Chapter 9 #3
She glanced quickly at Fergus, but nodded.
The hard ride did nothing to work out the repressed lust plaguing him every time he looked at her or thought of her—and it uselessly tired the horses.
Isobel raced along beside him, and when he finally slowed to a walk, she looked at him questioningly, her cheeks flushed from the exercise, her eyes shining.
She looked behind them at Fergus and Stephen, dots on the horizon. “Have I done something wrong?”
Philip had meant to say a great deal to her—all of which sounded foolish now—so instead he said, “Do you plan to tell Lord Kincreag that you’re a witch?”
She stared straight ahead, coppery lashes catching the sun. “Not right away…if ever. But how am I to know what will happen? He might turn out to be as wonderful as…to be wonderful.”
He wanted to probe further, to prepare her somehow, but before he could, she said, “Why are you so loyal to my father?”
Philip shrugged, not because he didn’t know the answer but because it was at once both simple and complex.
“Because I fostered with him. Fostering almost always knits men together. Alan was like a father to me…in many ways I look to him more than I do my own father. And as Alan had no sons, I think he often looks on the lads he fostered as his lads.”
Isobel frowned. “So that’s it? Fostering?”
“Aye.”
Her brow was furrowed and she chewed the inside of her lip, staring into the distance.
“Why does that trouble you?”
“It’s not that it troubles me…but in a sense, I fostered with the Attmores—and for twelve years. Yet, I feel little loyalty to them, nor they to me.”
“Ah.” This was what had bothered Philip when he was at Attmore Manor—the lack of feelings between the Attmores and their charge.
Now that he realized she truly was a witch, he understood why the Attmores had been so happy to be rid of her.
But it didn’t mean he liked it. Philip scraped at his whiskers—long and beginning to itch, he couldn’t wait to shave—searching for the right words to address what he thought she might be feeling.
He was not good at this type of thing and didn’t know why he was even trying now.
“It’s not your fault, you know, that the Attmores were…well…”
“Afraid of me?” She laughed softly and without humor. “Of course it was my fault. I am a witch.”
“Isobel…families are strange. I was more comfortable with your mother and father than with my own—even before…”
“Before what?”
Philip shook his head impatiently; he hated how things kept coming back to his sister. “Nothing—what I’m trying to say is, your family was very close. I know you were young when you left, but you must remember how your mother adored you—and how your father still does.”
Isobel smiled at him, and it was like the sun on his face, warming him and stealing his breath.
“Tell me about your family,” she said.
Philip shook his head slowly. “There isna much to tell. My mother died when I was five. I hardly remember her, except that she was soft.”
Isobel’s mouth quirked slightly. “Soft?”
Philip shrugged. “Aye—I loved to sit on her lap, and it was soft.”
“What about your stepmother?”
“My stepmother,” Philip repeated, thinking about Mairi Kilpatrick.
She had been beautiful and kind and loved by everyone once.
Philip had adored her. After years of trying to conceive, they’d all come to believe she was barren, and though she became morose, she’d still treated Philip and his brothers as her own.
Then Effie had been born when Philip was eleven, and Mairi had thrown herself into raising the perfect daughter.
This task had left her very little time for aught else, but she still had kind words and smiles for Philip—unless she thought he was interfering with Effie’s upbringing.
His mood darkened. Isobel still stared at him quizzically.
He cleared his throat. “Once, she was a…” He paused, then tried again. “Once she was different than she is now.”
Isobel frowned. “How?”
Philip didn’t know how to explain it. Or perhaps he didn’t want to. Either way he shrugged. “It’s difficult to explain—but it’s my fault.”
When he glanced at Isobel she regarded him steadily. “Your fault?”
“She’s barren. It was a miracle when my sister, Effie, was born. Effie was her whole life and I lost her.”
“I see,” Isobel said slowly. “What happened to your sister?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me, aye?”
She gave him a narrow look, but did not pursue the subject. “What about your father?”
Philip relaxed—his father was a safe subject.
“Ah, my father. What can I say about Dougal Kilpatrick? He’s managed to sire numerous quarrelsome bastards who think they’re as entitled to Sgor Dubh as I am.
And my father encourages their plotting and intrigues to amuse himself.
I think he believes it will make me take an interest in my legacy.
I’m not certain, though, as I never give it much thought.
” He rubbed the ring on his finger, frowning.
“He can give it to them for all I care.”
“Your stepmother tolerates this?”
“Tolerates what?”
“His adultery? Shoving his bastards in her face?”
Her indignation amused him. She had been a bit sheltered. Alan and Lillian MacDonell had been deeply in love, and the Attmores had also seemed a comfortable couple who likely honored their vows—a rare occurrence, in Philip’s experience.
“He’s somewhat discreet. And besides, she has much freedom to do as she pleases. She’s not fool enough to complain. I doubt she’d care to have him warm her bed anymore, anyway.”
Isobel stared straight ahead, horrified.
He knew what she was thinking—imagining Lord Kincreag treating her thus.
Philip wanted to assure her she was nothing at all like Mairi and so had naught to fear.
But then Lord Kincreag was nothing like Dougal Kilpatrick, so who could know what would happen?
The thought of any man dishonoring Isobel sent a surge of hot anger through him so quickly and violently he was startled by it.
I’d kill him. The thought was strong and fierce—and completely heartfelt.
He should not be riding with her. He should not be speaking to her thusly.
But he’d already made the error, and so he rode beside her in silence, feeling awkward, wanting to say something comforting to ease the worried lines in her fair brow.
But he had no words for her, as her future did not comfort him.