Hamish wrestled Alaric toward the door. “I shall find my way. Stay warm, my lady.” He threw a glance at Siegfried. “Bring her wine and then stay with her.”
“Ye havna seen the last a me,milady,” Alaric taunted.
Isabella put her head in her hands, unable to bear the tension and hostility for a moment longer. She heard the thump of footsteps descending the stairs, then the spark as a flame caught against kindling in the grate. Cautiously, she looked through a crack in her fingers as Siegfried built up the fire, sitting back on his haunches until satisfied.
“There we are,” he said.
The flames flickered merrily with the promise of warmth and comfort. Isabella sniffed and shuffled closer to the blaze.
“Thank you,” she said shakily.
Siegfried regarded her steadily. “Neither Hamish nor I ever wanted ye to sit and freeze.”
Her fingers were white with cold and red with blood. What had she been hoping to achieve by hiding out in a chilled bedchamber? Isabella could hardly remember. These last days had become a blur. Her stomach rumbled and she recalled that on her last foray to the kitchens, she had encountered Siegfried sitting calmly in the feasting hall.
“Or starve,” he added.
She inclined her head. “I would be grateful for something small to eat.” She abandoned any attempt at superiority, knowing she had naught to gain by it.
“I shall fetch something for ye.”
When the old warrior had left the room, Isabella allowed her hot tears to slide down her face.
If Hamish had not arrived when he did—
Nay, she would not allow herself to think such thoughts. Alaric was bound behind a locked door. He could not hurt her, even though his parting threat still rang in her ears.
Isabella linked her fingers together and took several deep breaths. She must get a tighter control of her emotions, else both Siegfried and Hamish would see her with puffy eyes and a running nose.
They had almost seen far worse.
She should not have spoken so carelessly downstairs. Sometimes it was wise to show power and strength; but sometimes humility was a better friend.
She fished in her pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, careful to avoid her injury, which throbbed with pain.
It seemed she had no further choice but to put her trust in Hamish.
Chapter Nine
Hamish found thebakehouse easily enough. ’Twas a four-square building with stone walls and a heavy oak door which locked from the outside with an iron key. The floor was earth, but the interior was dry.
He pushed Alaric inside, deaf to his threats and protests, and turned the key. Only then did he allow his emotions to surface.
God’s blood, Alaric had been within moments of inflicting grievous harm to the lady. Hamish did not wish to ruminate on what form that harm might have taken. It was enough that he had seen the blood on Isabella’s face, and Alaric’s hands on the neckline of her gown.
Such a swell of rage overtook him that he swung his fist into the stone wall of the bakehouse, taking grim satisfaction in the sharp pain as his knuckles slammed against the granite. Perhaps aware of the blow, Alaric began to shout once again from inside.
“Silence,” Hamish roared, all dignity abandoned. “Unless ye want my blade against yer throat.”
That quietened the prisoner, although Hamish’s blood still pounded in his ears.
I would ne’er forgive myself if harm came to Isabella de Neville.
He put his back to the wall and leaned his weight against it, gazing out across the white fields that glinted silver in the last of the day’s light. His breath plumed ahead of him, hanging in the cold air like some kind of ethereal spirit.
His failure to protect Brianne had led to her death.
His failure to protect Elena had led to her being taken captive.
