“Ye have it right.” He watched her carefully. “’Tis naught personal, ye understand.”
“I understand.” Her heart picked up speed as her thoughts raced ahead. She stalled for a moment by playing with the fur trim on her sleeve, but the words that had formed in her mind were determined to be heard. She lifted her chin. “Though I fear you do not.”
If her words shocked him, he didn’t let it show. “Explain yerself.”
“You seek to use me to bargain for the return of your lands?” Isabella folded her hands together to stop them from shaking. She wished she had thought to take a seat before beginning to talk. To sit down now would show a weakness she would prefer to keep hidden.
“I do.” Hamish regarded her steadily.
She gave her head a little shake. “But Lord Gaunt cares little for me. For certain, he will not relinquish an entire estate for my sake.”
It was the truth, though she felt far from certain that declaring it was wise. But she could not travel all the way to Scotland with these men, only to have Lord Gaunt refuse their conditions at the end of a long and painful journey. She winced at the very idea of it.
Better to face facts now than after an arduous ride north. However hard and unpleasant those facts may be.
Hamish blinked, as if he did not fully understand. Then he sighed deeply and dragged a hand through his long, russet-colored hair, making his braids jump and dance. “I suspected as much when I saw you approach with just two guards. Two,” he emphasized, glaring at her as if this was some personal failing.
His voice echoed around the cavernous room. Isabella buried her growing fear, drew her cloak about her and eyed a nearby armchair. Her back ached even more than her head.
“I was told that you were called the Rose of England,” he continued.
Isabella gave up and crossed over to the tapestried chair, sinking into it as gracefully as she could. She crossed her legs at the ankle and looked unflinchingly up at him. “What of it?”
He folded his arms across his broad chest. “’Tis bold of ye, Isabella, to tell me that ye are a woman who would not be missed.”
She grasped the arms of the chair and leaned forward, her aches and pains forgotten. “I said no such thing. I am Isabella de Neville. TheRose of England. And if any harm befalls me, Hamish, you will be made to suffer the consequences.” She articulated her words clearly, so they fell like hoofbeats on cobbled ground.
He looked bewildered. “But ye just said that Gaunt cared little for ye.”
She tossed back her hair. “And I care little for Gaunt. He plays no part in this. Does my name mean so little to you, highlander? Angus, my father, is the Earl of Wolvesley. My brother is Tristan—”
“—de Neville,” he finished for her, his eyes wide as if he had just come to this realization.
“That’s right.” She took a breath. “You know him?”
“I know of him.” Hamish stared past her, his gaze loose and unfocused.
Isabella allowed a beat to fall, grateful for the chance to calm herself. But when several seconds passed with no further comment from her captor, she grew uncomfortable. The cold of the hall was seeping into her bones. If only she’d chosen her warmer riding habit made of wool rather than this one with the elegant trim. She pulled her cloak further over her shoulders and tried to find some warmth in its folds.
What is he thinking now?
She attempted to look at Hamish without him noticing, but as soon as her eyes swung toward him, his gaze clashed with hers.
Her lips parted as a frisson traveled through her.
What is this strange effect he has on me?
“You are the sister of Tristan de Neville,” he repeated. “The knight who negotiated for peace between England and Scotland?”
Isabella sat up straighter, ignoring her fluttering pulse and thinking instead of her family. “The very same. My brother-in-law, Callum, is Laird of Kielder.”
She hoped to increase the common ground between them, but Hamish appeared unmoved by her Scottish connections. “I have a sister,” he said, his words thick and slightly slurred. “I had two sisters, but one died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pressed her hands beneath her legs, hoping to warm her chilled fingers. Her breath plumed in front of her, hanging in the frigid air.
Hamish’s gaze refocused as he noticed her discomfort. For a long moment, they looked at one another. “I will make up the fire.”
She watched him lay the logs and spark the tinder, noticing how the grace of his movements was at odds with his height and brawn. When the first flame caught, he sat back on his haunches and gazed at the orange glow as if he had forgotten she was there.
