Chapter 3 #2
The old woman dabbed her eyes with her apron and waved.
When Philip urged her forward she stumbled dramatically as if he’d pushed her.
“Ruffian!” She shrugged away from him.
Philip followed silently, amused by her behavior.
But his amusement quickly died at the memory of her running off alone.
Anything could have happened—then what would he tell Alan?
Just imagining facing someone he so respected and telling him he had lost his daughter made him sick with anger. He would never do that again.
“From now on you will not leave my presence unless you are accompanied by Fergus or Stephen.”
Her steps slowed a fraction, but she said nothing, keeping her back stiff.
“Do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand.”
Philip didn’t like being so harsh, but it was necessary. She was obviously reckless about her person, so he must take precautions. His anger slowly melted away on their return walk to Attmore Manor.
He watched how the sun streaming through the branches in shafts caught the coppery strands in her hair, glinting like metal.
It hung loose down her back but for the narrow plaits at the side of her head, pulling it away from her face.
Perhaps it was her age that led the Attmores to allow such behavior.
After all, she was a full-grown woman—most lasses her age would have children by now.
Alan had done her a disservice by leaving her a maid so long.
A husband would have worked out all the kinks in her behavior long ago.
She was probably set in her ways and would prove a most difficult companion.
Philip was thankful that was someone else’s problem.
He only had to deal with her for a week, so long as the weather cooperated.
Of course, it was spring, not a terribly cooperative time of year. Though Philip was not averse to traveling in the rain, unfortunately he couldn’t risk his charge’s health. But all was clear today, and they should cover a lot of distance before nightfall.
They emerged from the wood, and Isobel immediately veered away from him. He tensed momentarily, ready to sprint after her, but relaxed as soon as he saw she didn’t mean to bolt. She walked more slowly through the grasses, so she could walk beside him, though a dozen feet separated them.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
Oddly, Philip found he could only hold her gaze for seconds.
She had the most amazing eyes. Soft sage, surrounded by thick auburn lashes.
But it was more than the combination of extraordinary colors.
It was the way she looked at him. Direct and bold.
As if she could discern secrets in a person’s eyes.
“You were there yesterday, hiding behind the curtain. I thought you might return.”
Her pale brow crinkled questioningly. Her fair skin was a vibrant contrast to the reddish blond of her brows and hair. He looked away again.
“But how did you know it was me?”
He gestured to her feet. “Your shoes. I saw them beneath the curtains.” He waved toward her head.
“That…lace thing you wore on your hair yesterday, I saw it on the hearth drying. And your hair…it’s an unusual color.
I thought I saw it in the wood yesterday.
You spooked my horse. And your shoes and skirts were covered with fresh mud—you’d raced us through the forest.”
She stared at him, her mouth curved up on one side in a little smile, a dimple denting her left cheek. “How very clever. You’re quite observant.”
Suddenly Philip felt ridiculous. He’d not been fishing for compliments, yet he felt as if he were—and he was inordinately pleased that he’d gotten one. He cut his gaze away, fixing it on the manor in the distance.
“I wouldn’t be very good at what I do if I didn’t notice things.”
“What do you do?” She drifted closer; he could sense that without looking at her.
“I find people.”
“You find people? Whatever do you mean? Lost people?”
His chest tightened fractionally. He nodded. “Aye. Sometimes they’re lost, but usually they’ve run away.”
“Run away from what?”
Philip shrugged. “Criminals running from justice. Men running from their debts. Wives from their husbands…once even a husband from his wife.”
“I see. You’re some sort of seeker. Hmm…like a sleuth dog. It’s fitting, you being a Kilpatrick of Colquhoun.”
Philip narrowed his eyes at her and wished he hadn’t. She teased him. Her expression was lively, her mouth curved in a smile. She had very straight, white teeth.
He was not accustomed to being teased. At least, not by a woman.
“How do you know so much about Clan Colquhoun?”
Her smile widened. “You fostered with my father. You think I don’t remember you?”
Philip stopped, surprised. “You remember me?”
She walked a few more steps, then turned to face him, hands on her hips. “Aye. I didna at first—not until I’d thought aboot it. But clearly ye dinna remember me.”
Philip grunted at her put-on Scottish burr. “Even if I did, I wouldna recognize you anymore. You’re more English than Scots now.”
He started walking again, and she strode beside him, silent for a long moment. “Coming from you, I think that’s an insult.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “You don’t look like a Highlander. Where’s your tartan or trews?”
“I’m not fool enough to wear such things outside of the Highlands”
“Why?”
“No one likes Highlanders, and I have no desire to call unwanted attention to myself.”
Her brow creased, but she fell silent. He wondered what she was thinking but didn’t dare ask. She was far too forward for a lass—he shouldn’t encourage her.
“Do you know my betrothed, the earl of Kincreag?”
“I know of him.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Aye.”
She turned toward him, hands clasped before her, eyes alight with interest. “Really? What’s he like?”
Philip groaned inwardly. This was not a subject he had any business discussing with her. “Your father thinks well of him.”
She raised a brow. “I didn’t ask what my father thought of him. I asked what you think.”
“It’s not my place to make judgments on great lords.”
Her brow furrowed. “I see. You don’t like him.”
“I didna say that.”
“But all you do is equivocate. If you liked the man, you’d say so. However, you have apparently been taught good manners and will not disparage a man to his betrothed. That is admirable of you.”
Philip stopped in his tracks, hands on hips. “I’d rather not discuss Lord Kincreag with you—that is all. Whatever I might say—good or bad—could color your opinion in ways I canna imagine. I won’t do that.”
She gave him an impish grin. “I’m not foolish enough to let someone color my opinion of my husband before I even meet him. After all, if I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him, it’s only fair I allow him to do the coloring—don’t you agree?”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because I’m curious! Wouldn’t you be? I just found out last night I’m to be married to a man I don’t even know. It would be nice to at least know what he looks like.”
Philip sighed and started walking again. “Verra well. He’s a tall man…Rather large, too. He’s swarthy and…er…quiet.”
“Like you?”
“I’m not swarthy.”
“No, but you’re rather quiet. What’s wrong with swarthy? I think I’d like a dark man—the men in England are so pale. So feminine.” She slid him an appreciative sidelong look that slid from his head to his toes, her auburn lashes shading her eyes like fans of copper.
Philip’s groin tightened involuntarily. He ground his teeth together. The little minx had no idea what she was playing at. He hadn’t the time or inclination for games of this sort.
“Then you’ll be pleased with your betrothed, for he is very dark.”
She smiled at him. “I’m certain I will be. How old is he? Is he older than you?”
“By at least five years.”
“And how old is that?”
“I’m nine-and-twenty…so he’s at least five-and-
thirty. Mayhap older.”
“Mmhmm.”
He glanced at her. She’d picked a wildflower from the grasses as they walked and was plucking the petals away, her expression dreamy. It annoyed him inexplicably.
“My father said he’s widowed. What was his wife like?”
This was what Philip wanted to avoid. “She was very beautiful,” he said curtly, hoping to discourage further questions.
“Oh.”
She seemed troubled, and he wanted to assure her she had nothing to fear, she was far lovelier than the countess of Kincreag had been, but he held his tongue.
“Were they married long?”
“I know not.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“So he’s in need of an heir.”
“Aye, it seems so.” Philip was desperate to end this conversation. He stared fixedly at the manor looming closer, lengthening his stride.
“Did you ever see them together?”
“Look,” Philip said, “we’re back.” They were several yards away from the wooden drawbridge, but Philip jogged to it.
Fergus and Stephen waited in the courtyard with the horses.
Though she said not another word about Lord Kincreag, Philip knew the conversation was far from over.
He stopped at the door and waited for her to catch up.
She took her time, strolling toward him.
She stopped to exchange a few words with Fergus, who held the reins of a cream-colored mare.
She stroked the horse’s nose, and Fergus nodded emphatically.
The other horses shied and snorted as she walked past, and Horse even managed to jerk free of Stephen’s hold and trot away.
Stephen swore, chasing the beast across the courtyard.
Isobel didn’t seem to notice. When she finally joined Philip, he opened the door for her.
“I need to gather a few things. Am I allowed to go up to my room alone?”
“Aye—just hurry. We must leave.”
He watched her disappear around a corner, then joined his men.
“Where was she?” Stephen asked when he returned with a nervous Horse.
Philip frowned at his mount, stroking his neck until he calmed. “Never mind—just listen carefully. No one is to speak to her about her betrothed, Lord Kincreag. Do you understand?”
Fergus nodded, but Stephen scowled.
“I canna talk about her father. I canna talk about her husband. What can I talk to her about?”
“I don’t see any reason why you must speak to her at all.”
Fergus made a choking noise as Stephen just stared at Philip in disbelief. Philip sighed, realizing how absurd it was for him to forbid Stephen to speak to her. Especially Stephen, who spoke to anyone who stood still long enough to listen.
“Talk about yourself—you’re good at that. Talk about Fergus.”
“Me?” Fergus said gruffly, smoothing his hair down self-consciously. “What would ye say aboot me?”
Stephen grinned. “I’ll tell her how your wife is always winking at me when you’re not looking—Ah!”
Fergus grabbed Stephen’s sack of food and sent it sailing across the courtyard.
“Little bastard,” Fergus grumbled, when Stephen ran off to fetch his bag, still grinning. He turned back to Philip. “Don’t you think someone ought to tell her something?”
“No. Not our place.”
Stephen returned with his sack. “Our duty is to find the people and deliver them to the lion’s den—but never tell them what awaits them.”
Philip shrugged. “If the lion pays in gold, what do I care what he does with his prey?”
“Spoken like a true Highlander.”
Philip whirled at the voice behind him. Isobel was there, a small black-and-red checked arisaid draped around her shoulders and secured at the breast with the MacDonell of Glen Laire brooch—a griffin and a dragon, their tails entwined.
Her gloves were on, and she carried a small leather satchel.
She smiled at his dumfounded expression.
“What are you wearing?” he managed to choke out. It was unusually small, hanging barely to her waist and rather strained about her shoulders. It took him a moment to realize it was a child’s arisaid.
She walked past him and mounted her horse. Stephen and Fergus gripped the other horses’ bridles as they tossed their heads and skittered away from her, eyes rolling.
“What does it look like? It’s what all the Highland women wear, isn’t it?” She tapped the horse’s sides and cantered across the courtyard before reining in to look back at the men still staring after her.
“Come on. I want to go home.”
Stephen couldn’t get his horse to stand still long enough to mount and was berating the beast in an ear-singeing stream of obscenity.
Isobel nodded her head at the horses. “Don’t worry, they’ll get used to me and stop that soon enough.”
Philip stared narrowly at her a long moment, hands on hips, wondering why—or more appropriately, how she frightened their horses. Bizarre. Her own horse was docile as a cow.
He scanned the courtyard. No one had come to see her off. Some of the servants watched her departure warily, but not one friendly face. With a quick nod to Stephen and Fergus, they finally managed to mount and leave Attmore Manor behind.