Chapter 3
Philip stopped by Isobel’s room on his way down to the morning meal.
He paused outside her door, debating what to do.
It was unlike him to be so indecisive, and yet, he’d found their conversation last night disconcerting.
It had been inappropriate for him to be in her bedchamber alone, but when he’d heard her scream he’d not been thinking at all, only responding.
Odd, now that he thought of it, that no one else responded to her screams.
Besides all that, he’d dreamed of her. That troubled him more than aught else.
In his dream, things he’d purposefully ignored about her last night, had come back to him vividly.
The softness of her skin, her warm scent, the way her pulse had raced beneath his fingers.
That moment he’d touched her hung suspended in his dream, allowing him to explore every nuance of her until he’d forced himself awake, disgusted.
She was Alan’s daughter and meant for another man.
He had no business even thinking about her in such a manner.
As Alan was like a father to him, he should view her as a sister.
Now that he was in a foul humor, thanks to her, the last thing he wanted to do was face her again.
But he had his duty. He pounded on her door relentlessly, hoping she was asleep so he could rudely awaken her.
His knocks went unanswered. When he eased the door open he found the room empty, the bed made.
He didn’t find her in the great hall either.
Stephen was at the long table with Lord Attmore, carrying on an animated—and apparently one-sided—conversation, a bowl of boiled eggs and a loaf of bread in front of him.
Attmore simply watched Stephen yap and eat, a slightly bemused expression on his face.
An older woman sat on the other side of Lord Attmore watching Stephen, her mouth pinched and white.
“Philip,” Stephen said, after he washed down an entire egg eaten in one bite with some ale. “Tell these two my da did know Queen Mary.” He pointed a peeled egg at Attmore. “He was even part of a plot to help her escape her English prison.”
Philip sat beside Stephen, stealing an egg from his bowl. Stephen frowned at him and drew the bowl closer, putting a protective hand over it.
Philip nodded. “It’s true.”
Stephen nodded sagely.
“Though I suspect Stephen has taken some liberties with history.”
Stephen scowled, but continued eating.
Lord Attmore shook his head as Stephen continued to eat voraciously. “You’re a big lad, eh? Mine still aren’t half so large and ate like birds.”
Stephen swallowed his egg and took a long pull of ale. “It’s me mother—she was but a common servant, daughter of a blacksmith. My da was the bastard son of the earl of Irvine—not a wee one in that family either.”
The woman made a soft gasping sound and fumbled with the silver pomander about her neck, waving it under her nose.
Lord Attmore seemed to just notice her and introduced her as his wife.
She gave Philip a stiff smile and went back to shredding a piece of bread, keeping a careful eye on the hulking young man across the table from her.
Stephen appeared oblivious to her unease as he grinned at her, but Philip knew better—he enjoyed making snobs like her uneasy.
“Where is Mistress MacDonell?” Philip asked. “I checked her room this morning, but she’s not there.”
Attmore stroked his mustache. “She’s not? Hmm…She could be anywhere, I suppose.” He didn’t seem overly concerned as he placed a piece of herring on a slice of cheese and popped it in his mouth.
Philip was becoming annoyed at Lord Attmore’s lack of interest in his charge. He was Alan MacDonell’s representative, after all. And Isobel MacDonell was practically an heiress. The resources of Clan MacDonell were not insignificant—even to a rich Englishman such as Lord Attmore.
“It is important that she is located. I mean to leave within the hour.”
Attmore and his wife exchanged alarmed glances.
“You’ll not leave without her?” Lady Attmore asked.
Philip only stared at them silently, increasingly irritated at their attitude about Isobel. She couldn’t be that bad.
“I’ll find her at once,” Attmore said, rising from the table.
Lady Attmore’s smile was strained. “Worry not—we’ll find her. We wouldn’t want you to leave without her.”
“I have no intention of leaving without her.”
Lady Attmore laughed nervously. “Of course you don’t.”
Philip stared down at his egg, still uneaten. Then he pinned Lady Attmore with a hard look. “Am I the only one who heard Mistress MacDonell screaming last night?”
Lady Attmore seemed uncertain how to answer. “No…”
“Then why was I the only one to look in on her?”
She sighed wearily. “After a time, you’ll come to pay her…unusual behavior no mind.”
Stephen frowned, but continued shoving eggs and bread in his mouth and washing it down with ale.
“Screaming is alarming behavior. Not unusual. She burned herself, you know.”
“Oh?” Lady Attmore seemed only mildly concerned. Seeing Philip’s incredulity, she ventured, “She’s unharmed, I trust?”
“Aye. Good of you to inquire.”
Her mouth flattened at his sarcasm. Stephen stopped eating, eyebrows raised, recognizing Philip’s growing anger.
“Prithee, take no offense, Sir Philip,” Lady Attmore said, gathering her shredded bread into a neat pile. “You cannot understand what it’s like to live with someone like her. I cannot say I’m sad to see her go. It would be a lie.”
“Someone like her?” Philip repeated. “What mean you? She seems a normal, if not spirited lass.”
Lady Attmore snorted delicately. “Hardly normal.” She glanced at Stephen then sniffed. “I suppose I’ll tell you, as you’ll discover it for yourself soon enough, but it’s always good to be forewarned.” She paused, fixing Philip with a raised-brow look. “She’s a witch.”
“That is a dangerous accusation you make,” Philip said softly. Not half as dangerous in England as it was in Scotland, but serious nonetheless.
Lady Attmore stared at Philip with hard eyes. “I do not wish for her to end up like her mother, I vow it, I do have a certain…fondness for her. But she is a witch. You will see.”
A bell began to clang, and Lord Attmore appeared in the doorway. “Sir Philip? I cannot seem to locate her. When she hears the bell, she will return.” Though his words were confident, sweat sheened Lord Attmore’s face, and he couldn’t seem to let his mustache alone.
Philip fought down his rising panic. She was not lost—just because they couldn’t find her immediately, didn’t mean she was lost. But logic rarely had any effect on his agitation—only action. In the event she truly was lost, he couldn’t risk letting her trail go cold.
Fergus strode into the room, coming swiftly to Philip’s side. Lady Attmore rose from the table and backed away from the enormous Scotsman, holding her pomander in front of her nose.
“Ready the horses,” Philip ordered Fergus and Stephen. “We leave as soon as I return.”
The lad was on his feet, stuffing the remaining eggs in a bag. Seeing that the Attmores appeared to be finished eating, Stephen gathered the rest of the food into his sack.
Philip jogged out of the hall. It was impossible for him to sit about idly and wait. Besides, that’s what he did. He found people. He did not lose them. Well, not anymore.
He left the manor on foot, closely inspecting the grass on his way to the forest. The grass was long and he immediately found a fresh trail.
The blades were bent forward, indicating she’d gone toward the wood.
No dew dampened her trail, so she’d walked this way within the last few hours, wiping the moisture away with her shoes and skirts.
In the forest the trail was clearly visible—she’d come this way frequently.
He hurried along, keeping an eye out for anything unusual.
It led him to the cottage where the old woman who’d given them food and drink lived.
The clang of the bell was muted, but if she’d been listening, she should have heard it.
He hammered on the door. After a bit of scuffling within, someone shouted, “Who’s there?”
“Sir Philip Kilpatrick. I seek Mistress MacDonell.”
After a moment the door opened a crack, and the old woman’s face peeked out. “She ain’t here.”
“May I come in?”
The woman hesitated. “Why? I told you she ain’t here.”
Philip put his hand on the door and pushed. “I’d like to have a look, if ye dinna mind.”
The woman clearly did mind, but seeing he meant to enter, she relented, swinging the door wide. “See? No one here but me and my cats.”
Philip went straight to the blanket hung at the back of the cottage. The woman began to protest, but Philip pulled it aside. Isobel MacDonell sat cross-legged on the narrow cot, gazing up at him with wide green eyes.
The tension drained out of him, replaced with anger. How careless she was! A woman of gentle birth should not wander about the woods unattended. How could the Attmores allow this?
Isobel seemed to recover herself and gave him a smile. “Sir Philip! Why…you’re up early this morn—”
She yelped as he grabbed her arm and hauled her off the bed. “What do you mean by running off and telling no one where you are?”
“What?” She tried her jerk her arm away, but he dragged her to the door. “I don’t have to tell you where I go!”
“Oh dear,” the old woman moaned, trailing after them. “She didn’t do aught, sir. She was just coming to say good-bye to an old woman.”
“Sir Philip! Release me at once!”
He released her arm, but only to push her in front of him. “Move. We should have been gone by now.”
She whirled around, arms crossed under her breasts, and stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not finished saying good-bye to Ceri!”
He moved aside, and when she tried to walk past him, he caught her arm again. “Wave.”
She huffed up at him.
“And get it over with—I havena time for this.”
She exhaled through her nose, like a bull readying to charge. “Good-bye, Ceri! I shall miss you!”