“Where have you both been the past twelve years?” Isobel asked.
“I’ve been on Skye,” Rose said. “She’s been on the borders—right in the thick of the witch-hunts!”
Isobel looked at Gillian, alarmed. “How did you manage?”
Gillian shrugged, eyes averted. “I…I don’t know.”
Isobel exchanged a look with Rose. “Has something happened, Gillian?”
Gillian’s expression grew strained, her nose pinched. Then she sniffed, and a tear fell over her thick lashes. “I am not a witch.”
“What?” Rose scoffed. “Of course you are—but you have the right of it. Just keep saying that. I will, too.” She eyed them both with wide-eyed intensity.“We are not witches.”
Gillian looked up at her sisters, her gray eyes wide and sad. “You don’t understand. I truly have no magic.”
Isobel removed her gloves and took Gillian’s hands. “But you did, didn’t you? Before you left Lochlaire?”
Gillian shook her head miserably. “No…Mum said it would come, in time, and we’d know what my magic was. But the magic never came.”
There was a long moment of awkward silence, then Isobel put her arm around Gillian’s shoulders. “Be happy, sister, you’re the safe one. I go to a husband who does not believe in witches. How I will turn his world upside down.”
Gillian nodded, her gaze on their joined hands. “Earl Kincreag. I think he’s not as horrid as everyone says.”
Rose snorted. “He’s a sour, surly, unpleasant man. I know—I’ve been here a sennight now, and he almost as long.” Then she smiled weakly at Isobel’s worried frown. “Sorry. Gillian’s right, he’s probably not so awful.”
“He’s very handsome,” Gillian offered.
“He’d likely be prettier,” Rose said, “if he wasna always scowling.”
These tidings did nothing to ease Isobel’s anxiety over meeting her betrothed. It was all too much. Her father’s illness, meeting Lord Kincreag, losing Philip.
At the thought of Philip, Isobel wondered aloud where he’d run off to so quickly.
“You got Sir Philip,” Rose said, and waggled her eyebrows enviously. “Lucky you! Da sent Davie MacLeod for me! Can you imagine?”
Isobel tried to place Davie MacLeod but could not. “Who is Davie MacLeod?”
Rose looked at her incredulously. “The bard? The harper? He who always sang cloying love ballads to Mum?Alas for him whose sick in love, Whatever the reason I should say it!”she mimicked in a warbling falsetto.
“Oh!” Isobel covered her mouth and laughed. “Has he changed?”
Rose shook her head, rolling her eyes. “He’s still in love with Mum—even though she’s dead.” She looked at Isobel consideringly. “Just wait until he gets a look at you!”
“Davie means well,” Gillian admonished gently. “And he was never in love with Mum. Da wouldn’t have stood for it. Headmiredher. Da sent Hagan for me. He’s as sweet as ever—he takes care of Da now.”
Rose nodded. “Aye, he’s become more than a personal guard—he’s Da’s nursemaid. Hagan is a good man if ever there was one. But still—he’s no Sir Philip!”
Isobel smiled thinly. “Yes, well…” Her cheeks were burning as she fought to change the subject. “Who has Da betrothed you to?”
Rose’s expression softened. “Jamie MacPhereson.” She dug into the folds of her arisaid and removed a miniature. It was secured to her brooch by a ribbon. “Here he is—do you remember him?”
Isobel and Gillian leaned close to scrutinize the tiny portrait. It was of a blond man, his face narrow and handsome in a fine, English way.
“He doesn’t look like a Scot,” Isobel commented.
Rose frowned, looking down at the miniature. “Of course he does. His father was a great friend of Da’s. He’s chief now—and he remembered me.” Her face was pink as she stared down at the miniature. “He asked for me. He’s written me letters, saying he’s loved me since we were children.”
“You were eight when you left here,” Isobel said.
