The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  ” ‘Tis good,” Innes said, seating himself at the nearest table, “for I’d hate to have yet another reason to kill you before our task is finished here.”

  “Aye, ‘twould indeed be a shame.”

  Their plan was to break the fast and leave Henshaw, but the ale was well to the Munro’s liking, and by the time the broad maid called Martha returned with more, he was only too happy to sample another few mugs and proclaim each better than the last.

  By mid morn the Munro was well into his cups, by noon he was sloshing like a beer wagon, and Isobel still had not reappeared from the kitchen. Not that Gilmour cared. After all, he had had time to consider his dream and deduced it meant naught. It was merely Isobel’s aloof demeanor that threw him off the mark. The sooner he saw other maids—normal maids, maids who fawned over him—the better off he would be. He would return to Evermyst post haste, and soon the lassies would be flattering him with outrageous remarks while he bounced a wee, giggling Mary on his knee and forgot all about Isobel’s unnatural ability to ignore his charms.

  “It would be wise to reach our destination before the light fails us,” Gilmour said.

  “What’s your hurry, lad?” Munro asked and beamed across the room at Martha, the stout brew mistress. “We’ve more ale to finish off. And I’ve barely tasted her honey meads.”

  “If you’re determined to drink Martha’s entire supply, mayhap ‘twould be wiser to hire a wagon to carry it back to your keep.”

  “What a clever idea!” Munro roared. His voice had grown louder by the minute. “But at me own keep…” He leaned closer to the stout maid who had concocted the stuff. She was by no means a great beauty, but mayhap size and brewing skill covered a host of flaws for a man of Innes Munro’s ilk. “There will be no clever ale mistress to sweeten the brew. Aye?”

  The big woman laughed. The sound was low, her words lower still, or perhaps the Munro’s roaring had simply dulled Gilmour’s hearing. Whatever the case, Munro chuckled in return, his face red with drink.

  “What say you?” Munro asked, his voice finally hushed somewhat, “would you return to me keep with me, sweet Martha?”

  “I am flattered, me laird, but me place is here with me son at the Red Lion.”

  “It’s a son you have, is it?” Munro asked.

  Martha began to answer, but just at that moment, the door opened. Silvery laughter entered the room, heralding Isobel’s arrival. Something stirred in Gilmour’s gut like a waking dragon.

  “You cannot stay all the day through,” Isobel said, her gaze on her companion. Her male companion. “Eventually Master Gibbs will toss you out on your pate.”

  “It may well be worth the bruising if you would see to my wounds. What say you, Maid Isobel?” asked the man at her side.

  “I say…” She smiled at him, her eyes alight. “Enjoy the meal, Regan of Longwater. It may be the best you get from me.”

  “May be?” He sounded breathlessly hopeful.

  “And what of me, Isobel?” asked the baron of Winbourne, who again sat beside the hearth. “If I am bruised will you see to me?”

  “That depends what part is bruised, me laird.”

  The balding baron grinned. “Name the part, lass, I’ll see what can be done.”

  She laughed as she swept past the tables. “I cook, lads. Naught else. Unless…” Her gaze skimmed the crowd then settled for an instant on the aging baron. “One of those parts be irresistible.”

  Laughter followed her into the kitchen. Gilmour arose abruptly, his finger twitching. “I go to prepare the horses,” he said. “Be ready, Munro, if you wish to ride with me.”

  “Nay, MacGowan,” argued the Munro. “Ready a wagon, for I like your suggestion. If I cannot have the bonny brew-mistress, I shall make do with her brew.”

  Gilmour saddled his own steed first. Francois was cooperative enough, though he was wont to tilt his golden head toward the left in an attempt to gaze fondly at the bay mare in the adjacent stall.

  “She’ll only cause you trouble,” Mour growled as he pulled up the girth, but Francois tossed his heavy mane and sidled sideways, and in the end Gilmour was convinced to allow him to roam loose in his box so as to spend a few more minutes flirting with the bay.

  Although it took a good deal of time to locate a draught horse and suitable dray, the Munro was still not prepared to leave when Gilmour returned to the inn for him. In fact, very little had changed. Regan of Longwater still nursed a brew at a table beside the door and the Munro was still deep in his cups, speaking to Isobel.

  “I don’t believe a word of it, Laird Munro,” she was saying.

  ” ‘Tis true,” he argued, glancing boyishly toward his mug. “There was not a hog to be found when I awoke in die morning. Turns out they cared no more for the smell of me than I for them.”

  She laughed. “You smell just fine to me, me laird.”

  Did he blush? Gilmour stared agog at the sight.

  “You’re over-kind, lassie.”

  Charming? A charming drunk? Innes Munro?

  “Come smell me, Isobel,” said a man near the kitchen. He was grotesquely fat and wore a yellow cloth cap that drooped over his head much as his extra chins drooped over his collar. “You’ll like it.”

  She laughed again. The sound curled huskily in Gilmour’s gut.

  “I know how you smell, Redmont. Like me gyngerbread. ‘Tis the same everyday.”

  “Ahhh but you must like the smell of me, then,” said the fat man.

  “Not so well as your wife does,” another man chimed in. The occupants laughed, but near the door one young man remained silent, watching. Dressed in a leather jerkin and dark calf skin hose, he rarely shifted his gaze from the maid.

  Gilmour scowled. Who was he? What was he doing here watching Isobel so intently? And why did he look vaguely familiar?

  “And what of you, Laird Winbourne?” she asked. Was there a breathlessness to her voice when she looked at him? “Did you enjoy me hotchpot this day?”

  “Aye.” The baron nodded. He wore a beard, cropped short and perfectly groomed, perhaps to compensate for the lack of hair on his head, Gilmour thought, and felt a mite better for his own shoulder length locks. ” ‘Twas delectable as always.” He rose, proving to be taller than he’d first appeared. “But I would gladly trade it for the briefest touch of your skin against mine.”

  Oohs of appreciation accompanied the compliment. Only the slim man dressed in leather jerkin and dark hose was silent as Winbourne strode across the room toward her.

  She curtsied impishly. “Then ‘tis your lucky day, me laird,” she said.

  The crowd fell into watchful silence.

  “For you get the meal and… me hand.” She raised her arm, and though he scowled as if disappointed, he took her fingers in his own and kissed them.

  “You have my thanks, Maid Isobel,” he said, then grinned, still holding her fingers. “And should you tire of serving this motley lot you are once again invited to work your magic at Winbourne.”

  “Indeed, me laird, I fear you would tire of me simple meals.”

  “I was not speaking of cooking,” he said.

  She pulled her hand from his with a shy smile. “You’d best watch your tongue, lest I take offense.”

  “Aye,” said the one called Regan. “Insult Isobel and you’ll find your meals seasoned with hemlock instead of saffron.”

  “Being near her may well be worth the poisoning, aye, lads?” someone said.

  “Aye, and…” another began.

  Gilmour turned toward Munro. ” ‘Tis time to leave,” he growled.

  “So soon?” asked the Munro, looking surprised, as if he hadn’t been drinking for half an eternity. “The place is just becoming lively.”

  Lively! Damned irritating was what it was. “The day grows old.”

  “I’ve not known you to be the one to spoil the fun, MacGowan.”

  From his left, Isobel laughed again. Gilmour’s little finger jerked spasmodically, but he shrugge
d casually. “You are right. There is no reason to hurry. Surely no one will suspect your true reasons for visiting Henshaw.”

  Even in his inebriated state, the Munro seemed to understand Gilmour’s implications, for worry settled like sundown over the man’s heavy brow.

  “We’d best be off,” he rumbled.

  “If you insist,” Gilmour said, and turned toward the door with the Munro behind him.

  “Surely you do not plan to return to your home today?” Isobel’s voice stopped him.

  The Munro turned. Mour ground his teeth and did the same even as she came toward them.

  “Aye, lass,” rumbled the giant. “But I will forget neither your fine inn nor the splendid company.” His gaze skimmed toward the kitchen.

  She smiled. “Me thanks. But ‘twill be past dark by the time you reach your beds. Surely you could remain here one more night.”

  “I fear we cannot,” said the Munro, regret heavy in his tone.

  “So you will be leaving too?” she asked, shifting her attention to Gilmour. Her gaze smote his, as blue as sunlit sapphire, and for one tremulous moment he saw something unsaid in her eyes. Something almost hidden but just discernible, if one knew women well.

  “Aye, I fear I must,” he said.

  “Oh.” She murmured, and for a moment her berry bright lips seemed to tremble.

  Mour’s heart did a daring capriole in his chest, and he stepped forward. “Will you miss me, lass?” he asked, his voice low.

  She took a minuscule step nearer, as though she dare not come too close. Their gazes melded then she glanced rapidly over his shoulder, not quite able to look him in the eye lest he see the truth in hers.

  “You’ve but to say the word and I’ll remain here,” he whispered.

  “Hey now! Not a word of that is true, Longwater,” she scolded, and Mour realized suddenly that she had been watching the man by the door the whole while. “I’m sorry.” She turned back with a brusque smile. “What’s that you say, MacGowan?”

  His finger twitched. “Good day, Isobel,” he said, and turned stiffly away.

  “Godspeed,” she chirped.

  Gilmour left the inn door open and stormed toward the stables. Godspeed, indeed! Godforsaken was more likely. He couldn’t get out of this bedeviled village fast enough. What the hell was wrong with her? One moment she caressed him with her eyes and the next she dismissed him like an evil smelling hound.

  A tease was what she was. He hated teases. Of course, there had been a few lassies who had called him a tease, and it was true that there were times when he had an ungodly amount of fun with outrageous flirts. But not with her. Isobel Fraser was not a fun kind of lass. At least, not with him.

  And why not with him?

  It didn’t matter, he assured himself. Not atall, he decided, and slammed open Francois’s stall door. The stallion jerked, but remained where he was, his tail toward him and his…

  “Bugger it!” Gilmour stormed, realizing suddenly that the animal’s front legs were stuck unceremoniously atop the wall that separated his stall from the mare’s. “What the devil have you been up to?”

  Francois turned his head, looking sheepishly toward his master, but just then the mare on the opposite side whickered invitingly, calling his attention elsewhere. He pricked his lively ears over the fence and answered in a deep throated equivalent of a lewd joke.

  “Hell’s apples, horse, you’d slice off your legs for a bit of arse,” Mour gritted, scowling between the timbers at the bay on the far side.

  A chuckle sounded behind him. “Like steed, like master, aye?” said Munro.

  “Shut die hell up and give me a hand.”

  In the end it took a bit more than a hand, for not only had the stallion gotten his broken rope caught fast on a splintered board, he had become wedged tight as a cork between the ceiling and the fence and cut his front cannon in the process.

  “Damned foul luck!” Gilmour steamed.

  “Ahh, there now, ‘tain’t so bad as all that,” Munro placated him, reminding Mour that he was more pleasant drunk than sober. After all, it had been some hours since he’d threatened to kill anyone. “Your bonny steed will be right as rain in a fortnight or so. Ride in the wagon with me. You can return later to fetch him.”

  Gilmour scowled and glanced down the road toward Evermyst. There was nothing he wanted more than to return to that quiet haven. The lassies there had fine taste in men, unlike here, where… His finger twitched again.

  Francois shifted his weight to his left side, looking miserable. The bay mare stuck her head over her door, whickering demurely.

  “Don’t you answer,” Gilmour warned, pulling the stallion’s head to the side.

  Francois gazed at Mour with large, limpid eyes, employing his most innocent expression.

  “I’ll have to stay,” Gilmour grunted.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll have to stay, until the morn, at least.” Gilmour ran a hand down the stallion’s golden foreleg. The muscles twitched beneath his fingers. The wound was messy, but it would heal well, given time. For that he should be grateful.

  The towering Munro scowled. “It couldn’t be that you planned this just so you could have one more chance at her, could it?”

  “What the devil are you muttering about?” Gilmour asked.

  The Munro jerked his head toward the inn. “She’s not interested in you, MacGowan. Leave her be.”

  Gilmour straightened in outrage. “Are you suggesting that I hoisted me steed upon the stall like a side of beef just so I could have a go at propositioning the barmaid?”

  “She’s more than a barmaid.”

  “I’m not sure she’s even a woman,” Gilmour gritted.

  “What’s that?” Munro steamed, stepping closer. “Do you slander the lady’s name?”

  “And what if I—” Gilmour began then realized how he sounded. Jealous! Like a damned jilted suitor. He didn’t get jealous, and he didn’t get jilted. What the devil was wrong with him? Raising his hand to his face, he scrubbed his forehead miserably. “You have me vow, Munro,” he said, “I’ve no more wish to remain in this village than to cut off me own leg.” He glanced irritably at Francois’s wound. The stallion pushed him gently with his nose, adding a wide eyed stare of adoration. “He’s a daft, randy bugger is what he is,” Mour said, straightening the flaxen forelock.

  The stallion sighed and rested his broad brow against his master’s shoulder. “But Mother would have my liver for breakfast if I left the beast behind.” Absently stroking the heavy ivory mane, Mour lowered his voice. “I’ll stay with you, lad,” he added, but when he glanced down at the stallion’s head, he noticed that Francois was just dragging a longing gaze away from the mare and back to his master. Even his damned horse didn’t have any honest feelings for him.

  “I don’t trust you, MacGowan,” Munro said. “You’ll be returning with me.”

  Gilmour considered arguing, but that would do little more than cause a battle, and he so much preferred making love to making war. Unless it was a battle between others, of course. Instigating trouble between his brothers was a particular favorite pastime of his. But as for battling the Munro himself… it would cost far less to outwit him.

  Shrugging, Mour gave the Munro a bored glance. “If you’re nervous, I’ll accompany you home.”

  “Nervous?” The big man stiffened like a Highland pine. “What the devil be you talking about?”

  “It is a long journey back to the north, and you without a single guard. It may well be dangerous.”

  “You think I’m afraid, lad?”

  “Nay.” Gilmour paused. “Of course not.”

  “You think the Munro of the Munros needs some scrawny arsed MacGowan to keep him safe on the few leagues between here and Windemoor?”

  Apparently the mellowing ale was wearing off.

  “I never said as much.”

  “And you’d damned well better not,” Munro growled and pushed past him toward the dray th
at waited in the street as Gilmour trailed behind. “I’ll be traveling alone, I will.”

  Even the giant’s irritable tone couldn’t raise Gilmour’s spirits much, for he would still have to spend another night or so at the Red Lion. Still, it was something. “If you’re sure you’ll be safe…” Mour said, resting a hand on the seat of the dray.

  “What’s that?” Munro growled, looking down at him.

  “I said, I’m sure you’ll be safe.” Mour added a shrug. “After all, who would dare challenge the Munro?”

  “No one,” growled the other.

  “Exactly,” agreed Gilmour, feeling somewhat better. “And you needn’t worry about Isobel. I’ve no interest in her.”

  “Isobel? There ain’t enough of her to clean me teeth on. But if you lay a hand on sweet Martha…” The Munro leaned close, his breath fragrant, “You’ll rue the day, lad.”

  Chapter 4

  It didn’t take Gilmour long to tend to Francois’s wounds. Soon he was bandaged and secured a few stalls down the row from the tempting bay. And though Mour tried to draw out the procedure, eventually there was nothing to do but secure a room for another night. Morose and irritable, he made his way down the rutted village streets in the opposite direction of the Red Lion. At the far end of Henshaw near the listing palisade, he found an old wattle and daub building that dared call itself the Duke’s Inn. Stepping inside, Mour nodded to Laird Grier, who was just exiting the common room.

  Only two patrons remained. They were a rough looking pair. One large and brutish, the other effeminate and twitchy, they sat hunched over their mead. Gilmour found a seat and tried to believe it wasn’t too bad a place to spend the night, but after one sip of ale, he realized the drink was as sour as the company and somehow he could not stay.

  It was almost dark when he found himself in the Red Lion once again. Taking a seat not far from the cozy fire, he noticed a new maid delivering drinks and decided that all would be well. Perhaps there would not even be a reason for him to see Isobel. Requesting a meal from the bright eyed lass, he settled in to drink his ale and listen to the gossip. It was a mixed group that gathered at the Red Lion. Fishers and crofters rubbed elbows with merchants and lords, and though Gilmour was loath to believe it, he had to admit that his meal was extraordinary. Although he generally favored the earthy taste of ale, he requested a goblet of wine and steadfastly kept his gaze from the kitchen door.