Isobel thought this a rather callous explanation and not like her father at all. It was all so extraordinary. She’d expected things to change, but this was not what she’d anticipated. Her father widowed? Her uncle—on his third wife? He’d not even been considering marriage when she’d left—or at least not to her limited twelve-year-old awareness.
The bowels of the castle were dark and permeated with the smell of mold. Torches lit their way to a landing of stairs. Philip stepped into the shallow water of the lower steps and secured the boat to the landing. He held his hand out to Isobel. She placed her hand in his and let him help her from the boat. She watched him as she stepped onto the landing. He was so quiet, so serious. Did this tear at him as it did her? She didn’t wish him to hurt, and yet it seemed important to know he shared her feelings. But why? Nothing could come of them. Nothing. Why did she persist in torturing herself?
He stepped back toward the boat, and the moment was over. Stephen tossed him her satchel and the rest of their sacks, while Roderick led her up the steps. Isobel barely listened to her uncle, nodding in the appropriate places as he filled her in on recent castle news. It felt as if the sands of her hourglass were slipping through her fingers, and she could not grasp them. She wanted to hold on just a bit longer.
Roderick led her up another set of stairs that opened into the hall. His arm went around her again and he tilted his head close. He was speaking of her father. Isobel shook off her despairing thoughts and attended his words.
“Alan is very weak. He seems better since Rose arrived—she still has the healing touch—but we must be careful not to overtire him, aye?”
Isobel nodded, a fist of fear squeezing her heart. They crossed the great hall, Isobel in a daze, recognizing her old home, the scents, even the very feel of the air on her skin and in her lungs, but did not remark on it even in her thoughts. Her father’s chambers were right off the great hall, and that was where Roderick led her.
At the doorway he drew his arm from around her and let her move ahead of him. Isobel hesitated, looking to her uncle for support. He gave her a sad little smile and nodded to the open door.
Isobel stepped over the threshold, her gaze on the enormous bed that dominated the room. She gasped, tears welling in her eyes, but she hurriedly swallowed them and stiffened her spine. There were others in the room, women who stood when she entered, another man, and a dog, but her gaze was focused on the man in the bed.
It had been two years since she last saw her father. Alan MacDonell visited his daughters every year—not all of them, ofcourse, but one each year, so that they each saw him every third year. It had been two years since Alan’s last visit to Isobel, and he had changed dramatically.
He seemed smaller, sunk into the great sea of his fur-covered bed. Isobel was rooted to the threshold until he called to her. “Isobel? Is that you?”
“Da…” She ran to him and fell onto the bed, her face buried in the fur over his chest, unable to look at his face—a shadow of the Alan MacDonell she remembered. “Oh, Da, what has happened?”
“Isobel,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Look at me, child.”
Isobel raised her head. His face was blurred from her tears, and he wiped them away. He was only eight-and-forty and yet his face was lined and pale-grayish above his beard. More silver threaded the rich auburn of his hair and beard. His eyes were still clover green, though, and they smiled at her.
“My beautiful Isobel. I have you all now. My strength,” he said, gripping Isobel’s hands in his and squeezing. “My heart and my soul,” he said, nodding across the room. Through her tears Isobel made out the figures of two women, clinging to each other, one dark and the other with hair as flaming auburn as her father’s had once been. “All will be well now,” he said, his hands falling away, his eyes closing, as if those words and the strength of his emotion had exhausted him.
Isobel wiped her eyes and gazed down at him. “What ails you, Da? Why did you not tell me you were ill?”
He opened his eyes. “To what end? So you could fash the entire way here? Why would I wish that? And I know not what ails me. None of the healers know. I just waste away. Even Rose is at a loss.”
Isobel felt a presence behind her and turned to see that Philiphad joined them. She fixed him with an accusing stare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He could not,” her father answered. “He vowed he would not tell you of my illness, and Sir Philip does not break his vows—that is why I sent him to fetch you. There are few I can trust. Philip, Hagan—” He nodded across the room at the enormous black-haired Irishman who’d been Alan MacDonell’s personal guard since Isobel was a small child. “I sent Hagan for Gillian. And Davie MacLeod, who I sent for Rose.”
“Da,” Isobel cried. “There are more than three men you can trust! What of Uncle Roderick?”
Alan smiled. “Of course I trust my brother—but your mother never did, so I could not send him for my most priceless treasures. And you are right, there are others.” He smiled at someone behind her. “Stephen, of course, but he rides with Philip, and so they are one. The earl of Kincreag—but a chieftain does not send an earl to do his bidding.”
At the mention of her betrothed’s name Isobel looked away from her father, down at the dog who snuffled at her and nudged her hand. How odd that it was unafraid. It must have become accustomed to witches, with Rose and Gillian there. Her father was fey, too, but never so much it troubled the animals. Her mind turned back to her betrothed as she scratched absently at the dog. “Lord Kincreag is here?”
“Aye, and he waits for you. He wanted you to have time with me and your sisters, so said he would see you after dinner.” One of her father’s hands covered hers, and the other touched her chin, raising her face to look at him. “I ken ye’re afraid. ’Tis a common thing for a lass to be anxious, but he is a good man and will care for you.”
Isobel chewed her lip, then said, “What of the stories that he killed his wife?”
“Do you think I would wed you to a murderer?”
Isobel’s lips trembled as she shook her head. “But I’m a witch,” she whispered. “What if—”
He hushed her and shook his head. “He knows all that and is jaded as they come, my dear. He does not believe in magic or witches. You are safe with him, so long as you do as I have always urged you. He knows why I sent you away. I meant to marry you long before now, but then the king began burning witches like they were cheap candles, and I couldn’t risk it. I’ve always wanted Lord Kincreag for you. Only he can offer you true protection. As a countess, no one will question you. And he has promised to speak for your sisters as well, should any harm befall them. I have chosen good men for them, too, so there is naught to fear. I leave my greatest treasures in good hands.”
Isobel had known that her marriage to the earl was important, but she had not realized to what extent. It was not just land and titles, but protection—and not just for herself, but for her sisters as well. The importance of her responsibility weighed on her. There were no excuses left. She looked over her shoulder at Philip. He stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. As if he sensed her gaze, he looked up, his eyes resting briefly on her before moving to Alan.
“Philip, come,” Alan said.
Philip stepped forward and knelt beside the bed, his shoulder brushing against Isobel’s thigh. He tried to dislodge the dog, but it was stubborn and remained by its master’s bedside.
Alan searched Philip’s face, frowning slightly.
