Philip started to stand, but Dougal laid a hand on Philip’s shoulder. He said something in Gaelic, gesturing to Colin, who looked up from his meal.
Philip ignored his father, though he remained seated. Dougal’s mouth thinned and he repeated himself in English. “Colin has someinteresting ideas on breeding those horses you sent from France. I’d like to hear what you think.”
“I’m sure Colin knows better than I do.”
“Whether he does or not, I think you should hear it. They’re your horses.”
“No, I sent them to you.”
“I’ll tell ye what I think,” Stephen said, leaning across Isobel to look at Dougal. “That big stallion, the black one…” He trailed off when Dougal just glared at him. “Maybe later.” He grabbed a roll.
“He doesna care!” Colin said, his face red. “Why do ye keep trying?Icare, Father.”
“He only cares for himself,” Mairi said, pinning her husband with a withering look. “And you only care for him.”
“I’m not going to listen to this, wife.”
“Since when do you listen? Certainly not when Philip comes home. None of your other children matter when Philip is here. Colin is here every day trying to please you—but you fall all over yourself as soon as Philip comes home.”
Philip drained his tankard as Dougal and Mairi dissolved into vehement Gaelic. He stood, grabbing a bottle from the table. “Then I’ll just go, aye?”
Dougal stood angrily, but Philip strode from the hall. Colin and Mairi’s angry stares followed him out.
Isobel hesitated, then slid off the bench and followed him. She didn’t care what the others thought. She should, she knew. Though the Highlands were remote and far removed from England and the lowlands, and even the king’s court, information did have a way of traveling. Her father or her betrothed could hear of her behavior,and she’d have some explaining to do.
She would deal with that when—if—the time came. For the moment all she could think of was Philip. She passed into the dark corridors, lit at far intervals by torches, and saw no sign of him. That was where he’d gone, though, so she followed the corridor and came to an open door.
Outside thick clouds shrouded the moon, but torches lit the bailey. Stones crunched under her feet. She scanned the open yard. Wooden buildings lined the edges of the walls. There was a shadowy recess between two buildings and she caught sight of Philip, disappearing into it. Isobel lifted her skirts and hurried after him.
She came to a crude arched doorway cut into the stone, with steps leading downward. No lights were lit, but a rope rail was tacked to the wall. She descended, clinging to the rope. She heard movement below. She emerged into a cave of sorts, facing the sea. An old wooden chest sat against one stone wall. Coils of rope littered the floor. Water lapped against the stone, and several oared boats were tied to posts driven into the rock. Philip was untying one of the boats.
“Philip?”
He turned, surprised. She knew then he was drunk—otherwise, he would have known she’d followed.
He turned back to the boat. “Go to bed.”
“I don’t want to…I’ve told you before, I don’t sleep much.”
“Then go inside.”
“You can’t go out alone.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“Drunk?”
He shook his head. “I’m hardly drunk.”
She went to him. “Nevertheless, I’m coming with you.”
“Isobel, I really dinna think that’s a good idea.”
She was already in the boat, sitting on a wooden cross plank and staring up at him expectantly.
He sighed, hands on hips, then shrugged. “I care not. Just keep yer mouth shut, aye? So I can pretend I’m alone.”
Isobel clamped her lips together and nodded.
