by Lois Greiman
Patrons came and went. Laughter swelled and lulled and the hour grew late.
To his left, a gnarled gaffer leaned his bony back against a wall and spun a yarn to his audience. Gilmour listened with half an ear until the old man’s tale came to a breathless ending. A moment of silence followed before a red-nosed miller shook his head and quaffed his ale.
“It cannot be true. No livin’ horse could jump so high.”
“Nay,” agreed another. “You dream, old man.”
Gilmour took a swig of his drink and shrugged. “Just because your own mounts cannot soar, does not mean all steeds are bound to the earth.”
A half dozen faces turned toward him. He met their eyes with an easy smile. “Methinks we MacGowans must raise a different type of mount if you do not think the gaffer’s tale possible.”
“MacGowan, you say?” asked the nearest man. He was as lean as a lance, with a sallow complexion and a decided lack of teeth.
“Aye. I am Gilmour of the MacGowan.”
“Lady Flame’s lad?” asked the old man, cocking his head as if able to hear from one ear alone.
Mour gave the gaffer a smile. “You know me mother, do you?”
A sigh left the grizzled lips. “Once upon a summer’s eve I had the good fortune of delivering a steed to Dun Ard.”
“Then you know the tales be true,” Mour said.
“That she is the most bonny maid of all time?”
Gilmour raised his brows. “I meant the tales of her ability with horses.”
“Oh. Aye,” agreed the old man, but his eyes still looked dreamy and a nearby patron laughed.
“I have indeed heard that the Flame of the MacGowans is a rare jewel. ‘Tis said, in fact, that one of the Duke of Nairnon’s statues was modeled after her. And you know his statues are all bare—”
Gilmour cleared his throat. “Let us not forget that we speak of me mother here. I’ve no wish to have a need to defend her honor.”
“Aye,” someone murmured. ” ‘Tis said the Flame is best at doing that herself.”
“Are you suggesting that me mother is less than the epitome of femininity?” Mour asked, his voice low and steady as he eyed the crowd.
A quiver of nervousness ran through the group.
“I only meant that I heard it is wise to keep a dirk out of her… that is to say, there are tales—”
“And they all be true.” Gilmour shook his head as though resigned to his fate and contemplated his wine. “I tell you, lads, ‘tis difficult indeed for a boy to prove his mettle when his mother is forever batding any who would challenge him.”
“Say you that her laird did not keep her from interfering?”
Gilmour gave the speaker a dry glance. “Me father is many things. But a fool he is not.”
“So Roderic the Rogue has his hands full,” mused someone.
“Aye,” agreed another, “and judging by the king’s statue, me own hands should be so lucky.”
Laughter followed the statement. Gilmour tried to scowl, but his mother would be the last to be offended by such a statement, while his father would be downright jolly. So he lifted his mug in a sort of salute and said, “Careful what you wish for, laddies.”
“What say you?”
Mour took a sip. There was a delicate taste of lavender in the wine. He mused over that for a second as his audience waited. “Me sister is much like me lady mother.”
“And is she wed?”
A few chuckles sounded from Gilmour’s listeners.
“Indeed, she is,” Mour admitted. “Though Da despaired for a time of ever finding her a spouse.”
“If she looks like the Lady Flame, why was it a worry?”
“Might you know of a Laird Halwart of Downshire?”
“Aye. I’ve heard of him.”
“He courted me sister for a time.”
The man called Redmont shrugged. “He seems unscathed by the experience.”
Mour sipped again. “Aye, he does indeed, but have you ever wondered why he has no heirs?”
“There’s a tale here, lads,” said the gaffer, and Gilmour grinned.
“Aye, there is,” he agreed and launched happily into the story. One tale led to another, and that to another, but still not a soul interrupted, for Gilmour was not one to let a simple thing like truth stand in the way of a good yarn. His only pauses were made for dramatic effect or to thank the barmaid, who finally pulled up a seat nearby.
Not a soul left and only one more entered—the young man with the leather jerkin who took a chair and sat quietly near the fire. Minutes slipped into hours before Gilmour began to wind up his final yarn.
“So there I was,” Gilmour said, “with naught but a scrap of cloth about me loins and a wood ax to defend meself against her five towering brothers.”
“Should we be expecting an heir from you anytime soon, MacGowan?” asked Redmont.
Mour joined in the chuckles even as he shook his head. “It looked bad for me, that it did, so I told them God’s own truth. Lads, I said, you can reap vengeance if you like, but this I swear—I did naught that the lass did not beg me to do with her own lips.”
“And that quieted her kinsmen?”
Gilmour shook his head sadly. “In truth, it had quite the opposite effect. They came at me in a rush, so I raised me ax to defend meself, but just as I did… me only meager garment abandoned me. I was bare-naked to the world. Sure as sunrise I thought they would kill me, but sudden as the wind they stopped, took one long glance at the whole of me, and bolted in the opposite direction.” He took another sip of wine. “I never set me eyes on them again.”
“And why is that?”
Gilmour shrugged, “I can only assume they were intimidated by the size of my”—he glanced at the barmaid and grinned—“ax.”
Laughter broke out like a wild torrent.
The barmaid rose, swishing her skirts about her ankles as she did so. “I’d like to stay,” she said, “but I fear the lies be getting a bit thick hereabouts.”
“Lies!” Mour gave her a wounded expression. “Surely you do not doubt me story, Fleta.”
“And what if I did, MacGowan?” she asked, glancing down at him, her legs slightly spread as if prepared to do battle.
“That depends,” he said and grinned up at her, “whether you doubt the outcome… or the size.”
Wild hoots of approval followed, but the maid was not to be outdone.
Raising her brows, she crossed her arms against her buxom chest. “They say seeing is believing, MacGowan.”
Gilmour rose slowly, doing nothing to contain his grin as he set his hands to his belt. “I am always happy to assist another’s faith, but…” He tilted his head toward their onlookers. “I’ve no wish to belittle the lads here.”
There were snorts from the men, but Fleta was grinning openly.
“A private showing, then?” she asked.
“I’m always—”
“Lads,” Isobel interrupted. Gilmour turned toward her. She was standing not far from the kitchen door, eyeing his listeners. “I do so hate to interrupt your revelry, but if we do not lock up, we do not open again on the morrow.”
There were boyish groans of disappointment, but she soon shooed them out the door until only the barmaid and Gilmour remained.
“I’m waiting for—” Fleta began, but Isobel interrupted again.
“Plums could use your help in the kitchen, if you’re not too busy, Fleta.”
The barmaid shrugged as she turned her gaze from Gilmour to Isobel. “Me imaginings are generally better than real life anyway.”
Mour grinned. “I hope you have a large imagination then, lassie.”
She laughed as she swayed her way into the kitchen.
Then only Isobel and Gilmour remained.
“So…” She lifted a trio of mugs from a table. “You are still here, MacGowan.”
He watched her carefully and found that a belly full of ale was a kindly ally where she was concerned. Nonchalan
ce was his friend.
“Aye, Bel, I am here. Me presence doesn’t bother you, does it?”
She shrugged. Candlelight stroked her skin like a lover’s slow caress. “Of course not. Why should it?”
“I believe you said you dislike me.”
She smiled. “In truth, MacGowan, I am not overly fond of many of me patrons. That does not mean I refuse their coin.”
“Should the coin not go to the owner, Bel?”
“Master Gibbs is getting on in years. ‘Twas his idea that I take over the duties as well as collect the funds.”
“After knowing you so short a time?”
“Mayhap he is more trusting than you.”
“And mayhap you give him more than is good for his aging heart, aye?”
She stared at him. “Is that the ale talking, or is it the charming rogue himself?”
Gilmour just stopped himself from wincing. “Me apologies,” he said. “I did not mean to impugn your virtue.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Nay. In fact, I have no wish for harsh feelings between us. I am simply out of sorts.”
“I was sorry to hear of your steed’s injuries.”
“How did you know?”
“I spoke with Guthrie, the stable boy.”
“You weren’t checking up on me, were you Bel?” he asked, then chastised himself. Why in the name of all that was holy would he continue to try to flirt with her?
“I was checking on Wren.”
He raised a brow.
“Me mare,” she said. “Mayhap you saw her. I believe your steed was hanging over her wall when you found him.”
Bugger it! He should have known the troublesome mare would be hers. “A wee bonny palfrey. Where did you get her?”
Gathering another trio of mugs, she glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen. “I would love to stay and chat the night through,” she said, “but I have tasks to see to before I find me bed.”
“Where is your bed?” Truly, there was something wrong with him.
“What’s that?”
He refrained from knocking himself in the head as she turned back toward him. “I worry for your safety; you should not walk alone in the dark. ‘Tis not wise.”
Sharp humor shone in her azure eyes. “As long as you remain here, I am certain I will be untroubled. Henshaw is a peaceful place.”
“And you imagine yourself safe here, without a protector?”
“I did not say I was without a protector.”
His gut cramped. “So there is a man who looks after you?”
“I did not say that, either.”
He tried not to grind his teeth. “He should take better care of you, Isobel.”
Their gazes held tight.
“So that’s it, then? The rogue of the rogues has stayed to protect me?” There was sarcasm in her tone.
Gilmour stared at her and realized quite suddenly that Francois would be fine on his own. Far better to leave the randy steed than wait for Isobel to make him insane.
“Perhaps I have,” he said, and she watched him an instant before laughing.
He was mildly offended for a moment, but when the laughter showed no sign of lessening, he began to get truly peeved, and he was rarely peeved. Nevertheless, he waited until quiet entered the room before he spoke.
“Something amuses you, lass?”
“Aye.” She was still smiling. “The idea of the rogue thinking of anyone but himself.”
Settling a hip against a lengthy table, Mour watched her. “Whatever gave you such a low opinion of me?”
“I believe ‘twas the few months I spent at Evermyst whilst you were there.”
“You doubt that I could protect you?”
“Nay,” she said. “I merely doubt that you would have time, considering your many interests.”
“Such as?”
She shrugged. “Ailsa. Elga. Fleta. Shall I list them in order of time or size?”
” ‘Tis no sin to enjoy women, Bel.” He smiled. “Or to be enjoyed by them.”
“And what of deflowering virtuous young maids?” Her tone was sharp and he raised his brows at her rancor.
“What of it?”
“Is that not a sin?”
“I suspect it is if they do not long to be deflowered, but once they have met me…” He let the sentence fall into silence and gave her a modest shrug.
She watched him very closely for an instant. “I truly do not think I have ever met a man who thinks so highly of himself.”
His grin twisted up a mite, and he wondered if he was losing that innocent quality he was striving for. “I’m certain there are reasons, Bel.”
“Meaning?”
“Most men have little reason to think highly of themselves.”
“Not so much as you, at any rate.”
“Exactly,” he agreed.
“Well…” She took a deep breath and plunked the mugs back on the table. “On those words of wisdom, I shall wish you farewell.”
“I thought you had tasks to finish here.”
“I do,” she admitted. “But suddenly I am feeling strangely nauseated.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, and stepped toward her as she turned to the door. “I have that effect on women sometimes.”
She glanced up at him from a crooked angle. “I’m surprised you admit it.”
“They usually get over their illness in a few months time.”
She stumbled as his meaning came home to her, and he laughed harder.
“I jest, Bel,” he said. “I have fathered no bairns.”
“Oh? And how can you be certain?”
“Do you truly want to know, lass?” he asked, chuckling.
She scowled at him as she set a candle to the fire then fitted it back into an iron bound lantern. “Nay, I do not. But such a magnificent lover as you think yourself—”
“Magnificent.” He laughed. “Who have you been speaking to, lass?”
“None but you,” she said. Then, “Fleta,” she called, raising her voice. “I fear I must leave now. Can you finish up for the night?”
An affirmative answer issued from the kitchen and soon Isobel had stepped outside. Gilmour followed without comment.
Silence settled between them. Up ahead in the darkness, the light from her swaying lantern shone off the smooth face of a puddle. Slipping his hand around her upper arm, Mour urged her aside.
“Would you like me to carry you?”
“Mayhap at me funeral,” she said and pulled her arm firmly from his grasp.
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?”
She eyed him askance. “What do you mean by that?”
“Might you think I am planning your demise?”
“Are you?”
“I would hardly have time. What with all the virtuous maids yet to be deflowered.”
She snorted, lifting her pale underskirt slightly, and pointedly ignoring him.
He gazed appreciatively at the trim turn of her ankles and grinned. “What possible reason could I have to wish you harm?” he asked.
“What reason could you have to be here atall?”
“You cannot believe that I wish to protect you?”
“If that is the case you can put your mind at ease,” she said.
“You think you are capable of caring for yourself?”
Finding her way down a rough walkway of inlaid stones, she turned at the arched door of a thatched cottage. “More capable than you, MacGowan.”
“You do not want me help?”
“The rumors are true then,” she said. “You are indeed quick witted.”
He bowed, making a show of his chivalry. “Your wish is granted then, me lady. I will bother you no more. Indeed, if I meet a score of slavering brigands, I vow to do naught but point them in your direction.”
“Me thanks,” she said and he nodded.
“Farewell to you,” Mour said, and as he turned away a man smiled from the deep shadows of he
r cottage.
Chapter 5
On the following morning Gilmour visited the stables.
A nicker greeted him as he opened the door, but he realized in an instant that the warm welcome was not for him. Francois was pushing his powerful neck over his gate toward a scrawny lass in a washed-out gown that hung askew from her bony shoulders. She stood well out of reach and stretched one hand timidly toward the steed.
Frustrated by the smell of the turnip in the girl’s cupped palm, Francois pressed forward and flapped his lips across the lassie’s fingers.
Startled, she dropped the treat and lurched away, looking for all the world as if the steed might very well eat her alive. Gilmour could not help but laugh.
The girl jerked toward him, somber eyes wide in her too narrow face, lips pursed.
“Here then,” said Gilmour, striding close to pick up the abandoned offering. The girl backed away, thin fingers spread across her ear. He recognized her then, for between her fingers he could see the discoloration that stained her lobe and jaw. It was both the color and the size of a well-ripened plum. He straightened, watching her. “You’re the lass from the Lion’s kitchen, are you not?” he asked.
There was a slight delay before her jerky nod. Her hair, mousy brown and stringy, fell over her fingers, and she drew her hand slowly away.
Mour turned the piece of turnip in his hand. “Does your mistress know you ferret away treats for the steeds?”
Her eyes widened even more and Gilmour laughed again. “You needn’t worry. I’ll not tell her, though Francois hardly deserves your attentions. Truth to tell he’s a greedy beggar.”
“He is wounded.”
The words were spoken softly and solemnly, as if that was all that needed be said. The beast was wounded and so she had come to ease his pain. And though there were few creatures on earth that needed less easing than this one, Mour could not help but appreciate her kindness.
“Here,” he said, lifting the turnip toward her.
She shook her head and backed away an additional step, and he saw now that she limped a bit on her right leg.
“Humph,” he said and frowned. “I would not have thought it of a lass like you.”