Chapter 4
Isobel hadn’t gone far when the sound of galloping hooves quickly surrounded her. She said, not looking at the man beside her, “We are cutting through the forest? It’s quicker, you know.”
“Aye.” Sir Philip made some gesture that Isobel didn’t quite catch, since she was pointedly trying to ignore him. Stephen and Fergus rode ahead.
She adjusted her arisaid self-consciously; still embarrassed from the way he had looked at her.
She must not be wearing it correctly. It wasn’t her fault.
It had been twelve years since she’d worn the thing.
A horrible thought struck her. What if they were no longer the fashion in Scotland, and he thought her a fool?
She tightened her jaw. He could think her a fool all he wanted, she didn’t care.
“Have you no lady?”
Isobel frowned at him. “Lady?”
“A female servant?”
“Oh…no.” She didn’t add that she hadn’t had one for years—the Attmores couldn’t find anyone willing to be a personal servant to her.
They were all afraid. He seemed troubled—no doubt by the prospect of three men and one woman traveling alone.
Isobel wasn’t concerned. If her father trusted them, so did she.
“Why are you wearing that?” he asked, his voice low.
“Because we are going to Scotland, are we not? This is what I wore when I left. It only seems right that I wear it when I return.”
“That is…uh…the verra same one, too, aye?”
She shot him a narrow look. “It is.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “You must remove it. We cannot travel through England and the lowlands looking like redshanks.”
“I am not ashamed of what I am.”
His large, gloved hand rested on his thigh, the reins gripped loosely in his other.
He certainly looked nothing like a Highlander.
Not that she’d seen many in the past decade.
Her father was the most recent, two years past, and he always brought a few clansmen.
When he visited he didn’t wear the belted plaid, or breacan, as he called it.
He wore plaid leggings, or trews, and a plaid about his shoulders like a cloak.
But he still looked a Highlander. Sir Philip was dressed like a common knight; nothing, but perhaps his overlong hair and faint Scottish burr marked him as aught else.
He could easily pass for a lowland Scot.
“You’re implying that I am ashamed?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You’re dressed like an Englishman.”
“I’m in England.”
“You shouldn’t pretend to be something you’re not.” She bit her lip and looked away. She sounded like a self-righteous ninny—and a hypocrite at that. She certainly didn’t go about advertising she was a witch. She hoped the conversation would go no further—perhaps he would forget she’d said that.
But she was not so lucky. “You shouldn’t wear an arisaid if you dinna know how. And if you’re going to wear one, at least wear one made for a woman.”
Isobel’s face flamed. She fingered the black-and-red fringe of the arisaid, keeping her eyes averted. “It’s been a long time since I wore it.”
“Take it off,” he said gruffly. “You brought a cloak, I trust?”
“What? I don’t want to.”
“I dinna care. You can think what you want of me—it’s nothing to me. However, I have no intention of being attacked or killed because you dinna ken any better. Now take it off.”
Isobel puffed incredulously. “You expect me to believe someone would kill me because I’m wearing this? That’s absurd!”
“I dinna care what you believe.” His voice froze her. His dark eyes glinted beneath thick brows. “I will not take any chances.”
Isobel knew she should obey him—her father said he trusted Sir Philip above all men, so he must know what he was doing.
But dammit! She felt humiliated and angry.
And at the moment she hated him. He was cold and unpleasant and nasty.
He thought she was a fool for wearing a child’s arisaid and she felt like one now.
But she’d never been one to let on how she truly felt.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t control the heat that had flushed through her, burning her cheeks and undoubtedly staining them crimson.
But that could be attributed to any number of emotions.
She chose to let him believe it was anger—which she was feeling in no small amount.
“No.”
When he didn’t respond she glanced at him.
He stared straight ahead, his narrowed gaze fixed on the distant forest, his whiskered jaw bulging.
He looked dangerous and capable of great violence.
A frisson of fear ran through her, and she looked forward quickly, her heart tapping insistently in her throat.
“Did you say no?” He sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth.
“I did.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze cut to her, sharp as steel. “Why would you say no?”
Pleased she was affecting him, however adversely, she ran her gaze quickly up and down him, and said, “I don’t like your behavior.”
“So you defy me?”
“You are not my sire.”
“But I have your sire’s authority—you read the letter. You are my charge until we reach Lochlaire.”
“Oh, such conceit! Does everyone bow in obeisance to your great authority, Sir Philip?” When he just stared at her, speechless, she plunged on, “Well, I am neither impressed by nor afraid of you. And I do not think anyone will murder me in my sleep for wearing a plaid about my shoulders. That, sir, is the end of it.”
He stared straight ahead. After a moment he gave a jerky nod, as if he were in some silent conversation with himself, and spurred his horse forward, leaving her alone.
Isobel closed her eyes quickly and let out a shuddering sigh of relief. Her heart pounded and sweat dewed her upper lip and forehead. It trickled between her breasts. What a difficult man! She quickly opened her eyes again, lest he look back and think he’d upset her.
He was conversing with Stephen and Fergus, and after a moment Stephen reined in his horse while Sir Philip and Fergus continued onward. Stephen’s mount pranced impatiently, waiting for Isobel to catch up.
When they were riding side by side, Isobel turned to look at the young man.
He was broad-shouldered and heavy-chested.
A wildflower was tucked incongruously into a hole in the sleeve of his jack, the bright purple brilliant against the buff leather.
Sandy whiskers covered his chin. His thick blond hair was pulled back from his face and secured at his neck with a leather tie.
Like Fergus and Sir Philip, he was bareheaded.
“For men who are trying to blend in you’re remarkably ignorant of the English love of hats.”
“Och—not ignorant, Miss. I just hate them.”
Seeing Stephen had a ready and friendly smile, Isobel relaxed. After a moment, she said tentatively, “Am I wearing the arisaid wrong?”
Stephen’s pale blue gaze inspected her, then he shrugged. “I dinna really pay much attention to such things, but aye, it seems so. You’ll have to ask Fergus or Philip. I’m not a redshank myself.”
“You’re not?”
They entered the cool dark of the forest.
“My uncle is what you might call a frontier lord—or at least that’s how he likes to style himself.
His lands are close to the Highlands, and so the king often calls on him to deal with the more unpleasant redshanks.
But my uncle prefers to make friends with them, and so sent me to foster with the one of the Colquhoun clans. ”
Isobel’s eyebrows shot up. “Sir Philip is a chieftain?”
“Nay—not yet, at least. Perhaps not ever, though he is heir.”
“Why are you with Sir Philip then and not with his father?”
Stephen shrugged. “Because I’d rather be, and since no one at Sgor Dubh seemed to care what I was doing—I’m with Philip. He can teach me more than his sire ever could.”
Isobel snorted, causing Stephen to raise a brow in amusement.
“You dinna believe it? He can find anything.”
“I can find things, too,” Isobel said. In fact, she was rather good at it. Probably better than Sir Philip.
Stephen shook his head. “No, I mean really find things—well, mostly people, but he found some sleuth dogs once and a stolen cow. He’s so good, people pay him. Lots.”
“Why is the son of a chieftain tracking beasts and criminals?”
Stephen looked thoughtful, then said, “It’s probably because of his sister. She’s the only person he’s never found. But then, so far as I know, he wasn’t in the business when she was lost.”
“His sister?”
“He doesn’t talk about it much, but Fergus has told me some, and I did hear a good bit of it from his stepmother when I was at Sgor Dubh.” He grimaced as if the memory were extremely unpleasant.
Isobel fell silent, thinking about this new piece of Sir Philip. She wanted to know more, but Fergus and Sir Philip had fallen back a bit. Sir Philip twisted around in his saddle, watching them both suspiciously.
Stephen noticed Sir Philip and cleared his throat. “Uhm…. I was wondering if you might not wear that…thing?”
Isobel shot a poison glance at Sir Philip. He faced forward abruptly.
“So you were sent to charm me into removing the arisaid.”
Stephen grinned rakishly. “Am I? Charming?”
Isobel couldn’t help but laugh.
He laughed, too, but kept at her. “I pray you—take it off. If I don’t succeed, I vow he will thrash me tonight so I canna sit a horse.”
Isobel sobered immediately. “What? That’s horrible! He would beat you for something he couldn’t do himself?”
Stephen nodded emphatically. “That and more.”
Isobel hesitated a moment, but Stephen’s expression was so earnest she unfastened the brooch securing the plaid and swung it off her shoulders.
She folded it neatly and laid it across her lap.
The forest was cool, but she’d always enjoyed the chill bite of the forest air.
She breathed in deeply the scent of trees and damp leaves and earth.
“There,” she said. “That should satisfy his majesty.”
“Oh, aye.” Stephen grinned and withdrew the purple flower from his sleeve, offering it to her gallantly. “My thanks, Mistress MacDonell, you’re a kind woman.”