She peeked around the blanket. Two large men crowded around the hearth. An enormous blond man sat on the stone ledge where Isobel had rested earlier, and a burly red-bearded man hovered close to the fire, trying to dry wet clothes. A third man sat away from the others, on the bench at Ceri’s table. His back was to Isobel—and a broad back it was, heavy, too, filling out the buff jack he wore. His longish hair was sandy brown and damp at the crown. Even sitting he was more than a head taller than Ceri, who sat across from him.
Ceri saw her peeking out and her eyes widened, then narrowed. The man turned abruptly to see what Ceri peered at. Isobel drewback, her breath catching as she nearly fell on the cot. But she caught herself, teetering momentarily. The cats showed no interest in the fact she’d nearly squashed them. The large gray yawned.
“You are not alone?” the man asked. The bench scraped. His footsteps started toward the blanket.
Isobel whirled back to the blanket, her hand clamped to her mouth in horror.
Ceri said, “Cats—that’s all. Getting into things.” She was moving toward the blanket, too. The man’s footsteps stopped, and a moment later Ceri joined Isobel behind it.
Isobel smiled sheepishly. Ceri pointed to the cot, giving Isobel a severe look, and scooped up Whiskers, a fat black cat. Isobel returned to the cot, and Ceri went back to her guests.
Isobel propped her chin on her fist and listened to Ceri chatter at Sir Philip. The old woman tried to discover his business, but he was not a talkative sort. Isobel thought about his eyes as she waited. She’d caught but a glimpse, but they’d been dark, deep-set. Ceri was right, he didn’t have the harsh, rugged features of her father. His nose had been straight, his jaw wide, but elegant, in spite of the dark whiskers shadowing it. His lips had been full and smooth. By the time the rain ceased, she’d convinced herself he was devastatingly handsome. And this darkly beautiful knight was on his way to Attmore Manor. Why?
It had to do with her. The roiling in her gut had worsened since he’d arrived—so he must be the reason for it. Was he sent by her father? By the time the men departed a sense of urgency had filled Isobel. She must get to Attmore Manor before Sir Philip. She burst from behind the blanket.
“You best be getting home, lass,” Ceri said, handing her the cap she’d removed earlier.
Isobel pinned it back on her head. “First—give me the cup he drank from.”
Ceri quickly fetched a battered tin cup from the table and thrust it into Isobel’s hands. Isobel knew immediately he’d come for her. Her father had finally sent for her. But she could glean nothing else from the cup, except a warm and faintly disturbing sense of his lips against the rim. He’d not held it very long, so little of him would be imprinted upon it, she understood this. Still, it frustrated her. She’d hope for some sense of him, but he was a mystery.
“Soon enough, lass, you’ll know just what he wants,” Ceri said, urging her to the door. “And then come back and tell me!”
Isobel stopped in the open door and turned back to her friend. “Is he the one? The one you dreamed of?”
Ceri shook her head. “I didn’t have no dream, lass. That was a jest.”
“Oh.” Isobel’s heart sank. “He was very handsome, wasn’t he?”
“That he was, and such pretty manners. Now off with you, afore Lord Attmore sends someone to look for you!”
“Oh, you know he won’t. He’ll just ring the bell.”
Ceri gave Isobel a firm look. “Just go afore you get in trouble.”
Isobel stared at her friend, the heavy sensation of dread intensifying in her belly. Impulsively, she grabbed the crystal charm Ceri wore about her neck. Warmth filled her as she saw Ceri shuffling about her cottage, surrounded by her cats, older and content. Isobel smiled. At least the feeling had nothing to do with Ceri.
She squeezed her friend’s hand and raced into the forest.
Chapter 2
Shortly after they left the old woman’s cottage Philip and his friends emerged from the wood. A manor house was visible in the distance. Philip reined in Horse, stroking the dark chestnut coat and murmuring calming nonsense. The stallion’s eyes rolled, still uneasy about something that had spooked him and the other horses in the wood. Philip had caught only a glimpse of it—a bit of golden red hair—before it vanished. A wood sprite, he’d think, if he believed in such fancies, which he did not. However, it did seem odd that Horse, usually a most steadfast beast, had become so fearful.
Stephen had wanted to give chase, but Philip had stayed the lad, they didn’t have time for foolishness. It was probably just another oddity living in the forest, none of their concern.
Fergus and Stephen gathered around him as he considered Attmore Manor. Fergus stroked his thick red beard, fingering the narrow braids that adorned it. His dark eyes were resolute. It had not occurred to him to chase after their woods phantom—he knew Philip’s ways by now. He would do whatever Philip asked, no questions.
“What are we waiting for?” Stephen asked impatiently.
Philip’s gaze rested on the lad. Though he’d been with Philipseveral years now, he still had a great deal to learn. But Philip did not question his loyalty, or his intelligence. It was his tongue, however, that often proved problematic. But he was only eighteen. Philip supposed he hadn’t been much different at that age.
“Not a word about her father,” he advised them, pointing his finger at Stephen, whose gregarious nature had gotten them all in trouble more times than they could count. “Or I’ll thrash you. And this time you’ll not sit a horse for a month”
Stephen nodded. “When will you tell her?”
“I’m not here to tell her anything. Our orders are to see her safely to Lochlaire, and that’s all we’re going to do.” Philip spurred his horse.
Stephen sputtered indignantly behind him, but Fergus held his tongue. He would not naysay Philip. And though Stephen might argue, he would obey.
