Isobel gave him an inquisitive look, but Stephen raised his brows and nodded to something behind her. When she turned, Philip was striding over to them, his face grim, his mouth set.
He swung into his saddle with the air of a man steeling himself to face an army alone. “Let’s go.”
Since entering the Highlands they had passed the occasional croft, but now the black stone cottages grew more numerous, and they were forced onto the rutted road so they didn’t trample freshly planted fields. The mountains had fallen behind them, leaving a clear blue sky that met with glistening blue water.
Sgor Dubh sat on a narrow rocky promontory. The only way to it was by the slender isthmus or by boat. It was a very old castle, added to and expanded over the years until the thick walls reached the very edge of the sharp black rocks it was built upon. A square keep was barely visible over the retaining walls, but soaring high above that were several conical towers.
The castle was quite busy, men and women, all wearing the wool plaid of the Highlands, came and went across the natural bridge. Many men wore the plaid belted at the waist, so that it draped in folds to their knees. Others wore long tartan breeches called trews, with tunics or doublets and wool mantles. Most of the women wore arisaids, their throats and forearms bare, but others dressed no differently than lowland women, wearing their plaids about their shoulders as shawls. The majority of them were barefoot.
When they were in the courtyard a young man strode over to them. He wore his plaid belted. The weave was finer than anything Isobel had seen yet, the colors a vivid checking of purple and green. He pushed a shock of sandy hair out of his face and laughed loudly.
“Look who decided to grace us with a visit!”
He yelled rapid Gaelic to some men behind him and turned back to Philip, hands on hips and legs planted wide. Deep dimples grooved his clean-shaven cheeks. He grinned broadly, with great pleasure that seemed more inherent to his person than due to Philip’s arrival. When his gaze fell on Isobel, one eyebrow quirked. His smile faded slightly, only to reemerge with a wolfish edge. He seemed of an age with Philip, perhaps a bit younger, and was quite handsome.
“That’s Colin,” Stephen said in a low voice. “Watch him. He’s not to be trusted.”
Philip swung down from his horse, unmoved by Colin’s greeting. He strode toward the man, leading his enormous black horse.
Colin spread his arms, as if he expected Philip to embrace him. “Brother! It’s been too long.”
Philip slapped the reins in one of Colin’s outstretched hands,continuing past him. “See to Horse, will ye?”
Colin’s eyes narrowed on the reins in his hand. His gaze darted to Isobel and Stephen. “Take care of that will ye?” Colin said to Stephen, his gaze riveted on Isobel. He shoved Horse’s reins at Stephen. “Let me help ye down, my dear.”
Isobel thought Philip had left them in the courtyard, but when she reached to place her hand in Colin’s, his hand was knocked aside. Philip was there, his firm grip spanning her waist and swinging her from the saddle. Isobel was a bit breathless when he dropped his hands, but he didn’t notice. He stared over her head at Colin.
“See to the horses.” His hand curved around the base of her neck. “Stephen?” Stephen handed Horse’s reins back to Colin with a grin and trotted after them.
“What was that about?” Isobel whispered. They had caused something of a stir. People had stopped to watch and even now stared at them as they walked to the keep. “Don’t you have servants to tend the horses? Surely your brother shouldn’t have to.”
“That matters not,” Philip said. “He needs to be reminded of his place from time to time.”
Isobel tried to look over her shoulder, but the fingers on her neck squeezed. “Now don’t be looking at him. Can’t have him thinking he’s caught your attention, or he’ll be all puffed-out tonight.”
Isobel walked dutifully beside him, facing forward. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor will you anytime soon.”
Before she could ask what that meant, she realized Philip’ssteps had slowed. A man exited the oldest part of the keep. Tall and broad, he was an older version of Philip, his dark hair and beard streaked with gray. He stopped just outside the enormous double doors, placed his hands behind his back and waited. He wore faded trews, a worn leather doublet, and sturdy boots.
Philip stopped before him. “Father.”
Dougal Kilpatrick glanced dismissively at Isobel, then back at Philip. “Where’s Colin?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and laced with disapproval.
“At the stables, I imagine, seeing to our mounts.”
The lines beside Dougal’s eyes deepened with humor, but he didn’t smile. His mouth was a hard and uncompromising line in his well-trimmed beard. “Stephen—what am I to tell your uncle when he writes, looking for you, eh?”
Stephen shrugged. “Tell him the truth.”
Dougal said nothing for a long while, his flinty gaze fixed on Stephen. After a moment, Stephen lowered his eyes and scratched at his neck, moving behind Philip slightly, as if to shield himself.
Seeing he’d cowed the lad, Dougal turned his gaze back on Philip. He rocked on his heels as he looked Philip up and down dispassionately. “Why are you here?” he asked in Gaelic.
“I’m here for a horse—the gray,” Philip answered in English.
Dougal raised a skeptical brow, but continued the conversation in English. “They’re your horses, you can take them all for all I care. What do you need it for?”
