Alistair finally set her down, her feet planted on the courtyard ground, but then he bowed over Isabel’s hand, kissing it, his lips lingering a beat longer than was proper. Long enough to make Lachlan instantly hot with an angry jealousy searing through his belly. Rather than draw his sword and chop of Comyn’s lips, he fisted his hand in his plaid, and dismounted, so he could be closer to Isabel should she need protection. Elsa fussed with her lady’s skirts, straightening them. A reminder, he suspected of both her presence and propriety.
“Lady Isabel, your uncle’s letter spoke of your wit, but no’ your beauty.” Comyn’s voice dripped with a syrupy sweetness that came off with one single purpose: to disarm her.
Lachlan grimaced, grinding his teeth together. He spared a glance at Angus and James, who made the same look, having grown protective of Isabel over their journey. They were both on alert for anything untoward and any signs of betrayal.
But mostly Lachlan was staring at Comyn’s attention to Isabel.
Isabel, however, responded politely as she might to any courtly man. “Ye are too kind, my lord.” Just as a well-trained lady would, but notably without being moved, a terse smile and not even a crinkle of pleasure in her eyes. There was nothing giddy or girlish in her response, and Lachlan was unexpectedly pleased about that. Perhaps she too had caught on to Alistair Comyn’s game.
“Come inside. We’ve rooms aplenty, and Cook is preparing a hearty meal for us to feast upon. My soldiers are quite well trained. This castle will hold against any English patrols that happen by while we sup.” Comyn offered Isabel his arm, then turned when she placed her hand on his forearm, beckoning them to follow him.
“How many men did ye bring with ye?” Comyn asked Lachlan as they crossed the wide stone-arched threshold that led into the great hall.
Lachlan wasn’t sure if this was a question to find out how many they would have to take down, or if Comyn needed to know so he could make certain they had appropriate accommodations. His men lingered in the courtyard, murmuring amongst themselves, and it was rather obvious how many they were.
“There are twelve of us staying with ye,” Lachlan said.
Comyn nodded looking speculative, his opposite hand laying over Isabel’s where it rested on his arm. Lachlan tried hard not to react as he watched Comyn stroke her hand like one might a cat.
“Makes sense. Were ye followed? Which road did ye take?”
Isabel’s cheeks were growing pink, her neck splotched as she was clearly feeling uncomfortable. Her other hand clenched at her side and Lachlan thought it possible she might take the dagger he knew she hid in her sleeve and stab Comyn right in the center of the great hall, his body dropping before his roaring hearth.
Just then, as if sensing her distress, her lady’s maid let out the biggest sneeze, stumbling backward into Angus.
Isabel wrenched her arm from Comyn and leapt to her maid’s side. “My goodness, Elsa, God bless ye.”
The maid smiled shyly. “Apologies, my lady.”
“None at all, let us get a drink.” Isabel nodded to Comyn. “Where is your kitchen?”
Comyn looked annoyed as he nodded toward the back of the great hall, and Lachlan watched as Isabel and her maid hurried away with one of Comyn’s servants leading the way, their heads bent together in what looked like whispers. Angus sent a discreet nod in Lachlan’s direction and followed behind them.
Lachlan cleared his throat, pulling Comyn’s attention back to him. “We were no’ followed. My scouts doubled back to make certain.”
Comyn contemplated, stealing glances toward the rear of the great hall where the two women had disappeared.
“However,” Lachlan continued, “there were men at the inn asking questions about a woman traveling with a group of Scots. They are definitely looking for Isabel.”
Comyn frowned, a cloud passing over his face. Perhaps it was something possessive, knowing there was talk of him marrying Isabel.
“How can ye be sure?” Comyn asked looking skeptical. “Surely there are many more women and Scots in the country than your small party.”
Lachlan was surprised by the man’s response, but he didn’t let it show. “Of course. Alas, if it ends up being true, then ye will assure us that your walls are well guarded, your gate firmly closed.” It was not a request, but a demand.
“Rest assured, if anyone were to come creeping about my guards will see they dinna obtain the fruits of their labor.”
What an odd way to respond. Lachlan narrowed his eyes, about to ask Comyn to expound on his odd statement, when the man interrupted his thoughts.
“Well then, my seneschal will see ye to your rooms,” Comyn said. “And after ye’ve rested, we shall feast.”
Isabel, Angus, and her maid returned just then, to Lachlan’s relief, since in the brief conversation with Comyn he’d had a flash of her abduction. Hot on their heels, the ladies were shown to a room first, up three levels of a narrow circle stone staircase. Comyn stayed below, thank the heavens.
When Lachlan was certain she was secure in the small chamber she was assigned, noting the exact number of steps on the stone floors from her chamber to his–one floor above, almost directly over top of her–in case he had to rush to her, he followed the seneschal to a chamber where a hot bath was already being prepared for him.
“Do ye need assistance?” the seneschal asked.
“Nay,” Lachlan grunted. He was not happy about being a floor above Isabel. If anything should happen, he had stairs to contend with, even if he was only forty-seven feet away. “Where are ye housing my men?”
