Hamish swallowed painfully. He wanted to reassure Elena, to tell her that all would be well. But what power did he have to ensure that?
She had no visible cuts or bruises, nor was she in any way shackled. For this he was grateful. But her long skirts hung in tatters and her shawl had turned from cream to grey. He glanced down at his own filthy, blood-stained clothing and was saddened by how low the McIvor clan had sunk.
Isabella was the first to break the silence. She walked toward Elena and took her hands.
“Lady Elena, I am pleased to meet you, despite these sorry circumstances.” She gestured to the servants. “Fetch a chair for our guest, if you please. And wine.”
Elena’s eyes widened with surprise. At first, she flinched at Isabella’s touch, making Hamish fear once again that she had been ill-treated by Gaunt’s men. But then she relaxed and smiled.
Who could not smile at Isabella?
“I have not been publicly addressed as Lady Elena for many days now.” Her voice was raspy through lack of use.
“We could dispense with the formalities. I am Isabella. And I am grieved to discover you have been here at Wolvesley without our knowledge.” Her eyes flashed daggers at Gaunt. “We shall have a chamber made ready for you.”
“Once we are finished here, she shall return to the dungeon. She is my prisoner, Lady Isabella. Not yours.”
Hamish’s hand went to his sword and encountered only air. He opened his mouth, but it was the younger de Neville brother who spoke first.
“Take care, Lord Gaunt, not to overstep the mark. The de Nevilles believe in treating women and children fairly, whether they are prisoners or not.”
Hamish’s surprise grew stronger when he saw Elena throw him a small smile. He looked again at the man he had originally paid little heed to. Tristan was the son everyone talked of. This was undoubtedly his brother; he had the same coloring and even the same set to his shoulders. He may stand a head shorter than both Hamish and Tristan, but there was no denying the conviction in his flashing eyes.
Lord Gaunt waved a languid hand. “Then you shall appreciate the offer I am about to make.”
Isabella audibly tutted as she helped Isabella into a chair and poured the wine which had been hurriedly brought over. “I shall find you something to wear, my dear. When did you last eat?”
Did Elena look again at the younger de Neville brother? Hamish thought she did. But her gaze was fully on Isabella when she answered.
“I have already broken my fast, thank ye milady.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Isabella handed Elena a goblet of wine and Hamish felt a powerful rush of love. He had always believed Isabella to be a remarkable woman, but here she was, taking care of his sister as fiercely and instinctively as if she were her own sibling. With her golden hair shining in the light from the candelabra overhead, she could have been a ministering angel.
Isabella turned to face Gaunt. “Let us hear this proposal of yours, and quickly.”
Lord Gaunt sat back in the tapestried chair, apparently enjoying the attention he was receiving from all sides. He ignored Isabella’s request and a tense silence fell across the room.
Hamish found his fists were clenching once again. His gaze slid over Lord Gaunt and came to rest on the de Neville brothers. Both of them were immaculately turned out, in fur-trimmed cloaks and spotless tunics shot through with gold thread. They looked like men who had never faced the hardships of battle, but he knew, in Tristan’s case at least, that this was not the case. Tristan had fought long and hard on battlefields up and down the country, and over the water in France, but his luck had held, and he had never been seriously injured.
Would Tristan’s good fortune extend to the McIvor? Could Hamish count on his support, whatever bold plan Gaunt came out with?
Hamish found the answer would not come to him. But strangely, he sensed he could count, absolutely, on the support of Tristan’s brother; whose gaze kept swinging to Elena; whose name Hamish did not even know.
The silence continued; its weight so heavy that Hamish found it difficult to breathe.
The de Neville coat of arms hung over the wide fireplace. Hamish focused on this display of English military might rather than risk his temper spiking at Gaunt’s cunning smile.
“Pray speak, man. I have other business to attend to.” The earl’s voice was gruff with impatience.
“’Tis a delicate matter, my lord. I am only searching for the right words.” Gaunt licked his lips with the tip of his tongue and from the corner of his eye, Hamish saw Isabella shudder. “I need a son.” He paused. “For that, I need a bride.”
Hamish felt a hammer blow strike his chest as he realized with sudden, sickening clarity, when Gaunt was headed.
“I have always appreciated beautiful things,” he continued. “Isabella de Neville is a woman of great beauty. But in these last days, I have come to appreciate that Elena McIvor has someshare of beauty too. And she is young.” His small eyes gleamed lasciviously. “With many childbearing years ahead of her.”
“Nay,” Hamish said forcefully. “I am her brother and I forbid the match. Elena has seen only seventeen summers.”
