THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 36
From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
Spurred by whatever had spooked Sam, they
rode as quickly as their exhausted horses
could carry them towards Inverloch.
As the
countryside grew more and more familiar,
urgency overtook Isabelle’s thoughts. Sam and
his men had donned bright sashes of red
Umberwood tartan so as not to panic the
castle guards when a half dozen heavily armed
riders entered the town.
He’d also warned her
not to gallop, once again to ensure that they
weren’t riding into a trap.
Sam had been just as uneasy as Isabelle that
the ride to Kentshire had been so uneventful.
His rear scouts had sighted a member of the
royal guard a few miles from Dunwood, but
there hadn’t been any further signs of pursuit.
Now that home was so close, however,
Isabelle didn’t have time to think about the
ominous sense of foreboding swirling around
the edges of her thoughts.
Even Alabaster seemed anxious to return home,
hastening his pace without any urging from
Isabelle. Sam pressed his tired horse to keep
up since Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to slow
down. Not when they were pa-ssing the shores
of Loch Velland, the ma-ssive lake that nestled
up against both Inverloch and Kentshire
castle’s grounds.
The air smelled like home, like fresh snow and
crisp pine smoke. It was enough to catch her
breath in her throat, reigniting the fierce
homesickness she’d battled throu-ghout her stay
in Highcastle.
When they rounded the bend in the road and
the first buildings of Inverloch appeared,
Isabelle couldn’t stop herself from throwing
caution to the wind. Alabaster mustered as
much of a gallop as he could, tearing throu-gh
the streets as Kentshire castle rose out of the
mists just beyond the town.
“Isabelle!” Sam shouted in warning, but she
couldn’t hear anything besides the thun-dering
of the blood in her ears and Alabaster’s
hooves on the frozen ground.
She was home. She was a few minutes from
seeing her father, from hearing his laugh and
seeing his smile.
She was less than a mile
from his study that smelled of cigars and
leather-bound books, from the castle she’d
called home for her entire life.
Alabaster was foaming as she galloped past
the castle gate guards, Sam hot on her heels
and still shouting at her.
Isabelle’s hood had
fallen back, her hair sli-pping free from Lissa’s
bun as the wind tugged at it The guards that
had lifted their lances to block Isabelle’s path
scattered, either thanks to Sam’s tartan or
because they’d identified the galloping rider as
the duke’s daughter, despite her masculine
attire.
She swung down off Alabaster’s back and
sprinted across the courtyard toward the
castle, her aching legs roaring in protest.
Before she could throw open the doors,
however, Marcus was there, barring her path
until recognition jolted across his face.
“Where’s Papa?” Isabelle demanded, skidding
to a halt before him. Marcus remained in the
doorway, his eyes jumping between Isabelle
and the retinue of Umberwood men now
flooding into the castle courtyard.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Marcus said, hastily
reaching over her shoulder to tug her hood
back over her head. “Hurry, get inside.”
Sam was beside her in an instant, p@n-ting as
he ran wary eyes over her father’s estate agent.
“She goes nowhere without me,” Sam said,
using his boot to prevent Marcus from
slamming the door.
“Then get inside and for goodness’ sake hide
that tartan,” Marcus said, impatiently gesturing
for Sam to enter and shut the door behind him.
“You might as well have heralded her arrival
with a parade and bunting, riding in like that!”
“What’s the matter?” Isabelle demanded, her
hood still up.
“Where is Papa?”
“Hush,” Marcus hissed with a nervous look
around. “There is much to explain.”
Isabelle looked to Sam, dread coiling around
her heart before she followed Marcus throu-gh
the entrance hall and up the stairs. Marcus had
rarely ever been this sharp with her, more of a
kindly old man than a stern one. That he was
rushing them quickly throu-ghthe halls towards
his study with not a word of explanation had
ignited even more panic in Isabelle’s mind.
When Marcus gestured for them to sit,
she
chose instead to pace as the estate agent
poked around the room, checking behind each
of the curtains and tapestries before throwing
open the service door and peering around.
“Prince Leopold is here,” Marcus said finally,
once he was sure they were alone. “And he
mustn’t know that you’ve arrived.”
“Where is Papa?” Isabelle repeated, forcing
down the terror curling into a knot in her
stomach. She didn’t care whether Leopold was
in the castle or at the bott-om of the sea, not
when her father was lying sick somewhere
nearby and she wasn’t being brou-ght straight to
him. Marcus looked at her, pain and pity in his
gaze.
“He is very sick, my lady,” Marcus said finally.
“He-”
“I want to see Papa!” was all that Isabelle said,
fighting the tears that prickled at the edges of
her eyes.
“The lady would like to see her father,” Sam
said, his hand moving casually to the hilt of
his sword. Marcus inhaled, steeling himself
before acquiescing.
“We don’t know what ails him, but we know it
is not contagious,” Marcus said quietly,
opening the door to the service corridor. He
led them to the duke’s bedchamber, the
cramped, narrow hall forcing Sam to stoop
over as he followed. Isabelle froze when
Marcus opened the bedchamber door, a blast
of hot air halting her in her tracks.
The duke’s bedchamber was stifling, a fire
roaring in the grate as the curtains were drawn
against the chill from outside. A maid nearly
spilled coals all over the ground in surprise, a
bed warmer in her hands as she lifted the
heavy bedclothes to nestle it into place.
And there, buried un-der piles of sheets and
quilts and furs was her father, his sleeping face
pallid un-der a sheen of sweat. His cheeks
were hollowed, with twin crescents of purple
un-derneath his eyes. Isabelle rushed to the
bed, throwing back the covers to reach for his
hand. He blinked awake, his eyes glazed with
fever as he looked over at her.
“Papa it’s me,” she said, unable to fight the
tears welling in her eyes now. Her father
blinked again, looking around the room before
looking back at her.
“Isabelle…” he said, his voice little more than
a croak. “My Isabelle…”
She sobbed as he closed his eyes once again,
the simple task of speaking seeming to
exhaust him. Despite the heat of the room and
the layers upon layers of bedding, her father’s
skin was like ice, but slic-ked with sweat. His
breath came in rattling gasps as she sank to
her knees beside the bed, pressing his hand to
her forehead as she cried.
Marcus dismissed the maid and gestured for
Sam to follow him into the next room, giving
Isabelle some privacy. He closed the door to
the Duke’s bedchamber behind him, offering
the northerner a chair.
“What manner of illness?” Sam asked, lowering
himself wearily into his seat. He’d delivered
Isabelle to her father, but he doubted that his
prayers for the duke’s recovery would be
heard. The man lying in the bed in the next
room was as close to death as any he’d seen,
but that Marcus and the castle healers had
determined that it wasn’t something contagious
had filled Sam with an uneasy sense of
foreboding.
“We don’t know. I sent word to Highcastle to
send a healer who might be able to better
determine the cause,” Marcus said, settling
himself across from Sam and reaching for a
sheaf of paper. “The king wasn’t supposed to
tell Isabelle.”
“Well, he did and here we are,” Sam said.
“Surely you didn’t intend to rob her of her final
moments with her father?”
“I am acting un-der orders, Sam,” Marcus said,
beginning to write something on the paper.
“You know that I would give my life for her or
her father, but the duke himself insisted that
she remain in Highcastle. Even as he grew
more ill, he refused to allow me to write to
her. It’s not safe for her here, not when Prince
Leopold is still sniffing around about fulfilling
their betrothal agreement.”
“Why is he still here? I thought that agreement
had been annulled?” Sam asked, his fingers
grazing his sword at the mention of the foreign
prince.
“That is precisely why he’s returned,” Marcus
said, fixing Sam with a significant look as he
extended the paper towards him. “It seems that
he and the duke had not arrived at an
acceptable agreement before Prince Leopold
stormed out. He returned only after the duke
had fallen ill, with more men, all camped north
of here. He was intent on continuing the duke’s
discussion with me…”
We suspect that the duke was poisoned.
The words on the page stilled Sam’s heart, his
eyes flying to the aging estate agent.
“I insisted he wait until His Grace recovered,
but the prince was adamant about signing
some sort of agreement straightaway, citing
me as the duke’s representative since His
Grace was far too ill to sign it himself,”
Marcus said, taking back the paper to add
something else. “I refused, especially when it
became apparent that the duke’s persistent
cough was far more than a persistent cough.”
You must get her away from here, it is not safe
for her. They are poised to take the castle.
Sam met Marcus’ gaze once more, the older
man taking the paper to toss it into the fire
behind him.
“I’m sure you un-derstand the precariousness of
such a situation,” Marcus said. “And why it is
best if the future duchess remain far away.”
“Of course,” Sam said, whatever fatigue he’d
felt from their journey washing away as he
desperately attempted to think up some way
he could tear Isabelle from her father’s side
and rush her out of Kentshire.
Sam’s men and their horses were exhausted.
Troops from the royal garrison were not far
behind them on the road, which meant that if
they remained in Inverloch, they’d be trapped
between an angry king’s men and the invading
for-ces of a foreign prince. Both the king and
the prince would be looking for Isabelle, which
meant that smuggling her back out would be
infinitely har-der , especially if a group of eight
men fled the city together.
Sam could try to smuggle her out on his own,
but the safest place was another two days’ ride
away, in Umberwood. Two days of open roads,
with only his weary, exhausted self to protect
her. Sam had no doubt that his father would
take her in, but there was a chance both King
Charles and Prince Leopold would view such
an action as treason or a declaration of war.
And that was only if Sam somehow managed
to get her there safely. The only road to
Umberwood branched off the main kingsroad
they’d taken throu-ghKentshire, the same road
that was likely now flooded with royal troops
marching north in pursuit…
But he needed to get her out. If Marcus
suspected that Leopold had poisoned her
father and stationed his own troops in the
countryside surrounding the castle to prepare
for an invasion, Isabelle needed to get away as
quickly as possible.
He had no plan besides simply riding off into
the forest towards home, but it was better than
nothing. It was stupid and reckless, but Sam
Winters wasn’t about to let one of his dearest
friends be dragged back to Highcastle in
chains or be for-ced to marry a brutal foreign
prince.
“I’ll need a pair of fresh horses,” Sam said to
Marcus. “And for you to send a letter to
Umberwood. Make sure she stays with the
duke until I return.”
The estate agent inclined his head.
~*~
Isabelle stayed by her father’s side until he
awoke once again, Sam and Marcus having
disappeared into her father’s study next door.
The heat of the room was suffocating, but she
shed her cloak and endured it.
Her father was dying. She was not naive
enough to believe that he would recover from
this, not as he lay gaunt and coughing in his
bed with icy skin that would not warm. She
would not leave his side. She would not let
him die alone. She would stay, despite the
heat of the room and the sickly sweet air
clogging her nose. She would stay with her
Papa because he was her rock and now it was
her turn to be his.
“Isabelle…”
The croak shook her awake from where she
dozed, kneeling beside the bed.
“Papa,” she breathed, forcing herself not to cry
as he blinked his circled eyes at her.
“Y…you must…” he started, before his body
was racked with coughs. Isabelle poured him a
cu-p of water from a ewer beside the bed,
helping him drink.
“Rest, Papa,” was all she said, her heart
breaking.
“Not…safe…” he managed, his fingers finding
hers. They were little more than bone wrapped
in skin, knobbly and weak from whatever
consumed him from within.
“I’ll be fine, Papa,” she said, giving his hand a
squee-ze. “I’m healthy.”
“Not…sickness…” he managed, before the
coughing seized him once again. The hairs
rose on the back of Isabelle’s ne-ck, but she
distracted herself from such thoughts by
pouring him another cu-p of water.
“You should rest,” she said, forcing down her
panic. But her father seized her hand once
again, nearly spilling water all over the pair of
them with his urgency.
“Leave,” he breathed, the word little more than
a hoarse gasp. “You…cannot…be his…”
Isabelle remained perched on the edge of her
father’s bed, refusing to allow the dread
mounting within her to consume her. He was
delirious, he didn’t know what he was saying.
Her father would never order to her to leave,
unless…
The study door opened and Sam followed
Marcus back into the duke’s bedchamber.
“We need to leave,” Sam said, hurrying across
the room towards her.
“I will not leave him!” she protested, stubbornly
refusing to rise.
“There is no time,” the northerner said,
gathering her cloak from the floor. “We must-”
A knock at the bedchamber door silenced
them all.
“Open this door at once. I know you’re in
there.”
Isabelle’s eyes flew to Marcus, who had paled.
Beside her, Sam dropped her cloak and
reached for his sword.
She knew that voice, all too well.
To be continued…..