“Can we not walk?”
Philip looked up and down the dusty street, filled with villagers going about their business, his fine mouth set with impatience. “I don’t want to walk.” He turned back toward the door, but Isobel caught hold of his arm again.
“Do not go back in there angry.” She glanced around, then pulled him to the narrow alley between the buildings. He followed reluctantly. It was dark in the alley, and it smelled of rotting food and urine. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her expectantly.
“Whyever would you rebuke someone like that? The lad was in no danger.”
“You dinna understand. There are people out there that take bairns.”
“I’m sure there are, but we were all watching the boy.”
“It doesna matter!” His hand swept through the air violently, cutting off further argument. “If someone has a mind to, it doesna matter. Don’t you understand?”
Isobel put her fingers to her lips and gazed up at him. Tall and dark, and quite suddenly, vulnerable. Though she didn’t touch him, she felt strongly that this was about the sister Stephen had mentioned. “What happened to your sister?”
A shutter closed over his face. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Someone hurt her?” Perhaps his sister disappeared and was later found dead. Such things happened all the time. It had happened to the Attmores. And she’d not been able to stop it.
Philip ran a hand over his face, staring upward as if he were about to open up to her. She clasped her hands together, waiting. Then he shook his head. “Finish your dinner and go to your room. Lock the door.”
“What?” He tried to walk away, but she caught his arm again. “Philip—”
“I mean it, Isobel. Do as I say.”
Isobel stood in the alley, frustrated and hurt. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? She left the alley and started to follow him into the tavern, but stopped. She still wanted a walk. It was too hot and close in there. And for some reason she felt as if a beehive sat in her belly every time she was near Sir Philip. After two days on horseback the last thing she wanted to do was lock herself in a dingy rented room. Besides, she’d slept all afternoon. She wasn’t tired.
If she went back inside, he’d probably force her upstairs and set a guard on her. She’d just take a short stroll—down the street and back, perhaps stopping at the bakers to see if they had anything sweet left. Her mouth watered at the very thought, andthat decided it. She was in dire need of something sweet. She’d be back before he even noticed she was gone.
When Philip returned to their table at the tavern Grace and her parents were gone. Philip stared at their empty places, hands on his hips, and sighed deeply.
“I suppose it’s foolishness to hope they’re taking Grace home to pack.”
Fergus set the small bag of coins on the tabletop. “They said it wasna worth it. Grace feared ye’d harm her if she displeased ye.”
Philip slumped down on the bench. He’d not meant to get so angry, but couldn’t help himself. He didn’t understand what was wrong with people—didn’t they understand how precious and fragile the life of a child was?
He spied Isobel’s untouched bowl of stew and twisted around to stare at the door. “Did she come in?” He glanced at the empty stairs.
“Nay,” Stephen answered readily. “She’s still out there.”
Philip sighed again, watching the door. She was being stubborn and difficult because he’d refused to walk with her. How tiresome. He didn’t want to go after her. She disturbed him. Besides her being achingly beautiful, there was something else about her that stirred him. Since he’d first seen her at Attmore Manor he’d been preoccupied with her, and her innocent interest in him was not helping matters. He recognized the signs even if she didn’t—the darkening of her eyes, the shallowness of her breath, the slow flush that stained her pale, flawless skin. If she dragged him into another alley, he couldn’t be responsible for what he did.
He jerked his head at Stephen “Go get her.”
Stephen slid off the bench eagerly and left. Philip frowned after the lad. He’d certainly taken a liking to her. Why that bothered Philip was a mystery. God’s bones—she was betrothed. It mattered little what he or anyone else thought. She belonged to another man.
Stephen returned to the doorway. He caught Philip’s eye and shrugged.
Philip was on his feet. “Go check the room in case we missed her,” he ordered Fergus as he headed for the door.
“She said she wanted to go for a walk,” Stephen said when Philip joined him outside. “I’m sure that’s where she is. She’ll be right back.”
“Wait here in case she returns.” Philip looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way she’d gone. He headed west, stopping in each doorway, scanning the interiors for her distinctive autumn gold curls. He didn’t sense her presence until he arrived at the baker’s. The front of the shop was empty. The counters were picked over, just a few hard rolls left. The soft murmur of voices could be heard from the back room.
Philip started for the door to the back when it opened. Isobel came out, her mossy eyes blank, empty. She held a bun glistening with honey in one hand, half-eaten, and in the other she held a wooden box, banded with iron and locked with a stout iron padlock. She clasped it oddly: against her middle, with her bare hand cupping the padlock. Two people entered from the room behind her, a fat balding man and his equally fat wife. If the flour coating their hands and clothes was any indication, they were the bakers. Both watched Isobel anxiously.
“What the hell are you doing?” Philip asked, moving between her and the bakers, scowling at them. He didn’t like how theylooked at her.
