Chapter 7 #2
He ground his teeth in frustration. It was like talking to a rock—except she had a poison retort for everything.
“Another bit of advice,” he called after her. “I may not know the earl of Kincreag well, but I know enough to say he will not tolerate this type of behavior.”
She whirled around. “What does that mean?”
“It means, you’d be wise to learn your place before we reach Glen Laire.”
Her eyes flashed with anger, but there was a touch of unease there, too. “My father would never marry me to a cruel man.”
“Alan sees the best in his friends—and ignores all that is unpleasant.”
Her gaze raked him from head to toe. “Obviously.”
He was tempted to tell the little green-eyed minx everything he did know about Nicholas Lyon, but reined in his temper. He had a suspicion that she was trying to goad him into talking, and talking about the earl of Kincreag benefited no one.
He just shook his head. “I tried to warn you.” And he left her, before he said something he knew he’d regret.
She’d really done it now. Not only had Philip stopped speaking to her, but if he chanced to meet her eyes he glared at her.
Isobel didn’t understand what had come over her.
She’d given the Attmores a bit of trouble, it was true, but she’d never been rude to them.
And yet she couldn’t seem to help herself with Sir Philip—he infuriated her.
That, coupled with her body’s melting response to the mere thought of his heated mouth and hands on her, seemed to put her in a rare mood.
And worse—she had tried to frighten him! Isobel’s face burned with shame. It went against everything her mother had taught her. And she couldn’t even apologize, for that would be tantamount to admitting she was a witch. Never again. Only for good.
But could she even use it for good anymore?
Was Nicholas Lyon really such a hard man, or had Philip tossed her own game back in her face, frightening her with half-truths?
If only she could see into her own future—unfortunately, touching her own things gave her no visions.
How she missed Ceri. Ceri would know what to do.
But Isobel was on her own now. She had only her own wits to rely on.
She slanted Stephen a considering look. He was deep in a tale of how he and a cousin saved their uncle’s kine from a pack of heathen reivers, his hand waving about as he spoke.
“Stephen,” Isobel said, cutting him off midstory. “Will you tell me about my betrothed, Lord Kincreag?”
Stephen’s eyes, blue and clear as the sky, widened. He was not an innocent, but he was decent. And he liked her. With a little persuasion, she could get him to talk about her betrothed.
“What would ye like to know?” he asked cautiously.
Isobel twisted around in the saddle. Philip and Fergus were yards behind them, well out of earshot.
“What kind of man is he?”
“Well, he’s an earl—but you already knew that. He’s…a bit reserved. Many people fear him, but my uncle thinks well of him. He doesn’t believe the stories.”
“What stories?”
Stephen looked away with poorly feigned confusion. “Stories? Did I say that? I misspoke. And if there are any, I canna recall them.”
Isobel gave him a severe look. His gaze met hers, then bounced away, scanned the sky. “The clouds seem heavy. A storm is brewing. What think you? The air feels thick—and look at the trees—”
“The only storm brewing is the one I’ll let loose on you if you don’t tell me the truth about Lord Kincreag.”
Stephen looked around uncertainly, as if he wished to escape.
“I know you know something. I thought we were friends. You must tell me what you know. How else will I find out? My father won’t tell me, and if it’s really so bad, I doubt Lord Kincreag will. You must, Stephen—it’s only fair. Must I go into this marriage blind? Knowing nothing about my husband?”
Stephen’s expression was pained. He looked surreptitiously over his shoulder at Philip and Fergus, then reined his horse in closer. “I’ll tell you what I know. But you must remember it’s only gossip, so take it as such—and you canna tell Philip I told you.”
Isobel nodded.
Stephen took a deep breath. “A few years past…his wife…well, something happened to her.”
“She’s dead.”
Stephen nodded. “Aye, she’s dead. Castle Kincreag sits on a cliff overlooking a vast river. Some of the paths are dangerous. She…fell.” His blond brows arched meaningfully.
“She fell? Or someone pushed her?”
Stephen said nothing, his mouth grim.
Isobel’s heart thumped uncomfortably in her throat. She told herself it was naught more than a rumor. It wasn’t fair to condemn the man before meeting him.
“But no one knows, you said. He probably didn’t do it. It’s just an unhappy incident, and cruel people love pointing fingers—especially at one so high up as Lord Kincreag. They can’t hurt him any other way, but with vicious talk.”
Stephen nodded. “Perhaps. But…they were at court, not a week before her death. Now, Lady Kincreag was no saint, so dinna misunderstand. My uncle used to get sore angry at how poorly she used Lord Kincreag—he said when she died, that was the best thing that ever happened to Nicholas Lyon—but you wouldn’t know it today.
The man hardly ever leaves his castle. And when you do meet up with him, his eyes are so dark and evil, most men canna meet them for more than a second afore they look away in fear. ”
“What did Lady Kincreag do that was so horrible?”
“She cuckolded the poor earl with half a dozen men—some nobles, some commoners. He called a few out, but after a time it became absurd. She was a whore, plain and simple, and he was tired of killing men because of her base nature. As I was saying, less than a week afore she died, they were at court. The night afore they returned to Kincreag, they were seen arguing something terrible. He called her some vile names that I cannot repeat—oh, she was plently foul, too—make no mistake. And it’s said that he threatened, ‘I ought to kill you.’”
At her horrified expression, Stephen nodded sagely, brows raised. “Not even a sennight later, she’s dead. Fell to her death from the cliff. And it’s said she never was one to walk along the cliff path. So why was she there at all? Hmm?”
Isobel slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God! He’s a murderer! I’m going to marry a murderer!”
Stephen tried to shush her, panicked. “I told you, it’s but gossip. And my uncle thinks it’s rubbish—and he knows what’s what. No one knows if he really did it.”
Isobel looked at him incredulously. “Nicholas Lyon is an earl! He can do whatever he wants so long as the king favors him.”
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “My uncle has mentioned that King James is rather fond of Lord Kincreag. The king always appreciates a pretty face. And all knew the king didn’t like Lady Kincreag at all.”
“Jesus Lord,” Isobel moaned, rubbing at her temples. She felt faint.
“Now, dinna go fainting on me, Mistress MacDonell,” Stephen said, looking over his shoulder again. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder behind them.
Isobel fought to compose herself, but it was impossible. Had her betrothed really murdered his wife? She didn’t want to believe it, but insidious doubt twisted in her gut.
“It’s nearly dark,” Philip said from the other side of Stephen. “There’s a forest ahead. We’ll camp there.”
Isobel stared straight ahead, her body cold, trying to hide her unease.
“What’s the matter?” Philip asked. When Isobel didn’t reply, he said, louder, “Mistress MacDonell—is aught amiss?”
Isobel nailed a smile to her face and shook her head. “Not a thing.”
“She’s just tired,” Stephen said anxiously. “That’s all.”
There was a long silence, then Philip said, “Fergus, ride with Mistress MacDonell. Stephen, let’s ride ahead and ready the camp.”
Stephen darted Isobel a frantic look, but spurred his horse after Philip’s. They soon disappeared into the trees.
“I wonder what that was all aboot,” Fergus said, coming to ride beside her.
They arrived a short while later at a small clearing amid tall birch trees. Philip was nowhere in sight and Stephen sat on a stone trying start a fire. Isobel dismounted, handing Jinny over to Fergus, and joined Stephen.
He didn’t look up from his assault on the tinderbox. “He knows I told you.”
Isobel let out a disbelieving breath. “How?”
Stephen shook his head. “I should have known—ye canna get anything past that man.”
“But he could not have heard us.”
“It doesna matter. He got a feeling—and when Philip gets a feeling he’s like damn shark. He won’t let up until he shakes the truth from ye—because he already knows, see? So now he’s angry at me because I told you—and because I tried to lie about it.”
Isobel was still speechless, her mouth agape, when Stephen looked up apologetically.
“Oh, and I’m not supposed to talk to you, so I should just leave off.”
“Surely you jest?”
Stephen just shrugged, his eyes on the fire that had finally caught.
Isobel blinked, incredulous. So now Sir Philip was forbidding people to even speak to her?
He’d gone too far. And poor Stephen looked so miserable.
Guilt tugged at Isobel. She shouldn’t have forced him to tell her.
And yet, it was wrong for Philip to withhold the truth from her.
It was her life; she had a right to know.
She stood decisively. “Where is he?”
Stephen thrust his thumb at a light path worn through the trees. “There’s a burn not far.”
Isobel hurried down the path, following the gurgling of water, her anger and indignation galvanizing her.
She would tell him just what she thought of men like him.
He claimed to want to protect her. So why would he not even tell her about Lord Kincreag?
Wouldn’t knowledge be protection? She circled the thick flowering bushes that banked the stream.