Chapter 16
After giving their father a quick examination, Rose MacDonell shooed everyone except Hagan and the dog from the room, including Isobel.
She stood in the cavernous great hall, looking longingly from her father’s closed chamber door to Philip’s retreating back.
Where was he going? Surely, if he were leaving, he’d say good-bye?
But she wasn’t at all certain he would, and her belly twisted with anxiety.
She became aware of the questioning eyes on her and turned to her sisters. “Look at you two.”
The last time she’d seen Gillian and Rose they’d been children, ten and eight, respectively.
They had both blossomed into beautiful women.
Though they’d changed dramatically, Isobel could still see the sisters she remembered.
That dreamy look still lingered in Gillian’s smoky gray eyes.
Her hair was a mass of mahogany curls, braided at the crown to keep it from her face.
She had been a plump child, dimpled and precious.
The plumpness had moved to all the right places, so that she was voluptuous, while her limbs and neck, as well as her face, were delicate as a dove.
Rose was tall and slender, like Isobel, but sturdier. Her features held none of the delicacy of Gillian’s, but were sharp and fierce, her blue eyes brimming with passion, and surrounded by a sleek fall of deep auburn hair.
They both examined Isobel with the same intense scrutiny. “You have changed,” Rose said. “You look just like Mother.” Then her strong face crumpled, and she threw herself into Isobel’s arms. Gillian came close and rubbed at Rose’s back, making soothing and sympathetic noises.
“It’s true,” Gillian said in her soft sweet voice. “You look just like Mother…at least as I remember her, so beautiful—her hair such an unusual color.”
Rose sniffed and drew back, wiping her eyes, blue as midnight.
“I’m sorry…it’s just that I’ve waited so long, then Davie showed up with a letter…
and now I’m here and Father is dying and we’re all together—but getting married…
. And then I see you and feel like I truly am home—looking at you is like seeing mother here again.
” Rose covered her face suddenly. “I canna even think straight.”
“Father is dying?” Isobel whispered. “Are you certain?”
Rose dropped her hands. “Aye—but from what, I haven’t an inkling.
Something saps away his strength and causes painful marks on his body—like bruises and welts, sometimes even in odd patterns.
Hagan is beside himself. He rarely leaves Father’s side—so the marks trouble him greatly.
They look as though he’s been beaten, but Hagan can attest that no one enters or leaves the room without his knowledge.
” Rose stared down at her hands, the fingers spread wide, then curled them into angry fists.
“Even if I lose someone, I always kent what was wrong with them and why I couldna save them. But this…this disease eludes me!”
“Is there no hope?” Gillian asked.
Rose’s fine pale brow creased with worry. “I know not—though I am still trying—I vow it. I’ll not leave him until he is healed…or gone.”
The dread in Isobel’s belly intensified, and she finally understood what it was—a premonition of her father’s death. It had to be. That he should die now, when they were all together again, was so wrong, so unfair. She looked down at her own hands, useless to her father.
Gillian covered Rose’s hands with her own. “You cannot heal everything, Rose.”
Rose spoke with a Highland Scots accent—which told Isobel she’d been in the Highlands for the past twelve years and found Gaelic more comfortable. Gillian, however, spoke with a lowland lilt.
“Where have you both been the past twelve years?” Isobel asked.
“I’ve been on Skye,” Rose said. “She’s been on the borders—right in the thick of the witch-hunts!”
Isobel looked at Gillian, alarmed. “How did you manage?”
Gillian shrugged, eyes averted. “I…I don’t know.”
Isobel exchanged a look with Rose. “Has something happened, Gillian?”
Gillian’s expression grew strained, her nose pinched. Then she sniffed, and a tear fell over her thick lashes. “I am not a witch.”
“What?” Rose scoffed. “Of course you are—but you have the right of it. Just keep saying that. I will, too.” She eyed them both with wide-eyed intensity. “We are not witches.”
Gillian looked up at her sisters, her gray eyes wide and sad. “You don’t understand. I truly have no magic.”
Isobel removed her gloves and took Gillian’s hands. “But you did, didn’t you? Before you left Lochlaire?”
Gillian shook her head miserably. “No…Mum said it would come, in time, and we’d know what my magic was. But the magic never came.”
There was a long moment of awkward silence, then Isobel put her arm around Gillian’s shoulders. “Be happy, sister, you’re the safe one. I go to a husband who does not believe in witches. How I will turn his world upside down.”
Gillian nodded, her gaze on their joined hands. “Earl Kincreag. I think he’s not as horrid as everyone says.”
Rose snorted. “He’s a sour, surly, unpleasant man. I know—I’ve been here a sennight now, and he almost as long.” Then she smiled weakly at Isobel’s worried frown. “Sorry. Gillian’s right, he’s probably not so awful.”
“He’s very handsome,” Gillian offered.
“He’d likely be prettier,” Rose said, “if he wasna always scowling.”
These tidings did nothing to ease Isobel’s anxiety over meeting her betrothed. It was all too much. Her father’s illness, meeting Lord Kincreag, losing Philip.
At the thought of Philip, Isobel wondered aloud where he’d run off to so quickly.
“You got Sir Philip,” Rose said, and waggled her eyebrows enviously. “Lucky you! Da sent Davie MacLeod for me! Can you imagine?”
Isobel tried to place Davie MacLeod but could not. “Who is Davie MacLeod?”
Rose looked at her incredulously. “The bard? The harper? He who always sang cloying love ballads to Mum? Alas for him whose sick in love, Whatever the reason I should say it!” she mimicked in a warbling falsetto.
“Oh!” Isobel covered her mouth and laughed. “Has he changed?”
Rose shook her head, rolling her eyes. “He’s still in love with Mum—even though she’s dead.” She looked at Isobel consideringly. “Just wait until he gets a look at you!”
“Davie means well,” Gillian admonished gently. “And he was never in love with Mum. Da wouldn’t have stood for it. He admired her. Da sent Hagan for me. He’s as sweet as ever—he takes care of Da now.”
Rose nodded. “Aye, he’s become more than a personal guard—he’s Da’s nursemaid. Hagan is a good man if ever there was one. But still—he’s no Sir Philip!”
Isobel smiled thinly. “Yes, well…” Her cheeks were burning as she fought to change the subject. “Who has Da betrothed you to?”
Rose’s expression softened. “Jamie MacPhereson.” She dug into the folds of her arisaid and removed a miniature. It was secured to her brooch by a ribbon. “Here he is—do you remember him?”
Isobel and Gillian leaned close to scrutinize the tiny portrait. It was of a blond man, his face narrow and handsome in a fine, English way.
“He doesn’t look like a Scot,” Isobel commented.
Rose frowned, looking down at the miniature. “Of course he does. His father was a great friend of Da’s. He’s chief now—and he remembered me.” Her face was pink as she stared down at the miniature. “He asked for me. He’s written me letters, saying he’s loved me since we were children.”
“You were eight when you left here,” Isobel said.
“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Isobel smiled. She was glad one of them would marry a man of her choosing. “I do remember Jamie now. He was a very nice lad—his father, too. Da has done well for you.”
“He’s no earl,” Rose teased, but it was clear she much preferred her Jamie. She would marry the man she loved. A twinge of jealousy stabbed Isobel. It seemed childish to whine that it wasn’t fair, but inside, she couldn’t help it.
Gillian sighed. “You are both so fortunate. I remember Jamie. He was a kind and comely lad, and his lands are not far. And you, Isobel—Earl Kincreag is dark and mysterious and so beautiful I vow you will swoon when you see him. Even if he is sour as an old goat—he’s disgustingly rich and has a dozen castles.
You’ll never have to see him if you don’t want to.
And you also will not be far from Lochlaire or Rose. ”
“Where will you be?” Isobel asked, disturbed by the wistfulness in her sister’s tone.
“I am to marry an old man in France.”
Rose frowned indignantly. “Father is marrying you to an old man?”
Gillian lifted one shoulder. “Well, he’s not ancient. Nearly fifty. Still that seems very old to me—like marrying my father.”
They all made faces of disgust.
“Maybe he will be kind,” Isobel said hopefully.
“Or maybe he will die quickly and leave you a rich widow,” Rose added.
Gillian’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I wouldn’t care if he was eighty so long as he lived in Scotland.” She gripped Isobel and Rose’s hands. “I’ve missed you both desperately, and now our time together is so short. What if I never see you again?”
“Don’t say that!” Isobel cried.
Rose just frowned, deeply disturbed.
“Have you told Father how you feel?” Isobel asked.
Gillian shook her head. “Oh no! He mustn’t know. He’s dying, and these marriages are so important to him. My Frenchman is an old friend of Father’s. I cannot protest—not now, when it’s his dying wish. That is why he brought us here now—to see us married to these men so he can die in peace.”
Isobel understood just how trapped Gillian felt and she squeezed her sister’s hand reassuringly. She knew what it was to be torn between duty and desire—but there was no help for it—for either of them.
Rose raised a speculative brow. “You still have time. Has a man caught yer fancy here? Encourage him. Better to lose your maidenhead to a lad of your choosing than to some old stranger.”
Gillian shrugged. “I couldn’t do such a thing.”