Chapter Three
Filled with uncertainty, Isabella clasped her father’s hand. She hated the thought of him all alone in their vast, empty house. “Please come with me, papa,” she pleaded for what must have been the hundredth time that morning.
David cupped her cheek, and she could feel his fingers trembling. “I’m sorry, Bella,” he said softly. “I haven’t the heart to leave this place.” He shrugged and shook his head sadly. “Or mayhap ‘tis the will I’m missing.”
Isabella fought against the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks as she hugged him with all her might. “It will be all right,” she said as much to herself as to him. Releasing him, she stepped back.
He met her gaze. “Tell Catarina that I love her and that I’m proud of her.”
Isabella nodded and swallowed hard. “I will,” she assured him. “I promise.”
She turned and started down the stairs.
“Bella,” her father blurted.
She looked back. “Yes, Papa.”
“Do take care,” he said solemnly.
She nodded. “Always.”
Turning away, she took another step down.
“Bella,” he called again.
The desperation she heard in his voice pained her heart. She turned back once more. “Yes, Papa.”
“Come back, won’t you?”
Tears stung her eyes, but she smiled to reassure him all would be well. “Always.”
He nodded and lifted his hand, giving her a slight wave. Her chest tightened. He appeared so frail in that moment.
“I love you,” she said before drawing a deep breath. Then she turned and resolutely started down the stairs, only to freeze mid-step. Her heart dropped as she watched a coach bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms clatter through the gate.
She whirled back around and met her father’s gaze. “Did you notify Hugh of my departure?”
Her father nodded. “William offered to send a messenger, and I consented. It seemed like the proper thing to do at the time. He is your betrothed, after all.”
Your betrothed.
Her father’s words felt like blows to her gut. She couldn’t help but feel betrayed that he would send for Hugh without consulting her first, but she knew her feelings were not fair. She had no right to be angry with her father. He did not know her true regard for Hugh, no one did—not even herself.
Forcing a smile to her face, she nodded. “Alerting Hugh to my departure was the courteous thing to do.” Clearing her throat, she turned and continued down the stairs.
The carriage came to a halt. Then the door swung open. Her stomach dropped out as she locked eyes with Lord Hugh Trevelyan. His light brown hair grazed the shoulders of his finely woven tunic, and his clear blue eyes shone with warmth.
“Dearest Isabella,” he said, stepping from the carriage. He reached out and clasped her hand, bringing it to his lips.
A hollowness filled her chest as she dipped in a low curtsy. “It is good of you to come.”
He smiled hesitantly. “Of course, dear friend. How could I not be here to see you off? I only wish I could accompany you, but responsibilities hold me in town for the next fortnight. Are you quite certain your journey cannot wait?”
She shook her head. “I am anxious to see my sister and meet my new nephew.”
His lips parted slightly, as if he wished to speak.
She knew he wanted to ask her to stay, but thankfully he refrained, which came as no surprise.
Hugh was not one to force his will on her or anyone else.
Kind, gentle, thoughtful, Hugh was a man of great character.
She knew she should be elated by the match, but no matter how she tried, she found no joy in the prospect of being his bride.
He squeezed her hand. “I understand why you must go. Too long has it been since you were in your sister’s company. I will worry, but truly, I am glad for you.”
At the mention of Catarina, a smile came unbidden to her lips. “I cannot believe that we are to be reunited. It feels like a dream.”
Smiling, he stepped closer. “I think this trip will be good for you. You will see how content your sister is now that she has wed and has started a family.”
Bella’s smile faltered at his mention of marriage, despite how she tried to hide her discomfort. “I...I hope to find her very happy.”
His gaze became earnest. “When we wed, you will be equally content.” He cupped her cheek tenderly. “Love will grow between us, Bella, and then we will be the happiest couple in all of Berwick.”
Her chest tightened. She could barely draw breath. “I’m...I’m certain ye must be right,” she managed to say, although to speak the words pained her very soul.
His eyes shone with hope. “We have been the best of friends since we were children. Are not friendship and respect the strongest foundations for any marriage?”
She nodded, pressing her lips together to fight back her tears. She had heard his defense of their forthcoming nuptials time and again.
But I do not love you, her heart screamed.
She glanced over at the carriage where her escort awaited her. “Thank you for coming, Hugh, but I must go now.” She hastened toward her guard and allowed the footman to help her into the carriage.
Hugh peered at her through the window. “I know I can make you happy, Bella.”
She looked into his warm blue eyes and saw the boy she once knew and remembered a time when she had thought of him as her brother.
“I miss the way we were,” she said softly.
Then she leaned her head back against the smooth, velvet cushion.
“I miss the way everything was.” Regret gripped her heart as her carriage rolled forward through the gate and into the city.
She gazed out the window at the streets that offered little to cheer her heart after her unexpected encounter with Hugh.
No matter where her gaze fell, she was reminded of how dismal life had become.
After King Edward sacked Berwick, his first command was the construction of a massive outer wall.
For five years, Isabella had watched the wall climb higher and higher.
It blocked the view of the sea and countryside, confining the city—just one more cage for her soul to silently rage against.
When they passed through the final gate, leaving the city behind, her despair slowly began to fade.
Soon, she could see rolling, green hills covered with wildflowers.
Shifting in her seat, she upturned her face to the sun, but her pleasure was incomplete.
With a sigh of frustration, she slid her finger along the rim of her fitted wimple, which entrapped her hair and neck, letting the sun touch only her cheeks.
She longed to break free from its confines—yet she dared not defy convention.
Resolved to ignore her discomfort, she allowed the golden heat to ease her spirit.
Inhaling the fragrant scent of bluebells, she smiled wider than she had in years and then wider still—until her cheeks ached with delight.
The rich scents of the land combined with the brightness of light, so that she felt as if she were seeing these things for the very first time.
And, in a way, she was.
She had not left Berwick in five years, and the Bella who had journeyed from home before was not the same Bella now riding through the countryside.
The other Bella had a mother. The other Bella could never have guessed at the cruelties one man could inflict upon thousands of others.
She shook her head, clearing away the demons that haunted her thoughts.
After some time passed, the sloping moorland gave way to forest. Trees obscured the bright sun, casting the road in shadow.
Branches creaked and leaves rustled. She imagined they were the whispers of fairy spirits living deep in the trees.
Once again, she leaned out the window and inhaled, savoring the wet, earthy scent of the woods.
Then she upturned her gaze and smiled at the light slanting through the leafy canopy.
Birds sang bright songs as they flitted from branch to branch, chasing each other playfully through the treetops.
A loud grumble from her stomach disrupted her peace.
She reached down and grabbed a strip of dried meat to quell her hunger when the carriage suddenly surged forward.
She gripped the edge of the seat, trying to steady herself, but the carriage continued to jolt and rock.
Her heart pounded. Then a thunderous crack, followed by an earth-shattering boom, blasted her ears.
She was thrown forward as the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
She struggled to right herself in her seat, but then she froze.
Swords clashed, and cries of anguish filled the air.
She gasped in terror, inhaling the haunting metallic scent of spilled blood.
Horrifying images of red-stained swords and twisted faces flashed past her windows.
She wanted to act, to flee, but fear held her frozen in its grip.
Then the door jerked open. A man with piercing eyes and a leering smile appeared in front of her.
Instinct took over, fueling her limbs. She kicked, lashing out against his grasping hands.
As he lurched closer, she scurried back to the other side of the carriage.
The door burst open, and she fell back onto the hard ground.
Screaming, she threw her hands up to shield her face as a horde of raggedly dressed men descended upon her.
JACK CHARGED THROUGH the woods with his four brothers trailing just behind.
They had been tracking the Redesdale carriage for nearly three miles, waiting for the flat landscape to give way to a hill from which they could descend upon their prize.
Having at last reached a wooded slope, Jack galloped to the top and signaled for them to don their masks.
They had moved ahead of the carriage, but it was almost upon them.
He leaned low in his saddle. The thrill of the catch set his heart to race.
Moisture beaded against the fabric of his mask as his breath quickened.
He raised his fist in the air, preparing his brothers to attack.
Once his fist swung down, they would be unleashed like a furious black storm upon the unsuspecting English nobles.
The carriage was almost in position.
Just a short distance to go.
He started to lower his fist, but then he froze as a humbly dressed man with sword raised high suddenly burst onto the road in front of the carriage. The driver of the carriage jerked on the reins. Then the man sprinted to the other side of the road and disappeared into the woods.
“Who’s he?” Rory asked.
“I do not ken,” Jack answered absently as he watched one of the Redesdale guards chase after the swordsman. Then another man suddenly appeared, running close to the carriage before darting out of sight.
The carriage swerved.
“What’s going on?” Rory blurted.
Before Jack could answer, a great crack rent the air as a tree plunged toward the earth.
It fell with a thud in front of the carriage.
The driver pulled hard on the reins, but it was too late.
The wheels crashed into the mighty trunk and splintered into pieces.
When Jack drew his next breath, more than a dozen armed peasants ran out from the woods with swords raised high and attacked his prize.
“Blast!” He threw up his hands and let loose a string of curses.
“Jack, what’s our move?” Quinn asked.
Jack shook his head. “We have no move. Those thieves stole our prize.”
Rory tore off his mask. His blue eyes shone brightly. “Mayhap they’re like us, Scottish rebels. ‘Tis as Bishop Lamberton predicted. Our people are once more ready to fight!”
“And look at how well they do against guards on horseback,” Ian said eagerly.
Jack shot a glance back at his youngest brother. Ian’s long red hair hung in tangled disarray.
“Cover back up, lads. I want a closer look.”
Jack eased his horse further down the slope to watch the skirmish.
The peasants were, indeed, making surprising progress.
Three guards had been slain. He did not doubt that the others would soon be overwhelmed.
Leaning forward in his saddle, he eyed the ragged gang.
Their humble clothing bore the wear of toil, but their broad shoulders and thick waists belonged to men who did not know scarcity.
Jack shook his head. “Look at their swords. Those aren’t the weapons of farmers?”
“What does it matter?” Rory said. “They’re fighting the English and winning!”
Jack’s eyes narrowed on the scene below. “Something isn’t right.”
Quinn nodded. “Look at the skill with which they fight.”
“They’re not peasants,” Jack said with certainty.
His brothers fell silent as the last guard was pulled from his horse. Several blades glinted in the sun before the tips were plunged into the wretch’s belly.
“’Tis done then,” Jack murmured. “Whoever they are, they’ve won the day,”
He was about to turn away, but then a woman suddenly tumbled out of the carriage, wearing finery that spoke of great wealth. Again, he cursed their luck. Whatever fortune she carried with her should, by rights, be theirs. They had, after all, tracked the carriage for miles.
“I don’t like this,” Ian said, drawing Jack’s gaze.
Jack watched as his youngest brother slid off his horse.
“What are they going to do with her?” Ian asked before moving further down the hill and crouching behind a thick tree. “I can’t see her anymore,” he called back.
“Ian, ‘tis nothing,” Jack assured him. “She’s in no real danger. Whoever these brigands are, they will not harm her, not when they can ransom her for a sizable fortune. Come along, all of ye. The lady is no longer our affair. We certainly cannot rob her now. We’ll have to fill Scotland’s coffers on another day. ”
Jack urged his horse around, but then a sob rented the air. He looked back. Men were tearing at her clothes. Her scream of terror raked up his spine. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.”
“Scottish rebels or not, we cannot allow them to hurt her,” Quinn cried.
Rory jumped to the ground. “Jack, we must do something!”
Jack watched as the lady’s veils were ripped away, revealing tear-stained cheeks and wide, fearful eyes. “Damnation,” he cursed under his breath.
She stood for everything he despised in the world, and yet they couldn’t stand by while she was brutalized by a band of Godless ruffians.
Ian implored him. “For the love of all things decent, Jack!”
Jack wheeled his horse around. “Mount up, lads. We’ve an English lady to save.”