunt.
Blood pounded in his ears. If he thought more on the subject of Gaunt, he would not be physically capable of donning the clothes Isabella had brought for him, nor of going downstairs to dine.
And he owed her that much, at least.
Grimacing, he turned to the canopied bed where, hours earlier, a manservant had laid out his outfit. Deferentially, the man had asked if he should stay and help Hamish to dress, but Hamish sent him away.
He needed some peace and privacy to prepare for the ordeal ahead.
And to process what had happened with Elena.
After bidding farewell to Isabella at the lake, he had gone, somewhat cautiously, toward the western tower, where Elena was now imprisoned.
The fact she languished behind a locked door made his blood boil.
But it was, at least, a step-up from the dungeon, and for that he was grateful to Jonah de Neville.
He was not certain that the guard at the bottom of the tower would allow him to pass.
Forsooth, he was not fully certain that he had the freedom to roam the castle grounds, for although Tristan had spoken up on his behalf, he had never spelled out that Hamish was no longer under house arrest. But after a startled look at Hamish’s ragged outfit, the guard stood to one side.
Hamish ducked under the low door and paused until his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Ahead of him was a spiral staircase, lit with flaming torches affixed to the granite wall at regularly spaced intervals.
Despite the cramped conditions, the air smelled fresh, and the walls were dry.
Swallowing his apprehension, Hamish began to climb; his large feet only just fitting on the narrow steps.
Round and around he went, one hand trailing on a wooden banister, until he reached a small gallery with a narrow window and two heavy-looking wooden doors.
Between the doors was a wooden chair, and on the chair sat a man, fast asleep and snoring.
Hamish raised his eyebrows at this dereliction of duty from the Wolvesley guard, but on closer inspection he realized the man wore Gaunt’s standard—a serpent—on his dark-red tunic. An empty flagon of wine stood by the chair leg.
Hamish’s mouth twitched. At long last, Gaunt had dealt him a winning card.
He went to the first door and tried the handle, but it was locked, of course.
He looked at the sleeping guard and saw a heavy keyring hanging from his waist. Lowering himself onto his knees, Hamish put an eye to the keyhole and waited until the room beyond came into focus.
The floor was bare but cleanly swept. A narrow bed clung to the wall, and a slender young woman with long, unruly hair stood looking out of the window.
Hamish’s heart leaped in his chest. He put his mouth to the keyhole. “Elena.”
She turned immediately; recognition of his voice evident in her face. “Hamish?”
“Outside the door.”
She ran to the door and dropped to her knees. “Are you there?”
“I am here.” He flattened his palms against the panel.
“I’m so glad to hear yer voice.”
His view of the chamber turned dark, and he guessed that Elena’s long hair was hanging over the keyhole. No matter. They could talk. And for as long as the guard slept, they could talk in private.
“Elena, have ye been treated well? Has anyone harmed ye?”
“Dinna fret, Hamish. I am as well as I can be.”
His fists tightened. “Has anyone touched ye?” he growled.
“The guards here are kind.” Elena avoided the question. “’Twas harder at Greenock. Gaunt’s men liked to taunt me. But women from the village smuggled food in. I have ne’er been hungry. And I have ne’er been harmed, not in the way ye mean.”
He leaned his forehead against the door, exhaling with relief.
“But I canna stand by and let that man, Gaunt, take Greenock from us. It canna happen.” Her voice rippled with passion. “Brianne died for Greenock. ’Tis up to us to make things right.”
“I ken so.” He wished he could hold her hand, but the keyhole was too small for even his smallest finger to wriggle through. “I will put it right. Ye heard what was said inside, aye? Greenock is ter be ours once again.”
“I heard what was said and I saw the way ye looked at the pretty lady in the white dress.” Elena sniffed. “I ken ye dinna want her ter marry Gaunt. But ye must let it be, Hamish. We have suffered enough and so have our people.”
Hamish’s heart beat hollowly. “Dinna worry, Elena.” He cast a glance at the guard who was still deeply asleep. “I just wish ye were not still a prisoner here.’ Tis not right.”
“’Tis a small matter.” Elena’s small finger appeared through the keyhole and he grasped it. “Ow,” she protested.
“Sorry.” Laughing quietly, he released his grip.
“As soon as I heard yer voice in the dungeons, I knew that all would be well.”
“Ye were in the dungeons at the same time as I?” Hamish recalled the slight figure huddled by the wall.
“Aye. When ye came out with yon English Lord, I covered myself with my shawl so ye wouldna ken ’twas me.”
“Why in heaven’s name would ye do that?”
“Because I knew that ye would find a way outta this. And ye have.”
He bowed his head and sighed. “Ever since ye were captured, I have been trying to think of a way to rescue ye. Ever since Gaunt’s men took Greenock, I have plotted and planned to take it back.”
“And ye have prevailed.”
Hamish closed his eyes against the pain. Beside him, the guard startled and sank back in his chair, his head nodding.
“I must go,” Hamish whispered through the keyhole. “But I will see ye again soon, Elena. And ye will have yer freedom.”
Upstairs in the bedchamber which was so grand it could only belong to a family member, Hamish felt again the swirling pain of loss. ’Twas a similar pain to what he had felt the day he failed to protect Brianne. For who was he, what was the point of him, if he could not protect the women he loved?
But both his sister and Isabella were convinced he should sit back and go along with this plan.
Hamish gritted his teeth and began to dress.
*
At first, things went very well in the great hall.
Hamish was uncertain of his welcome, but Tristan himself stood up and bade him sit with the family at the long trestle table on the dais.
Hamish found himself seated between Jonah de Neville and a pretty dark-haired lady who introduced herself as Mirrie.
So polite and unassuming was Mirrie, that it took Hamish many minutes to realize she was Tristan’s wife. Until then, he had sat in awkward silence, allowing a future countess to fill his goblet with wine.
He apologized for his lapse of manners, but she placed a cool hand briefly atop his and said he should not give it another thought.
“I am not one for airs and graces. None of them are, really, if you look beyond the surface.”
Hamish looked along the table to where Isabella sat, beside her parents, and was not sure he could agree.
Isabella sparkled more brightly than the vast candelabra overhead.
She wore an elegant gown of rose pink, with her emerald necklace glittering against her creamy flesh and jeweled rings flashing from every finger.
Her golden hair was pinned elaborately about her heart-shaped face and her smile lit the hall more effectively than all the candles and torches combined.
Below them sat table after table of the Wolvesley men-at-arms together with their brightly attired ladies. The hum of conversation, at times, was loud enough to drown out the trio of musicians playing on a small stage erected against the opposite wall.
’Twas all a far cry from the feasting hall at Greenock, with a lone fiddler and one long table set across the unevenly flagged floor.
Hamish took a sip of his wine. Perchance, after all, this was for the best. Isabella did not belong in a draughty Scottish keep. He could never be a proper husband to a woman accustomed to such luxury.
“Isabella is much changed,” commented Mirrie, who had followed his gaze.
“She is?” Hamish was surprised.
“Aye. ’Tis as if she has discovered something new about herself.” Mirrie gave him a small smile before filling her trencher and indicating he should do the same.