Chapter 1
England, 1597
For Isobel MacDonell being a witch was hell. Living in constant fear that what she said or did would send her to the gallows. The image of hanging by the neck until dead caused an involuntary tightening of her throat muscles. It was an especially frightening thought after reading that horrific pamphlet detailing the torture and execution of witches just across the border. Lord and Lady Attmore had gone to great lengths to keep the pamphlet from her, but Isobel had finally managed to acquire one and read it with morbid fascination. But then everything about Scotland was fascinating to Isobel.
Still, fear of discovery did not deter Isobel from her chosen path. She hurried through the forest, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, worried someone had followed her. She shouldn’t be doing such things. In his letters had her father not cautioned her repeatedly to have a care? To be mindful of all her mother had suffered?
I am careful!But those atrocities happened in Scotland—another world, it seemed, and one she barely remembered most days. She paused, her palm on the silvery gray trunk of an ash, andpeered into the trees behind her. She stood in silence, listening, feeling. She was alone. Besides, there was no real harm in visiting Ceri. If caught, it would earn her a stern lecture and perhaps even punishment from Lord Attmore, but so long as no one discovered why she really frequented the witch’s cottage—or how often—she would suffer no serious repercussions.
Her hand slid down the tree as she gazed up into the branches, through the green clusters of buds, at the gray sky. A storm was coming. The air felt damp and heavy. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Her fingers moved over deep grooves in the wood, and longing filled her—sharp, passionate. She dropped her hand and stepped back, inspecting the tree. A heart was carved into the gray wood. Inside the heart the namesAnne and Danwere deeply carved. Isobel smiled, passing her hand over the carving again, enjoying the youthful passion that passed through her. Dan had labored over this carving…many years ago. Because this was wood—and living wood at that—she’d never learn more than feelings mixed with the soft, warm hum of the tree itself. She would have liked to learn more about this Anne and Dan, but it wasn’t to be.
With a deep, wistful sigh, Isobel continued on her way. The underbrush was thick, bush and scrub sprouting their first green buds, but Isobel had worn a trail over the years with her comings and goings and merely swished her skirts right and left to avoid catching them on the spiny branches.
Soon Ceri’s cottage was in sight, nestled in a clearing. Isobel paused, waiting. She couldn’t chance being seen if Ceri wasn’t alone, so she must always wait. The damp wind blew at her, plastering her skirts against her legs and pulling her hair from its severe plait. She scanned the clearing but saw no horse or mule.
The cottage door opened abruptly. Isobel ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak. Voices carried to her, one nasal and masculine, the other sharp and feminine. Isobel peered aroundthe tree to see the vicar trotting into the trees, his shiny pate gleaming in the dull light just before he slapped a cap over it, and his dark robe flapping about his ankles.
Ceri stood at her door staring after him for a long moment. A strong wind gusted through the yard, disturbing old leaves and setting the penned chickens to clucking. Ceri’s graying black hair swirled loose about her narrow shoulders.
She turned toward Isobel’s hiding place. “You can come out now—and be quick, afore you’re caught in the rain.” Ceri pulled her wrap over her head just as a raindrop plopped onto Isobel’s nose.
Isobel lifted her skirts and ran through the clearing as the sky opened up, sending down a deluge. Ceri slammed the door and latched it behind them, then hurried to the window and closed the shutters.
Isobel shook out her skirts and unpinned her lace cap, spreading it out on the stone hearth to dry.
Ceri watched with disapproval. “What if the vicar comes back, lass? You shouldn’t be here.”
“I had to come! It’s that…feeling—I still have it, and it’s worse now. You’re the only person I can talk to, the only person who understands.”
Ceri sighed heavily. “Tell me.”
Isobel lowered herself onto the hearth, putting her back to the warm fire so it could dry her bodice. The cottage was small and comfortable. The rich scent of rosemary and lamb floated to her from the cauldron in the fire behind her. She preferred Ceri’s cottage to anywhere else in the world—except perhaps Lochlaire. But her childhood home was only a fond memory; she hadn’t been there in more than a decade.
Ceri lit two lard candles and set them on the wooden table.
Isobel placed her hand over her belly, rubbing at the knotting, sinking sensation that had been with her for weeks. “Something…orsomeoneis coming…but I don’t know what. Something dreadful will happen.” She fisted her hand, frustrated. “If only I knew what…”
Ceri chuckled. “You rely overmuch on your gift. Remember what I told you about dreams?”
“Dreams don’t work for me. I must have something solid to touch.”
“You don’t try hard enough. You’re like those who refuse to believe until they see—and yet you yourself are proof of what is possible.”
Isobel nodded blandly. She’d heard this before. Ceri was convinced Isobel had many untapped gifts. Isobel had not believed her until recently—until she began to have this feeling of dread. That something…or someone was coming. And when this thing was upon her, it would bring bad things, things that would change her forever. But that was all she knew. She hated this lack of clarity. With her other visions, she could focus if she chose to, probe until she understood.
“Butyourdreams oft tell you nothing useful until it’s too late,” Isobel said.
Ceri nodded, unwrapping a loaf of bread. “Aye, but that is my failing. I’m still learning to read them. Sometimes things aren’t what they seem in a dream. A toad doesn’t always mean a toad. It can mean many different things.” She grinned at Isobel; her wrinkled face softened to reveal the great beauty even age couldn’t dim. “You’ve been a great help, you have.”
Isobel smiled. It warmed her to hear Ceri’s kind words. “Iwould do anything to help you—you’re my only friend.”
Ceri’s smile faded to consternation. “I cannot bear to hear you say such things. You’re so young, so lovely. ’Tis wrong you should spend more time with a moldering old bag of bones than with lads and lassies your own age.”
Isobel shrugged and plucked at her skirt. “It doesn’t matter. I know too much, and no one likes that.” She thought of her foster brothers and sisters, most married and gone now, and how they had distanced themselves from her. “I can’t help myself sometimes, not when I know I can change things, that maybe I can make a difference. Iamgetting better at keeping silent. But the past cannot be undone, and everyone already knows I’m different. But in time, mayhap they’ll forget?”
Ceri raised a skeptical brow. “Not if you keep giving your warnings—”
