Resolve gone, Giselle turned tear-filled eyes to Hamish, praying he could read her desire to escape and be left alone with her grief. His slow blink seemed to acknowledge her silent request. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Right, so, there ye have it,” he said, sheathing his sword as he glared at the two men. “This meetin’ is over. Ye’ll both be ready tae leave in the mornin’. ’Tis no’ a request. Drew will escort ye tae the port.” He gestured to the door. “Get out. Now.”
Giselle remained silent after they left and regarded her sire with some trepidation. She sensed his displeasure, but knew not the root cause. Did he know she’d lied to protect Luc?
He lifted a jug from the table and poured some of its honey brown contents into a goblet. “The English are good fer two things only,” he said. “Brewin’ trouble and ale. This latter is one of their finest.” His mouth twitched. “Didna cost me much, either. Would ye care for a wee taste?”
Giselle shook her head. “No, thank you. And thank you for what you did just now.”
His eyes narrowed as he took a mouthful of ale. “I didna do enough.” He gestured to the chairs by the hearth. “Sit down, lass. I dinna care fer the color ye’ve turned. Or maybe ye’d like tae retire fer a while. Take a wee nap. We can have a chat later.”
“Nay, I’m fine, Papa. Truly.” A lie. Desolation hung over Giselle like a shadow. Even now, she clung to a foolish hope that Luc would realize his mistake. Change his mind. Come charging back into the room, sweep her into his arms, and declare his undying love. Only then could she confess to him.
Luc de Warenne was not the only one with secrets.
She sat down and Hamish took the chair opposite, which creaked as he settled back. Frowning, he peered into his goblet, swirling the contents in a slow, deliberate motion. “Do ye plan on tellin’ him, lass?”
Startled, Giselle blinked. “Who?”
“Luc.”
“Telling him what?”
He lifted his gaze to hers. “About the child ye carry.”
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp of shock. “Jésu. How…how did you know?”
Hamish heaved a sigh. “I didna, till just now. ’Twas a suspicion only. Och, mo nighean, ye have tae tell him.”
She choked on a sob. “Nay, I cannot. Not now. I only began to suspect it a couple of days before you came to Eilean Gheata. I was going to tell him that day, but everything changed. Forgive me. I never meant to bring shame to Glenross. Please don’t send me away.”
“Send ye away?” Hamish’s eyes darkened. “By my faith, lass, I’d never do such a thing. Neither have ye brought shame tae Glenross, so dinna think it fer a moment. And should I hear any such talk from folks around here, it’ll be dealt with harshly. But I fail tae see why ye dinna want tae tell Luc about it. He has a right tae know. And ye’re lookin’ at a man who speaks from experience.”
Giselle shivered and place a hand on her belly. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of forcing Luc’s hand.” She blinked back tears. “He told me of his dreams, of what he’d hoped for in his future. Land, power and wealth is all. Such is the holy trinity for Luc de Warenne. A wife and children were never mentioned. Love was never mentioned.”
Hamish scoffed and sat back. “Aye, and his handsome arrangement with yer uncle was never mentioned, either. FitzGerald had the measure of him, right enough. The man should no’ have touched ye.”
Giselle blushed at her sire’s words. She studied his face, seeing subtle shadows of herself in his features. She had known him less than a day, yet it felt as though he had always been part of her life. Even so, simple decorum made her hesitate to bare her soul to him. Then again, his expression was one of kindly concern, not judgment. Besides, had there not been enough deception already?
“In truth, I didn’t exactly discourage Luc’s attention.” She sighed. “I know he tried to resist what happened between us. But our circumstances were unusual. Extreme. We had no way of knowing if we’d ever be found. The possibility of spending the rest of our lives on the island was both frightening and exciting. To me, anyway. I confess there were moments when I thought it idyllic. Sometimes, when Luc looked at me, I swore I saw the truth of his feelings. Now I know I was merely seeing what I hoped to see. It was all a façade. I was a fool to believe that what we shared could ever continue beyond the confines of Eilean Gheata. We surrendered to its magic and became enchanted by something that never existed.”
A dubious expression crossed Hamish’s face. “Never existed? I’m no’ sure about that, pet. For what it’s worth, I believe Luc de Warenne is a man strugglin’ with a truth he doesna dare tae admit. I noticed how he looked at ye and it was no’ the look of a man who didna care. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Yet I’m staying here and he’s leaving for France in the morning.” Giselle picked a speck of fluff from her skirts. “You should know he asked me to go with him.”
Hamish flinched. “And?”
“An obligatory offer, I suspect. Made in a weak fashion before I learned of his agreement with my uncle. Luc knew I had no desire to return to Dieudonné, that it held no sentimental worth to me, so he was deceiving me even then.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I have no doubt I’m where I’m supposed to be, Papa. I feel it to my core. I just wish…”
“What?”
“That Luc felt as I did.”
“Aye, well, it seems tae me ye are both at cross purposes.” Hamish gave her a gentle smile. “Dinna despair, mo nighean. I suspect Luc de Warenne has yet tae realize where his future truly lies. I believe everythin’ he loves is right here. Ye.” He chuckled and gestured to the window. “And that black beast runnin’ wild on Eilean Gheata.”
“I wish I could be as certain.”
“Time will tell if I’m right.”
Hamish’s words had stirred another concern, one that had not been addressed. Giselle took a slow breath. “There’s something else we never told you about, Papa. It concerns Ninian. How he came to be injured.”
Hamish’s goblet paused halfway to his mouth and he regarded her with a wary look. “Go on.”
She described Luc’s theory. “He believes that’s how Ninian fell, although we could never be sure why he might have struck Minstrel.”
“Each-uisge.” Hamish frowned as he swirled the contents of his goblet again.
Giselle gasped. “Ninian kept saying that, but I didn’t know what he meant. What is it?”
Hamish shifted in his chair. “The each-uisge is a water spirit. It can change shape, but usually presents as a fine horse. It kills men by drawing them intae the depths, where they drown. Then it devours them. Except fer the liver.” He gave a wry smile “’Tis no’ a verra pleasant creature.”
“So, Ninian believed Minstrel to be this water spirit?”
“More than likely. I expect he went tae the shore expectin’ tae find one of his own.” Hamish leaned forward. “That’s what the light was about. The stones were guidin’ ye tae safety.”
Giselle’s eyes widened. “Ninian was looking for me?”
“He was lookin’ for someone whose veins ran with the ancient blood. Ye were lost and close enough tae the isle tae stir the beacon. Ninian would have wondered about it, since he didna know ye existed and he’d have known it wasna me. Can ye imagine, then, his reaction when a great, black horse came chargin’ up the beach?”
“So, Luc’s theory was correct.”
“Aye, I suspect so. I appreciate ye tellin’ me of it.” Hamish sat back. “There’s somethin’ else I’ll like ye tae tell me as well, if ye can.”
Giselle blinked. “What is it?”
Hamish smiled. “I’d like tae know when my grandchild is due.”
Chapter 17
Luc felt as though he’d sold his soul. Or mislaid it, at least. He strode across the courtyard like a man trying to lose his shadow and set out along the causeway. He needed to move. Better yet, he needed to hit something with his fist. Like a
tree trunk. Or a stone wall. Or Bertrand FitzGerald’s smug face. Not that any of this was Bertrand’s doing. Blame sat like a yoke on Luc’s shoulders, while guilt burned a hole in his conscience.
The tail end of night was drifting off to the west. Luc sucked in a lungful of sweet, fragrant air, trying to wash the bitter taste of deception from his tongue. Yet the sourness remained. To rid himself of it would mean listening to the honest whisper of his heart instead of the alluring voice in his head.
Do you consider yourself to be an honorable man, de Warenne?
He clenched his fists. Not today.
After all is said and done, you’re no different than other men. We all have ambitions and we each have our price.
And the price had been paid. But not by him. As she had once before, when she’d stood in stoic defiance on the deck of a doomed ship, Giselle had released Luc from his duty. Offered him a way out, his honor still intact, hers in irreparable disarray. The memory of her face the previous afternoon sent a fresh lance of pain through his chest. His heart and mind felt like separate entities, each one clawing at him, demanding attention. He gritted his teeth and hardened his resolve. He’d be departing soon, riding away from Caisteal MacRoth, leaving Glenross.
Leaving Giselle.
Luc knew he’d have hurt her less if he’d thrust a blade between her ribs. He’d seen the agony of betrayal in her eyes. But, he told himself, he’d never purposely set out to betray her. Extreme circumstances had provoked his actions. Their actions. Thrown together in isolation, they had fought to survive, not knowing if they’d ever be found. They had all but relived the story of Eden and capitulated to the temptations it offered. Besides, he’d offered her his hand and she’d refused.
Aye, that’s right. She refused me. He stiffened his spine and determined to cease his self-castigation. He’d done what Henri de Courtenay had commanded him to do and more. By all things holy, Giselle lived and breathed solely because of his actions.
He deserved his reward. All he had striven for, hoped for, and dreamed of, was within reach. Dieudonné would surely serve as a balm to his fragile morale. He’d redeem his honor somehow. Make up for his transgressions. Become a kind and generous lord, well respected and admired. Maybe he’d take a wife, one whose name and dowry might add to his standing and wealth.
Christ. Christ and all his saints. What have I done?
Hissing, he kicked at a stone as he passed beneath the arched gatehouse of Caisteal MacRoth. There, he halted and gazed out at the scenic majesty of Glenross.
Pale dawn light spilled over the mountains, casting everything in an ethereal glow. Not a breath of wind stirred. Fish, rising to the surface, created perfect circles that fanned out across the smooth surface of the loch, and cheerful birdsong announced the start of a new day.
The beauty of the landscape defied description and demanded homage. Luc filled his lungs again as if trying to capture and hold the pure essence of it, hoping some might bleed into his soul. Despite being resigned to his decision, he understood why Giselle had no desire to leave. Glenross possessed an undeniable allure. He would miss it.
I will miss her.
From somewhere above came the shrill cry of an eagle, echoing off the surrounding mountains like a war cry. The sound drew Luc’s gaze skyward and he squinted up at the clouds to see the bird circling directly overhead. As he watched, it struck out over the loch, heading for the distant, tonsured hill and the ancient circle of stones.
Luc shook his head. To think they’d had the means to leave the island all along, with the combination of Ninian’s ring and Giselle’s heritage. How different things would have been if they’d happened upon Glenross sooner. Luc would already be back in France, occupying his seat at Dieudonné. Giselle would merely be a special memory, a girl to be admired for her courage. Someone whose life he had saved and who would be forever grateful. But neither of them would have been touched by the uninhibited madness of isolation.
The magic of Eilean Gheata, though, would be forever engraved in his memory. Even now, Luc could barely conceive of it. It went against all he knew, all he had ever learned and been taught to believe. It flew in the face of God and the Church. Hamish had voiced a fair point. The ancient power served as its own protection, since it defied belief. Any attempt to explain it to a stranger would certainly result in ridicule and accusations of blasphemy.
“’Tis a bonny place, is it no’?” Hamish’s voice intruded into Luc’s pondering, startling him. He turned to see the Laird of Glenross approaching and offered him a benign smile.
“It’s magnificent.”
“Aye, it has a way o’ seepin’ intae the blood.” Hamish halted beside him and handed him a sealed scroll. “Giselle wrote to her uncle. Will ye deliver this missive tae Lord de Courtenay?”
“Of course.” Luc tucked it into his tunic, resisting an urge to ask what the letter contained.
Hamish nodded his thanks. “I’m curious, de Warenne. If ye did no’ have that wee plot o’ land waitin’ for ye back in France, would ye consider stayin’ here?”
Luc shook his head. “I’m obliged to report to Sir Henri.”
Hamish grunted. “FitzGerald could do that fer ye, lad.”
Discomforted by the direction of the conversation, Luc shifted on his feet. “The obligation is mine.”
“Aye, I suppose it is. ’Tis an important thing, obligation.” Hamish cleared his throat. “Well, just know that ye’ll always be welcome here. Ye saved m’daughter’s life and brought her safe tae Glenross. I’ll be indebted tae ye always.”
A hint of bitterness soured the sincerity of Hamish’s remark. Luc countered with a stiff smile. “If you’d not had this plot of land waiting for you, Laird MacRoth, would you have stayed in France with her mother?”
Hamish sighed. “Och, laddie, I didna mean tae offend. And ye ask a fair question, one I’ve asked of m’self a thousand times and never found an honest answer. I confess tae livin’ with the choice I made without ever bein’ certain it was the right one.” He shook his head. “I offered tae bring Isabeau here, and meant it, too. Gave her the ring hopin’ it might bring her tae my side one day. But it never did. She was a sweet, sensitive soul, one who loved her family. If we’d eloped, gone against her father’s wishes, it would have played on her conscience and tainted the perfection we shared. She’d never have been completely happy because o’ that. Mind ye, had I known about the babe, I’d have returned tae France for sure. I still canna fathom her reason fer no’ tellin’ me about it.”
Luc recalled his conversation with Henri and blurted out the words before he could stop himself. “She loved you.”
Hamish gave him a startled look. “Are ye askin’ me? I thought she did. No’ enough, perhaps, it seems.”
“Nay, I’m not asking. I’m telling you. At least, that’s what she told Henri before she died.”
Hamish muttered something in Gaelic. “Do ye know if she said anythin’ else?”
Luc nodded and summoned up Henri’s words. “She told him she hadn’t wanted to trap you into marriage. That your spirit was an old one and would never tolerate being fettered, was the word used, I believe, to a mere mortal. She said she gave herself to you willingly and did not consider herself…”
He faltered.
After a moment, Hamish raised his brows. “Aye? Go on.”
“Dishonored.”
Like a bell tolling a proclamation, the word echoed in Luc’s head. Giselle had not lied to her father, he realized. In her mind and heart, dishonor had never been part of what they had shared on Eilean Gheata.
“Och, ’tis a humblin’ thing tae hear, is it no’?” Hamish’s voice punched through the rush of blood in Luc’s ears. “I’m no’ sure if it eases a weighted conscience or adds tae the burden.”
Luc felt the subtle jab of Hamish’s words. He gave his head a slight shake and gazed across the loch.
“I admit tae havin’ been a bit wild in my youth,” Hamish continued. “Forever runnin’
here an’ there. In truth, I’m surprised Giselle is my sole offspring. I loved women. Still do, I must confess. I was actually thinkin’ about findin’ m’self a wife just the other day. There have been several bonny lassies in the past who tried tae settle me down, but I never wanted tae marry any of ’em. Only Isabeau touched a part o’ me no other woman could reach. The lass refused tae take my heart, no’ realizin’ she’d already stolen it.”
A whinny sounded behind them. Luc turned to see Drew and Bertrand riding along the causeway, leading a third horse.
Luc frowned at Hamish. “You’re not coming with us?”
“Nay, lad.” He gave a grim smile. “I reckon I’ll be needed here tae pick up some pieces.”
Luc saw the accusatory gleam in MacRoth’s eyes and his defenses rose again. “I asked Giselle to return to France with me,” he said. “I even offered to—”
“Och, dinna make a fool o’ yerself by tryin’ tae justify yer choices. Ye alone know the contents of yer heart and must act as ye feel.” Hamish leaned in and lowered his voice. “But afore ye wander off in search of yer dream, de Warenne, know this. There are three reasons why I’m allowin’ ye tae leave Glenross with yer head still attached tae yer body. One is because ye saved my daughter’s life. Another is because I canna bear the thought of seein’ Bertie’s smug face upon learnin’ he was right about ye. And the third is because I’m in no position tae pass judgment.” He sighed and patted Luc’s shoulder. “When history is ignored, it tends tae repeat itself. Remember that. I can but wish ye luck, lad. May ye find the peace that has long eluded me.”
Chapter 18
Hamish MacRoth’s words stayed with Luc on the ride back to the port. He sat stiff in the saddle, facing forward, unwilling to look back as Glenross and Caisteal MacRoth faded into the distance. Bertrand FitzGerald remained quiet for a while, apparently deep in thought. At a last he spoke, his words preceded by a loud sniff.
“I might lack the physical presence of a seasoned warrior, but I am no fool,” he said. “It takes a clever man to deceive me, de Warenne. I just want you to know you are not that man.”
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 21