Roderick ushered her out the door, closing it behind them. Isobel let him lead her to the hall, but she held back at the entrance, unable to bear the sounds of laughter and music. She could not join in—not now. She feared she might be ill.
She looked up at her uncle, feeling betrayed and miserable. “Father loves this man?”
Roderick rubbed his temple. “He is not like that with Alan, you’ll see.” He took her hands then, and said, “I’m sorry, lass—your father knows how he is, but thinks it’s because of his first wife. He believes the right woman will thaw him.”
“And that woman is me?” Isobel shook her head. “I don’t think so—he hates me!”
“I can talk to Alan…” Roderick said, but it was clear from his expression he thought it would do little good.
Isobel shook her head. Her father had good reason for doing this—the earl of Kincreag could protect all three of the MacDonell girls. She could not let her personal unhappiness ruin it. She would manage to get on with the earl well enough…one day…if he gave her a chance…
She squared her shoulders. “No, I pray you, don’t trouble Father with this. Tell him…tell him I liked Lord Kincreag and will marry him as planned.”
Her uncle hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But perhaps you’d rather tell him yourself?”
Isobel couldn’t lie to her father with the memory of LordKincreag’s cruel eyes still fresh in her mind. She would likely burst into miserable tears—she was close to doing so at the moment and turned partly away from her uncle.
“I cannot. I’m unwell.”
Roderick made a soft clucking sound. “Of course ye are, lass. Shall I send Rose to look in on ye?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I just want to go to bed.” She could feel him watching her as she walked away, but she didn’t care. She would marry Lord Kincreag, as her father wished, but tonight was still hers.
Chapter 17
Philip’s chambers at Lochlaire were very fine—finer than his chambers at his own home. Alan had always treated him like a son, always kept a room for him, as if this was as much Philip’s home as anyone else’s. So why did Philip suddenly feel so betrayed? He rolled over on the fragrant, heather-stuffed mattress and stared at the fire from between the fall of velvet curtains. He had left the keep immediately after he’d seen Alan. He’d toyed with the idea of just leaving, but instead he’d stood on the castle walls and looked out over the glen, waiting for the feeling that someone had punched him in the chest to subside.
But it had not.
Even now, lying in bed, he felt bruised and angry. He recalled when Alan had sent for him several weeks ago. Philip had been shocked at his friend’s condition, trying to hide his own grief at losing a dear friend, and so was ready to agree to anything. But when Alan had begun speaking of his daughters and marriage, Philip had nearly run like a frightened hare. He’d been greatly relieved when Alan had only asked him to fetch his eldest daughter, not marry her. He’d not wanted to hurt or insult his friend by saying no. But now…
Whyhad Alan not asked him? He didn’t trust Philip to care forhis daughter? To protect her? Or perhaps he just didn’t think Philip was good enough. It rankled and festered, making him more angry and misused by the moment. Had he misinterpreted his friendship with Alan? Stephen had brought him some dinner and told him about Alan’s choices for his daughters. Jamie MacPhereson wasn’t so bad, Philip thought, but still, how was he any better than Philip? And some old Frenchman! He’d send his daughter away, across the sea, rather than wed her to someone like Philip. Not that Philip wanted Gillian or Rose—it was the principle of the matter.
The only husband who was acceptable and understandable—on the surface at least—was Isobel’s betrothed. An earl. Philip could not compete with that. It ate at him that she’d been with Lord Kincreag tonight. He wanted to know how it went, what was said—but then again, he did not. What if she’d found the earl all she’d hoped for? Philip should be happy, should hope for that—but he did not.
He should just leave. He turned onto his other side, staring morosely into the darkness. He couldn’t leave without seeing her again. But then what would he say? He could think of nothing except good-bye and well wishes; empty, meaningless phrases that minimized how he truly felt. He wanted to tell her so much more, to warn her, to somehow continue to protect her. But it was no longer his place.
He violently threw back the covers and strode to the fire. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to think of what to do. How foolish of him to try and puzzle this out when he knew exactly what he must do. Leave and travel to Wyndyburgh. There he would find his sister and take her home to Sgor Dubh, where she belonged. Then he would kick his bastard brothers out of his home and take his place as heir. And then what? Marry? Provide heirs? The notion held no appeal for him. He only wanted one woman, and he could not have her. Her father—one of his most beloved friends—did not think him good enough.
He sat there, becoming increasingly aggrieved with Alan—and with himself. Could he really blame Alan? After all, the chieftain of Glen Laire was well aware that Philip had refused his inheritance, that he spent more time wandering about finding strangers than tending to what was his—that he’d set his own life aside twelve years ago when he lost his sister. Alan knew all of this. Of course he wouldn’t want Philip for any of his daughters—and certainly not the one who would bring Glen Laire to her husband should aught happen to Roderick MacDonell. He’d done this to himself, and yet he’d never before cared.
Philip’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. “Aye?” he called, expecting Stephen, who was supposed share Philip’s room, but had likely sought a more agreeable bed to share.
The door creaked open. At first it was too dark outside the door for him to see more than a slender shape, dressed in pale colors. But then the door closed, and she came farther into the room, her red-gold hair, reflecting the fire like sunlight, spilling over shoulders and framing her pale, fragile face. She was wrapped in the arisaid he had given her, wearing it like a mantle.
He was stunned into silence, his throat tight, his mouth dry.
Isobel paused, eyeing him warily, then drifted closer. Bare hands peeked from the folds of the plaid where she held it closed. What did she wear beneath? His heart seemed to stutter at the thought, then raced, sending heat rushing through him. Feet encased in velvet slippers peeked from beneath the white of her shift.
When she was but an arm’s length away, he asked in a hoarse voice, “What are you doing here?”
Red-blond lashes lowered, catching the firelight like burnished copper. “I knew you would not come to me.”
His groin tightened. This felt like a dream—or a fantasy—and hestill couldn’t seem to move. “Why would I do that?”
Her expression turned slightly sad. “Because you’re leaving tomorrow, and I’m getting married in a sennight. We may never see each other again…and even if we do, it will never be the same.”
“Isobel…” But he couldn’t seem to say anything more. She should not be here, in his room, but he did not want her to go, could not send her away.
