“You are not Laurie’s father?” Philip asked Ewan.
Ewan shook his head. “I married her mum a year ago—but before that I worked for Heather’s second husband.”
“How did Laurie get on with her stepfather?”
Heather’s gaze darted to her husband, who now looked at the tabletop. “She did not like me wedding Ewan, it’s true. She understood why I wed Jock, my second husband. He was also a successful brewer, and our marriage was profitable to us both.” Heather stared at her husband, a line between her brows. “She didn’t understand that I love Ewan—that I no longer needed to make a profitable marriage.”
“So she didn’t like Ewan.”
Heather shrugged, releasing the handkerchief and hiding her hands beneath the table. Ewan’s head had turned to watch his wife.
“She was strange with Jock, too,” Heather said. “I think it must be common for a girl to…resent her stepfathers.” Her head jerked up suddenly, her eyes intense. “But she and I—we had no quarrel.”
Heather carefully avoided meeting her husband’s gaze.
“Tell me how Laurie behaved in the days leading up to her disappearance,” Philip said to Heather.
“I dinna ken…If something was wrong, she’d tell me, I’m sure of it. But she had no quarrel with me, I tell you—just that morning she’d hugged me!”
Though her words sounded sincere, she frowned deeply, her eyes averted as if she remembered something distressful.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t waste each other’s time?” Philip said, straightening. “If I can aid you at all, I surely cannot if you lie to me.”
Heather bit her lip, her gaze on her husband.
Ewan’s head jerked up at Philip’s words. “You accuse us of lying?”
“I think there are things I’m not being told.”
“Mayhap shewasacting a bit odd,” Heather conceded.
Philip had noticed some time ago how Isobel’s gaze fixed on the abandoned handkerchief. Her hands disappeared beneath the table, then reappeared bare, gloves gone. Philip’s chest tightened with the beginning of panic. He didn’t know why, either. Why should he care if she removed her gloves? So her hands were hot? What matter?
Her fingers crept across the table until she touched the handkerchief with her fingertips, then, slowly, she gathered it to herself, until her hand was fisted around it.
Philip’s gaze jerked up to her face, but she did not see him. Her sage green eyes stared blankly ahead. Philip glanced around the table, but no one seemed to notice. In fact, Stephen’s bored stare as he picked at his teeth resembled Isobel’s—glassy and vacant. But Philip knew Isobel’s was not a result of boredom.
Not wanting to call unwanted attention to her, he leaned forward, focusing more intently on Heather’s description of her daughter’s behavior before she disappeared. He extended his foot under the table until he kicked something soft. Fergus grunted and scowled at Stephen.
Then Stephen cried, “Ow!” And straightened. “Wha’d ye do that for?”
“You kicked me,” Fergus said.
“He did it.” The words were whispered, but their entire table fell silent as all heads turned to Isobel. Her face had drained of color, the green of her eyes stood out vividly. Her gaze was locked on Ewan Kennedy. Sweat trickled down her temples, plastering coppery blond curls to the sides of her face. Her hands shook.
Philip tensed. He had been thinking the same thing—that Ewan was responsible somehow—but he’d never reveal his suspicions so soon, not without proof.
“What did she say?” Ewan said, his voice dangerously quiet.
Stephen’s gaze turned on Ewan. The lad was generally good-natured, but could be dangerous if provoked. He stared at the older man now with glittering eyes. “She said, you did it.”
Philip knew this could not be avoided, so he said, “Why do you think that?”
Her gaze turned toward him, empty, the handkerchief still gripped tightly in her hands. “She was coming home from theArmstrongs. She’d learned not to go out alone, or he would find her. She usually asked Roger to meet her. Ewan didn’t bother her if she was with someone. But Roger wasn’t there. So she walked alone. At home, Mum was gone, so she went out back to look for her.”
Her voice changed, became softer, higher pitched. Her reddish brows rose anxiously, making her seem younger, childlike. A chill settled in Philip’s bones as his fears and suspicions sprang to life before his eyes. She was a witch. A seer. Ataibhsear.
“He was there…waiting. He was angry at me for avoiding him—so I ran. I could hear him breathing, and I ran faster, not paying attention to where I was going, just wanting to escape. He caught me in the woods. He beat at me, ripping my clothes off. Then I heard Roger calling. I screamed for Roger to help me. He—he attacked Ewan—but Ewan is bigger and stronger. He beat Roger over and over again, until Roger was limp and his head hung oddly. And then he came back to me…”
