would be deserving better. Duncan would have—”
“Leave the lass be,” Angus blustered as he stepped forward, his bushy brows at odds with his balding head.
Symon scowled at his father. “Aye, it is not Isabel who is at fault, is it? But your gambling that is the cause of all this.”
“Symon!”
At Isabel’s sharp tone, her brother’s eyes dulled with self-recrimination. “I know. I cannot change his losing our home to Frasyer on a bet any more than your decision to become Frasyer’s mistress in place of payment.”
“Nor would I be wanting you to.” Liar. If she could, she would change everything. She would take back the three years of living a lie—a series of lies—and follow the abandoned dictates of her heart. But she may as well lie upon a faerie hill and cast wishes into the wind for all it would help her. She’d already lost Duncan’s love. She refused to endanger the lives of her father and brother.
Symon brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I had not meant to be badgering you. I love you, lass. My words are born of naught but worry.”
“I know.”
“If Frasyer treats you less than you are deserving, tell me, do you hear?”
“Aye, my bonny lad. You would be the first to know.” With a lightness she didn’t feel, Isabel gave him a sound kiss on his cheek, then walked over and hugged her father. “It is good to see you again, Da.”
He returned the embrace, the tiredness in his brown eyes warming to pleasure. “And you, daughter.”
She stepped away and dug out an aged leather sack from beneath her cloak. “It is the wild thyme and chamomile I promised you. Brew a tea with them in the morning. They will ease your headaches.” Aches he wouldn’t have to contend with if he drank less.
Aye, the drink brought on his pounding head, but his shame for her choice to become Frasyer’s mistress to cover his gambling away their home had aged him a decade over the last three years.
Deep lines sagged his clean-shaven face. Too much worry stifled his once carefree expression. And his once thick, unruly whisky-colored hair, so like her own, now gave way to baldness with only fringes of a white halo gracing his head.
“Thanks, lass.” With a nod, her father accepted the pouch and shoved the herbs in his pocket.
She glanced at her brother. Stern lines dug deep furrows across his handsome face. “You and the rest of the rebels will have moved from Selkirk Forest.”
Symon stroked his fingers through his mustache, then down through his beard. “Aye. The bastard Longshanks is determined to have Wallace’s head on a pike or any other who dares defy him in his bid to claim Scotland. We have moved into the bogs to the west.” Devilment sparked his eyes. “I am not sure who are more hesitant to enter, the hounds or the bloody Sassenachs.”
Isabel chuckled at her brother’s use of the English king’s nickname given to him for his height. She could easily imagine King Edward’s knights’ ear-blistering curses as they struggled to navigate through the soggy tract of land only to come up empty-handed.
“I bet you give them a fine run,” she said. “If there is anything I can do—”
Blue eyes clouded with anger. “There is not.”
On a broken sigh, she withdrew the gift she’d stowed within her cloak. She handed it to Symon.
“What is it?”
“Open it and you will see.”
With nimble fingers, her brother unfolded the cloth. “Wallace’s arms,” he whispered in appreciation. He withdrew the delicate swath of fabric, smoothed it flat across his palm and traced a finger around the edge of the embroidered lion sewn in silver and complemented by a background of deep red.
Isabel touched the chain around her neck holding the finely crafted pendant hidden beneath. “The design matches my necklace.”
His expression melted into pleasure. “It is a fine hand you have,” he whispered, “like our mother.”
Tears misted her eyes. No compliment could have touched her more. “I had meant to give it to you months ago. But this…this is the first I have seen you since I finished it.”
With care, he folded the cloth over the delicate embroidery. “It is beautiful. And dangerous if you had been caught making it.”
“You are worth any risk.”
Symon drew her into a tender hug. “My thanks.”
Isabel leaned into him, cherishing this moment.
The scuff of boots echoed from outside.
Stiffening in her brother’s arms, Isabel whirled toward the entry. Please, God, let me be wrong!
The door crashed open. With their swords raised, knights charged the confines. Their leader stepped before his men.
Frasyer!
Symon withdrew his claymore and moved before Isabel.
With a curse, her father unsheathed his sword as well and moved beside his son.
The earl shoved his woolen hood away from his face. Brown hair tightly bound behind his neck accented gray eyes as caustic as a winter storm. He turned toward Symon and his nostrils flared with malignant satisfaction.
Isabel started forward. “No!”
Symon caught her arm and shoved her behind him. “Stay there!” He pointed his claymore toward the earl.
“How touching. It appears I have interrupted a family reunion,” Frasyer drawled, as his knights spread out in the limited space behind him. His jaw tightened as he glared at Isabel. “And you. How dare you defy my orders to meet with this rebel!”
“Symon is family.”
“Your brother is a traitor and will be dealt with accordingly.” Frasyer nodded toward her father. “As will Lord Caelin.”
“Let them go. Please.” She fought for calm, but fear trembled through her voice.
Frasyer gestured toward the door. “Return to Moncreiffe Castle. I will deal with your betrayal later.”
She’d seen him use this calm tone when his fury peaked. In the past, she’d always thanked God it was never directed at her. Except she doubted even God could help her now.
“And you,” he said to Symon, his placid tone at odds with the fury burning in his eyes. “Tell me where Wallace is hiding and I may choose to spare your worthless life.”
Symon spat on the floor. “I would die before I would tell anything to vermin such as yourself.”
Outrage mottled Frasyer’s cheeks. His gaze sliced toward Isabel. “Do not defy me. Leave!”
She
