And sometimes she even felt a shadow of his desire for her, which he worked very hard to suppress. She saw herself once, when touching the rag he used to oil and polish his weapons at night. She saw herself as he saw her. It was a vision she’d never forget—the sun sinking into the horizon behind her. She’d been mending one of her sleeves, her eyes downcast, frowning slightly in concentration. He’d thought she was beautiful—had even felt a sort of frustrated longing, looking at her. She held the memory close to her, something to cherish in the days ahead.
Not that she would need it, she assured herself. It would be this way with Nicholas; she would make it so. With Nicholas she would forget this restless preoccupation with Philip. She’d nearly convinced herself her betrothed had been unfairly maligned. He was a powerful man, after all, people were eager for his downfall. If he really were a murderer, surely the king would have done something. Though she recognized the fallacy of her thoughts—the king never punished noble murderers unless it suited him—she had to tell herself these things, or she’d go mad.
They followed a wending burn until it emptied into a loch. The water was so clear Isobel could see fish darting beneath the surface. Near the bank she spied an elf shot. She plucked the stone arrowhead from the water and dried it on her kirtle, pleased to have discovered such a good portent.
She tucked it in her satchel and inhaled. The scent of the sea had been growing stronger until Isobel felt certain it must be just over the next rise. Goats and sheep dotted the hillside, green with heather and splashed with patches of violets. A shaggy dog trotted around the perimeter of the herd.
They had stopped at the loch to water the horses. Philip stood apart from them, his arms folded over his chest, gazing out at the animals. Isobel stood beside Jinny, her hand on the horse’s withers, watching him. A gust of moist wind pushed the dark hair from his face. A frown had settled on his smooth brow. What did he think about? What weighed so heavily on his mind now that they neared his home? Was it his sister? Or something else?
“Sgor Dubh is just over that rise,” Fergus said, nodding in the direction Philip stared. “You’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Isobel looked up at the burly redhead, surprised. “You’re not coming with us?”
Fergus took a drink from the waterskin and shook his head. “Nay, Miss. I’m going home for a day or so—but I’ll meet you at Sgor Dubh afore ye leave for Lochlaire.”
“Sgor Dubh…that means sharp black stone, yes?”
Fergus grinned. “Aye, ye ken yer Gaelic, do ye no?”
Isobel shrugged. “I remember some things, if I think on them hard enough.” She cocked her head. “Where is your home?”
He gestured with the waterskin to the east. “Dougal has given me a tower house. I live there with my wife, Fia.”
“Fergus and Fia. I like that.” Isobel smiled. “I’m sorry I won’t meet her.”
“Och, she’d be honored, she would.” He looked uncomfortablesuddenly, his mouth compressed, his brow lowered. He frowned at the ground as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
“What is it, Fergus?”
“It’s my sister-in-law…Her letters for the past year have been strange, and she doesna want Fia to visit her. Fia is so worrit aboot her. She cries sometimes, when I’m away, and she feels lonely. I was hoping…”
Isobel placed a hand on his arm. “Bring something of your sister-in-law’s when you return. If possible, something metal, or perhaps a precious stone—or clothing would work, too. Linen is best. Or even the letter, unless your wife has handled it a lot.”
“What aboot the spoon she used?”
“Not if it’s wood. Wood doesn’t give me clear pictures, I don’t know why—I just feel things, which are hard to interpret into the type of information you’re looking for.”
Fergus shook his head. “It’s horn.”
“Horn is good. But if it’s someone else’snow,and they use it or touch it a lot, it will give me mixed readings. It’s best if it hasn’t been touched much since your sister-in-law last used it.”
He smiled, relieved. “I thank ye, Mistress MacDonell. Ye’re a good lass, ye are.” He reached toward her awkwardly. Isobel thought for a moment he meant to embrace her and moved forward, but he settled for patting her shoulder.
“God save ye,” he said, and turned away. He slapped Stephen on the back and mounted his horse, cantering over to where Philip stood.
They exchanged a few words, then Fergus rode away.
“He doesna like going home,” Stephen said from behind her.
Isobel turned. “Who? Fergus?”
“Och, no. Fergus thinks of naught but that bonny wee wife of his. No, I speak of Philip. That’s why he’s been so foul-tempered the past few days.”
They both stared at the lone figure meditating on the far hills.
“Why doesn’t he like to go home? Is it because of his sister?”
Stephen shook his head and turned back to his horse, relacing the leather sack to his saddle. “Aye, his stepmother keeps her alive.”
