“Indeed, I am not.” His voice was calm and steady, though foreign to her because of the Scottish brogue. He looked over her shoulder and called out. “Take the Lady’s horse to the stable.”
Her destrier was the last link with the past, and most likely her last chance of escape. She half thought to spring back into the saddle and gallop for freedom. But the gates were closed, and the dark-haired warrior striding toward her looked like he would relish the chance to grapple her back to the ground.
She would not give him the opportunity.
Instead, she handed over the reins, repressing her shudder when he stood so close their shoulders brushed. His breath was sour as he looked down at her with a smirk.
“Thank ye kindly,milady.”
She stood tall, masking the fear which threatened to make her knees tremble.
“Thank ye, Alaric.” Hamish’s voice carried a warning, and the man turned away, leading her horse toward the barn.
Her instinctive fear lessened, but Isabella knew she must keep her wits about her. She glanced at the hall, which appeared both familiar and strange. Frida had always kept the shutters open to invite sunlight into her home. On Isabella’s infrequent visits, Ember Hall had exuded a warm welcome, like her mother’s embrace at Wolvesley. Now it seemed cold and forbidding. She shivered in another gust of wind and in that moment, knew what she must do.
“I have no intention of conducting this discussion out here.” She moved toward the saddlebags but then paused, unwilling to close the distance between herself and the well-muscled highlander.
“We can talk in the stables, if ye wish it.”
She shook her head, aware that her hair had come loose from its pins some time ago. She had thought she would go insideand beg the ministrations of a housemaid to re-secure it. But her disheveled appearance was no longer of such consequence.
She put back her shoulders and looked him square in the face. “We will talk in the house, like people, not animals.”
“It is locked,” he explained, as if she were simple.
“And I have a key.” She nodded toward the saddlebags. “Somewhere in there.”
A beat passed. The man scratched at his head, half frowning and half smiling in puzzlement. “Do ye ken what is happening here, Isabella? I am not yer friend. We are nay here for a tea party.”
“I believe I have grasped that much,” she made her voice equally condescending. “And I still say that we should talk indoors, like civilized people.” She lifted her chin. “Though that begs a question, highlander. Are you civilized people?”
For a moment, she thought she had pushed him too far. Some strong emotion flickered in his pale blue eyes, but then he guffawed. “Occasionally so.”
“Well then.” There was nothing for it but to squat awkwardly on the cobbles whilst her trembling fingers worked the stiff buckles. Alas, she had not paid attention to where her maid stowed Frida’s key. She had not thought it was important.
Had Frida foreseen this would happen?
Isabella paused, one hand rummaging through the soft linens inside.
Nay, surely she would have warned her if that were the case.
She fought a swell of dizziness as she reached for the second bag. She had not eaten since breaking her fast at Westchester at dawn. How long ago that seemed.
A heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “Are ye well?”
Her vision broke up into dots and then reformed. Isabella took a breath. “I am fine.”
“Will ye allow me?”
It was not a question. The highlander took the saddlebag from her and made short work of the buckles while Isabella summoned her strength and rose to her feet, ignoring the urge to steady herself by reaching for the man’s arm.
He is my enemy,she reminded herself.
It made no sense at all that he exuded such an air of calm.
“I have it.” He brandished the long iron key, seemingly waiting for her to take it from him.
Isabella was more accustomed to giving than receiving instruction. She folded her hands in front of her and nodded imperiously. “You may proceed.”
