Chapter 24
The crowd at the White Hare Inn in Wyndyburgh was Isobel’s first clue that something was amiss. Villagers huddled outside, peering in the windows and through the door. Philip made a hole for them, dragging Isobel along by the hand.
There were shouts of greeting inside as half a dozen lads hurried over to say hello. As Philip introduced them, Isobel realized this was Stephen’s family—the legitimate side.
The oldest, a dark-haired, fetching lad elbowed Philip, gesturing to the window with a tankard of ale. “Ye’d think they’d never seen an earl before.”
Philip followed his gaze. “Likely they haven’t.”
“Well, they’ll not be satisfied soon—he hasn’t left Stephen’s side since we arrived.”
Philip’s hand tightened on Isobel’s. “He’s alive?”
Fergus’s report on Stephen’s condition had been even grimmer than Isobel’s. When he’d arrived in Wyndyburgh, Stephen had been so fevered he was delusional. He didn’t even recognize Fergus. Gillian had been the one to tell him everything.
“Oh, aye, he is. We canna shut him up.”
Isobel let out the breath she’d been holding.
When she looked up at Philip he grinned at her, as profoundly relieved as she was.
They followed Stephen’s cousin up the stairs.
The room they were led into looked significantly different from the last time Isobel was there.
The floor was covered with fresh, sweet-smelling rushes, chairs and benches crowded the room, all with beautifully embroidered pillows, and Stephen’s bed was covered with furs.
The lad himself was still on his stomach, but propped on several plump pillows, looking clean and quite healthy.
A large basket filled with comfits, florentines, sweetmeats, and tarts sat on a chair near the bed.
He’d obviously regained his appetite, for there was another basket on the floor filled with nothing but crumbs.
“Philip!” Stephen yelled, excited. He looked to the man sitting on a chair beside his bed, and said, “D’ye see? I told you they’d be fine.” The older man nodded patiently. “Uncle Bren sent some men to Hawkirk yesterday, just in case ye needed a hand.”
The earl of Irvine stood to an impressive height and stretched.
He was in his late forties and quite handsome, with graying auburn hair and beard.
He clasped Philip’s hand with both of his.
“I told you to keep the lad out of trouble.” Though his tone conveyed a reprimand, his eyes were warm and friendly.
Philip shrugged. “I try.”
The earl just grinned. “You can mind him while I go see what my other lads are up to.” He disappeared out the door, and Philip took his chair.
Isobel put her hand on Stephen’s forehead, just to check, and was relieved that it was cool and dry. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
When she sat beside Philip, Stephen gave him a knowing look. “Did ye see that?”
“Keep yer plaid down—she’s my wife.”
Stephen’s jaw dropped and he looked up to Fergus for confirmation. His eyes widened when they rested on the big redhead, and he burst out laughing.
“What is so damn amusing?” Fergus asked, scowling.
Isobel had to admit Fergus did look rather strange without a beard.
He’d been forced to shave it off, since Hawkirk’s executioner was blond and beardless.
Half of Fergus’s face was ghostly white, and the rest was a ruddy tan.
But already he was growing it back and in the sunlight the red whiskers glowed like a halo.
“Fia will have apoplexy when she sees ye. I’ll be sure to be there to console her.” Stephen stroked his own short blond beard suggestively.
“Ye’ll not be swiving aught for a while, ye bacach bastard.”
“Hey,” Stephen said. “What did ye call me?”
“A bastard,” Philip said. “Ye are illegitimate.”
“Not that—the other—ba-bac—”
“Bacach,” Isobel supplied, giving Fergus a censorious look. “It means crippled.”
Stephen made a face and a rude hand gesture at Fergus, who just grinned wickedly at him.
“I’ll have you know,” Stephen said, “the surgeon said I’ll be walking in no time. I might not run, but I’ll surely be swiving. Tell Fia not to fash.”
Fergus just shook his head, trying to hide his grin.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Gillian peeked around it. “Isobel!” she cried. They hugged each other, then Isobel filled Gillian and Stephen in on all that had happened. When it was over they were quiet, until Stephen said, “I canna believe you went and got married withoot me.”
Fergus looked heavenward.
Philip’s eyes met Isobel’s, warm and full of promise. “Och, don’t fash on that. We still have to do it proper, before a pastor.”
The earl came back and shooed them all out of the room, claiming Stephen needed his rest so he could travel home to his auntie.
Isobel peeked back at him over her shoulder before she was out the door and saw him look sourly at his uncle.
No doubt he was hoping for something more exciting than being nursed by his aunt.
Philip and Isobel spent the night at the White Hare, comfortably ensconced in each other’s arms. Philip trailed his fingertips over the bare skin of Isobel’s back, and she shivered, unable to remember ever being happier.
She was free as she’d never been before.
Philip had married her, given her his name to protect her.
She knew she’d made the right choice. Her father might not agree, but Philip was right.
In time, he’d come to see it was for the best.
His hand covered hers where it rested on his chest. “What do you see for us, my taibhsear?”
Isobel smiled, her fingers flexing against hard muscle.
“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t see anything when I touch a person’s skin—it only works with objects.
But now, when I touch your things, I sense feelings, but see nothing.
No visions.” This development pleased her immensely.
Since she’d never been able to see her own future, the fact Philip’s now eluded her, too, must mean their future was together.
“That’s a relief.”
She propped her chin on his chest and gazed at him. “Why is that?”
He quickly rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. “I’d rather it all be a surprise.”
Her agreement was muffled by his mouth, brushing against hers, then lower, planting warm kisses on her chin and neck, before lavishing her breasts with his attention.
She arched against him, her hands moving over him gently, careful of his wounds.
Lord Irvine had brought with him the best physicians for Stephen, of course, and they had seen to Philip’s burn wounds.
A fresh linen bandage was wrapped around his chest, smelling faintly of herbs.
His mouth returned to Isobel’s, kissing her urgently, his knee pressing her thighs apart.
He pushed into her, and she gasped and clutched at him, unable to help herself.
It did not hurt, but the invasion was still such an exquisite shock, it sent tremors of intense pleasure through her every time.
He grunted softly, then rolled onto his back, taking her with him so she was astride him like a horse.
She stared down at him, her lips parted as she panted, her body still spasming around him, not certain what he wanted her to do. He was still hard inside her, and when she shifted slightly, it sent waves of delicious sensation through her so that she did it again, whimpering slightly each time.
“Wait,” he hissed through gritted teeth, then his hands slid to her hips.
“Now.” He lifted her, then thrust into her.
She gasped, her hand gripping his wrists to anchor herself as he moved into her again and again.
She caught his rhythm, and rode him, her palms against the iron muscles of his belly, his hands moving over her breasts, the pleasure swelling inside her.
Her breath came in small, constricted gasps, her muscles drawing taut as the sensations shivering through her grew sharp.
His arms went around her, drawing her down to his chest. The pleasure spilled over her, and the world grew dim around them.
There was only his arms around her, his body hot against hers, enveloping her, loving her.
They lay there a long while, Isobel dozing in the circle of his arms. She woke sometime later, sensing that he was awake—that he had not slept at all.
All was right in Isobel’s world, but the same was not true for Philip.
She leaned up on her elbow and looked down at him in the flickering candlelight.
He raised a questioning eyebrow. The light played over his face, casting part in shadows.
“Something’s troubling you,” Isobel said. “Is it your sister?”
He brought his hand up to toy absently with her hair.
“I can accept that I lost her and can never get her back…I think. And I’m ready to go home and take my place—and even to tell Mairi I’ve had enough…
” His mouth flattened as he stared at the curling copper-blond hair he’d spread out over his chest. “But I just want to ken why.”
“Why what?”
“Why she refuses to speak to me. Why she denies who she is.”
Isobel gave him a secret smile. “Good thing Fergus managed to snatch my satchel. The benefits of being an executioner, he said—the privilege of rifling through the condemned’s effects.”
“And what’s in your wee satchel?” His fingers trailed over her shoulder, his mind already moving on to other things, she noted by the heat in his gaze.
“Let me show you.” She leaned over him, feeling about on the floor until she felt it, then drew it onto the bed, dropping it onto his chest.
“Oomph!”
“Sorry,” she said, digging through it.
“What the hell is in that thing?”
“Your gun, your dirk…some other things.” She removed the section of towel she’d cut from Effie’s door. Already she felt things from it. Distress and unease—a deep, alarming fear that caused Isobel to frown at the piece of cloth.
“What’s that?” he asked, dumping her satchel back on the floor.