“You are most welcome.” Mirrie caught her eye. “If I might say one more thing?”
“Of course.” Isabella smiled whilst she braced herself for the blow. How could the future Countess of Wolvesley countenance a dalliance between her sister-in-law and a rebel Scot?
“Do not give up hope.” Mirrie clasped her hands behind her back. “There were times when I doubted Tristan and I would e’er be together. Times when it seemed vast oceans stood betweenus. But somehow, we found our way and I have learned that love is worth fighting for.”
Moved by her kindness, Isabella gave Mirrie a kiss on the cheek, but as she took her leave and returned to her chamber, she reflected that Mirrie didn’t have any idea what she was talking about.
Whatever challenges Mirrie and Tristan had faced, they most certainly did not involve dungeons and death, nor the ruination of an innocent girl.
Isabella had no hope of a future with Hamish. And there was naught to be gained by pretending otherwise.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hamish knew itwas important to Isabella that he made an appearance in the great hall that night. He washed in a bowl of warm water brought to his chamber by a pink-cheeked serving maid, and he carefully shaved, hardly knowing the man looking back at him through the gold-edged looking glass.
Not a man;a victim.
No matter what he had faced in the past, Hamish had always believed, deep down, that he would prevail. Hardships he could and would endure, but victory would ultimately belong to him. He was a warrior. The Laird of Greenock. Crops may fail, but the McIvor did not.
Until today.
He placed the ivory comb on the nightstand and sighed so deeply that a nearby candle flickered and went out. His face in the looking glass was now obscured by shadows.
Very appropriate.
From this day forward, his life would be overshadowed by what might have been. Aye, he would return to Greenock with Elena by his side. But not a day would pass without him thinking of Isabella and the sacrifice she had made on his behalf.
Hamish’s fist crashed down, and the ivory comb jumped onto the floor. A beaker of ale, also brought for him by the pink-cheeked serving maid, wobbled precariously.
God’s blood; it was more than he could endure.
Brianne had not appeared to him since the day on the moors and he missed her. Right now, some sage advice from his wise and witty sister would be most welcome. But the large bedchamber remained defiantly empty. Perchance a Scottish spirit was not able to enter an English castle.
Perchance she didna want to enter.
If anyone had told Hamish that he would sit down to dine with the Earl of Wolvesley; he would have thought that person touched in the head. If Siegfried were here, he would issue some scathing comment. But Hamish had no argument with the de Nevilles. Only with Lord Gaunt.
Blood pounded in his ears. If he thought more on the subject of Gaunt, he would not be physically capable of donning the clothes Isabella had brought for him, nor of going downstairs to dine.
And he owed her that much, at least.
Grimacing, he turned to the canopied bed where, hours earlier, a manservant had laid out his outfit. Deferentially, the man had asked if he should stay and help Hamish to dress, but Hamish sent him away.
He needed some peace and privacy to prepare for the ordeal ahead.
And to process what had happened with Elena.
After bidding farewell to Isabella at the lake, he had gone, somewhat cautiously, toward the western tower, where Elena was now imprisoned. The fact she languished behind a locked door made his blood boil. But it was, at least, a step-up from the dungeon, and for that he was grateful to Jonah de Neville. He was not certain that the guard at the bottom of the tower would allow him to pass. Forsooth, he was not fully certain that he had the freedom to roam the castle grounds, for although Tristan had spoken up on his behalf, he had never spelled out thatHamish was no longer under house arrest. But after a startled look at Hamish’s ragged outfit, the guard stood to one side.
Hamish ducked under the low door and paused until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Ahead of him was a spiral staircase, lit with flaming torches affixed to the granite wall at regularly spaced intervals. Despite the cramped conditions, the air smelled fresh, and the walls were dry. Swallowing his apprehension, Hamish began to climb; his large feet only just fitting on the narrow steps. Round and around he went, one hand trailing on a wooden banister, until he reached a small gallery with a narrow window and two heavy-looking wooden doors. Between the doors was a wooden chair, and on the chair sat a man, fast asleep and snoring.
Hamish raised his eyebrows at this dereliction of duty from the Wolvesley guard, but on closer inspection he realized the man wore Gaunt’s standard—a serpent—on his dark-red tunic. An empty flagon of wine stood by the chair leg.
Hamish’s mouth twitched. At long last, Gaunt had dealt him a winning card.
He went to the first door and tried the handle, but it was locked, of course. He looked at the sleeping guard and saw a heavy keyring hanging from his waist. Lowering himself onto his knees, Hamish put an eye to the keyhole and waited until the room beyond came into focus. The floor was bare but cleanly swept. A narrow bed clung to the wall, and a slender young woman with long, unruly hair stood looking out of the window.
Hamish’s heart leaped in his chest. He put his mouth to the keyhole. “Elena.”
