“It was a long time ago,” he said, his voice different now, hard.
Isobel stared into the fire, her cheeks hot, confused by the sullen ache in her chest.
She wanted to look at him but could not. She hadn’t thought of him in years, but it came rushing back now. He wasn’t the first lad she’d admired, but there had been something different about him. The girls had all sighed and giggled over him—Isobel included. He’d not seemed to notice any of them. But she’d been told he was known to visit a young MacDonell widow who’d taken shelter with her father. Isobel remembered not liking him after that. The widow had been nearly twice Isobel’s age—several years olderthan Philip had been at the time. Isobel remembered the other lasses speculating on what they did when they were alone. She’d not paid much mind then, but now, the memories flooded her, and she imagined Philip in an intimate embrace with a woman.
“It certainly is warm, don’t you think?” she commented.
Stephen and Fergus exchanged an odd look, and Sir Philip seemed intent on a knot in his leather gloves.
When no one seemed inclined to answer her, she held out her hand to Stephen, who was nursing the ale skin. “Could I have some?”
He passed it to her and she drank deeply. Her throat and mouth were parched and she was overwarm. What was wrong with her?
She lowered the skin and licked her lips and noticed Philip still watched her, but covertly, his dark lashes partially shading his eyes. But there was no doubt that his heated gaze was on her. Her heart tripped over itself. She looked away, murmuring something about being tired. She lay down, facing away from him, but she could almost feel his gaze scalding over her.
Someone stood abruptly, and Isobel looked over her shoulder in time to see the dark swallow Philip’s tall muscular form.
“Where is he going?”
Stephen shrugged, lying back on his blanket and pulling another over top of him. “To inspect the perimeter. The borders are dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous,” Isobel muttered, pillowing her head on her leather satchel.
“Aye, it seems that way,” Fergus intoned from across the fire. “But dinna fash, lass, yer safe with us. Philip can smell trouble amile away.”
Isobel turned to face the two men. “What do you mean?”
“You were right when you called him a bloodhound,” Fergus said. “Mind you a dog when it senses something that a man canna? Its ears prick up—sometimes it growls or goes to investigate. Well, he’s like that. Sometimes his ears prick and let us know there’s trouble.”
Interesting.“So, you’re saying, hesensestrouble?”
Fergus nodded. “Aye, it seems so.”
Isobel liked that. It comforted her. Her eyes drifted shut. Though she felt safe and secure with these men, she could not sleep. The ground was hard, and she was sore. Her mind turned back to her father and the unease she felt about him. It would be a week or more before she was at Lochlaire; she didn’t know if she could bear it. She must find a way to discover what Sir Philip hid from her.
Philip returned, and the men conversed softly. Philip’s deep voice carried to her, but not his words. After a moment she heard him settle down near her. Her heart pumped in her chest, her throat tight. How odd that a mere look from him, or his nearness, seemed to send her body into some sort of frenzy. She did not like it at all and wished it would stop.
The night grew quiet except for the buzzing of insects and Fergus’s soft snores. Isobel stared at the mossy wall before her, gray in the moonlight. Her mind worked on how to trick one of the men into revealing something. She considered using her gift to discover something, but was coming to the conclusion that they were not nearly as preoccupied with her father as she was and therefore touching things they held would be useless.
Except for Philip. An image of him formed in her mind, and sheshut her eyes against it, but she still saw him behind her eyelids, toying with his gloves and watching her surreptitiously, his expression unfathomable.His gloves.
She strained, listening for any clue that they were still awake. Hearing nothing, she turned slowly. They formed a square around the fire. Philip lay beside her, his boots closest to her head. He lay on his side, facing the fire, his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. His hands were bare. The gloves were beside him on the blanket.
She got onto all fours, licking her lips nervously. She darted a look around the small camp. The night pressed in on them, black beyond the glow of the fire’s light. Stephen lay on his stomach, his face turned away from her. Fergus was on his back, the firelight glinting in the copper of his beard, arms folded over his chest. She turned back to her quarry. He was so still he could be dead. But so peaceful.
She advanced, cringing at the swish of grass beneath her skirts. She froze, waiting for one of them to wake up, but no one moved. She let out a shuddering sigh and moved forward again.Too loud!Philip hadn’t moved—not even a twitch. Was he perhapstoostill?
Dammit! Her muscles were locked with fear. What would she say if one of them woke? She looked wildly around and spied the small stack of branches Stephen had piled near the fire. She’d say she wanted to build up the fire. That was all. No harm in that.
Still, she was afraid to move forward. The gloves were within reach if she lay on her belly. So slowly, she straightened her body, lowering herself to the ground. She reached out, but the gloves were still half a finger’s length out of reach.
She gritted her teeth and wormed forward. Her fingertip touched the worn leather. Another wiggle and she had it. She snagged a finger. A hand clamped down on her wrist. Too terrified to scream, her head jerked up, meeting the dark narrowed eyes,her mouth opened in horror.
“What in the hell do you think yer doing?” he whispered.
Isobel swallowed convulsively, trying to calm her racing heart. “Th-the fire was dying.”
“You thought my gloves would help?”
