Chapter 8 #3
Stephen exchanged an alarmed look with Philip, dropping his shovel and gripping the butt of the dag tucked into his belt. Philip grabbed the handkerchief from Isobel’s hand and tossed it away. She sagged against him, her lashes fluttering down.
Ewan came forward, his face red with fury. “And what do ye plan to do wi’ that lassie when yer done with her, eh? Rape and kill her, too?”
Isobel murmured something.
Philip leaned his head near her lips. “What did you say?”
“She scratched him…his neck—three long scratches. Roger hit him with a tree branch, across the back. He’ll be bruised still.”
Philip straightened, his arms circling Isobel protectively. “Remove your ruff, sir. Your stepdaughter scratched your neck when you attacked her. And Roger Wood struck you across the back with a branch. If these things are not true, you’ll be unmarked.”
The elders turned to Heather and Ewan. Ewan faced his wife, his eyes bleak.
And Philip saw it there, in her eyes. The war.
She knew her husband was marked, knew his life was in her hands.
Philip also understood she’d known all along what Ewan was doing—knew, and chose to ignore it, to remain ignorant. He saw the decision in her eyes.
Before she even spoke, Philip sent a warning glance to Stephen and Fergus.
“My husband bears no marks on his person. I see him unclothed every night—his skin is clear as a babe’s.” She turned her hard gaze on Philip. “It’s true—she disappeared the same day these men passed through town.”
Ewan’s eyes closed, his shoulders sagging.
Isobel’s head moved against Philip’s shoulder. He looked down. She frowned, trying to push against him. Her lips were tinged with blue. “Not true. She lies…why is she lying?”
One of the elders stepped forward, his hand out to Philip. “Would you come with us, Sir Philip? We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“We’ve answered your questions,” Stephen said, his dag leveled at the elder. “If you have any more, I suggest ye direct them to Ewan Kennedy. We’ll be leaving now.”
Fergus had also drawn his dag. Philip slid his arm under Isobel’s knees and swung her into his arms. They backed out of the trees. No one tried to follow, though Ewan, back in possession of his wits, yelled that they couldn’t just let the murdering redshanks get away.
They jogged back to the brewhouse, Isobel’s head thumping against his shoulder. “Get the horses,” Philip said. “We have to hurry—when they get their wits about them they’ll come after us with more than we can fight.”
Philip rushed into the tavern and took the stairs two at a time.
Isobel mumbled something again, but he didn’t have time to listen.
He placed her on her narrow bed and went around her room, stuffing the few things she had brought into her leather satchel.
He hesitated, wondering if he should just leave her there while he gathered the rest of their things.
Instead he picked her up again, carrying her to the room he’d shared with Fergus and Stephen.
He started to lay her on the bed when her hand caught at his jack.
“Philip,” she whispered, her lids half-opened. “He did do it.”
He laid her gently on the straw-stuffed mattress and pushed the damp hair from her face. She was so cold. It frightened him. Only corpses were so cold.
“I know,” he said.
With obvious effort, she opened her eyes fully, focusing on his face. “I am a witch.”
“I know.”
Her other hand came up, gripping his with surprising strength for how weakened she was. “I’m not evil—I vow it. I’ve never seen the devil. I don’t—”
He hushed her, squeezing her hand in response. “Christ, Isobel, I ken. I ken.”
She searched his face. “You don’t want to burn me?”
“Bloody hell, no!” He pressed his mouth to her cold damp forehead. “No, no, no.”
The door burst open. Philip jerked around.
Stephen was there, breathing hard. “Let’s go!
They’ve come back from the wood. We haven’t much time.
” Stephen hurried around the room, grabbing things and stuffing them into the canvas sack.
“Fergus has the horses outside—but if they mean to grab him, there’s not much he can do alone. ”
Philip stood, hefting Isobel in his arms. “Leave the rest—let’s go.”
Though the elders called after them to stop, they didn’t try to follow.
Ewan Kennedy was being led into a tall stately home near the center of town.
His ruff had been yanked off and dangled from his neck.
Philip hoped that meant they would not be pursued, but after Isobel’s performance nothing was certain.
They rode hard and didn’t stop until they were far from the town. Isobel had apparently fainted and did not wake. Philip carried her before him in the saddle, while Fergus led her horse. They detoured from the route they’d taken south and when night fell found shelter in an abandoned cottage.
Stephen made a bed of their blankets for Isobel, and Philip tucked her into them.
Her hands were still deathly cold, though the color had returned to her lips.
He chafed her hands between his, trying to warm them.
Her chest rose and fell, as though she slept deeply.
He hoped it was only sleep. Several times in the course of the day he’d shook her violently.
Her eyelids had opened, and though she seemed to focus on him, they only drifted shut again without her responding verbally to his questions.
They built a huge fire in the fireplace, and Philip pulled her close to it. He didn’t relax until she began to snore softly. Surely if she was snoring, she was out of danger.
Fergus stood at the open door, scanning the horizon.
Philip came to stand beside him. “I think we’re safe. It looked as if they were restraining Ewan Kennedy.”
“Aye, but tidings such as these travel quickly. And they know who you are.”
Philip nodded. He’d thought of that, but hadn’t an answer for it yet.
Stephen joined them. “It wasna my fault this time.” It wasn’t the first time they’d been run out of a town, but Stephen was usually at fault.
Stephen grinned. “She’s more trouble than I am, aye?
” He shook his head, scratching at the blond whiskers covering his jaw.
“I’ve never seen the like. She knew everything just by touching a piece of linen.
” Stephen’s eyes lit up. He went to the canvas sack he traveled with and came back with a small tattered book.
“This belonged to my da. When she wakes, do you think she’d—”
“No,” Philip said. “I do not. Look at her. Using this…magic, obviously drains her. She’s ill.”
Stephen gripped the book in both his hands, crestfallen. “I didna think of that.”
“That’s why she wears the gloves,” Fergus said, staring at the lump before the fire. “To protect herself.”
Philip watched his friends. It was clear this new side of Isobel did not disturb Stephen. He sat near her, on the stones of the hearth, flipping through the little book of his father’s in the firelight. Fergus, however, appeared deeply troubled.
“What is it?” Philip asked.
Fergus shrugged, sighing. He turned back to the open doorway.
“It’s just that my wife is worried about her sister.
Her letters are strange. It would set Fia’s heart at rest if Mistress MacDonell could touch a letter and tell her if all was well.
” He glanced at Philip and smiled ruefully.
“But I dinna want to make the lassie ill. Ah, well.”
Philip stifled an inappropriate urge to laugh.
And he’d worried his friends would react with fear.
He crossed the room and sat near her. He couldn’t deny his own thoughts had been running in a similar vein.
She’d offered to help him find his sister, but he’d not even considered she really could help him.
Her hair glinted in the firelight. It appeared darker in the warm glow of the fire. A coppery curl fell across her cheek. As if sensing him there, her lashes fluttered, and her gaze fell on him. She stared at him for a long moment, then smiled and closed her eyes again.
Philip found his heart was pounding. A look and a smile from her made him giddy as a lad. And he liked it—a great deal.