He could almost hear Brianne demanding the very same of him.
Hamish could not answer. It was a foolish notion. He only knew that he sensed some deep sadness in Isabella de Neville. A sorrow that could not be disguised by rich robes or fine words.
A sorrow I long to remedy.
Ye Gods, was Brianne right? Had the pretty lady sent him soft in the head?
He dampened his lips with his tongue, searching for words that might re-establish his dominance of the situation, if not of the lady herself.
He was her captor. She was his only viable means of negotiation for the return of all that he loved. He must maintain control.
Isabella rose to her feet. He heard her booted footsteps crossing the floor, followed by the slight squeak of a hinge as a cupboard door swung open. A taper flared, and he made out her golden head bent low over a candle. When she turned to him, her pale face was brightly illuminated by the flickering flame. He saw dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her blue eyes.
Eyes that held wisdom as well as weariness.
She was not a young woman. But she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Her beauty was in her poise and grace, as well as her smooth skin and delicate features.
He closed his mouth, embarrassed to have stared for so long.
“I cannot guess what you mean. Perchance you abide by different rules up in Scotland, but allow me to make one thing clear. You are my enemy, Hamish. You hold me captive, against my will, threatening me with death one minute and then proffering help the next. It is clear to me that you have no plan. No clear idea what to do with me. And therefore I am as likely to be put to death as I am to go free. We cannot possibly be of use to one another whilst you treat me so ill.”
“What do ye mean, treat ye ill? I have brought ye food and bade ye eat it,” he spluttered.
Isabella lifted her chin. “I shall retire for the night. Do not attempt to follow me.” Her voice had acquired an edge of steel.
Where is she going?
Before he could ask, Isabella scooped up her blanket and walked quickly into the shadows at the back of the hall. He saw the flickering flame of her candle rise higher as she mounted the stairs.
Stairs which must lead to the family’s bedchambers.
“It will be as cold as the grave up there,” he spoke aloud.
Isabella did not respond. Seconds later, the light of her candle disappeared around the corner.
Hamish widened his eyes but stayed seated in his chair. If Isabella wanted to play lady of the manor, then so be it.
Perchance it was wise to put distance between them, for his thoughts were running amok. Mayhap a few hours’ sleep would lessen this spell that Isabella de Neville had put him under.
Mayhap come the morn, everything would be clearer.
Chapter Six
Isabella was numbto the winter cold of the long gallery. She strode across the wooden floorboards, sheltering her candle flame from draughts but oblivious to the steam of breath pluming ahead of her.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins, whilst her mind hummed with nervous energy. She had been driven from the feasting hall by impulse alone, like a horse bolting from one too many surprises. Almost companionable they had been, sitting by the fire like two people that—
Here, Isabella’s internal dialogue failed her.
Howhad they been together? Like friends? Nay, for no friend she had ever known had made her pulse flutter so.
Like lovers,her mind sneakily suggested.
Isabella’s candle flame flickered in her quick exhale of breath.
How should she know? The only lover she had known was her elderly husband. Kind as he was, the Earl of Felsham had never made his young bride’s heart pound in any way.
But what nonsense was this? Aye, they had conversed almost as equals. Sparring in a way Isabella had not enjoyed since youth. Her questions and accusations ricocheted from his rebuttals. His piercing blue eyes shining in the darkness.
