Chapter 8
They arrived at Hawkirk without any more problems. The streets were swollen with the merchants who collected here weekly to sell their wares. If they kept up this pace, Philip would have Isobel home in less than a week. He could hardly wait.
Philip made Stephen ride with him, and Fergus was Isobel’s new riding companion.
Philip no longer trusted himself with her, and so made certain they were never alone.
There was definitely something…unusual about Isobel MacDonell.
Philip had always considered himself a pragmatic sort of fellow.
He’d had excellent tutors and even spent some time at the Université Paris.
He did not believe the rustic superstitions that a goodly part of Scotland did not question.
He didn’t doubt there was evil in the world, but he felt it was of the flesh-and-blood variety.
And though he was a God-fearing man, he didn’t believe Satan meddled in the affairs of women—young or old.
As for the confessions the Scottish witch prickers had collected in reams, he attributed that to ignorance and torture.
However…
Isobel MacDonell was making him reconsider a few long-held beliefs.
And he did not like it at all. She’d also made him think about his sister—a subject he steered clear of even in thought.
It was the reason he rarely went home, much to his father’s chagrin.
His stepmother made sure he never forgot that he’d lost her only child.
Philip settled them in rooms above a respectable tavern and put out inquiries about hiring a servant. The landlord remembered him from when they passed through less than a week before and soon had them in a corner table with mutton, bread, and ale.
Isobel ate quietly, but with relish. Philip smiled to himself, remembering her passion for sticky buns, and stopped the tavern wench as she went by. Unfortunately, she remembered him, too.
“Oh, Sir Philip—I was hoping ye’d stop and see me on your way back.” She slid her arm around his neck and bent her lips to his ear. “I can stop by yer room later.”
Unbidden, Philip’s gaze was drawn across the table to where Isobel sat, watching Alice or Anne—he couldn’t remember her name—whisper to him. Philip caught the hand toying with his hair and gently put the lass away from him. “Sorry, lass, not tonight.”
She pouted, darting a glance at Isobel, who had returned to her meal.
“Bring some of those buns with honey on them.”
“Verra well.” She gave Philip a long look before moving away.
When Philip looked around the table, Fergus frowned at him. Philip said in explanation, “We have to find Mistress MacDonell a maid this evening—then early to bed. This is the last bed we’ll be sleeping in until Lochlaire.”
He felt foolish suddenly. Why was he turning away a perfectly willing lass?
And if he didn’t feel like a tumble, he didn’t need to dig about for an excuse.
But as his gaze fell on Isobel, he knew that wasn’t it either.
He itched to tumble her. If she’d noticed the lass’s flirting—which he knew she had—she showed no indication of caring.
That irritated him far more than it should.
“May I have some say in choosing my servant?” Isobel asked.
“No.”
She hissed through her teeth, pinning him with one of her poison stares.
But before she could reply, Anne or Alice was back with the sweet buns.
A basketful was set in the center of the table, and the lass was gone again, without sparing Philip another look.
Isobel’s mouth tightened as she stared at the buns.
She seemed determined to deny herself until Stephen grabbed three.
When Fergus’s hand started toward the bowl, Isobel quickly snatched two buns and settled back on the bench. Philip suppressed a smile.
He was taking a drink of ale when a man and woman appeared beside him.
“Sir Philip Kilpatrick?” the woman said querulously.
Philip turned to get a good look at the couple.
The woman was well dressed, a thick shawl wrapped about her shoulders and velvet hat on her head.
Red rimmed her eyes, and she wrung a lace handkerchief.
The man beside her was more roughly attired in woolen work clothes and scuffed shoes, but his leather mantle was very fine. He scowled with impatience.
“The landlord said it was you. You find people—for payment?”
Philip glanced at Isobel, and said quickly, “I’m not taking any new assignments now. Sorry.”
He started to turn away, but the woman caught his arm. “But you must! We can pay you—double your usual fee.”
Philip smiled gently. “That is doubtful.” They had no idea how much he charged and would probably have apoplexy if he told them—fine clothes and all. Great lords had been known to haggle with him—but Philip never budged—except in rare circumstances.
The man tried to pull the woman away, muttering that he’d told her so, but she wouldn’t release Philip’s sleeve.
“Please, sir!” she cried. “It’s my daughter. She’s been missing five days now—I fear if we dinna find her soon, we never will.”
Something heavy sank to the bottom of Philip’s gut. Rare circumstances indeed. He looked at Isobel. Her gaze was fixed on the man, sweet rolls forgotten. He turned back to the woman. Tears welled in her eyes, and he sighed, pulling another bench to their table.
“I wasna speaking false, madam, when I said I canna help you now. We have to leave in the morning, and there can be no delay. But tell me your story and perhaps there is something I can do tonight.”
The man and woman slid onto the bench at the end of the rectangular table, between Philip and Isobel.
Philip didn’t like the man, who sat beside him.
It came to him all at once when he looked at the man’s close-set eyes.
The man did not care about the missing girl; Philip knew that just looking at him.
Isobel stroked the woman’s shoulder with her gloved hand, murmuring soothing words to her.
“Tell me everything,” Philip said to the woman.
She sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on her sleeve, rather than the fine handkerchief. “My name is Heather Kennedy, and this is my husband, Ewan. We’re brewers—ye might’ve heard of us? Our ale even makes it into the Highlands.”
Very successful brewers. He suspected Ewan’s place in the business had come through Heather. He was likely her second—or third, husband.
“Laurie does some sewing for the Armstrongs. That was the last time I seen her. She went to help Rhona Armstrong with her daughter’s new gowns and never returned. When I went to the Armstrongs that night to fetch her, they said she’d left hours before.”
New tears tracked her cheeks. “She was but fourteen, sir—and we had no quarrels. Ewan thinks she ran off with the Wood lad, but she never showed no interest in him.” She held up the handkerchief. “I found this out behind the brewhouse—so she must’ve come home at some time.”
Ewan scowled. “That damn thing had probably been lying ootside for days.”
“It had just been raining,” Heather said. “Would it not be filthy? But it’s fresh. I say she dropped it not long afore I found it.”
“The Wood boy is also missing?” Philip asked.
“Aye,” Ewan said, coming to life. He sat forward, his hands fisted on the tabletop. “I heard her talking about that boy several times—and seen her looking at him, too. All sweet, she was.”
Heather looked at her husband in disbelief. “Why would she not tell me? We talked many times about who she’d like to wed. She never mentioned Roger Wood. It makes no sense.”
“That’s because she’s a worthless whore.”
Philip cleared his throat and Ewan settled back on the bench, his arms crossed angrily over his chest.
“Have you spoken to Roger’s parents?”
“Aye,” Heather said. “They’ve seen naught of him either. It’s true they disappeared the same day, but I cannot believe the disappearances are related.”
“What kind of lad was Roger?” Philip asked.
“He was a good lad.” “He was trash.” Heather and Ewan spoke simultaneously. Heather gave her husband an incredulous look. “How can you say Roger is trash after all the times he’s helped you?”
“I saw how he sniffed around Laurie.”
Philip leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his jaw meditatively as he inspected the Kennedys.
There was something else at play here. He was sure of it.
Something both Heather and Ewan were aware of.
Unfortunately, with the limited time he had he knew he’d not be able to dig deep enough to help them.
But he would try. He glanced at Isobel and found her staring at Ewan with narrowed eyes.
“You are not Laurie’s father?” Philip asked Ewan.
Ewan shook his head. “I married her mum a year ago—but before that I worked for Heather’s second husband.”
“How did Laurie get on with her stepfather?”
Heather’s gaze darted to her husband, who now looked at the tabletop.
“She did not like me wedding Ewan, it’s true.
She understood why I wed Jock, my second husband.
He was also a successful brewer, and our marriage was profitable to us both.
” Heather stared at her husband, a line between her brows.
“She didn’t understand that I love Ewan—that I no longer needed to make a profitable marriage. ”
“So she didn’t like Ewan.”
Heather shrugged, releasing the handkerchief and hiding her hands beneath the table. Ewan’s head had turned to watch his wife.
“She was strange with Jock, too,” Heather said. “I think it must be common for a girl to…resent her stepfathers.” Her head jerked up suddenly, her eyes intense. “But she and I—we had no quarrel.”
Heather carefully avoided meeting her husband’s gaze.
“Tell me how Laurie behaved in the days leading up to her disappearance,” Philip said to Heather.
“I dinna ken…If something was wrong, she’d tell me, I’m sure of it. But she had no quarrel with me, I tell you—just that morning she’d hugged me!”