The hands on her shoulders tightened. “Think for a moment—I wilna long be satisfied with kisses, I vow it.”
Isobel wanted to tell him she wouldn’t either—her body was tight and trembling with need—but he was right, she was not thinking. Frustration and yearning unhappiness filled her. This could never be, and so it must stop. But she didn’t want it to stop. Girlish ideas of love that had withered and died years ago were taking root in his arms. They were not easy to let go, though she knew she must.She must.For her father, for Lord Kincreag—what she was doing was unfair to her betrothed. Disloyal. But still she stood, rooted before Philip, unable to leave him.
He turned aside, raking an unsteady hand through his hair, suppressed violence in his movement. “Forgive me—both times it was my fault, I ken. It wilna happen again—so long as you don’t seek me out in this manner. Aid me in this, Isobel, I pray you.” He tilted his head, giving her a sidelong look. “Bloody hell,” he moaned. “Dinna look at me like that.”
Isobel quickly averted her eyes, uncertain how she was looking at him. But his silence drew her gaze back. It was hard not to look at him, tall and broad—and warm. She could still feel his strongfingers on her body, her face tingled from the scrape of his beard. She shivered, bereft. She did not know what to say. A hopeless war waged inside her—one she’d already lost—long before Sir Philip had come to fetch her. She would marry Nicholas Lyon and all else was fool’s play.
But her will had ever been strong and stubborn. She would marry Lord Kincreag, she’d never questioned that, and she would go to him a maiden still. The earl was her destiny. But she would have her way with Philip until then.
“We’ll go to your home? So I can touch something of your sister’s?”
He looked to the moon, his mouth flat, muscles in his jaw bulging, but after a long moment, he nodded.
Philip slept fitfully—too aware that Isobel was but an arm’s length away from him. And now he’d sentenced himself to more time in her company. He was a fool. He lay near the fire, refusing to let himself look at her. But it didn’t matter—the smell of her was in his nose, the taste of her lingered, tormenting him. He’d spent most of the night arguing the logic of his actions. Take her to his home? Was he mad? But in the end it was not logic that won. If Effie was alive, and he found her, he could make everything right again. Even after twelve years, something inside insisted he couldstillset things right.
He’d spent the first five years after her disappearance searching for her. The last seven he’d spent more time searching for others than for Effie, but he’d never completely given up hope. He still made inquiries, though after twelve years the trail was so cold it was useless, yet he could not help himself. And here Isobel was, claiming that she could set all to rest. Insisting on it. And from what he’d witnessed, it seemed she could.
He should take her home to her father and her earl, and forget about her. But he would not.
In the morning Philip told Stephen and Fergus of the change in plans.
“That’s not fair,” Stephen protested. “You said she couldna touch my da’s book. Why does she get to touch something of yours?”
“Your father is dead, not missing. And everyone knows your father died violently. Would you make her relive that?”
Stephen had not put the book away last night—had slept with it gripped in his hand as he sometimes did—and now shook it at Philip. “He didn’t have it when he died. It’s not as if he was holding it when he was shot. It was far away.”
“I don’t think that matters.”
Isobel breezed past, plucking the book from Stephen’s fingers. “I told you I didn’t mind doing it, Philip.”
Stephen winked at Philip and followed her outside like a puppy.
Philip stared after them sullenly.
Fergus raised red brows. “It’s Philip, now, eh? No ‘Sir’?”
“Dinna tell me you were awake last night, too?”
Fergus’s brows rose even higher. “No, I wasna—but it seems I should have been.” He considered Philip. “What happened?”
Philip looked down at the saddle he was oiling, rubbing it vigorously. “Nothing. And nothingwillhappen.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I mean it this time.”
Fergus covered his bearded mouth and nodded wisely.
Philip threw down the cloth, grabbed the saddle, and strode outside. Isobel and Stephen sat side by side on a tree trunk. She held the small book between her hands. She spoke too softly for Philip to hear, but Stephen was spellbound, his eyes never leaving her face. Philip couldn’t shake the nagging unease he felt seeing her “perform.” There was no harm in her helping him, or Stephen, or Fergus, was there? They would never reveal her secret, and each would protect her with his life if it came to that. It was the fact she was so willing and eager to perform that troubled him.
He was more concerned about her future than he cared to admit. He wished she would have a care. He would not always be there to protect her. He tried to remind himself she’d lived four-and-twenty years without his help. But the last twelve were in England, a place that did not kill witches by the hundreds, and before that, Alan MacDonell had protected her—and had felt compelled to send his daughters far away for their safety.
Philip tightened the girth on Jinny’s saddle, reminding himself yet again that his responsibilities to her ended once she was in her father’s hands. That was as far as he needed to worry about.
When they were mounted and riding north again, Stephen was unusually quiet. Philip inspected his friend’s slightly befuddled expression.
“What is it, man? What did she tell you?”
