by Lois Greiman
“He is a MacGowan—”
“Aye!” She spat the word, for they were weakening. She could see it in their skittering eyes. “You may think him powerful, but what good will that do you against scores of Munros?”
“MacGowan—” the wolf began, but in that instant Gilmour whipped the Maiden from his belt.
“That’s enough now, lads,” he warned. “I want no trouble here.”
“No trouble?” Roy stepped toward him, huge hands clenching.
Another man leapt from the woods, eyes wild. “What happened to Dell…” He slowed, his eyes taking in the scene. “What goes on here?”
“MacGowan has come to visit us.”
“MacGowan! Then ‘twas he who murdered Dell!”
“Dell is dead?”
“Aye, and—”
Gilmour lifted a passive palm toward the crowd. ” ‘Twould be best not to leap to—”
But in that moment Roy leapt. MacGowan swept his knife in an arc and Roy stumbled back, blood spurting from his arm.
Another man lunged forward. MacGowan struck again, but out of the shadows a man stepped up behind, swinging a branch like a club.
It crashed against MacGowan’s skull, and he fell, dropping like a rock beside Isobel.
Chapter 11
Gilmour groaned as he came to. His ribs ached, his chest burned, and his leg throbbed from the hip down, but it was his head that made him wish for death. He opened his eyes and found that the sky was only nominally lighter than when he had ventured into this hellish campsite.
And speaking of hell, where was Isobel?
“So you’re awake, are you, MacGowan?” Perhaps it was said in a normal tone, but it felt like the blast from a furnace, all but rattling Mour’s eyeballs with the vibrations of sound. “And a lucky thing.” The man who rose beside the fire was as thin as a reed. “The lads were all for doing you in if you didn’t come to before dawn.”
Gilmour squinted at the glimmer of light that invaded his world then shut his eyes.
“But I think one of the MacGowan rogues can do us naught but good. Aye?”
Gilmour tried to think. He had seen the man called Roy before, but he couldn’t quite remember where it had been. “I’ll say as I’ve said before, me name be Russell of the Barclays,” he croaked, no longer having to change his voice, for his throat was too parched for him to speak normally. “I was but passing through on me way to—”
He heard someone approach only moments before something struck his gut with the force of a battering ram. Pulling his knees to his chest, he expelled the contents of his stomach onto the hard earth.
And that was the best part of his day.
By nightfall, Mour figured he was two minutes from death and rather wished the grim reaper were not such a lazy bastard and would see the job done good and proper. He’d flitted in and out of consciousness like a visiting honeybee, and although he would have been happy enough to remain asleep, the jostling of the horse he was tied to awakened him more than once. At some point he realized his mount was Francois, and at another he’d been lucid enough to recognize that Isobel rode beside him, looking grim and weary.
Damn. He slept again, but eventually the cobwebs cleared a little, leaving him cramped and morose.
“Are you awake?” Isobel’s voice was only a murmur in the darkness. He was no longer astride. That much he was sure of, but he had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious. One day? A lifetime? “MacGowan?”
He opened an eye. She sat only a short distance away, and although her hands were probably bound behind her back, she sat upright. He felt immensely jealous, not to mention impressed. Gilmour stared at her with one eye and wondered if he had the strength to kick her in the shin.
“Tell me, lass,” he said, and found that he cared not a whit if their captors heard him. In truth, he didn’t believe he could hurt more than he already did—though he rather disliked the idea of having to prove his theory. “Have I wronged you in some way that I know nothing about?”
There was a moment of silence, or perhaps he lost consciousness. Either way it didn’t matter much, for eventually he heard her again. “You said I’d regret—”
“What’s this, then?” The coarse voice from above sounded like a boom of thunder. Gilmour winced even before the boot met his ribs. “Shut your trap, MacGowan, or I’ll let the lass do what she will with you.”
Gilmour remained mute, lying in silent agony and thinking. Who were these bastards? Why did they want Isobel? Could they possibly have mistaken her for Anora? Did he have the strength to crawl away and die in peace? And if he did, what would happen to Isobel? Not that he cared. After all, she had tried to kill him.
“And what of the MacGowan?”
Gilmour awoke with a start as a medley of voices argued near the fire behind him.
Damn it! Mour thought groggily. He’d regained consciousness.
“He travels with us.”
“I don’t like it, Finn. Not one bit, I don’t.”
Gilmour winced. He didn’t mind women fighting over him, but when a bunch of barbarian ball beaters found occasion to bash heads over him, it was generally not a good thing.
Glancing up, he saw that Bel was seated beside him. Her eyes were wide, but it was impossible to guess what she was thinking.
“How long have they been arguing?” he asked.
She didn’t answer and he couldn’t tell if she was afraid to speak, or if, by some patent foolishness, she still believed he was to blame for this predicament.
“Bel,” he said. ” ‘Tis not…”
Then he heard the footsteps. Two pairs, one quick and light, one heavy and slow. Gilmour closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.
“Is he awake, then?”
“Nay. But he has been moaning,” Bel said.
“Do you admit that he is a MacGowan?” It was the lean, wolfish fellow that spoke, the one called Finn.
“As I told you, I was turned about in me mind. In the darkness I mistook him for someone else.”
“Then…” The words ceased, accented by a metallic scraping. Gilmour had heard a knife unsheathed enough times to recognize the noise in the dark. “There be no reason not to kill him.”
A hand grasped his hair, yanking his head back.
“Nay!” Isobel shrieked.
“Nay?” The hand loosened slightly. Gilmour forced himself to breathe, “Do you say that you know him?” asked the brigand.
“Aye. You are right. He is of the MacGowans.”
“Which one?” Finn’s voice was smooth, well modulated.
“He is called Gilmour.”
There was a slight intake of breath from the twitchy fellow. “The rogue of the rogues?”
“I believe some call him that.”
“What interest does he have in you?” asked Finn.
“I know not.”
A crack of sound broke the night. Gilmour jerked, coming up off his shoulder with a start and immediately seeing the red imprint on Isobel’s cheek.
“So you are awake, aye, MacGowan?” Finn smiled. Lean as a starved wolf, his teeth gleamed crookedly in the moonlight. “I wondered. Get on your feet.”
Gilmour rose unsteadily before turning back to memorize the features of Isobel’s abuser. Tolerance, after all, could be stretched only so far.
“Untie his legs,” Finn ordered.
Roy did so. Hemp scraped against Gilmour’s ankles, and then blood rushed painfully back.
In a matter of minutes they were by the fire, and Mour took a seat on a log without being told.
“So you are the rogue of the rogues.”
“I…” Mour began, but his voice crackled from disuse. He cleared his throat, hoping Isobel could hear his words, for it might be handy if their stories matched. “I could use a drink.”
Finn nodded and one of the others grudgingly handed him a horn mug. The contents tasted dull and brackish but the liquid felt soothing against his throat. Setting the mug aside, he glance
d back at Finn, who seemed to be the leader of this moth-eaten pack.
“I am the rogue.”
“Then you lied earlier.”
“Aye.”
“Mayhap you recall that I do not like to be lied to.”
Gilmour kept his tone carefully casual. “I have some recollection, aye.”
Finn smiled. The hairs on the back of Mour’s neck rose eerily. “Why did you present yourself as a Barclay, then?”
“Is it the truth you want?”
“Why not try that?” crooned Finn.
“I thought it wise to use another name for a time, after leaving Henshaw.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Gilmour remained mute for several beats. “Some fathers would seek revenge for naught more than a few minutes of harmless… entertainment.”
“So you swived some maid you shouldn’t have?” guessed the closest fellow, but another was already glancing into the darkness toward Isobel and rubbing his crotch.
” ‘Twas that one. You laid her and left her, aye?”
Gilmour memorized the fellow’s face. “I am not called the rogue for naught.”
“Indeed,” Finn said and filled his mug from a bottle near the fire. “And how does your own father feel about your… entertainments?”
Gilmour drank again. “I try not to burden him with too many facts.”
“Will he pay for your safe return?”
Mour shragged. A plan was forming in his mind. It might well work, or it might get him killed. “We have had our differences over the years.”
“Truly?” The lean brigand had been carving roasted flesh from a mutton bone and glanced up like a wolf over a fresh kill. “Then why should I keep you alive?”
Gilmour smiled. “Because I am me mum’s favorite.”
“And she has the coin to pay?” asked the hulking man called Roy.
“I see you have not heard of the notorious Flame of the MacGowans.” Mour glanced from the hulk to the wolf.
“Enlighten me,” said Finn.
“May I?” Mour motioned to a hunk of dark bread that sat on a log nearby.
Finn tossed Gilmour the loaf and waited in silence.
“The Flame will do what she will. You’ve but to name the price and she will pay the cost for me safe return, unless…” Gilmour scowled and turned his gaze briefly toward Isobel again. “It may well be that if I present her with one more bastard even she will tire of me.”
“The girl’s breeding?” asked Roy.
Finn turned his knife, causing die firelight to play along its edge. “Surely the rogue knows there are cures for that.”
Mour’s stomach twisted. “Me kin will pay well for me safe return,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even. “And we could travel the faster without the girl. She is naught but a cook at a moldering inn. Why not let her go?”
“It might be that she is worth a good deal more than you know.”
Mour snorted. “To whom?” he asked, and waited breathlessly for a response.
“You’ve no need to worry on that.”
Gilmour shrugged and ate as if unconcerned. “Let her go and I’ll cause you no trouble.”
“So you have feelings for her, do you?”
Wincing ever so slightly, Mour rolled his shoulder back, easing the wound she’d left on his chest, and glancing surreptitiously toward Bel. ‘Twas a fine line he walked. He must make them believe his life was worth a great ransom, but he dare not let them believe he was over-fond of Isobel, lest they think to have some hold on him with her presence. “Aye. Who would not?” he asked and winced again. “She’s a bonny lass.”
Finn laughed. “You’re not afraid of her, are you, MacGowan?”
He glanced up as if surprised by their wild assumptions. “Of course not, but me kin will be most unhappy if I turn up dead, and you do not want the clan MacGowan against you.”
“Nay,” laughed the brigand leader. “I can tell they be a fierce lot. Baron, take the bonny lad here back to the maid and bind his feet.”
The one called Baron was slim and small and fidgety. He had not yet seen a score of years, but when he pushed Gilmour down beside Isobel, he did so with rough bravado.
Bel jumped and Gilmour jerked away.
From behind, Roy laughed. “You be gentle with him now, lassie.” Taking his knife from its sheath, he made a show of cleaning his nails with it. “We would not want you maiming the poor wee lad.”
Gilmour ignored him. “I meant no harm, lass. ‘Twas just a bit of pleasure I was after,” he said, making certain his tone was ingratiating, and Roy chuckled.
Baron knelt, but as he wound the hemp about Gilmour’s ankles, his hands seemed to dally strangely on Mour’s legs.
“Enjoying yourself, lad?” Roy asked and Baron tied the knot and jerked away.
As for Gilmour, he was never so happy to be securely tied in his life, and turned on his side as if to sleep. He could feel Isobel’s gaze on him, but there was no way to explain his strange words with their captors so near. Indeed, there was nothing to do but plan in silence and hope they believed his lies.
They rode throughout the following day, keeping to the woods and making little time. Wherever they were going, they were in no hurry to get there.
That night they sat near a fire again, surrounded by elderberry trees and darkness. Gilmour’s head felt fairly normal, and though the food was abysmal, he had eaten his fill.
“So you do not mind a good fucking, huh, lass?” Roy asked and brushed his knuckles across Isobel’s as he handed her a mug. Gilmour stiffened, but Bel didn’t even blanch. Instead, she took the offered drink between her tied hands and sipped immediately.
“What lies has he been spewing about me?” she asked.
“Lies?” The big man grinned. He was bearded and broad, with a chest like a wine barrel and hands like meat hooks. “Surely the MacGowan here wouldn’t lie.”
Isobel coughed over her drink, and Gilmour raised his brows. If her angry expression was an act, it was a shame and a pity women weren’t allowed on the stage.
“What did he tell you?” Her voice was cool now, and as she lifted her chin, Gilmour saw the flash of her eyes in the firelight.
Bear man grinned. Apparently dental hygiene wasn’t his fetish. “Not much atall. Only that you wasn’t bad in bed… for a scrawny bit of a whore.”
For a moment Gilmour was certain she wouldn’t believe such lies, but suddenly she flung her mug with fierce strength. He ducked. Still, it missed his head by less than an inch. Stunned, he straightened slowly. Did she realize his ploy? Did she know he hoped to make them believe that her presence was not worth the trouble? That his ransom alone would be enough for all?
“You bastard!” she screamed and lunged.
MacGowan tripped backward. If she knew, she was a damned fine actress.
Roy caught her about the waist like a bawling calf. “Hold on now, you wee wild cat,” he said and chuckled. “So you still got some of that vinegar left, aye?” She wriggled in his arms, glaring at Gilmour, but her captor turned her easily and grated one hand down her waist. “Mayhap you should save some for old Roy here, huh?”
She stilled in his arms, her eyes seeming to dull the light of the fire behind her. “Cut me loose,” she ordered, her voice low and hard.
“What’s that?”
“Let me at him,” she said, “and you’ll not regret it.”
Roy licked his lips and shifted his eyes sideways. “Finn wouldn’t be none too happy.”
She straightened, pulling regally out of his grip. “Does Finn cut up your food for you, too?”
“Don’t get uppity, missy, or—”
“Hey!” Baron was suddenly behind him, shuffling about like a high strung hound. “If anybody’s going to do her I get a share.”
“Shut yer trap!” Roy said and swinging his arm back, knocked the boy away with casual brutality. He stumbled and went down, but Roy failed to notice as he leaned close to Isobel.
�
��Are you—”
“What’s this then?” Finn said, and stepped with casual grace into the firelight.
“The merry baron was trying to prove himself on the lass here,” Roy said.
“Is that so?” Finn’s eyes were as quick as light, sprinting from the boy to Isobel and back again.
“Aye. It—” Roy began, but Finn interrupted.
“I was talking to the maid.”
She nodded, her lips pursed. “Aye,” she said. “And I’m not that sort. No matter what MacGowan says.”
Finn smiled. “Unfortunately, we’ll not be finding out what sort you are,” he said and pulled his dark blade from its hiding place in his sleeve. “Do you understand me lads?”
“Aye!” Baron nodded jerkily.
Roy only shrugged as if uninterested, and the others remained mute. Finn nodded toward Isobel. “Sit down,” he ordered. “Over there.”
She did as told, moving past the fire and sitting on the turf. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she tugged her gown over her ankles with her bound hands.
“Tie her feet,” Finn said, and as Baron did as so, Isobel glared over his shoulder at Gilmour.
Well, thought Mour nervously, she could damn sure play a role.
Chapter 12
They again rode through the next day, but stopped early for the night.
Why? Had they reached their destination? Gilmour glanced about, trying to get his bearings. Light had faded into darkness and Finn had not yet returned from wherever he had gone. It was not a good sign. Time was running out. That much he knew, but he shifted his eyes back to the fire, took a drink from his mug and tried to look relaxed. Bound hand and foot as he was, it was not a simple task, but it was Isobel’s situation that made his nerves tangle up in hard-tied knots.
Her feet had been cut free so that she could go into the woods, but never was she allowed to go alone. Roy had accompanied her. Roy! The muscles in Gilmour’s back cranked tighter, but he loosened them slowly, one by one, with a hard won effort. She would be safe. Roy was a barbarian and a bastard true enough, but he feared Finn, and Finn had insisted that she be left untouched. She would be safe. But the seconds ticked ruthlessly away, wearing at Mour’s composure. Yet he dared not show concern if he wished to implement his plan. Still, he could wait no longer.