He seemed quite disturbed now, which convinced Isobel something was definitely amiss. She quickly cataloged things that might be in Sir Philip’s possession that her father might have also touched. Unfortunately, touching skin gave her no visions—it had to be an object. Her gaze went to his ring, glinting in the candlelight as he rubbed at his brow. He’d surely clasped hands with her father, but the contact would have been brief. It was unlikely she would learn anything useful—and she might discover something she didn’t want to, that she had no business knowing.It is not your right to know another’s mind. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
Isobel argued with herself, but when it became clear Sir Philip not only wouldn’t answer her question but was also easing out the door again, she held out her burned hand.
He paused, staring down at the proffered limb.
“My burn. You wanted to see it.”
After a moment’s hesitation he came forward and took her hand in both of his. His hands were warm and strong. She shivered. She realized immediately he was in control, and she would not be able to touch his ring without being obvious. She glanced up at his face and her gaze snagged. He was so serious. Grim. Determined. His fingers were on her wrist as he turned her hand to see the palm, but she couldn’t look away from the lashes, several shades darker than his hair, shadowing his cheeks.
His thumb stroked over the inside of her wrist and her breath caught. He met her gaze and held it. His eyes were searching, intense, and warm enough to turn her already weakened knees to water.
“It’s not a bad burn,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He released her hand abruptly and backed out the door, looking anywhere but at her. “Good evening, Mistress MacDonell.”
“Good evening,” she said to the closed door. She clasped her hand to her belly and closed her eyes.Oh dear.She had enjoyed that far too much. Her heart still galloped like a herd of crazed horses, and her face burned. She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, gazing about the room.
Tomorrow morning she would leave all of this. Forever. She couldn’t say she was sorry. She’d always been an outcast, despite the Attmores’ reluctant kindness. But she would miss Ceri.
Ceri! She didn’t even know Isobel was leaving. Isobel considered sneaking out, but Sir Philip was apparently nearby, perhaps even watching her room. Well, he would have to sleep sometime. She would slip out before dawn and be back before he knew it.
Chapter 3
Philip stopped by Isobel’s room on his way down to the morning meal. He paused outside her door, debating what to do. It was unlike him to be so indecisive, and yet, he’d found their conversation last night disconcerting. It had been inappropriate for him to be in her bedchamber alone, but when he’d heard her scream he’d not been thinking at all, only responding. Odd, now that he thought of it, that no one else responded to her screams.
Besides all that, he’d dreamed of her. That troubled him more than aught else. In his dream, things he’d purposefully ignored about her last night, had come back to him vividly. The softness of her skin, her warm scent, the way her pulse had raced beneath his fingers. That moment he’d touched her hung suspended in his dream, allowing him to explore every nuance of her until he’d forced himself awake, disgusted. She was Alan’s daughter and meant for another man. He had no business even thinking about her in such a manner. As Alan was like a father to him, he should view her as a sister.
Now that he was in a foul humor, thanks to her, the last thing he wanted to do was face her again. But he had his duty. He pounded on her door relentlessly, hoping she was asleep so he could rudely awaken her. His knocks went unanswered. When he eased the door open he found the room empty, the bed made. He didn’t find her inthe great hall either.
Stephen was at the long table with Lord Attmore, carrying on an animated—and apparently one-sided—conversation, a bowl of boiled eggs and a loaf of bread in front of him. Attmore simply watched Stephen yap and eat, a slightly bemused expression on his face. An older woman sat on the other side of Lord Attmore watching Stephen, her mouth pinched and white.
“Philip,” Stephen said, after he washed down an entire egg eaten in one bite with some ale. “Tell these two my da did know Queen Mary.” He pointed a peeled egg at Attmore. “He was even part of a plot to help her escape her English prison.”
Philip sat beside Stephen, stealing an egg from his bowl. Stephen frowned at him and drew the bowl closer, putting a protective hand over it.
Philip nodded. “It’s true.”
Stephen nodded sagely.
“Though I suspect Stephen has taken some liberties with history.”
Stephen scowled, but continued eating.
Lord Attmore shook his head as Stephen continued to eat voraciously. “You’re a big lad, eh? Mine still aren’t half so large and ate like birds.”
Stephen swallowed his egg and took a long pull of ale. “It’s me mother—she was but a common servant, daughter of a blacksmith. My da was the bastard son of the earl of Irvine—not a wee one in that family either.”
The woman made a soft gasping sound and fumbled with the silver pomander about her neck, waving it under her nose. LordAttmore seemed to just notice her and introduced her as his wife. She gave Philip a stiff smile and went back to shredding a piece of bread, keeping a careful eye on the hulking young man across the table from her. Stephen appeared oblivious to her unease as he grinned at her, but Philip knew better—he enjoyed making snobs like her uneasy.
“Where is Mistress MacDonell?” Philip asked. “I checked her room this morning, but she’s not there.”
Attmore stroked his mustache. “She’s not? Hmm…She could be anywhere, I suppose.” He didn’t seem overly concerned as he placed a piece of herring on a slice of cheese and popped it in his mouth.
Philip was becoming annoyed at Lord Attmore’s lack of interest in his charge. He was Alan MacDonell’s representative, after all. And Isobel MacDonell was practically an heiress. The resources of Clan MacDonell were not insignificant—even to a rich Englishman such as Lord Attmore.
“It is important that she is located. I mean to leave within the hour.”
