Chapter 2 #2
Philip still held the packet Alan MacDonell had given him. He nodded, offering it to her.
“He has chosen a husband for me?”
“Aye.”
Her gaze dropped to the packet, but she didn’t reach for it. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Is it you?” she asked quietly.
Philip blinked, uncertain he’d heard her correctly.
“What? Me? No. Good Lord, no.” He spoke with more force than he’d intended—only because he’d feared the same thing when Alan had sent for him.
He’d been greatly relieved that Alan had only this task in mind and not yoking Philip to one of his daughters.
Her gaze jerked back to his. “I see.” She snatched the packet from his hand.
He’d insulted her. He’d not meant to. “I—no, I mean, that’s—”
“I’ll see you on the morrow.” She spun around and left the room, with Philip still struggling to form a coherent apology.
He dropped his hands to his sides and exhaled.
“That went well.” He did not spend a great deal of time in the company of gentlewomen; nevertheless, he had never been so ill-mannered.
The woman had set him off-balance from the moment she’d appeared in the doorway.
He scowled, not liking any of this and wishing he could do it over.
Stephen slapped him on the back. “It doesna matter—remember? We’ve got our orders.”
Stephen laughed at Philip’s sour look.
“Where are you going?” he called after the hulking lad as he exited the room.
“I’m hungry. There’s a kitchen about here somewhere.”
When Fergus followed, Philip put out a hand to stop him. “I didn’t mean to insult her. Surely you can see that.”
Fergus smiled and gripped Philip’s shoulder. “‘Course I see that. Dinna fash—she’ll get over it.”
Stephen and Fergus were right. What did it matter? Why was he letting it trouble him at all? He shrugged it off and followed his men in search of dinner.
Isobel shut the door to her room firmly, then bolted it for good measure.
She went to her bed and drew the bed curtains.
With a candle and the pouch Sir Philip had given her, she crawled into the privacy she’d created.
She unfastened the ties on the leather pouch, withdrew a letter and a small bone casket, decorated with knotwork and silver.
Isobel recognized it. It had been her mother’s.
She set both the letter and the casket on the bed with shaking hands and stared at them.
Part of her was relieved her father had not forgotten her, excited to soon be reunited with him in her old home.
But the sense of foreboding had not gone away—it had only intensified since Sir Philip’s arrival.
It must have something to do with her father.
Something was wrong. She must discover what.
Slowly, she removed her gloves and set them aside. As soon as she took her father’s letter in her hands the stone in her belly grew heavier. She held the missive between her palms, probing at the darkness that shrouded it. There was a sense of great weariness. An aching in her joints. Resignation.
Alarmed, she hurriedly broke the wax seal and spread it on the bed near the candle.
To My Loving Daughter Isobel,
How I’ve longed for this day to arrive, but now that it has there is so little time.
Remember you Alasdair Lyon, Earl Kincreag?
He was a good friend and lord to me. It has been many years since he passed on and his son, Nicholas, the current earl, is widowed.
He agreed that a union between our families would be advantageous.
He is a good man and will bring you much happiness.
I regret that I am unable to bring you home myself, but I am indisposed.
I trust no man more than Sir Philip Kilpatrick.
He will guard you with his life. But you must have a care.
He heeds not the stories of your mother.
I know you are ever like your mother in all you do, and so you must exercise caution.
Give no one reason to suspect you are aught but what you appear.
I’m sending your mother’s charm to you. I’ve kept it close to me these many years since Lillian’s death, but it is yours now.
Use it to remember why you must guard your secret with vigilance.
I count the days until your homecoming,
A. MacDonell
Isobel frowned at the letter. It revealed nothing of why this leaden weight of dread would not leave her.
Why had her father felt weary and resigned when he wrote it?
Why could she discover nothing from the parchment?
As she rubbed it between her palms, probing at it with her mind, she wondered if her father had cast some sort of veiling spell over the letter, for she could get little else from it.
He was not a powerful witch, but did know a few tricks from being married to one and had an uncanny talent for knowing before anyone else if a woman was pregnant and whether it was a girl or boy.
He’d never been wrong, so far as Isobel knew.
He would know that Isobel would try to discover all she could from anything he’d held.
What was so terrible that he must hide it? Disturbed, Isobel set the letter aside and focused on the casket. She’d seen it and the charm inside before, but had not held them since her mother’s death. She was afraid of what she’d see.
But her father wanted her to see it. So she took the casket in her hands.
It was strong with her father’s sadness and love, and Isobel smiled, digging deeper.
Her mother was there, just as Isobel remembered her.
Her face and her form, looking happy and beautiful, delighting Isobel.
She hardly remembered what Lillian MacDonell had looked like, except that her hair had been reddish blond and her eyes green.
Isobel held the casket reverently against her breast, seeing her mother in her mind.
So lovely. But it was more than that, she felt her mother.
The warmth of her love, her essence, captured in the casket for Isobel to unlock.
Her love for her children was there, too, as well as a deep desire to protect her family.
Isobel had never forgotten her mother’s teachings, and as an adult, she’d come to understand them in a way she never could as a child.
Isobel and her sisters were to use their gifts only for good, never for evil.
Never for their own gain, but to help others.
It had been important to Lillian that her children become white witches.
Lillian had given Isobel her own special warnings.
Isobel possessed the same gift as Lillian MacDonell, and so she knew the temptations and dangers Isobel faced.
It is not your right to know another’s mind.
Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
Never look into another’s soul unless you’re certain you are welcome.
Isobel had tried to follow her mother’s teachings, though sometimes her curiosity got the best of her. She sighed, stroking her hands over the casket, wishing her mother was there now to guide her. Perhaps if her mother had been more willing to look into other’s souls, she could have saved herself.
Isobel lifted the clasp holding the casket closed. Inside was the charm her mother had worn as protection from evil. She’d not been wearing it the day they’d taken her.
The rough-cut peridot lay in its silver setting, the watery green reflecting the candlelight.
Her mother had always worn it on a green ribbon about her neck.
The ribbon was still there, stained and ragged.
Isobel swallowed and reached for the pale green stone.
She’d barely laid hands on it when she saw her mother’s face, tear-streaked and flushed from the proximity of the fire that blazed around her.
The fire grew fierce, feeding on the branches thrown onto it.
And then she was inside her mother, seeing through Lillian’s eyes, feeling through her skin.
A mob surrounded the stake, their faces twisted, all running together, the air wavy from the intense heat. They shouted at her, cursed, and called her foul names.
“Alan!” her mother cried. “Alan!” Where was he?
She searched the faces and beyond them, to the empty hillside.
Why did he not come for her? Was she to die this way?
Thoughts of her children and husband surged through her, causing waves of despair to crush her.
Would her daughters be safe from the mob?
Or would they be lynched, too? She focused all her power on her husband. The children. Save them.
Through her tears and the heat of the fire she saw a dark figure ride to the top of the hill and turn, looking back at her. He raised his hand and rode away. A flicker of recognition jolted her, quickly followed by horror.
“No!” Lillian screamed.
The wind gusted, and her face burned. Her red hair billowed out around her and caught. Lillian screamed as the fire seared her, agony and despair ripping through her.
It was dark, and someone hammered at her door. Isobel panted, uncertain of where she was. Her face was slick with cold sweat. She no longer held the charm. She felt its weight on her leg, where she’d dropped it. The candle had gone out and her hand burned. Her breath seemed loud in the closed dark.
Who was the figure on the horse and why, if Lillian had recognized him, was his identity hidden from Isobel?
It made no sense. Isobel almost always knew most of what the subject of her visions thought and felt, at least during the period of time she saw, especially in a vision so vivid.
And yet the horseman’s identity was hidden from her, as if a wall of silver mist obscured his name and face.
The hammering began again.
“Mistress MacDonell! Answer me or I’ll break down the door!”
Isobel scooted off the bed and through the bed curtains. The candelabra beside the door blazed. Isobel hurried on wobbly legs to the door and threw it open.