She dressed quickly—and daringly—in a woolen tunic and braccae which she found in Esme’s closet. ’Twas a far cry from the taffeta gowns in shimmering silk which she wore in Westchester, but more fitting for the current climate and circumstance.
’Tis more important to be warm than elegant,Isabella told herself.
Besides, a mischievous voice spoke in her ear, Hamish has seen you dressed in nothing at all.
Heat rose to her cheeks, but she did not allow herself to feel any lingering guilt or shame. Last night, she had done what shewantedto do, rather than what she knew sheoughtto do. ’Twas the first time in her life that she had followed her impulses—or her heart—rather than the dictates of others. And it had brought her a deeper pleasure than she’d known was possible.
Whatever happened next, she did not intend to regret her decision.
She flinched at the chill of the long gallery after the warmth of her bedchamber. Stepping over the fallen door reminded her of Alaric, and the paralyzing terror that had imprisoned her in the moments before Hamish appeared.
Together, she and Hamish had turned fear into joy.
It was strange to walk across the long gallery without the swish of skirts about her calves. Strange, but also liberating. The woolen braccae were snug, not allowing the merest hint of a draught.
Mayhap I will dress this way more often.
As soon as the thought occurred to her, she pushed it away, lest her imaginings take her to the cold stare of Lord Gaunt.’Twas unsettling to think of the future and what it may or may not hold. Better to stay rooted in the present. She turned the corner in the feasting hall and stopped in surprise.
Siegfried was sitting before the fire, fast asleep and snoring lightly.
Isabella swallowed a giggle and crept past him. Hamish must be outside, she realized. There was no telling when he might return.
No matter, I will look for him.
Galvanized into action, Isabella wandered toward the kitchen; a place she had only ever entered under the cover of darkness, fearful of every creaking floorboard in those long-since nights when she tried to evade Hamish’s notice. It was pleasing to see the room flooded with light. Isabella rummaged in the well-stocked larder until she found a bucket of red apples, most likely picked from the orchard. She bit into one and closed her eyes, enjoying the sweet flavor flooding her mouth. Her eyes landed upon a number of cloaks hung by the back door and she smiled with relief.
This was what she sought.
Her own traveling cloak brought back painful memories of the day she had left Westchester. Besides, it had never been fashioned to withstand such freezing temperatures as these. She ran her hands over the heavy, coarse wool of the dark and muted cloaks hanging before her, and nodded with satisfaction. These would do very well, so long as she could find one which didn’t swamp her small frame.
Finally attired in a cloak which must once have belonged to Esme, Isabella pushed open the back door and stepped out into the morning sunlight.
Warmth!
Or at least, the appearance of it.
The sun’s rays had strength and purpose, and the brightness was almost too much to bear. Isabella blinked at the dazzling sunlight and its reflection in the ice which still covered swathes of the courtyard, where water had once settled. Icicles hung from the mullioned windows and snow lay thickly in the distant fields. Her breath plumed before her, but if she tilted her face toward the sun, she could believe the thaw was not far away.
Once the thaw came, they would ride to Wolvesley and she would ask for Tristan’s help, as she had promised. But this was the future which she still did not wish to consider. Once they reached Wolvesley, questions would be asked about her betrothal to Gaunt.
Isabella would prefer to think of the present. Of the glorious expanse of sunshine on snow and the melodious singing coming from the barn.
She cocked her head and listened again, smiling when strains of the lilting song reached her. There was no doubt, it was Hamish.
A man motivated by love for his sister.
A man who could sing.
And a man who had made her body sing just hours earlier.
Rolling her eyes at her run of thoughts, she set off across the cobbles, picking her way around the most slippery patches of sheer ice. The singing grew louder as she neared the barn, though she did not recognize the tune. She was relieved to reach the half wooden door without incident. She leaned her weight upon it and caught her breath.
“How well do I love thee, how well do I love thee,” sang Hanish.
Does he sing of me?
The eager question sprang to Isabella’s mind before she could stop it.
