Isobel pushed back the damp curls that had escaped her plait from her forehead with dignity. “It takes a lot out of me, you know that.”
Ceri raised her brows censoriously.
“What shall you tell him?” Isobel asked.
Ceri smiled wickedly. “I’ll tell him the philter rejected the scarf since it came from an adulterer.”
Isobel shook her head. “Have a care. He might have saved you once, but he might not be so quick to if you anger him.”
Ceri made a rude sound but before she could say another word someone hammered on the door so hard it shook in its frame. They both froze, staring at each other in disbelief. Who would be out visiting a witch in such a storm?
Ceri sprang into action. “Hurry! You must hide!”
She shooed Isobel to the back of the cottage, where a blanket hung. A small cot was concealed behind it.
“Get on the bed,” Ceri said, shoving her family of cats to the floor. “They’ll see your feet otherwise.”
Isobel did as she was bid, her heart pounding against her ribs, excuses for why she was at the local witch’s cottage chasing through her head.She was lost in the woods and just happened by.No one would believe that. She’d lived at Attmore Manor for twelve years and spent a great deal of time in these woods.She had an ailment and sought Ceri for a cure.Why come alone, then? She knew as well as any young lass she shouldn’t be wandering the woods unescorted. She should have brought a servant—not that she ever did.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice that resonated through the blanket, into her very belly.
“Gude day, lady. We seek shelter from the storm.”
A Scotsman. Isobel sat up straighter.
“I’ve but a humble cottage and no room for so many.”
“There are but three of us, lady, and we vow to wipe our feet.”
“I’m but a lone woman,” Ceri continued to protest, but weakly now. She was no lady, as they all well knew, but being called one had softened her.
“We mean ye no harm. Only rest and a dram, for which I will give recompense.”
But no ordinary Scotsman. He spoke well and had fine manners. Isobel sat cross-legged on the cot, straining to hear every word. Soon the scraping of boots was heard. True to his word the Scotsman and his men were cleaning their boots before entering. Ceri’s cats returned to the bed, one stretching out on Isobel’s lap and the other two lying on the other end of the cot. Isobel scratched their heads absently. Though many animals shied away from Isobel, cats rarely feared her, and these cats had come to know her from her frequent visits.
When the movement had quieted down, Ceri spoke again. “You’re far from the road, sir. Whence are you headed?”
“Attmore Manor. I was told the way was quicker through the wood.”
Isobel stiffened, the twisting in her gut growing fierce. Attmore Manor washerhome. What business had he there?
Ceri’s thoughts clearly mirrored Isobel’s for she asked, “Attmore Manor? What business have you there?”
Silence drew out, then Ceri said, “I see.”
What did she see? What had Isobel missed? She couldn’t stand the suspense. She slowly placed her feet on the dirt floor.
“Could I at least have your name, sir?”
“Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Clan Colquhoun.”
“A Highlander.”
“Aye.”
Ceri grunted insolently. “You don’t look like a Highlander.”
Isobel couldn’t bear it. Setting the cat aside, she eased to her feet and tiptoed to the edge of the blanket. What did Ceri mean, he didn’t look like a Highlander? He was small? Fine-featured? He didn’t sound small. His voice was a deep, rumbling baritone—it conjured images of bears and lions.
