Chapter 13 #3
Comyn’s attention turned from her to Lachlan. “Who have ye seen on the road?”
Isabel watched Lachlan’s brows rise at Comyn’s line of questioning. Not exactly dinner conversation, it felt overwhelmingly like the start to an interrogation.
“Mostly merchants.” Lachlan took a bite of venison, his steady gaze on Comyn’s while he chewed. He looked unperturbed, but the way his eyes bore into their host’s she knew he had to be thinking several steps ahead.
“Surprising,” Comyn said. “I’d have thought ye’d have met with more than merchants.
“Such as?” Lachlan wiped his mouth with a corner of his napkin and tore into a piece of bread, which she imagined was him tearing Comyn’s head from his neck.
“Well, from what I’ve heard, and from what ye said upon arrival, seems there’s some English patrols.”
“Aye, some.” Lachlan was noncommittal. “Ye’ve no’ seen any yourself?”
“What happened at Falkirk?” Comyn asked next, changing the subject as he swirled the wine in his cup before downing it in one gulp.
Odd. Isabel thought that he would have been there or would have asked his men who were meant to be there.
She listened intently to Lachlan’s answer, which seemed blase.
“I reckon I remember as well as ye. Maybe less, given the leg.”
“Ah, aye, your leg,” Comyn shoved a large piece of fish into his mouth, talking around the bite, grease dribbling down his chin. “Ye’re lucky to be alive. Does no’ seem like that was the enemy's plan.”
“I’ve had many men try to kill me, Comyn. No one has yet to succeed.” Lachlan laughed, as if he were baiting Comyn, and Isabel tried to hide her smile.
Why was an annoying flirty lord turning into Lachlan’s inquisitor?
This entire dinner felt off. Even more confounding was that Lachlan never produced the ring to question Comyn about it.
But the more she thought of it, the more her gaze was drawn toward Comyn’s own bejeweled fingers.
She half expected to see one of them empty, the tell-tale sign of an indent in the skin where a ring might have gone missing.
But there was none, each fleshy appendage fully dressed in gold.
Gooseflesh rose along her skin, a prickle of warning she didn’t want to ignore.
Isabel turned her cup but didn’t drink the wine.
She wanted to make certain she had her wits fully about her, but she did eat her dinner to gather strength.
Choking down the greasy meat Comyn served her, and ready for the entire evening to be over.
When the plates were cleared and the food disappeared back into the kitchen, Comyn stood from the table, running a bejeweled hand down the front of his plaid, fingering the brooch.
He clapped his hands quickly, and then whistled an ear-piercing sound, and the musicians picked up speed to reflect the tempo of his hands.
He didn’t even look at Isabel, just flung out a hand in her direction, and his slimy voice could be heard over the staccato of the fiddler, “Dance with me, Lady Isabel.”
Isabel had to stop herself from slapping his hands away, and instead politely declined.
No’ on your bloody life. “My apologies, Lord Comyn, while I would love to dance, I am quite exhausted from our journey and am afraid I may faint.” She tried not to slap herself for the stupidity of her own statement.
As though she were a porcelain cup that would crack from the breath of a person taking a sip, but Comyn would expect no less from a lowly woman.
The very idea of dancing with Comyn, where he might put his hands over her body made her want to run screaming from the hall.
Instead, she stood, demurely, slowly, so as not to throw the man off.
Comyn looked ready for any excuse to do…
she didn’t know what, but she knew it wouldn’t be good.
And then she would have to kill him, which would look terribly for her uncle.
Lachlan rose suddenly next to her, catching her elbow as though she might actually faint, and Comyn narrowed his eyes.
“Would ye like me to walk ye to your chamber?” Lachlan asked, surprisingly, concern was in his gaze.
She looked towards Comyn who was still watching them both closely and not wanting to give Comyn a reason to feel slighted or suspicious, she declined, turning from Lachlan. Instead, she nodded to Elsa where she stood on the sidelines waiting.
This feast, and evening, had made her entirely uncomfortable.
As she passed through the hall, her maid hurrying behind her, a prickle rose along the back of her neck and on instinct she turned her head back to the great hall.
A man seated at one of the long tables caught her stare from beneath his plaid cap, his fingers stroking the long point of his beard.
And as their eyes met, she couldn’t help but sense malice in the depths of his dark glare.
Isabel turned away. Maybe it was just her imagination.
Inverlochy was supposed to provide them with safety, reassurance, and rest.
But Isabel had felt safer at the dilapidated lodge with only half a roof and the English patrolling nearby.