Chapter 21 #2
“He’s not here, Miss, and God willing he’ll not be back.” She started to shut the door, but Isobel put up her hand, stopping it midswing.
“But he’s been here?”
She looked Isobel up and down, her mouth pinched in a way that reminded Isobel of Mairi, then she nodded reluctantly. “Aye, he was.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“No.” She tried to shut the door again, but Isobel was bigger than the diminutive pregnant woman and kept pushing against the door.
Isobel was very confused, but it was becoming clear that things had not gone well when Philip had found his sister. “What did he say to you?” she asked.
“I’ll not speak of it. I wish you’d go.”
“He said that you were his sister, Effie Kilpatrick, didn’t he?”
“I am Summer Cooper—no Highlander, as you can see for yourself. Now go, before my husband comes home.”
Isobel’s heart sank as she stared at Philip’s sister. And it was Philip’s sister, Isobel knew it. “Did you say that to him?”
Effie finally quit trying to close the door. “Aye, I did, and when he insisted, I asked him to go away and not return. I’m telling you the same. Effie Kilpatrick is gone.”
Isobel gasped and this time inserted her body in the doorway when Effie tried to close it. “What do you mean? Gone?”
“I didna even remember him or that place until he turned up at my door—and I dinna welcome the memories now! There was a reason I forgot.”
The door latch was digging into Isobel’s ribs, and Effie was pushing at her, trying to shove her back through the opening, but Isobel held fast to the doorframe.
“You don’t understand. Your father is a chieftain, your family has mourned your loss for twelve years—how can you deny them—”
“Mourned my loss?” Effie hissed, coming close to Isobel now, eyes so fierce she resembled Philip. “You know nothing. Now go away!”
Strengthened by her anger, she gave Isobel a hard shove, dislodging her from the doorway. The door slammed before Isobel could say another word, and she heard the bar drop on the other side, locking it.
Isobel stared at the door incoherently, her mind a blank wall of panic.
What now? Where could Philip be? How would he react to Effie’s denying him?
Had he lost faith in Isobel? Decided she’d led him astray?
That she was a charlatan? Or had this been the final blow to his dream of finding his sister?
She started to turn away from the house when she caught sight of something caught in the door.
The towel Effie had been wiping her hands with.
Isobel grabbed it and tried to pull it out of the door, but it was stuck.
She fumbled about in her skirts until she found her knife.
She sliced a hunk off the towel and carried it back to Gillian.
“From where I was standing, it didn’t go well.”
Isobel shook her head, stuffing the piece of towel into her satchel.
“What is that?” Gillian asked.
“Something for me to look at—but not now. Now we have to find out where Philip and Stephen are.”
“She didn’t know?”
“She denies that she’s his sister.”
Isobel was suddenly afraid. She had dragged Gillian far from home, and they were alone as they’d never been before.
And Isobel did not know what to do. They stood in the street with people milling about them.
Gillian watched her, waiting patiently for her to reveal her great plan for finding Philip.
Finally, Isobel said, “I can’t imagine Philip giving up so easily. I’ll wager he’s still here somewhere, trying to decide how to approach her again.”
Gillian raised a dark brow. “So what do we do? Go to every inn and alehouse until we find him?”
“Aye, I think we must.” She felt better for having a plan.
They found a public stable and boarded their horses.
The day wore on, one stinking alehouse dissolving into the next.
They visited scores of public houses that day.
At each one Isobel went through the speech she’d practically memorized by now, describing Philip and Stephen.
It was full dark when she stood before the ostler at the White Hare, one of the cleaner establishments, and finished up her description with, “They might also be with a third man—he’s not as tall as the other two, but he’s big. Red hair and beard.”
The ostler shook his head. “No, Fergus hasna been here.”
Isobel started to turn away, dejected, then realized she’d never mentioned any names. “How did you know his name was Fergus?”
The ostler hesitated, then said, “I was told, if a big redheaded man named Fergus came looking for them, I was to send him up.”
Isobel and Gillian exchanged excited looks, but the ostler shook his head. “They gave no instructions on sending anyone else up. And the young one, he’s in no condition for trouble, lassies, so get you gone.”
Isobel caught the ostler’s arm as he tried to turn away. “No, we mean them no harm—we’re—we’re family. We’re their sisters. We’ve been looking everywhere for them.”
The ostler frowned. “Well, it’s just the one now. I do fear he’ll be wanting some family close soon. The other was killed or he left, or some such.”
“What do you mean?” Isobel cried, her voice rising. “One was killed?”
Gillian took Isobel’s hand and squeezed. “Just take us to our brother, I pray you.”
The ostler led them up a flight of narrow steps and down a dark narrow corridor. He hammered on a door at the end of the corridor, and, when no one responded, he tried the latch.
“He’s not always in his head, ken? And he canna get up to answer the door.”
It was dim inside, a single candle lit near the bed. The small window was open, letting in fresh air. Isobel followed the ostler across the room. An anguished sob clogged her throat as she stared down at the man on the bed. He lay on his stomach, shirtless, bloodied linens piled on his lower back.
The ostler was trying to light a lantern, but Isobel pushed him aside, falling to her knees beside the bed.
“Stephen,” she said, her voicing shaking. She touched his shoulder and drew back. He was on fire. She glanced over her shoulder at Gillian, who stared down at Stephen wide-eyed.
Isobel looked to the ostler. “How long has he been this way?”
He shook his head grimly. “Night afore last. He and his friend paid me well, so I’ve been keeping him, hoping his Fergus friend or his family showed up. I’m glad you lassies are here now. A man shouldna die alone.”
“What happened?” Isobel breathed.
Stephen’s face was turned away from her and she could only see a tangle of blond hair. But his shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. She leaned over him, moving his hair aside and saw his face, bruised and scabbed as if someone had taken a club to him.
“I dinna know, Miss. Someone shot him and gave him a fair beating…dinna know what happened to his friend, the dark one, but was told he was beaten pretty bad, too. I saw this one lying in the street all bloody. Thought he was dead, but once I realized he wasna, I brought him back here. The barber removed the bullet. He’s been babbling something about the earl of Irvine and I would hiv sent a message, but I dinna even know the lad’s name.
He keeps saying Sir Philip, but I didna think that was him. I think that was the other man.”
“Has he been delirious?”
“In and out. He’s a big lad, so I fear he’ll go slow.
” The ostler shook his head and made a clucking noise.
“A damn shame. Nice lads, they were—paid in advance.” He sighed and started for the door.
“Is there aught I can bring ye? Any messages ye’ll be needing sent?
” He looked at Stephen’s motionless body meaningfully.
Isobel tried to force herself to think clearly. “Yes…bring me fresh linens and clean hot water…And send a message to the earl of Irvine. Tell him his nephew is dying.”
“Nephew?”
When Isobel nodded distractedly, his eyes widened, and he hurried out the door.
After a moment Gillian joined Isobel beside the bed. “What are we going to do?” she whispered. For the first time since they’d been reunited, Gillian sounded scared. “We should have brought Rose.”
“We’ll send for her,” Isobel said. “And Uncle Roderick, too.”
Gillian put a hand out, touching Stephen’s skin experimentally. “Jesu. There’s no time for that, Isobel. He’s practically steaming.”
Isobel covered her mouth with a gloved hand and shook her head.
“There is time. There must be.” Isobel felt the beginnings of hysteria and firmly reined it in.
She could not fall apart. “The first thing we’ll do is re-dress Stephen’s wound and discover how severe it is.
He’s the only person who can tell us what happened to Philip.
” Because Philip couldn’t be dead. Not yet.
Though the ostler’s words had given her a start, Isobel knew from experience that unless she intervened, Philip would die in Hawkirk, strapped to a stake; therefore, he could not have died in Wyndyburgh.
“You could touch something of his,” Gillian offered. She began to look around the room. “Look—some of this stuff might be Sir Philip’s”
Isobel peeled her gloves off, not so that she could divine things, though that often was a by-product, whether she wanted it or not, and she was adept at blocking most visions she didn’t want to see. She couldn’t tend Stephen’s wound with the gloves on.
She gingerly unwrapped the linen, hissing when the dried blood stuck to him, though he seemed oblivious. A knock sounded on the door, and a boy entered with hot water and clean linens. Another soon followed with a platter of food.
When they were gone, Gillian said, “Mayhap you should mention you’re betrothed to the earl of Kincreag and see what the ostler does for us next.”
Isobel was too busy cleaning the wound in Stephen’s back to answer. It was a gunshot wound—right at the small of his back, beside his spine. It was once probably small and circular, but no longer. The barber had removed the bullet with no finesse, and the skin around it was ravaged and swollen.