There was a moment of surprised silence.
“Aye, well.” Angus resettled his cloak about his shoulders, unaccustomed to being interrupted. “Let us move onto the business in hand. My son, Tristan, has something he wishes to ask of you.”
This was the moment they had hoped for. Isabella’s gaze flew to Hamish’s across the stone-flagged floor. She saw that his torn and stained clothing counted for naught. In these grand surroundings, he was as much at home as any visiting noble.
He was the proper Laird of Greenock. He had been raised for the role. And he would defend his lands and inheritance with the same fierce conviction of any de Neville knight, past or present.
Isabella began to breathe more easily. All may yet be well. She switched her gaze to Tristan and waited expectantly for him to begin.
But Tristan seemed disinclined to take the lead in these negotiations. He looked instead to Hamish, saying, “This is the man who should speak.”
Lord Gaunt visibly reeled with surprise, but Hamish’s manner was calm. He folded his hands behind his back and looked evenly at Lord Gaunt, as if they were discussing naught more weighty than a hunting party.
“I am here to petition ye for the rightful return of my lands. Lands which my forefathers farmed and nurtured. I canna think the highlands are a hospitable place for any man accustomed to a more gentle climate.”
Gaunt gave a short, barking laugh which almost sent her stumbling into the fireplace. She wished her father had positioned his chair further from the flames.
“I’ve no argument with that. Greenock Castle has all the welcome of a poor man’s hut.”
Hamish’s eyes widened, but this was the only outward acknowledgement he gave of the slight to his home and birthright. “Then ye are open to negotiation.”
“I will be pleased ne’er to cross the Scottish border again.”
Gaunt waved peremptorily to a passing servant and demanded a chair be brought for him. In the ensuing scuffle, Isabella became aware that her younger brother, Jonah, had quietly joined the group around the fire. He nodded a greeting and she nodded back. They had never been particularly close. Jonah had been an argumentative child with a scowl most often stamped across his sensitive features. He stood a head shorter than Tristan, with a narrower set to his shoulders. But Isabella—along with the rest of her siblings—had always known that, despite his limp and club foot, Jonah should not be underestimated. He had a sharp mind and was better skilled with a sword than many unwitting adversaries of the past had imagined.
He was watching Gaunt closely, closer even than Hamish. Isabella recalled Esme’s words about Jonah’s inexplicable urge to remain at Wolvesley rather than retreat to the home he had created at Ember Hall, and she wondered afresh what had prompted it.
But her attention snapped back to Lord Gaunt when he sat down in his chair and fixed her with a beady-eyed stare.
“I shall, of course, expect recompense.”
“I will give ye all the coin I can spare,” Hamish replied. “Though as ye must ken, the keep is in sore need of repair.”
“In truth, there is little left that is worthy of the name.” Gaunt crossed his legs and surveyed the room. “Wolvesley is a home any man would be proud of. But Greenock is not. My horses sleep in greater comfort.”
A dark red stain passed over Hamish’s stubbled cheeks. “Ye have yer English King to thank fer that.”
Tristan held up a placatory hand. “What recompense do you desire, Lord Gaunt?”
“Lady Isabella’s dower, as it stands, is hardly equal to the loss of land and a title. Perchance, my Lord Wolvesley, you could see a way for it to be doubled.”
Isabella was the only one to gasp aloud. Both of her brothers retained their inscrutable expressions and Hamish had turned away so she could not read his reaction at all. Standing behind her father’s chair, she could only see the top of his silvery head, but she imagined him fixing Gaunt with a superior glare.
The de Nevilles were wealthy enough to triple Isabella’s dower and not notice the loss of coin. But Gaunt could not be so brazen as to demand it in such a public place. Scarcely veiled whispering from behind them indicated that Tristan’s men-at-arms were following every word of this exchange.
Isabella felt a new resolve strengthen in her belly. She spoke up before the futile conversation could persist any longer.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Lord Gaunt. For the simple reason that I refuse to marry you.”
The great hall fell silent as every man present strained to hear what would happen next.
“That is not in your power, Lady Isabella. The betrothal contract is signed.” Gaunt’s voice was as smooth as silk.
“My daughter has the right to make her own decisions. ’Tis a right that I gift to her and no one can take that away, not while there is breath in my body. Do not doubt that Lady Isabella enjoys the full protection of the Wolvesley army.” Angus reached over his shoulder for Isabella’s hand, which she gave to him readily. As his fingers squeezed hers, she knew a great swell of love.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered.
“Then these negotiations have been in vain. I shall retain the lands at Greenock and all that goes with them.” Lord Gaunt’s face twisted with malice.
