Chapter 2
Shortly after they left the old woman’s cottage Philip and his friends emerged from the wood.
A manor house was visible in the distance.
Philip reined in Horse, stroking the dark chestnut coat and murmuring calming nonsense.
The stallion’s eyes rolled, still uneasy about something that had spooked him and the other horses in the wood.
Philip had caught only a glimpse of it—a bit of golden red hair—before it vanished.
A wood sprite, he’d think, if he believed in such fancies, which he did not.
However, it did seem odd that Horse, usually a most steadfast beast, had become so fearful.
Stephen had wanted to give chase, but Philip had stayed the lad, they didn’t have time for foolishness. It was probably just another oddity living in the forest, none of their concern.
Fergus and Stephen gathered around him as he considered Attmore Manor.
Fergus stroked his thick red beard, fingering the narrow braids that adorned it.
His dark eyes were resolute. It had not occurred to him to chase after their woods phantom—he knew Philip’s ways by now.
He would do whatever Philip asked, no questions.
“What are we waiting for?” Stephen asked impatiently.
Philip’s gaze rested on the lad. Though he’d been with Philip several years now, he still had a great deal to learn.
But Philip did not question his loyalty, or his intelligence.
It was his tongue, however, that often proved problematic.
But he was only eighteen. Philip supposed he hadn’t been much different at that age.
“Not a word about her father,” he advised them, pointing his finger at Stephen, whose gregarious nature had gotten them all in trouble more times than they could count. “Or I’ll thrash you. And this time you’ll not sit a horse for a month”
Stephen nodded. “When will you tell her?”
“I’m not here to tell her anything. Our orders are to see her safely to Lochlaire, and that’s all we’re going to do.” Philip spurred his horse.
Stephen sputtered indignantly behind him, but Fergus held his tongue. He would not naysay Philip. And though Stephen might argue, he would obey.
The red brick mansion loomed before them.
Though it had a moat and a wooden bridge, they were merely for appearances.
This far from the border, such a country house didn’t need fortification.
Large glazed windows surrounded the top floors, conical turrets adorned the corners, and octagonal chimneys sprouted from the expensive clay-shingled roof.
Lord Attmore lacked for naught. After living in such comfort, Isobel MacDonell wouldn’t know what to do with herself at Lochlaire.
But then she was destined for an earl—a Scots one, but an earl nonetheless—so perhaps it was fitting.
According to her father, Alan MacDonell, chieftain of the MacDonells of Glen Laire, she’d lived with Lord Attmore and his family for twelve years.
She was four-and-twenty now. More than a decade she’d lived in such sumptuous luxury.
She was probably spoiled rotten and would whine and complain the whole journey north.
Philip sighed. It was for Alan that he did this—anyone else he would have refused. But he owed Alan a great deal. And besides, she wasn’t Philip’s problem, thank God. He was merely here to fetch her, then she was her father’s problem, and Philip could get back to important matters.
They cantered over the bridge and into the statue and shrub-lined courtyard.
Liveried servants rushed out to greet them and take their horses.
They were led into an expansive entryway.
The polished wood floor and paneled walls gleamed.
A servant led them to a carpeted drawing room and abandoned them.
When the door closed Fergus whistled under his breath. “God’s wounds!” He elbowed Stephen. “Yer uncle is an earl—do Scots nobles live like this?”
Stephen scratched at his head. His long blond hair was secured at the nape of his neck. “Uh…no. Not that he lives in a cave or anything.” He wandered over to a curtained alcove and fingered a heavy tassel. “This is silk…and gold thread, too.”
Philip frowned at the lad. He still stood where the servant had left them, his hands clasped hard behind his back. “Don’t touch that—your hands are dirty.”
Stephen grinned and rubbed the tassel against his blond-stubbled jaw. “Aye—maybe some bastard Scots will rub off on them.”
The door opened. Stephen dropped the tassel and straightened, his expression grave.
A portly man entered, his face florid. He toyed with the small mustache that feathered his lips, eyeing them suspiciously. He was well dressed, but in comfortable attire and riding boots.
“Lord Attmore?” Philip queried.
“Yes? And who might you be?”
Philip unhooked his jack and withdrew a letter. “Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Colquhoun.”
Attmore’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard of you. Whom do you seek here?”
“I’m here on MacDonell of Glen Laire business.”
Attmore sighed with relief and took the letter Philip proffered. He read it, his brow furrowed, but when he looked up his face was shining. “You’re here for Isobel? She’s finally going home?” His voice nearly trembled with joy.
Philip hesitated, not expecting such a reaction. MacDonell paid Lord Attmore well to ward her. He’d anticipated resistance, not elation. “Aye. She’s to wed the earl of Kincreag in a fortnight, so haste must be made. We leave at dawn.”
The sound of running feet caused them all to turn.
A woman appeared in the open doorway. Her cheeks blazed from exercise, and reddish blond curls surrounded her face like a halo.
A lace cap hung askew from her hair. Philip’s eyes narrowed.
It was the same type of cap he’d seen lying on the hearth in the old woman’s cottage in the woods.
He’d thought then that such finery was out of place in her rough cottage.
His gaze dropped to the lass’s feet. Cork-soled shoes, splattered with mud.
The shoes he’d seen beneath the curtain, though cleaner, had been cork-soled.
Not the slippers of a gentlewoman. Mud splattered the edge of her skirts, as if she’d been running through puddles.
By the time his gaze had traveled back up her willowy figure to her face, she’d composed herself and was trying to smooth down the unruly curls that had come loose from her plait.
Red-gold hair. Though he couldn’t see her back, he’d wager his life it hung in a thick ropelike braid.
It seemed he’d found the wood sprite. Though why such a thing would alarm Horse was a mystery.
She carried kidskin gloves in one hand and after a moment she slipped them on surreptitiously. “Lord Attmore,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.”
She was a liar and a sneak. She had known he was there—had raced them through the woods.
She pinned Philip with a warm green gaze. “I’m Isobel MacDonell.”
Philip sucked in a surprised breath and coughed.
Stephen was there, pounding on his back until he shrugged the lad off irritably.
“You are Alan’s daughter?” He’d not considered she might be his charge.
Bloody hell. This was not at all what he’d expected.
But now that he looked at her he could see she was a MacDonell.
In fact, she looked remarkably like her mother, Lillian, who’d died twelve years before.
Her expression chilled at his incredulity. “Why, yes. I am.”
Stephen crossed the room, seeking to smooth over their awkward beginning. “Mistress MacDonell, I am Stephen Ross, this is Fergus MacLean.” He indicated Fergus, who nodded and mumbled a gruff greeting. “And this is Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Colquhoun.”
Her cool green gaze swept Philip from head to toe. “A Keeper of the Dogs? Hmm…to what do we owe this honor?”
Philip frowned, unsettled that she knew Colquhoun history. After twelve years he hadn’t expected Alan’s daughter to even remember the Scots’ tongue, let alone any history.
Lord Attmore answered before Philip could. “Your father has sent for you, my dear!” He went to her and grasped her hands tightly in his. “You’re going home!”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Home?”
Attmore thrust the letter into her hands.
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? You must leave first thing on the morrow.
There’s packing to be done…arrangements to be made…
” His eyes moved rapidly as he thought of all that must be done.
“We’ll have your things sent after you. Worry not.
Just gather what you need for your journey.
” He patted Isobel’s shoulder. “I’ll see to the rest.” He nodded happily at Philip and hurried from the room, leaving Isobel to read the missive in stunned disbelief.
Philip felt strangely annoyed at Attmore’s good humor over the situation. She’d lived with the man for twelve years—he was a foster father to her. He shouldn’t be so happy to see her go. Isobel didn’t seem upset by his behavior. Perhaps she was accustomed to it. That disturbed him even more.
He watched her with narrowed eyes. She held the letter in her gloved hands, reading it over and over again. Gloves. Why would she put on gloves inside, when she’d not bothered with them outside?
Stephen roused Philip from his reverie with a hard slap on the shoulder. “Didn’t Alan send her a letter?”
“Oh, aye.” Philip retrieved it from his jack and crossed the room to her.
She raised her head, and his heart seized.
She was not at all what he’d imagined. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected, but not this fair, slender thing.
She looked nothing at all like her father.
Her face was narrow and fine-boned, her wide eyes were a pale, silvery green, and her hair… he’d never seen such a shade of red.
Her eyes seemed to shimmer as she stared at him, a question in them. “My father is bringing me home for my upcoming nuptials?”