Isobel made a sympathetic sound. “Whatever will she do without your help?”
Grace frowned and looked at her mother uncertainly.
Isobel plowed forward. “Your mother must rely on you a great deal. I feel awful depriving her of your help.”
“I’m sure the coin Sir Philip is paying her father will be of some comfort,” Stephen said, holding his tankard out when the tavern lass returned with Isobel’s stew.
Grace nodded. “Oh, aye, we do need the coin.”
Isobel gritted her teeth but held her tongue. If she carried it any further, it would be obvious she was trying to rid herself of Grace’s services.
Sir Philip and Grace’s father stood and left the tavern. Isobel watched them disappear through the door, chewing her lip. She could think of no way to convince the stubborn man to forgetabout a maid, so she might as well resign herself to it.
The child slipped away from his mother again and crawled about under the table by Isobel’s feet. He grabbed handfuls of her skirt to pull himself up and toddled to the next table to pull on a man’s cloak. Everyone seemed to find the child amusing, Isobel included.
“He certainly is a handful,” Isobel commented as the boy reached for a stranger’s ale and took a drink, sloshing it down the front of his gown.
The men laughed and plucked the tankard from the lad’s chubby fingers. The child frowned at his empty hands and moved on to the next table.
“Aye.” The woman sighed, smiling fondly at the boy. “But he always makes us laugh—and there’s little of that these days.”
Stephen asked if there had been many witch trials, launching Grace and her mother into a detailed description of a grisly lynching a fortnight past. Isobel grew silent, the sick feeling in her belly curling and twisting. It was all everyone talked about in England, too—the witch-hunts in Scotland.
By the time Philip returned, Isobel was staring at her congealing meal and the child was across the tavern, giggling hysterically as an old man produced nuts from behind his ears. His mother never took her eyes off him, but seemed relieved that someone else was entertaining the child for a change.
Philip passed the child, paused, and retraced his steps. He hefted the child up and carried him across the tavern. The woman seemed astonished when he thrust her son into her arms.
“He’s but a wean,” Philip said, his voice sharp as a blade. “You canna let him wander about at will. It takes but a second’s distraction, then he’s gone.”
The woman let out a surprised breath. “I never took my eyes off him, sir—”
“That’s not true, and we both know it. You were quite involved in your conversation with Stephen when I walked in.”
She became flustered. “I—I know most everyone here—”
“Mosteveryone? But not everyone?”
She shook her head. “But—”
“Buta lot of strangers pass through this village, and all of them are not so nice. What if they had a taste for little boys, aye? I’ve known more than a few who do. Hell, I could snatch him up and you’d never see him again. Trust me—you’d never ken what happened if I’d a mind for evil.”
The woman began to cry silently, clutching her son to her breast. Her husband cleared his throat. “That’s enough, Sir Philip.”
Both Fergus and Stephen watched the proceedings warily, but with no surprise. Isobel, however, was flabbergasted. She’d never seen a man give a woman such a tongue-lashing for her mothering skills. Philip turned on the man as if to give him an earful when Isobel stood, removing her gloves and placing her hand softly on Philip’s arm.
“No harm’s done,” she said. “I was minding the lad, too. She watched him carefully, I vow it.”
Isobel could feel the tension thrumming through him. When he still didn’t seem inclined to let the matter drop, she squeezed his arm. His muscles were bunched tight, as if ready to spring. His whisky eyes were hazy with some long-ago pain. She felt it just from touching him, or his jack, actually; clothes retained something of their owners, though some fabrics were better than others for giving clear visions. Leather was more difficult andusually only gave her feelings.
“Sir Philip, walk with me. I need some air.”
He turned to her, startled. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back to her eyes.
She smiled encouragingly.
He took a deep breath, glancing back at the man and his wife before nodding and letting her lead him from the tavern. Isobel was certain Stephen would smooth the situation over while they were gone; in the meantime, she meant to find out why Philip would scold a complete stranger in such a manner—and about this old pain she sensed.
Philip stopped right outside the tavern door. “What?”
