He had, as promised, subdued Isabeau’s cries with his kisses. It had been an unavoidable, yet sensuous restraint, required to prevent alerting the guards to his presence. But to have given freedom to Isabeau’s moans of pleasure, to hear his name called in ecstasy as she moved beneath him, would have been the ultimate enchantment.
“I cannot go with you,” Isabeau replied, her voice edged with regret, “and you know why.”
Aye, he knew. They would be tracked by her father and brother, pursued like outlaws by the men Isabeau loved. The perfect reflection of what they now shared would be tainted, akin to a crack in a flawless mirror. One would not be able to look upon the surface without seeing the distortion. The completeness would be spoiled.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
She sighed, the heat of her breath warm against his throat. “The blood of my virtue might lie upon these sheets, yet I am more whole now than I have ever been,” she said. “I swear to you, Hamish, the sweetness of this night will stay with me till I die.”
He groaned and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Mo chridhe.”
“What does that mean? It sounds so beautiful.”
“It means ‘my heart’, and ye’ll always have a place in it.”
Against the warm flesh of his shoulder, he felt her mouth curve into a smile. “Then I suppose I am going back to Scotland with you, in a way.”
“Aye, I suppose ye are.”
She fell silent, but Hamish sensed the busyness of her mind.
“Before you came to me tonight,” she said, “I made a wish for time to hasten its passing, that it might ease the pain of your leaving. Now, I wish only for time to stand still, yet I feel it rushing by me like the wind. In less than a heartbeat, you’ll be gone.”
Less than a heartbeat.
A sudden, mad impulse flashed through Hamish’s mind. He held up his right hand and squinted at the ring adorning his third finger. The circle of small, black diamonds decorating its golden head glinted even in the darkness. The engraving at their center served to remind him of his unique heritage.
It was his most treasured possession, one of three rings passed down through many generations. Another had belonged to his late father and remained at Glenross. Ninian, his father’s brother, possessed the third. Hamish pushed aside the thought of what his uncle would say when he found out what he’d done.
No matter. Besides, the ring would find its way back to Glenross one day. That was part of its magic. And, through the mercy of the gods, it might bring Isabeau with it.
Hamish tugged it off his finger. “I want ye tae have this.” He pressed the ring into her palm. “’Tis an ancient and magical thing. If ye are ever able tae come tae me, this ring will guide ye tae Glenross.”
Isabeau shifted her head and brought the jewel to her face, tracing the stones as she examined them. Hamish waited, wondering if she understood the significance of what she held.
“Thank you. I shall treasure it always,” she said after a moment, closing her fingers around it. “But there is something else I would ask of you before you leave.”
“Anythin’.” Hamish nuzzled her hair. “I’ll give ye anythin’ ye want. The moon. The stars. A puppy.”
She stifled a laugh and snuggled into him. “They all sound wonderful, but what I want is quite simple.”
“What is it?”
“I want to know about Glenross,” she said. “I want you to tell me about the magic.”
Chapter 2
Manoir Dieudonné, south of Paris
Seventeen years later
Isabeau tugged her shawl across her shoulders and gazed out over the garden. A fine, gossamer mist softened the pale morning sunlight. The flowerbeds were in the throes of early spring, peppered with dainty snowdrops and tight, green bunches of unopened daffodils. The apple tree’s bare, twisted branches appeared black in the rosy light. Isabeau had loved the tree ever since her arrival at Manoir Dieudonné, almost eighteen years earlier.
Each May, it exploded into a mass of pale pink flowers, the sweet-scented blooms a sight to behold. At such times in the past, Isabeau had always left her window open at night, falling asleep surrounded by the blossom’s delicate aroma. The beloved spectacle, though, was yet several weeks away.
This year, Isabeau wouldn’t be there to see it.
Is it frost or dew that glitters on the grass?
A frivolous question, the answer to it unimportant. But it served to pull her away from the shadows of melancholy.
Admittedly, she felt stronger today, although the several paces from her bed to the chair had set her lungs burning and limbs trembling. The improvement was, she knew, a blessed but temporary reprieve. No doubt, it had been prompted by the stirring of old memories and her intent to share them, at long last, with those who deserved to know the truth.
Even as Isabeau looked out on the mortal world, she recognized the final summons of another, eternal domain. Like a silent bird hovering overhead, its shadow grew ever larger and would soon block the sun. She groped for Hamish’s ring, tugged it free of her robe, and closed her fingers around it. For years, she’d kept the artifact locked away, safe from curious eyes. Recently, she’d taken to wearing it on a chain around her neck. A sentimental exercise. The time had almost come for it to be returned to its rightful owner.
Time. It had rushed by her like the wind and now little of it remained. At least, for her. The adage was false, too. Time did not heal all wounds. It merely allowed the wounded to become accustomed to their pain.
“Isabeau?”
She turned to see her brother peering around her door and beckoned him in. “Good morning, Henri. I’m sorry I missed you last night.”
“No matter. I didn’t arrive till after dark.” He smiled as he approached, but failed to disguise his shock. “How are you feeling?”
Almost fifteen years her senior, Henri had been her lifelong hero. At times when she’d felt abandoned by the world, Henri had always stepped forward and offered his shoulder or a soothing word of comfort. She knew her past behavior had disappointed him. Now, unable to humor his false cheer, she challenged him. “How do I look?”
“You look…” His smile faded as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Oh, Isabeau, may God bless you and ease your suffering. I heard you’d taken a turn for the worse.”
“Which is precisely why I summoned you.” She glanced down at the translucent, papery flesh covering her thin fingers. Her malady, with its harsh, recurring fevers, had a voracious appetite. “I am not long for this world, brother mine, and there are things I need to say before I leave it.”
Heaving a sigh, Henri pulled up a chair beside her, wincing with apparent stiffness as he sat. “What things? I’m no priest, my dear. If you’re concerned for your mortal soul, you must make your peace with God.”
“I made my peace with Him years ago.” Isabeau smiled. “This is not about me, Henri.”
“Then who?”
“Giselle.”
“Ah.” Henri nodded. “Have no fear. I’ll take good care of her.”
“I know you will.” Isabeau fingered the ring and turned her gaze back to the window. “But, with respect to your kindness, it is not what I want for her.”
He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “What do you mean? Oh, nay. You’re not thinking of a convent, Isabeau. Spare her. The girl is possessed of too bright a spirit, unbefitting such a life. Despite her unfortunate circumstances, I’m sure I can find her a suitable husband. She’ll be well placed, I promise.”
Unfortunate circumstances? Had the mist thickened, or was it tears that blurred the apple tree’s stark branches?
“Not a convent.” Isabeau drew a soft sigh. “I want Giselle to go to Scotland.”
There came a moment of stark silence. Then, “What did you say?”
“I want Giselle to go to Scotland.” She blinked and the tree’s dark shape sharpened as a tear trickled down her cheek. “To be with her father.”
Henri gasped. “Jesus Ch
rist,” he muttered, after a moment. “Jesus Christ and all his Saints. After all these years, you’re finally admitting MacRoth is Giselle’s sire?”
Isabeau smiled. “I never denied it, Henri.”
“You refused to name him!”
“’Tis not the same as a denial.”
“After all these years,” he said again, shaking his head. “Have you told Giselle?”
“Nothing more than she already knows, which is very little. I’ll tell her everything after you leave.” A dull pain throbbed in Isabeau’s head. She gripped the chair arms and regarded her brother. “Will you arrange it? Arrange to send Giselle to her father?”
“But how, in God’s name…?”
“I have given it some thought. Navigating through England would, I fear, be too risky at the moment. Besides, Glenross is apparently remote and the region mountainous.” A bead of sweat trickled over her temple. “By ship, I’ve decided, would be better. And quicker. There’s a small harbor, a fishing port, about a day’s ride from his castle, I believe. She’ll need a maid, of course. She’ll want to take Anna, most likely. She’ll need a bodyguard, too. An able knight. A man of courage and honor. I’ll leave the choosing of him to you. I’ve no doubt you’ll choose well.”
“God’s bones, Isabeau, that’s not what I meant.” Henri blew out a breath. “I meant, how did you and MacRoth…? You were never alone with the man.”
“Yes, I was, Henri.” She gave a weak laugh. “We spent an entire night together.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do not make light of it, my lady. You broke Father’s heart. And Mother’s.”
The rebuke made her flinch. “I know. And for that I am beyond sorry.”
“I have never understood why you chose to bear this alone. Why did you not send for MacRoth once you knew about the child?”
“I wanted to.” Isabeau’s throat tightened. “Don’t think for a moment I was not afraid of what the future held for me.”
“Then what stopped you?”
“I love him.”
He scoffed. “That makes no sense at all, and especially now. You cannot be in love with a man you hardly knew. It was an infatuation. A destructive temptation. Dare I say, a delusion. All of those things, but not love.”
Isabeau ignored a thrust of resentment. Wasting precious energy on an angry response served little purpose. Instead, she drew a slow breath and gathered herself.
“I know the truth of my feelings, Henri. And I also know Hamish would have come back for me if he’d known about Giselle. He’d already offered for me, had he not? But Papa’s answer was to throw him out. To bring him back, then, to allow a denied marriage because of a child, seemed…” She shook her head. “It just didn’t feel right somehow. I couldn’t bring myself to trap him that way.”
“Trap him?” Henri huffed. “What were you thinking? The bastard dishonored you. Seduced you. He deserved to be trapped. You’re the one who’s spent the last seventeen years in seclusion.”
“I never considered myself dishonored. I gave myself to him willingly.” She shrugged. “Besides, Hamish is possessed of an old and magical spirit. I doubt he was ever meant to be fettered to a mere mortal like myself. Ours was a brief and beautiful encounter. A unique and unearthly union, Giselle the unexpected but blessed result.”
“You’re being completely irrational, dear sister.” He gave her a stern smile. “Blasphemous, even. ’Tis the fever speaking, I trust.”
“I swear it is not.”
“But why now, after all this time?” Henri shifted in his chair. “He might be married. Have other children. How do you know he’ll even acknowledge her as his?”
“Oh, he will,” she said, unfastening the chain about her neck. She slid the ring from it and gave it to Henri, who examined it with a puzzled expression.
“What’s this?
“Hamish gave it to me.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Please listen, Henri. I swear my mind is clear, and what I am about to say next is very important. The value of this ring lies in what it represents. It is an ancient piece, a MacRoth family heirloom. It is imperative it accompanies Giselle to Glenross. Place it in the care of her bodyguard and tell him it merits near as much diligence. Hamish will understand, when he sees it, that Giselle is truly his child. Our child. He’ll not refuse her.”
He eyed the ring and shook his head. “This is madness, Isabeau.”
Hamish’s words rang out from the past and she echoed them. “Of a glorious kind. Promise you’ll do this for me, Henri. Promise me you’ll send my daughter to Hamish after I’m gone. ’Tis my dying wish.”
Henri’s eyes softened. “Which sadly begs another question, my dear. How can you be sure MacRoth still lives?”
“Oh, he does, I’m certain of it.” Isabeau replied. “His kind live longer than most. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I thought otherwise.”
“His kind?”
“Those of Hamish’s line are known for their longevity,” she said, knowing there was little point in explaining the reason for the inherited trait.
He grunted. “Yet again, I am forced to question your lucidity. And what if Giselle doesn’t want to go? This is bound to be a bigger shock to her than it has been to me. She knows nothing of the man. Nor has she ever travelled beyond the boundaries of Dieudonné.”
“Giselle does not belong at Dieudonné. I’ve always felt it. She feels it, too, I suspect.” Isabeau sighed. “She’s Hamish MacRoth’s daughter, Henri. The bright spirit within her is his legacy. She’ll agree to go to Scotland, I guarantee it. In fact, once she learns of my intent, I doubt you’ll be able to stop her. Her future lies there, not here. Please, I beg of you, do not refuse me this last request. As I face my death, grant me the peace I’ve been denied for so long.”
Henri grimaced and tucked the ring into his vest pocket. “Very well,” he said, his jaw stiff. “Despite some serious reservations, and only if Giselle is agreeable, I’ll do as you ask. You have my word.”
Calm wrapped around Isabeau like a warm embrace, lifting the pain from her head as she sat back.
“God bless you, my brother,” she whispered, “and I pray you have forgiven me for what you see as my sin.”
He let out a soft groan and rose to his feet. “I have, my dear, long ago. I’ll leave you now and let you rest for a while.”
“I am not overly tired.” A lie. Isabeau felt utterly depleted of energy, each new breath requiring effort. But she smiled up at him, her stomach twisting as she noted the tears in his eyes. “Send Giselle to me, Henri. I am not yet done with this day.”
“As you wish,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “But do not overtax yourself. I’ll come by again later.”
While she waited, Isabeau allowed her mind to wander. She closed her eyes, gave herself wings, and flew north to a remote Scottish glen. With Hamish’s voice describing it, she soared aloft and looked down on a secluded valley, walled in on three sides by a horseshoe of high crags and steep mountain slopes. Along its center, a deep, dark loch mirrored its magnificent surroundings. At one end of the dark water stood the proud walls of Caisteal MacRoth – Hamish’s ancestral home. At the other end, seated atop a grassy rise, an ancient circle of stones pointed their mysterious gray pillars skyward.
Isabeau reached for the ring, but grasped air, momentarily forgetting she’d given the jewel to Henri. He had no idea of what he held, of course. The magic of its origins. Its incredible and true purpose. Not that he needed to know. It would have been utter folly to try and explain it. He’d have thought her mad for sure and likely ignored her request to send Giselle to Scotland.
“Mama?”
The beloved voice pulled her out of her musing. She put a smile on her face and turned to welcome her daughter. “Giselle! Ah, but you look so pretty today, my sweet.” Isabeau tilted her cheek for a kiss. “I love how Anna has styled your hair.”
“You’re out of bed!” Giselle grabbed a nearby footstool and sat at Isabeau’s feet.
“You’re feeling better, then?”
“A little.” Isabeau’s weary heart clenched at the sight of misplaced hope in her daughter’s eyes. Eyes the color of raw honey. Like hers. A blessing, she’d always thought. Had the girl inherited Hamish’s unusual eye color, the identity of her sire would have been obvious. As it was, she bore him little physical resemblance.
“I need to talk to you, Giselle. There is much to say.”
Giselle’s expression sobered. “About what, Mama?”
“Me. You.” Isabeau’s throat tightened. “Your father.”
Giselle’s eyes widened. “My father?”
Isabeau nodded. “It’s time you knew the truth. All of it.”
Chapter 3
Chateau Courtois, northern France
Luc de Warenne tugged down on his tunic and then knocked on the door of Henri de Courtenay’s private chambers. The summons had been issued by the castle steward in a surreptitious, almost secretive manner. Luc’s instinct told him something was afoot, although his conscience was clear. He had committed no transgressions, so had no cause to fear a reprisal. Anticipation set his heart beating a little faster.
“Enter.”
He did so, his left hand settling in a casual fashion atop his sword hilt as he closed the door behind him and stepped forward into the warm glow of candlelight.
“You summoned me, my lord?”
Seated by the hearth, where a lively fire spat and danced, Henri de Courtenay leaned forward in his chair and gestured to one opposite.
“I did, indeed. Good eve to you, de Warenne. Approach, please, and take a seat.”
Luc nodded and took his place, aware of his liege lord’s silent scrutiny. He returned the man’s gaze with what he hoped was a benign expression and waited.
“How do you see yourself, de Warenne?”
The question stumped him. “My lord?”
“Hardly a difficult thing to answer. Describe yourself to me.” Henri waved a hand. “Not your physical attributes. My eyes can ascertain those. I want you to tell me what lies beneath all that military brawn and knightly decorum. I want to know what steers your heart and delights your soul. Other than to piss, what makes you get out of bed in the morning?”
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 2