“’Tis the beginning of a plan,” he mused. When Siegfried appeared to contradict him, he spoke up quickly. “You said yerself Siegfried that we need something over Gaunt. We need something that he wants, something we can bargain with.” He stretched out his legs to the warmth of the fire as a slow smilestretched across his face. “And when all’s said and done, if this woman is to be the Lady of Greenock, then by rights she belongs to me.”
Alaric leaned closer, so that Hamish winced at the sourness of his breath. “That is exactly what I thought.” He fished inside his cloak and produced a flask with a flourish. “Let us drink to the Lady of Greenock.”
Hamish accepted the flask and drank deeply. The wine was rich and warming. In that moment, he could have hugged Alaric, sour breath or no. “To the Lady of Greenock,” he echoed, holding the flask high. “Whomever she may be.”
Chapter Two
Westchester Hall
North of England
Isabella breathed asigh of relief as she crept through the hidden door set into the glossy paneling of the long gallery.
Safe at last!
Well,peaceat last, anyway. Even Lady Catherine’s piercing shrieks of displeasure would not permeate the heavy stone of these ancient walls.
Isabella picked up her taffeta skirts and began to climb the steep, spiral staircase which led to the tower room of Westchester Hall; the room she had come to consider her own private sanctuary.
Hardly anyone knew of the secret door in the long gallery, and the only other entrance to the tower was outside, accessed via a long walk through the rose gardens. Given that the last of the roses had given up their blooms long before Michaelmas, Isabella thought it unlikely that the fastidious Lady Catherine would risk getting her slippers muddy.
The circular room at the top of the tower was hung with silken drapes and tapestries bedecked with flowers. Isabella had spent years ensuring the elegant furnishings inside complemented the lovely views outside. Six well-spaced windows ran from the floor to the ceiling and flooded the space with light, even today, when the weak winter sunlight wasobscured by heavy clouds. However, six windows meant a chilly draught, especially with the fireplace left unlit. Isabella drew her soft woolen shawl further over her shoulders, shivering in her fine gown. Perchance she should have chosen something more practical, but to Isabella, appearance was everything.
Whenever possible, she dressed in deep blue silk, the same hue as her eyes. Her golden hair was pinned neatly atop her head, just as if this was a normal day for the Countess of Felsham.
But she was no longer the Countess of Felsham and this wasn’t a normal day.
This was goodbye.
As she gazed out at the immaculate rolling lawns and the woodland beyond, Isabella was enveloped by a wave of sadness. The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders and made it hard to breathe. Panic flared in her chest and tears filled her eyes.
The truth was, she didn’t want to leave.
She twisted a heavily jeweled ring around her finger and tried to stop herself from repeating what had become a familiar refrain.If only things had been different.
Isabella had learned the hard way that there was naught to be gained by wishing or hoping or praying. She’d been doing all that and more for eight long years; but wishes weren’t enough to put a babe in a cradle, nor to have a half-grown heir ready to take on the title of Earl of Felsham.
Instead, the day her husband had breathed his last, his title—and all that went with it—had passed to his nephew, Edward.
Edward was the new Earl of Felsham. His wife, Catherine, was the new countess who waltzed around Westchester Hall as if she owned the place.
Which she did, Isabella reflected wryly, fixing her gaze on the barren branches of the distant trees. At least she had seen the splendid red and gold display of Westchester’s woodland forone last time. Her home looked glorious in the autumn, with the ancient trees basking in the slanting sunlight. It was the same in the springtime, as pretty flowers unfurled their first, tentative petals, as well as in the long, lazy days of high summer when fluffy white clouds scudded over the battlements. In fact, it was a beautiful home year-round. Now that she was obliged to leave, Isabella reflected on all of it fondly. Even her marriage, which had never been happy, had never been exactlyunhappyeither. Many years her senior and grappling with ill health from the first days of her marriage, Charles had left her well enough alone.
What will my new husband be like?
Isabella gulped, imagining for a moment the sallow face of Lord Gaunt; a man she had met only once at a long-ago yuletide ball. They had talked little and in truth she had found his conversation dull. When Edward told her of his offer, her first instinct had been to laugh.
She was Isabella de Neville. The Rose of England!
He was baron of some poor estate in the east. An overseer of farmland which yielded little. A man with greasy, greying hair, a pointed chin and a glint of something that was at best, disinterest, and at worst, cruelty, in his dark eyes.
What right did he have to offer forher?
But then Edward commented, mildly, that Lord Gaunt was now Laird of Greenock and a favorite of the young King.
And suddenly his suit had grown more interesting.
Isabella reflected that Lord Gaunt was barely more than ten summers her senior. A man that age could still father many children.
