“I presume your sister has passed from this life?”
He nodded. “She died in battle.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“But she has been with me since. I see her. I speak with her. Until these last days, that is.” His arms hung awkwardly at his sides.
Morwenna considered this, her small hands still rhythmically stroking Luar’s face. “She has been with you in your times of need.”
Hamish felt a knife twist inside him. ’Twas true. Brianne had always appeared to him when he was lost and alone. But this insight caused him pain, because in the final moments of her life, when Brianne most needed him, he had not been there.
He doubled over as if winded, putting his palms to the cold granite wall as a wave of grief washed over him.
Morwenna came to stand by his side. Her hand on his shoulder was surprisingly warm.
“I find that those we have loved never really leave us. But perchance, as you find your happiness, Brianne will find her peace.”
Hamish swallowed painfully. “I would not deny her peace.”
She nodded in agreement. “Nor should you deny yourself happiness.”
He would not aim so high as happiness.
The countess’s face, so close to his, evoked a memory. He blinked in surprise. “Ye are the one that came to me, in the dungeon.” He put a hand to his wounded arm, which hardly troubled him at all now. “Ye healed me.”
Her green eyes went to his arm. “Before I came to Wolvesley, I learned some healing skills from my grandmother. My eldest daughter, Frida, has inherited her gifts.” She smiled. “I am pleased to see you so much stronger now.”
Hamish struggled to properly convey his gratitude. This woman had saved him in his darkest moment. As Laird of Greenock, he would throw a feast in her honor. But what could he do now?
Uneven footsteps broke into his thoughts.
“Mother.” The voice carrying across the yard was strained.
“Jonah.” Morwenna frowned. “What ails you, my boy?”
Reluctantly, Hamish turned around to behold the younger de Neville brother limping toward them. He looked pale with worry and exhaustion, with dark smudges beneath his blue eyes.
“I need you,” he said, “please.”
Morwenna put her head to one side and thought for a moment. “I must go,” she said to Hamish. “But I wish you Godspeed.” She put her hand on his arm. “I will see you again, Hamish McIvor, Laird of Greenock, I am certain of it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The plastered wallsof her father’s solar had never before pressed in so oppressively.
Isabella could not settle, but paced about the rectangular room, so distracted with her thoughts that several times she came close to sweeping piles of parchments from the cluttered desk. Angus sat in his leather-bound chair by the fire, his hands steepled beneath his chin, his blue eyes following her with concern.
“Isabella, dear one, why not come and sit down?”
“I cannot rest, Father.”
Forsooth, if she sat down, she might be physically sick. The only way she could keep her rising nausea at bay was by constant movement.
The heavy oak door opened and Mirrie appeared, her cheeks flushed and her skirts dusted with flour.
“I am come to see if I can fetch you anything?”
Instead of answering, her father cleared his throat. “How goes it in the great hall?”
