Chapter 2 #3
She was surprised to find Sir Philip outside her chambers, his handsome face thunderous. He looked her over quickly, then pushed past her into the room.
“You were screaming.” He roamed the room, stopping to open the shutters and peer out the window.
Isobel watched him, speechless from his intrusion. He obviously took his duty very seriously. He paced to her bed and parted the bed curtains. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned back to her, hands on hips. “Why were you screaming? It sounded as if someone were killing you.”
A shudder wracked her shoulders, but she forced a thin smile and rubbed her bare hands together. “I…must have fallen asleep. I…had a nightmare and burned my hand.”
He crossed the room, frowning at her hands. “A woman your age should know better than to sleep with candles in bed.”
A woman my age? Her spine stiffened, indignant anger chasing the chill away. He still bore down on her, gaze fixed on her hands. When she realized his intent, she backed away, hiding them behind her back.
“I’m fine.”
His dark eyes were intent with purpose. “Let me see.”
Isobel bumped into the wall. “It’s unnecessary. You’re no healer.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Trapped between him and the wall, Isobel could only stare at him, eyes wide.
He was tall and beautiful in a dark, forbidding way.
His nose was straight as a blade, his mouth firm and hard.
His eyes were set deep below a smooth, straight forehead and thick brows.
As he came closer she saw they were brown and thickly lashed.
There was more there, too—a guardedness, a reserve that intrigued her.
She was trembling, afraid of him and uncertain why. He clearly meant her no harm and yet she wanted to flee. She remembered her foolish mistake of thinking him her betrothed, and her cheeks flamed. He’d been horrified at the very idea.
When he was before her she stared at his chest, since it was at eye level. He’d removed the buff jack, but still wore a quilted leather vest over his linen shirt, a thick sword belt yoked over his chest, so the ivory cross hilt was visible over his shoulder.
“Let me see your hands,” he ordered, his gaze fixed on her, demanding.
Isobel fisted them behind her back.
He held his hands out, and she stared down at them, anything to avoid the intensity of his eyes. She couldn’t think when she met his gaze. Strong, tanned hands reached toward her, dark hair dusting the back of them. He wore a ring on one finger; a tawny stone mounted in gold.
“Topaz,” she said. “Protects the wearer and improves vision.” She met his slitted gaze. “You do seem to squint. Does it help?”
His frown grew more pronounced. “I can see like an eagle.”
“And you’re modest, too.”
“It is a family ring. I wear it because my father wishes me to. No other reason.”
When he stepped away from her she let out the breath she’d been holding.
She’d managed to distract him. His back was to her—broad and heavy with muscle.
Her knees grew weaker. The vision of her mother’s death had drained her.
She needed rest. She wished he would just leave.
His presence in her bedchamber was most disconcerting. It suddenly seemed small and close.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, then glanced at her over his shoulder. “You’re certain you’re fine?”
“Perfectly.”
He nodded, scanning the room one last time. He started for the door.
“Sir Philip,” Isobel called impulsively.
He stopped at the door and turned back to her.
“How is my father? Is he well?”
The dark eyes slanted away from her. “Aye—did he say otherwise in his letter?”
“No.”
“There you are.” He started out the door again, pulling it closed it behind him.
Before it latched she called, “Sir Philip?”
The door froze, then opened slowly inward again.
His expression was bland and polite—expectant.
He was impatient with her. He wanted to escape.
That much was clear. Isobel was surprised that she felt slight amusement.
She had little experience with men other than her foster family—and, in her opinion, they didn’t count.
The three men who’d come to fetch her interested her greatly—most especially this one.
“Perhaps he is withholding information from me,” she suggested. “To protect me. Fathers do such things, you know.”
He pinned her with a hard stare. “And if he were, it would not be my place to go against his wishes.”
Isobel went to the door. “So there might be something amiss?”
“I didna say that.”
“But you wouldn’t, would you? Even if something were wrong.”
His jaw hardened, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Everything is fine, Mistress MacDonell.”
“Do you promise?”
He exhaled loudly through his nose. “I canna do that. What if something has happened since I left Lochlaire?”
“But you can vow to me that everything was well when you left it, can you not?”
His hand dropped from the door latch, and he rubbed at his right eyebrow. “I don’t know all that goes on at Lochlaire—”
“But my father said in the letter he trusts you implicitly. Surely you are in his confidence.”
He seemed quite disturbed now, which convinced Isobel something was definitely amiss.
She quickly cataloged things that might be in Sir Philip’s possession that her father might have also touched.
Unfortunately, touching skin gave her no visions—it had to be an object.
Her gaze went to his ring, glinting in the candlelight as he rubbed at his brow.
He’d surely clasped hands with her father, but the contact would have been brief.
It was unlikely she would learn anything useful—and she might discover something she didn’t want to, that she had no business knowing.
It is not your right to know another’s mind.
Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
Isobel argued with herself, but when it became clear Sir Philip not only wouldn’t answer her question but was also easing out the door again, she held out her burned hand.
He paused, staring down at the proffered limb.
“My burn. You wanted to see it.”
After a moment’s hesitation he came forward and took her hand in both of his.
His hands were warm and strong. She shivered.
She realized immediately he was in control, and she would not be able to touch his ring without being obvious.
She glanced up at his face and her gaze snagged.
He was so serious. Grim. Determined. His fingers were on her wrist as he turned her hand to see the palm, but she couldn’t look away from the lashes, several shades darker than his hair, shadowing his cheeks.
His thumb stroked over the inside of her wrist and her breath caught. He met her gaze and held it. His eyes were searching, intense, and warm enough to turn her already weakened knees to water.
“It’s not a bad burn,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He released her hand abruptly and backed out the door, looking anywhere but at her. “Good evening, Mistress MacDonell.”
“Good evening,” she said to the closed door. She clasped her hand to her belly and closed her eyes. Oh dear. She had enjoyed that far too much. Her heart still galloped like a herd of crazed horses, and her face burned. She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, gazing about the room.
Tomorrow morning she would leave all of this. Forever. She couldn’t say she was sorry. She’d always been an outcast, despite the Attmores’ reluctant kindness. But she would miss Ceri.
Ceri! She didn’t even know Isobel was leaving. Isobel considered sneaking out, but Sir Philip was apparently nearby, perhaps even watching her room. Well, he would have to sleep sometime. She would slip out before dawn and be back before he knew it.