She stared at him, unblinking, her face expressionless.
“Do you understand?”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far?”
He planted hands on hips, scowling. “What?”
“The protector role. Surely my father didn’t intend for you to smother me.”
Anger flashed through him, hard and fast. He advanced on her. She didn’t retreat, though her bland mask faltered.
“Were ye so coddled in England you heard naught of what goes on here in Scotland?”
Her gaze darted away, but quickly came back to hold his. “No. I heard.”
“Did ye, now? And it means naught to ye?”
“I don’t understand—”
“And therein lies the problem, Mistress MacDonell. Ye dinna understand, nor do ye try to. You’re too set in your stubborn ways to think for a minute that by crossing a border your whole world has changed in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”
Her mouth flattened, and her cheeks grew ruddy.
“Now listen with care. You will go nowhere unless you are accompanied by Fergus, Stephen, or myself. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The single word was clipped.
“You will not offer your…deductive reasoningskills to anyone else. Ever.”
She laughed incredulously. “Ever? Your control over me extends only so far as Glen Laire, Sir Philip. After that I no longer answer to you.”
“Then consider it well-intentioned advice. I dinna want to hear of you burning for witchcraft, Mistress MacDonell, I vow it. And there is nothing a group of village elders likes to do so much as burn a witch. And if ye think being the daughter of a chieftain offers you some protection, you have only to remember your poor mother. She was lynched and burned; else she’d be alive today. And that was back when only the king could burn a witch—today, however…”
The effort to maintain her air of unconcern was obviously a strain, if the way she clasped her hands together and bit the inside of her lip was any indication. He didn’t wish to frighten her further. He’d hoped mentioning her mother’s nightmarish death would be sufficient, but she said, “What? What else were you going to say?”
“Todayit’s much easier to burn a witch, as elders all over the country have discovered. Surely you’ve heard? The king gave commissions to local men to try and execute witches. That means anyone who has a quarrel with anyone else can cry witchcraft and have his revenge. Anyone looking for a scapegoat to blame for their misfortunes can pick out whatever sacrifice suits them. There doesna even have to be evidence—once the finger is pointed you’re as good as dead. No Scotswoman with a shred of sense would go about divining for keys. Why don’t ye just carry about a toad for a familiar and give folks the evil eye? It will have the same effect.”
Her mask cracked, and she stepped away from him, her throat working as she swallowed. She hugged her elbows, watching him warily. “You think I’m a witch.”
Philip put his hands out placatingly. “I did not say that. Besides, whatever I think, I’d never harm you. I’m trying to protect you. Let me.”
“Are you afraid of witches?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
She raised a red-gold brow slightly and, to his surprise, she reached out, sliding her hand in his gloved hand. Her hands were bare this morning, her gloves tucked in the garter at her waist. The urge to curl his hand over hers and pull her close was strong, but he did nothing, staring down at their linked hands.
“A child was lost to you,” she said, her voice far away.
His head jerked up, his eyes fixed on her face. A frisson of alarm ran through him. Her eyes were blank, hazy, staring straight through him.
“That’s why you yelled at that woman, why her inattention to her son angered you. It reminded you of your sister.”
Philip jerked away, rubbing his hands together as if he could rub her magic from him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She blinked, her eyes focusing on him. “I thought you weren’t afraid of me.”
“I’m not.” But he was deeply unsettled. She’d been so odd. He continued rubbing his gloves together compulsively.
