He cleared his throat. “Methinks ’twill be difficult to convince yer brother I am worthy to be the Laird of Greenock when I canna steer my own horse.”
Her laughter was like a peal of bells, incongruous given the heaviness of Hamish’s heart.
“Tristan will look beyond that, I promise.”
“Ye have faith in yer brother.”
“I do.” Isabella was emphatic. “Oft times he can be quick to anger. But he always does what is right in the end.”
Hamish breathed deeply to stem the panic that sent dots dancing around his vision. Down below him, the grey pony stepped on manfully, trotting occasionally to keep up with Luar’s longer strides. Hamish would have to be like the pony; accepting of these strange twists of fate and willing to keep ploughing forward.
But the pain in his arm had become a hot band of throbbing steel that took up most, if not all, of his thoughts by the time Isabella pointed ahead of her and spoke up with evident relief.
“There it is.”
Wolvesley Castle blazed with light, like a Beltane celebration. Orange flames flickered against the dark sky from hundreds oftorches positioned all around the ramparts. The mighty gates, however, were closed, and the guards standing in the tower showed no sign of opening them for the ragged pair of riders slowly approaching. A shiver of misgiving rippled down his spine, but Isabella still sat easily in the saddle. They rode right up to the colossal gates, as if his companion’s sheer force of will might force them open. She tilted her face up to the glowing torchlight and a shout went up.
“’Tis Lady Isabella.”
The cry was picked up by other guards and soon reverberated around the ramparts. The large wooden gates creaked open and the guards let out a loud cheer which ricocheted off the high walls all around them.
After an arduous day, it was too much for Luar, who was in a strange place with unfamiliar hands on her reins. Hamish sensed the frisson of panic pass through her, but was powerless to prevent what happened next. They were barely through the gates when Luar reared onto her hindlegs then launched into a gallop, leaving both riders grimly hanging on. Isabella had the good sense to drop the pony’s reins, but even with her full attention fixed on her mount, she could not bring the warhorse back under control. Hamish lurched dangerously to one side and was obliged to grip the back of the saddle with the hand of his wounded arm. A shameful moan of pain came from him, as his horse careered into the stable yard of Wolvesley Castle.
A group of armed men stood waiting for them. One of them stepped forward and grasped Luar’s reins as if she was no more than a runaway pony. His horse shied and tossed back her head, but the knight was not perturbed. He raised his torch and gazed at the riders.
“Isabella?”
He did not use her title and this, together with the sheen of blond hair in the torchlight, told Hamish that he was most likely looking at the man he had come here to find, Tristan de Neville.
Tristan was tall and broad-shouldered and spoke with the voice of authority. But his voice had grown more tentative when he frowned in confusion and asked, “Is that really you, Bella?”
“Aye, and what welcome is this? Let go of the horse, Tris, else she’ll never settle.” Isabella sounded irritated. Her brother did as she requested, and after a little more prancing, Luar finally lowered her head, snorted deeply and came to a juddering halt.
Hamish released the breath he did not know he’d been holding, and Isabella patted the horse’s neck.
“Easy girl,” she murmured.
Hamish had the distinct feeling he might be sick. Only the fact he had eaten little that day went in his favor. His vision had broken into swirling lines and his arm throbbed with the rhythm of a beating drum. He knew he must gather his wits to make a good impression on the powerful English lord, but that time came sooner than he had imagined.
Tristan reached up and closed vice-like fingers around his wrist. “Get down,” he ordered.
Hamish tried to speak and introduce himself, but the words refused to come. He looked stupidly down into the piercing blue eyes of Isabella’s brother and heard only a great roaring in his ears.
“Now, I say.” Tristan did not look like a man whose commands were ever ignored.
But Hamish could not dismount without leaning his weight onto his injured arm, and his body was stubbornly refusing to do that. He measured the distance to the ground and thought he would never make it.
“Let go of him, Tris.” Isabella’s voice was sharp. “He is a friend of mine, an ally. Not an enemy.”
“He is a Scot. I can see from the braids in his hair and his plaid that he hails from the highlands. Methinks he is one of the party that slaughtered your escort and kept you captive in Ember Hall. Am I right?”
Isabella must have been as dumbfounded as Hamish, for she had no response to this. Shaking with effort, Hamish held up his free hand in a gesture of peace.
“Ye have the facts right, my lord, but I beg leave to explain—”
Hamish got no further, for seemingly dozens of hands closed around his waist and legs, dragging him unceremoniously from his own horse. He landed with a bump on the damp cobbles and a new pain shot up his back.
“What are you doing?” demanded Isabella, asking the question which Hamish did not have the breath to form.
