His voice rippled with surprise. “I may proceed?” His bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath his thatch of hair.
She nodded again, thinking hard. “But only you. Not your men. They must stay out here.”
She could not stand to be near the man with dark hair and shifty eyes.
Hamish rocked back on his heels, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “And why do ye think ye are in any position to make such demands?”
She met his gaze calmly. “Because you told me you were civilized and moreover, I sense this about you. Of course, you can do with me what you will. There is no one here to stop you. But I choose to believe that highlanders can also be men of honor. My brother, Tristan, has always insisted upon it.” She raised her eyebrows sharply. “Is he correct?”
Please God, let him be correct.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Again I say, occasionally so.”
“Then let us hope that this is one such occasion.” Isabella’s voice was arch; the voice of a lady who expected to be listened to. Though she warned herself not to overstep the mark as shefollowed the highlander’s long strides down the well-worn path to the arched front door.
But where is the mark?
Isabella had never before been in a situation with such ill-defined social rules.
She rested her hand briefly on the iron door handle. How many times had Frida, Esme, or Mirrie rushed out of this very same door to wrap her in a welcoming embrace?
Too many to count.
Oh, how she wished that one of them was here now. Her sisters formed the backdrop to her life; in thought and memory, if not in person, now that they were all grown and scattered. She took strength from the knowledge they had all lived and loved within these walls. The scent of lavender greeted her as Hamish pushed open the heavy panel and she stifled a swell of longing for her family.
I must find the strength to do this on my own.
Hamish stood back to allow her to pass through the door ahead of him, and Isabella walked steadily down the stone-flagged hallway into the feasting hall. Here, she half hoped to find her brother-in-law, Callum, slouching in a tapestried chair by the fire. Or Jonah, hobbling through from the solar and scowling at the interruption. But the house was silent and defiantly empty. The long trestle table, which had hosted so many family dinners, was pushed up against the far wall. For the first time that Isabella could remember, there were no slumbering hounds to raise their heads or thump their tails in greeting.
Isabella paused before the unlit fireplace, uncomfortable in the shadows and already regretting her decision to come inside. There was no warmth. No welcome. Nothing to be gained by this charade of confidence.
But what else do I have?
She folded her arms about her and nodded toward the log basket. “You can make up the fire.”
Mayhap with warmth and light she could think more clearly.
He stood beside her and she flinched at the proximity. Hamish had seemed a large, forbidding man outside in the courtyard. But inside, amongst the trappings of gentility, she was even more aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the watchful intelligence in his gaze.
He is not a man to cross.
“If you wish,” she added, glancing up at the smoke-blackened rafters as if they held particular interest.
“It was not part of my plan.”
His voice was loud in the pressing silence; his breath plumed in the chilly air. Isabella resisted the urge to shuffle away.
“What is your plan?” she asked instead.
Hamish walked over to the fireplace and rested a hand against the mantle. His expression, when he turned to face her, was neutral.
“Lord Gaunt has taken something that is mine.”
Her heart began to beat heavily in her chest. “Your castle?” she guessed.
“That is one thing, aye.”
“So in turn, you have taken something that is his?” She waited a moment. “Me?”
