The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  “And wealthy.”

  He kissed the corner of her eye.

  “And privileged.”

  “Am I?”

  Without looking she could sense his smile, and then he skimmed his tongue soft as a butterfly’s passing along the curl of her ear. She trembled and wished she hadn’t.

  “Aye.”

  “Because I get what I want?” He whispered the words against her lobe, sending the shiver deep into her soul.

  “Aye.” She could barely force out the word.

  “But I want you, Isobel,” he said, finding her eyes with his own. “Right now. This very minute.”

  He was leaning over her, ungodly close, pinning her to the bed, yet she had no desire to escape.

  His thumb caressed her lips. His kiss followed, slow and hot, steaming her thoughts to nothingness.

  “But I would not take you against your will. On that you can depend. Indeed, I would mend the wounds caused by others if I could.” He kissed her again, just as slowly, just as hot until she ached with an odd longing that she could neither explain or defend. “I would take the wounds and let you fall unencumbered into sleep. Where do you hurt, Bel?”

  She panted for air, trying to think, but it was no use.

  “Here?” he asked, and kissed her bruised lips with careful, aching tenderness. “Here?” he asked, and rising slightly, kissed the bruise on her skull. She had no idea how he knew of its existence, and yet he did, and with that light contact the ache diminished a hundredfold.

  “Where did they touch you?” he whispered.

  She opened her mouth to answer, though in truth she had no idea what she planned to say, but he kissed her to silence.

  “Do not speak. I will find it,” he said, and skimmed his fingers over her lips and down her throat. His kisses followed the same hot course. “Did they touch your shoulders?” he asked. Vaguely, like one in a dream, she felt her gown ease downward, felt his lips on her skin. “Your arms?” Were they bare? She wasn’t really sure, yet she could feel his kisses, hot and heavenly against her skin. “Your elbow?” He held her arm in his hands and pressed a kiss to the inside bend. A moan whispered through the room. Surely it was not hers. “Your wrist?” he asked, and traced an aching course down her arm to her hand. It quivered in his grasp. But he was without mercy. Lifting it to his lips, he licked the hollow of her palm. She jerked, but he held her firm, kissing every finger in turn until he reached the pinkie. That tiny digit he pulled into his mouth and suckled. She opened her eyes to watch him in breathless silence, feeling her mouth go dry as if every ounce of bodily fluid was needed elsewhere.

  But he was already moving on, lifting her opposite hand to kiss its heel, its knuckles, its thumb, before traveling languidly up her arm to her shoulder. His fingers skimmed a course along her collarbone.

  “Did they hurt you here?” he asked, and kissed the high regions of her chest above her gown. Only, it seemed suddenly and rather dimly, that her gown was no longer there. “Or here?”

  She jumped at the heat of his lips against her breast and realized with breathy confusion that she was clothed in naught but her chemise. It lay molded against her skin, outlining every curve.

  “Or here?” he murmured and pressed his lips to her nipple.

  She cried out, and found suddenly that her fingers were caught in his hair. He paused for a moment and then he lapped her with his tongue.

  She bucked against him, and it was then and only then that he eased fully onto the mattress. Her knees parted like the petals of a rose and suddenly he was cradled between them. Against her thigh, she could feel the hard length of his desire. It pulsed a hot, slow beat.

  “Did they touch you there, lass?” he rasped.

  “Nay.” Her voice was hoarse and she trembled as she spoke.

  ” ‘Tis good,” he murmured, and slowly, ever so slowly, worked his way down to her belly.

  Her fingers fell weakly away from his hair, only to wrap once again in the blankets.

  Through the sheer cloth of her undergown, he kissed her navel, her hip, her thigh, and then, easing his hands down one leg, he took her foot in his palm while her chemise flowed wantonly upward.

  “What of your foot? Did they hurt that?” he asked and kissed the sole.

  She all but screamed at the feelings that slammed through her and jerked her leg with all her might, tearing it from his grasp.

  “Isobel?” His voice was a mere feather of sound in the candlelight. “Did I hurt you?”

  She licked her lips, fighting for sanity, but it was obviously long gone since she seemed to be losing her senses over nothing more than the feel of his caress against her sole.

  “Nay.”

  “Then give it back,” he said and gently took her foot again into his hands to ease his fingers around her instep and kiss her toes. She trembled, but he did not stop. Instead, he worked his way upward, and when she winced, he paused.

  “Your ankles?” he said softly, and she nodded, barely able to manage that much. Smoothing his hands over them, he kissed one side, then the other. Her shin was next, and then, when she thought she could bear no more, he trailed his tongue, light as sunshine, over the inside of her knee and up her thigh.

  “MacGowan!” His name came to her lips in a low hiss of sound as she gripped his tunic in fretful fingers.

  “Aye, lass, it is I,” he said, but not for an instant did his fingers cease their delicious dance upon her flesh. “Never fear.”

  But she did fear. She feared that she would be consumed. Would burn up beneath his hands and never care that she was gone. She feared that she would be just one in a hundred to him, while to her he would…

  Her thoughts stopped as he reached higher to cup her buttocks. Squeezing gently, he bore her upward. His mouth touched the sensitive inside of her thigh and she ceased to breathe, dared not move. But he had no such inhibitions. Indeed, the fire moved with his mouth, skimming along until he reached her apex.

  She jumped and froze. He kissed her again. His mouth was hot and firm against her, sucking, soothing, toying.

  Her breathing came in short gasps now and though she did not mean to, her body had begun a rhythm of its own, rocking against his mouth. Beneath her his hands flexed and relaxed, bearing her up on every stroke, prodding her gently and irrevocably into the deep waves of pleasure.

  Her breathing was harsh and some inner voice warned her to cease such foolishness, but the warning was drowned in the roar of feelings that welled around her. She was rising, bumping higher and higher, lifted by his hands, enlightened by his touch, until her body exploded in a rush of hot feelings.

  She shivered as he kissed her again, and then, as he smoothed her chemise over her knees, he stretched out beside her. Her right hand, still curled tight in his tunic, traveled with him. Against her hip, his hard proof of desire pulsed with life, but he did nothing to relieve the pressure. Instead, he gently grasped one of her wrists. Her fingers fell away from his crushed tunic and he kissed the palm before placing it across her body.

  “Isobel.” Her name was the softest caress. She opened her eyes, finding his with breathless speed. “Did I hurt you?”

  She managed no more than a weak shake of her head.

  “Nor will I,” he said and kissed her lips. There was passion there, hot as a skillet, trembling on the edge of control, yet held in check by a firm discipline she had failed to recognize. And in a moment he stood, pulling himself from her side. “Bar the door.” His voice was low with feeling, but when she managed to lift her gaze to his face, she saw the shadow of a grin lift his lips. “When you find the strength.”

  Chapter 9

  Isobel awoke blearily. She felt strangely limp, but when she rolled over, a hundred vivid memories crashed home in her brain.

  She sat up with a start and noticed with surprise that her chemise was twisted about her waist like a traitor’s noose. Heat rushed up her neck to her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, hoping against hope that what she remembered was
not a memory at all, but only a wild outcropping of her imagination.

  But the images were as real as life. She launched from bed in a frenzied attempt to escape them, to rush back to life as she knew it.

  Hurrying to her basin, she washed with strained chamomile water and tried to ignore the heated memories that reared their swollen heads. But most of all, she tried to fend off the sweep of soft feelings that threatened to drown her. She had no place for such feelings. She could afford softness for no one and certainty not for MacGowan. Like a swan and a brown sparrow they were, and while the sparrow wove a nest for her young, the swan paddled at leisure in the laird’s placid lochan. But the sparrow would bear no young, she reminded herself. That much she knew, for in her lowly state there was no room for naivete. Nay, naive maids had a tendency to lie alone in painful childbirth. Naive she was not.

  And yet she couldn’t forget the feel of his mouth against her, couldn’t shut out the hot downward rush of blood, threatening to drown her in ecs—

  Nay! Not ecstasy. Confusion, she corrected, and snatching a gown from a peg on the wall, dragged it over her head. In a moment she was dressed and cinched. Pulling a snood from a trunk, she tried to capture her hair, but her hands shook and she finally shoved her wayward locks from her face and rushed from the cottage, feet bare and her breath coming hard.

  “What a bold lass you are.”

  Isobel jumped, spinning toward the voice.

  Gilmour MacGowan rose, languidly brushing dirt from his plaid.

  “What are you doing here?” She meant to sound accusatory, but somehow she only managed breathy, as if she’d run too far, or perhaps waited too long to see him. God help her.

  “You neglected to bar the door,” he explained and nodded toward the portal. “I thought I’d best stay and make certain no one took advantage of that failing.” He gave her a wisp of a grin and glanced at the ground beneath them. “Your feet are bare.”

  “I was…” He stood very close. She swallowed and tried to disavow the rush of feelings that threatened to drown her. “In a hurry.”

  “A bit of a risk, don’t you think?”

  She blinked, trying to find her bearing.

  “In light of our discovery.” Lifting a hand, he brushed a sprig of crimped hair from her face.

  She considered bolting, but like an adder held entranced, she remained where she was, feeling his fingers skim like liquid magic across her cheek. “Discovery?” she whispered.

  “Your feet,” he said and leaned closer as if unwilling to let others hear. “One kiss to your sole and you are driven past the brink of control.”

  She stepped back so hastily she stumbled. Quick as a cat, he grabbed her arm and pulled her with lithe grace to his chest. “Are you well, lassie?”

  “Aye. Aye.” She was having trouble breathing, staying on her feet, thinking. “But I must be off.”

  “To the inn?”

  She managed a nod and wondered dimly what had happened to her tongue.

  “I will accompany you,” he said and took her elbow.

  Feelings snapped from his fingertips and shot along her arm like sparks from the smithy’s hammer. “You mustn’t,” she said, staring at his hand, but seeming entirely unable to move away.

  “Why not?”

  “If they see us together this early they will surely believe that we…” She ran out of words.

  “What will they believe?” he asked and grinned like a satyr as he reached up to run his thumb along the lower ridge of her lips. She trembled. “Bel?”

  Jerking out of her idiot’s trance, she snatched her elbow from his hand. “Methinks you know what they will believe, MacGowan.”

  “That I am the luckiest man in Henshaw?”

  “Is that your plan? To let them think that we….” Again, she lost her words, though she did her best to find them.

  “What did we do exactly, Bel?” he murmured, and for one wild second she was tempted almost beyond control to kiss him. She leaned closer, drawn against her will, but just before their lips met, her good sense awoke with a start.

  Spinning on her heel, she rushed away, not stopping until she flew through the Red Lion’s door and almost collided with Martha.

  “Hold up,” said the big woman, nearly spinning off her feet as Isobel rushed by. “What’s the hurry, lassie?”

  “Nothing.” She glanced wildly through the open door behind her, licked her lips, and tried again. ” ‘Tis naught.” She calmed her breathing with an effort. “I simply have much to do.”

  “You look…” Martha eyed her narrowly. “Changed somehow. Is something amiss?”

  “Nay—”

  “The MacGowan lad, the one they call the rogue,” she said, frowning. “Does he still rent a room here?”

  “Aye.” Isobel felt decidedly faint and a little sick to her stomach. “Aye.” She slowed her speech to sound off-hand and airy. “As far as I know, he does.”

  “Ahh.”

  “What do you mean, ahh? Whyever do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Martha and laughed a little. “But you’re a lucky lass, aren’t you now Issa.”

  Isobel meant to retort or deny or expound or whatever was necessary, but Martha was already gone, giving orders to Birtle as she went.

  And so Isobel’s morning began. It was a busy day. A cloth merchant on his way to Glasgow stopped to dine, and a young marquess, complete with extensive entourage, declared his need for a meal and a bed.

  It was already nearing dusk when Isobel made her usual visit into the dining hall to make sure all was well.

  MacGowan sat near the far wall. She kept her eyes carefully averted as she spoke to a few regulars, then moved on.

  “And how was your meal this night, me lairds?” she asked.

  The marquess looked up. He was plump and youthful, with an appealing smile and a nice voice. “And who might you be, lassie?”

  She gave him a bit of a smile. “I am Isobel, the cook here at the Red Lion.”

  “Ahh.” He glanced leisurely up and down, seeming to take in everything from her loose hair to her bare feet. “I thought the meal unsurpassed in its sumptuousness,” he said. “But I see that I was wrong.”

  Three men beside him chuckled as if on cue. He gave them a grin before glancing back up at her and lifting his mug in a sort of salute. She realized a bit belatedly that he had imbibed a good deal of Stout Martha’s heather ale.

  “And will you have a draught with us, wee Isobel?” he asked.

  “Me apologies,” she said, “but I have duties to attend to before night falls.”

  “Dare I hope that those duties include keeping a young lord happy?” he asked.

  She smiled, for she had seen her share of drunken nobility. They were generally slow, both of foot and of wit, while thinking themselves the most clever of men.

  “Again, me apologies. But I must go,” she said and turned to leave, but in that instant, he grabbed her wrist, restraining her.

  “I am not asking so much,” he said and rose beside her, pulling her arm between them. “Just a bit of your time, and mayhap a bit of pleasure for you, too. Aye?”

  “Lass.”

  She turned with a start and found that MacGowan stood directly beside her.

  “I do hate to disrupt you, but you are wanted in the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” She tried to pull her arm from the marquess’ grip, but he held tight. “Me apologies, me laird, but I must go.”

  The marquess turned his heavy lidded eyes to Gilmour. “Tell them she will be along shortly,” he said and smiled as he pulled her closer. “Me room is just yonder. This will take only a few minutes.”

  “I am certain it would,” Gilmour said and returned the smile, “but I fear she is needed immediately.”

  “Mayhap,” said the marquess and dropped Bel’s arm as his three companions rose noisily to their feet beside him. “But I need her more.”

  Gilmour frowned. “I could tell her cousin that, but the Munro is not al
ways as patient as some might think.”

  “The Munro?” asked the chubby laird. Gilmour smiled. Apparently the Munro’s name was powerful enough to clear the haze even from this fool’s lumbering mind, for he straightened slightly.

  “She is the cousin of the Munro of the Munros?”

  “Aye. Innes by name. Might you know him?”

  “Aye, I have…” The marquess swallowed and glanced toward his companions. “I have heard of him.”

  “How fortunate,” said Gilmour. “And mayhap he has heard of you. What be your name?”

  The marquess shrugged. “Truly, ‘tis of little consequence and the hour is late. Indeed, I think I will find my bed.” Turning slightly, he made an awkward bow to Isobel and left with his minions following behind like whipped curs.

  Gilmour watched them depart then took a quaff of his own brew. ” ‘Tis a fine batch. Give me compliments to Martha,” he said and placing the mug on a nearby table, left the inn.

  It didn’t take Isobel long to finish her duties in the kitchens. Soon she was tripping down the stone steps beneath the inn’s back door. It took her a moment to realize she was holding her breath as she walked along.

  The slightest scrape of a noise sounded beside her and her heart bumped. “MacGowan?”

  He stepped out of the shadows. “Aye, lass?”

  Relief washed through her like elderberry wine, but in a moment she chided herself for the feeling. He was not, after all, her savior. Indeed, it was very possible that he was the exact opposite.

  “You do not have to follow me home,” she said.

  “Nay. But I wish to,” he said and fell in beside her.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “You seem to have a penchant for finding trouble.”

  “I do not.”

  “So you like to be propositioned by plump lairds with girlie hands?”

  “I could have—”

  “You deserve more than girlie hands.” He grinned as he leaned so close to her that she could see the dazzling curve of each dimple. An errant wisp of breeze sent his wren feather in a light caress against her cheek with the gentleness of his fingertips.

  She felt the air leave her lungs as memories assailed her, but she struggled to keep her head. “And what is it you think I deserve, MacGowan?” she breathed.