“What? I don’t want to.”
“I dinna care. You can think what you want of me—it’s nothing to me. However, I have no intention of being attacked or killed because you dinna ken any better. Now take it off.”
Isobel puffed incredulously. “You expect me to believe someone would kill me because I’m wearing this? That’s absurd!”
“I dinna care what you believe.” His voice froze her. His dark eyes glinted beneath thick brows. “I will not take any chances.”
Isobel knew she should obey him—her father said he trusted Sir Philip above all men, so he must know what he was doing. But dammit! She felt humiliated and angry. And at the moment she hated him. He was cold and unpleasant and nasty. He thought she was a fool for wearing a child’s arisaid and she felt like one now.
But she’d never been one to let on how she truly felt. Unfortunately, she couldn’t control the heat that had flushed through her, burning her cheeks and undoubtedly staining them crimson. But that could be attributed to any number of emotions. She chose to let him believe it was anger—which she was feeling in no small amount.
“No.”
When he didn’t respond she glanced at him. He stared straight ahead, his narrowed gaze fixed on the distant forest, his whiskered jaw bulging. He looked dangerous and capable of great violence. A frisson of fear ran through her, and she looked forward quickly, her heart tapping insistently in her throat.
“Did you say no?” He sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth.
“I did.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze cut to her, sharp as steel. “Why would you say no?”
Pleased she was affecting him, however adversely, she ran her gaze quickly up and down him, and said, “I don’t like your behavior.”
“So you defy me?”
“You are not my sire.”
“But I have your sire’s authority—you read the letter. You are my charge until we reach Lochlaire.”
“Oh, such conceit! Does everyone bow in obeisance to your great authority, Sir Philip?” When he just stared at her, speechless, she plunged on, “Well, I am neither impressed by nor afraid of you. And I do not think anyone will murder me in my sleep for wearing a plaid about my shoulders. That, sir, is the end of it.”
He stared straight ahead. After a moment he gave a jerky nod, as if he were in some silent conversation with himself, and spurred his horse forward, leaving her alone.
Isobel closed her eyes quickly and let out a shuddering sigh of relief. Her heart pounded and sweat dewed her upper lip andforehead. It trickled between her breasts. What a difficult man! She quickly opened her eyes again, lest he look back and think he’d upset her.
He was conversing with Stephen and Fergus, and after a moment Stephen reined in his horse while Sir Philip and Fergus continued onward. Stephen’s mount pranced impatiently, waiting for Isobel to catch up.
When they were riding side by side, Isobel turned to look at the young man. He was broad-shouldered and heavy-chested. A wildflower was tucked incongruously into a hole in the sleeve of his jack, the bright purple brilliant against the buff leather. Sandy whiskers covered his chin. His thick blond hair was pulled back from his face and secured at his neck with a leather tie. Like Fergus and Sir Philip, he was bareheaded.
“For men who are trying to blend in you’re remarkably ignorant of the English love of hats.”
“Och—not ignorant, Miss. I just hate them.”
Seeing Stephen had a ready and friendly smile, Isobel relaxed. After a moment, she said tentatively, “Am I wearing the arisaid wrong?”
Stephen’s pale blue gaze inspected her, then he shrugged. “I dinna really pay much attention to such things, but aye, it seems so. You’ll have to ask Fergus or Philip. I’m not a redshank myself.”
“You’re not?”
They entered the cool dark of the forest.
“My uncle is what you might call a frontier lord—or at least that’s how he likes to style himself. His lands are close to the Highlands, and so the king often calls on him to deal with the more unpleasant redshanks. But my uncle prefers to make friends withthem, and so sent me to foster with the one of the Colquhoun clans.”
Isobel’s eyebrows shot up. “Sir Philip is a chieftain?”
“Nay—not yet, at least. Perhaps not ever, though he is heir.”
“Why are you with Sir Philip then and not with his father?”
