*
Sometime later, Isabellahad bathed and dressed in a manner more becoming of an earl’s daughter. Her emerald necklace, still gleaming and beautiful despite having spent the last days tucked beneath a grubby tunic, rested atop the creamy silk of a fur-lined winter gown. Her hair, mercifully washed by her mother’s maid with lavender soap and an endless supply of warm water, had been braided and pinned up and over her head. It felt strange to slide her feet into goatskin slippers, rather than the leather boots she had grown accustomed to. The cold of the stone floor was more apparent, as was every groove and bump of the wooden staircase. But she knew she must look the part she had been born to play.
The Rose of England.
Holding her head high, she walked gracefully into the vast, echoing, great hall and over to the stone fireplace, where her father waited in his throne-like carved chair. Ignoring the huddle of men-at-arms, and the smaller group which all her senses told her Hamish stood among, she curtsied deep and low, not rising until she felt her father’s heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Isabella,” he said simply, his voice so beloved and familiar that tears sprang to her eyes. “Welcome home.”
She rose and found herself pulled into a tight embrace. Angus, the Earl of Wolvesley remained a tall, strong and formidable man, despite his advancing years. His golden hair had turned to silver, but his blue eyes were as piercing as ever. He wore his customary, green-colored fur cloak, which skimmed the floor beyond his polished boots. Green was the traditional color of Wolvesley—which was one of the reasons Isabella hadsuch fondness for her emerald necklace. It had long-served as a reminder of home.
“I am glad to be back, Father.” She blinked away her tears, noting new lines etched around the earl’s eyes and mouth.
Another sign that Wolvesley Castle was not as invulnerable to change or threat as she might like to imagine.
As her father sank back into his chair, she allowed her gaze to flicker to the men standing to her right. Tristan was closest, almost a double of their father in his younger years in his height, bearing and the relentless energy which radiated from him.
Hamish stood by his side.
Isabella quickly looked away, her heart pounding. Hamish still wore his travel and blood-stained clothes of yesterday. But he stood tall, exuding a quiet charisma not unlike that of Tristan.
He is alive.
And he is here!
Whatever had transpired between Hamish and Tristan, it had resulted in Hamish being brought to the great hall, unbound and unrestrained. Isabella knew a tremor of excitement. Could their audacious plan come to pass after all?
She would not have labelled their plan audacious when they first hatched it out, isolated but cozy at Ember Hall. But now that she had returned to Wolvesley, she baulked at her own brazenness. Her family were the de Nevilles, her childhood home was England’s finest fortress. And she had galloped through the gates, filthy and bloodstained. She looked at the mighty pillars and vivid frescoes, and reflected that her mother was right to insist she bathed and changed before petitioning for further assistance.
Tristan gave her a sharp nod of greeting. “’Tis good to see you rested and looking more your usual self, sister.”
She ignored the barb and curtsied again, aware that all eyes were upon her, from the men-at-arms behind them, to the manshe loved who stood just feet away. “I was saddened to hear of your son’s illness, Tris. How does Mirrie fare this morn?”
Tristan hesitated, perchance surprised by her overture of friendship after the harsh words that had passed between them. “Much better, thank you. I dare to hope she may join us later.”
“Happy news indeed.”
Isabella’s words were sincere. Kind-hearted Mirrie was once their father’s ward and had grown up alongside them, here at Wolvesley. Isabella loved her almost like a sister.
Tristan inclined his head and gave her a little smile, half teasing and half affectionate. It reminded her of how he’d looked as a mischievous little boy, when he and Frida were the best of friends.
“We have all been waiting for you, Bella.” He raised his eyebrows. “Am I allowed to call you that now?”
“You have been waiting for me?” She pressed a hand to her chest and looked from her father to her brother, not daring to pause when her gaze slid over Hamish. “I do not know whether to be honored or surprised.”
Tristan pulled a face. “You should not be surprised. You are, it seems, the key to all of this.”
Isabella had a dreadful premonition. They could not hope to continue this exchange without the input of a man currently missing from their party.
Sure enough, Tristan gave a short bow to their father and then shot a glance at Hamish. “I shall fetch Lord Gaunt.”
Both men nodded their agreement before turning their gaze back to Isabella. She realized that if she expected her father to believe that Hamish was a friend, then she must treat him as such.
“I am more pleased to see you than I can say.” She spoke clearly and without hesitation, knowing that her words carriedthroughout the hall, but refusing to be cowed by the shame of Hamish’s incarceration.
He bowed and smiled so sweetly it illuminated his whole face.
“’Tis my pleasure to look upon ye, Lady Isabella.”
