Chapter 18
Isobel was afraid to sleep. This night was all she had, and she wished it wouldn’t end, but knew it must. Dawn would come, and she would sneak back to her room and Philip would leave to find his sister. Life would go on.
Philip wasn’t much interested in sleep, and that was fine with her. He’d shown her things this night that even in her visions of others she’d not seen, and certainly never imagined on her own. With him she was free. He knew she was a witch, and he did not care—he desired her anyway.
They lay quiescent at last, and Isobel felt herself drifting, his arms hard and warm around her. Her gaze strayed to the window. Darkness still held sway. But how far away was the dawn? She must not worry on when it would end, she told herself firmly.
She pushed up on her elbow, refusing to allow herself to sleep away their short time together. His eyes were closed, the thick tangle of lashes lying against his cheeks, but his arm tightened around her, aware of her movement, the corners of his mouth deepening into a self-satisfied smile.
Isobel gazed down at him, wanting to remember him like this. “Only a short time ago I could not imagine myself lying here, naked with a man.”
His eyes opened, one brow arching slightly.
She leaned closer, resting against his chest. “Aye, I vow I thought I’d end up some old witch, living in the woods, telling fortunes and making love philters, never knowing the touch of a man.”
He shook his head slightly, his gaze traveling over her face. “What did the Attmores do to you, Isobel, to make you feel that way?”
“What do you mean? They were good to me…as good as could be expected.”
“ ‘As could be expected’? What does that mean? Considering how much your father paid them, I would expect them to care for you as well as a child of their own. They had you for twelve years.”
Isobel shook her head. “No, no—I was clearly not a child of theirs and a bit of an inconvenience at that. They were very good not to send me away.”
He pushed himself up on his elbow and she fell back on the pillow. He frowned down at her. “Why is that?”
She stared at his chest, heavy with muscle, hard and sleek as steel. “Well, they were afraid of me. The villagers were, too—and yet they still sheltered me and protected me. That was good of them, don’t you think?”
When he didn’t respond she met his eyes again. His brows were drawn together in consternation, as if he still didn’t comprehend what she was saying.
She chewed her lip thoughtfully, then said, “The first few years I was with them, I hid my magic well. The Attmores thought I was just very perceptive. I would see things, and if it seemed significant, I would bring the subject around to whatever concerned me and give advice. Sometimes they took it, sometimes not. But I never saw anything truly hurtful or frightening…until I was fifteen.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw their youngest son’s death. I touched something of Benji’s and saw him struggling against a rush of water—it was a time of heavy rains, and the rivers and streams were swollen and dangerous.
It was awful—clogged with dead animals—stinking of rot.
Then I saw Benji, floating about beneath the water, his face bloated… the fish feeding on him.”
She closed her eyes, forcing the memory away. They were all part of her; every horrible—and wonderful—thing she’d ever seen was engraved in her memory. She had to work hard to recall only the good.
“I tried to warn them—I had a feeling time was short. They thought me hysterical—and I was. That was the first time I’d seen something like that. I finally told them how I knew. Rather than think me a witch or even heed me, they thought I’d gone mad…at first.”
She looked toward the window, remembering the horror on their faces when they realized she had foreseen their youngest son’s death. When they realized she was different. They had also wondered, with fear and dread, what else she could do—if she was dangerous.
“I tried to go after him, to find him before it happened, but it was too late. I could not find him, and the river was treacherous. As the days passed, they began to believe that perhaps I had seen his death. So they searched the river.”
She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath.
Philip’s hand was on her arm, rubbing. She firmed her mouth, willing herself not to cry over this.
It was over, finished, truly behind her now.
When she felt in control again, she said, “And they found him…just like I’d seen.
He was almost unrecognizable, except for his clothes.
He was only five. They were scared then…
they acted as if I’d somehow caused his death, that I’d had a hand in it.
Some people even said I brought the storms.” She opened her eyes then and shook her head.
“I cannot do that kind of magic—call storms and such, I vow it.”
Philip pressed his mouth against her forehead, and whispered, “I know.”
She sighed, relieved to have told someone, but also anxious that her story had changed things between them.
“Philip? Does this bother you? That I cannot fix some of the things I see? Sometimes it’s not the future I see, but the present or past—and I don’t always know that immediately… I wish it was always clear—”
He hushed her with a soft kiss. “You are not to blame. The Attmores are like my stepmother. She canna look at me without remembering what I did. But you aren’t deserving of it, as I am.
You tried to help, and they have to live with the knowledge that they dismissed your aid and lost their son for it.
” She still stared at the dark hairs scattered across his chest. He touched her chin, lifting it so she had to look at him.
“They are angry with themselves—but if they admitted that they had a hand in their son’s death, they might not be able to live with themselves.
You were a convenient scapegoat. Just because you have this gift, doesna mean you shouldna be loved or well treated. ”
Isobel kissed him then, her arms going around his neck. She didn’t know how she would ever be able to say good-bye to him. But somehow it was enough to know that he felt this way about her, that he was somewhere in the world, caring about her.
The kiss deepened, and his arms came around her, enfolding her in his strength. He made love to her, softly, sweetly, and afterward, Isobel continued to fight the satiated fatigue that possessed her limbs, but finally gave in to sleep.
When she opened her eyes again, she was alone among the furs. Faint light spilled through the window.
Panic surged through her. She sat up, clutching the sheet and furs to her body, and searched frantically for her nightrail.
Why had he not awakened her? They might be discovered!
What if someone was looking for her—or him!
What if someone became suspicious that they were both missing at the same time!
She’d asked her sisters to cover for her—though she didn’t tell them why, she knew they suspected it was a tryst of some sort—and they had readily agreed.
Still, it was morning and her betrothed was in the castle!
How could she be so foolish? She might ruin everything. If her father found out…
Dread twisted her gut. That could not happen. She would not have him die in disappointment, thinking her a faithless whore.
Isobel spotted the filmy puddle of lawn at the end of the bed and snatched it up, pulling it quickly over her head. She parted the curtains and put her feet out, only to pull them back when they encountered cold wood.
She scanned the room for her slippers and froze when her gaze passed the fireplace.
Philip was there. He sat on a bench before the fire.
But it wasn’t his presence that shocked her into immobility, but what he wore and what he did.
A plaid was wrapped about him, pleated expertly and flung over his shoulder, secured with a brooch that glinted topaz.
He wore leather boots, laced up to his knee, with a dirk hilt peeking from the top of one.
At the moment, he was shaving. He’d secured a polished silver mirror to the fireplace and currently scraped the whiskers from his face with a wicked-looking blade. Isobel watched, transfixed, as the clean line of chin and jaw was exposed.
He set the blade aside, wiped his face off with a damp rag, then turned to her, grinning.
Her breath caught. She had always thought him handsome, but the absence of the whiskers exposed the clean cut of chin and jaw, strong and square, and set with determination.
He looked a true Highlander. What had brought on this transformation?
He straightened and came to her, grabbing up her slippers and ariasad on the way. Kneeling before her, he slid her slippers on her bare feet, and all the while, she could not take her eyes from him.
When her slippers were on, his hands slid up to cup her calves. He tilted his head from his position kneeling below her and cocked a brow. “Well?”
Isobel was speechless. She put out a hand to touch his face, to trace the dimples that ran beside his mouth. “You are the perfect Highlander. But…why?”
He took her hands and stared down at them. The hair at the top of his head was slightly wet, and she caught the scent of sandalwood soap. “If I’m to ask yer father for yer hand, I must look like a proper Highlander.”
Isobel’s heart lodged painfully in her chest. The air seemed to leave her as her eyes blurred with tears.
Surely she had heard him wrong—he could not have said what she thought she’d heard.
She pulled her hands away and covered her mouth in horror—but it was mixed with the bittersweet happiness that he wanted to marry her, that he had done this for her.
He looked up at her, smiling still. “Ye didn’t think I’d do right by you, after last night?”