I should not have left Ember Hall.
Isabella was dangerously close to tears. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, knowing there was naught to be gained by giving into this tumult of emotion.
In fact, giving into her emotions was what had gotten her into this mess.
Her father, the Earl of Wolvesley, had told his children over and over that they should never run from their fears—they should face them.
But Isabella had run from Hamish like a frightened rabbit.
Tears clouded her vision once again at the thought of the russet-haired highlander. What would he have thought when he woke and found her gone?
The answer slid into her mind. He would have thought that she had betrayed him. Worse, he would continue to think that until Isabella could prove otherwise.
And how long would that take?
She considered, bleakly, that it might be months.
I cannot bear it.
Isabella snatched at the bare branches of the tree in frustration, but the healthy wood did not yield and she succeeded only at scratching her hands.
Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she addressed the grey pony who was looking up at her with an expression of surprise.
“I should have left him a message,” she said.
The pony pricked his ears as if trying to understand.
Isabella sighed. The pony was tired. Would he even get her to Wolvesley? Or should she turn back the way she had come? It was very difficult to decide. And a nagging thirst made everything so much harder.
But she couldn’t stay in a tree all day. Isabella pursed her lips. The sun was high in the sky now, but night fell quickly at this time of year. She had no more than four or five hours of daylight left to her.
I need to get moving.
She rolled her shoulders and flexed her ankles, which had grown stiff from being wedged between the branches, before climbing steadily downwards. When she was a few feet from the bottom, she found an opening and jumped.
She landed in the arms of a man.
She knew it to be a man because of the hard muscle of his chest and the iron grip of his forearms. And because of a foul, unwashed smell that made her want to gag.
“Lady Isabella,” he said. “We meet again.”
Alaric.
She strained against him, but he held her too tightly for her to wriggle free.
“Let go of me,” she commanded.
He laughed, and she winced at the sourness of his breath.
“I’m going to teach ye a lesson.”
Dread pooled in her stomach, but instead of being frozen with fear like before, this time the rush of fear galvanized her into action. Isabella elbowed him sharply in the stomach, ducked down and twisted out of his reach. She didn’t waste a moment looking back. She simply started running.
But she had only run a few paces when a heavy weight brought her face down in the damp heather.
“Nice try, milady.”
Isabella kicked out and made contact with something hard. She turned to her side and grasped the first thing she found, which was a handful of Alaric’s long and unwashed hair. She tugged it hard, hoping to rip it from his head. But in turn, Alaric caught hold of her braid and retaliated. She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her skull, but she would not give in. Her eyes scanned the ground, looking for a stick or something she might use as a weapon.
