At first, thingswent very well in the great hall. Hamish was uncertain of his welcome, but Tristan himself stood up and bade him sit with the family at the long trestle table on the dais. Hamish found himself seated between Jonah de Neville and a pretty dark-haired lady who introduced herself as Mirrie.
So polite and unassuming was Mirrie, that it took Hamish many minutes to realize she was Tristan’s wife. Until then, he had sat in awkward silence, allowing a future countess to fill his goblet with wine.
He apologized for his lapse of manners, but she placed a cool hand briefly atop his and said he should not give it another thought.
“I am not one for airs and graces. None of them are, really, if you look beyond the surface.”
Hamish looked along the table to where Isabella sat, beside her parents, and was not sure he could agree.
Isabella sparkled more brightly than the vast candelabra overhead. She wore an elegant gown of rose pink, with her emerald necklace glittering against her creamy flesh and jeweled rings flashing from every finger. Her golden hair was pinned elaborately about her heart-shaped face and her smile lit the hall more effectively than all the candles and torches combined.
Below them sat table after table of the Wolvesley men-at-arms together with their brightly attired ladies. The hum of conversation, at times, was loud enough to drown out the trio of musicians playing on a small stage erected against the opposite wall.
’Twas all a far cry from the feasting hall at Greenock, with a lone fiddler and one long table set across the unevenly flagged floor.
Hamish took a sip of his wine. Perchance, after all, this was for the best. Isabella did not belong in a draughty Scottish keep. He could never be a proper husband to a woman accustomed to such luxury.
“Isabella is much changed,” commented Mirrie, who had followed his gaze.
“She is?” Hamish was surprised.
“Aye. ’Tis as if she has discovered something new about herself.” Mirrie gave him a small smile before filling her trencher and indicating he should do the same.
He thought of Isabella serving up the stew she had cooked at Ember Hall. What had she said that he so readily dismissed?
“Perchance I would relish the chance to work and have purpose.”
He looked down at the fine array of roasted meats, glazed vegetables and glistening pies, and thought that he had never been less hungry in his life.
Instead of eating, he took another mouthful of wine.
Mirrie grimaced. “I had dared to hope he would not come.”
“You and I both.” Jonah spoke up for the first time.
Hamish realized that Lord Gaunt was ascending the steps to the dais. Inside the vast hall, with its high ceiling and majestic proportions, the English usurper looked smaller and scrawnier than ever. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak of deep scarlet, which Hamish hoped he would soon be sweating under.
As Gaunt walked proprietorially over to Isabella, Hamish felt his stomach begin to churn. The wine soured in his mouth and he thought, for a terrible moment, that he might retch. When Gaunt’s hand rested on Isabella’s shoulder, he knew that he could bear it no longer.
Apologizing to Mirrie and nodding to Lord Jonah, Hamish pushed his chair back from the table and left the hall as quickly and graciously as he could manage.
But upstairs, in the bedchamber set aside for him, Hamish’s thoughts still would not settle.
What can I possibly do to save both IsabellaandElena?
One answer presented itself.
God help him, if Tristan had not relieved him of his broadsword, Hamish thought he may well have acted upon it.
Removing Gaunt’s head from his scrawny neck would solve their problems in one fell swoop.
But Hamish could not kill a man simply by wishing it.
He paced over the thick rugs and reflected that there must be another way. If only he could think long enough and hard enough over it. As he passed the nightstand, he took another long drink of ale.
The door opened and closed, and there stood Isabella, resplendent in her sparkling jewels and fine gown.
“Thank goodness I have found you.”
