The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  She stared at him a moment longer then spoke. “Thought what?”

  “That you would tease a poor wounded beastie with a tasty morsel only to let him go hungry.”

  Her pink mouth fell open slightly, but she reached timidly for the turnip and he grinned.

  “But beware,” he added, as she lifted the treat back toward the stallion who lipped it happily from her palm, “Francois has his pride. He does not accept charity. You’re now committed to ride him.”

  It took some time for Mour to convince the girl to mount the steed, but finally she did and sat hunched on his back, clinging to his heavy mane as Mour led him out of the stable and up the rutted street toward the Lion. It was not a simple task to get her to tell him she was on her way to the inn, and it was downright impossible to convince her to share her given name.

  “Plums,” he said and scowled as he walked along. “A pleasant enough fruit, but said to be unwholesome when eaten fresh. They be best served in jellies and pastries.” He glanced up. “You’re not to be baked into a pie, are you, lass?”

  She shook her head, and with that motion she gave him the slightest of smiles. Her teeth were crooked and she was missing a tiny premolar, but in that instant it seemed as if the sun shone on her face alone.

  “Nay. No one with such a bonny smile should be called by the name of a pitted fruit,” Mour said and spent the rest of the journey trying to guess her given name.

  When he moved to lift her down near the Lion’s door, she stiffened, but allowed his touch. Still, as she backed nervously away, her cheeks were as bright as her eyes, which she shifted toward a noise behind him.

  “I shall have to call you something,” Mour said, “for I fear I need your help. Francois will become as fat as a swine if he is not ridden, and with his wound, I fear I am a bit heavy for him. Mayhap you would agree to exercise him again on the morrow.”

  Her gaze flitted back to him. Her crooked smile lifted for a fraction of a moment, and then, like a wounded sparrow, she scampered into the inn.

  Gilmour turned away. Isobel stood beside the wattle and daub building, watching him. For a moment their gazes held, but he had made a vow to leave her be and he was not fool enough to break it. Nodding curtly, he returned Francois to the stable, but despite his words to the wee lassie, the horse was not grievously wounded and required little attention. Therefore, there was naught for him to do but return to the Red Lion and while away his hours at one of the inn’s well-scrubbed tables.

  It should have been a pleasant time. Indeed, there were few things he enjoyed more than sipping spirits in a cozy inn with an appreciative crowd to listen to his tales and a bonny maid to give him a come-along glance now and again.

  In fact, he very much considered coming along a time or two, but something always distracted him. It wasn’t Isobel. Nay, her entrances into the common room disturbed him not at all. Oddly, it was the other patrons who irked him. The fellow in the leather jerkin, for instance. Seated at a table near the door every evening, he watched Isobel with dark, brooding eyes whenever she was in view. Dressed as a warrior, he wore a knotted strip of leather about his neck. It hung down inside his dark tunic, not showing whatever charm it might hold on its end. He was no giant of a man, average in height and girth really, but dour of expression.

  In an attempt to draw him out, Gilmour had ordered him an ale and engaged him in conversation. But the smooth shaven fellow had given him little more than his name, and that in a grunted soliloquy.

  “Hunter,” he had called himself. Hunter, and nothing else. ‘Twas a strange name for a strange fellow. But what it was that irritated him about the man, Gilmour could not quite say. True, he watched Isobel with unwavering attention, but she was a bonny lass, and therefore drew the eye—until one got to know her. Still, the man’s actions peeved him.

  And what of the fellow called Redmont? He was as fat as a toad and undeniably irksome. Surely no lass could be interested in him. Still, Gilmour’s finger began to twitch with unfailing regularity when the man joked with Isobel. But it was probably naught but the sight of his sister by law that made Gilmour irritable.

  There were always others present, but perhaps it was Laird Grier who annoyed Mour most of all, and it had nothing to do with his endless flirtations. Gilmour barely noticed the attention he showered on Isobel. Like the Munro, he too had spent some time courting Anora, but that was well before Isobel’s time there. Still, the two of them had become acquainted somehow and now seemed to share a camaraderie that never failed to raise the hair on the back of Gilmour’s neck.

  Bugger it, Mour thought, and steadfastly kept his gaze from falling in that man’s direction. He had a tale to tell, and his audience, an eclectic group of labors and landowners, was enthralled. It made little difference that Isobel had decided against gracing them with her company, for he had no interest in her. Indeed, he had promised to leave her be, and he was always a man of his word. Well, he was usually a man of his word.

  Sometimes he was a man of his word.

  Actually, absolute honesty had always seemed somewhat overrated to Mour, and he wondered if he should accompany her home. She had not yet left the inn and already it was dusk. That meant she would be journeying home in the dark, which made his stomach curl into a hard ball in his gut.

  “You say the lad was no lad atall?” The question drew Gilmour back to his story.

  Happy to leave his present thoughts, he wound expertly through his yarn as time marched on. But still Isobel remained on his mind until the story’s wild finale.

  His listeners gasped or groaned, depending on their dispositions, and Gilmour rose leisurely to his feet. Stretching expansively, he gazed down at his audience and spared only the briefest of glances toward the kitchen. It was still bright and noisy. “Well,” he said, “the hour grows late. I think I shall step outdoors for a bit before I find me bed.”

  Fleta straightened as she wiped her hands upon her apron. “Will you be wanting any company?”

  “Outside or in his bed?” someone murmured. Sniggers followed the question.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Fleta huskily and Gilmour smiled as the crowd hooted.

  Taking her hand in his, he kissed her reddened knuckles. “I prefer to walk alone. But the other…” He raised his brows at her and let the sentence fall into silence.

  “We’ll see then,” Fleta cooed. She flitted a cool glare at the faces that surrounded them. “When we do not have a pack of ogling oafs round about.”

  “Mayhap later then,” Mour said, and giving her a quick bow, left the inn.

  Behind him, laughter wafted and voices rose and fell, but Gilmour’s mind was roiling, for the truth was bedeviling; he had no desire for Fleta’s company. And that very knowledge baffled him, for she was buxom, comely, and willing. Three of his favorite attributes, so why was his interest atypically downcast?

  Perhaps he was coming down with a fever, he thought, but nay, there was nothing wrong with him. He was simply eager to return to Evermyst with its secret passageways and grandmotherly ghosts—where he had brothers to torment and a tiny niece to coddle. Indeed, wee Mary was growing by leaps and bounds and would soon be walking. ‘Twas little wonder he felt such a strong need to leave Henshaw’s dreary streets. Well, Francois would soon be healed and able to travel.

  Mour remained where he was, loitering in the shadows of the inn and drinking in the stillness of the night. The moon was nearly full, with only a slim slice pared from its right edge. A lovers’ moon it was. Bright as a polished livre, it smiled down at him.

  He scowled in return and shifted his shoulders from the rough plaster of the inn, but just as he did so, a door opened on creaky hinges.

  “I assure you, I do not need company, Regan of Longwater,” Isobel said.

  The man murmured something in return and she laughed, her eyes bright in the light of her ironbound lantern.

  “Nay,” she insisted and pulled her fingers firmly from his grip, “but I am well flatter
ed. Goodnight to you.”

  With that, she hurried down the path to the south. Longwater remained still for a moment watching her, then, pulling his gaze away, he paced off in the opposite direction at a goodly clip.

  The hairs on Gilmour’s neck stood upright. “Why was the man leaving? It didn’t seem right, for by the moonlight, one could still see the sway of Isobel’s hips. Not that Mour cared, but if Longwater was so infatuated, why did he not stay to watch her out of sight?

  Perhaps he had no intention of leaving her be? What if he doubled back to accost her? And what of the dour, hauntingly familiar fellow called Hunter? Where was he? He had left sometime before. Might he not be hidden away with ill intent? Indeed, there were any number of evil souls who might be lurking in the shadows, he thought, but the truth struck him suddenly: he was lurking in the shadows, and he certainly had no designs on her. Therefore, there was probably no one in Henshaw who thought of Isobel Fraser any differently than he did.

  His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him hurriedly down the path behind her, but in a matter of moments he lost her. She had extinguished her light, he realized, and sensed more than saw her turn off the path to the right.

  Curious now, he hurried after, keeping to the shadows. Where was she going so late at night? It was only a matter of minutes before he knew the truth.

  “Rhone?”

  He heard her voice in a whisper of sound, but the answer was softer still.

  “Issa?” The response came from the deepest of shadows. Against the glow of the moon, Gilmour saw the high, stark skeleton of the old mill. “You came.”

  “Oh course,” she murmured and disappeared into the darkness of the shrubbery that surrounded the grain mill.

  Gilmour’s breath stopped in his throat. A tryst! She had come here at this late hour to meet a lover when she blatantly turned him aside at every opportunity? Who the devil was this Rhone, and why would he not come to the inn, or meet her in her own house? What did they have to hide? Was he a married man, or…

  Laird Winbourne!

  The image of Isobel in the arms of the stodgy laird struck him like a blow to the side of his head. But why would that grand noble not court her openly?

  It was none of his concern, of course, but curiosity and something less agreeable drew him deeper into the shadows until finally he could hear an irregular smattering of their murmured words.

  “…I would… for you, Issa.”

  Her voice was softer, almost impossible to discern, but after a moment, Mour could hear the man’s again.

  Barely breathing, Mour shifted carefully through the brush that surrounded the mill.

  “…Trouble,” said the man, and then on an errant wisp of wind, Gilmour heard, “…Anora.”

  He froze where he was, grasping a branch in one hand and straining to hear. Why had the unseen fellow spoken of Ramsay’s wife? What did they plan together here in the darkness? But just then leaves rustled beneath the two, and the truth was obvious. A lass did not often traipse through the village darkness to meet a man unless she planned to give herself to him. To that he could attest.

  Emotions smoked in Gilmour’s gut, but surely those emotions did not involve jealousy. Nay, he was only concerned about his kinswoman’s welfare. What would Bel get in return for her favors? It must be something substantial. Certainly it was not simply for lust’s sake, or else surely she would have shown interest in…

  The branch broke in Mour’s hand. In the dark silence it sounded like the blast of a cannon. He jerked, glancing up just in time to see Isobel step from the bushes. In the moonlight, her face looked as pale and perfect as a newly minted coin, and for a moment he was held mesmerized, but she did not delay. Instead, she turned and hurried away, leaving Gilmour to squint after her in silent surprise. No tryst? No moans of pleasure? His mood soared, but he stifled the feelings. After all, there was no way of knowing what had transpired or what she planned. Where was she off to now? Had he scared her away from her intended pleasure, or had she only planned to speak to the man? And was her lover even now sneaking through the brush to accost him? Gilmour straightened and narrowed his eyes at the thought. Let the bastard come. He’d be happy to…

  A shadowy image exited the bushes and hurried off in the opposite direction.

  Humph. What an odd thing. What kind of man would meet with Isobel of the Frasers and be content to leave in a matter of minutes? Gilmour had no answers. It seemed wise to follow the man and find out, but instead he found himself following Bel’s course through the darkness.

  Isobel jumped as laughter burst forth from the common room, but there was nothing to fear. Probably just another of MacGowan’s far flung tales.

  Ladling the last of the mutton stew into a wooden bowl, she kneaded her temples for a moment. She was tired. Even though all had gone well during the meeting with Rhone the night before, her sleep had been fitful. Had she imaged the noise in the bushes, or had someone been watching her from the shadows? Nay, she was simply growing skittish, for on several occasions lately it had seemed that someone watched her, and yet no harm had befallen her. All was well, or it would be if MacGowan would leave Henshaw. Why had he come here? And why was he with limes Munro? It could bode no good. Even though the Munros had formed a cautious alliance with the Frasers since Anora’s wedding, Isobel didn’t trust them. Their clan had coveted Evermyst for many years, and it was unlikely that would have been altered by the exchange of a few vows. So why was Ramsay’s brother with the giant laird of that troublesome tribe? And why had the bedeviling rogue remained behind? Could it be that he knew the truth?

  “Is that—”

  Isobel jumped at the sound of Fleta’s voice then jerked about to see the smile drop from the other woman’s face.

  “Issa love, what’s ailing you?” Fleta asked as she retrieved the stew. Although she was only a few years older than Isobel, she treated all with a motherly concern. So surely there was no reason to be irritated by the woman.

  ” ‘Tis naught,” Isobel breathed, but found herself wondering why Fleta looked so happy. In truth, though, she knew the answer. ‘Twas MacGowan’s shameless flirtations that had brought a smile to the maid’s lips. Flitting her eyes downward, Isobel cleared her throat. “I am fatigued is all.”

  “Then why not go home?”

  “I must clean up afore—”

  “Nonsense.” Fleta took her arm firmly, drawing her toward the back door. “Elga and I will tidy up. Birtle and Plums will help. You find your bed.”

  Bed. She stared aghast into Fleta’s dark eyes. Was that what she was thinking about? Did she plan even now how best to coax everyone out of the inn so that she could sneak into MacGowan’s bed?

  “Are you well, love?” Fleta asked, her tone concerned.

  “Aye.” She almost jumped again, guilty at her thoughts. After all, Fleta’s affairs were none of her business, for she’d been naught but kind to Isobel since the day she’d arrived some months before. “Aye. I am fine. Still, I could do with some rest. Perhaps I shall go home,” she said and within moments she found herself ushered out the door, lantern in hand.

  She scowled as she walked along. Aye, she would sleep well tonight and by morn she would be quite herself again, she thought, and glanced past her swaying circle of light into the darkness beyond. All was well. MacGowan would soon be gone, and, in the meantime, if he entertained himself with Fleta it was no concern of hers. Still, they seemed a mismatched pair. For all of Fleta’s pretty eyes and kindly nature, she did not seem the type to appeal to MacGowan. After all, he was vain and shallow and the thought of him holding her against the bare strength of his chest—

  She stopped abruptly. Heaven’s saints! What was wrong with her? She didn’t care a whit who he held against his chest, bare or not. She had no interest in him whatsoever, except to find out why he was with the Munro.

  Still, his bare chested image bedeviled her mind. Though she tried to be rid of it, she was stiff with tension, and she no longer felt
sleepy. She’d go to the burn for a while and listen to the waves against the shore. True, it didn’t have the spellbinding appeal of the sea, but the soughing sound had a way of easing her mind, of freeing her soul. And just now she desperately needed to be free.

  Where the devil was she going tonight? Gilmour wondered as he stepped into the darkness. Luckily, none suspected that he’d exited the inn to follow her, for though she had left through the back door, he had his ways of keeping track of her whereabouts. It had been simple enough to make his excuses and leave shortly after. But now he wondered about her destination. Did she go to meet another lover? Or hadn’t the man from the night before been her lover atall? Rhone, she’d called him. A strange name. Might he have been an informant of some kind? And if so, what kind of information did he carry?

  Thoughts milled like wild ewes through Gilmour’s mind. The moon was hidden just now, but even so, he thought he saw Isobel glance back and held his breath as he froze in the darkness beside the path. For a moment it seemed as if the whole world held its breath, but finally she turned and continued on, over the rickety bridge by the mill and on to the wooden palisade that contained the village. There she stopped and glanced about once again. No sound interrupted the silence, and with one furtive glance behind her, she turned and disappeared from sight.

  Gilmour waited where he was, watching the black space where she had disappeared and realizing in a moment that she had slipped through the wooden enclosure to the rustling burn beyond.

  Gilmour left his hiding place to creep silently forward, careful not to disturb the quiet. It took him a moment to shimmy over the wooden wall, and once on the opposite side, he paused to search for her. But he could see little.

  A gnarled rowan leaned its deep shadow over the burbling stream that ran beside the village. The moon had escaped from the bondage of the clouds and shone with cool brilliance on the face of the water, but beneath die rowan branches, it was as dark as sin. Gilmour stopped there, letting his eyes adjust, but there was nothing that could have prepared him, for suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Isobel appeared on the bank of the stream.