Chapter 6 #2
“What?” He tried to walk away, but she caught his arm again. “Philip—”
“I mean it, Isobel. Do as I say.”
Isobel stood in the alley, frustrated and hurt.
Why wouldn’t he talk to her? She left the alley and started to follow him into the tavern, but stopped.
She still wanted a walk. It was too hot and close in there.
And for some reason she felt as if a beehive sat in her belly every time she was near Sir Philip.
After two days on horseback the last thing she wanted to do was lock herself in a dingy rented room.
Besides, she’d slept all afternoon. She wasn’t tired.
If she went back inside, he’d probably force her upstairs and set a guard on her.
She’d just take a short stroll—down the street and back, perhaps stopping at the bakers to see if they had anything sweet left.
Her mouth watered at the very thought, and that decided it.
She was in dire need of something sweet.
She’d be back before he even noticed she was gone.
When Philip returned to their table at the tavern Grace and her parents were gone. Philip stared at their empty places, hands on his hips, and sighed deeply.
“I suppose it’s foolishness to hope they’re taking Grace home to pack.”
Fergus set the small bag of coins on the tabletop. “They said it wasna worth it. Grace feared ye’d harm her if she displeased ye.”
Philip slumped down on the bench. He’d not meant to get so angry, but couldn’t help himself. He didn’t understand what was wrong with people—didn’t they understand how precious and fragile the life of a child was?
He spied Isobel’s untouched bowl of stew and twisted around to stare at the door. “Did she come in?” He glanced at the empty stairs.
“Nay,” Stephen answered readily. “She’s still out there.”
Philip sighed again, watching the door. She was being stubborn and difficult because he’d refused to walk with her.
How tiresome. He didn’t want to go after her.
She disturbed him. Besides her being achingly beautiful, there was something else about her that stirred him.
Since he’d first seen her at Attmore Manor he’d been preoccupied with her, and her innocent interest in him was not helping matters.
He recognized the signs even if she didn’t—the darkening of her eyes, the shallowness of her breath, the slow flush that stained her pale, flawless skin.
If she dragged him into another alley, he couldn’t be responsible for what he did.
He jerked his head at Stephen “Go get her.”
Stephen slid off the bench eagerly and left. Philip frowned after the lad. He’d certainly taken a liking to her. Why that bothered Philip was a mystery. God’s bones—she was betrothed. It mattered little what he or anyone else thought. She belonged to another man.
Stephen returned to the doorway. He caught Philip’s eye and shrugged.
Philip was on his feet. “Go check the room in case we missed her,” he ordered Fergus as he headed for the door.
“She said she wanted to go for a walk,” Stephen said when Philip joined him outside. “I’m sure that’s where she is. She’ll be right back.”
“Wait here in case she returns.” Philip looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way she’d gone.
He headed west, stopping in each doorway, scanning the interiors for her distinctive autumn gold curls.
He didn’t sense her presence until he arrived at the baker’s.
The front of the shop was empty. The counters were picked over, just a few hard rolls left.
The soft murmur of voices could be heard from the back room.
Philip started for the door to the back when it opened.
Isobel came out, her mossy eyes blank, empty.
She held a bun glistening with honey in one hand, half-eaten, and in the other she held a wooden box, banded with iron and locked with a stout iron padlock.
She clasped it oddly: against her middle, with her bare hand cupping the padlock.
Two people entered from the room behind her, a fat balding man and his equally fat wife.
If the flour coating their hands and clothes was any indication, they were the bakers. Both watched Isobel anxiously.
“What the hell are you doing?” Philip asked, moving between her and the bakers, scowling at them. He didn’t like how they looked at her.
Isobel hushed him, not even turning her glassy eyes on him. She walked to one of the counters and stood there, her back to Philip. He’d had enough of her antics and grabbed her arm, swinging her around to face him. The box crashed to the ground, and her bun flew across the room.
Her expression immediately cleared. She blinked, then glared at Philip. “Look at what you’ve done. You’ll buy me another bun, Sir Philip.”
“Why did you leave? Did I not make myself clear yesterday? You are not to go anywhere unaccompanied.”
“Let me go!” She looked over her shoulder at the bakers. They watched the proceedings worriedly.
“She was just helping us, sir,” the man said. “Dinna fash, you can have another sticky bun—I’ll not charge you. Can you find the key?”
“Mayhap—if this great beast will release me.”
Philip reluctantly released her, his curiosity aroused. “What’s going on here? What key?”
Isobel walked the perimeter of the room until she reached the stale rolls. Her hand hovered over them, finally grabbing one. She dug her fingers into it, ripping it in half. Something gray tumbled to the ground. She picked it up, holding it out for the couple to see. It was a small iron key.
“You dropped it in the dough this morning.”
The baker came forward and took the key from her fingers. “Thank ye, Miss! I canna even remember having it near the dough.”
Isobel stood several inches taller than the man and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s no wonder, with that daughter of yours. You thought she was safe in bed this morning when you got up to make the bread—and she comes sneaking in. Out all night.”
He opened his mouth and looked at his wife in amazement. “She’s right. I did have the key then. That is the last time I saw it!” He smacked a hand over his face. “Thank the Good Lord no one bought these today!”
His wife scooped up the box and hurried into the back room. “I’ll be right back with your sticky bun, lassie. I’ll bring one for your lad, too.”
Isobel’s face lit up. She slanted Philip a sly look, and said in a low voice, “I get both.”
Philip shook his head. “You get neither. We’re leaving.
” He took her arm again, dragging her out the door.
He didn’t understand what was going on, but whatever it was, he had a bad feeling about it.
The bakers seemed like decent folk, but it took precious little to rile people into a hysterical lather these days.
All they’d have to do is tell someone with witch-fever about how Isobel miraculously found their key and she could find herself in a great deal of trouble. In Scotland, suspicion equaled guilt.
“Wait!” Isobel cried, but it was too late, he had her out the door and was dragging her back up the street. She tried to dig in her heels, but he clamped a hand on the back of her neck and forced her to walk beside him.
“Let go of me,” she growled.
“Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves,” Philip said, smiling and nodding to a frowning woman who passed.
Stephen waited outside the tavern for them. He took one look at Isobel’s face and his grin faded. Once inside the tavern Philip led her to their table. “Finish your stew.”
“I don’t want it.” She glared straight ahead, her shoulders rigid.
“I see. You only want bread.”
She turned her icy green stare on him. “No—I just want you to stop shoving me around.”
Philip’s temper flared. He’d never harmed a woman. “I wasn’t shoving you.”
She made a rude sound. “If you’re finished pushing me around, I’d like to go.”
Philip wanted to shake her, but Stephen appeared. “I’ll, uh, take her to her room.” He slid between Isobel and Philip as if he were afraid Philip might snatch her away.
“Fine. And make sure she stays there.”
“So I’m your prisoner?” she snapped. “I wonder what my father will think of this?”
“He’ll take a strap to yer arse when I tell him about yer behavior.”
Her face flushed, and her mouth flattened. Philip was afraid she might explode. He stared back at her, brows raised.
“Perhaps you should save him the trouble.”
A wicked grin pulled at his lips as he imagined her bottom beneath his hand. “All you have to do is ask, lass—I’d be happy to oblige.”
The innuendo was lost on her however. She glared at him and thrust out her chin. “Go ahead! I’m not afraid of you.”
Philip gave Stephen a meaningful look. People were beginning to stare.
At Stephen’s prompting, she finally turned and went upstairs.
Philip let out the breath he’d been holding.
Damn, she was a hellion. Alan had warned him that she could be difficult, but he’d not anticipated these kinds of difficulties.
What the hell had she been doing at the bakers?
Damned if it didn’t look like some kind of sorcery. That kind of behavior was deadly.
Philip ran a weary hand through his hair as Fergus joined him. He took the bottle of whisky his friend sympathetically offered. The sooner they arrived at Lochlaire the better. He didn’t care if she was bruised from head to toe, there would be no more special rests for Isobel MacDonell.
Isobel was famished. She paced her tiny room, wishing for her sticky buns—even the cold stew was beginning to sound appetizing.
It was well past midnight. Her single candle would soon gutter out.
Isobel crossed to the window and stared down at the nearly deserted street.
An old man lay on the ground outside a building across the way.
A night watchman roamed the streets with a lantern, his silhouette hazy in the thickening fog.