Bread!
He tore off a chunk and crammed it in his mouth, not able to recall when he had been so grateful for such simple fare. He washed it down with the wine, which was sweet and strong.
No wonder his memories of the night were so hazy, with wine as potent as this.
Hamish rubbed at his eyes, wishing for a basin of water with which to wash. He was travel-stained from the journey, with mud splats on his breeches and dried blood encrusted on the sleeves of his tunic. But these were trivial problems, when his sword arm no longer throbbed with pain and his body was rested.
But where is my sword?
Hamish scanned the square-shaped cell, which was empty aside from the pallet, and concluded his sword had been taken from him. His fists tightened at the loss, but only a fool would send an armed man to a prison cell.
And Tristan de Neville was no fool.
Hamish breathed deeply. A display of temper would get him nowhere. He must use his wits to get out of this mess. And hope that somewhere out there, in the comfort of the keep, Isabella was pleading his cause.
Please God, let her not abandon me now.
Nay, Isabella would not abandon him in his hour of need. She would find a way through the maze they’d landed in, just as she found a way to bind up his arm whilst they were high on the moors.
He said her name, evoking the brave, beautiful woman he loved and taking comfort from the sound and feel of the syllables.
In the moments after he spoke, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the wall, and he remembered the slight figure he had glimpsed last night.
Did another human soul languish down here with him?
Hamish cleared his throat, ready to ask who suffered alongside him, but the march of booted feet into the dungeon cleared all such thoughts from his mind. He wanted to stand tall to meet whoever was coming, but the low ceiling did not allow for that. Instead, he sat down on the pallet with a straight back and his arms folded across his chest. But despite his best efforts, the bright glare of torchlight coming through the door made him lean away and shield his eyes.
He could not see who held the torch. But the man was tall and consequently obliged to slump his shoulders in the confined space.
He spoke over his shoulder. “You can leave us now.”
The voice was unmistakably that of Tristan de Neville.
Hamish held himself still and met Tristan’s blue gaze squarely. The earl’s son had come before him in a rippling fur cloak atop a dark tunic trimmed with gold thread. His golden hair, the same hue as Isabella’s, was neatly combed to curl just above his shoulders. He exuded power and wealth, but Hamish would not be cowed.
“Good morn,” Hamish offered.
Tristan snorted a little in surprise. “Is it? I would not have thought it a particularly good morn for you.”
“On the contrary, yer wine is good and whoever tended to my arm is a skilled healer.” He looked down at the neatly-tied white bandage appreciatively.
“I shall convey your thanks to my sister. Whatever hospitality you have enjoyed is thanks to her.”
There was a challenge in Tristan’s voice. Thinking quickly, Hamish decided to acknowledge but not meet it.
“I understand.”
Tristan allowed a beat to pass. “I have always believed in giving a man a fair trial. ’Twas my father who taught me that. He has been the judiciary since before I was born. But I am afraid my father’s leniency does not extend to any man who inflicts harm on his family.”
Hamish’s heart thudded inside his chest. He wanted to speak up and declare that he had never harmed Isabella, but thought it wiser to let de Neville continue.
“Nonetheless, here I am. Last night you asked for a chance to explain your actions. This is your chance.”
“I ne’er inflicted harm on Isabella.” Hamish’s mouth had grown dry. “I swear to it.”
“And you never intended it?”
“Nay.” Hamish put a hand to his head. “In truth, perchance we did not rule out the prospect of force, but that was before I met her and knew her—”And loved her.He took a ragged breath. “She has been treated with the respect she deserves.”
