Thump!
The man, Alaric, must be hurling himself at her door, determined to break in and…
Here, Isabella’s inner monologue became silent. What exactly would he do when he had broken down the door? Ravish her? Beat her? Kill her?
She gulped and gripped the sword tighter, thinking of Alaric’s height and battle-honed strength. The looking glass over the dresser showed her a slight woman with disheveled hair,wearing a rose-pink woolen gown and holding the sword ahead of her like a fire poker.
She looked like her niece, Mary, playing at pirates.
She was foolish to think she could hold her own against a warrior. She’d been foolish to ever leave this chamber and engage in honest conversation with the older man she instinctively trusted. If she hadn’t sat beside him by the fire, disarmed by his kindly smile and the rich wine he poured for her, she would never have uttered the words that so angered his companion.
Foolish words, spoken by a foolish woman who should have known better.
Thump.
Still gripping the sword, Isabella dived beneath the large bed and scrambled to tuck her long skirts beneath her. ’Twas far from the best hiding place, but it may buy her some time. She put a hand over her mouth as the door finally broke from its hinges and crashed to the floor. Alaric strode into the chamber, a cruel smile playing about his thin lips. He paused and looked from right to left, and in the brief silence, Isabella heard footsteps pounding up the staircase.
Hamish?
Please God, let it be Hamish.
She had thought him her enemy, but in comparison to the devil striding over to the closet and flinging open the door, Hamish was kindness personified.
“Are ye in here,Lady Isabella?” Alaric taunted, rooting through Esme’s gowns.
Isabella made her breathing as shallow and quiet as possible, daring to place hope in the possibility of rescue.
But as she watched, Alaric’s gaze moved over to the looking glass, which must have shown him a flash of pink beneath the bed.
I should have tugged down the rugs, Isabella realized, a moment too late.
He turned slowly and ducked down, so their eyes were on the same level.
“What are ye doin’ down there?” he crooned.
Without waiting for an answer, he grasped a fistful of hair and dragged her out, making Isabella’s eyes water in pain. Through the blur of unshed tears, she saw him leering over her, his breeches stained and his tunic torn. His stance was entirely relaxed; clearly he was not expecting her to put up any defense.
This was her moment.
She swung the sword upward, striking him full in the belly with all the strength she could muster. Alaric grunted and doubled over in pain, but he recovered in seconds.
“Ye want it rough, do ye?”
Isabella tried to scramble away, but her skirts had no purchase on the wooden floor. He dropped to his knees so he straddled her, and before she could make sense of what was happening, his fist flew toward her.
His fist landed and her face exploded with pain.
“I’ll teach ye to have more respect fer the Scots.” Alaric’s cheeks were the color of over-ripe plums. His eyes, always mean, had narrowed to slits. He leaned forward so she could smell the sourness of his breath, and his hands fastened around the neckline of her gown.
Isabella could not breathe.
He was going to tear the garment, top to toe. She could see the intention writ large across his angular face. His knees pressed against her ribs, holding her still and ensuring her gaze fell upon the front of his breeches.
She flinched away, desperately seeking a means of escape but already sensing the probability of defeat.
He was too strong. Too powerful. And too angry.
But even an angry man cannot force wool to tear without extreme effort. Alaric’s contortions bought her some time. She inched her hand toward the blade of the wooden sword, which had clattered to the ground just inches beyond easy reach.
