“Suggestions. Nothing more. Anyone can make suggestions…right? I never give specifics anymore.”
Ceri’s brow creased with worry. “Youarebeing more careful, aren’t you?” She came to stand before Isobel, hands on hips. “Youmustlearn to guard your tongue.”
Isobel forced a smile. “Of course. I wear gloves most of the time, and now, unless I see something dreadful, I truly do keep it to myself…most of the time.”
Ceri shook her head, lips pressed into a flat line, her gaze fixed on Isobel’s hands—which were currently gloveless. “You should keep it to yourselfallthe time. Even if you see something dreadful. Serves them right to get back some of what they give out so freely. It’s not for you to change their lot.”
Isobel looked away, to the window. “Well, evenIcan’t change some things.” Memories of Benji’s wee lifeless body as it was fishedfrom the swollen river rose in her mind. She had seen it, clear as day, and yet had been unable to prevent it. That was often the curse of it. Sometimes she was too late.
Ceri touched Isobel’s chin. Isobel met the pale gray eyes that smiled at her.
“The only lot I want to change, my lass, is yours.” She patted Isobel’s cheek and straightened. “Come, we’ve a wet day, let me cast your fortune, see if there’s a man in your future.”
Isobel straightened her shoulders and sighed ruefully. “There is no man—at least not until my father chooses him.” Isobel frowned. “Do you think he’s forgotten me? Perhaps he doesn’t realize I’m now four-and-twenty—well past marriageable age. Surely if he remembered me, he wouldn’t leave me here to become an old maid. It’s been more than two years since he last visited.”
“Your father hasn’t forgotten you. He’s looking for the right man, is all—you’re not just any lassie, but an heiress, should aught happen to your uncle. And he has your sisters to worry about, too. Scotland isn’t safe these days. He knows you’re in good hands and is likely waiting for the time to be right.” She nodded sagely. “That time soon approaches, methinks. I had a dream about you and just such a lad.”
Isobel laughed, knowing Ceri jested, but wishing it was true. “What did he look like?”
Ceri cut bread for them and set bowls of stew on the table. She leaned forward. “Oh, he was handsome—a big man, not like these wispy Englishmen. He must be one of your kind—a brawny Highlander.”
Isobel considered that while they ate. Her father, Alan MacDonell, was a big man, though not overtall. But all the other men she knew seemed frail and fine-featured compared to the chieftain of Clan MacDonell of Glen Laire, with his heavy brow andrugged features.
Ceri withdrew a scarf and laid it in the center of the table.
Isobel sobered. “Who brought it?”
“The vicar.”
Isobel stared hard at the fine linen scarf. Its edges were embroidered with bright red thread. A faint yellow stain marred a corner.
“What does he want?”
Ceri raised her brow. “He came to me yesterday asking for a love philter to keep his wife faithful. You’ve seen his wife—I told him it was likely unnecessary, but he was most insistent. So I advised him to bring me something of hers to use in the potion. He brought me this.”
“You know there’s no true love philter. Why do you agree to such things?”
“Because it’s safe—safer than delivering babies.” Ceri shuddered, eyes closed. “I thought my life was over when the sheriff’s long-awaited son was stillborn. If not for the good vicar and your auntie, I’d be long gone. No more midwifery for me.”
Isobel scowled. “It is the village’s loss.” She smiled and reached across the table to pat her friend’s hand. “Besides, now you find things for people. That’s safer, aye?”
Ceri opened her eyes and pinned Isobel with a hard look. “It is. But you know I couldn’t locate things so quickly—if at all—without your help. And I’ll not have you in such a situation as I was.” She returned to her stew. “As for love philters, no one wants to admit they purchased one, so no one will accuse me of witchcraft. It’s harmless.”
Isobel shook her head, her gaze going back to the stained linen. “What happens when it doesn’t work? It is a dangerous game you play.”
“You play it too, my lassie. Now touch it and tell me if his wife is faithful so I know whether or not to make this philter.”
Isobel took the scarf and held it between her palms. Sometimes the visions came fast, overwhelming her, other times she had to work for them. This would be one of those times. She felt nothing initially. She rubbed it rhythmically between her palms and closed her eyes, breathing deeply, clearing her mind of everything but the vicar’s wife and the scarf she held.
When still that didn’t work, she tried thinking of the vicar. Almost immediately she felt lust. Not like the longing and desire she’d felt at the ash tree. This was not a love affair like Dan and Anne. This was base, empty. As these feelings didn’t reconcile with Isobel’s knowledge of the vicar’s wife, she frowned and dug deeper, probing through the feeling, looking for visions, not merely emotions.
A picture slowly materialized behind her eyelids, like a mist clearing away. Arms and legs entangled in a pile of filthy hay, hairy buttocks thrusting, a bald head shining in the candlelight. She strained to bring the vision into closer focus, to see it from other angles.
It was the vicar, his godly robes bunched up to free his movements. The woman beneath him was young, redheaded, her head thrown back, lips parted in pleasure. Rain tapped the roof above them.
Isobel’s eyes sprang open, and she stared at Ceri in disbelief. “He’s riding the baker’s wife—well…he will be—this evening, I believe.” She threw the scarf onto the table as if it had turned into a viper. Thunder crashed over head—as loud as a pack of horseman. “This isn’t his wife’s scarf, but Letty Baker’s. Some manof God! First he visits a witch, then goes straight to commit adultery! I saw them—all covered in sweat and rutting like animals.”
Ceri studied Isobel critically. “You’re looking a bit flushed yourself, lass. Such things a maid should not be seeing.”
