Chapter 6
Isobel hated to admit it, but Philip had been right.
Her body ached worse than it had the night before.
She clenched her teeth with every jarring step Jinny took, but kept her face stoic.
Stephen kept up a stream of chatter, and Isobel was glad for the sympathetic company.
They followed the wall for a mile or so until they came to a crumbling gap, then headed north again.
Philip stopped frequently, to rest the horses, he said, but she knew it was to let her dismount and hobble about.
He made no mention of the night before and seemed so indifferent to her she began to wonder if she’d imagined how he’d looked at her.
That gave her a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.
Though she couldn’t remember ever having met Nicholas Lyon, he was nevertheless her betrothed and already she felt a sense of loyalty to him.
She had no business engaging in flirtations with anyone.
And yet, she couldn’t deny she’d secretly fancied the idea of Philip desiring her.
True to his word, midafternoon they stopped in a village, and Philip rented rooms. He sent Isobel up to rest, and she didn’t argue.
She had no idea how long she slept, but the light outside the window was fading when she woke.
After tidying herself at the basin, she headed down the steps to the tavern.
The air was close and stank of lard candles, sweat, and stale ale.
She peered through the gloom, searching for her companions.
Before she reached the foot of the steps Stephen called to her.
The three men sat at a table near the back.
Two women and a man were with them. One of the women held a small child on her lap.
His hair was a mass of dark curls, and his face was smudged with dirt.
Isobel slid onto the bench next to Stephen.
“You look better,” he said. He hailed a serving lass and told her to bring Isobel some ale and a bowl of stew.
“I do feel better—thank you. Who are these people?”
Philip was in low conversation with the man. The younger of the two women stared openly at Isobel. Her dark hair was knotted at her neck and covered with a snood.
Stephen said, “Grace, meet Mistress Isobel MacDonell, daughter of MacDonell of Glen Laire.”
Isobel smiled uncertainly. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Aye, Miss.”
Stephen grinned. “She’s your new maid.”
“My what?”
“Philip said you needed a maid, and so here she is.”
Isobel opened her mouth and closed it. What could she say? “Surely such a young woman doesn’t wish to leave her family.”
“Och, I’m not young, Miss. I’m sixteen—almost seventeen. Old enough to be wed.” She slid Stephen a suggestive look that he seemed oblivious to. “Sir Philip says that if the MacDonell canna find a position for me at Lochlaire, he’d find me one at Sgor Dubh.”
“How kind of him,” Isobel said, feeling strangely uncharitable. She watched Philip impatiently. She was irritated he’d completely ignored her wish not to have a maid.
The other woman was apparently Grace’s mother.
The small child was growing restless and struggled down from his mother’s lap, disappearing beneath the table.
Isobel had not thought Philip even noticed, but when the child emerged from the other side, he caught the boy’s arm.
Lifting him under the arms, he passed him over the table, back to his mother.
The woman accepted the child with a wan smile.
“He’s a busy wee lad, aye?” Stephen observed, reaching across Grace to muss the boy’s hair.
“Oh, aye,” Grace said. “He’s into everything. Mum canna get a moment’s peace.”
Isobel made a sympathetic sound. “Whatever will she do without your help?”
Grace frowned and looked at her mother uncertainly.
Isobel plowed forward. “Your mother must rely on you a great deal. I feel awful depriving her of your help.”
“I’m sure the coin Sir Philip is paying her father will be of some comfort,” Stephen said, holding his tankard out when the tavern lass returned with Isobel’s stew.
Grace nodded. “Oh, aye, we do need the coin.”
Isobel gritted her teeth but held her tongue. If she carried it any further, it would be obvious she was trying to rid herself of Grace’s services.
Sir Philip and Grace’s father stood and left the tavern. Isobel watched them disappear through the door, chewing her lip. She could think of no way to convince the stubborn man to forget about a maid, so she might as well resign herself to it.
The child slipped away from his mother again and crawled about under the table by Isobel’s feet. He grabbed handfuls of her skirt to pull himself up and toddled to the next table to pull on a man’s cloak. Everyone seemed to find the child amusing, Isobel included.
“He certainly is a handful,” Isobel commented as the boy reached for a stranger’s ale and took a drink, sloshing it down the front of his gown.
The men laughed and plucked the tankard from the lad’s chubby fingers. The child frowned at his empty hands and moved on to the next table.
“Aye.” The woman sighed, smiling fondly at the boy. “But he always makes us laugh—and there’s little of that these days.”
Stephen asked if there had been many witch trials, launching Grace and her mother into a detailed description of a grisly lynching a fortnight past. Isobel grew silent, the sick feeling in her belly curling and twisting. It was all everyone talked about in England, too—the witch-hunts in Scotland.
By the time Philip returned, Isobel was staring at her congealing meal and the child was across the tavern, giggling hysterically as an old man produced nuts from behind his ears. His mother never took her eyes off him, but seemed relieved that someone else was entertaining the child for a change.
Philip passed the child, paused, and retraced his steps. He hefted the child up and carried him across the tavern. The woman seemed astonished when he thrust her son into her arms.
“He’s but a wean,” Philip said, his voice sharp as a blade. “You canna let him wander about at will. It takes but a second’s distraction, then he’s gone.”
The woman let out a surprised breath. “I never took my eyes off him, sir—”
“That’s not true, and we both know it. You were quite involved in your conversation with Stephen when I walked in.”
She became flustered. “I—I know most everyone here—”
“Most everyone? But not everyone?”
She shook her head. “But—”
“But a lot of strangers pass through this village, and all of them are not so nice. What if they had a taste for little boys, aye? I’ve known more than a few who do. Hell, I could snatch him up and you’d never see him again. Trust me—you’d never ken what happened if I’d a mind for evil.”
The woman began to cry silently, clutching her son to her breast. Her husband cleared his throat. “That’s enough, Sir Philip.”
Both Fergus and Stephen watched the proceedings warily, but with no surprise.
Isobel, however, was flabbergasted. She’d never seen a man give a woman such a tongue-lashing for her mothering skills.
Philip turned on the man as if to give him an earful when Isobel stood, removing her gloves and placing her hand softly on Philip’s arm.
“No harm’s done,” she said. “I was minding the lad, too. She watched him carefully, I vow it.”
Isobel could feel the tension thrumming through him.
When he still didn’t seem inclined to let the matter drop, she squeezed his arm.
His muscles were bunched tight, as if ready to spring.
His whisky eyes were hazy with some long-ago pain.
She felt it just from touching him, or his jack, actually; clothes retained something of their owners, though some fabrics were better than others for giving clear visions.
Leather was more difficult and usually only gave her feelings.
“Sir Philip, walk with me. I need some air.”
He turned to her, startled. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back to her eyes.
She smiled encouragingly.
He took a deep breath, glancing back at the man and his wife before nodding and letting her lead him from the tavern.
Isobel was certain Stephen would smooth the situation over while they were gone; in the meantime, she meant to find out why Philip would scold a complete stranger in such a manner—and about this old pain she sensed.
Philip stopped right outside the tavern door. “What?”
“Can we not walk?”
Philip looked up and down the dusty street, filled with villagers going about their business, his fine mouth set with impatience. “I don’t want to walk.” He turned back toward the door, but Isobel caught hold of his arm again.
“Do not go back in there angry.” She glanced around, then pulled him to the narrow alley between the buildings. He followed reluctantly. It was dark in the alley, and it smelled of rotting food and urine. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her expectantly.
“Whyever would you rebuke someone like that? The lad was in no danger.”
“You dinna understand. There are people out there that take bairns.”
“I’m sure there are, but we were all watching the boy.”
“It doesna matter!” His hand swept through the air violently, cutting off further argument. “If someone has a mind to, it doesna matter. Don’t you understand?”
Isobel put her fingers to her lips and gazed up at him. Tall and dark, and quite suddenly, vulnerable. Though she didn’t touch him, she felt strongly that this was about the sister Stephen had mentioned. “What happened to your sister?”
A shutter closed over his face. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Someone hurt her?” Perhaps his sister disappeared and was later found dead. Such things happened all the time. It had happened to the Attmores. And she’d not been able to stop it.
Philip ran a hand over his face, staring upward as if he were about to open up to her. She clasped her hands together, waiting. Then he shook his head. “Finish your dinner and go to your room. Lock the door.”