Chapter 1 #2
Ceri cut bread for them and set bowls of stew on the table. She leaned forward. “Oh, he was handsome—a big man, not like these wispy Englishmen. He must be one of your kind—a brawny Highlander.”
Isobel considered that while they ate. Her father, Alan MacDonell, was a big man, though not overtall. But all the other men she knew seemed frail and fine-featured compared to the chieftain of Clan MacDonell of Glen Laire, with his heavy brow and rugged features.
Ceri withdrew a scarf and laid it in the center of the table.
Isobel sobered. “Who brought it?”
“The vicar.”
Isobel stared hard at the fine linen scarf. Its edges were embroidered with bright red thread. A faint yellow stain marred a corner.
“What does he want?”
Ceri raised her brow. “He came to me yesterday asking for a love philter to keep his wife faithful. You’ve seen his wife—I told him it was likely unnecessary, but he was most insistent. So I advised him to bring me something of hers to use in the potion. He brought me this.”
“You know there’s no true love philter. Why do you agree to such things?”
“Because it’s safe—safer than delivering babies.” Ceri shuddered, eyes closed. “I thought my life was over when the sheriff’s long-awaited son was stillborn. If not for the good vicar and your auntie, I’d be long gone. No more midwifery for me.”
Isobel scowled. “It is the village’s loss.” She smiled and reached across the table to pat her friend’s hand. “Besides, now you find things for people. That’s safer, aye?”
Ceri opened her eyes and pinned Isobel with a hard look.
“It is. But you know I couldn’t locate things so quickly—if at all—without your help.
And I’ll not have you in such a situation as I was.
” She returned to her stew. “As for love philters, no one wants to admit they purchased one, so no one will accuse me of witchcraft. It’s harmless. ”
Isobel shook her head, her gaze going back to the stained linen. “What happens when it doesn’t work? It is a dangerous game you play.”
“You play it too, my lassie. Now touch it and tell me if his wife is faithful so I know whether or not to make this philter.”
Isobel took the scarf and held it between her palms. Sometimes the visions came fast, overwhelming her, other times she had to work for them.
This would be one of those times. She felt nothing initially.
She rubbed it rhythmically between her palms and closed her eyes, breathing deeply, clearing her mind of everything but the vicar’s wife and the scarf she held.
When still that didn’t work, she tried thinking of the vicar.
Almost immediately she felt lust. Not like the longing and desire she’d felt at the ash tree.
This was not a love affair like Dan and Anne.
This was base, empty. As these feelings didn’t reconcile with Isobel’s knowledge of the vicar’s wife, she frowned and dug deeper, probing through the feeling, looking for visions, not merely emotions.
A picture slowly materialized behind her eyelids, like a mist clearing away. Arms and legs entangled in a pile of filthy hay, hairy buttocks thrusting, a bald head shining in the candlelight. She strained to bring the vision into closer focus, to see it from other angles.
It was the vicar, his godly robes bunched up to free his movements. The woman beneath him was young, redheaded, her head thrown back, lips parted in pleasure. Rain tapped the roof above them.
Isobel’s eyes sprang open, and she stared at Ceri in disbelief.
“He’s riding the baker’s wife—well…he will be—this evening, I believe.
” She threw the scarf onto the table as if it had turned into a viper.
Thunder crashed over head—as loud as a pack of horseman.
“This isn’t his wife’s scarf, but Letty Baker’s.
Some man of God! First he visits a witch, then goes straight to commit adultery!
I saw them—all covered in sweat and rutting like animals. ”
Ceri studied Isobel critically. “You’re looking a bit flushed yourself, lass. Such things a maid should not be seeing.”
Isobel pushed back the damp curls that had escaped her plait from her forehead with dignity. “It takes a lot out of me, you know that.”
Ceri raised her brows censoriously.
“What shall you tell him?” Isobel asked.
Ceri smiled wickedly. “I’ll tell him the philter rejected the scarf since it came from an adulterer.”
Isobel shook her head. “Have a care. He might have saved you once, but he might not be so quick to if you anger him.”
Ceri made a rude sound but before she could say another word someone hammered on the door so hard it shook in its frame. They both froze, staring at each other in disbelief. Who would be out visiting a witch in such a storm?
Ceri sprang into action. “Hurry! You must hide!”
She shooed Isobel to the back of the cottage, where a blanket hung. A small cot was concealed behind it.
“Get on the bed,” Ceri said, shoving her family of cats to the floor. “They’ll see your feet otherwise.”
Isobel did as she was bid, her heart pounding against her ribs, excuses for why she was at the local witch’s cottage chasing through her head.
She was lost in the woods and just happened by.
No one would believe that. She’d lived at Attmore Manor for twelve years and spent a great deal of time in these woods.
She had an ailment and sought Ceri for a cure.
Why come alone, then? She knew as well as any young lass she shouldn’t be wandering the woods unescorted.
She should have brought a servant—not that she ever did.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice that resonated through the blanket, into her very belly.
“Gude day, lady. We seek shelter from the storm.”
A Scotsman. Isobel sat up straighter.
“I’ve but a humble cottage and no room for so many.”
“There are but three of us, lady, and we vow to wipe our feet.”
“I’m but a lone woman,” Ceri continued to protest, but weakly now. She was no lady, as they all well knew, but being called one had softened her.
“We mean ye no harm. Only rest and a dram, for which I will give recompense.”
But no ordinary Scotsman. He spoke well and had fine manners.
Isobel sat cross-legged on the cot, straining to hear every word.
Soon the scraping of boots was heard. True to his word the Scotsman and his men were cleaning their boots before entering.
Ceri’s cats returned to the bed, one stretching out on Isobel’s lap and the other two lying on the other end of the cot.
Isobel scratched their heads absently. Though many animals shied away from Isobel, cats rarely feared her, and these cats had come to know her from her frequent visits.
When the movement had quieted down, Ceri spoke again. “You’re far from the road, sir. Whence are you headed?”
“Attmore Manor. I was told the way was quicker through the wood.”
Isobel stiffened, the twisting in her gut growing fierce. Attmore Manor was her home. What business had he there?
Ceri’s thoughts clearly mirrored Isobel’s for she asked, “Attmore Manor? What business have you there?”
Silence drew out, then Ceri said, “I see.”
What did she see? What had Isobel missed? She couldn’t stand the suspense. She slowly placed her feet on the dirt floor.
“Could I at least have your name, sir?”
“Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Clan Colquhoun.”
“A Highlander.”
“Aye.”
Ceri grunted insolently. “You don’t look like a Highlander.”
Isobel couldn’t bear it. Setting the cat aside, she eased to her feet and tiptoed to the edge of the blanket. What did Ceri mean, he didn’t look like a Highlander? He was small? Fine-featured? He didn’t sound small. His voice was a deep, rumbling baritone—it conjured images of bears and lions.
She peeked around the blanket. Two large men crowded around the hearth.
An enormous blond man sat on the stone ledge where Isobel had rested earlier, and a burly red-bearded man hovered close to the fire, trying to dry wet clothes.
A third man sat away from the others, on the bench at Ceri’s table.
His back was to Isobel—and a broad back it was, heavy, too, filling out the buff jack he wore.
His longish hair was sandy brown and damp at the crown.
Even sitting he was more than a head taller than Ceri, who sat across from him.
Ceri saw her peeking out and her eyes widened, then narrowed.
The man turned abruptly to see what Ceri peered at.
Isobel drew back, her breath catching as she nearly fell on the cot.
But she caught herself, teetering momentarily.
The cats showed no interest in the fact she’d nearly squashed them. The large gray yawned.
“You are not alone?” the man asked. The bench scraped. His footsteps started toward the blanket.
Isobel whirled back to the blanket, her hand clamped to her mouth in horror.
Ceri said, “Cats—that’s all. Getting into things.” She was moving toward the blanket, too. The man’s footsteps stopped, and a moment later Ceri joined Isobel behind it.
Isobel smiled sheepishly. Ceri pointed to the cot, giving Isobel a severe look, and scooped up Whiskers, a fat black cat. Isobel returned to the cot, and Ceri went back to her guests.
Isobel propped her chin on her fist and listened to Ceri chatter at Sir Philip.
The old woman tried to discover his business, but he was not a talkative sort.
Isobel thought about his eyes as she waited.
She’d caught but a glimpse, but they’d been dark, deep-set.
Ceri was right, he didn’t have the harsh, rugged features of her father.
His nose had been straight, his jaw wide, but elegant, in spite of the dark whiskers shadowing it.
His lips had been full and smooth. By the time the rain ceased, she’d convinced herself he was devastatingly handsome.
And this darkly beautiful knight was on his way to Attmore Manor. Why?
It had to do with her. The roiling in her gut had worsened since he’d arrived—so he must be the reason for it. Was he sent by her father? By the time the men departed a sense of urgency had filled Isobel. She must get to Attmore Manor before Sir Philip. She burst from behind the blanket.
“You best be getting home, lass,” Ceri said, handing her the cap she’d removed earlier.
Isobel pinned it back on her head. “First—give me the cup he drank from.”
Ceri quickly fetched a battered tin cup from the table and thrust it into Isobel’s hands.
Isobel knew immediately he’d come for her.
Her father had finally sent for her. But she could glean nothing else from the cup, except a warm and faintly disturbing sense of his lips against the rim.
He’d not held it very long, so little of him would be imprinted upon it, she understood this.
Still, it frustrated her. She’d hope for some sense of him, but he was a mystery.
“Soon enough, lass, you’ll know just what he wants,” Ceri said, urging her to the door. “And then come back and tell me!”
Isobel stopped in the open door and turned back to her friend. “Is he the one? The one you dreamed of?”
Ceri shook her head. “I didn’t have no dream, lass. That was a jest.”
“Oh.” Isobel’s heart sank. “He was very handsome, wasn’t he?”
“That he was, and such pretty manners. Now off with you, afore Lord Attmore sends someone to look for you!”
“Oh, you know he won’t. He’ll just ring the bell.”
Ceri gave Isobel a firm look. “Just go afore you get in trouble.”
Isobel stared at her friend, the heavy sensation of dread intensifying in her belly.
Impulsively, she grabbed the crystal charm Ceri wore about her neck.
Warmth filled her as she saw Ceri shuffling about her cottage, surrounded by her cats, older and content.
Isobel smiled. At least the feeling had nothing to do with Ceri.
She squeezed her friend’s hand and raced into the forest.