“Turn.” He held it together at her throat as she turned back toward him. “Give me the brooch.” She handed it to him, and he secured it at her throat. Then his hands were at her waist, unhooking her garter. His touch was impersonal, efficient, and yet Isobel’s heart raced, her blood simmering already from his nearness. He was so close she could see how fine and poreless his skin was, and though his hair was sandy brown, his beard was darker, and, upon closer inspection, she counted several gray whiskers. He glanced up at her, as if he sensed the intensity of her perusal. Whisky-dark eyes held hers a heartbeat, the air about them thickening, then he returned to his task.
Perhaps he was right to take her home. No good could ever come of these feelings. She reasoned with herself that she hardly knew him. These feelings would fade. After all, she had fancied herself in love before. True, she’d only been a girl, but her heart had been in agony—she’d feared she would die from it. But she hadn’t. She’d lived through it, and though it felt as if losing Philip would devastate her, she would continue on. That was the way of the world. She wondered how many great ladies had loved deeply before they married their lords and earls and dukes. Marriage was not about love, it never had been, and sensible ladies made the best of their lot. That was just what Isobel would do. For her father.
Philip had gathered the material at her waist, folding and belting it with her garter so it did not drag beneath her feet. Then he stood back and looked at her. Isobel looked down at the beautiful arisaid, her hands smoothing over it. She looked like a true Highland woman. Her father would be so pleased.
“Thank you, Philip.” Her voice was thick with emotion. That he would do this for her, that he knew what it meant to her to go toher father looking like a true MacDonell, made her love him more. She blinked back tears at the realization that she’d fallen in love with her protector. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to love him and yet it was so wrong that it left her heart in shreds.
He came forward and adjusted how the arisaid fell over her shoulders. “If it rains or snows, you can just pull up the back and cover your head. The colors are not right. MacDonells use local dyes, which are different from the dyes near Sgor Dubh.”
“That is fine—it’s still beautiful,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face. He fussed with it some more before letting his hands fall away and finally meeting her gaze. The loneliness she saw there tore at her.
“Philip,” she whispered, reaching for him, but he backed away.
“Rest now.” He nodded to something beyond the trees. “That break in the mountains—that’s the pass that leads to Glen Laire. You’ll be home before noon.”
He started to turn away, but she asked, “Will you just deliver me, then leave?”
He looked away, a muscle in his jaw bulging. “It’s what I should do, God knows, but I expect Alan will not let me go until the morn.”
Isobel looked to the rising sun. One day. That was all they had left.
They rode through the dangerous mountain pass until it opened into a valley. Isobel drew rein and stared down at it. Mountains surrounded Glen Laire on all sides, green and purple and dotted with sheep and kine. The river, a glimmering ribbon of mercury,snaked through the valley, emptying into a loch. Lochlaire Castle sat on a small island in the center of the lake, its gray stone walls disappearing right into the water on the south side. A cluster of crofts surrounded the eastern and northern shores, then fanned out so they dotted the entire valley. The north end was covered in thick forest that climbed the mountains, supplying the inhabitants of Glen Laire with game year-round.
The castle was impregnable. The only way into the valley was through the narrow mountain pass. It was nearly impossible to bring any sizable cannon or siege machines through unless dismantled, and even that was a challenge, with MacDonell archers picking the enemy off as they emerged from the pass.
Isobel’s gloved hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her sobs. Her vision blurred, making it all a jumble of grays and greens. She heard movement beside her, then a hand patting her back. She blinked the tears away, using the corner of her arisaid to wipe her eyes. Stephen was beside her, smiling encouragingly.
He winked at her, giving her a harder pat on the back. “Come on—they’ve sighted us by now and are waiting.”
Isobel smiled back, her lips a bit wobbly, and dug in her heels, sending Jinny racing past both of them. The trail leading down the mountain was dangerous and rocky. Philip bellowed after her, but Isobel couldn’t wait. She was too excited. The anticipation of this moment had built until she felt ready to burst with it.Home. Her father. Her sisters. Would Uncle Roderick be there? Father had said he spent more time at Lochlaire since Mother died.
Rocks showered down around her, but she urged Jinny faster until they were at the base of the mountain, then she sent her flying. Philip soon overcame her—his horse was much bigger and faster—and grabbed her reins, pulling her to a stop.
“What the hell was that?”
“Not now, Philip! I’m almost home!”
“Aye and until we get there, ye’re still my charge, and I say slow down!”
“I’ve taken that hill a million times—and faster!”
“That is not a God damned hill, but a mountain—and ye havena taken it in twelve years. Now slow down before you hurt Jinny and kill yerself.”
Isobel ground her teeth, but said, “Very well.”
They cantered along at a more sedate pace that nearly drove Isobel mad. They passed several crofts. The men and women came out, yelling greetings to Philip and Stephen—and amazingly, to her. They called to her in Gaelic, but she understood.Bless your sweet face, Mistress Isobel,they called. Welcome home.
A large stable sat near the shore. A man waited just outside the stables, his plaid and his long red hair billowing in the wind. When she was close enough to hear, he called, “Iseabal!”
Isobel slid down from Jinny’s back. “Uncle Roderick!”
He was so much older—so much more mature. He’d been two-and-twenty—younger than Isobel was now—when last she’d seen him, but he was still handsome as ever—handsomer. She ran to him and threw herself in his arms, tears streaming down her face, unable to believe she was home at last.
Her uncle’s arms were strong and smelled of sandalwood and wool. He lifted her and swung her around before finally setting her away from him. He was only slightly taller than she, but heavily muscled, his neck thick and corded. His grin was wide and contagious, exposing a set of blindingly white teeth. He spoke in Gaelic, and she just stared at him—his speech was too fast. He saw her confusion and reverted to Scots.
“Look at you! Twelve years it’s been—and ye’re as beautiful as yer mum.”
She smiled and clasped at his hands.
