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  As soon as he opened her door, Isobel's presence greeted him like a ghost. He inhaled a deep breath, absorbing her sweet scent like a man starved of air. His gaze went directly to the bed – the place he had first made love to her. Aimless, he then wandered around her room, seeking solace from the evidence of her existence. The lid of her clothing chest stood open, he noticed, yet most of her clothes remained. In her hurry to leave, she had obviously taken only what she needed. His throat tightened at the thought of her desperate departure from Glendennan.

  Then he spied the sampler and picked it up. He groaned, his fingertips stroking the tiny stitches that formed the unfinished Montgomery crest. No doubt she had been making it for him. He wondered at the small stains on the fabric. They looked like blood.

  “Pardon, my lord.” Robert spun round at the sound of Mary's voice. Forlorn in appearance, the maid stood on the threshold, fingers twisting in her apron, eyes swollen from crying. “I...I've come to clean out my lady's... Lady Isobel's chamber. For your wedding guests, like. We're a little short of –”

  “No!” A sensation akin to panic swept through him. “No, Mary. Lady Isobel's chamber is not to be touched. Do you understand? It must not be touched by anyone.”

  Mary's eyes widened. She nodded, hiccupped on a sob, and fled.

  “Not by anyone,” Robert muttered as he slid the key from the inner lock. He closed the door, locked it, and tucked the key next to his heart.

  Chapter 19

  The winter wind stalked Felix with merciless resolve. It froze the blood on his cheek and drove the heat from his limbs. It followed him into the woods, biting him as he crouched in a small leaf-filled swale between the trees. As his blood chilled, confusion blurred his mind. He imagined himself feverish, and tore at his clothes in an effort to unburden himself. His numb fingers, however, had passed all feeling, and his attempts to bare his skin failed.

  As he approached the edge of oblivion, his body took on a contorted, foetal form. A sudden surge of hatred for Robert Montgomery lent him the strength to release one final, frenzied wail of fury. The sound joined with the wind and swept through the leafless trees. Moments later, his nostrils flared with the stench of rancid fur and unwashed skin.

  Had his parting cry summoned the Devil himself?

  Felix's throat rattled with a groan as someone hauled him out of his shallow grave and dragged him across the forest floor. Shards of pain shot through his frozen limbs and pushed hot tears to his eyes. Fear, colder even than his flesh, took hold of his soul as he descended into blackness.

  Hell. I am going to Hell.

  He opened his eyes to a blur of flames and more pain. Voices swirled around him, none of them clear or familiar. He tried to move, but instead began to shiver. The violence of his convulsions seemed to hush the voices into whispers and eventually total silence.

  Am I dead, or are they are watching me die?

  Not dead, he realized, as heat from the flames stirred his sluggish blood. He blinked the mist from his eyes, and saw shapes moving beyond the fiery wall. Then a distorted face appeared above him, its stinking breath making him retch. The convulsion and subsequent pain thrust him back into the realm of darkness.

  When next he opened his eyes, it was to daylight filtering through a makeshift wall of pine branches. A dank smell of sheep's wool sat thick in his nostrils and his head banged with a heavy rhythmic pulse. At least, he thought, the agonizing chill had gone from his body, although his skin tingled as if crawling with ants. The fire still burned – its soft crackle the only noticeable sound. He blinked in the smoky air and turned his head see the rocky walls of a small cave.

  “E's awake, Sam.”

  Startled by the strange voice, Felix pushed himself onto an elbow, wincing at the stiffness in his sluggish limbs.

  Three men sat across from him, unshaven with matted hair, each one clothed in a patched assortment of ragged furs. All were filthy. One, his nose bruised and disfigured, had obviously been in a fight. The stench of unclean breath and unwashed bodies wafted through the air, and fear prickled at the back of his neck. An image of a wolf-pack came to mind, eyeing a potential prey.

  “Thought thou was a gonner, Steward.” The man who spoke picked at his uneven teeth with what looked like a sliver of bone. “Thou was well frozen when we found ye.”

  “Do I…” Felix coughed hard. His voice felt like bristles raking the back of his throat. “Do I know you?”

  “Nay. But we know thee. Seen thee many times in Kirbie o'er the years. 'Tis Glendennan's steward ye are. Not so?”

  The man threw a leather flagon across the fire pit. Felix caught it, hearing the slosh of liquid. He sat up, pulled the cork and sucked with relish until the flagon collapsed.

  “I used to be,” he answered with a final gulp, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He flinched at an unexpected, sharp pain. Puzzled, he searched the source, his memory jolted as his found the deep cut across his cheek. “But I'm not anymore. Who are you?”

  The man ignored the question and pointed with his chin. “Who did that to yer face?”

  A surge of anger pushed Felix's fear aside. “That bastard Montgomery.”

  The man exchanged a glance with the one whose nose had been broken. “What did ye do? Swive his woman?”

  “I called her a harlot.” Bemused, Felix glanced around the cave. “Do you live here?”

  “Fer now, aye, thanks t' Montgomery. 'E put a price on our 'eds, so we gotta lay low.”

  “A price? Why would...?” Realization slid into Felix's mind and his eyes widened. “You're Sam Gilpin. The lad's father.”

  The man stopped his tooth-picking and straightened his spine. “What lad?”

  “The lad they caught in Settle Woods after the... .” Felix faltered as an expression of angry understanding flashed across the man's face.

  “God's balls. Are ye sayin' John is a prisoner at Glendennan?”

  “He's there, aye. But not a prisoner, exactly. That is, Montgomery treats him well.”

  Sam's jaw tightened. “So that's where the little bastard went. Bad from birth, that one. Should've chucked 'im in the lake with 'is mother.” He leaned forward, his mouth forming a crooked smile. “What's yer name, then, Steward?”

  Felix shuddered inwardly at Sam's serpent-like gaze. He had the sensation of being baited – lured like an unwitting animal into a trap.

  “Felix. Felix De Lisle.”

  Sam grunted and resumed his tooth-picking. “So, how do ye fancy a wee bit 'o fun with Montgomery, then?”

  Curious, Felix leaned forward. This was a bait he couldn't refuse. “What kind of fun?”

  “Well, we understand Montgomery's gettin' wed, an' we were thinkin' we might attend the wedding. Ye know, jus' to make sure everythin' runs as it should? Maybe provide some, shall we say, entertainment? We jus' need t' know the lay of the land, so t' speak. Will ye help us?”

  Felix sat back with a frown. “You do realize,” he said, “that Glendennan is home to about forty trained knights and men-at-arms.”

  Sam laughed. “See? Ye are 'elping us already. We're not lookin' for a fight. We just want to make a wee bit 'o trouble while everyone is lookin' t'other way, if ye get me drift. With yer 'elp, we'll be in an' out afore they know what's what.” Sam summoned up a devilish smile. “Ye owe us yer life, Steward, an' I get the feelin' ye hate that noble bastard as much as we do. So, are ye in or not?”

  Felix's eyes flicked to the dagger protruding from the Sam's boot. He knew there could only be one response to Sam's question, but one he would willingly give. The thought of revenge quickened his heart as his fingers again sought out the cut on his cheek. With proper planning, who knew what damage could be done to Montgomery's holdings?

  “Aye,” he said. “I'm in.”

  Chapter 20

  Elias had said little to Isobel for the first few hours after leaving Glendennan. For what, he asked himself, does one say to the owner of a newly shattered heart that could possibly make any
difference? Better to stay silent, he reasoned, and let grief escape the bonds of feigned courage without interruption.

  So, he allowed her to grieve and simply held her in his arms as she wept dispirited tears. By the time darkness approached, Isobel's exhaustion had her nodding off in the saddle.

  Elias had already surmised where they would be by nightfall and had headed for a decent inn that would serve their need for shelter.

  Once there, Isobel protested at his insistence she eat, but Elias knew she had taken little nourishment over the past two days at Glendennan. They still had at least two days journey ahead of them, and he worried for her health. With no great ease, he won the argument. It amused him, though, to see a flare of resistance in her eyes as she ate her plate of stew under his watchful gaze. He took it as a sign that Isobel's spirit still endured, despite her torment.

  The second day turned out to be a fight with winter as a cold north-west wind snapped at them with icy teeth. Elias wrapped his cloak around Isobel, over the top of her own. Immediately, he felt her body tense against his. Her reaction surprised him.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to cause you discomfort.”

  “'Tis not you,” she mumbled. “The gesture simply reminded me of something.”

  She didn't explain further and he didn't pry. His cloak stayed wrapped around her, sheltering her from the worst of the cold. As they travelled, he spoke to her of Stanford, telling her about the servants and the day-to-day workings of the farm. He hoped such discourse might provoke some interest from her, but she barely responded. With exhaustion and grief etched on her face, she slept fitfully, cradled against him.

  Only as they drew nearer to Stanford did Isobel show signs of stirring from her deep melancholy. Part of the road they followed ran adjacent to the ruins of the great Roman wall that crossed the entire breadth of England. Isobel had heard of it, but had never seen it. Elias found pleasure, and a great measure of relief, in watching Isobel's animated reaction to the ancient monument.

  “Part of it runs through Bremner land,” he explained. “But it's in poor repair. If you're interested in such things, you'll be pleased to know that Stanford has a small piece of ancient history upon its own lands.”

  “Really?” She twisted in the saddle to look at him “What is it?”

  Gratified by her enthusiasm, he smiled. “A pagan monument – a circle of stones. It sits in a field called Monk's Meadow.”

  “Oh, how interesting! How old is it?”

  “No one knows for certain. 'Tis said to have stood there since long before the birth of our Lord.”

  Isobel was silent for a moment. Elias had come to recognize when her mind busied itself, so he waited for her to speak.

  “Sir Elias, I must apologize,” she said at last. “I realize this journey cannot have been easy for you.”

  He sighed. “Isobel, I'm not without compassion. Any discomfort on my part has been due only to my concern for you. I've suffered no personal hardship.”

  “You're a good man,” she whispered. “A fine knight.”

  Her words stirred him, and he resisted an urge to pull her closer. “I had great respect for your uncle. 'Tis an honour to serve and protect his niece – a lady for whom I have developed a similar regard.”

  A few hours later, as Isobel dozed in his arms, a house loomed out of the twilight. “My lady,” Elias murmured. “We have arrived.”

  Stanford Manor stood two storeys high at the back of a walled and cobbled courtyard. Whitewashed thatched outbuildings ran down one side and a large thatched barn faced them on the opposite side. A line of oak trees looped their dark winter-bare arms together at the back of the house while a studded oak door offered some measure of defense at the front.

  Elias dismounted and lifted Isobel from Titan's back, all the while watching her expression. Eyes wide, she stared up at the house, her face pale in the evening twilight.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “That this is now my home,” she answered.

  He heard the sad resignation in her voice and pulled her to his side in a gentle embrace.

  “Give it time, Isobel,” he said. “Give it time.”

  Yet he well knew that time was not a cure for heartbreak. It merely masked it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Isobel had been at Stanford Manor for three days.

  On that first evening, she'd been greeted by a smile of welcome, and a pair of warm hands had pulled her into the heart of the house. The friendly face, surrounded by braids of chestnut hair woven with silver threads, belonged to Moira, the housekeeper at Stanford. Isobel had liked her immediately.

  Then she'd met David, Moira's husband, who managed the farm. His shock of white curls was a soft contrast against the weather-worn skin of his face. Although he offered a polite greeting, Isobel perceived some resentment in the unabashed scrutiny of his dark eyes. She returned the greeting and challenged his gaze until he lowered it. Elias's hand, cradling her elbow, tightened in a gesture of approval. Since then, David, and the other farm workers, had shown her suitable respect

  Isobel soon found herself capitulating to Stanford Manor's undeniable charm. Centuries of of human occupation had rubbed away the more opulent edges of the house and contents, leaving behind a somewhat shabby outline. Time had also engrained itself into the atmosphere. Aromas of woodsmoke and beeswax hung in the air, which also harboured a musty hint of antiquity.

  The large wood-panelled sitting room had a stone fireplace that offered the warmth of burning logs on winter days. The threadbare fabric on the fireside chairs welcomed repose, for it spoke only of comfort.

  As Isobel stroked her fingers over the ancient oak table in the dining room, she wondered at the gatherings of her family over the years. Their history, of course, was unknown to her. She tried to summon up a feeling of attachment, an inherent link to her past, but felt nothing.

  The manor had three chambers upstairs. Isobel's took up the entire front part of the house. It boasted the same wood panelling and another fireplace. Isobel imagined herself in the days ahead, sitting at her window and watching the sunrise. They would be empty days without Robert, but at least she was making an effort to look forward.

  Moira and David had a room downstairs to the rear of the kitchen, while the young kitchen-maid had a pallet in the kitchen. Several of the farmhands slept in the loft above the stables. To Isobel's surprise – and not a little dismay – she discovered Elias didn't reside at Stanford. Rather, he lived at Bremner Castle and indeed had departed for that holding the previous afternoon. “I'm not happy leaving you alone, but there are some things I must do,” he told her as he left. “I'll be back in the morning. In the meantime, remember who you are, my lady. 'Tis you the mistress here now. Be sure to assert yourself.”

  Since Isobel had brought little clothing with her, a dressmaker had been summoned and orders placed for a new, if somewhat modest, wardrobe. She had no desire to send for her fine things from Glendennan, and snapped at Moira's insistence that she should do so. Isobel's agony remained hidden from sight, but still twisted ruthlessly within her. She needed no additional reminders, such as the robes Robert had given her. As far as possible, she wanted Stanford to be a fresh start

  On this, the third day, Isobel ventured into the stables, where her gentle way with horses soon impressed David. Of the six animals boxed there, she found herself drawn to a sturdy dappled gelding, who had blown a warm breath of greeting into her hair.

  “His name is Archer,” said David. “He belonged to Lady Frances. Sir Elias moved him here from Bremner after she died.”

  Puzzled, Isobel frowned. “Lady Frances?”

  “Aye, my lady.” He fidgeted. “Er...Sir Elias's wife. He didn't speak of her?”

  Isobel gasped. “Goodness, no. Not a word. What happened? Was she ill?”

  “Not exactly. She died giving birth to their first child. A son. The bairn died too. 'Twas a tragedy that almost killed Sir Elias as well, so aggrieved was he.
He's never been the same since.”

  “I had no idea,” she murmured, tasting sorrow afresh. “He's always so kind and pleasant. I've never seen any hint of sadness.”

  “Nor will you, my lady. Sir Elias carries a stoic shield. But there was a time when he laughed loud and often. I'm afraid the joy he once possessed has abandoned his spirit. Lady Frances was his life. He loved the woman beyond reason and will likely love her till he dies.”

  David's words, so startlingly familiar, hit Isobel hard. As clear as if he stood at her side, she heard Robert's quiet voice. I love you beyond reason and I will love you till I die. Never doubt it.

  An odd rushing sound filled her ears. Her world spun and darkness descended as the ground rose to meet her. When next she opened her eyes, it was to the sight of Elias's worried expression. She tried to lift her head, but gave up as a wave of dizziness claimed her. “Oh my,” she muttered.

  “Be still a little longer, my lady. Let it pass.” Elias's voice, ever calm, filtered into her confusion, and she realized she rested in his arms. David peered down at her over Elias's shoulder, his expression also creased into a frown.

  “I'm sorry.” She managed a feeble smile. “I...I'm not sure what happened.”

  “You fainted.” Elias glanced up at David. “Go fetch some ale.”

  “Fainted?” Isobel winced inwardly as her thoughts skittered back to the night of Robert's return to Glendennan. “Have I been...I mean, was I out for a while?”

  “No, not long. I arrived just after it happened. Fortunately, David caught you before you hit the ground. You scared him half to death.” He lowered his voice. “My lady, I must take the liberty of asking you a question and, because of its sensitive nature, I wish to ask it before David returns. I hope you'll not be offended.”

  “Please go ahead. I cannot imagine how you might offend me.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Is there a chance you're with child?”