As her palms rested against Philip’s shirt, she felt his earnest desire to protect her, and it warmed her. She wanted to do something for him, to help him somehow.
She noted the change in the tempo of his heart, beating faster, his breathing shallow. His hands were on her arms, setting her away from him. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable.
“Philip,” she said hesitantly. “Is your sister dead? Because I feel that she’s not.”
He started, dropping his hands and stepping back from her. “What do you mean?”
“Stephen told me how you sometimes just know things. That you get…feelings.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye.”
“Well, that happens to me…and I’ve had…feelings about your sister. It was a long time ago, I know that, and yet, your…unhappiness over her has not lessened. It’s as if you can’t say good-bye. That happens sometimes when a loved one is lost, but that’s not what I feel either. It’s…a desperate, searching sort of—”
“Stop it, Isobel!”
She came at him, her hands out. “I want to help you. I can, if you’ll let me.”
His jaw was rigid, his eyes slightly wild. “You canna help me. Forget about it.”
“Can you not even tell me what happened to her?Isshe dead?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. He leaned down, grabbing his jack and sword belt. “I know not. It’s been twelve years since I lost her.” He gave her a hard, angry look. “And when I saylosther, I am being specific. She was in my care, and I just lost her. A six-year-old child. Gone. Forever, it seems. My family believes she’s dead, and that I—that I am…”
He glared at a tree trunk, then stalked past her. Isobel’s heart ached for him and she reached out as he passed, but he jerked away and disappeared into the trees.
Chapter 8
They arrived at Hawkirk without any more problems. The streets were swollen with the merchants who collected here weekly to sell their wares. If they kept up this pace, Philip would have Isobel home in less than a week. He could hardly wait.
Philip made Stephen ride with him, and Fergus was Isobel’s new riding companion. Philip no longer trusted himself with her, and so made certain they were never alone. There was definitely something…unusual about Isobel MacDonell. Philip had always considered himself a pragmatic sort of fellow. He’d had excellent tutors and even spent some time at the Université Paris. He did not believe the rustic superstitions that a goodly part of Scotland did not question. He didn’t doubt there was evil in the world, but he felt it was of the flesh-and-blood variety. And though he was a God-fearing man, he didn’t believe Satan meddled in the affairs of women—young or old. As for the confessions the Scottish witch prickers had collected in reams, he attributed that to ignorance and torture.
However…
Isobel MacDonell was making him reconsider a few long-held beliefs. And he did not like it at all. She’d also made him think about his sister—a subject he steered clear of even in thought. Itwas the reason he rarely went home, much to his father’s chagrin. His stepmother made sure he never forgot that he’d lost her only child.
Philip settled them in rooms above a respectable tavern and put out inquiries about hiring a servant. The landlord remembered him from when they passed through less than a week before and soon had them in a corner table with mutton, bread, and ale.
Isobel ate quietly, but with relish. Philip smiled to himself, remembering her passion for sticky buns, and stopped the tavern wench as she went by. Unfortunately, she remembered him, too.
“Oh, Sir Philip—I was hoping ye’d stop and see me on your way back.” She slid her arm around his neck and bent her lips to his ear. “I can stop by yer room later.”
Unbidden, Philip’s gaze was drawn across the table to where Isobel sat, watching Alice or Anne—he couldn’t remember her name—whisper to him. Philip caught the hand toying with his hair and gently put the lass away from him. “Sorry, lass, not tonight.”
She pouted, darting a glance at Isobel, who had returned to her meal.
“Bring some of those buns with honey on them.”
“Verra well.” She gave Philip a long look before moving away.
When Philip looked around the table, Fergus frowned at him. Philip said in explanation, “We have to find Mistress MacDonell a maid this evening—then early to bed. This is the last bed we’ll be sleeping in until Lochlaire.”
He felt foolish suddenly. Why was he turning away a perfectly willing lass? And if he didn’t feel like a tumble, he didn’t need to dig about for an excuse. But as his gaze fell on Isobel, he knew that wasn’t it either. He itched to tumbleher.If she’d noticed the lass’s flirting—which he knew she had—she showed no indication of caring. That irritated him far more than it should.
“May I have some say in choosing my servant?” Isobel asked.
“No.”
She hissed through her teeth, pinning him with one of her poison stares. But before she could reply, Anne or Alice was back with the sweet buns. A basketful was set in the center of the table, and the lass was gone again, without sparing Philip another look. Isobel’s mouth tightened as she stared at the buns. She seemed determined to deny herself until Stephen grabbed three. When Fergus’s hand started toward the bowl, Isobel quickly snatched two buns and settled back on the bench. Philip suppressed a smile.
