His Lady of Castlemora(8)

She could well visualise the scene in the hall. On the surface all would  be smiles and goodwill. Lord Ban would not offend her father  intentionally; the friendship existing between Castlemora and Glengarron  was too valuable to risk. He would handle the matter more tactfully:  the horses would provide the means for all to save face. He had come to  deliver them and, having fulfilled the obligation, he would depart  without ever making an offer for her hand. Tears pricked her eyelids and  for perhaps the tenth time that evening she silently cursed her own  stupidity.





Chapter Four


If she had entertained any hopes that his lordship might oversleep next  morning, Isabelle was disappointed for when she neared the stables he  was already there, the horses saddled and ready. Hugh was with him and,  she noted with disfavour, so was Murdo. Seeing her approach they turned  towards her, causing Ban to look round. He greeted her with a smile.  Somehow she managed to reply with the usual courtesies. Then her gaze  went to the horses.

'You are before me, my lord. I hope I have not kept you waiting.'

'Not at all. You are prompt.'

To avoid the searching gaze she moved towards the bay mare, stroking the  velvety muzzle and running a practised eye over bridle and saddle,  satisfying herself that it was in good order.

'Allow me.'

Lord Ban came to the mare's near side and held the bridle while she  mounted. Once she was safely ensconced a strong hand slid her foot into  the stirrup, lingering briefly on her ankle. Only too conscious of his  touch, she avoided his eye and occupied herself with the arrangement of  her skirt.

He left her then and went to mount his own horse, a powerful and  mettlesome chestnut which he reined in alongside her a few moments  later. Murdo and Hugh fell in behind leaving Lord Ban's men to follow at  a respectful distance.

'Quite an escort,' she remarked. 'Are you expecting trouble, my lord?'

'A precaution only. It is unwise to ride alone in these troubled times.'

Isabelle reddened and threw him a sideways glance but his face gave  nothing away. Even so the rebuke had been plain. He wasn't going to let  her forget about what had happened. The knowledge that she deserved it  didn't help. However, she would not rise to the bait and touching the  horse with her heels cantered on ahead.

The mare had a smooth even gait and a soft mouth that responded to the  lightest touch of the rein. A long open stretch of turf beckoned and she  gave her mount its head. Immediately the spirited creature leapt  forwards, flying hooves skimming the ground, mane and tail streaming.  Revelling in the speed neither horse nor rider paid heed to the thudding  hoofbeats behind. The chestnut drew level and catching a glimpse of its  rider's anxious expression, Isabelle raised an eyebrow. So he thought  she was out of control, did he? His lordship made a good many  assumptions about her. It was time to dent his self-assurance a little.  Leaning forwards she urged the mare on.

Ban realised then that his earlier alarm had been unfounded. Isabelle  hadn't lost control at all. Furthermore he realised he was being tested.  The long greensward led into a copse and the narrow track meant he had  to rein back, following in the mare's wake. Ducking low branches and  jinking round bends in the path, they sped on. The mare took a fallen  log in her stride and fifty yards later leapt a dry streambed. The  chestnut followed suit, never altering its stride. Then, as they neared  the edge of the copse Ban saw it, a great tree uprooted by an ancient  storm, the centre section of its trunk lying across the path. It was  high and solid. Isabelle didn't hesitate. Heart in mouth, he watched the  mare gather herself and leap, soaring over the obstacle into the open  land beyond.                       
       
           



       

Setting his jaw, Ban collected the chestnut a little. The big horse  stood back and took off, clearing the jump with ease and landing safe  beyond it. Then for the first time Ban let the animal have its head. The  chestnut responded, lengthening its stride. Almost two hands bigger  than the mare and far more powerful, it steadily narrowed the gap until  eventually they drew level again.

Isabelle looked round, her face registering surprise for a moment. Then  it was gone. She pulled up a little further on, he following suit. The  blowing horses snorted, their great muscles trembling with effort and  excitement. Ban, catching his own breath, was torn between reluctant  amusement and annoyance for the anxiety she had caused him. That  innocent expression didn't deceive him for a moment. The vixen was  thoroughly enjoying herself. Moreover, the pace had heightened the bloom  on her cheeks and brought a lovely sparkle to the hazel eyes. Strands  of hair, loosened from the sober braid, played around her face in an  artless halo that enhanced the suggestion of innocence. It was also  unwittingly alluring and conjured more erotic thoughts. Ever since the  episode at the burn they'd continued to tease his imagination. With an  effort he suppressed them and nodded towards the mare.

'How do you like her?'

'Very much.' Isabelle patted the glossy neck. 'It's like riding the wind.'

'In truth I thought you were. Do you always set such a pace?'

Her face registered apparent concern. 'Was it too much for you, my lord?'

For a second or two he was speechless with incredulity. Then he fought a  desire to laugh. If they'd been alone, he'd have exacted a penalty for  barefaced cheek. It was a pleasing notion, but unfortunately they  weren't alone. Instead he asked, 'Where did you learn to ride like  that?'

'From my father, and a groom called Hamish.'

'They taught you well.'

'So I think.' She turned her attention to the chestnut. 'That is a fine animal. What is he called?'

'Firecrest.'

'It suits him. Did you break him?'

'I did, but he was a rare handful.'

'I can believe it.'

Before he could make any other observations their companions hove into sight, reining in nearby.

'How do you like the mare, Sister?'

'I like her well,' replied Isabelle, 'as I was just telling Lord Ban.'

'She can certainly move, eh, Murdo?' said Hugh.

'Indeed she can,' replied the other. 'All the same, you took a dangerous risk, my lady.'

His tone was perfectly level but she heard his unspoken disapproval. It  irked her. He had no right to criticise; he had no rights over her at  all, nor ever would have.

'I did not ask you to follow, Murdo. You were always free to go around the obstacle if you felt it too dangerous a challenge.'

Her brother drew in an audible breath and chuckled appreciatively. 'Oho! A hit! Most definitely a hit.'

The master-at-arms inclined his head. 'My lady's wit is sharp.'

For a moment the dark gaze glinted as it met hers, his expression quite  unmistakable. Isabelle lifted her chin in silent defiance even though,  inwardly, she regretted letting her temper get the better of her. She  knew she had annoyed him and that it behoved her to be more careful;  Murdo was not possessed of a forgiving nature and it didn't pay to cross  him.

Ban had observed that brief exchange and felt his curiosity stir. The  tension between the two was evident. He wondered what lay behind it.  Apart from a brief introduction he'd had little to do with the man thus  far, but Ban was fully aware of his presence none the less. From the  seating arrangements at the table the previous evening it was apparent  that Murdo enjoyed a privileged position in the household, as though he  were a member of the family rather than a servant. However, such things  were not uncommon. A rich household might well take in poorer relations  and find a place for them. In this instance an influential place, he  thought, but then a capable man who worked hard might do much to better  himself.

He had no doubt whatever that the master-at-arms was capable; he'd met  too many fighting men not to recognise the trait. In combat Murdo would  be ruthless and deadly. He was also a natural leader. To judge from the  way his men acted around him he evidently commanded their respect, no  mean feat when the men themselves were hardened mercenaries.  Castlemora's reputation had been well earned. Perhaps too Murdo saw it  as part of his role to be protective of Lady Isabelle even if she did  resent it as interference. That would explain much. The more Ban thought  about it, the likelier it seemed.                       
       
           



       

Before he could dwell further on the matter the party set off again,  albeit at a more sober pace, and the conversation turned to other  things. Isabelle didn't speak to the master-at-arms again or even look  in his direction, and the remainder of the ride passed without incident.

* * *

When, about an hour later, they returned to Castlemora, Archibald Graham  came out to meet them. Then he looked quizzically at Isabelle.

'Well, how did the mare go?'