Laughter bubbled up her throat and she threw her arms around her father’s neck. She pulled away again just as quickly. “Papa, we must go to her.” Her father froze. His smile vanished. Shaking his head, he thrust out his hands. “That is not possible.”
She gaped at her father. “Mother would wish you to go.”
“No, Bella.” He turned away from her. Her arms hung helpless at her sides as she watched his cloak of anguish once more wrap around his stooped shoulders. She had lost him again to the cold gray fog of grief.
She steeled her heart and stared at her father’s shadow. “May I go?”
He eased back down on the bench and rested his face in his hands. Her heart sunk. Surely, he would not deny her.
“Lady Redesdale?”
Isabella swung around to find Mary once more standing in the arched doorway. Behind her stood another man. He had thick gray hair and stern, dark eyes. “Yes, Mary.”
“Another messenger, my lady. Sent by Lord Percy.”
Her father gasped, drawing her gaze. To her surprise, his nostrils flared and he narrowed suspicious eyes on the new messenger. Isabella placed a hand on his tense shoulder. His body eased at her touch. She looked down and saw his brow unfurl. After several moments, he shifted his gaze away from Lord Percy’s messenger back to the young man still standing in front of them. “What is your name?” he said.
“Thomas, my lord.”
“Thomas, how are our borders? Is it safe enough for travel?”
The young man pulled at the thin whiskers on his chin. “Our borders have been peaceful for some weeks now, but mind you, the journey would not be without some risks, thieves and the like. Still, the distance is fewer than seven leagues.”
Lord Redesdale’s gaze shifted to look out the windows, but he crossed his arm over his chest and patted Isabella’s hand still at rest on his shoulder. In a quiet voice he said, “You may go.”
Her hands flew to her lips. Relief untwisted her stomach. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”
A throat cleared near the doorway. Isabella turned and locked eyes with Lord Percy’s messenger. He scowled, clearly not appreciating having been kept waiting. She glanced at her father who continued to speak to Thomas, ignoring the other man’s displeasure. “Make haste to the kitchen, Thomas. Find my manservant, William. Tell him to begin preparations for Lady Redesdale’s journey north. She will depart in two days’ time.”
Thomas nodded eagerly. “Lady Ravensworth will be most pleased by this news.” He turned and bumped headlong into a maid carrying a tray laden with their next course. The dishes clattered to the ground.
“My lord,” the other messenger said, stepping over the spilled food and broken dishes. Not waiting for Isabella or her father to grant him leave to speak, he continued. “Lord Percy is concerned that our peaceful borders are making some of the lords complacent. Rumors have spread of talk against the king’s campaign north into Scotland. Lord Percy hoped that given the unfortunate events surrounding your wife’s death that your support would be readily offered.”
Isabella’s stomach clenched. She glanced down at her father’s white knuckles as he gripped the edge of the table. Slowly, he stood, his hands now tight fists at his sides. “And why would I offer my support?” His voice grew louder with every word spoken.
A cruel smile twisted the messenger’s lips. He appeared to delight in her father’s anger. “Because, my lord, the Scottish people killed your wife.”
Isabella gasped at the blatant lie.
Moving faster than he had in years, Lord Redesdale stormed around the high dais, his eyes bulging wide. “Get out,” he shouted. “Get out of my house!”
The messenger stepped back, slipping on the spilled food. He regained his balance and eyed his soiled shoes with disgust. “Lord Percy will not be pleased.”
“Get out,” her father yelled. His chest heaved as he labored to breathe. Isabella rushed to her father’s side.
The messenger scowled at them. “You would do well to remember Lord Percy is favored by King Edward. You’ve been warned.” Then he turned on his heel and left.
ISABELLA STEPPED OUT into the courtyard just as a coach bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms clattered through the gate.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath before forcing a smile to her lips.
Her betrothed, Lord Hugh Trevelyan smiled when he saw her. “Dearest Isabella.” He brushed his lips against her gloved hand. His light brown hair grazed his shoulders, and his fine, blue eyes shone bright.
She dipped in a low curtsy. “You have come to see me off?”
He smiled. “Of course, dear friend. I only wish I could accompany you, but responsibilities hold me in town for the next fortnight. Are you quite certain your journey cannot wait?”
She smiled but shook her head. “I am anxious to see my sister and meet my new nephew.”
His lips parted slightly as if he wished to ask her again, but then he pressed them closed and for a moment cast his gaze to the ground. “I am happy for you,” he said, still keeping his eyes averted.
Her own stomach fluttered with excitement. “I cannot believe I am to be reunited with Catarina. It feels like a dream.”
He smiled and stepped closer, taking her hands in his. “I think this trip will be good for you. You will see how content your sister is now that she has wed and started a family.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Indeed, I hope to find her very happy.”
“When we are wed, you will be equally as content. Love will grow, Bella. Are not friendship and respect the strongest foundations for any marriage?”
She nodded, pressing her lips together to fight back her tears. She had heard his defense of their forthcoming nuptials time and again.
But I do not love you, her heart screamed.
A rumbling announced the arrival of her carriage. “Thank you for coming, but I must go now.” She turned away and allowed the footman to help her into the carriage.
Hugh peered at her through the window. “I know I can make you happy, Bella.”
She looked into his warm blue eyes and saw the boy she once knew. There had been a time when she had thought of him as her brother. “I miss the way we were,” she said. Then she leaned her head back against the smooth, velvet cushion. “I miss the way everything was.” Regret gripped her heart as her carriage rolled forward through the gate and into the city.
After King Edward had sacked Berwick, his first command was the construction of a massive outer wall. For five years, Isabella had watched the walls climb higher and higher. They blocked the view of the sea and countryside, confining the city. But even as she left the city limits behind, she knew men would continue to erect her king’s dream—just one more cage for her soul to silently rage against.
However, the further from Berwick and Hugh she rode, the easier it became to forget. Rolling hills invited her gaze with a feast of sunshine and flowers. Leaning out the window, she shifted in her seat so that she could turn her face to the sun. She slid her finger along the rim of her fitted wimple, which entrapped her hair and neck, letting the sun touch only her cheeks. Still, golden heat eased her spirit. She inhaled the fragrant scent of blue bells. A smile suddenly stretched her lips wide. It grew wider still, until her cheeks ached with delight. The rich scent of flowers and earth combined with the brightness of light so that she felt as if she were seeing these things for the very first time. And, in a way, she was. She had not left Berwick in five years, and the Bella who had journeyed from home before was not the same Bella now riding through the countryside. The other Bella had a mother. The other Bella could never have guessed at the cruelties one man could inflict upon thousands of others.
Shadow fell as the road snaked through a thick wood. Still leaning out the window, she marveled at the lush green underbrush that shivered with foraging creatures. Then she jerked back in her seat. She heard thunderous snaps, fast and furious, coming from up ahead, followed by a
thud that shook the ground like a giant’s footfall. An explosive crack shuddered through the carriage, bringing it to a halt. She slammed forward, then pitched back. Wincing, she righted herself in her seat. The clang of swords stung her ears and the cries of men tore at her heart. The iron scent of blood filled the air. Her chest heaved as she fought to breathe. Swords and twisted faces flashed past her windows. Trapped. She had to get away. The door jerked open, a leering face. She kicked. The grappling hand retreated. She scurried back. The door she leaned upon burst open. She fell. The hard ground stole her breath. Then men descended upon her.
JACK CHARGED THROUGH the woods with his four brothers trailing just behind. They had been tracking the Redesdale coach for nearly three miles, waiting for the flat landscape to give way to a hill from which they could descend upon their prize. Having at last reached a wooded slope, Jack galloped to the top and signaled for them to don their masks. They had moved ahead of the coach, but it was almost upon them. He leaned low in his saddle. The thrill of the catch set his heart to race. Moisture beaded against the fabric of his mask as his breath quickened. He raised his fist in the air, preparing his brothers to attack. Once his fist swung down, they would be unleashed like a furious black storm upon the unsuspecting nobles. Almost there. Just a few yards to go. His breath hitched as a great crack rent the air. He jerked upright and stared with wide eyes at a tree on the other side of the road plunging in front of the coach. The driver pulled hard on the reins, but it was too late. The wheels thundered into the tree, splintering to pieces. Before Jack could draw his next breath, men, dressed in peasant’s attire, sprung out from the woods with swords raised high and attacked his prize. He threw up his hands and let loose a string of curses.
“What’s our move?” Quinn said.
Jack shook his head. “We have no move. Those thieves stole our prize.”
Rory tore off his mask. His blue eyes sparkled. “They’re Scottish rebels. ‘Tis as Bishop Lamberton predicted. Our people are once more ready to fight.”
“And look at how well they do against guards on horseback,” Ian said.
Jack shot a glance back at his youngest brother. His long red hair hung in tangled disarray.
“Cover back up, lads. I want a closer look.”
Jack eased his horse further down the slope to watch the skirmish. The peasants were, indeed, making surprising progress. Three guards were slain and the others would soon be overwhelmed. He leaned forward in his saddle and eyed the ragged gang. Their humble clothing bore the wear of toil but their broad shoulders and thick waists belonged to men who did not know scarcity.
Jack shook his head. “Look at their swords. Those aren’t the weapons of farmers?”
“What does it matter?” Rory said. “They’re fightin’ the English and winnin’.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed on the scene below. “Somethin’ isn’t right.”
Quinn nodded. “Look at the skill with which they fight.”
“They are not peasants,” Jack said with certainty.
His brothers fell silent as the last guard was pulled from his horse. Several blades glinted in the sun as the tips were plunged into the wretch’s belly.
“’Tis done then,” Jack murmured. He was about to turn away, but then the coach door opened and a lady fell to the ground. Veils obscured her face. The fineness of her tunic bespoke of great wealth. Again, he cursed their luck. Whatever fortune she carried with her, should, by rights, be theirs. They had, after all, tracked her for miles. She disappeared behind the sea of men.
Ian slid off his horse. “What are they doin’?” Crouching low, he darted past an opening among the trees, then squatted behind a large copse.
“Ian, ‘tis nothin’. She’s in no real danger. Whoever these brigands are, they will not harm her, not when they can ransom her for a sizable fortune. Come along, all of ye. The lady is no longer our affair. We certainly cannot rob her now.”
Jack urged his horse around, but then a sob rent the air. Several men fell on top of her, tearing at her clothes. A scream of pure terror sent chills up Jack’s spine. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.”
“Scottish rebels or not, we cannot allow them to hurt her,” Quinn said.
“Why not?” Rory said. “She’s the enemy.”
“We do not condone the rape of women, English or otherwise,” Ian snapped.
“Silence,” Jack hissed. One of the men ripped away the lady’s veils. Tears streamed down her face. “Damnation,” he cursed when he beheld her wide, terrified eyes.
Ian stood straight. “For the love of God, Jack.”
Jack turned about. “Back to the horses, lads. We’ve an English lady to save.”
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The Renegade (Rebel Hearts, #1) Page 17