“Gloves?” She squinted at the gloves, tugging experimentally on her wrist. His grip was a vise. “I thought those were branches. It’s so dark, and I cannot claim to have eagle eyes such as you.”
He propped himself on his elbow and leaned closer to her. “You’re lying.”
“What? How dare you accuse me of lying. I’m cold. It’s nothing more than that.”
One well-formed brow rose. “If you seek warmth, I can oblige.” He’d been whispering before, but his tone turned silky now, like fine whisky. His eyes were the color of whisky, too, she noticed. The fire reflected the amber lights, the heavy lashes that seemed to weight down his lids.
“What do you…?” Her breath snagged. His hand on her wrist turned caressing, rubbing at her galloping pulse.
“Are you really so innocent, Isobel?”
As his meaning dawned on her, heat flooded her cheeks. “Why…I’m betrothed…I cannot—”
His mouth flattened, and he released her wrist. “Go to sleep.” He lay back down, folding his arms over his chest again, his gloves trapped against his chest, as if to protect them from her. “On your own blanket.”
Confused and embarrassed, Isobel crawled back to her ownblanket and curled up beneath the coarse wool. She tried to force her mind clear so sleep would come, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d woken a sleeping dragon—and rather than being terrified, she was fascinated.
Chapter 6
Isobel hated to admit it, but Philip had been right. Her body ached worse than it had the night before. She clenched her teeth with every jarring step Jinny took, but kept her face stoic. Stephen kept up a stream of chatter, and Isobel was glad for the sympathetic company. They followed the wall for a mile or so until they came to a crumbling gap, then headed north again.
Philip stopped frequently, to rest the horses, he said, but she knew it was to let her dismount and hobble about. He made no mention of the night before and seemed so indifferent to her she began to wonder if she’d imagined how he’d looked at her. That gave her a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Though she couldn’t remember ever having met Nicholas Lyon, he was nevertheless her betrothed and already she felt a sense of loyalty to him. She had no business engaging in flirtations with anyone. And yet, she couldn’t deny she’d secretly fancied the idea of Philip desiring her.
True to his word, midafternoon they stopped in a village, and Philip rented rooms. He sent Isobel up to rest, and she didn’t argue. She had no idea how long she slept, but the light outside the window was fading when she woke. After tidying herself at the basin, she headed down the steps to the tavern. The air was close and stank of lard candles, sweat, and stale ale.
She peered through the gloom, searching for her companions. Before she reached the foot of the steps Stephen called to her. The three men sat at a table near the back. Two women and a man were with them. One of the women held a small child on her lap. His hair was a mass of dark curls, and his face was smudged with dirt.
Isobel slid onto the bench next to Stephen.
“You look better,” he said. He hailed a serving lass and told her to bring Isobel some ale and a bowl of stew.
“I do feel better—thank you. Who are these people?”
Philip was in low conversation with the man. The younger of the two women stared openly at Isobel. Her dark hair was knotted at her neck and covered with a snood.
Stephen said, “Grace, meet Mistress Isobel MacDonell, daughter of MacDonell of Glen Laire.”
Isobel smiled uncertainly. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Aye, Miss.”
Stephen grinned. “She’s your new maid.”
“My what?”
“Philip said you needed a maid, and so here she is.”
Isobel opened her mouth and closed it. What could she say? “Surely such a young woman doesn’t wish to leave her family.”
“Och, I’m not young, Miss. I’m sixteen—almost seventeen. Old enough to be wed.” She slid Stephen a suggestive look that he seemed oblivious to. “Sir Philip says that if the MacDonell canna find a position for me at Lochlaire, he’d find me one at Sgor Dubh.”
“How kind of him,” Isobel said, feeling strangely uncharitable.She watched Philip impatiently. She was irritated he’d completely ignored her wish not to have a maid.
The other woman was apparently Grace’s mother. The small child was growing restless and struggled down from his mother’s lap, disappearing beneath the table. Isobel had not thought Philip even noticed, but when the child emerged from the other side, he caught the boy’s arm. Lifting him under the arms, he passed him over the table, back to his mother. The woman accepted the child with a wan smile.
“He’s a busy wee lad, aye?” Stephen observed, reaching across Grace to muss the boy’s hair.
“Oh, aye,” Grace said. “He’s into everything. Mum canna get a moment’s peace.”
