sunlit halo of Isobel's hair.
CHAPTER 7
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'da rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose—
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
—Robert Burns
Isobel was used to sermons. Reverend Biggs on Skye had possessed a set of lungs worthy of competing with the famed MacCrimmon bagpipes.
And the good reverend had been vastly pleased with the resonant sound of his voice, especially when he had a helpless target trapped in the pews below. The MacLeod brothers had once engendered a tirade so loud and eloquent that no doubt people would be talking of it for years to come.
Aye, Isobel thought, she was used to sermons, but seldom two in one day. The first, a fiery speech from the Reverend Mister Clarke of Lord Oriel's parish, had ended an hour ago. That diatribe against fallen women was now being continued by Frank Patton, a truly incongruous source for spiritual guidance.
"Luscious food for thought, ain't it?" the squire's elder son was asking, leaning down in the saddle to leer in her face. He was wearing the same coat he had been wearing the night Rob had deprived him of two pounds, and still resembled a great, green fig. "Daughters of Eve, one after the other, skipping merrily along their path. Can't help it, not a one of you."
Behind him, his brother Charles chuckled. "Ah, but you forget the matter of guidance, man. With the proper male hand..."
Isobel and Maggie had been strolling from church, talking peacefully, when the Pattons had all but run them down in the road. The sisters had been liberally sprayed with dirt, and Isobel now made an exaggerated show of shaking it from her skirts. The motion disturbed the Pat-tons' horses enough that, for a moment, the brothers were forced to turn their attention from baiting her.
"Isobel." Maggie tugged at her arm. "Let's go."
Frank, having quickly warmed to his subject, blocked the path again before they went more than a few feet. "In such a hurry. And we haven't even gotten to important matters."
Isobel's neck ached from having kept her chin rigidly aloft during Reverend Clarke's sermon. Now, she raised it another notch and tried to walk around the horse. Charles immediately rode forward so she and Maggie were effectively boxed in.
"Yes. You see, we have a question, Miss MacLeod." He grinned broadly, displaying mossy teeth. It was not an attractive sight. When Isobel made no response, he simply shrugged. "Since it appears Oriel has let you out of his sight, what do you say to giving us a firsthand view of fallen virtue?"
"We have two pairs of the best guiding hands," his brother chimed in, aiming one of those hands at Isobel's bodice.
She jerked away, her own hands fisted at her sides. "Why, you clod-pated, foul-minded worm! I'd sooner lie with the devil!"
"Izzy." Maggie's hand moved to her shoulder in warning.
"Some say you have already," Charles jeered. "Why, you heard it yourself. Kind of Reverend Clarke not to call you by name, don't you think? Come now, Isobel, the entire village knows what's been going on up at the Hall these past days. We've a mind to see just what has Oriel so fascinated that he hasn't let you out of his sight until today. We'd even be willing to give you a coin or two, of course. More if you prove worthy of it."
Isobel cursed the heat she knew was coloring her face. Shaking now, and past clear thought, she let loose with a string of vivid oaths.
The brothers, clearly unimpressed by the Gaelic, merely laughed. "Spirit counts somewhat," Frank mocked, "though I daresay your mouth is far better used at other occupations."
"You will die and rot before you'll ever get more of me than curses," she shot back. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she muttered, "Come along, Maggie, before I lose my chance at heaven by going to violence." Tugging her now-sputtering sister behind her, she deliberately pushed past Frank's horse.
"Well, Charlie, I'd say Miss MacLeod means to turn us off." Frank gave a mocking tilt
CHAPTER 7
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'da rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose—
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
—Robert Burns
Isobel was used to sermons. Reverend Biggs on Skye had possessed a set of lungs worthy of competing with the famed MacCrimmon bagpipes.
And the good reverend had been vastly pleased with the resonant sound of his voice, especially when he had a helpless target trapped in the pews below. The MacLeod brothers had once engendered a tirade so loud and eloquent that no doubt people would be talking of it for years to come.
Aye, Isobel thought, she was used to sermons, but seldom two in one day. The first, a fiery speech from the Reverend Mister Clarke of Lord Oriel's parish, had ended an hour ago. That diatribe against fallen women was now being continued by Frank Patton, a truly incongruous source for spiritual guidance.
"Luscious food for thought, ain't it?" the squire's elder son was asking, leaning down in the saddle to leer in her face. He was wearing the same coat he had been wearing the night Rob had deprived him of two pounds, and still resembled a great, green fig. "Daughters of Eve, one after the other, skipping merrily along their path. Can't help it, not a one of you."
Behind him, his brother Charles chuckled. "Ah, but you forget the matter of guidance, man. With the proper male hand..."
Isobel and Maggie had been strolling from church, talking peacefully, when the Pattons had all but run them down in the road. The sisters had been liberally sprayed with dirt, and Isobel now made an exaggerated show of shaking it from her skirts. The motion disturbed the Pat-tons' horses enough that, for a moment, the brothers were forced to turn their attention from baiting her.
"Isobel." Maggie tugged at her arm. "Let's go."
Frank, having quickly warmed to his subject, blocked the path again before they went more than a few feet. "In such a hurry. And we haven't even gotten to important matters."
Isobel's neck ached from having kept her chin rigidly aloft during Reverend Clarke's sermon. Now, she raised it another notch and tried to walk around the horse. Charles immediately rode forward so she and Maggie were effectively boxed in.
"Yes. You see, we have a question, Miss MacLeod." He grinned broadly, displaying mossy teeth. It was not an attractive sight. When Isobel made no response, he simply shrugged. "Since it appears Oriel has let you out of his sight, what do you say to giving us a firsthand view of fallen virtue?"
"We have two pairs of the best guiding hands," his brother chimed in, aiming one of those hands at Isobel's bodice.
She jerked away, her own hands fisted at her sides. "Why, you clod-pated, foul-minded worm! I'd sooner lie with the devil!"
"Izzy." Maggie's hand moved to her shoulder in warning.
"Some say you have already," Charles jeered. "Why, you heard it yourself. Kind of Reverend Clarke not to call you by name, don't you think? Come now, Isobel, the entire village knows what's been going on up at the Hall these past days. We've a mind to see just what has Oriel so fascinated that he hasn't let you out of his sight until today. We'd even be willing to give you a coin or two, of course. More if you prove worthy of it."
Isobel cursed the heat she knew was coloring her face. Shaking now, and past clear thought, she let loose with a string of vivid oaths.
The brothers, clearly unimpressed by the Gaelic, merely laughed. "Spirit counts somewhat," Frank mocked, "though I daresay your mouth is far better used at other occupations."
"You will die and rot before you'll ever get more of me than curses," she shot back. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she muttered, "Come along, Maggie, before I lose my chance at heaven by going to violence." Tugging her now-sputtering sister behind her, she deliberately pushed past Frank's horse.
"Well, Charlie, I'd say Miss MacLeod means to turn us off." Frank gave a mocking tilt
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