by Lois Greiman
Isobel blinked rather foolishly and wondered if there might be a better time to debate deep moral issues. “I do not know.”
Perhaps she sounded as befuddled as she felt, for Madelaine smiled. “And yet you wait,” she said. “I but wonder why.”
“Mayhap I wait for the right man.”
“The wrong ones are oft more tempting, chere, on that you can take my word.”
“I am not tempted.”
Madelaine took a sip of her wine. “Not even by the rogue?”
Isobel’s face felt hot, but she forced herself to meet the other’s eyes. “N—” she began, but the lie was a bit too large, for in the midst of the word, she felt her hands shake. “Mayhap a wee bit.”
“Aye.” Madelaine laughed again. “Mayhap. And yet you did not partake of what he could offer.” The seconds ticked by. “Might it be, Belva, that you are afraid?”
“Begging your pardon, me lady,” she said, “but living with you has given me the idea that there is no great pain involved with the act of joining.”
“I did not mean that you are afraid of that which is physical, Belva. You were an orphan from birth, were you not?”
“Aye, but I fail to see what that has to do with the matter.”
“So you are not afraid of finding love only to lose it?”
“Nay. Of course not. Whatever would make you think so?”
“And you are not afraid of the physical aspects of a couple uniting.”
“Nay.”
“And we have already discussed God’s part in this, thus… There is no reason for you to deny yourself the pleasure any longer.” She paced toward the door and opened it, as if everything had been decided.
Isobel followed her stiffly, her heart wild in her chest. “Have I not told you, MacGowan holds little temptation for me?”
Madelaine stared at her a second, then laughed. “Silly girl, I am not about to toss you into the bed of one you do not desire. Nay,” Madelaine added, curling her arm about Isobel’s back. “But I have others who will surely meet your standards.”
“What?” Isobel reared back, but Madelaine prodded her forward.
“Come along, sweeting, ‘tis late and you are surely tired. Go to your chamber and I will send by a couple of likely lads.”
“I have no wish for a couple of likely lads.”
“Then choose only one if you are so inclined. Although, as I’ve oft said, two are as good as one, only better.”
“Me lady—”
“There now, no balking. ‘Tis my gift to you for the trouble you have seen. You are so tense. ‘Twill help you relax. And you needn’t worry about the problem of an unwanted babe; my lads will take care of that too.”
“But—”
“Meanwhile…” They were almost to Bel’s chamber. “You do not mind if I pay your MacGowan a visit do you?”
Isobel’s mind spun like a whirling dervish as she stumbled to a halt again. “What?”
“MacGowan,” Madelaine repeated. “I know you do not find him particularly appealing, but I rather like the look of him. You have no objections do you, chere?”
Isobel was never sure if she nodded or shook her head or squealed like a pig, but Madelaine leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“Not to worry, m’ enfant, I’ll be gentle with him, and you’ll be the same with my lads, oui?”
In a moment she was gone. The door closed. Isobel’s mind whirled. What, she wondered, had just happened?
Someone rapped on Gilmour’s door. He stopped his pacing and found to his chagrin that he had ceased to breathe again. But who could blame him? It may be Isobel, returned to relieve him of this terrible ache she had begun. He turned rapidly toward the door, but a question held him in place. Would he still be held to his vow to restrain himself or would this be considered an entirely different meeting? He couldn’t afford to be found lacking where his vow of abstinence was concerned, for he feared Isobel may consider the entire ordeal some kind of horrid test.
He scowled at the portal, his stomach pitching and his loins pulled tight and high like a stallion kept too long alone.
“Who comes?” he asked, doing his best to keep his tone controlled.
” ‘Tis me, Lady Madelaine,” came the answer.
Something sank in Gilmour’s belly. “How can I help you, me lady?”
“You could invite me in.”
He was in no mood for companionship. Nevertheless, he could hardly refuse the lady in her own home. He glanced about, searching in vain for his plaid. “I fear I am not prepared for compan—” he began, but the door opened before he had finished the sentence.
Madelaine stepped inside, her gaze sliding down his naked body to his erection. Slowly, she closed the door behind her. “On the contrary,” she said, “it looks to me as if you are quite ready for company.”
Instinct told him to snatch up a blanket and dart behind the bed.
Gilmour MacGowan was not a man strong on cowardly instincts.
“Me lady,” he said, folding his arms across his chest to keep them from a sad attempt to cover his nether parts, which had a life of their own. “How is it that you keep seeing me in the altogether?”
“Some might think it blind luck.” She canted her head at him and took a step away from the door. “I would have to dissuade you from such nonsense.”
He said nothing. What was there to say?
“I heard you and Belva did not couple.”
His stomach churned as he swore in silence. But he raised one brow and kept his expression carefully impassive. “Mayhap this is not something to be discussed between the two of us.”
“I but came to extend my condolences,” she said and approached him.
“Regardless what you may think, me lady, I do not bed every woman I meet.”
” ‘Scores’ wasn’t it?” she asked and began walking around him. “And scores”—she smiled—“is a fairly large sum.”
He turned in tandem. His father had taught him at a tender age not to turn his back to an adversary. “That depends on what one is referring to.”
“I believe your sexual partners are the discussion at hand,” she said and continued to circle him. He, too, moved. “Why do you keep turning?”
“This is me best side.”
She laughed and came to a halt. “Is it now?”
“May I ask why you have come, me lady?”
Her chuckle was low and seductive. “I have had a few partners myself, Laird MacGowan.”
“You are a handsome woman, me lady,” he said. “You are most probably drowned in offers.”
She smiled, but watched him carefully. “Mayhap you have met my lads?”
“Helpful fellows?” Mom-guessed. “Goodly sized?”
“Aye. Very goodly sized and well proportioned, if you take my meaning. Might you guess their purpose here?”
“Your personal secretaries?”
The smile lifted slightly. “The fair haired lad is called Cheval. Do you speak frangais, MacGowan?”
“Are you trying to tell me that he’s not called horse because of his skill with steeds?”
She laughed out loud. “I have long admired the equine species,” she said and began to circle again. He gave up and retrieved his plaid from the floor. “Horses, after all, have such impressive…”
“Intelligence?”
“Girth,” she corrected and lifted her gaze to his as he sloppily wrapped the woolen about his waist. “I wouldn’t have suspected you for a modest man, Gilmour of the MacGowan.”
“No one is more surprised than I,” he said and she laughed again.
“Am I too bold for you?”
“I’ve not crawled under the bed yet.”
“Nay, but you have just hidden away what are, apparently, your best assets.”
“Would I be a fool to ask again why you have come, Lady Madelaine?”
“You might well be shocked.”
“A bit late for that, methinks.”
“Then
I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve come to ask if you would like to make love to me.”
Regardless of his reputation, he had never heard a sentence phrased quite like that. “What’s that?”
“I can assure you I have learned a few things through the years.”
“I do not doubt your skill,” he said. “I but wonder why you offer since you have the horse man at your beck and call.”
She shrugged and placed a hand on his arm. “As much as I admire his size, his technique is somewhat lacking. And from what I’ve heard of you…” She paused.
“In truth, me lady, it may be that me reputation exceeds me expertise.”
“I suspected as much,” she said and ran her hand down his arm and over his bent elbow, “until I saw Belva’s expression.”
Her hand slowed as she skimmed her fingers along one rib.
He held his breath. “Expression?”
“Aye. I’ve not seen anything quite like it. Euphoric,” she said and dropped her finger to the next rib. “And yet still hungry.”
She bumped over the last rib and traced a line between a pair of muscles stiffened with stress.
“Perhaps she should eat more,” Gilmour said. “She is such a wee, small—”
“Why did you not make love to her?”
He drew a deep breath. “She refused me.”
Her smile suggested that perhaps she knew a bit more about the situation than he did. It was disconcerting to say the least.
“Refused you?”
“Aye. ‘Tis not unheard of, you know.”
“Ahhh, then you must be frustrated indeed.” Her fingers skimmed lower, along the edge of the plaid, and in that moment she raised on her toes so that her mouth was very close to his. “I could relieve that frustration.”
“I’ve no doubt you could, me lady.” And yet, in a manner that defied all logic, he did not want her to.
“Have we an agreement then, Scotsman?” she whispered.
“Me apologies.” He said the words carefully. “I fear I cannot.”
“I’m quite sure you can,” she said and tickled her fingers across the rolling muscle of his abdomen.
He held his breath. “Mayhap I misspoke.”
“Are you refusing me, MacGowan?” she asked.
” ‘Tis not because you are unappealing, me lady.”
“Then why, if I may be so bold?” she asked and continuing her trek, skimmed her fingers around his side.
He gritted his teeth. “The maid Isobel… interests me.”
She lifted one brow. “The pope interests me,” she said. “Thus far it has not prevented me from having my pleasure with others.”
Her hand was already straying downward, and he caught her wrist just before it reached its destination. They stood inches apart, facing each other.
She smiled. “So you long for Belva?”
“Long? Nay. She is bonny. That is all.”
“But she would be only one of the scores before her.”
“As you said, that would be a goodly sum.”
She watched him carefully as though reaching into his mind.
“Dozens, then?” she asked.
” ‘Twould be unseemly for me to put a number to them.”
“So you have not kept count?”
“Nay.”
“Many do.”
“I am not like many,” he said.
“Aye,” she agreed and tugged her wrist from his grip. “I almost begin to believe that, so I think I will share a secret with you if you would return a favor.”
“What secret is that?”
” ‘Tis something I believe you would like to know,” she said.
“Indeed? And what is that?”
” ‘Tis something about your Belva.”
He should, of course, tell her that the girl was certainly not “his.”
“In exchange for what?” he asked.
She laughed. “There’s no need to look so concerned, MacGowan. I am not about to bind you hand and foot and force myself on you… though the idea has merit.”
“I doubt you’d ever have to use force, me lady,” he said and she smiled.
“There is little question why you are desired. Still, I am curious,” she said, “How many women have you had?”
“Never in me life has that been so oft discussed.”
“So Belva asked you, too. And what was your answer?”
“I will tell you true if you share your secret with me first.”
“Very well,” she said and smiled. “At this very moment Belva is being visited by my lads.”
“What!” His gut coiled, hard and cold.
“Not to worry. She will enjoy the experience. Indeed, this may yet prove be to your bene—”
“Where is she?”
Her brows rose toward her hairline. “Surely you do not resent the girl having some pleasure, MacGowan. After all, you’ve no abiding interest in—”
His hand shot out of its own volition, once again wrapping tight and hard around Madelaine’s wrist. “Where is she?”
She raised her chin slightly. “You’ve no right to stop her. Not with your own vast experience behind you. Although I admit, the lads get a bit eager at times.”
“I warn you, me lady, if they harm her in any way they will be of little use to you henceforth.”
“Truly?” She looked intrigued at most.
“Where are they?”
“First you must fulfill your part of our bargain.”
“Less than scores,” he said and she laughed.
“You will find her on the upper floor, at the end of the hall.”
He turned away without a second’s hesitation, but she called him back and he turned, impatience thumping in his gut.
“Do not worry, lad. Your secret is safe with me.”
“What secret is that?” he asked, and she grinned.
” ‘Tis a secret.”
Chapter 18
Isobel stood perfectly still in the doorway of her bedchamber, lest any movement be misconstrued for acceptance. “Me apologies,” she said and turned her gaze from the big Irishman to the one called Cheval, “but I fear Lady Madelaine was mistaken. I have no wish for company this eventide.”
“My lady said you might be shy,” said Boots. “But once you see the size of me tools you’ll not be so retiring—
He was big, huge, really, outweighing her by a good five stone, and every ounce seemed to be packed in tight muscle bound through his thighs and torso. Chances were good that he’d be able to beat her both in a foot race and in a battle of strength.
“I assure you,” she said. “I am not shy. I simply have no need of company just now.”
“You heard her, O’Banyon,” said Cheval. “Good night to you, then. And I assure you, my lady, you’ve made the right choice, for if the truth be told, his tool is more the size of a hand trowel than a plow shear. If you take me meaning.” She turned her attention to him. He was just slightly smaller than his companion, but where the booted fellow was dark the horse was fair-haired and grinning.
“Believe this,” she said and tried to push the door shut, “I’ve no interest whatsoever in the size of either. Now if you would be so kind as to—”
“Three hands,” Cheval said and with seemingly no effort atall, pressed into the room.
She scowled at him. “What’s that?”
“Me own tool,” he said. “I measure it in hands like the height of a steed. ‘Tis three hands if it’s an inch.”
“Then it’s not an inch,” said Boots and pushed in beside him. “Aren’t you the wee bonny flower? And randy too, by what me lady says.”
“Get out of me room or you shall surely regret it.”
Boots grinned. “Lady Madelaine said you was lonely,” he said and stepped toward her.
Isobel turned and snatched a lighted candle from a nearby candelabra. She held it waist high, where it would do the most damage. The flame flickered and wax dripped to the woolen tapestry beneath her f
eet, but she held it steady. “Did she also say you’d have to forfeit your beloved tools?” she asked.
“Nay.” Boots scowled. “In truth, I do not think she would be pleased if she could not enjoy me—” he began, but suddenly he lunged, and though he was the size of a largish bullock, he could move with surprising speed. One instant the candle was in her hand, the next it was snuffed out beneath their feet and she was pressed up against him like grapes in a vat.
“Do you feel that, lassie?” he asked and smiled as he pressed his hips against hers. “I’m rearing for you already, but I can take me time if that be your preference.”
“Let me go.” She said the words carefully, but if the truth be known, panic was welling up like dark water around her.
“Now, lass, there be no need to fret. I only—”
“Boots, isn’t it?” asked a voice.
“MacGowan!” Isobel turned her gaze frantically toward the door, and he was there, dressed in naught but an adequate plaid and looking disturbingly unconcerned.
“So laddie,” said Boots, his tone congenial. “Finished with Polly already are you? ‘Tis not surprising, I suppose. She’s a quick one is our Polly. But soon enough beggin’ for more.”
“Aye, she was asking for you already,” MacGowan said. “Were I you I’d go to her post haste.”
“Aye, she’s taken a likin’ to me, she has. But I’m a wee bit busy just now. Cheval, why not go see to her?”
” ‘Tis you she’s wanting, O’Banyon. I’ll take care of your duties here.”
“Nay, I’ll—”
“She wants the two of you,” MacGowan interrupted. “Something about a friendly goat and a couple bottles of wine.”
“You jest,” said Cheval after a moment and laughed.
“What kind of goat?” asked Boots.
“A bonny one. What do you say?” asked Gilmour. “Isobel’s not interested.”
“You’re sorely mistaken, MacGowan. And too, I work for the lady of the house, and she asked me to come.”