Chapter 9
Isobel woke slowly from the fog of sleep and peered around the small room, lit only by fire.
She was overwarm, bundled tightly in a mound of blankets.
She fought her way out, gasping for air.
Confusion gripped her until she saw Fergus sleeping a few feet away and Stephen beside him.
She remembered now. The handkerchief. The girl, Laurie’s, death.
A shiver ran through her as the cold memory of death shrouded her again, the stench of moss and decaying leaves, the moist dirt on her face.
It was no small effort to put it from her mind, but she had a lifetime of practice.
She’d go mad if she let herself dwell upon all the things she’d seen.
She scanned the room, but Philip was nowhere in sight.
Something else occurred to her. Once Philip had realized what she was doing, he’d not stopped her.
Had he done it out of fear? Or fascination?
He was not so different from her. He’d had neither the time nor the desire to help the Kennedys, but once he heard a missing child was involved he’d been unable to refuse.
She got quietly to her feet and tiptoed to the empty doorway. There was no door. The leather hinges flapped lazily in the gentle breeze. The moon was high and bright, but she still saw no sign of Philip.
She took several steps outside when he spoke behind her. “Where are you going?”
She turned. He separated from the shadows beside the house, his arms crossed over his chest. Darkness shaded his face, obscuring his expression.
“I was looking for you. Are you angry with me?”
He considered her a long moment, and Isobel’s palms grew damp. She wiped them on her skirt.
“I should be, shouldn’t I?”
“I only wanted to help.”
“You’re going to help us all into an early grave.”
Isobel sighed. Though she had underestimated the gravity of her situation in Scotland, she was aware that there was danger in what she did.
She accepted that danger—her mother always had, and so she would, too.
Lillian MacDonell had felt it was her responsibility to help if she could.
That God had given her magic for a reason, and fear was no excuse to refuse to do His will.
Though Isobel tried very hard to live her life as she believed her mother would want her to, she had no wish that others come to harm because of her.
However, it was inevitable that people would.
She was an unmarried woman—it was unlikely she would ever be alone.
Anyone associated with her was at risk. It was not a situation she was happy with; nevertheless, it could not be helped.
The only alternative was to do nothing. And for Isobel that was not possible.
“I’m sorry I put us all in danger. But I can’t just stand by and do nothing—not when I know I can help.”
He rubbed at his forehead. Sandy brown hair stirred in the breeze. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did…in a fashion.”
“Deductive reasoning?”
“Perhaps I wasn’t completely honest, but you can see why, can’t you? How was I to know how you’d react?”
He strolled closer, the strong planes of his forehead and jaw becoming visible, though his eyes were still dark shadows. He was so much larger than she was—broad, hulking. She should be intimidated, but she was not. She felt safe with him, protected.
“Ye say ye’re sorry, and yet you still put yourself—all of us—in grave danger over a dead girl.”
“I didn’t know she was dead until I’d touched the handkerchief. A mother and daughter were lost to each other, and I was their only chance. And after, when I realized she was dead, I couldn’t let such an act go unpunished. It betrayed Laurie’s memory.”
“We never knew the lass. She was no one to us. Is she worth dying for?”
“I know her. Now.” She shook her head, looking to the moon.
“You can’t understand, and I know not how to explain it.
I know her. She’s inside my head now, part of me, and I’ll never forget her.
” She looked back at him. “If left unpunished, Ewan Kennedy would do it again, to some other lass. Laurie knew that.”
He didn’t respond. She thought he looked at her, but couldn’t tell for certain. He seemed enormous in the darkness, looming before her. She shivered.
“The others…Stephen and Fergus. I suppose they’re afraid of me now?”
“No.”
Something eased inside Isobel, and she felt lighter. She counted Stephen and Fergus as friends, and Isobel MacDonell did not have many friends. It pleased her she’d not lost her newest ones.
“What of you?” she asked.
“Me?” He strolled closer until he stood directly in front of her.
Her blood warmed, racing through her. She tilted her head to meet his eyes.
The way he looked at her was odd, his eyes moving over her face as though trying to memorize it.
It was too dark to see the clear amber color of them, but she didn’t need the light, she knew them now as she knew the psalters.
Memorized them, so they came to her unbidden.
“Aye, lass, you terrify me.”
She frowned. He didn’t look terrified. He mocked her. She sighed, the last weight of apprehension lifting, then smiled. “You jest.”
He shook his head slowly. “And you take none of this seriously,” he said mildly. “That’s what astounds me most.”
“I take it very seriously! When I was in England I rarely did it in front of others, and I almost always wore my gloves. People went to Ceri when they lost things, then I helped her find them.”
“Why would you even want to, when it makes you so ill?”
“Oh, that?” She made a dismissive gesture.
“That doesn’t happen very often. Only if someone experienced extreme violence—and usually only with people who are dead.
And sometimes if the person is very evil.
” She paused, searching his face. “If you have something of your sister’s, I can discover if she’s still alive. ”
He said nothing, staring down at her, his brow furrowed.
“And if she’s alive, I can tell you where she is.”
“And if she died a horrible death? What then? You relive it until it you’re so weak you can do naught but sleep?”
Isobel hadn’t considered that. She never did. It happened, when it happened and she recovered. She shrugged. “It won’t kill me. Sometimes I sleep a long while—other times I’m better after naught more than a nap. Besides, I can stop it anytime I want to.”
He raised a skeptical brow. “Ye can?”
“Yes—I’m almost always still aware of the object in my hand and can release it anytime I wish. So I am in control.”
“Almost always?” he challenged in a slightly teasing tone, but he wanted her to—she could see it in his face. The hope, the fear. And she longed to do this for him.
“Philip, let me help you.”
He shook his head. “I have nothing of hers with me.”
“Kilpatrick lands are but a day’s ride from the MacDonells of Glen Laire.
What would one more day matter?” After she said it she thought of her father.
The nagging sense of dread had not disappeared, but it had been displaced by a new preoccupation with her protector.
She was worried about her father and anxious to finally be home.
And yet home meant Nicholas Lyon, her betrothed, and saying good-bye to her new friends—friends who in the last few minutes had become precious to her in their acceptance.
And most of all she wanted to help Philip—she felt she owed him a great deal.
Rather than being afraid of her, or anxious to use her magic for himself, he was more concerned with her health.
Even Ceri had not been so thoughtful. If anyone deserved her help, it was Philip.
His soul was troubled by the loss of his sister.
She wanted to lay his demons to rest. If only he’d let her.
“It’s more than a day’s journey,” he said. “Mayhap two. Three or more if the weather turns.”
“It won’t.”
The dimples in his cheeks deepened as he smiled. “Ye predict the weather now, too? What, did ye touch the sky?”
Isobel smiled back. Of course she could not predict the weather, and he knew it.
His smile faded. “Your father will not be pleased.”
“My father need not know.”
“Why do you wish to do this?”
“Because you’re not afraid of me.”
“I told you, lass, you scare me.”
Isobel’s gaze traveled over him in disbelief, stopping on his impassive face. She could not imagine Philip being afraid of anything. “You don’t look scared.” She pushed one finger against his chest, as if to shove him away, but he was a rock. “You don’t feel scared.”
He raised a brow.
“Or perhaps you’re just rigid with terror,” she teased.
His smile sent a slow burn down to her toes. “That I am—ye’ve no idea.”
Isobel resisted the urge to look down, her cheeks hot.
She should walk away, she knew—but couldn’t.
She felt as though she were suffocating, looking into his eyes.
The knowledge that he wanted her—still—though he knew she was a witch, expanded inside her, warming her, making her bold, and pushing all thoughts of Nicholas Lyon from her mind.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
He shook his head, still smiling slightly. “You’re not listening.”
“Very well. Why are you afraid?”
He reached out a hand, tentative at first, then with purpose, touching a curl that lay against her forehead.
His fingers brushed her skin. Isobel’s body tightened, her breath hitching.
The backs of his fingers slid down her temple, to her cheek, and under her chin.
She resisted the urge to close her eyes and turn her face into his caress—she couldn’t break away when he looked at her in such a manner.
His face was fierce with longing, and when he spoke, his voice was rough.
“I want to taste you again. And I know I should not—but…right now, I dinna care. That scares me. I should care. Verra much.”
Isobel’s insides melted, warm and liquid. She swayed closer to him, her palms settling against his chest. “I want you to.”