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, mytaibhsear?”
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.”
