A wicked grin pulled at his lips as he imagined her bottom beneath his hand. “All you have to do is ask, lass—I’d be happy to oblige.”
The innuendo was lost on her however. She glared at him and thrust out her chin. “Go ahead! I’m not afraid of you.”
Philip gave Stephen a meaningful look. People were beginning to stare. At Stephen’s prompting, she finally turned and went upstairs. Philip let out the breath he’d been holding. Damn, she was a hellion. Alan had warned him that she could be difficult, but he’d not anticipated these kinds of difficulties. What the hell had she been doing at the bakers? Damned if it didn’t look like some kind of sorcery. That kind of behavior was deadly.
Philip ran a weary hand through his hair as Fergus joined him. He took the bottle of whisky his friend sympathetically offered. The sooner they arrived at Lochlaire the better. He didn’t care if she was bruised from head to toe, there would be no more special rests for Isobel MacDonell.
Isobel was famished. She paced her tiny room, wishing for her sticky buns—even the cold stew was beginning to sound appetizing. It was well past midnight. Her single candle would soon gutter out. Isobel crossed to the window and stared down at the nearly deserted street. An old man lay on the ground outside a building across the way. A night watchman roamed the streets with a lantern, his silhouette hazy in the thickening fog.
Isobel’s stomach growled painfully. Last time she’d peeked out the door, Stephen had been slumped against the wall, guarding her. She’d struck up a conversation with him, but it was cut short minutes later by Philip yelling at him to shut up or else. But surely Philip was asleep by now—and she knew if she asked nicely Stephen would find her something to eat.
She eased the door open and peered into the corridor. No candles lit the inky darkness, though there was a gray patch of light at the far end, near the stairs, from a high open window. Her eyes narrowed, probing the darkness, but could discern nothing.
“Stephen?” she whispered. When she received no response, she called again. Maybe he’d fallen asleep? She slipped through the door and into the hallway, feeling in front of her for the spot where she’d last seen Stephen sitting.
He was gone.
“Stephen?” she called again, louder this time. No answer. There were several doors in the hallway, but she had no way of knowing which one might be his. She decided to venture down the stairs herself. Perhaps the ostler would be there—or she could sneak into the kitchen and find something.
She crept quietly toward the lessening of complete darkness that indicated the stairs, her hands on the wall. She was almost there when she heard the soft creak of boot leather and something blocked her vision. She put up her hands just as she bumped into something warm and solid.
“Stephen?” she said hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, Mistress MacDonell.”
Isobel froze, her hands curling into the worn leather.Sir Philip.
She tried to push away, but he caught her shoulders, pulling her toward the stairs. When they were both in the shadowy gray light from the open window, he glared down at her. Isobel’s heart lodged somewhere in her throat, cutting off her ability to speak. What would he do? She found herself clutching at his arms, afraid he meant to throw her down the stairs in his fury.
“Where are you going?”
“I—I was looking for Stephen.”
“Why?” The single word was a growl.
Isobel’s eyes widened. “I’m hungry…he always has food.”
The muted moonlight shadowed his face, emphasizing the clean straight lines of forehead and nose, the firmness of his whiskered jaw, the swell of his bottom lip.
His punishing grip relaxed. “Why are you awake?”
“I don’t sleep much…and since I slept earlier, I’m not tired.”
His gaze raked over her face. After a moment he released her, but when she tried to slip away he planted his hands against the wall, his arms on either side of her, trapping her. She pressed her back into the wood, staring up at him. He leaned close to her, and she caught a whiff of whisky. She shivered with unease—he’d been drinking. That would only exacerbate his irritation with her.
His eyes glinted. “Where do ye think yer going?”
She smiled. “Back to my room.” She slid down the wall, as if to slip under his arm, but he leaned down with her, his arm still blocking her. He was trying to intimidate her. He was succeeding, but there was no reason for him to know that.
She met his dark gaze. “Prithee, don’t let me keep you from your bottle—from the stench, you’ll soon forget this incident.”
She saw a flash of white and his deep laughter rolled over her. He leaned even closer, as if to antagonize her with the scent of whisky. Unfortunately, his nearness did not have his intended effect. She could see how silky his hair was this close, how fine and dark his long whiskers were, several shades darker than his light brown hair. How soft his mouth looked.
She averted her eyes, staring instead at the leather-clad arm blocking her escape.
“I’ll let you go—so I can get back to my cups,” he said sarcastically, leading her to believe perhaps he had spilled the whisky on himself, for he seemed far from inebriated. “But first,you must answer one question.”
She straightened, still pressed hard against the wall at her back. He did not straighten with her. In fact, he leaned closer, bracing his forearm on the wall near her head. Her heart fluttered and her skin felt flushed and warm, but she kept her face impassive, raising a bored brow, still refusing to look directly in his eyes.
