He took an oil lantern and handed it to her to hang from the hook on the bow of the boat. He sat on a plank facing her and began to row.
When they were clear of the cave and heading into open sea, she asked, “Where are we going?”
He said nothing.
“Why do you still wear lowland attire? Stephen changed.”
When she still received no answer she pointed to the bottle of whisky rolling around in the bottom of the boat. “Could I have some?”
He paused in his rowing to regard her with a severe expression. Then he shrugged again. “It’s damn hard to pretend I’m alone when ye wilna stop talking.”
Isobel smiled at him. She took the bottle and pried out the cork. He watched her, his face shadowed, but she could see the dimples denting his cheeks. She sniffed the contents and shuddered. She’d not drunk whisky since she was a child. She andher sisters would steal drinks from their father’s cup when he wasn’t looking. Lord Attmore had forbidden it, allowing the women to drink only watered wine or ale.
She took a swig. The brew burned going down, and, she sputtered, clamping a hand over her mouth. Warmth moved through her whole body, and she shuddered with a mixture of revulsion and pleasure. She looked at the bottle. “Faith!” she said, and Philip laughed. She took another drink, and another, until he snatched the bottle away.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I canna have ye falling oot of the boat.” His Scots had grown broad. He took another long drink himself, before stuffing in the cork and placing the bottle in the bottom of the boat.
When he was rowing again, she asked, “Why did you lie to Mairi? Maybe if she knew why we came, she wouldn’t be so sour.”
“And tell her you’re a witch? I think not.”
He was always protecting her. It warmed her more efficiently than the whisky.
“Where are we going? To one of the islands I saw from the window?”
“Aye.”
“Who lives there?”
“No one. The chieftains of Sgor Dubh and their families are buried there.”
Isobel looked up at the approaching island. A deserted cemetery. A shiver of apprehension slid over her.
When she glanced back at Philip, he grinned at her. “Scared?”
“Of course not. They’re all dead.”
“Och, it’s said the Kilpatricks are restless in death—that’s why they’re buried on an island, so they canna haunt the living.”
A frisson of unease went through Isobel, but she kept her face bland. “You’re just trying to frighten me.”
He only smiled.
By the time they reached the island, Isobel’s limbs felt warm and heavy—an interesting and pleasant sensation. She wanted more of the whisky and said so as he dragged the boat ashore. He fetched the bottle from the boat and considered her a moment before passing it to her again.
He grabbed the lantern as she took another deep pull. This one went down much more smoothly. She started to take another drink, but he plucked the bottle from her grasp.
“I dinna want ye to bock all over me or the boat—or someone’s grave.”
“I’ve never bocked in my life!”
He slanted her a skeptical look, taking another drink. “Never?”
“Well, perhaps when I was wean. But not that I remember.”
He grunted and started up the beach. Isobel started to follow and stumbled, surprised at how wobbly her legs were. He turned to look at her, and she giggled. “I haven’t got my land legs back yet, it seems.”
“We werena in the boat that long. Ye’re sotted, lass. If yer father could see ye now, he’d thrash me.” He caught her arm and led her to a trail worn in the windswept grasses.
