Another gust of wind made him gather his cloak about him. Hanish set off again for the barn, before he froze to death in this very spot.
Had it ever been so cold and bleak in the highlands?
Most likely it had. ’Twas only that this land was unfamiliar. Moreover, for the first time in his life, Hamish was not surrounded by friends and family—whose laughter and smiles could warm the coldest of places. He had only Siegfried.
And Alaric. A man he did not trust.
And Isabella. A woman who would not speak to him.
’Tis a grim setup,” he told himself, speaking out loud in an attempt to assert some dominance, if only over his own limbs.
At last, he reached the barn, where the liquid eyes of the horses and the scent of the hay made things feel more normal.
He patted Luar, noting with a surge of pleasure that Alaric had melted the ice fetched by Siegfried and filled with water buckets of their three horses.
But Isabella’s destrier and the old grey mare had no water within reach.
Hamish swallowed his curse and moved into the anteroom used as a store, where he found an axe and a fresh bucket. He tightened the strings of his cloak and set off again, headed for the small stream running to the side of the paddocks.
It was easy to see where Siegfried had cut the ice earlier. Hamish got straight to work, digging down with the axe until he was able to lift a big block of ice into the waiting bucket.
Ye Gods, it was cold work. His hands were red and stinging. But better that than white and bloodless. He reminded himself that Siegfried had first gone to the well, and spent fruitless minutes attempting to draw water there.
By the time he had successfully secured a second block of ice, Hamish could no longer feel the cold in his fingers. He contemplated sitting down to rest, but dimly recognized that he needed to get inside, and quickly. The walk back to the barn was a blur, but he stumbled toward the brazier and held his hands over the warmth. Just in time, he recalled that it was dangerous to apply heat too quickly. He took a step backward and rotated his shoulders to get his body moving again.
’Twas too easy for a man to come to harm in these conditions. Easier still for a lady who, for reasons he did not entirely understand, was refusing food and warmth.
Hamish stamped his feet and blew over his painful fingers. The situation with Isabella could not be allowed to continue. Mayhap Siegfried would achieve what he had not. Mayhap hewould return to the hall to find both of them sitting afore the fire, toasting bread and warming wine.
A fine sight that would be. But it didna answer the question of what he would do the next day. Or the day after that. If Isabella would not talk to him about her brother, how could he proceed?
A wicker from the horses’ stable brought him back to the present. He must melt the ice and top up the water buckets. There would be time enough afterwards to contemplate the hopelessness of his situation.
The winter sun was beginning its downward descent by the time he had finished. Hamish stood for a moment in the shelter of the barn door, admiring the pale golden light which formed a halo effect about the rooftop and mullioned windows of the hall.
He had been wrong before. These lands were not bleak. They had a wild beauty that was not dissimilar to his beloved highlands. He looked to his right, to where a path wound past the paddocks and out onto the moors. The snow was still crisp upon the moors. If only he could get Luar safely across the cobbles, she would be sure-footed and certain as soon as she reached the crisp snow. He and Isabella could ride away to safety.
His lips curled into a grimace at this, for where would he be safe?
What place could ever be safe for a man without a home?
Hamish bowed his head, feeling the weight of responsibility press upon him. He must make a decision soon. The longer they lingered here, the greater the risk of discovery. Of retaliation even, by Isabella’s family or Gaunt’s army.
Though no army would advance in weather such as this.
Hamish heaved out a sigh and began the tentative process of crossing back to the hall, but an elaborately carved door set into an adjacent wall caught his eye.
Grand carvings for an outbuilding, he mused.
He pushed at the door and it opened with a faint groan of protest. It was not until he had walked inside that Hamish realized he had stumbled across a modest chapel.
Modest in size, at least. It was smaller than their family chapel at Greenock. But ’twas far from modest in appearance. Painted glass cast rainbow-hued patterns onto plastered walls which were adorned with frescoes so intricate that Hamish could not resist examining them; his worries temporarily forgotten as he made out a glorious pattern of intertwined stems and leaves twisting about the mullioned windows.
Hamish sank onto the nearest pew and rested his elbows on his knees. Golden light shone around him, almost like a blessing. He wondered how many years it was since he sat inside a house of God and concluded it was several. The glorious hills and valleys of Greenock were where he went to worship. But his mother had been a spiritual woman. For her sake, he placed his hands together and prayed to the Almighty for guidance.
Show me how to proceed,he begged silently.
He longed to be back in Greenock. To be recognized as the rightful Laird of Greenock. Not for the grandeur or riches involved—the good Lord knew there was little enough in the castle coffers. But simply because that was who he was and where he belonged.
