Chapter 10
The days passed, bringing with them the rougher terrain of the Highlands.
A trembling excitement filled Isobel. It had been so long since she’d seen these mountains, seen the heather-covered crags, the glens and hidden lochs, the glistening falls that emptied into clear pools of water.
Though it had been twelve years since she’d last set eyes on the Highlands, her heart knew this place. Home.
They passed the occasional croft. The men plowing the fields for oats and barley raised their hands in greeting as they passed.
Isobel stood in her stirrups to wave back, barely able to contain her excitement.
Home. Peat smoke spiced the air, rising from holes in the thatched roofs.
Women sat on driftwood benches, spinning wool and watching the younger children.
The farther they traveled, the more withdrawn Philip became. Isobel had been surprised when days ago he’d asked her to ride with him, only to be bitterly disappointed he’d only wanted to issue more warnings about Lord Kincreag.
He’d not sought her out since. He took great pains to be certain he was never alone with her.
He rarely addressed her directly and was careful not to meet her gaze.
But none of that helped. He’d kindled a fire in her that would not be extinguished.
She touched his belongings when he was not looking.
As he was aware of her ability, he kept his things close to him, so her opportunities were rare, but she took them.
They revealed little to her, but she loved the feel of him.
Even the most mundane object of his retained something of his essence in it.
Strong and male, constantly sorting problems in his mind.
Some of the things he pondered surprised her.
She caught a memory, once—of him and a young girl, standing calf deep in the shallow water of a cove or inlet.
He showed the girl how to catch fish in the weir, a low semicircular stone wall.
It was a fond memory, and he recalled it with a touch of sadness.
And sometimes she even felt a shadow of his desire for her, which he worked very hard to suppress.
She saw herself once, when touching the rag he used to oil and polish his weapons at night.
She saw herself as he saw her. It was a vision she’d never forget—the sun sinking into the horizon behind her.
She’d been mending one of her sleeves, her eyes downcast, frowning slightly in concentration.
He’d thought she was beautiful—had even felt a sort of frustrated longing, looking at her.
She held the memory close to her, something to cherish in the days ahead.
Not that she would need it, she assured herself.
It would be this way with Nicholas; she would make it so.
With Nicholas she would forget this restless preoccupation with Philip.
She’d nearly convinced herself her betrothed had been unfairly maligned.
He was a powerful man, after all, people were eager for his downfall.
If he really were a murderer, surely the king would have done something.
Though she recognized the fallacy of her thoughts—the king never punished noble murderers unless it suited him—she had to tell herself these things, or she’d go mad.
They followed a wending burn until it emptied into a loch. The water was so clear Isobel could see fish darting beneath the surface. Near the bank she spied an elf shot. She plucked the stone arrowhead from the water and dried it on her kirtle, pleased to have discovered such a good portent.
She tucked it in her satchel and inhaled. The scent of the sea had been growing stronger until Isobel felt certain it must be just over the next rise. Goats and sheep dotted the hillside, green with heather and splashed with patches of violets. A shaggy dog trotted around the perimeter of the herd.
They had stopped at the loch to water the horses.
Philip stood apart from them, his arms folded over his chest, gazing out at the animals.
Isobel stood beside Jinny, her hand on the horse’s withers, watching him.
A gust of moist wind pushed the dark hair from his face.
A frown had settled on his smooth brow. What did he think about?
What weighed so heavily on his mind now that they neared his home? Was it his sister? Or something else?
“Sgor Dubh is just over that rise,” Fergus said, nodding in the direction Philip stared. “You’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Isobel looked up at the burly redhead, surprised. “You’re not coming with us?”
Fergus took a drink from the waterskin and shook his head. “Nay, Miss. I’m going home for a day or so—but I’ll meet you at Sgor Dubh afore ye leave for Lochlaire.”
“Sgor Dubh…that means sharp black stone, yes?”
Fergus grinned. “Aye, ye ken yer Gaelic, do ye no?”
Isobel shrugged. “I remember some things, if I think on them hard enough.” She cocked her head. “Where is your home?”
He gestured with the waterskin to the east. “Dougal has given me a tower house. I live there with my wife, Fia.”
“Fergus and Fia. I like that.” Isobel smiled. “I’m sorry I won’t meet her.”
“Och, she’d be honored, she would.” He looked uncomfortable suddenly, his mouth compressed, his brow lowered. He frowned at the ground as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
“What is it, Fergus?”
“It’s my sister-in-law…Her letters for the past year have been strange, and she doesna want Fia to visit her. Fia is so worrit aboot her. She cries sometimes, when I’m away, and she feels lonely. I was hoping…”
Isobel placed a hand on his arm. “Bring something of your sister-in-law’s when you return. If possible, something metal, or perhaps a precious stone—or clothing would work, too. Linen is best. Or even the letter, unless your wife has handled it a lot.”
“What aboot the spoon she used?”
“Not if it’s wood. Wood doesn’t give me clear pictures, I don’t know why—I just feel things, which are hard to interpret into the type of information you’re looking for.”
Fergus shook his head. “It’s horn.”
“Horn is good. But if it’s someone else’s now, and they use it or touch it a lot, it will give me mixed readings. It’s best if it hasn’t been touched much since your sister-in-law last used it.”
He smiled, relieved. “I thank ye, Mistress MacDonell. Ye’re a good lass, ye are.” He reached toward her awkwardly. Isobel thought for a moment he meant to embrace her and moved forward, but he settled for patting her shoulder.
“God save ye,” he said, and turned away. He slapped Stephen on the back and mounted his horse, cantering over to where Philip stood.
They exchanged a few words, then Fergus rode away.
“He doesna like going home,” Stephen said from behind her.
Isobel turned. “Who? Fergus?”
“Och, no. Fergus thinks of naught but that bonny wee wife of his. No, I speak of Philip. That’s why he’s been so foul-tempered the past few days.”
They both stared at the lone figure meditating on the far hills.
“Why doesn’t he like to go home? Is it because of his sister?”
Stephen shook his head and turned back to his horse, relacing the leather sack to his saddle. “Aye, his stepmother keeps her alive.”
Isobel gave him an inquisitive look, but Stephen raised his brows and nodded to something behind her. When she turned, Philip was striding over to them, his face grim, his mouth set.
He swung into his saddle with the air of a man steeling himself to face an army alone. “Let’s go.”
Since entering the Highlands they had passed the occasional croft, but now the black stone cottages grew more numerous, and they were forced onto the rutted road so they didn’t trample freshly planted fields.
The mountains had fallen behind them, leaving a clear blue sky that met with glistening blue water.
Sgor Dubh sat on a narrow rocky promontory.
The only way to it was by the slender isthmus or by boat.
It was a very old castle, added to and expanded over the years until the thick walls reached the very edge of the sharp black rocks it was built upon.
A square keep was barely visible over the retaining walls, but soaring high above that were several conical towers.
The castle was quite busy, men and women, all wearing the wool plaid of the Highlands, came and went across the natural bridge.
Many men wore the plaid belted at the waist, so that it draped in folds to their knees.
Others wore long tartan breeches called trews, with tunics or doublets and wool mantles.
Most of the women wore arisaids, their throats and forearms bare, but others dressed no differently than lowland women, wearing their plaids about their shoulders as shawls. The majority of them were barefoot.
When they were in the courtyard a young man strode over to them. He wore his plaid belted. The weave was finer than anything Isobel had seen yet, the colors a vivid checking of purple and green. He pushed a shock of sandy hair out of his face and laughed loudly.
“Look who decided to grace us with a visit!”
He yelled rapid Gaelic to some men behind him and turned back to Philip, hands on hips and legs planted wide.
Deep dimples grooved his clean-shaven cheeks.
He grinned broadly, with great pleasure that seemed more inherent to his person than due to Philip’s arrival.
When his gaze fell on Isobel, one eyebrow quirked.
His smile faded slightly, only to reemerge with a wolfish edge.
He seemed of an age with Philip, perhaps a bit younger, and was quite handsome.
“That’s Colin,” Stephen said in a low voice. “Watch him. He’s not to be trusted.”
Philip swung down from his horse, unmoved by Colin’s greeting. He strode toward the man, leading his enormous black horse.
Colin spread his arms, as if he expected Philip to embrace him. “Brother! It’s been too long.”