“They’re good dogs, usually,” he said.
He led her down a dark corridor, then up a set of curved stairs. They were in one of the newer towers. No torches were lit, and the air was musty and cold. Philip took her hand, moving familiarly through the darkness. Isobel heard squeaking, then something brushed past her foot.
She gasped, clasping Philip’s wrist with her other hand. “Don’t you have a cat?”
“Used to. But it’s been two years since I’ve been here.”
“You haven’t seen your family in two years?” She couldn’t imagine staying away from home voluntarily. She’d spent twelve long years yearning for her family.
“I didn’t say that. Colin sought me about…oh, about nine months ago and tried to kill me.”
“What?”
He laughed softly. They were on a landing. Isobel only knew that because there were no more steps. There was a soft creaking, and the darkness lessened, narrow strips of sunlight in the room ahead. Philip pulled her forward, then released her hand, crossing the room and throwing the shutters open.
Isobel surveyed her surroundings. An enormous bed, hung with heavy velvet curtains, stood against the wall. The room was sparsely furnished. A chest, a table and two chairs, and a cabinet against one wall. All sturdy and well built, but unadorned. Everything was covered with dust and cobwebs.
He turned, hands on hips, and viewed the room.
“This is your room?” she asked.
“Aye…well, yours tonight.”
“They obviously weren’t expecting you,” Isobel said.
“And if they had been, it would look no different.”
When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “My father uses any means he can think of to remind me of how I neglect my duty.”
“Your brother tried to kill you?”
He shrugged. “I told you my father encourages him, thinking it will make me show an interest in Sgor Dubh.”
“Your own father encouraged your brother to kill you?”
“Och, no, but he feeds Colin’s desire to possess this place. I dinna think he believes Colin capable of murder. At least not of murdering me—and so far he hasn’t been successful, so perhaps he’s right.”
Isobel studied him in the dim light. He seemed more relaxed than he had in days. Perhaps it was because the confrontation with his father that he’d been dreading was behind him. He strolled over to the cabinet and opened a door.
“I don’t think I have anything of Effie’s in here…” He straightened, frowning as he gazed around the room absently. “I’ll probably have to go to her room.”
“If possible, I need something of hers that has not been handled a great deal. Cloth or precious stones and metals are best.”
“That might be a problem.”
“Were her things given away?”
He shook his head, still not looking at her. “No. Like my room, hers is probably just as she left it…only cleaner. But her things have probably been handled a great deal.”
“Really?”
He nodded, distracted. “My stepmother.”
“Oh.”
His mood changed, and he began to pace the room restlessly, scratching at his beard. He stopped at the window to stare out.
Uncomfortable suddenly, Isobel looked at the bed, then back at Philip. His back was to her, his shoulders wide and strong, and she had an image of those shoulders, naked as they’d been at the burn, bent over her in that bed. Her cheeks burned. She knew he did not mean to share the room with her, and, of course, she didn’t want him to.She didn’t.Why did she think such things?
