Oblivious to this, Siegfried continued. “But he wants to workwithye, not against ye.”
A second coughing fit seized Isabella, leaving her dizzy and a little nauseous. Too late, she realized she should not have drunk so much wine on an empty stomach.
“I will never work with a Scot,” she declared, stumbling to her feet. “If that is his only plan, then Hamish will have to kill me after all.” She clenched her hands into fists, partially in defiance and partially in an effort to steady herself.
Siegfried got to his feet and the rug tumbled to the floor. He held out his hand. “Let me help ye.”
“I do not need your help.” Her vision was dissolving into dots. She shook her head to try and clear them. “I do not need anything from you. Any of you. You should return to Scotland.”
“We will not return until you come to an agreement with Hamish.” Siegfried’s voice was calm, but his logic was relentless.
“Then you will never return,” Isabella cried out, knowing her manner was undignified but unable to remedy it. “You will stay here until my brother arrives with his army and they will cut you into pieces and I will watch.” Even as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. “Or until you kill me.”
Siegfried did not so much as flinch. “Hamish will not harm ye.”
“But I will.”
The voice came from the back of the feasting hall. Siegfried startled backward but a cold rush of fear robbed Isabella of the ability to move.
It was the dark-eyed warrior. He had been crouching in the shadows, watching and listening.
“Alaric,” Siegfried began in warning.
But the younger man strode forward and held out a hand to silence him. “Dinna speak to me. Dinna try and stop me. This ends now. Ye heard the lady. She will ne’er come to any agreement. ’Tis her life or ours. And I ken which I choose.”
The length of his speech gave Isabella the time she needed to regain her senses. This man meant her harm and although Siegfried looked ready to defend her, he would be no match against a warrior so much younger and stronger.
She could run outside, but he would catch her easily. Her only hope was to flee to her chamber and lock the door.
Isabella did not waste another moment. Whilst the two Scots glared at one another, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Never had she ascended the stairs so quickly. She stumbled briefly on the long gallery, but the sound of footsteps behind her urged her on. She recalled how she had long been able to out-run her brother Tristan, despite his height and breadth. She may be slight, but she was fleet-footed. Like a charger, her mother had once laughed, not a warhorse.
She over-shot her chamber door, but quickly recovered. In moments, she had wrenched it open, flung herself safely through and shot home the bolt.
Safe.
Isabella took a ragged breath, aware that her shawl had slipped from her shoulders at some point. No matter. Her blood pumped around her body and chased away any remnants of cold with a mixture of exertion and adrenaline.
Then a crash sounded against the fastened door, sending her reeling backward. She stood helplessly in the center of the bedchamber as the crashing noise sounded again. A loud, resounding thump reverberated across the wooden floor and settled somewhere beneath her ribs.
The iron bolts across the heavy wooden door were holding fast for now, but for how much longer would they keep her safe?
She could hardly believe that the narrow-eyed warrior had turned upon her with such ferocity. And that no one was coming to protect her.
Not even Hamish.
Isabella stifled a sob.
Thump.
She jumped backwards as the door jolted in its hinges, and looked about in desperation for something she could use to defend herself. Esme had taken the majority of her belongings to Wolvesley, leaving only an old comb on the polished dresser and some faded ribbons in a drawer. Isabella shook her head, her loose hair swinging over her shoulders. There was naught suitable.
Then she spied something long and thin, propped in a sewing basket and leaning against the plastered wall by the large closet. Her eyes widened as she realized what she was looking at. Some years past, Esme had urged the man employed as her personal guard—now her beloved husband—to teach her how to wield a sword. Adam had whittled her a wooden sword for training.
And there it was!
Isabella rushed over and grasped it by the hilt. The sword was light in her hand and may not yield much damage. But it was a darn sight better than nothing.
