She walked past him and mounted her horse. Stephen and Fergus gripped the other horses’ bridles as they tossed their heads and skittered away from her, eyes rolling.
“What does it look like? It’s what all the Highland women wear, isn’t it?” She tapped the horse’s sides and cantered across the courtyard before reining in to look back at the men still staring after her.
“Come on. I want to go home.”
Stephen couldn’t get his horse to stand still long enough to mount and was berating the beast in an ear-singeing stream of obscenity.
Isobel nodded her head at the horses. “Don’t worry, they’ll get used to me and stop that soon enough.”
Philip stared narrowly at her a long moment, hands on hips, wondering why—or more appropriately,howshe frightened their horses. Bizarre. Her own horse was docile as a cow.
He scanned the courtyard. No one had come to see her off. Some of the servants watched her departure warily, but not one friendly face. With a quick nod to Stephen and Fergus, they finally managed to mount and leave Attmore Manor behind.
Chapter 4
Isobel hadn’t gone far when the sound of galloping hooves quickly surrounded her. She said, not looking at the man beside her, “Wearecutting through the forest? It’s quicker, you know.”
“Aye.” Sir Philip made some gesture that Isobel didn’t quite catch, since she was pointedly trying to ignore him. Stephen and Fergus rode ahead.
She adjusted her arisaid self-consciously; still embarrassed from the way he had looked at her. She must not be wearing it correctly. It wasn’t her fault. It had been twelve years since she’d worn the thing. A horrible thought struck her. What if they were no longer the fashion in Scotland, and he thought her a fool?
She tightened her jaw. He could think her a fool all he wanted, she didn’t care.
“Have you no lady?”
Isobel frowned at him. “Lady?”
“A female servant?”
“Oh…no.” She didn’t add that she hadn’t had one for years—the Attmores couldn’t find anyone willing to be a personal servant toher. They were all afraid. He seemed troubled—no doubt by the prospect of three men and one woman traveling alone. Isobel wasn’t concerned. If her father trusted them, so did she.
“Why are you wearing that?” he asked, his voice low.
“Because we are going to Scotland, are we not? This is what I wore when I left. It only seems right that I wear it when I return.”
“That is…uh…the verra same one, too, aye?”
She shot him a narrow look. “It is.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “You must remove it. We cannot travel through England and the lowlands looking like redshanks.”
“I am not ashamed of what I am.”
His large, gloved hand rested on his thigh, the reins gripped loosely in his other. He certainly looked nothing like a Highlander. Not that she’d seen many in the past decade. Her father was the most recent, two years past, and he always brought a few clansmen. When he visited he didn’t wear the belted plaid, or breacan, as he called it. He wore plaid leggings, or trews, and a plaid about his shoulders like a cloak. But he still looked a Highlander. Sir Philip was dressed like a common knight; nothing, but perhaps his overlong hair and faint Scottish burr marked him as aught else. He could easily pass for a lowland Scot.
“You’re implying that I am ashamed?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You’re dressed like an Englishman.”
“I’m in England.”
“You shouldn’t pretend to be something you’re not.” She bit her lip and looked away. She sounded like a self-righteous ninny—and a hypocrite at that. She certainly didn’t go about advertisingshe was a witch. She hoped the conversation would go no further—perhaps he would forget she’d said that.
But she was not so lucky. “You shouldn’t wear an arisaid if you dinna know how. And if you’re going to wear one, at least wear one made for a woman.”
Isobel’s face flamed. She fingered the black-and-red fringe of the arisaid, keeping her eyes averted. “It’s been a long time since I wore it.”
“Take it off,” he said gruffly. “You brought a cloak, I trust?”
