Chapter 7
They set off the next morning with Philip determined to banish all thoughts of Isobel MacDonell.
He’d been mad last night to kiss her—he still couldn’t fathom what had possessed him.
He’d only meant to intimidate her, to put her in her place.
Instead, he’d kissed her. And damned if she hadn’t kissed him back with far more enthusiasm than any maiden—betrothed maiden—should.
It’d been the whisky—there was no other explanation. He hadn’t thought he’d drunk that much, but apparently he had. He’d never been one to act so impulsively, especially with a woman. Well, he knew better now. He wouldn’t touch another drop of whisky until Isobel was safe in her betrothed’s arms.
His gaze rested on her, riding beside Stephen a few yards ahead of him and Fergus.
She looked pale and tired this morning, a shade of the woman who’d purred in his arms last night.
Her hair was pulled back into a bulky braid and wrapped with some kind of filmy material so its burnished color was hidden.
She’d hardly spoken to him this morning.
Unlike all the other edicts and warnings he’d issued, she seemed to be taking his kiss seriously, as well she should.
He had no wish to duel it out with her betrothed.
And still, she had no maid. He still cursed himself for bungling that.
He would try again in the next village. Hawkirk was a good-sized border town with a weekly market.
They’d stayed there on their journey to England.
So long as he didn’t fly into another fit of rage they shouldn’t have a problem finding a proper servant for her.
Fergus cleared his throat. Philip glanced at his friend.
“I heard ye last night—ootside me door. And so I took a peek, just to make sure naught was amiss.”
Philip stared at his friend, then looked away. “Aye?”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
Philip exhaled through his nose, his mouth grim. He’d said enough. “It won’t happen again.”
“I ken it won’t. Her betrothed is an earl, Philip—ye canna amuse yerself wi’ her.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed at Fergus. “Is that what you think I was doing? Amusing myself?”
“I hope it wasna more than that.” When Philip didn’t respond, Fergus’s brows lowered. “Philip? What’re ye thinking?”
Philip shook his head. He wanted to tell Fergus about the bakery, but wasn’t certain how his friend would react.
Fergus would never harm Isobel, but still, Philip couldn’t allow anyone to look upon her with suspicion.
Fergus was a very superstitious sort. He would keep the bakery incident to himself.
Besides, the more he thought about it, the more her explanation made sense—however suspicious it had appeared.
“You needn’t worry, Friend. My good sense is not between my legs.”
Fergus searched Philip’s face, then smiled. “I didna think so. It’s not like you to lose yer good sense over a lass. Besides, if I recall, there’s entertainment aplenty in the next town to take yer mind off her.”
Fergus’s devotion to his young wife kept him from indulging in such activities, but neither Philip nor Stephen had anything to deter them from a night of feminine sport.
“Oh, aye.” Philip grinned and winked with more enthusiasm than he felt, but it was just what Fergus needed to set his mind at rest.
When the sun was high in the sky Philip finally called their party to a halt. There was a loch nearby. Philip ordered Fergus and Stephen to take the horses down for water.
Isobel started to follow them.
“Mistress MacDonell?” Philip called.
“Yes?”
“Hold. There’s something I need to say.”
When she turned to him, her paleness had fled.
Rose bloomed in her cheeks. Burnished blond curls escaped their plait to feather against her temples and forehead, glinting copper in the sun.
Lovely, even after hours in the saddle. If it hadn’t been clear to him before, it was now—he was quite taken with Isobel MacDonell.
It had been years since he’d longed for anything more in a woman than a creative bed partner, but she’d awakened a dull longing in his soul.
Dull because of its futility. Oh, he could seduce her—he had no doubt that last night she would have willingly ruined herself.
This morning she was clearly having regrets; but he was still confident, if he set himself to it, he could overcome her resistance.
But to do such a thing would be foolish and cruel—not to mention a nasty affront to Alan MacDonell and the earl of Kincreag—possibly sparking a feud the Kilpatricks of Clan Colquhoun would not be pleased about.
These were not welcome realizations, and so he said, with more gruffness than he’d intended, “We’ll be stopping in another village tomorrow. You are to help no one else. Understand?”
She stared at him, unblinking, her face expressionless.
“Do you understand?”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far?”
He planted hands on hips, scowling. “What?”
“The protector role. Surely my father didn’t intend for you to smother me.”
Anger flashed through him, hard and fast. He advanced on her. She didn’t retreat, though her bland mask faltered.
“Were ye so coddled in England you heard naught of what goes on here in Scotland?”
Her gaze darted away, but quickly came back to hold his. “No. I heard.”
“Did ye, now? And it means naught to ye?”
“I don’t understand—”
“And therein lies the problem, Mistress MacDonell. Ye dinna understand, nor do ye try to. You’re too set in your stubborn ways to think for a minute that by crossing a border your whole world has changed in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”
Her mouth flattened, and her cheeks grew ruddy.
“Now listen with care. You will go nowhere unless you are accompanied by Fergus, Stephen, or myself. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The single word was clipped.
“You will not offer your…deductive reasoning skills to anyone else. Ever.”
She laughed incredulously. “Ever? Your control over me extends only so far as Glen Laire, Sir Philip. After that I no longer answer to you.”
“Then consider it well-intentioned advice. I dinna want to hear of you burning for witchcraft, Mistress MacDonell, I vow it. And there is nothing a group of village elders likes to do so much as burn a witch. And if ye think being the daughter of a chieftain offers you some protection, you have only to remember your poor mother. She was lynched and burned; else she’d be alive today.
And that was back when only the king could burn a witch—today, however… ”
The effort to maintain her air of unconcern was obviously a strain, if the way she clasped her hands together and bit the inside of her lip was any indication.
He didn’t wish to frighten her further. He’d hoped mentioning her mother’s nightmarish death would be sufficient, but she said, “What? What else were you going to say?”
“Today it’s much easier to burn a witch, as elders all over the country have discovered.
Surely you’ve heard? The king gave commissions to local men to try and execute witches.
That means anyone who has a quarrel with anyone else can cry witchcraft and have his revenge.
Anyone looking for a scapegoat to blame for their misfortunes can pick out whatever sacrifice suits them.
There doesna even have to be evidence—once the finger is pointed you’re as good as dead.
No Scotswoman with a shred of sense would go about divining for keys.
Why don’t ye just carry about a toad for a familiar and give folks the evil eye? It will have the same effect.”
Her mask cracked, and she stepped away from him, her throat working as she swallowed. She hugged her elbows, watching him warily. “You think I’m a witch.”
Philip put his hands out placatingly. “I did not say that. Besides, whatever I think, I’d never harm you. I’m trying to protect you. Let me.”
“Are you afraid of witches?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
She raised a red-gold brow slightly and, to his surprise, she reached out, sliding her hand in his gloved hand.
Her hands were bare this morning, her gloves tucked in the garter at her waist. The urge to curl his hand over hers and pull her close was strong, but he did nothing, staring down at their linked hands.
“A child was lost to you,” she said, her voice far away.
His head jerked up, his eyes fixed on her face. A frisson of alarm ran through him. Her eyes were blank, hazy, staring straight through him.
“That’s why you yelled at that woman, why her inattention to her son angered you. It reminded you of your sister.”
Philip jerked away, rubbing his hands together as if he could rub her magic from him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She blinked, her eyes focusing on him. “I thought you weren’t afraid of me.”
“I’m not.” But he was deeply unsettled. She’d been so odd. He continued rubbing his gloves together compulsively.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
He pointed a finger at her. “Stop it. Right now. Before Stephen and Fergus come back. They’re good men, but not as tolerant as I am about such nonsense.”
She smiled lightly. “You consider yourself tolerant?”
His uneasieness began to fade as he realized what she was doing. How very clever. She turned his threats right back on him, showing him she wasn’t powerless. She had told him nothing she hadn’t deduced already by other means.
He advanced on her again, but this time she tilted her head up to him challengingly, a slight smile on her lips.
“This game you play at is dangerous.”
“It’s not a game.”
“You wish people to believe you’re a witch?”
She shook her head. “No…but if I can help someone, why shouldn’t I? My mother always helped others and told me I should do the same.”
“Find another means to help people—one that doesn’t make folks wonder, aye?”
She gave him a considering look. Her insouciance was back as she strolled away from him. “You have spoken, Sir Philip, and I have heard.”