Isobel frowned at the letter. It revealed nothing of why this leaden weight of dread would not leave her. Why had her father felt weary and resigned when he wrote it? Why could she discover nothing from the parchment? As she rubbed it between her palms, probing at it with her mind, she wondered if her father had cast some sort of veiling spell over the letter, for she could get little else from it. He was not a powerful witch, but did know a few tricks from being married to one and had an uncanny talent for knowing before anyone else if a woman was pregnant and whether it was a girl or boy. He’d never been wrong, so far as Isobel knew. He would know that Isobel would try to discover all she could from anything he’d held.
What was so terrible that he must hide it? Disturbed, Isobel set the letter aside and focused on the casket. She’d seen it and thecharm inside before, but had not held them since her mother’s death. She was afraid of what she’d see.
But her father wanted her to see it. So she took the casket in her hands. It was strong with her father’s sadness and love, and Isobel smiled, digging deeper. Her mother was there, just as Isobel remembered her. Her face and her form, looking happy and beautiful, delighting Isobel. She hardly remembered what Lillian MacDonell had looked like, except that her hair had been reddish blond and her eyes green. Isobel held the casket reverently against her breast, seeing her mother in her mind. So lovely. But it was more than that, she felt her mother. The warmth of her love, her essence, captured in the casket for Isobel to unlock. Her love for her children was there, too, as well as a deep desire to protect her family. Isobel had never forgotten her mother’s teachings, and as an adult, she’d come to understand them in a way she never could as a child. Isobel and her sisters were to use their gifts only for good, never for evil. Never for their own gain, but to help others. It had been important to Lillian that her children become white witches.
Lillian had given Isobel her own special warnings. Isobel possessed the same gift as Lillian MacDonell, and so she knew the temptations and dangers Isobel faced.It is not your right to know another’s mind. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Never look into another’s soul unless you’re certain you are welcome.
Isobel had tried to follow her mother’s teachings, though sometimes her curiosity got the best of her. She sighed, stroking her hands over the casket, wishing her mother was there now to guide her. Perhaps if her mother had been more willing to look into other’s souls, she could have saved herself.
Isobel lifted the clasp holding the casket closed. Inside was the charm her mother had worn as protection from evil. She’d not been wearing it the day they’d taken her.
The rough-cut peridot lay in its silver setting, the watery green reflecting the candlelight. Her mother had always worn it on a green ribbon about her neck. The ribbon was still there, stained and ragged. Isobel swallowed and reached for the pale green stone. She’d barely laid hands on it when she saw her mother’s face, tear-streaked and flushed from the proximity of the fire that blazed around her. The fire grew fierce, feeding on the branches thrown onto it. And then she was inside her mother, seeing through Lillian’s eyes, feeling through her skin.
A mob surrounded the stake, their faces twisted, all running together, the air wavy from the intense heat. They shouted at her, cursed, and called her foul names.
“Alan!” her mother cried. “Alan!”Where was he?She searched the faces and beyond them, to the empty hillside. Why did he not come for her? Was she to die this way? Thoughts of her children and husband surged through her, causing waves of despair to crush her. Would her daughters be safe from the mob? Or would they be lynched, too? She focused all her power on her husband.The children. Save them.
Through her tears and the heat of the fire she saw a dark figure ride to the top of the hill and turn, looking back at her. He raised his hand and rode away. A flicker of recognition jolted her, quickly followed by horror.
“No!” Lillian screamed.
The wind gusted, and her face burned. Her red hair billowed out around her and caught. Lillian screamed as the fire seared her, agony and despair ripping through her.
It was dark, and someone hammered at her door. Isobel panted, uncertain of where she was. Her face was slick with cold sweat. She no longer held the charm. She felt its weight on her leg, where she’d dropped it. The candle had gone out and her hand burned. Her breath seemed loud in the closed dark.
Who was the figure on the horse and why, if Lillian had recognized him, was his identity hidden from Isobel? It made no sense. Isobel almost always knew most of what the subject of her visions thought and felt, at least during the period of time she saw, especially in a vision so vivid. And yet the horseman’s identity was hidden from her, as if a wall of silver mist obscured his name and face.
The hammering began again.
“Mistress MacDonell! Answer me or I’ll break down the door!”
Isobel scooted off the bed and through the bed curtains. The candelabra beside the door blazed. Isobel hurried on wobbly legs to the door and threw it open.
She was surprised to find Sir Philip outside her chambers, his handsome face thunderous. He looked her over quickly, then pushed past her into the room.
“You were screaming.” He roamed the room, stopping to open the shutters and peer out the window.
Isobel watched him, speechless from his intrusion. He obviously took his duty very seriously. He paced to her bed and parted the bed curtains. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned back to her, hands on hips. “Why were you screaming? It sounded as if someone were killing you.”
A shudder wracked her shoulders, but she forced a thin smile and rubbed her bare hands together. “I…must have fallen asleep. I…had a nightmare and burned my hand.”
He crossed the room, frowning at her hands. “A woman your age should know better than to sleep with candles in bed.”
A woman my age?Her spine stiffened, indignant anger chasing the chill away. He still bore down on her, gaze fixed on her hands.When she realized his intent, she backed away, hiding them behind her back.
“I’m fine.”
His dark eyes were intent with purpose. “Let me see.”
Isobel bumped into the wall. “It’s unnecessary. You’re no healer.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Trapped between him and the wall, Isobel could only stare at him, eyes wide. He was tall and beautiful in a dark, forbidding way. His nose was straight as a blade, his mouth firm and hard. His eyes were set deep below a smooth, straight forehead and thick brows. As he came closer she saw they were brown and thickly lashed. There was more there, too—a guardedness, a reserve that intrigued her.
She was trembling, afraid of him and uncertain why. He clearly meant her no harm and yet she wanted to flee. She remembered her foolish mistake of thinking him her betrothed, and her cheeks flamed. He’d been horrified at the very idea.
When he was before her she stared at his chest, since it was at eye level. He’d removed the buff jack, but still wore a quilted leather vest over his linen shirt, a thick sword belt yoked over his chest, so the ivory cross hilt was visible over his shoulder.
