Chapter 17
Philip’s chambers at Lochlaire were very fine—finer than his chambers at his own home.
Alan had always treated him like a son, always kept a room for him, as if this was as much Philip’s home as anyone else’s.
So why did Philip suddenly feel so betrayed?
He rolled over on the fragrant, heather-stuffed mattress and stared at the fire from between the fall of velvet curtains.
He had left the keep immediately after he’d seen Alan.
He’d toyed with the idea of just leaving, but instead he’d stood on the castle walls and looked out over the glen, waiting for the feeling that someone had punched him in the chest to subside.
But it had not.
Even now, lying in bed, he felt bruised and angry.
He recalled when Alan had sent for him several weeks ago.
Philip had been shocked at his friend’s condition, trying to hide his own grief at losing a dear friend, and so was ready to agree to anything.
But when Alan had begun speaking of his daughters and marriage, Philip had nearly run like a frightened hare.
He’d been greatly relieved when Alan had only asked him to fetch his eldest daughter, not marry her.
He’d not wanted to hurt or insult his friend by saying no. But now…
Why had Alan not asked him? He didn’t trust Philip to care for his daughter?
To protect her? Or perhaps he just didn’t think Philip was good enough.
It rankled and festered, making him more angry and misused by the moment.
Had he misinterpreted his friendship with Alan?
Stephen had brought him some dinner and told him about Alan’s choices for his daughters.
Jamie MacPhereson wasn’t so bad, Philip thought, but still, how was he any better than Philip?
And some old Frenchman! He’d send his daughter away, across the sea, rather than wed her to someone like Philip.
Not that Philip wanted Gillian or Rose—it was the principle of the matter.
The only husband who was acceptable and understandable—on the surface at least—was Isobel’s betrothed.
An earl. Philip could not compete with that.
It ate at him that she’d been with Lord Kincreag tonight.
He wanted to know how it went, what was said—but then again, he did not.
What if she’d found the earl all she’d hoped for?
Philip should be happy, should hope for that—but he did not.
He should just leave. He turned onto his other side, staring morosely into the darkness.
He couldn’t leave without seeing her again.
But then what would he say? He could think of nothing except good-bye and well wishes; empty, meaningless phrases that minimized how he truly felt.
He wanted to tell her so much more, to warn her, to somehow continue to protect her. But it was no longer his place.
He violently threw back the covers and strode to the fire.
He rubbed at his forehead, trying to think of what to do.
How foolish of him to try and puzzle this out when he knew exactly what he must do.
Leave and travel to Wyndyburgh. There he would find his sister and take her home to Sgor Dubh, where she belonged.
Then he would kick his bastard brothers out of his home and take his place as heir.
And then what? Marry? Provide heirs? The notion held no appeal for him.
He only wanted one woman, and he could not have her.
Her father—one of his most beloved friends—did not think him good enough.
He sat there, becoming increasingly aggrieved with Alan—and with himself.
Could he really blame Alan? After all, the chieftain of Glen Laire was well aware that Philip had refused his inheritance, that he spent more time wandering about finding strangers than tending to what was his—that he’d set his own life aside twelve years ago when he lost his sister.
Alan knew all of this. Of course he wouldn’t want Philip for any of his daughters—and certainly not the one who would bring Glen Laire to her husband should aught happen to Roderick MacDonell.
He’d done this to himself, and yet he’d never before cared.
Philip’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. “Aye?” he called, expecting Stephen, who was supposed share Philip’s room, but had likely sought a more agreeable bed to share.
The door creaked open. At first it was too dark outside the door for him to see more than a slender shape, dressed in pale colors.
But then the door closed, and she came farther into the room, her red-gold hair, reflecting the fire like sunlight, spilling over shoulders and framing her pale, fragile face.
She was wrapped in the arisaid he had given her, wearing it like a mantle.
He was stunned into silence, his throat tight, his mouth dry.
Isobel paused, eyeing him warily, then drifted closer.
Bare hands peeked from the folds of the plaid where she held it closed.
What did she wear beneath? His heart seemed to stutter at the thought, then raced, sending heat rushing through him.
Feet encased in velvet slippers peeked from beneath the white of her shift.
When she was but an arm’s length away, he asked in a hoarse voice, “What are you doing here?”
Red-blond lashes lowered, catching the firelight like burnished copper. “I knew you would not come to me.”
His groin tightened. This felt like a dream—or a fantasy—and he still couldn’t seem to move. “Why would I do that?”
Her expression turned slightly sad. “Because you’re leaving tomorrow, and I’m getting married in a sennight. We may never see each other again…and even if we do, it will never be the same.”
“Isobel…” But he couldn’t seem to say anything more. She should not be here, in his room, but he did not want her to go, could not send her away.
She released the plaid and it puddled to the floor. Beneath she wore an indecent shift, all lace and lawn, and he could see the weight of her breasts pressing against the material, the dusky thrust of her nipples, and farther down, a dark triangle. He looked back to her face.
She looked fearful, her pale green eyes wide, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“You are beautiful,” he said, nearly choking on the words.
“When I went to the room I’m sharing with my sisters, I found three chests, each full of new clothes. This”—she gestured to the filmy garment she wore—“is for my wedding night. I would wear it for you, before I ever wear it for him.”
She spat out him as if it were a dirty word.
Power returned to his limbs and he stood. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes—silver-green eyes that begged him not to send her away. Her hands came up, resting against his chest. She had bathed. Violets and musk drifted from her skin and hair.
“Please don’t send me away…I…I want to be with you tonight.”
“Isobel, do you realize how dangerous this is? What if someone saw you? Or someone finds out?”
“No one saw me—I was careful. And no one will find out. I latched the door behind me.”
When he said nothing, tears welled in her eyes. A fist squeezed at his heart as he watched a single tear track her cheek. There was a tremor in the hand he used to wipe the tear away. He framed her face with both hands. “What happened?”
“I met him tonight. I will never find happiness with him, Philip—I know it in my bones. It’s you I love.” And then she began to weep silently. Tears coursed freely down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could stop them, but they fell anyway.
He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her shuddering body.
His mind raced desperately, wondering what he could do to help her, to protect her from this unhappiness.
And then he knew, with calm certainty, there was only one thing he could do, only one answer, Alan and Kincreag be damned.
Isobel rubbed her face against his shirt, drying her tears, and gazed up at him.
Though he held her and comforted her, he seemed oddly restrained.
She feared he didn’t want her here, didn’t want this.
She flexed her hands against his shirt and felt that he did desire her, faintly from the linen that lived against his skin.
But wanting with your body and wanting with your heart and mind were two separate things, she knew.
He was a good and honorable man and would not want to deflower another man’s betrothed, under her father’s own roof.
But there was no help for it. She would not leave his room a maiden.
His gaze burned into her, but his hands were still, gently cupping her shoulders.
She lowered her gaze to his muscular neck, corded and strained.
His pulse beat rapidly in the hollow of his throat, and crisp brown hairs were visible above the white of his shirt.
She pulled the top tie, breathless and warm with a shyness she was determined to overcome.
She pulled the next, and the next, until the linen parted, exposing a lightly haired chest, hard with muscle.
He was so beautiful and strong. Her hands slid beneath the linen.
He tensed, but did not stop her. Skin warm and smooth except for the dusting of coarse hair soothed her palms. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against the pulse that throbbed in his neck.
He groaned and murmured something in Gaelic, a curse perhaps.
His hands slid from her shoulders, one to the small of her back, the other tangling into her hair, forcing her head back.
His gaze moved over her face possessively, fiercely, until her knees nearly buckled with want.
Then he kissed her, his mouth warm and demanding, parting her lips, and plunging inside.