The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  She laughed again. “Gilmour MacGowan,” she said, “the rogue of the rogues. Jealous of a simple blacksmith. Who would have thought it possible?”

  “No one in her right mind, but that would not include you, would it, Bel? So feel free to enjoy your delusions if they brighten your day.”

  “Me thanks,” she said, and he nodded.

  “Are you getting near to telling me why you have come by, then?” he asked.

  She fiddled with the bedpost for an instant, looking more like the hesitant lass all had known at Evermyst and less the harpy who had revealed herself to him alone. “I but wished for some word of me sister.”

  “Anora is well.”

  “You have spoken to her recently?”

  “Aye. Just before leaving. She and Ram were about to challenge the firth for a visit to Levenlair.”

  “And leave Evermyst unprotected?”

  “Lachlan shall remain behind.”

  “Then your brothers are well, also?”

  “Lachlan is…” Mour shrugged. “Well, Lachlan is Lachlan. Cantankerous and bedeviled. But Ramsay is content. In truth, I have never seen him happier.”

  Though she smiled, there was a shadow of unidentified emotion in her eyes. Sadness, perhaps. Or loneliness. Maybe he should have been ashamed that the expression intrigued him, but Gilmour had oft found that shame was overrated.

  ” ‘Tis glad I am of course to know that marriage agrees with him,” she said.

  “But?”

  She glanced at him, surprise in her eyes. “What?”

  “You are glad of course, but…”

  “I am glad that me sister and her laird are happy. That is all.”

  “Then you care not that me brother has taken the love of the sister so long lost to you? You care not that your dearest and nearest kinswoman adores Ram so devoutly that she has all but forgotten your bond with her?”

  A dozen emotions flashed through her eyes before she lowered her gaze to her hands, twisted against her pinned up overskirt. “Mayhap…” Her voice was very soft suddenly. “Mayhap ‘twould be easier if I had never found her.”

  Guilt speared him at the honest regret in her voice. Never had she revealed so much of herself to him. She looked small and helpless against the backdrop of his bed. Her elfish face was lowered, her sapphire eyes hidden by downcast lids.

  “How could it be better to never have known her?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard it said…” She glanced up through her lashes at him. “That ‘tis better to have lost your love than never to know love atall.”

  He nodded, urging her to go on.

  “But I think ‘tis not true. I think mayhap ‘twould have been better to have gone forever thinking meself alone in the world.”

  Her sadness was all but palpable now. “You are not alone, lass,” he said simply. “I should not have said the things I did.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head slowly. Firelight danced across the golden waves of her hair and one lone diamond-bright tear traced down her alabaster cheek. “You were right. Me sister prefers to spend her days with her husband. And ‘tis as it should be, of course,” she added quickly. “It is simply that I…” She paused, seeming to fight for the proper words while Gilmour struggled to remain where he was, removed from her.

  “You are lonely,” he said, completing her sentence.

  She raised her gaze. Against her milky complexion, her lips looked as bright and succulent as wild berries and he swallowed hard, using every bit of little-used self control at his disposal.

  “You understand,” she murmured.

  A second tear followed its mate’s course, slipping more rapidly down her cheek to fall past the point of her peaked chin and onto the high rise of her breast. Gone was the modest gown she had worn below-stairs, replaced by this garment of white linen. Strange that he hadn’t noticed that earlier, he thought, for now he couldn’t take his eyes off her—her loveliness, her loneliness, her breasts, so pale and full and tempting, with that single tear slipping down the dramatic curve into darkness—soft, tantalizing darkness.

  “You know how I feel, then,” she said.

  “Aye, lass,” he agreed and still remained unmoving, though it was difficult to raise his gaze from the tear’s descent. ” ‘Tis only natural that you would miss the only one with whom you share blood.”

  “So you would miss your brothers?”

  “Nay.” He grinned. “But I would miss your sister.”

  She laughed, but the sound was unnatural, hiccup-ing slightly at the end before she raised her hands to her face. “I am sorry,” she murmured. ” ‘Tis simply that I… I…” All other words were lost. There was nothing Gilmour could do but go to her. No choice but to slip his arms gently about her minuscule waist.

  No corset stiffened her torso. Beneath her simple, virginal garment there was nothing but flesh—soft, lovely flesh.

  “There now, sweet lass,” he said, calming his breathing. “There be no need to cry, for you can return to Evermyst on the morrow, if you wish.”

  She shook her head, but even as she did so, she slid her arms hungrily about his neck as if starved for his strength, his compassion. ” ‘Tis not true.” She whispered the words, brushing the sound with tender sweetness against his ear lobe. It shivered titilatingly down his neck.

  “Aye, lass. I will take you there on me own steed in the morn, if you like.”

  “You do not understand.”

  Her hair felt like satin beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, a heady mix of sweet herbs and something deeper, something that was only Isobel. He remembered smelling it before, catching a whiff of it when she passed him at Evermyst. Smelling that sweet, unique aroma and feeling himself harden with the scent. Aye, he had forever wanted her, ever since the very first.

  “I cannot go back,” she whispered. The sliver of sound quivered over his bare shoulder, and against his chest her breasts felt as soft and enticing as heaven. “For I cannot bear the truth.”

  He stroked her hair again, feeling her emotion in his very soul. “And what truth is that, lassie?”

  “You do not know what it was like, for you have always…” She paused, clearing her throat and laughing a little. “You have always been adored. But I had no one. Not until Nora. And then ‘twas as if the world blossomed. I was everything to her, and she to me. ‘Twas as if we shared one mind.”

  Her body felt as firm and supple as a bending reed in his arms with her hips pressed against his and her thighs, so sweet and strong, spread ever so slightly to encompass one of his own.

  “Do not be sad, lass,” he whispered, finding it suddenly hard to speak for the need that rushed through him. “Me earlier words were cruel. I am certain your sister misses you as surely as you miss her.”

  She whimpered softly against his neck as if such a thought evoked too much emotion to contain. “Do you think so?” she asked, lifting her face a bit to look into his eyes.

  He smiled, for truly, her beauty was unsurpassed, with her heaven-wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Aye, lass, I know it. Her love for me brother has not diminished her adoration for you.”

  “You think not?”

  “Nay,” he said and swept her hair gently from her face. Dampened by her tears, it curled intimately about his fingers. “Come back with me and judge for yourself.”

  She managed a tremulous smile, but shook her head at the same time. “I cannot. Evermyst is not me place in the world.”

  “Where then do you belong, Bel?”

  She shrugged. The movement caused her breasts to lift lovingly against his naked chest. A thousand wanton desires sprinted like devils through his overheated system, but she was lonely and hurting, and he would not take advantage of those raw feelings. Never let it be said that Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, could not tempt a maid without such emotions to aid his cause.

  “Mayhap this be me place,” she whispered.

  “Here?” His heart poun
ded against her bosom. “In me arms?”

  She smiled and lowered her eyes. “In Henshaw,” she said. “At the Red Lion.”

  His desire throbbed insistently, and he could not help but wonder if she felt it. “Surely not, lass, for you were gently born.”

  Looking down at her delicate face, he could just see the slight tilt of her lips as she smiled sadly. “Gently born, mayhap, but not gently reared. Do you forget? I am naught but a commoner.”

  ” ‘Tis not true. You are the daughter of the laird and lady of Evermyst and therefore it is only proper that you have all that the title entails.”

  “Nay,” she said. “Me mother was right to send me away at birth, for there are many who would pit one sister against the other for the sake of her inheritance, and even more who would believe that both siblings are evil for the circumstances of their birth.”

  “Thus you would spend your life as a commoner, even though you know ‘tis not true?”

  “In truth, I am far more comfortable with the bare feet of a laborer than with the satin slippers of a lady.”

  “But surely you cannot plan to go on like this, lass, for you are far too delicate to spend your days in hard labor.”

  “Delicate?” She laughed a little and canted her head so that her gaze rested with feline softness on him and her hips pressed ever so gently against his. Gilmour tightened his jaw against the delectable onslaught. “Mayhap you do not know me so well as you think, MacGowan,” she whispered.

  He remained unmoving against her, lest the slightest motion send him over the edge of desire. “Do not fear, lass, me brother Ramsay will…” he began, but just then her lips touched his neck. A thousand errant sensations sizzled through him like living sparks. “Will…” He tried to catch the lashing tail of his displaced thoughts, but they had been burnt beyond recognition.

  “Will what?” Her whisper shivered against his throat.

  “Will find you a suitable husband,” he said, but she had tilted her head downward now and kissed his collarbone. His head fell back of its own accord.

  “And what if I do not want some stodgy but suitable husband?” she asked.

  Her hand slid with slow warmth down his arm. He should stop her now, but somehow his muscles failed to do so, for her touch was like magic, unreal, beyond hope, and as it slid from his arm to his belly, he felt the flames of desire dance like demons in his aching nether parts.

  “What if I want a lover instead?” she whispered, and suddenly her hand dipped beneath the weight of his plaid. The tartan unfurled like spring bracken, falling hopelessly to the floor at their feet. “What if I want you?”

  “Lass…” It was difficult to breathe, impossible to move. “I do not think—”

  ” ‘Tis best. Do not think,” she murmured and slipped her hand lower. It closed with velvet warmth around him and suddenly all thought was gone, burned to ashes by the satin strength of her touch.

  Inhibition was laid waste. Good sense flew like autumn leaves. There was nothing he could do but lift her into his arms. Nothing to do but bear her to the bed behind her and there he laid her upon the mattress. She did not resist, did not hesitate. Instead, she curved her slim fingers about his neck and drew him closer. Their lips touched like a dream, but she was impatient, eager—nay, hot for him—and suddenly he could not wait another moment to gaze at her beauty. He pressed her gown upward, revealing the ivory smoothness of her thighs, but he could not rush here where perfection lay. He dropped to his knees beside the mattress. Sliding his hands up one delicate calf, he kissed the inner curve of her knee. She gasped and he smiled against her flesh, loving her reaction and then kissing higher, over the sweet length of her thigh, drawing ever nearer Utopia.

  “Mour!” He heard her gasp of pleasure, but refused to be rushed, for he had waited long for such a moment.

  Thus he slid his fingers over the arch of her hip and upward, feeling the luscious curve of her waist, loving every intimate detail of her and kissing each one in turn, her hip, her belly, her navel.

  She jerked at the sensation and he lingered there a moment, sliding both palms beneath her buttocks to lift her upward and lave his tongue across the dent of her birthing scar.

  “MacGowan!” Her fingers tangled in his hair with some force.

  “Aye, me love?” he whispered, lifting his head enough to gaze into her frantic face. “What is it you would have me do?”

  Her body was taut with desire, her knees bent in a supplication of unhidden need. ‘Touch me,” she whispered.

  They were the sweetest words ever spoken, so sweet, in fact, that he longed to hear them again.

  “What’s that you say, lass?” he asked.

  But suddenly the dulcet melody of her voice roughened into an ungodly deep timbre. “I said, touch me again and I’ll kill you here and now!”

  Gilmour wrenched his eyes open even as he jerked backward. Sleep fled like frightened lambkins, leaving him to stare dumbfounded into the narrowed eyes of Innes Munro.

  Chapter 3

  “Munro! What the devil are you doing here?”

  Gilmour rasped, but memories of the night before were already rushing back. Not enough room at the inn. They’d been forced to share, and somewhere in his desire maddened dreams, he’d made a foul mistake.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing lad, I’m preparing to kill me first MacGowan,” growled the giant, and in that moment Mour realized that the man’s right hand was well out of sight. “One more move and the rogue of the rogues will trouble maids no more.”

  Gilmour lowered his gaze ever so slowly. It was no great surprise to find the Munro’s fist wrapped about his much favored dirk.

  “I preferred the dream,” Mour said, watching the knife.

  “You were dreaming?” Munro’s tone sounded doubtful.

  Gilmour raised his brows. “You thought me awake?”

  No answer was forthcoming.

  “I’ve no wish to offend you, Munro, but you’re not me usual type.”

  “If I thought otherwise you’d be propositioning the devil this very minute!” snarled the Munro.

  “That seems more than just,” Gilmour said and found that his ardor could cool quite quickly when in the proper company. The last golden memory of Isobel fled his misty brain, and he backed out of bed, fully dressed and immensely happy to realize it. “In fact, methinks it would be preferable to die by your hand than to have others learn of me mistake.”

  The Munro scowled, still holding his knife at the ready as though not quite certain Gilmour could control his passion for his oversized and somewhat aromatic bed mate. “So you’ll be telling no one?”

  Gilmour wondered vaguely who he would ever want to share such news with. He cleared his throat. “No one comes to mind.”

  Munro’s scowl deepened as he too backed from bed. “I’ll have your vow.”

  “You have me word of honor.” And that was the truth.

  The Munro glared one more instant, then nodded and slipped his dirk grouchily into his boot sheath. It was then that Mour realized the giant had worn his boots to bed, but truly—the more clothing available in their present situation, the better, he thought, and turned gratefully away.

  “Who did you dream of?”

  Gratitude fled, for events had been humiliating enough without admitting his lurid dreams for a maid who did naught but barb him. “What’s that?” he asked, pretending confusion as he dipped his hands into the wooden basin set on a stool near the door. The scent of rosemary filled his nostrils as he splashed the washing water onto his face. What he needed was a good cold lochan and never to set eyes on Isobel of the Frasers again.

  “Who was it you were dreaming of? Was it the cheese maker?”

  “Ailsa?” Gilmour asked, remembering Evermyst’s buxom goat herder with some relief.

  “Aye. I think that be her name. ‘Tis said she be a lively tumble.”

  ” ‘Tis said,” Gilmour replied, preoccupied.

  Munro laughed. “For such
a frolicking dream, the rogue sounds none too happy. Could it be you chose the wrong maid?”

  Gilmour sent the giant a peeved expression. “Aye, he was hairier than I prefer. And ungodly large.”

  “And a bit more vengeful than most lassies, though…” The Munro stopped suddenly, his mouth remaining open. ” ‘Twasn’t your brother’s bride you dreamt of, was it?”

  Gilmour scowled. “I fear me bid for Anora is already past. She chose another. Poorly, but ‘tis too late to change her mind now, I suspect.”

  “Ummm,” Munro agreed, which made Mour wonder for a moment about the giant’s own feelings for Ramsay’s lovely wife. After all, there was a time he had hoped to have her for his own. But whether he’d wanted her for her own delectable self or for her unbreachable keep, no one knew for certain. “Who then do you…” Munro began, but suddenly his heavy brows dipped dangerously. ” ‘Tis not the Red Lion wench you covet, is it?”

  Gilmour’s stomach clamped as he remembered Munro’s words from the night before. How could he have forgotten that this Goliath had his eye on Isobel? Bugger it! He should have never agreed to help Innes. Even though he dearly needed assistance, it could only lead to trouble.

  “Let me say this.” Gilmour set his plaid straight then opened the door. “The sooner I return to Evermyst, the better I’ll like it.”

  Munro followed him down the stairs, and the wooden steps groaned beneath his heavy weight. “So the Red Lion maid does not interest you?”

  Gilmour prepared to shake his head as he stepped into the common room, but just at that instant, as if called from hell itself, Isobel came into view. She wore a gown of dusky blue, pinned up at the sides to show a pale underskirt. Her sleeves were the color of a midnight sky and one tiny braid entwined with scarlet ribbon encircled her golden head like a crown. For one brief moment, Mour could not speak.

  “MacGowan!” Munro growled. “Does the Red Lion’s maid interest you?”

  Isobel turned away, whisking like a wind-blown petal into the kitchen.

  “Nay,” he managed. “No interest atall.”