Her eyes narrowed. “I never promised I wouldn’t do it.”
“Promise me now.”
“I can’t do that.”
His lips drew back in a growl, and his black eyes burned murderously. “So help me, Gillian, if you don’t promise me, I’ll—”
Though she quailed inside, she knew in her heart he’d never harm her, so she returned his stare, brows raised expectantly. “You’ll do what?”
“I’ll lock you up like I did my first wife—only this time to protect you from yourself.”
Her jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
He lowered himself so their noses nearly touched, and his eyes narrowed maliciously. “Try me.”
He meant it. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. She glared back at him, angry now, too. “Sir Philip would never lock Isobel up.”
“Sir Philip hasn’t the bullocks of a sparrow when it comes to your sister. He’ll be a widower afore the year is out if he doesn’t grow a spine.”
If Gillian’s arm and hand hadn’t been in agony, she would have hit him. “You are a foul man.”
His lips curved into a dark smile. “I warned you, love, you should have married the Frenchman.” Then he kissed her forehead and settled himself beside her. “You’ve had your warning, wife. Next time there won’t be any lectures.”
19
Gillian sat on the window seat with Tomas and Stephen. The latter was much improved, though still weak from the poisoning. According to Rose he’d not ingested enough to cause himself any permanent damage. Today they all gathered in the west solar. Isobel sat before the dollhouse, touching everything in it. Rose was in her chambers, researching exorcisms. Sir Philip and his men loitered about, guarding Gillian and keeping the servants away. Evan was there, too, but he respectfully kept a distance.
It was for this reason that Gillian and her sisters were forced to apply much subterfuge. When Gillian conversed with Tomas, another person was always present so it appeared that Gillian spoke to that person rather than to nothing at all. Stephen served well in this capacity. His garrulous nature made it easy for him to contribute to a conversation even when he was privy to only one side of it. And since Isobel couldn’t go abouttouching things and having visions in front of Sir Evan, they had decided the dollhouse was the perfect place for her to start. When sitting behind it, she was completely hidden from the knight’s sight.
“Have you had any luck contacting Catriona?” Gillian asked Tomas.
He shook his head. He looked the same as he had on the ledge, the same as he always did in his green-and-red plaid, his auburn hair a bit too long. “She’s here. I feel her, but that is all I ken.”
“Where can I find more spirits?” He’d already directed her to two ghosts, but neither of them had proved helpful. Both were like Aileen, oblivious to aught but some endless task that engaged them. Gillian suspected these were not true ghosts, not like Tomas and Catriona. They were shades of their former selves, an imprint left behind. To Gillian, Tomas was as real as she was, able to think and reason and feel. She suspected his was a lost soul, somehow left behind. It pained her that she could do no more for him than ease his loneliness.
Tomas leaned back against the wall thoughtfully, arms crossed over his chest. “There’s a man in the gatehouse, but he’s utterly mad. He screams at me when I try to talk to him, and sometimes he runs, sometimes he tries to attack me. And then that wee lad, there.” He nodded to the dollhouse. “I see him about sometimes.”
Gillian startled. A small boy stood behind Isobel, watching her. He couldn’t be more than two or three years old. His hair was thick and black, and he wore a white child’s gown. Gillian stood, her heart trembling.Could it be . . .? She took several hesitant steps forward, and the boy looked at her over his shoulder. Enormous black eyes stared out from a dusky face. He looked just like his father.
“Malcolm?” Gillian said softly. Her heart swelled just looking at the boy, so small, so sweet.
He only stared at her solemnly.
“Good day, Malcolm.” Gillian approached the spectral boy slowly. She didn’t want to frighten him away. “Do you live here?”
He turned back to the dollhouse and darted to it, moving right through Isobel to climb onto the table. His dark feet were bare, small and rounded with baby fat. He snatched the blond doll from the tiny bed, leapt to the floor, and dashed away.
Sir Evan came forward, eyes narrowed. “Who are you talking to?”
“My sister,” Gillian lied smoothly.
“But you said Malcolm.”
Isobel stood from her stool and frowned at the knight. “No, she said malcontent. Whoever wants her dead is surely malcontented, and we must find him.”
Sir Evan’s brows drew together as he stared at the two of them. He opened his mouth as if to ask another question, then just shook his head and returned to his post across the room. No doubt he was in complete agreement with Nicholas on the state of Gillian’s mind. Dotty.
She knelt behind Isobel’s chair, careful of her broken arm, and whispered, “I saw Nicholas’s son just now. He’s the one who has been taking the doll.”
