“Nay, there are two of them, near identical tae each other.”
“It’s incredible” Giselle moved to Luc’s side. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”
“I still can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he replied, resisting an urge to cross himself. “I felt no movement. I felt nothing at all. My profound apologies, Laird MacRoth.”
“Accepted, de Warenne,” Hamish said. “And fer yer own sake, I’d ask ye no’ tae mention any of this tae FitzGerald. I’ll tell him we met ye on the way tae the port, that someone had found ye by accident on the island and brought ye back this verra day. A remarkable coincidence. Which is why we’re returned so soon.”
Luc frowned. “I’m not sure he’ll believe all that.”
Hamish raised a brow. “Try tellin’ him the truth, then. See if he believes a tale only fit tae be heeded by lunatics and drunken men. The magic of this place serves as its own protection. Unless ye experience it, ye’d never take it tae be true. Let’s go. The horses are tethered at the bottom of the hill. I regret I didna bring any spare. I wasna expectin’ tae bring anyone back. Giselle can ride with me. If ye ask Taran nicely, he might let ye ride with him.”
Chapter 16
Giselle sighed with contentment and lay back. Few things in life, she felt certain, gave more pleasure than a hot bath. Especially after months of being without. It had been her first request upon arriving at Caisteal MacRoth.
She glanced around the chamber. It had belonged to her grandmother, Hamish’s mother. “She’d have wanted ye tae have it,” he’d said, ushering her over the threshold. “If there’s anythin’ ye want changed, let me know.”
Not a thing. Alana MacRoth had obviously been a lady of discerning taste. From the exquisite tapestries to the embroidered bed canopy, the chamber had a bright yet cozy feel. The banded oak chest at the foot of the bed was the same as Ninian’s. A small writing desk stood in one corner and a carved oak armchair sat by the window.
Earlier that day, head still spinning with the incredible magic of their arrival, she’d been hoisted up behind her father on his broad-backed gelding. As they rode to Caisteal MacRoth, she’d gazed up at craggy peaks that poked at the clouds. The haunting cry of an eagle had sent a shiver down her spine. She’d seen inquisitive, black-faced sheep and robust, red-haired cattle. The loch possessed a dark allure, with its rocky shores and small, reed-filled bays. The breeze ruffling its surface smelled of sweet pine and rain-washed grass.
Glenross was a wild place, one that stirred her soul with even more vigor than Eilean Gheata. Before she arrived at her ancestral home, Giselle already knew she belonged there. The connection felt as natural as her need to breathe.
The welcome at Caisteal MacRoth had brought tears to her eyes. She’d been greeted with genuine warmth and a good measure of understandable curiosity. The people of Glenross obviously loved their laird. They shared his joy and relief at finding his child alive and well. News of Ninian’s demise, however, had tempered the jubilant atmosphere with grief.
Giselle’s arrival at Glenross also resurrected memories of her mother and the sacrifices she’d made. Still, there was solace in knowing that Isabeau de Courtenay’s final wish for her daughter had, at last, come to pass.
Bertrand FitzGerald demonstrated genuine shock and pleasure upon their arrival. However, Giselle soon came to understand her father’s impatience with the man. Something about FitzGerald rankled the nerves. He’d worn a dubious expression when told the fabricated story of how they’d been found. Giselle had also felt his scrutiny and seen the speculation in his eyes as he watched Luc. She knew what questions lurked in his head and what he suspected.
As for Luc…
He’d been polite. Gracious. Correct. He’d become the Luc de Warenne of old. The one she knew before they’d plunged into a frigid sea together and fought for survival. Perhaps, she told herself, he was protecting her yet again. Waiting for the right moment to openly declare the truth of their relationship. She needed to see him. Speak to him. Discover what truly lay in his heart. In finding her home, had she lost the man she loved?
She shivered. The water in the tub had already cooled. No sooner had she sat up than she heard the chamber door open.
“’Tis only me, dearie,” Maggie said. Giselle turned to see Glenross’ housekeeper enter the room with a few things slung over her arm. “Ye dinna want tae stay in there too long or ye’ll catch a chill.”
She set the items on the bed. “These are some of Lady Alana’s clothes. ’Tis the best I can do fer now. Right, have ye rinsed off yer hair? Aye. Good. Out with ye, then. Let me dry ye off.”
For a moment, Giselle considered objecting, quite able to dry herself off. But she decided against it, happy to surrender to Maggie’s motherly ministrations.
“There,” Maggie said a short while later, standing back to admire her handiwork. “Ye look verra bonny, pet.”
Giselle looked down at herself. The green woolen gown, embroidered around the neck, sleeves and hem with small white flowers, hung somewhat loose on her frame. At one time, it might have fit perfectly, but she had lost weight during her time on Eilean Gheata. Her hair, braided in a simple fashion and entwined with a matching ribbon, hung over one shoulder.
She smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Maggie,” she said. “I feel so much better.”
Maggie beamed. “Good. Now, if ye’ll come with me, I’ll show ye tae Laird MacRoth’s private chambers. He asked that ye wait there fer now. He’s busy at the moment makin’ arrangements to have his poor uncle’s belongings brought back tae Glenross.”
Her father’s chambers lay at the back of the great hall. Giselle entered the guest antechamber, her step faltering at the sight of Luc standing beside the fireplace.
He’d also taken the time to bathe, it seemed, and been given fresh clothes. He looked poised and handsome. For a moment, she thought she saw a flare of emotion in his eyes, but it vanished behind a smile of polite approval.
“My lady,” he said, lowering his head slightly. “You look refreshed.”
“My lady?” Giselle searched Luc’s face, desperate to find a flaw in his horribly calm expression. “Why so formal? Am I not ‘Giselle’ to you anymore?”
“I… yes, of course you are. It’s just…” His brow furrowed. “You cannot deny things have changed, and drastically. We’re no longer stranded, no longer isolated. Reality has returned. You’re now where you’re supposed to be and I still have a duty to fulfill.”
“Yes, I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Giselle smiled over the increasing tightness in her throat. “But does that mean I no longer have a place in your heart? Is that the reality you speak of? I must know, Luc, once you have fulfilled your duty in France, do you intend to return to Scotland?”
Her stomach churned. How she feared his answer!
Please don’t deny me. Please tell me you care. That what we shared was real. That I was not wrong to give myself to you.
Luc stared at her for a long moment, gray eyes appearing almost silver in the late afternoon light. Giselle tried and failed to guess what he was thinking.
“Nay,” he said at last. “I regret I have no intention of returning to Scotland.”
“Oh.” Something inside her crumbled. Determined he should not see the tears in her eyes, she walked to the window and looked out over the loch. “Then I can but wish you well.”
She heard his sigh. “Come back to France with me, Giselle. Be my wife. I’ll ask Hamish for his blessing.”
Not what she’d expected at all. Until that moment, she hadn’t even considered returning to France. Her first instinct was to accept, to leap on his proposal. She loved Luc with her whole heart, but the mere thought of leaving Glenross felt like a knife in her gut. Besides, something other than sincerity edged his voice. A vague reluctance, perhaps? A sense of obligation? She turned to face him.
“You do me great honor,” she said, “but why must we return to France? You cannot deny the
beauty of this place. You’ve seen the magic of Eilean Gheata. Experienced the miracle of the stones. Do not tell me the wonder of it hasn’t touched you. Affected you.”
Luc groaned. “Aye, it has, but…”
“But what? Tell me. I’m curious about your true feelings for me, Luc. Was I merely a distraction? Something to keep you amused while—?”
He hissed through his teeth. “Do not underestimate what you mean to me, my lady. But Glenross is not… does not have what I want. My future lies in France.”
“With or without me?”
A pained expression flitted across his face. Then his jaw hardened. “I made no promises nor any attempt to mislead you. I told you of my ambitions, what I wanted from life. My future has always lain elsewhere. If a choice must be made to live without you, then so be it.”
The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet and she grasped the back of a chair. Sweet Jésu. No matter what I decide, my heart will be broken.
“I see.” She nodded and forced another smile. “It seems, then, we left something behind on Eilean Gheata. Something unable to survive beyond its magical boundaries.”
Luc opened his mouth to respond as the door creaked open.
“Ah, good. You’re here already,” Bertrand FitzGerald said, stepping into the room. “It appears you’ve both had time to refresh. Laird MacRoth will be along in a moment.”
Giselle glanced at Luc, desperate to know what he’d been about to say. Nausea churned in her stomach. There were things she had yet to tell him. Things he didn’t understand. Christ help me.
“Am I interrupting something?” Bertrand asked, brows raised.
“Nay,” Luc said. “What’s going on, FitzGerald? I get the impression we’ve been summoned.”
“You are correct.” Bertrand cleared his throat. “There are things to discuss.”
Luc huffed. “What things?’
The door creaked again and Hamish stepped into the room. His gaze went straight to Giselle, eyes softening as he regarded her.
“Och, ye are a sight for a weary soul,” he said, wandering over to where she stood. “Do ye feel restored, mo nighean?”
She nodded. “I feel like a different person,” she said, glancing at Luc.
Hamish’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he turned his gaze to FitzGerald.
“So, Bertrand, will ye tell us why we’re here? Ye said ye had somethin’ tae discuss.”
“I do, indeed.” Bertrand FitzGerald put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. His gaze swept over those around him, settling for an extended moment on Giselle. The accusing gleam in his eyes sent a prickle across her scalp. He shifted his gaze away and cleared his throat. “I’ll begin by saying I consider myself to be an observant man. I watch people’s behavior and learn from them.”
Hamish chuckled. “Och, is that what it is? An’ here’s me thinkin’ ye had some kind of affliction.”
Bertrand scowled. “As I was saying—”
“Get to the point, FitzGerald,” Luc said. “What’s this about?”
“You, actually,” Bertrand replied, with a tight smile.
Luc raised a brow. “Me?”
“Well, you and the Lady Giselle, in truth. But you, being under oath to Lord de Courtenay, must be the one held accountable.”
Trepidation, like a stone, dropped into the pit of Giselle’s stomach. Accountable for what? As if he sensed her fear, Bertrand FitzGerald met her gaze again and her throat tightened.
“I’ll warn ye right now, FitzGerald,” Hamish said, a menacing ring to his voice. “Watch where ye tread with this accountability ye speak of. I suspect I already know where ye’re goin’ with this.”
“I’m sure you do, Laird MacRoth, because I’m also sure you harbor similar suspicions to mine. At the very least, you must have asked yourself the question.” Bertrand regarded Luc with accusing eyes. “I tend to speak as I see it. What I see here is a relationship between a knight and his ward that has surpassed one of an honorable nature. Deny it if you can, Luc de Warenne.”
A wave of heat climbed up Giselle’s throat and flooded her cheeks. “How dare you?” she whispered, her quiet rebuttal lost beneath Luc’s hiss.
“You overstep your bounds, FitzGerald,” he snarled, sword half-pulled from its sheath. “I answer only to Lord de Courtenay.”
“Whom I represent, and your lack of a denial to my charge has been duly noted.” Bertrand clucked like a disapproving parent. “Come now, de Warenne. Manoir Dieudonné is a fine prize for you. One that might persuade you to be less than honest about your relationship with Lady Giselle. I therefore challenge your claim to the estate on the suspicion that you have broken the terms of the agreement made with our liege lord. To honor his niece was, I believe, one of the stipulations.”
Something ice cold grabbed Giselle’s heart and stole a beat. Her hands flew to her mouth, capturing her gasp. Luc’s face sagged as his sword dropped back into its sheath.
“Dieudonné?” Giselle shook her head. She must have heard wrong. Or misunderstood Bertrand’s words. “What does he mean, Luc? Henri promised you Dieudonné in exchange for bringing me here?”
Bertrand raised his brows and let out a short bark of laughter. “What? You do not know of this, my lady? You did not tell her, de Warenne? How strange.”
Luc looked like a condemned man. “You bastard,” he muttered.
“Is it true?” Giselle’s hand fell to her stomach. “Is it, Luc?”
He regarded her with pained eyes and inclined his head.
Bertrand huffed. “I’m still waiting for your denial, de Warenne. Or are my suspicions warranted?”
Giselle laughed, startling herself. The reaction, she realized, served as a shield against the soul-shattering impact of what had obviously lain behind Luc de Warenne’s motivation.
It has been a lifelong dream of mine to own land. To be lord of all I survey from my window. To be rid of my servitude.
His incentive had been driven by a reward, not by any kind of feelings for her. She had never been his real priority. Never occupied that most sacrosanct part of his heart. Despite all he’d said, if not for the lure of Dieudonné, would he have even bothered to save her life?
The enormity of his deception almost pushed her to her knees.
Her pride crumbled like dry earth. How could she ever hope to compete with his lifelong dream? Who was she, after all? The illegitimate daughter of a shamed woman and a little known Scottish laird. What a fool she had been, with such silly, impossible dreams of her own.
“Well, I now understand your interest in my childhood home, Sir Luc,” she said, not recognizing her voice. It sounded strong. Calm. Not in the least suggestive of the sickening dismay that raged within. “Oh, forgive me. I should, perhaps, address you as my lord. When I think of all the information I shared with you! Why, you’re fully prepared to take ownership of the manor already. There is little you don’t know about it, in fact.”
She felt Hamish move closer. He remained silent, but his presence surrounded her, bolstered her.
Bertrand clucked like a bantam hen. “I find it most odd that you never mentioned the estate to the lady, de Warenne. Given the intimate circumstances of your isolation, I must ask myself why that might be.” He clucked again and turned a smug expression to Giselle. “I see his deception has come as a shock to you, my lady. Allow me to elaborate on the agreement. Your uncle promised Luc de Warenne full title of Dieudonné upon his return to France, providing you were delivered whole and unharmed to your father’s stronghold.” The man rocked onto his heels again. “But I strongly suspect the terms of the agreement have been compromised. Several months alone together, stranded on an island. Come now, my dear, I must be forgiven for suspecting that de Warenne took advantage and lured you into performing acts of a carnal nature.”
Luc half-drew his sword, his face twisting into a mask of rage, but before he could move, Hamish stepped forward, teeth bared like a wolf.
“Ye’ll keep yer fil
thy suspicions tae yerself, ye pompous French shite. Any further questions tae my daughter will be asked by me. Is that clear?” He cast a venomous glance at Luc before turning to Giselle. “I must ask that ye tell the truth of it, lass. Has Luc de Warenne dishonored ye?”
Bertrand huffed. “Laird MacRoth, I heartily protest. Since I act on behalf of Henri de Courtenay, any violation in the terms of de Warenne’s compensation is for me to—”
Hamish spluttered out some Gaelic curse. In a move swifter than an eye could follow, he pulled his sword and pressed the point of it against Bertrand’s ribs. “Would ye care tae see what yer heart looks like, Bertie, lad? See, I’m about ready tae carve it from yer chest and set it on the floor at yer feet so ye can examine the nasty, wee object fer yerself. Aye, and it’ll happen so fast, the thing’ll still be beatin’, too. Just fer a wee while, mind ye.”
Bertrand gasped and held up his hands. “No, I—”
“Then shut yer ugly mouth.” Hamish turned back to Giselle and gentled his voice. “I’ll ask ye again, mo nighean. Did this knight dishonor ye or no’?”
Clutching at one last morsel of pride, Giselle drew a soft breath and met Luc’s gaze. Other than a slight flush to his neck, his benign expression told her little. If anything, he appeared indifferent. Unemotional. What polluted liquid ran in the man’s veins? Not mortal blood, for sure. How could she have been so blind? So utterly misled?
’Tis my heart that needs to be carved out and laid on the floor. The shattered remains of it, anyway. Traitorous thing that it is.
Yet, she still possessed the ultimate weapon. With the utterance of one simple word, she could undermine Luc de Warenne’s dreams. Destroy his ambitions. Force his hand. Make him hate her for the rest of his life. One simple word.
She only needed to speak it.
“No,” she said, still gazing at Luc. “This knight did not dishonor me. This knight saved me. Protected me. Took care of me. He kept his oath and delivered me to Glenross whole and healthy.” She looked at Bertrand, whose expression had already turned sour. “You may tell Henri he chose well.”
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 20