Philip chuckled, and had Isobel not been so angry, she might have swooned at the deep rumbling of his laughter and the way it lit his dark eyes. Instead, she asked harshly, “Why are you laughing at me?”
“You’ll not feel better on the morrow—I vow it. In fact, you’dbest eat up and get some sleep. We’re leaving at first light.”
“In addition to being a bloodhound you are also the expert on sore arses?”
Stephen snorted through his nose, and even Fergus stifled a loud guffaw.
Sir Philip grinned unrepentantly. “I am at that.”
Isobel tried to hold on to her anger—but it was difficult with him smiling at her like that. Her lips quivered to respond, so she looked away.
“As for sleep,” she said, eating a dried berry, “I never retire so early.”
Philip shook his head in amusement.
“I know,” she said, sitting up, alert. “Someone tell a story.” Stephen leaned forward eagerly, but Isobel cut him off. “Not you, Stephen. I’m sure we’ve heard all of yours. What about Fergus?”
Fergus shook his head gruffly. “Och, no—mine aren’t fit for such gentle ears.”
Isobel rolled her eyes and turned to Philip. “Sir Philip? Surely you have a story.”
Philip didn’t say anything for a long moment, staring at the ground thoughtfully. “No—I think I’d rather hear a story from you, Mistress MacDonell.”
When he turned his dark gaze on her this time, her skin felt hot and prickly. He held her eyes until she felt sweat trickle between her breasts. “I…I don’t know any stories.” Her voice sounded breathless, unfamiliar.
“I think you do. Tell us what you know of Clan Colquhoun.”
Isobel settled against the wall, drawing a blanket over her. It was quite cool out, despite the fact she was being assaulted with odd waves of warmth.
“I know Colquhoun is a small clan, and there are several families that call themselves Colquhoun—several minor lairds and the chief, The Colquhoun—Sir Humphrey.”
“Aye, my father is a chieftain who owes fealty to Sir Humphrey.”
“I know you hate the MacGregors.”
“And they hate us in equal measure.”
“I remember…when I was ten, I think…you must have been fifteen.”
The humor fled from Philip’s face, and he watched her intently. “Aye.”
“You were fostering with my father. I used to come out and watch the men train sometimes. I asked my father who you were, and he told me you were a Keeper of the Dogs. When I asked what that meant, he told me about some old law…if a person should kill another’s hound he must either pay damages or guard the man’s house himself for a year and a day. One day, a dog owned by the smith attacked a young boy. He killed it in the fight. The king condemned the boy to stand guard over the smith’s possessions for a year and a day—that is how the lands where Sir Humphrey resides got its name.”
Full dark had fallen. The fire crackled, limning their faces in red and orange. Philip continued to stare at her, his expression odd, wondering almost, but perhaps that was the fire and shadows.
“I remember you now,” he said softly. “So much has happened since then…when I was fifteen, we still had Effie—everything wasdifferent then. Sometimes I forget what it was like…” His voice trailed off, his gaze traveling over her face, caressing her almost.
Isobel swallowed, her mouth like sand.
“Yes, I remember you now,” he repeated more firmly, as if growing more confident in the memory. “And your sisters—such wee things, one dark, another with hair as red as Fergus’s. And you…” He fell silent, his gaze fixed on her.
Isobel’s throat grew tight, her body tense, awaiting his next words.
“You were the oldest—tall and willowy, with hair like a sunset, eyes like moss.”
His eyes held her, a warm fire burning over her. Her heart throbbed painfully and her lips parted, but only a small breath escaped—a sigh almost. She’d never heard herself described so. It captivated her, to see herself as he’d seen her once.
Fergus cleared his throat meaningfully, and Philip looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face, then raking it through his hair.
