Chapter 5
It was nearly dark when they stopped for the night.
Isobel’s entire body throbbed, the lump of dread in her belly finally drowned out by something much more painful.
She tried very hard to hide her discomfort, but knew, when Stephen grasped her elbow to help her to a blanket he’d spread out, that she fooled no one.
While the men tended the horses, Isobel tried to relax, surveying their campsite.
They’d made good time, despite the muddy roads, but they were still in England.
It was clear that Sir Philip hadn’t wanted to stop.
He’d argued with Stephen that there was no cover, but when Hadrian’s Wall had come into sight, they’d ridden for it.
Isobel leaned against the crumbling wall that stretched away as far as she could see.
She wondered how they were going to get over it.
She had no recollection of the wall on the frenzied journey south twelve years ago.
If they’d crossed it, surely she’d remember.
It was as tall as Philip and thick with fuzzy moss, which served as nice padding, protecting her aching back from the stone.
They were at the top of the rise, and in either direction she could see the wall ripple away into the distance like a ribbon.
Fergus built a fire. He smiled and nodded to her, but went about his work silently.
She could hear Stephen helping Philip with the horses, chattering nonstop.
Isobel gazed up at the waxing moon. Soon it would be May Day.
The thought brought forth a flood of May Days past. Her fondest memories were those in Scotland, before she’d been sent to England.
Her mother always planned the local celebrations, and Isobel and her sisters would be put to work picking flowers.
They did more playing than picking, but Lillian MacDonell never seemed to mind.
Isobel sighed deeply and heartfelt, missing her sisters and regretting the years they’d lost. Her foster sisters had never filled the emptiness inside of her from being torn from her family.
She wondered, as she oft did over the years, what her sisters, Gillian and Rose, were doing and where they were.
Though she’d begged him for information, her father told her naught and wouldn’t allow her to write them, for fear the letters would be intercepted.
Would she see them again when she returned to Lochlaire?
Her heart swelled at the thought, giving her a new sense of hopefulness about the journey.
“Tell me, Fergus,” Isobel said, “does my father still celebrate Beltane as he did when I was a child?”
Fergus glanced up at the moon. “Nay, lassie. Things have changed in Scotland—and prithee dinna call it Beltane—ye might make folks suspicious, and that’s the last thing ye want to do. They’ve burned lasses for little more than suspicions.”
Isobel’s bones were as cold as the stones at her back. “We cannot even celebrate May Day?”
Fergus straightened, the fire blazing, and dusted off his huge hands. “Weel, I didna say that. Folks still do celebrate it. It’s the kirk that doesna like it. They’ve stopped it in lots of places.”
“Glen Laire?”
“Och, no—no one tells yer da what ter do. He stopped last year when…” He blew out a long breath, his cheeks above the copper beard reddening. “I better go see what Philip wants.”
“But he didn’t call you…” It was too late, Fergus was gone.
Isobel balled her gloved hands in frustration. There was definitely something odd going on. They were hiding something, and Isobel meant to find out what.
Stephen joined her moments later and eased down before the fire.
He passed her some dried meat and fruit, and a skin of ale.
Isobel practically ripped her gloves off.
She took the skin between her hands and leaned back against the wall, as if she were merely resting, and closed her eyes.
Many people had touched the skin, and she received a jumble of confusing pictures—the most surprising being Stephen and a young woman engaged in a passionate embrace.
Isobel cracked an eye at the lad, but he was quiet for once, eating and staring into the fire.
Alan MacDonell. She focused on her father, imagining his face, his scent, his voice, but there was nothing. The visions dimmed to nothing.
“Are you going to eat that?” Stephen asked.
Isobel opened her eyes. He’d finished his meal and was eyeing hers. She put a protective hand over her food and nodded.
“Could I have a drink then?”
“Oh—yes.” She passed him the skin, wondering who his lady friend was. She couldn’t just ask—another frustrating aspect of her gift. To ask was to reveal she was privy to information she couldn’t possibly know, and asking leading questions often grew tiresome before she ever learned anything.
The crunch of footsteps drew her attention to Fergus and Sir Philip’s approach.
She watched Sir Philip beneath her lashes.
His face was shadowed, thoughtful. He’d not spoken to her since she’d asked about his sister.
She tried not to be disappointed, but it was hard.
For a moment it had seemed as if he truly liked her.
And that had made her inexplicably happy.
He lowered himself to the ground beside her, and it took her a moment to realize he watched her. She met his eyes questioningly.
“There’s a village not far from here—half a day’s ride—we passed through it on our way to fetch you. We’ll stop there tomorrow so you can rest in a bed. Do ye think ye can hold out till then?”
Isobel shrugged. “I’m fine—don’t stop on my account. I’ll not slow you down.”
Philip poked at the fire. “It’s a little late for that.”
Isobel straightened indignantly. “What mean you? I’ve not complained once. I’ve kept up just like a man!”
Philip snorted, dipping his hand into a sack and coming up with a handful of dried fruit. “Hardly. We’ve covered half the distance we would have without you.”
Isobel looked at Stephen and Fergus, who both averted their eyes politely. She glared at Sir Philip. “Well, forgive me. I didn’t ask you to ride at a snail’s pace. That’s your doing, so don’t blame me.”
“If we’d gone any faster, I’d have to carry you the rest of the way. You can barely walk.”
“I’m perfectly fine. Just a little sore, but I’m sure it will be better tomorrow.”
Philip chuckled, and had Isobel not been so angry, she might have swooned at the deep rumbling of his laughter and the way it lit his dark eyes. Instead, she asked harshly, “Why are you laughing at me?”
“You’ll not feel better on the morrow—I vow it. In fact, you’d best eat up and get some sleep. We’re leaving at first light.”
“In addition to being a bloodhound you are also the expert on sore arses?”
Stephen snorted through his nose, and even Fergus stifled a loud guffaw.
Sir Philip grinned unrepentantly. “I am at that.”
Isobel tried to hold on to her anger—but it was difficult with him smiling at her like that. Her lips quivered to respond, so she looked away.
“As for sleep,” she said, eating a dried berry, “I never retire so early.”
Philip shook his head in amusement.
“I know,” she said, sitting up, alert. “Someone tell a story.” Stephen leaned forward eagerly, but Isobel cut him off. “Not you, Stephen. I’m sure we’ve heard all of yours. What about Fergus?”
Fergus shook his head gruffly. “Och, no—mine aren’t fit for such gentle ears.”
Isobel rolled her eyes and turned to Philip. “Sir Philip? Surely you have a story.”
Philip didn’t say anything for a long moment, staring at the ground thoughtfully. “No—I think I’d rather hear a story from you, Mistress MacDonell.”
When he turned his dark gaze on her this time, her skin felt hot and prickly. He held her eyes until she felt sweat trickle between her breasts. “I…I don’t know any stories.” Her voice sounded breathless, unfamiliar.
“I think you do. Tell us what you know of Clan Colquhoun.”
Isobel settled against the wall, drawing a blanket over her. It was quite cool out, despite the fact she was being assaulted with odd waves of warmth.
“I know Colquhoun is a small clan, and there are several families that call themselves Colquhoun—several minor lairds and the chief, The Colquhoun—Sir Humphrey.”
“Aye, my father is a chieftain who owes fealty to Sir Humphrey.”
“I know you hate the MacGregors.”
“And they hate us in equal measure.”
“I remember…when I was ten, I think…you must have been fifteen.”
The humor fled from Philip’s face, and he watched her intently. “Aye.”
“You were fostering with my father. I used to come out and watch the men train sometimes. I asked my father who you were, and he told me you were a Keeper of the Dogs. When I asked what that meant, he told me about some old law…if a person should kill another’s hound he must either pay damages or guard the man’s house himself for a year and a day.
One day, a dog owned by the smith attacked a young boy.
He killed it in the fight. The king condemned the boy to stand guard over the smith’s possessions for a year and a day—that is how the lands where Sir Humphrey resides got its name. ”
Full dark had fallen. The fire crackled, limning their faces in red and orange. Philip continued to stare at her, his expression odd, wondering almost, but perhaps that was the fire and shadows.
“I remember you now,” he said softly. “So much has happened since then…when I was fifteen, we still had Effie—everything was different then. Sometimes I forget what it was like…” His voice trailed off, his gaze traveling over her face, caressing her almost.
Isobel swallowed, her mouth like sand.
“Yes, I remember you now,” he repeated more firmly, as if growing more confident in the memory. “And your sisters—such wee things, one dark, another with hair as red as Fergus’s. And you…” He fell silent, his gaze fixed on her.
Isobel’s throat grew tight, her body tense, awaiting his next words.