Chapter 11 #2
Mairi Kilpatrick stood in the doorway. Isobel knew her from the visions.
Her dark hair was covered with a triangle of fine linen.
She wore a pale yellow gown, her arisaid belted at her waist and held together with a brooch at her neck.
She surveyed the room—in disarray from Philip’s digging.
Her eyes lit on the undressed doll. A shaking hand covered her mouth.
Philip was off the bed. He picked the doll up from where he’d dropped it on the floor and took it to her, his steps hesitant.
“I’m sorry…I…” What could he say? He’d brought a witch to help him find Effie? Isobel’s throat was tight with the horror of the scene. Books and trinkets were scattered all over the floor where Philip had shoved them in his frustration. Clothes and blankets hung out of the chest.
Mairi took the doll from Philip’s outstretched hands and clutched it to her chest like a child, looking at him in hurt disbelief. “Why would you do this? Why would you bring a…a woman here…in her very bed…?”
“I pray you…forgive me…I…” He turned and scanned the room, his eyes wild. “I’ll fix it.” He went to the cabinet and began picking up the books he’d shoved on the floor, arranging them on top of it. Isobel was still frozen in horrified disbelief. She forced herself to stand.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I asked him to show me his sister’s things—her room.”
Mairi looked at her, her face a mask of cold distaste. She went to Philip, who was trying in vain to fit together a wooden knight that had come apart. Mairi wrenched the toy from his hands.
“Get out! Haven’t you done enough? Why do you come back?”
Philip backed away, his face stricken. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
When his apology was met with cold indifference, he turned away.
Isobel’s throat was tight. She searched her mind for something to say, something that would explain this and make it all right.
But she could think of nothing short of the truth—and Mairi did not seem the type of woman who would be tolerant of witchcraft.
Philip grabbed Isobel’s wrist and dragged her from the room.
He pulled her back through the castle, his face set in hard lines.
Isobel continued to struggle for words to address what had just occurred, to try to make it better, but this ran deep, deeper than she’d originally suspected.
Back at his room, the door stood open. Candles had been lit and the room had been tidied. Her satchel sat on the table.
“I’ll come for you when dinner is served,” he said, then he was gone, before she could say a single word in reply.
Philip still gripped the latch, even after closing the door.
The landing was deserted. Philip lingered there a moment, just to be certain Isobel stayed put, then descended the stairs, skirting through a side door, harboring some insane fear he would meet up with his stepmother on the stairs.
Insane because Mairi would never come to his tower.
Outside, he headed for the retaining wall and climbed to the ramparts.
He looked over the thick wall, to the island where the Kilpatricks buried their dead.
The day had turned overcast, the iron gray waves lashing the island.
He’d stood here many times, wishing his sister was out there, buried on that island.
Then at least he’d know. The familiar self-disgust welled up.
How craven of him to wish she was dead—to wish for an easy release.
Fishermen were out in their boats, hauling in nets full of herring as waves tossed their small crafts about like toys. He heard the scrape of a boot behind him and straightened, dropping his hands from his head and blanking his face.
“I just talked to Mairi.” Colin. Philip did not want to spar with his brother now.
Colin strolled to the wall and leaned against it, searching Philip’s face.
Philip raised a bored brow. “Aye? And how is she?”
“Jesus God, Philip, what are you thinking? You know how she is about that room. Why would you do such a thing?” Colin shook his head. “It’s as if you want to rub her face in it.”
Philip hated this. It was why he rarely returned. He had no excuses, no defense. All Colin said was true. However unintentional, Philip persisted in causing Mairi sorrow. He said nothing, staring blindly at the far island.
“Father tries, you know,” Colin continued. “He tries to understand why you do these things.”
“He shouldn’t tax himself over it.”
“Easier said. You’re his son and heir…or you were.”
Something coiled tightly in Philip’s chest. His fingers went to the ring on his other hand, toying with the topaz stone.
So Dougal had finally made good on his threats.
Philip should not care. He flicked his brother a disinterested look.
“You see? It’s not necessary to kill me to get what you want. ”
Colin laughed. “You persist in that fancy? I did not try to kill you. An unfortunate accident. That is all.” When Philip shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn, Colin persisted, “You think me so daft I would kill you and provoke Father’s everlasting ire?
He’d surely not name me tanist then. It would go to Aidan or Niall. ”
Aidan and Niall. Philip wondered where his other two half brothers were. Likely out reiving kine and raping women and small boys. He didn’t ask, as he liked them less than Colin. If either of them ever became chieftain, he might be forced to assert his own claim. They’d be the end of Sgor Dubh.
Philip smiled slightly. “What an amazing coincidence that I was shot twice with your quarrels. Such poor marksmanship, Colin.”
“I was hunting—I didn’t know you were there.”
“So why then did we have to beat you out of the forest, aye? If it were such an innocent mistake, why not come forward and see if I was wounded? And what were you doing in MacDonell’s deer park, anyway?”
Colin turned sullen. “I ran because I know you. You’d never believe me. Always thinking the worst.”
The conversation was becoming tedious. Philip had other things to worry about.
They had to stay the night here, but they would leave at first light.
There was nothing for him here. And there was nothing he could do to appease Mairi—he’d tried for years.
Isobel had been his last hope. It was best just to leave.
Mairi was happier without him there as a constant reminder.
He pushed away from the wall. He would see Dougal and get that over with. Then he could leave Sgor Dubh behind him—forever this time. Colin would be so pleased.
As Philip passed his brother, Colin said, “What about the lass? What is she to you?”
Philip faced his brother. He could see the wheels turning in Colin’s head.
If Philip married her, and they had a son, Colin could say good-bye to ever being chieftain.
Dougal would name Philip’s son his heir.
Dougal knew his boys. Colin, Aidan, and Niall were not moral men.
They were drunk more often than sober—and everyone suspected Niall had the pox—though he denied it vehemently.
They were weak-minded and easily swayed.
Colin was the best of the three, with some will of his own.
But still, when with Niall and Aidan, he showed little common sense.
That was why Dougal had badgered Philip for years—even when Philip repeatedly refused, willingly stepping aside for Colin.
“She is nothing to me,” Philip said. “She is, however, soon to be the countess of Kincreag.”
“Then what is she doing here?”
“I’m giving the gray mare to her and Lord Kincreag as a wedding gift. We’re here to fetch it. We leave in the morn.”
Colin raised his brows. “That’s a fine gift.”
“He is an earl.”
“I’m surprised Lord Kincreag would have her. Wasn’t Lillian MacDonell burned for witchcraft?”
Philip’s gaze narrowed. “What has that to do with Isobel? Women are burned for naught more than the accusations of their enemies anymore. It means nothing.”
Colin laughed incredulously. “Nothing? Perhaps there are so many burnings because the evil in this country runs deep. Witches must be rooted out, exterminated—not married to earls! I’d not want to wed that crone’s daughter—”
Philip grabbed his brother by the front of his shirt and slammed him hard against the wall. “You speak ill of the MacDonells again, and you’ll wish your arrow’s aim had been true, for I’ll not show you mercy this time.”
Colin tried to push Philip off. “Bloody hell, Philip—surely you’ve heard the rumors. It’s said her daughters are fey—that’s why MacDonell hid them.”
Philip leaned close to Colin’s face. “I find out you’re spreading such tales, and I’ll track you down and kill you.”
“The tales hardly need me to spread.” His brother’s brow twitched in sudden understanding, and he smiled.
“Oh, that’s the way of it. I’m certain MacDonell of Glen Laire will be pleased to hear how well you’ve taken care of his daughter.
And the earl of Kincreag! What would he think?
That, along with a few accusations of sorcery and…
” Colin shook his head sadly. “I fear things would not go well for the lass.”
Philip had miscalculated. How had that happened?
He rarely lost his temper with his half brothers—always careful to impress how little he cared about Sgor Dubh or them.
Not that it mattered, they’d always held a powerful weapon—his guilt over Effie, his remorse toward Mairi, and though he’d striven to take even that power from them, he’d never been entirely successful.
And now he’d played right into Colin’s hands and revealed yet another weakness. Isobel.
Colin thrust Philip away from him and made a show of straightening his shirt and plaid. “Just remember that when you talk to Father. So long as he names me tanist, you can do what you like with your little witch.”
Philip’s hand was on his sword hilt, his jaw rigid.
Colin saw it and backed away, still smiling his oily smile, and disappeared down the ladder.
Philip’s hand still clenched the hilt, itching to cut his bastard brother down.
That Colin would be chieftain of Sgor Dubh chafed.
He’d wanted Colin to have it—or so he’d endeavored to convince himself for years—but now, to give it to him under threats of blackmail, when it had been his all along…
Philip was tempted to go down to his father and announce he’d changed his mind and would take his place as heir apparent.
But no. That would mean living with Mairi and the ghost of his sister. And besides, he didn’t doubt Colin’s sincerity—he would find a way to inform Lord Kincreag of Isobel’s alleged crimes. And unfortunately, too much of it was the truth.
Philip’s hand relaxed on his sword. He could not wait to be quit of the place. He wished they’d never come. Tomorrow. All he must endure was an audience with his father and a meal with the rest. And on the morrow they would be gone.