Chapter 12 #2
“That was my fault,” Isobel said suddenly.
Colin and Dougal were still talking over them.
In fact, no one paid any attention to Mairi and Philip’s conversation.
Perhaps these scenes were common. This saddened Isobel.
She lowered her voice. “I’ve been known to…
find things. I offered to help. I’m sorry I could not.
The rest…what you saw. That was all my doing. ”
Mairi looked her up and down, then turned her stony blue gaze on Philip. “Is this true?”
Philip shook his head wearily. “No.”
“Philip?” Isobel said, confused.
“That’s what I thought,” Mairi said. “Don’t waste your time trying to protect him, Mistress MacDonell. He’ll only repay you with heartbreak.”
Philip started to stand, but Dougal laid a hand on Philip’s shoulder. He said something in Gaelic, gesturing to Colin, who looked up from his meal.
Philip ignored his father, though he remained seated. Dougal’s mouth thinned and he repeated himself in English. “Colin has some interesting ideas on breeding those horses you sent from France. I’d like to hear what you think.”
“I’m sure Colin knows better than I do.”
“Whether he does or not, I think you should hear it. They’re your horses.”
“No, I sent them to you.”
“I’ll tell ye what I think,” Stephen said, leaning across Isobel to look at Dougal. “That big stallion, the black one…” He trailed off when Dougal just glared at him. “Maybe later.” He grabbed a roll.
“He doesna care!” Colin said, his face red. “Why do ye keep trying? I care, Father.”
“He only cares for himself,” Mairi said, pinning her husband with a withering look. “And you only care for him.”
“I’m not going to listen to this, wife.”
“Since when do you listen? Certainly not when Philip comes home. None of your other children matter when Philip is here. Colin is here every day trying to please you—but you fall all over yourself as soon as Philip comes home.”
Philip drained his tankard as Dougal and Mairi dissolved into vehement Gaelic. He stood, grabbing a bottle from the table. “Then I’ll just go, aye?”
Dougal stood angrily, but Philip strode from the hall. Colin and Mairi’s angry stares followed him out.
Isobel hesitated, then slid off the bench and followed him.
She didn’t care what the others thought.
She should, she knew. Though the Highlands were remote and far removed from England and the lowlands, and even the king’s court, information did have a way of traveling.
Her father or her betrothed could hear of her behavior, and she’d have some explaining to do.
She would deal with that when—if—the time came. For the moment all she could think of was Philip. She passed into the dark corridors, lit at far intervals by torches, and saw no sign of him. That was where he’d gone, though, so she followed the corridor and came to an open door.
Outside thick clouds shrouded the moon, but torches lit the bailey.
Stones crunched under her feet. She scanned the open yard.
Wooden buildings lined the edges of the walls.
There was a shadowy recess between two buildings and she caught sight of Philip, disappearing into it.
Isobel lifted her skirts and hurried after him.
She came to a crude arched doorway cut into the stone, with steps leading downward.
No lights were lit, but a rope rail was tacked to the wall.
She descended, clinging to the rope. She heard movement below.
She emerged into a cave of sorts, facing the sea.
An old wooden chest sat against one stone wall.
Coils of rope littered the floor. Water lapped against the stone, and several oared boats were tied to posts driven into the rock. Philip was untying one of the boats.
“Philip?”
He turned, surprised. She knew then he was drunk—otherwise, he would have known she’d followed.
He turned back to the boat. “Go to bed.”
“I don’t want to…I’ve told you before, I don’t sleep much.”
“Then go inside.”
“You can’t go out alone.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“Drunk?”
He shook his head. “I’m hardly drunk.”
She went to him. “Nevertheless, I’m coming with you.”
“Isobel, I really dinna think that’s a good idea.”
She was already in the boat, sitting on a wooden cross plank and staring up at him expectantly.
He sighed, hands on hips, then shrugged. “I care not. Just keep yer mouth shut, aye? So I can pretend I’m alone.”
Isobel clamped her lips together and nodded.
He took an oil lantern and handed it to her to hang from the hook on the bow of the boat. He sat on a plank facing her and began to row.
When they were clear of the cave and heading into open sea, she asked, “Where are we going?”
He said nothing.
“Why do you still wear lowland attire? Stephen changed.”
When she still received no answer she pointed to the bottle of whisky rolling around in the bottom of the boat. “Could I have some?”
He paused in his rowing to regard her with a severe expression. Then he shrugged again. “It’s damn hard to pretend I’m alone when ye wilna stop talking.”
Isobel smiled at him. She took the bottle and pried out the cork.
He watched her, his face shadowed, but she could see the dimples denting his cheeks.
She sniffed the contents and shuddered. She’d not drunk whisky since she was a child.
She and her sisters would steal drinks from their father’s cup when he wasn’t looking.
Lord Attmore had forbidden it, allowing the women to drink only watered wine or ale.
She took a swig. The brew burned going down, and, she sputtered, clamping a hand over her mouth.
Warmth moved through her whole body, and she shuddered with a mixture of revulsion and pleasure.
She looked at the bottle. “Faith!” she said, and Philip laughed.
She took another drink, and another, until he snatched the bottle away.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I canna have ye falling oot of the boat.” His Scots had grown broad. He took another long drink himself, before stuffing in the cork and placing the bottle in the bottom of the boat.
When he was rowing again, she asked, “Why did you lie to Mairi? Maybe if she knew why we came, she wouldn’t be so sour.”
“And tell her you’re a witch? I think not.”
He was always protecting her. It warmed her more efficiently than the whisky.
“Where are we going? To one of the islands I saw from the window?”
“Aye.”
“Who lives there?”
“No one. The chieftains of Sgor Dubh and their families are buried there.”
Isobel looked up at the approaching island. A deserted cemetery. A shiver of apprehension slid over her.
When she glanced back at Philip, he grinned at her. “Scared?”
“Of course not. They’re all dead.”
“Och, it’s said the Kilpatricks are restless in death—that’s why they’re buried on an island, so they canna haunt the living.”
A frisson of unease went through Isobel, but she kept her face bland. “You’re just trying to frighten me.”
He only smiled.
By the time they reached the island, Isobel’s limbs felt warm and heavy—an interesting and pleasant sensation. She wanted more of the whisky and said so as he dragged the boat ashore. He fetched the bottle from the boat and considered her a moment before passing it to her again.
He grabbed the lantern as she took another deep pull. This one went down much more smoothly. She started to take another drink, but he plucked the bottle from her grasp.
“I dinna want ye to bock all over me or the boat—or someone’s grave.”
“I’ve never bocked in my life!”
He slanted her a skeptical look, taking another drink. “Never?”
“Well, perhaps when I was wean. But not that I remember.”
He grunted and started up the beach. Isobel started to follow and stumbled, surprised at how wobbly her legs were. He turned to look at her, and she giggled. “I haven’t got my land legs back yet, it seems.”
“We werena in the boat that long. Ye’re sotted, lass. If yer father could see ye now, he’d thrash me.” He caught her arm and led her to a trail worn in the windswept grasses.
“It’ll be our secret, aye?” she said, and giggled again.
He just shook his head at her, but he was smiling, and that filled Isobel with happiness.
There were no trees on the island, and the damp air blowing across it was cold.
Isobel wished she’d brought her arisaid or cloak.
They arrived at a well-tended plot of land, bathed in muted moonlight.
Long slabs of stone littered the area, some standing upright, others partly submerged in the earth.
Isobel paused before one, barely able to make out a carving of a warrior in a pointed helmet and chain mail, wielding an enormous cross hilt sword.
Philip continued on to a stone cross. He held the lantern high.
The cross was decorated with a knotwork of braids. Isobel stopped beside him.
“My mother,” he said.
Isobel said nothing, staring down at the overgrown plot.
“I wish I remembered her better.”
“How soon after your mother died did Dougal wed Mairi?”
“It wasna even a year.”
“So she is the only mother you ever knew?”
He nodded.
And Mairi hated him now. She hadn’t always. Stephen had said they got on fine before he’d lost Effie. Isobel didn’t know what to say, so she touched the leather sleeve of his jack.
“I dinna ken why I come here.” He started back for the beach.