But even a mighty warhorse like Luar could not run forever. When the gushing of a nearby stream reached his ears, he slowed her to a trot until they found a shallow pool where she could lower her head and drink. He dismounted and filled his own water skein, realizing that he too was thirsty. Thoughts of Isabella had crowded his mind, chasing out everything else. He patted Luar and loosened her girth and told her they could rest a while.
With his hand looped loosely through the reins, they wandered from the river and up a shallow hill, from which he fancied they would benefit from a sweeping view of all surrounding countryside.
He was not wrong. As they stood atop the summit, he spied a small copse of trees some way ahead of them. And in amongst the trees, he spied the unmistakable figure of a woman standing by a small horse.
“There she is,” he said in a strangled voice.
Luar’s ears flickered back and forth.
“But what is she doing?”
Hamish folded his arms and watched as Isabella tugged off her cloak and hung it from a branch. She then jumped high from the ground, wrapping her hands and feet around a much thicker branch and beginning to shimmy upwards.
“God’s blood, she be climbing a tree.”
Luar lost interest and began to crop at the grass. Hamish leaned against her warm flanks, relieved to have found Isabella and somewhat entertained by the display. The wind had thankfully dropped and the noonday sun had a determined strength to it, so he was no longer clenched with cold.
Who would have thought that Isabella de Neville had a habit of climbing trees?
As he watched, she swung into a more upright position and clambered to the midpoint of the tree. With her back against the trunk, she lowered herself until she sat astride a sturdy branch, where she swung her legs like a carefree child.
Hamish smiled. With the sun shining down upon her like a halo, there was no denying the beauty of the scene.
There was no denying his feelings for her.
“I am falling for ye, Isabella,” he whispered to the hills and the heather and the breeze.
“Finally,” said a voice to his left.
“Brianne.” It seemed a long time since he had glimpsed her chestnut curls and laughing eyes. He knew there were those who would mock him for the value he placed on conversations with a woman who no longer walked this realm. There were times when he privately acknowledged that their dialogue was rooted deep inside his imagination, with treasured memories adding a shine of authenticity. But at other times, he heard and saw his sister so clearly, it was as if she had journeyed from the spirit world to counsel him.
She put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a stare. “I am pleased to hear ye own up to the feelings of yer heart.”
“I have nay choice in the matter. I canna pretend otherwise.” He shrugged.
“Ye should stick to the promise ye made about always telling the truth, nay matter how painful it may be.”
She sounded like some wise woman of the hills, not his high-spirited sister who had seen less than two and twenty summers.
He bowed his head. “I shall try.”
“But dinna drop yer guard. Ye ken? Methinks the hardest battle is still ahead of ye.”
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, inwardly protesting that no battle could be harder than the one which had ended with her demise. But his sister had gone. Only Luar’s pricked ears told him he hadn’t imagined the whole encounter.
But then he noticed that Luar was not looking at the place Brianne had stood. She was looking beyond it, to a dark figure creeping through the undergrowth toward the tree in which Isabella still sat.
Hamish dropped the reins and began to run.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabella had notslept since the night she spent in Hamish’s arms. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, but she dared not close her eyes even for a moment.
If she fell asleep, she may well topple out of the tree.
To decrease the risk of that happening, she wedged her boot firmly between two slender branches and pressed her spine against the gnarled trunk.
She’d climbed up here with the desperate hope of glimpsing the familiar turrets of Wolvesley Castle. But alas, all she could see was an endless sweep of soggy and dispiriting moorland with a patchwork pattern of melting snow. No birds sang; the only sound was the eerie groan of the wind and the occasional snort from the grey pony below her. She had no sense of how far they had traveled, and whether the greater distance was behind or ahead of them.
