“Have you been touchingmythings—digging around in my mind?”
She looked away quickly, guiltily, and his chest tightened. He didn’t want her to know what he felt. It served no purpose.
When she looked back her chin was set. “What if I did?”
“Is that how you know about Effie?”
“No—I’ve seen little of her, only what I told you. I vow it.”
He rode his horse closer to her, so they faced each other, their horses muzzle to tail. “Well then, whatdidyou see?”
She bit her bottom lip as he held her gaze, unwavering. What had she seen? That not a moment passed without her haunting his thoughts? That he lay awake at night, cursing fate for betrothing her to an earl—for making him some fool without a future to offer her. That right then he’d give up everything just to touch her again. His hand tightened on the reins and he leaned forward to drag her off her horse, into his arms.
The sound of hoofbeats halted him. “It’s clear ahead,” Stephen called. “Nothing but heather for miles—though I did see Ben Nevis in the distance.”
Philip turned his horse to face Stephen, faintly shaken by what he’d been about to do—after all the vows he’d made to himself not to touch her. He could not honor them. And if he didn’t take her to her father posthaste, he doubted he could honor his promise to Alan MacDonell.
“Ben Nevis?” Isobel said. “But Ben Nevis is north…”
Philip glared at Stephen.
“I could be mistaken,” Stephen said hastily. When Philip continued to stare at Stephen furiously, the lad said, “Let me look again—I’m probably wrong.” He swung his horse around, yanking on the gray’s tether, and galloped ahead.
Philip spurred his horse to follow.
“You’re taking me to Lochlaire,” Isobel said in disbelief, catching up to ride beside him.
“Aye.”
“But I thought I was going with you to find Effie. I thought we were in this together.”
He took one look at the betrayal in her beautiful eyes and looked away, hardening himself to it. “We’re in nothing together. You have an earl waiting for you at home, and it’s past time I delivered you to him.”
She didn’t say another word, and when he glanced over, her face was sad and lost. The fist wrapped itself around his heart again, and he resolved they would not stop for the night. They would not stop until they were at Lochlaire, and she was safe with her father.
Chapter 15
The terrain they traveled through all looked the same to Isobel. It became mountainous and difficult, yet when Isobel expected Philip to stop he kept going. Dark fell, and still they rode on. He seemed to know his way instinctively and never slowed. Isobel and her horse were exhausted. After a time she found herself dozing in the saddle for stretches, when the ground was relatively flat—and thought by Jinny’s stumbling that the horse was dozing as well.
Isobel kept her silence as long as she could. When her horse stumbled again and whinnied plaintively, she said, “Please, we must stop. Jinny needs rest.”
Philip’s and Stephen’s horses were similarly exhausted, but the gray Stephen led tossed its head irritably. Philip’s gaze raked over her and Jinny dispassionately. “Very well. Those trees ahead will give us some cover.”
Philip and Stephen galloped toward the trees, but Jinny continued plodding like an old mule. She wasn’t used to such a trek. Isobel spoke soothingly and rubbed her neck. When Isobel reached the stand of rowan trees, she dismounted and gave Jinny some water. Then she sank down herself, her back against a tree trunk, and closed her eyes.
It would not be long now. She felt it. The sensation of dread that she was sure had to do with her father had never left her, but she had grown accustomed to it, had begun to ignore it—but in the past hours it had grown and gnawed at her. She wished for Ceri as she hadn’t in days. She needed someone to talk to, to sort it all out in her head. Her thoughts were so jumbled and miserable. All she could think about was Philip and the fact he was leaving her, going off on his own to find his sister. It made her feel empty, left out. What if he needed her there? What if Effie remembered nothing, or she was hostile toward him? Isobel couldn’t bear it,neededto be there to help him. But he didn’t want her. He was finishing the task of delivering her to her father. She’d never been any more to him than a duty and a tool.
She opened her eyes. Dawn streaked the sky with pink and orange. He was a dozen feet from her, drinking from the wineskin. He looked beautiful in the soft light, his forehead and nose, straight and clean, his dark hair curling about his collar. He still wore lowland clothes, and she wondered why, now that they were in the Highlands. Had he not expressed a desire to blend? Stephen still wore his Highland costume.
Isobel looked down at her own dull green gown, travel-stained and worn. This was how she’d be presented to her father—like a common Englishwoman. Philip turned toward her suddenly, his gaze raking her from head to toe. Then he went to his horse and opened a leather sack, withdrawing a bundle of cloth.
He walked over to her with the bundle. “Fetch me your brooch.”
Isobel did as he bid, stealing curious glances at the cloth he carried. It was a plaid of the type the women at Sgor Dubh wore—finer and lighter than the men’s, the colorful checks woven onto a white background, rather than green or brown. When she returned to his side he shook it out. Isobel gasped with pleasure. It was at least six feet in length and more than half that in width.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
Isobel obediently put her back to him. He lifted her braid, sliding the arisaid beneath it.
