He shook his head, as if she couldn’t understand. Perhaps she couldn’t, but she wanted to. She put her hand on his face, turning him toward her. He didn’t look at her, but allowed her to manipulate him, his long dark lashes lowered.
“I don’t know everything that happened, but I know you. You made a mistake, and you are sorry. You would never have willfully hurt your sister or your stepmother. You cannot let this rule you.”
He said nothing, holding himself very still. She realized how close they were. She sat on the bed, his face in her hand, the smooth whiskers beneath her palm. One of his arms was braced on the bed for support so that he leaned over her. He had only to turn his face to kiss her—and she could make him. The hand she held against his face began to tremble. Her fingers itched to stroke against his warm skin, to urge him to her mouth. She should not, she knew it, but she could not draw away. His scent filled her, warm and dangerous. And suddenly nothing else seemed to matter.
His hand came up, sliding under her hair. He still did not look in her eyes, though he leaned closer. His gaze was on her mouth. Her lips parted on a silent breath of need. She turned her face tohim, her heart fluttering wildly as his mouth brushed against hers, their breath mingling. Isobel’s other hand came up to hold him as he pushed her backward, his mouth closing fully over hers.
Her head had hardly hit the bolster when a voice shattered through them both. “What are you doing?”
Philip jerked away from her.
Mairi Kilpatrick stood in the doorway. Isobel knew her from the visions. Her dark hair was covered with a triangle of fine linen. She wore a pale yellow gown, her arisaid belted at her waist and held together with a brooch at her neck. She surveyed the room—in disarray from Philip’s digging. Her eyes lit on the undressed doll. A shaking hand covered her mouth. Philip was off the bed. He picked the doll up from where he’d dropped it on the floor and took it to her, his steps hesitant.
“I’m sorry…I…” What could he say? He’d brought a witch to help him find Effie? Isobel’s throat was tight with the horror of the scene. Books and trinkets were scattered all over the floor where Philip had shoved them in his frustration. Clothes and blankets hung out of the chest.
Mairi took the doll from Philip’s outstretched hands and clutched it to her chest like a child, looking at him in hurt disbelief. “Why would you do this? Why would you bring a…a woman here…in her verybed…?”
“I pray you…forgive me…I…” He turned and scanned the room, his eyes wild. “I’ll fix it.” He went to the cabinet and began picking up the books he’d shoved on the floor, arranging them on top of it. Isobel was still frozen in horrified disbelief. She forced herself to stand.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I asked him to show me his sister’s things—her room.”
Mairi looked at her, her face a mask of cold distaste. She went to Philip, who was trying in vain to fit together a wooden knight that had come apart. Mairi wrenched the toy from his hands.
“Get out! Haven’t you done enough? Why do you come back?”
Philip backed away, his face stricken. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. When his apology was met with cold indifference, he turned away. Isobel’s throat was tight. She searched her mind for something to say, something that would explain this and make it all right. But she could think of nothing short of the truth—and Mairi did not seem the type of woman who would be tolerant of witchcraft.
Philip grabbed Isobel’s wrist and dragged her from the room. He pulled her back through the castle, his face set in hard lines. Isobel continued to struggle for words to address what had just occurred, to try to make it better, but this ran deep, deeper than she’d originally suspected. Back at his room, the door stood open. Candles had been lit and the room had been tidied. Her satchel sat on the table.
“I’ll come for you when dinner is served,” he said, then he was gone, before she could say a single word in reply.
Philip still gripped the latch, even after closing the door. The landing was deserted. Philip lingered there a moment, just to be certain Isobel stayed put, then descended the stairs, skirting through a side door, harboring some insane fear he would meet up with his stepmother on the stairs. Insane because Mairi would never come tohistower.
Outside, he headed for the retaining wall and climbed to the ramparts. He looked over the thick wall, to the island where the Kilpatricks buried their dead. The day had turned overcast, the iron gray waves lashing the island. He’d stood here many times,wishing his sister was out there, buried on that island. Then at least he’dknow.The familiar self-disgust welled up. How craven of him to wish she was dead—to wish for an easy release.
Fishermen were out in their boats, hauling in nets full of herring as waves tossed their small crafts about like toys. He heard the scrape of a boot behind him and straightened, dropping his hands from his head and blanking his face.
“I just talked to Mairi.”Colin.Philip did not want to spar with his brother now.
Colin strolled to the wall and leaned against it, searching Philip’s face.
Philip raised a bored brow. “Aye? And how is she?”
“Jesus God, Philip, what are you thinking? You know how she is about that room. Why would you do such a thing?” Colin shook his head. “It’s as if you want to rub her face in it.”
Philip hated this. It was why he rarely returned. He had no excuses, no defense. All Colin said was true. However unintentional, Philip persisted in causing Mairi sorrow. He said nothing, staring blindly at the far island.
“Father tries, you know,” Colin continued. “He tries to understand why you do these things.”
“He shouldn’t tax himself over it.”
“Easier said. You’re his son and heir…or you were.”
Something coiled tightly in Philip’s chest. His fingers went to the ring on his other hand, toying with the topaz stone. So Dougal had finally made good on his threats. Philip should not care. He flicked his brother a disinterested look. “You see? It’s not necessary to kill me to get what you want.”
Colin laughed. “You persist in that fancy? I did not try to kill you. An unfortunate accident. That is all.” When Philip shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn, Colin persisted, “You think me so daft I would kill you and provoke Father’s everlasting ire? He’d surely not name me tanist then. It would go to Aidan or Niall.”
Aidan and Niall. Philip wondered where his other two half brothers were. Likely out reiving kine and raping women and small boys. He didn’t ask, as he liked them less than Colin. If either of them ever became chieftain, he might be forced to assert his own claim. They’d be the end of Sgor Dubh.
