The Renegade's Heart (12 page)

Isabella smiled. “You are right, of course,
Moira. I simply could not find the other needle.”

“Doubtless you were too hasty about it. It is
likely on the floor and we shall find it together.” Moira waited
while Isabella returned the needle case, standing at the foot of
the stairs like a guardian. When Isabella returned, Moira brushed
the dust from her kirtle, surveying the younger woman sternly as
she ensured that there were no signs of her transgression.

The needle was indeed upon the floor in the
solar and Isabella let Moira discover it. It seemed she had an
unknown talent for subterfuge. She still had to get to the crypt in
the chapel and had need of an excuse.

Isabella thought of it when she and Moira
joined Eleanor in the hall.

“Eleanor, do you think it would be wise for
me to check on the baker’s son today? The word is that he is
recovered, but I wonder if perhaps his mother, Siobhan, does not
wish to make requests for your aid when all know you to be
unwell.”

Eleanor smiled so warmly that Isabella felt
like a fraud. “What kindness you show, Isabella. That is a very
good idea, and I am certain Siobhan will be glad of your presence,
even if the boy is better.”

Isabella seized her cloak and headed for the
portal. No one would know the difference if she stopped at
Kinfairlie’s chapel to check the crypt for relics.

* * *

Murdoch was struck once again by the
affluence of Kinfairlie, an affluence that had no apparent source.
He sensed that there was more to the fortunes of this holding than
was readily apparent. Could Isabella explain the truth to him?

Would she?

Or would she – like the Elphine Queen –
simply betray him in the end? Isabella might reveal him to her
brother and see him condemned for his boldness. Murdoch did not
want to believe it. He wanted the fiery maiden to be his
touchstone, to be the example of good in the mortal realm.

Indeed, he wanted far more of her than
that.

Murdoch recalled all he had seen of Isabella
as he entered Kinfairlie village, remembering every flash of her
eyes and that one unwitting smile. Doing so warmed him as nothing
else could have done, and when he thought of the sweet passion of
her kiss, the chill in his chest seemed to fade.

He endeavored to slip through the town
without being noticed. He kept his hood pulled over his face and
spoke as little as possible, working his way steadily toward the
smith’s forge to await Gavin.

With every step he had taken from the forest,
he had felt the grip of the Elphine Queen loosen a little more. He
could breathe more readily and the brisk walk put the heat back in
his body. He felt more himself, more alive and more daring, and the
change was more than welcome.

Indeed, it increased his yearning to see the
lady Isabella again and ascertain the fullness of her effect upon
him. Had it been merely a first impression that swayed him, one
that would dissipate with more association? Murdoch wanted very
much to know.

It was busy in the village, a small line of
plow horses awaiting the smith’s attention. That man spared Murdoch
a surprisingly intent look, his gaze so dark and aware that Murdoch
wondered what he saw.

He settled into the shadows opposite the
smith’s forge to watch, well aware that no one had noticed him
except the smith. He filled his thoughts with the allure of
Isabella, and was so snared in his recollections that when she
marched down the road before him, he halfway thought he had
conjured her.

Isabella walked with her hood thrown back.
The brilliant copper of her hair had been braided but already the
unruly curls escaped their bonds. She smiled as she made her way
down the street, purpose in her step, and Murdoch noted the
affection with which the villagers greeted her.

With that one glimpse, he was sure. Isabella
was all he had believed her to be. A telling heat unfurled within
him, desire mingled with something more. His reaction to the sight
of her was just as he had anticipated, a fire within his body and
an admiration in his thoughts.

She was clearly intent upon some destination,
and Murdoch wanted to know what goal held her attention so fast.
What had she learned? Did she seek him out? He might have followed
her through the village to ensure such a meeting, but he had to
wait for Gavin.

He watched her stop to speak to the smith and
savored the sound of her laughter, knowing then that he could not
leave Kinfairlie village without another taste of Isabella. When
Gavin was safely away, Murdoch would pursue the lady.

Wherever she might be found.

* * *

There was a fair line at the smith’s forge on
this day, the crowd blocking Isabella’s progress toward the chapel.
A good half dozen horses awaited with their masters, plow horses
and palfreys standing together. This smith had come to Kinfairlie
two years before and he was so highly skilled that his forge was
always busy. There were even those who said he had been taught by
the Fae, though he never confirmed the tales. Isabella worked her
way through the amiable cluster of villagers, greeting those she
knew. The smith glanced at her, then across the way before bending
over his task again.

Was he warning her? Of what?

Isabella followed the direction of the
smith’s look and found a peasant swathed in a dark cloak standing
in the shadows there. It looked to be the same man she had seen
earlier, walking toward Kinfairlie. Why would he journey to the
village only to stand by a wagon of hay and watch the smith? She
could feel the weight of his bold gaze upon her, though his face
was hidden within the shadows of his hood.

What had the smith noticed about him?

Perhaps it was simply that he was a stranger
– although he might not be one when his face was revealed. There
was no way to know without approaching him, and the smith’s glance
ensured that Isabella did not do as much.

A boy from Alexander’s own stable held the
reins of one of Kinfairlie’s black destriers, the beast’s nostrils
flaring as the smith attempted to give it a new shoe. The smith
spoke constantly to the horse, his murmur of reassurance working
less well than usual. His murmuring might have been a lullaby he
whispered to the steeds, but it had a lesser effect upon this
one.

Isabella knew why. “It is Hermes, is it not?”
she asked, pausing to stroke the nose of the notoriously
temperamental stallion. He survived because of his beauty and
power, and his enthusiasm to stud. Alexander would never sell
Hermes to another, because his mood was unpredictable. The
stallion’s eyes rolled at her touch, but then he settled, exhaling
noisily.

“Aye, Lady Isabella.” The apprentice held
fast to Hermes’ bridle while the stallion fought the bit. The smith
frowned when he lost grip of the beast’s ankle. Hermes stamped that
foot on the ground, undoing what progress the smith had already
made by shaking the new shoe loose. The smith picked it up and held
it again in the fire, his expression one of resignation.

Isabella had to be of assistance. She stroked
the horse and he stilled, shuddering from head to toe first, then
arching his neck with pride as he stood his ground.

“He has a weakness for you, my lady,” the
smith noted. “Is it possible you might linger a moment? I would not
detain you, but Hermes is in a mood on this day.” The smith cast
her look of silent appeal.

“Perhaps it is that infernal wind,” suggested
one man in the line and others agreed.

Isabella smiled. “Perhaps it is just Hermes.”
She stroked Hermes’ nose even as the smith nodded agreement.

“Doubtless it is because he is the most
handsome of all the stallions in Kinfairlie’s stable and he would
be admired first,” Isabella murmured to Hermes and the others in
the line chuckled. The horse bent to nibble at her hair. Isabella
laughed and scratched his ears. “The most handsome of all,” she
crooned and he blew out his lips.

The smith laid claim to that hoof again and
set to work while the horse was distracted. Hermes was too
intrigued with Isabella and the ribbon in her hair to fight the
smith. He chewed the ribbon with enthusiasm.

“Hermes is so vain that he cannot hear the
truth of it often enough,” Isabella continued. The stallion preened
at her attentions, seemingly oblivious to the smith’s actions.
Isabella felt some soul watching her avidly and realized it was the
man with the hood. She did not look his way.

“Such a beautiful boy,” she told the horse,
keeping note of the smith’s progress. “The most handsome steed in
Christendom.” Hermes nickered as if in agreement with such wisdom,
and the smith hammered home the last nail with satisfaction.

“There! I thank you for your aid, my lady.”
The smith stepped back.

Once released, Hermes stamped his foot once
more, but this time, the shoe did not come free. He then nudged
Isabella with force, sniffing her hands with persistence. He fairly
pushed her down the road, despite her laughing protests.

“Hermes remembers that you oft bring him
apples,” the stable hand said.

“And he is fool enough to think I have hidden
them away. You have a nose, Hermes, and you must know that I have
not an apple for you on this day.” The horse snorted as she scolded
him, and nudged her more determinedly. Isabella would have changed
her path to go to the chapel, but Hermes would have none of it.
“Away with you, Hermes, I have an errand.” Hermes urged her toward
Kinfairlie’s stables – where there was a store of apples.

“He wants his reward, my lady, and it seems
pretty words will not suffice.” The smith chuckled at her fate,
along with the others.

Save the man in the hood, who simply watched.
His stillness was striking. Was that the flash of a smile Isabella
glimpsed within the shadows of his hood?

She might have marched across the road to
demand his name, but one of the men in line abruptly gave a low
whistle. “Now, there is a fine beast,” he said with a nod of
approval.

Isabella turned to see a chestnut mare
approaching the blacksmith and his forge. The horse was limping
slightly, and a boy with dark hair was riding it. Indeed, it seemed
more that the horse carried the boy than that he commanded its
course, for he was too small for a mare of such size. Hermes
straightened and sniffed the air, moving toward the mare with a
determination that would not be stopped.

“So, we shall go the long way, then,” the
stable hand muttered to the horse, not having any real choice in
the matter. “And you shall have to wait longer for an apple, by
your own choice.” His warning made no difference to Hermes. The
horse began to prance, arching his neck high and lifting his tail,
showing off for the mare.

The mare ignored him.

Isabella didn’t recognize the boy on the
mare, but she knew the horse. She was sure of it, although she
could not name the beast. The smith frowned in his turn as he
watched the horse. Isabella returned to the smith’s side.

“I know this horse,” she said quietly. “But
not the rider.”

“Aye, Lady Isabella, as do I,” the blacksmith
replied softly. “But I cannot think of who
should
be riding
this mare.” He flicked a glance at the cloaked man, then cast her a
smile. “Too many horses and too many market days. Who is to say she
has not been sold?”

Isabella smiled in her turn, unpersuaded.
“You speak rightly in that, Master Smith.”

The boy halted the horse before the
blacksmith. “She has need of a shoe,” he said, his voice
breathless. His gaze darted over the people in the vicinity and
visibly panicked when he realized there was a line.

Why was he afraid?

The smith appeared to be suspicious now, as
well. He took his time, as was often his choice when he awaited the
fullness of a tale. “I see as much.” He put down his hammer and fed
the fire in the forge, working with rare leisure. Then he brushed
his hands on his apron and came into the street. He walked around
the horse, openly assessing the animal. “She cannot be yours.” He
said this lightly, as if there was no question, and the boy shook
his head before he thought.

The boy swallowed, his manner uncertain. “My
master’s steed, sir.”

The smith placed his hands upon his hips.
“And what might be the name of your master?”

“Sir Emory of Tuckford.”

Isabella did not recognize the name or the
estate.

She did notice that the cloaked man stepped
away from the far wall. He eased closer to a wagon loaded with hay
that had been left at the side of the road. Doubtless it was hay
intended for the smith, for some horses were always stabled with
him. The stable hand walked a reluctant Hermes past the mare, the
stallion fighting the bit once again.

The boy on the mare took a shaking breath.
“My master is not known in these parts, but his horse is fine.”

“And no one should ride her in this state,
even one so small as you.” The blacksmith gestured imperiously and
the boy dismounted, still holding the reins of the horse.

“But she does not like to be lead.”

“Nor do any of us,” the smith murmured and
the men waiting in line chuckled.

“My master thought it would be best if I rode
her, for I am smallest.” The boy, who was younger than Isabella,
continued, the words spilling forth in such haste that they had no
ring of truth. “My master visits this region, you see.”

“And where is he, that his steed is sent
ahead of him?” the smith asked, examining the hoof with care. “That
he does not care for her welfare? She is a fair investment, I would
wager.”

“He, he, awaits me at an inn...”

“There is no inn for ten miles,” Isabella
interjected. “Strange that you would bring the steed to Kinfairlie
when other smiths would be closer.” She smiled. “Since your master
is evidently so concerned for the beast’s welfare.”