Amos didn’t miss much. He reached out and patted Isobelle’s hand. His was large and calloused, yet it was always a surprise how gentle and dexterous it was. The hands of an artist, not just a labourer. ‘Chin up, lass. You’ve nothing to fear. There’s nothing a parent wouldn’t do for their children.’
Isobelle felt a great lump rise in her throat, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. Her mind railed against his comforting words.But you never dumped Gwen with a guardian and left the country indefinitely, she wanted to protest. But at the same time, her heart seized on that scrap of hope.
And then the moment was shattered.
A peremptory thumping at the door was their only warning – though warning it was, for no villager would ever bang on it in such a fashion – and then the door flew open, the night air rushing in to set their warm lanterns flickering and chase away the smell of the stew.
Two castle guards clanked in to take up positions on either side of the door, and the stocky figure of Hugh Grimshaw, Darkhaven’s master-at-arms, came stalking after them. He paused in the doorway where he was framed to best effect. It was, Isobelle reluctantly conceded, most dramatic.
‘As I expected,’ he said in the low growl that had earned him the nickname Master Mastiff from his men – not that any of them would have been caught dead repeating it within his earshot. ‘Lady Isobelle, you are hereby ordered to return to Darkhaven Castle.’
All three heads at the table swivelled towards Isobelle, and though her heart was thumping, she delicately patted at the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief before she replied. ‘We are having dinner, Master Grimshaw, as one must every night. Please do come in – if you leave the front door open like that, you will draw the smoke out of the fireplace, and it will be most unpleasant.’
She knocked him off balance enough that he took a step forward, and one of the guards, after a nervous glance at Isobelle, leaned sideways to carefully shut the door behind him. Poor Bess’s face had gone white – it was only a few months ago that she’d been among the women thrown into Darkhaven’s prisons for ‘disturbing the peace’ when she’d come to warn Lord Whimsitt that a dragon had destroyed their town.
But Grimshaw didn’t even glance at her, his eyes were fixed on Isobelle.
‘You were under orders to return to the castle immediately upon completion of Miss Gwen’s patrol,’ he said. The words sounded respectful, but in truth they served simply to emphasise that he had never used the title the people did for Gwen. He’d never be caught deadcalling hersir. ‘You ought not to give Lord Whimsitt more reason for displeasure.’
More reason?
Isobelle glanced at Gwen, whose face was grave and tight. Isobelle could tell Gwen’s thoughts had leapt to the same place hers had.
Was this armed escort back to Darkhaven Castle simply because they’d detoured from their plan and visited Gwen’s father … or was it because Whimsitt knew their plan to escape his control?
3
I expect you to smile
Darkhaven’s master-at-arms escorted them all the way back to the castle. All the way to Isobelle’s quarters, in fact. Grimshaw glanced inside with a grimace of distaste for the vibrant colours with which Isobelle had decorated the place. ‘If you aren’t in Lord Whimsitt’s private audience chamber by half past the hour,’ he growled, ‘I will send someone to fetch you.’ And he vanished from the doorway.
The low murmur of voices came from outside, unintelligible, but Gwen knew what it betokened. He was speaking to a guard outside Isobelle’s door.
Gwen tossed her pack onto a nearby chair and let her breath out. Her head ached with the effort of staying quiet, of resisting action. The whole ride back she’d wanted to wheel Achilles on Grimshaw, knock him flat, and ride off with Isobelle … where, though?
She’d always have a place with her father, and so would Isobelle, but it’d be the first place Whimsitt sent his men tosearch. Isobelle was his ward, and while he’d proven more than once that he had little care for her well-being, hedidhave much care for her wealth. They were in a practised stalemate now. Whimsitt was unable to force Isobelle into an advantageous – for him – marriage, thanks to Gwen’s pull as a celebrity. But neither did Isobelle have the right to simply leave, not without breaking the law and thus surrendering all right to her family name, her fortune … even her freedom.
‘Well, this blows.’ Isobelle’s voice was cheerful, but tired, from behind Gwen’s shoulder.
Gwen turned, reaching out so she could locate Isobelle’s hand and squeeze. ‘I think there’d be more than one guard on the door if he suspected you were trying to get around him with your parents,’ she said, though the words scarcely convinced her own doubts to subside. ‘I—’
But there she stopped, her eyes focusing past Isobelle. The movement had been very slight, just a shifting of the dusky shadows beyond the door leading to the balcony.
Someone was there.
Isobelle had felt Gwen stiffen, and had gone quiet and still, letting her champion watch and listen. When Gwen’s eyes found hers again, she only raised her eyebrows in question. Gwen gave a shake of her head towards the door, and then spoke in a very even voice indeed, as if nothing was wrong.
‘If only we had time for a bath and a change of clothes before going in front of Whimsitt,’ Gwen said, letting go of Isobelle and moving slowly, meanderingly, towards the balcony door. She was still wearing her sword belt, and she lay a hand on the blade’s hilt.
‘I do always say one feels at one’s best when properly attired,’ Isobelle agreed, her eyes tense, following Gwen’s every movement.
‘Not that Whimsitt has any appreciation for fashion,’ Gwen said, holding a finger to her lips as she inched towards the door.
Isobelle nodded. ‘Except for those ridiculous hats of his.’
‘Someday I’d love the chance to knock one off his … head!’ Gwen reached the door and threw it open. The surface collided with the person outside, knocking them back a pace – Gwen grabbed for them, hauling them back inside and throwing them down.
Or, at least, she tried to.
