Chapter 6 #3
Isobel’s stomach growled painfully. Last time she’d peeked out the door, Stephen had been slumped against the wall, guarding her.
She’d struck up a conversation with him, but it was cut short minutes later by Philip yelling at him to shut up or else.
But surely Philip was asleep by now—and she knew if she asked nicely Stephen would find her something to eat.
She eased the door open and peered into the corridor. No candles lit the inky darkness, though there was a gray patch of light at the far end, near the stairs, from a high open window. Her eyes narrowed, probing the darkness, but could discern nothing.
“Stephen?” she whispered. When she received no response, she called again. Maybe he’d fallen asleep? She slipped through the door and into the hallway, feeling in front of her for the spot where she’d last seen Stephen sitting.
He was gone.
“Stephen?” she called again, louder this time. No answer. There were several doors in the hallway, but she had no way of knowing which one might be his. She decided to venture down the stairs herself. Perhaps the ostler would be there—or she could sneak into the kitchen and find something.
She crept quietly toward the lessening of complete darkness that indicated the stairs, her hands on the wall. She was almost there when she heard the soft creak of boot leather and something blocked her vision. She put up her hands just as she bumped into something warm and solid.
“Stephen?” she said hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, Mistress MacDonell.”
Isobel froze, her hands curling into the worn leather. Sir Philip.
She tried to push away, but he caught her shoulders, pulling her toward the stairs.
When they were both in the shadowy gray light from the open window, he glared down at her.
Isobel’s heart lodged somewhere in her throat, cutting off her ability to speak.
What would he do? She found herself clutching at his arms, afraid he meant to throw her down the stairs in his fury.
“Where are you going?”
“I—I was looking for Stephen.”
“Why?” The single word was a growl.
Isobel’s eyes widened. “I’m hungry…he always has food.”
The muted moonlight shadowed his face, emphasizing the clean straight lines of forehead and nose, the firmness of his whiskered jaw, the swell of his bottom lip.
His punishing grip relaxed. “Why are you awake?”
“I don’t sleep much…and since I slept earlier, I’m not tired.”
His gaze raked over her face. After a moment he released her, but when she tried to slip away he planted his hands against the wall, his arms on either side of her, trapping her.
She pressed her back into the wood, staring up at him.
He leaned close to her, and she caught a whiff of whisky.
She shivered with unease—he’d been drinking.
That would only exacerbate his irritation with her.
His eyes glinted. “Where do ye think yer going?”
She smiled. “Back to my room.” She slid down the wall, as if to slip under his arm, but he leaned down with her, his arm still blocking her. He was trying to intimidate her. He was succeeding, but there was no reason for him to know that.
She met his dark gaze. “Prithee, don’t let me keep you from your bottle—from the stench, you’ll soon forget this incident.”
She saw a flash of white and his deep laughter rolled over her.
He leaned even closer, as if to antagonize her with the scent of whisky.
Unfortunately, his nearness did not have his intended effect.
She could see how silky his hair was this close, how fine and dark his long whiskers were, several shades darker than his light brown hair. How soft his mouth looked.
She averted her eyes, staring instead at the leather-clad arm blocking her escape.
“I’ll let you go—so I can get back to my cups,” he said sarcastically, leading her to believe perhaps he had spilled the whisky on himself, for he seemed far from inebriated. “But first, you must answer one question.”
She straightened, still pressed hard against the wall at her back.
He did not straighten with her. In fact, he leaned closer, bracing his forearm on the wall near her head.
Her heart fluttered and her skin felt flushed and warm, but she kept her face impassive, raising a bored brow, still refusing to look directly in his eyes.
“Very well.”
“How did you know the key was in the roll?”
Her pulse leapt. She licked her lips and swallowed.
“Simple, really. I went to the bakers’, looking for something sweet, and found the baker and his wife searching their shop frantically.
I asked questions about what they searched for.
From their answers I deduced they’d lost the key to their moneybox in the wee hours of the morning. What does a baker do in the wee hours?”
His mouth curved slightly, dimples denting his cheeks. “Bake.”
“See? It was naught but deductive reasoning.”
His lashes lowered as his gaze traveled over her face.
She found she was holding her breath and struggled to breathe normally.
She’d never had a man stand so close to her.
The last time she was this close to a male, she was fifteen, and that seemed like a lifetime ago.
Philip unnerved her. She could smell him, warm and male beneath the lingering fragrance of whisky.
She could feel the heat coming off him, warming her.
“But how did you know it was in that particular roll?”
She shrugged. “Lucky guess. They told me those were left over from their first batch. I would have ripped them all apart. If I didn’t find it, I would’ve then advised them to visit each customer who’d bought bread from their earliest batches.”
He considered her, suspicion still in his eyes.
She’d known at the time she probably shouldn’t have helped the baker and his wife, but she couldn’t help herself.
Sometimes the magic seemed to swell within her, demanding release.
She’d known immediately that she could find the key by touching the padlock—and why not?
It was simple enough. She’d done it hundreds of times and knew how to make it look like cleverness rather than cunning.
So what if it was witchcraft and not deductive reasoning?
Who had to know? She thought her story was a very convincing one, and it made her bold.
She stared up at him expectantly, daring him to find a hole in her explanation.
“What about your eyes?” he said.
Isobel raised her brows questioningly, wishing for just another inch between their bodies.
She felt closed in, surrounded by him. Her thoughts skittered about her mind, unable to stay on his questions, straying instead to his voice, his face, his warm breath wafting against her cheek.
A delicious shiver moved slowly through her, from her nape to her heels, making her eyelids heavy. She hoped he didn’t notice.
“My eyes? What do you mean?”
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were recalling something troublesome. “You’re eyes were…odd, as if you were blind.”
Isobel looked away from him, her mind racing. She often was blind when having a vision. And now that he’d brought it up, she remembered that moment. She’d been following the baker in her mind. He’d been carrying a huge tray of rolls to the counter.
“I’m sure you were imagining it. I can see perfectly well—perhaps not like an eagle, but adequate.”
His fingers, bare and warm, touched her chin.
She sucked in her breath. He tilted her face up so she was forced to look into his eyes.
She was breathing hard—not just frightened, but something else that tingled through her body, making her skin unnaturally sensitive.
It seemed as if she could feel the soft touch of his fingers all over her body, burning her to her toes.
“I did not imagine it.”
“Then that’s just the way my eyes look. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
He shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving her face, his thumb stroking the skin of her neck. Her breasts tightened and grew heavy. Her mind was sluggish.
“That is not how your eyes look…it’s dark, and yet I can still see you in your eyes.”
She tried to laugh at his words and tell him he was being foolish, but the sounds died in her throat.
And then suddenly his mouth brushed over hers, stealing her breath.
She met his gaze, astonished, a strange excitement coursing through her.
She wanted him to do it again, but didn’t know how to ask.
Perhaps it had been an accident? She stared up at him, her breath shivering between her lips, begging him in her mind to do it again.
His gazed burned over her, lingering on her mouth. She licked her lips, her own gaze falling to his mouth, wide and sensual. It had happened so fast, she wasn’t even certain what his mouth had felt like, and she so wanted to know.
He whispered something to her. Baobh le suil uaine. The Gaelic. It had been years since she’d heard the Highland tongue—longer since she’d spoken it herself.
Before she could dig into her memories for a translation, he leaned into her and this time when his lips touched hers she pressed herself toward him.
His hand slid behind her head, holding her still as the pressure of his mouth grew more insistent.
She thought fleetingly of her betrothed, Nicholas, but it quickly dissolved in the warmth of Philip’s mouth, the sweetness of it piercing through her.
Her lips parted, and his tongue invaded, stroking against hers, coaxing her body to melt.
His taste was potent—of whisky and man. Her arms came around his neck, clinging as if she would be washed away.
She’d never been kissed like this. Warmth rippled through her.
He pulled her away from the wall and his arms came around her, his mouth fierce and insistent.
His hands slid down her back, cupping her bottom.
Isobel whimpered when he pressed her hard against his body, miserable that she couldn’t seem to get any closer. She ached and burned for something she knew he could give her.
Then he thrust her away. She sagged against the wall, staring up at him, panting, her body vibrating with lust. She’d never felt anything like it, only knew that she wanted more. He covered his face with both hands.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, startled by her voice, low and husky.
He dropped his hands, but turned his face away, his jaw rigid. “Forgive me…I—should not have done that. I dinna ken what I was thinking, but it wilna happen again, I vow it.”
Isobel blinked, confused, bereft. She felt so cold, wanted his arms around her again. Why must she forgive him? She wanted him to do it again. Then she remembered the earl—her future husband—and her face flooded with shame.
She turned her face away. “It’s forgotten. We’ll not mention it.”
He gave her a hard, almost angry look, but said nothing. Isobel didn’t know what to do. Some foolish part of her didn’t want to leave, but she was as good as married, she had no business standing out here kissing and wanting another man. Guilt stabbed her.
She moved away from him hesitantly. When he didn’t stop her, she hurried back to her room. At the door she peered back down the corridor. He still stood where she had left him, in the shadowy patch of gray, arms crossed over his chest. It was too dark to tell, but she thought he stared after her.
Baobh le suil uaine, he’d whispered. She searched her mind for the old tongue, and stiffened when she realized what he’d called her.
Green-eyed witch—or witch with green eyes.
She shut the door to her room quickly, leaning against it, terror sending her heart racing.
What did this mean? They were in Scotland, and he thought she was a witch.
Would he act on his suspicion or did his loyalty to Alan MacDonell protect her?
Her father had warned her to hide her gift, and she’d foolishly revealed herself.
She’d tricked the bakers, but Philip was clearly not as gullible.
She stared down at her hands. She wasn’t even wearing gloves.
She tore open her satchel and searched for her mother’s ivory casket.
She gripped it hard, her mother’s love washing over her.
But that was not what she needed just then.
She removed the peridot charm, clasped it between her palms and forced herself to experience her mother’s death until she fell into an exhausted and troubled sleep.