His Lady of Castlemora. Joanna Fulford

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      His gaze met and held hers. In it she read both speculation and challenge. He was playing with her. Isabelle bit back the refusal that sprang so readily to her lips. It would be impossible to get out of this without causing her father’s displeasure, for he would take it much amiss that she snubbed one who was both guest and prospective suitor.

      ‘Of course,’ she replied.

      ‘Then I suggest we leave early before the day grows hot,’ said Hugh.

      Ban smiled. ‘A good suggestion.’

      He bowed over her hand, brushing it with his lips, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary. The warmth of his touch sent a tingle along her skin. Feigning calm she turned away and then took her leave of them all.

      On returning to the bower Isabelle found herself in no mood for sleep and, dismissing Nell, went to the window. The evening was still and scented with warm earth and cut grass. Some light yet lingered in the western sky, the horizon soft with lemon haze beneath the deepening blue where the first stars shone clear. Bats flitted among the orchard trees and somewhere a dog barked. Then the silence dropped again. The sweet air that was usually so soothing now only added to her feeling of desolation.

      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.

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