Chapter 4 #2
Isobel accepted the flower, her cheeks warm. “Think nothing of it.”
“When I saw it, I thought how bonny it would look in your hair.”
Isobel’s face was in full flame now. She obligingly tucked the flower behind her ear and preened momentarily. He nodded admiringly.
“I don’t understand all this fuss about a plaid.”
Stephen grew serious. “Well, he’s right to make a fuss of it.
I’m a lowlander, but the redshanks are my neighbors—I ken.
” He tugged on his reins, bringing his horse closer to hers, as if to tell a secret.
He tilted his head toward her, his eyes fixed on the men in front of them.
“People have a verra low opinion of the redshanks. I did, too, ye see, so ’tis no lie I’m telling you.
The mountains are like a great wall, keeping the redshanks in and us out.
And the lowlanders like it that way. But sometimes redshanks do come out, and when they do, folks assume it’s to cause mayhem.
And well, most of the time they’re right. ”
When she just frowned at him, he said, “When folks see a Highlander outside the Highlands, he must be guilty of whatever crime has been committed recently. And if none has been committed, well, then he must be minding to. So they’re quick to put a stop to it.
So you see, as soon as a redshank is spotted outside the Highlands, people expect trouble and are on the defensive—often attacking afore asking questions.
” Stephen shrugged, straightening in his saddle.
“We dinna need that kind of trouble. So it makes sense to look like everyone else.”
“That does make good sense,” Isobel admitted grudgingly.
Stephen grinned and winked. “I knew you’d understand if someone just explained it to ye. Dinna blame Philip—he’s not good at that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing? Explaining obscure orders?”
“That…and conversation in general—until he knows ye real well, that is. He’s an honorable man, Mistress MacDonell, and will guard you with his life, I vow it. But he doesna often see why he needs to explain himself to others.”
“My thanks for not being as obtuse as your leader.”
Stephen chuckled.
“Now that that’s out of the way, tell me, how was my father when last you saw him?”
The humor fled from Stephen’s face and a blush crept slowly up his neck. “He was…uh…” He seemed to struggle for a word, then his eyes lit up. “He was verra talkative. He had lots to say. Instructions, warnings—the like.”
“Warnings?”
“Oh, you know. ‘Take care of my daughter,’ that type of thing.”
Isobel opened her mouth to ask another question, but Stephen blurted out, “Did I tell you my da knew the Scots Queen Mary? The one your queen beheaded?”
Isobel’s brow furrowed. “My queen? I’m Scots, too!”
“Oh, sorry. I canna stop thinking you’re English. Anyway, the one the English queen beheaded?”
Isobel sighed. “No, you did not tell me.”
Stephen excitedly launched into the tale of his plotting father and uncles, and Isobel resigned herself to learning no more about her father.
Sir Philip set a grueling pace that Isobel was unaccustomed to, and soon they left the forest behind.
Though her bum and thighs ached, and her face was gritty with road dust, she refused to complain.
She would not give Sir Philip any more ammunition to judge her with.
Stephen was an entertaining companion and made the hours go by more quickly, but soon the pressure in her bladder and the gnawing in her belly caused her to speak up.
“Stephen?” she interrupted.
“Aye?”
Isobel watched Sir Philip’s broad shoulders ahead of her. He didn’t look the slightest bit weary. Did he not function like a normal person? “Will we be stopping soon?”
“Not likely.”
Isobel tried not to slump dejectedly. “I’m so hungry—don’t you eat?”
“Och, aye,” he said, digging around in a sack tied to his saddle. He came up with an egg and some bread. “Here.”
Isobel smiled weakly, accepting the gifts. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “That’s not all. I have other…pressing needs.”
“Ohh…” Stephen said, looking very wise. Then before she could say another word he yelled, “Philip—we need to stop.” When Philip reined in and fixed a thunderous frown on Stephen, the lad jerked his head at her meaningfully. “ ’Tis a woman thing.”
Isobel nailed her smile to her face and merely raised her brows in question. Philip sighed and scanned the sky briefly. “Verra well.”
They left the rutted road and dismounted. Isobel trudged through the tall grasses heading for a particularly large, flowered shrub a dozen yards away. It took her a moment to realize she was being followed. She turned to find Sir Philip a few steps behind.
“Could I have a moment?”
He nodded at the bush. “I’ll wait on the other side.”
Isobel gaped at him. “What is this? I cannot relieve myself without you or one of your henchman hovering over me?”
His brow lowered threateningly. “Lord Attmore might have let you run wild, but I won’t.”
Isobel flung her arm toward her bush. “I’m merely want to squat behind the bush, not burn it.”
“Nevertheless, I am responsible for your safety.”
Isobel gave the bush a considering perusal. “I suspect the bush has no designs on me—but you can never be too sure.” She snatched up a tree branch and batted at the leaves experimentally. White flowers showered to the ground. “See, it’s perfectly harmless. No heathens hiding within.”
He watched her antics with thinly veiled annoyance. “You may jest if you like, but I’m going nowhere. Finish your business so we can carry on.”
Temper simmering, Isobel shoved her egg and bread at him, and hurried around behind the bush. She was horribly embarrassed and so talked loudly. “I trust I saved Stephen a thrashing?”
“A thrashing?” came his voice through the bush.
Isobel waved away the buzzing insects. “Yes. He said if he didn’t succeed in getting me to remove the arisaid, you would thrash him so he couldn’t sit a horse.”
There was a moment of silence, then she heard a deep rumbling. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing. She struggled with her garments, but by the time she’d rounded the bush he was sober again, only a faint softening to his firm mouth hinting that he had ever experienced humor.
“I’d wondered why he winked at me.”
“So it was a lie?” she said. “A trick?”
“Stephen is good at sweetening the lassies—though I’ll admit I expected you to be a bit old to fall for pretty words.” He reached toward her hair, the large, gloved fingers brushing her cheek accidentally as he touched the flower. Purple petals fluttered to the ground. “And childish gifts.”
Isobel removed the wilted flower from her hair and threw it on the ground.
“I am not yet a hag!” She brushed the stray curls away from her hot face and tried to summon some dignity, though considering her situation, it was becoming increasingly difficult.
She snatched her food from him. “And I felt pity for him. I never want to be responsible for another’s hurt. ”
He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “I did not call you a hag. You’re just…mature for a maiden.”
To her horror tears burned at the back of her eyes. “Apparently my betrothed is not so repulsed by my advanced age!”
“Well, you’re practically an heiress after all—”
Isobel let out an enraged breath and whirled away from him, heading for her horse. It was worse that she’d thought these things herself—but to hear them from such a man was more than she could swallow.
She’d only gone a few paces when he caught her arm, swinging her back toward him. Before she could let loose the fury on the tip of her tongue, he said, “Forgive me—I’ve mucked this up. I meant none of that as it sounded. I vow it, I do not think you’re a hag. Heiress or no, ye’re verra…bonny.”
Isobel’s anger dissipated, and a different kind of heat crept up her neck. “Please don’t choke on your lies for me.”
His jaw hardened, and he closed his eyes briefly. “It’s not a lie—I vow it, I just feel…foolish, saying it.”
Isobel considered him from beneath her lashes. He still held her arm, his grip firm but not punishing. Her heart stuttered when she met the dark eyes gazing down at her. His wide mouth was compressed with regret, his eyes fixed intently on her. Waiting.
He released her abruptly, and she swayed, her watery knees almost giving way. She caught herself and smiled up at him. The moment was becoming awkward, but Isobel couldn’t seem to form any words. He thinks I’m bonny!
He cleared his throat and looked at the horses. “May I ask a question?”
She nodded.
He frowned at his mount. “Did the Attmores treat you well?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
His frown deepened, and he fixed it on her. “They didna even come out to see you off. You lived with them for twelve years.”
Isobel looked at the ground. She drew in a deep breath, wondering what to say.
Her father’s warning had found its mark.
She’d been drained last night after Sir Philip had left her.
Experiencing her mother’s death had been harrowing, and she’d not realized how deeply it had affected her until she’d returned to her bed, exhausted from the vision and sparring with Sir Philip.
It was often that way when she saw violence.
Her father knew it. That was why he’d sent it.
He wanted her to feel what would happen to her if anyone believed her a witch.
But her father’s letter also indicated Sir Philip knew about Lillian MacDonell and didn’t credit it. So long as he believed she didn’t credit it either, she was safe from him.
She met his eyes and decided on the truth—or at least part of it. “They were afraid of me. It’s not that they didn’t care. They did, in their own way, and treated me with great kindness and consideration. But I was a constant reminder of…bad things that had happened.”
“They think you’re a witch.”
She nodded.
He looked back to his horse, his brow furrowed meditatively. “Why are the horses afraid of you?”
“I know not.”
Isobel couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She wondered if her betrothed was as handsome.
When he turned back to her his expression had smoothed, was gentle almost. “Come,” he said, tilting his head toward the horses. “We must be on our way.”
Isobel nodded and followed him, her palms damp inside her gloves.
She longed to take them off and decided she would once they were riding again.
They stopped at her horse, a cream-colored mare her father had brought as a gift on his last visit.
Philip looked around. Fergus examined his horse’s hooves, but Stephen was nowhere in sight.
Philip stroked her horse. “We’ll rest the horses here.”
Not knowing what else to do, Isobel removed her gloves and began eating her bread. Philip had grown quiet, his hand absently resting on Jinny’s withers. He stared at her hands.
She stopped eating, her heart leaping fearfully.
Why would he stare at her hands so intently?
She tried to remind herself that he had no reason to think her hands were any different than anyone else’s, but the intensity of his gaze was almost a physical thing, as if he held them again, as he had last night, stroking at her wrist…
“Your burn is better?” he asked.
“Yes. I’d forgotten about it.”
“I noticed yesterday—you wear gloves inside, but not outside.”
“I’ve been wearing them outside all morning. I only took them off to eat.”
“I’m not talking about today.”
Irritated, she said, “My hands were cold.”
“It was warmer inside Attmore Manor than outside—something you won’t often find in Scotland, mind you.”
Rather than address his question, she asked, “Why is that?”
“It’s verra cold in the Highlands. The best you can hope for is to get out of the wet wind.”
Isobel smiled. “Good, I love cold weather.”
“It snows, too.”
“How exciting! I think a snow-covered landscape is beautiful, don’t you agree? And it’s been years since I’ve engaged in a real snowball fight. The Attmores’ sons and daughters were such mealymouthed boobs—too good to play anything fun.”
The sides of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back a smile.
“Why, Sir Philip, I believe you think I’m not suited to your harsh Highland climate.”
He turned his gaze on her, the corners of his mouth deepening into a smile. Her breath caught. Dimples dented both his cheeks. A smile transformed his whole face. “I think you’ll do just fine, Mistress MacDonell.”
“If we’re to travel together, you must call me Isobel.”
“I’d rather not. It’s unseemly that you travel alone with us. I’ll find a lass to tend you in the next village.”
“I can tend myself, thank you. No need to waste any coin.”
“Mistress MacDonell—”
“Prithee,” Isobel said, an edge of irritation to her voice. The last thing she needed was a servant to reveal her secret. The men at least would keep an appropriate distance. “Call me Isobel. And I don’t want a servant. My father trusts you with my life—he wouldn’t do that if you weren’t worthy.”
He focused on her horse again, stroking it silently. She gazed at his profile, so strong and masculine, and asked, “What happened to your sister?”
He stiffened, his hand dropping from her horse. “Mount up.”
Without sparing her another glance, he strode away from her, yelling at Stephen to get his arse back there posthaste.
Isobel sighed and stared down at her bare hands.
Should she try to discover what she could of him?
It ate at her, her curiosity about this man.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d desired to know so much about another.
Her hands curled into fists. She could not.
Her mother had frowned on probing others without their knowledge.
She snapped out her gloves and pulled them on briskly. Besides, there was always the possibility she would discover something she didn’t want to know.