The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  “So…” He glanced up at his captors. Three remained in camp. “How long have you known this Finn?”

  Three heads turned toward him, blank eyes evil, expressions immobile.

  Hmm.

  “I take it Roy has known him longer, aye?”

  Baron pushed himself from the tree where he’d been resting his back. If there was one to rise to the bait, it was likely to be him. Unfortunately, he was also the least able to prevent Roy from causing any mischief.

  “What are you yammering about, MacGowan?” asked Baron.

  He took another casual swig, though his stomach curled with nerves. “I was merely observing that Roy must be well trusted to take the girl into the woods for so long a time.”

  “It ain’t your concern,” rambled the one closest to the fire, but Baron was twitching all over like a weasel on a scent.

  ” ‘Ow long they been gone?”

  “Roy’ll be back when he’s ready,” said the first man and the second chuckled.

  “Wouldn’t take me long.”

  “What do ya mean it wouldn’t take you long? What—” Baron began, but in that instant Isobel stepped into camp.

  Relief flooded through Gilmour at the sight of her, even as he strained to make certain all was well, but not for an instant did she flicker her attention to him. Still, her head was high, and she seemed to be unscathed. If she looked nervous, who could blame her?

  All was well, but Roy still stood close behind her. Too close.

  “What’s been takin’ ya?” Baron’s voice was whiny.

  “I had me a leak,” Roy said.

  “You been ‘umpin’ ‘er?” Baron asked.

  “And why might you care, Baroness?”

  The lad’s hands crunched to fists. “You sayin’ I’m a lily?”

  “Me?” Roy chuckled. “Nay. I wouldn’t say that, lassie. But MacGowan there seems to be bored if you’re looking for some fun.”

  “Damn you!” Baron swore. “Give me ten minutes with ‘er and I’ll prove meself.”

  “I would,” Roy said, “but Finn might take it poorly if we lost us another man.”

  The boy spread his legs as if for battle. “You thinking I couldn’t ‘andle ‘er?”

  Roy grinned. Evil exuded from him like a foul stench. “What do you think, MacGowan? You been with her. Do you think the wee Baron here can tame her?”

  Tension cranked bile into Gilmour’s gut as his mind spun for ideas. Things were coming to a head. That much was clear. “If you value your health, lad, you’ll keep yourself to yourself.”

  “I don’t need no advice from the likes of you,” Baron snarled and Gilmour shrugged, every muscle tensed.

  “Nay. But unless you know a good physic, you’ll keep your wick in its candle.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” asked Baron.

  Even the dull two had perked up.

  “You saying she’s diseased?”

  “To look at her, she may seem worth the trouble,” Gilmour said, “but after a fortnight or so of itching, you may think otherwise.”

  “You bastard!” Isobel growled. Her voice shook with emotion and Gilmour scowled. Holy apples, he was just trying to keep her safe. What the hell was she thinking? He caught her gaze, trying to press his thoughts into her mind.

  “I did not have this trouble afore you,” he said.

  “I did nothing to you.” Her voice rose and she took one shaky step backward. What was she doing? Did she have a plan? Might she hope to distract the men with their arguments then lunge for the forest? But surely she hadn’t forgotten about Roy. He stood right behind her.

  “Aye,” Gilmour agreed and drank again, though it was difficult to force the fluids down his throat. “You did, lassie. And here you were telling me that you were untried. It makes me wonder who you were—”

  “Don’t say it!” She took another unsteady step backward, all but bumping into Roy’s immense force. But the hulk seemed relaxed, pleased even by their conversation, so perhaps she had a chance.

  “Don’t say what, lass?” he asked. “That you are a—”

  “Nay!” She shrieked the word through the darkness, and suddenly she twisted wildly backward.

  Gilmour lunged to his feet, ready to help her defeat Roy, to delay him an instant if he could, but in that second he realized that she had turned. A rope dangled from her loosed wrists and Roy’s knife gleamed in her fist.

  Like a maddened boar she barreled into Mour. He hit the ground with a shocked grunt. The knife slashed downward. He caught her hands between his palms, barely keeping it from his chest as he battled for his life.

  “Are you daft?” he rasped.

  “Scream,” she hissed.

  “What?” He stared at her, and in that moment he realized that her eyes were perfectly clear.

  “Scream,” she rasped and tilting the blade, wedged it between his bonds.

  Reality dawned.

  He shrieked like a baby and between their bodies, hidden from view, she swiped at his ropes. They sprang loose. He cried out again.

  “Kill the bastard!” Roy roared.

  “Help! Get her off me!” he shrieked.

  Someone laughed. Gilmour clasped his hands together and pushed her away. She fell back, but in a second she was up, coming toward him on hands and knees.

  Behind her, someone swore, but Gilmour had no time to assimilate who it might be, for in that instant she lunged again. He braced his heels against the turf and prayed.

  Pain slashed his calf, but his legs burst free.

  Springing to his feet, he grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, but he didn’t wait. Dragging her to her feet, he bolted toward the woods, and she came, galloping madly behind.

  Branches whizzed past his head, roots tangled about his boots. He almost fell. She snatched him back to his feet, pushing him on.

  Curses and threats stormed through the darkness behind them, seeming to come from the very earth at their feet. Where were they? Where should they go? He stumbled again, his lungs aching.

  “Hurry!” she gasped and turned to stare behind them, leading the way now as they scrambled on. But in that second she fell, sliding away into the darkness below them.

  Gilmour’s shoulders screamed as he hauled her back from the unseen abyss.

  “Spread out!” The words were as clear as dawn and came from directly behind them. “The river’s just ahead.”

  “We’ll have them now.” The voice came from their left. ” ‘Tis us or the fall.”

  Bel stepped to the side, searching for a way out. But there was none.

  “Jump,” she said.

  “What?”

  She glanced down into the unseen darkness below, then, “Jump!” she ordered.

  “Where? H—”

  ” ‘Ey!” The shout was nearly upon them.

  “Go!” she screamed, and slammed her body against Mour’s. He fell more than jumped, pummeling through the air for a timeless eternity. The water broke like glass beneath him, cracking against his chest, tearing at his shoulders, covering his nose, his eyes, pitching him into black death.

  He tried to find the air, to reach the surface, but where was up?

  Something struck him. He jerked away only to find air. It streamed into his lungs and he dragged it in.

  Isobel! Where? It was then that he realized she was behind him, her arm across his chest as she pushed him downstream.

  “Can’t you…” She paused, breathing hard and bobbing under. He felt himself sink beneath the surface and paddled madly. “Swim?”

  “Of course I…” he began and went under again.

  She hauled him back up. “Hurry!” she hissed.

  He tried, but if the truth was known, he swam like a rock. It took an eternity for her to propel them to shore. He crawled onto it, coughing, and she crept up behind.

  From the far shore someone cursed again, but the following words softened. “If you return to us now we’ll not harm you. You have me vow.”

>   Gilmour almost laughed. Grasping Isobel’s arm, he rose to his feet, but she lie where she was, face down on the coarse grasses.

  “Go!” He heard the low order from the cliff top.

  “Nay, I—” Baron said, but it was followed in an instant by a splash. Apparently Roy was no more patient than Isobel had been.

  Bending rapidly, Gilmour snatched the girl into his arms. Upstream someone splashed wildly and he dared cross through the water, letting the sound cover the noise of his own retreat.

  Some minutes later, he stumbled onto the opposite shore. One glance behind him told him nothing, so he rushed on.

  “I can walk.”

  He almost dropped her in his surprise, then let her legs slide to the ground… and fold, and spill her like a sack of grain onto the earth.

  “Aye,” he said and lifting her back into his arms, took off at a trot. “You can walk like I can swim.”

  An eternity passed before he stopped again. His chest burned, his legs throbbed and he was pretty sure that his arms were about to be yanked out of their sockets. She wriggled out of his arms and found her feet. They lurched forward together, but their reserves were running low. A branch reached from the darkness, snagging his feet. And he fell hard onto his knees—and beneath a withering log, he found a large hole.

  It was little wider than his chest, but they managed to wriggle into it and peer out into the darkness, legs cramping as they fought for breath.

  Close at hand, a man swore. Gilmour held his breath. Isobel’s fingers tightened in his tunic. Footsteps rushed toward them. Mour tried to reach his dirk, but the footfalls rustled past.

  Gilmour let his eyes fall closed and pulled Bel tighter up against him. Minutes passed like hours. Noises crackled and moans threatened, but they remained unfound until fatigue took them finally and they slept, wrapped like frightened hedgehogs in their hole.

  Sometime during the night they awoke. Something stirred outside their den, but they had no way of knowing what it was and no way to escape if they must, so they lay together barely breathing until the moment passed and they slept again.

  An eternity later, gray light filtered slowly into their lair. Isobel exited first, slithering her way out of the hole and pummeling Mour in the process. He creaked out next. They stood in silence, listening, before Mour turned toward her.

  “You’ve a gift for acting,” he said. “I thought you truly wished to kill me.”

  She said nothing, but stared silently into the dimness.

  “Bel?”

  She turned abruptly toward him. “Why?” she asked. “Why did they do it?”

  He shook his head, as baffled as she. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that,” she said and turning rapidly away, headed toward the north.

  Gilmour followed her, for indeed, there was not much else to be done, and there seemed little point in staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

  At midmorning, they found a bit of watercress growing in a trickling burn and as they walked they ate a bit. Sometime near noon they heard a sound and hid in the woods. But the noise passed and soon they were moving on. It was apparent, though, that they could not go much farther without food. Gilmour limped to a halt.

  “What are you doing?” Isobel asked and turned toward him.

  He glanced up. “Resting.”

  She peered into the woods, her expression strained. “We cannot stop here.”

  He almost laughed. “Then mayhap you should not have stabbed me in the leg,” he said and turned down his stocking to examine the wound on his calf. It was swollen and red and throbbed like other appendages which were wont to grant him a good deal more pleasure.

  She pushed his hands away. “I would not have stabbed you if you had not gotten yourself trussed up like a Michaelmas goose “

  “And I would not have been trussed up,” he said, “if you had the least bit of sense.”

  She was tearing a strip of cloth from her underskirt and raised her head, her eyes snapping. “So it is me own fault that I was attacked.”

  “Mayhap,” he said, “but ‘tis certainly your fault for attacking me at the very outset. What the devil were you thinking?”

  She began bandaging his leg, and she was none too gentle. “I was thinking you were proving to be the scoundrel I always thought you to be.”

  “Scoundrel! If that were the case why would I bother to find you, ensconce meself by the brigands’ fire, engage them in a lively tale, befriend—”

  “You’re an ass, MacGowan,” she said and tied off the bandage with a vengeance. “Did you never think that it was those very things that made me believe you were in their league?”

  “Surely not.” He stared at her in utter astonishment.

  She stared back. “What is it, MacGowan? Do you think yourself so charming that no matter what the circumstances, women will trust you and adore you and throw themselves into your arms?”

  “Aye, that is exactly what I expect.”

  “Then you are sadly mistook,” she said and tramped off through the woods.

  He had little choice but to follow. And indeed, though he tried to remain mute, he found it quite impossible.

  “I assure you,” he said, “women… normal women do find me charming.”

  “Hush.” She raised a hand. “Someone comes.”

  He fell immediately silent, his head slightly cocked, then. “They’re on the road, but are they friend or foe?”

  “We dare not risk finding out.”

  “And neither can we walk all the way to Evermyst without sustenance.” He hurried through the woods, then dropped to his belly and wriggled toward the road.

  He heard the laughter long before he heard the voices. It was high and feminine and leisurely, accented between the neat clip clops of a cart horse, and in his wildest imaginings, he could not imagine either Roy or Baron sounding so delightful. Thus, after a moment’s hesitation, he rose to his feet and stepped forward.

  Isobel snatched desperately at his sleeve. “What are you doing?”

  “Saving our lives,” he said and pulled out of her grasp.

  The cart came closer. He could see the horse now, a piebald cob with a steady trot and a regal curve to its well muscled crest. Behind it perched a woman. She was a large, shapely maid and elegantly dressed.

  “How do you plan to save us?” hissed Bel.

  Gilmour grinned. “By being charming,” he said and stepped onto the road.

  The cob slowed to a walk then halted, champing its bit.

  “Good day me fair lady,” Gilmour said and executed a bow that hurt his knee and sent daggers skittering through his chest. “What a pleasure it is to find you here on this day of days. I wonder if—”

  “What do you want?” The question was said in a hard voice that brooked no quarter. Even the piebald seemed impatient, shaking his spotted head and glaring through blue cast eyes.

  Still, Gilmour stepped closer. After all, the whole of Scotland couldn’t suddenly be immune to his charms. Mayhap the woman couldn’t see his roguish grin. “Have no fear, me—”

  “One more step and it may well be your last,” she said. “As you can see, me steed is eager to be off and would not be averse to crushing you to dust on his way to his stables.”

  Gilmour raised his hands. “I assure you, lass, I mean you no harm.”

  “And I assure you, it would be wise to worry about your own fate if you do not remove yourself from the road this—”

  “Lady Madelaine?” Isobel said.

  Gilmour shifted his gaze toward the rear as Bel stepped onto the road.

  “Belva?”

  “Me lady!” Bel stumbled forward, her damp, grubby skirt crumpled in one fist. “Is it you?”

  “Mon enfant! Mademoiselles! ‘Tis Belva,” proclaimed the lady and suddenly there was a rush of women piling from the dray like an unfettered stream. They hurried past Gilmour, surrounding Isobel as if she were the duchess of York.

  “Whatever bri
ngs you here?”

  “Are you well?”

  “Come. Let us not delay here.” The large lady glanced down the road. “Hie yourselves into the cart. ‘Tis not a long journey to Delshutt Manor.”

  And so Bel was ushered away, leaving Gilmour to stand in the road like yesterday’s cabbage.

  They seemed to remember him at the last moment.

  “But what of him?” asked a wispy voice.

  All eyes turned in his direction. “Is he accompanying you, Belva?” asked the woman ensconced behind the reins.

  It took Isobel an inordinately long time to answer.

  “Aye,” she said finally, and with a wave of an imperious hand from the woman called Madelaine, he was urged to pile into the cart with the others.

  It jostled beneath him, threatening to jerk his joints loose at every turn as the women cooed over Isobel.

  Aye, he thought, and wished with fervent earnestness for unconsciousness. He was still charming.

  Chapter 13

  Gilmour awoke slowly. His aches had diminished, but his limbs felt heavy and slightly chilled. Still, he was absolutely content to remain where he was, for he was comfortable, and just now that seemed the most wondrous of things.

  “So who is he?” The woman’s voice was husky and smooth, like well-spiced cider, and he almost opened his eyes. But it was so sweet to just lie there, utterly still and unresponsive even though the voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “His name is Gilmour, of the Dunard MacGowans.” Isobel’s voice, on the other hand, was unmistakable. Dulcet and quiet in the stillness of the candlelit room.

  “Ahhh,” said the other and her name seeped slowly into Gilmour’s memory. Lady Madelaine, she had been called. Large, commanding, and unmistakably French. “And why is he with you?”

  “I was… set upon.”

  “Attacked? Non! By whom?”