He watched her antics with thinly veiled annoyance. “You may jest if you like, but I’m going nowhere. Finish your business so we can carry on.”
Temper simmering, Isobel shoved her egg and bread at him, and hurried around behind the bush. She was horribly embarrassed and so talked loudly. “I trust I saved Stephen a thrashing?”
“A thrashing?” came his voice through the bush.
Isobel waved away the buzzing insects. “Yes. He said if he didn’t succeed in getting me to remove the arisaid, you would thrash him so he couldn’t sit a horse.”
There was a moment of silence, then she heard a deep rumbling. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing. She struggled with her garments, but by the time she’d rounded the bush he was sober again, only a faint softening to his firm mouthhinting that he had ever experienced humor.
“I’d wondered why he winked at me.”
“So it was a lie?” she said. “A trick?”
“Stephen is good at sweetening the lassies—though I’ll admit I expected you to be a bit old to fall for pretty words.” He reached toward her hair, the large, gloved fingers brushing her cheek accidentally as he touched the flower. Purple petals fluttered to the ground. “And childish gifts.”
Isobel removed the wilted flower from her hair and threw it on the ground. “I am not yet a hag!” She brushed the stray curls away from her hot face and tried to summon some dignity, though considering her situation, it was becoming increasingly difficult. She snatched her food from him. “And I felt pity for him. I never want to be responsible for another’s hurt.”
He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “I did not call you a hag. You’re just…mature for a maiden.”
To her horror tears burned at the back of her eyes. “Apparently my betrothed is not so repulsed by my advanced age!”
“Well, you’re practically an heiress after all—”
Isobel let out an enraged breath and whirled away from him, heading for her horse. It was worse that she’d thought these things herself—but to hear them from such a man was more than she could swallow.
She’d only gone a few paces when he caught her arm, swinging her back toward him. Before she could let loose the fury on the tip of her tongue, he said, “Forgive me—I’ve mucked this up. I meant none of that as it sounded. I vow it, I do not think you’re a hag. Heiress or no, ye’re verra…bonny.”
Isobel’s anger dissipated, and a different kind of heat crept up her neck. “Please don’t choke on your lies for me.”
His jaw hardened, and he closed his eyes briefly. “It’s not a lie—I vow it, I just feel…foolish, saying it.”
Isobel considered him from beneath her lashes. He still held her arm, his grip firm but not punishing. Her heart stuttered when she met the dark eyes gazing down at her. His wide mouth was compressed with regret, his eyes fixed intently on her. Waiting.
He released her abruptly, and she swayed, her watery knees almost giving way. She caught herself and smiled up at him. The moment was becoming awkward, but Isobel couldn’t seem to form any words.He thinks I’m bonny!
He cleared his throat and looked at the horses. “May I ask a question?”
She nodded.
He frowned at his mount. “Did the Attmores treat you well?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
His frown deepened, and he fixed it on her. “They didna even come out to see you off. You lived with them for twelve years.”
Isobel looked at the ground. She drew in a deep breath, wondering what to say. Her father’s warning had found its mark. She’d been drained last night after Sir Philip had left her. Experiencing her mother’s death had been harrowing, and she’d not realized how deeply it had affected her until she’d returned to her bed, exhausted from the vision and sparring with Sir Philip. It was often that way when she saw violence. Her father knew it. That was why he’d sent it. He wanted her to feel what would happen to her if anyone believed her a witch.
But her father’s letter also indicated Sir Philip knew about Lillian MacDonell and didn’t credit it. So long as he believedshedidn’t credit it either, she was safe from him.
She met his eyes and decided on the truth—or at least part of it. “They were afraid of me. It’s not that they didn’t care. They did, in their own way, and treated me with great kindness and consideration. But I was a constant reminder of…bad things that had happened.”
“They think you’re a witch.”
She nodded.
He looked back to his horse, his brow furrowed meditatively. “Why are the horses afraid of you?”
“I know not.”
