The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

“She made a mistake.”

  “The lady is never mistook,” said Boots, his brows lowering.

  MacGowan watched him for a moment then smiled, but the expression was strangely grim. “Care to know what I’ve heard said of your Lady Madelaine of Delshutt?”

  O’Banyon’s dark brows lowered even more. Cheval was already turning toward him, hands formed to fists.

  “You’ve something to say about the baroness?”

  “Aye,” Mour said. “Come into the hall and I’ll share the news.”

  “You’ll not want me out there if you’ve naught good to say of the lady.”

  MacGowan grinned. “You’d best come too, Irishman, unless you believe the rumors I’ve heard spread.”

  “Aye,” O’Banyon agreed. “But it can wait. I’ve got me duties here first.”

  “Do you hear that?” Gilmour asked, turning to Cheval. “It seems your Irish friend has little desire to defend your lady’s honor.”

  “Aye, and he’ll pay his due,” said the horse and stepped into the hall after MacGowan. “But I’ll see to you—”

  The words came to an abrupt halt. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the sound of something solid striking the floor.

  MacGowan appeared in a second. His smile was gone and a bright light sparked in his azure eyes. “I am a peaceable fellow, Irishman,” he said, “but if you don’t loose the lass, you’ll regret it for as long as you can recall—which, judging by your intellect, may not last till the morn.”

  Boots smiled as he stroked his knuckles down Isobel’s cheek. “Spoilin’ for a fight already, MacGowan?”

  “Not atall,” he said and turned his hands palms up. “I’ve no wish for trouble.”

  “Truly?” O’Banyon said and slipped one huge hand down Isobel’s shoulder.

  “Truly,” Gilmour agreed affably. “But if you don’t take your hands off her I’ll have your liver for me breakfast.”

  O’Banyon laughed. “You think you can take me, lad?”

  “I think the lass could take an Irishman. I am simply here to save her the trouble.”

  “So it’s the Irish you don’t like, is it?”

  “Aye, that and moldy gruel and—”

  O’Banyon launched toward Gilmour. Isobel screamed an instant before they made contact.

  Boots struck his adversary just below the ribs. MacGowan flew backward and slammed against the wall behind him. There was an audible grunt of pain before he sagged against the plaster, but when Boots tried to scoop him into his arms, he came to life like a corpse from the grave, thumping his feet against the wall and driving Boots wildly backward. They landed in a pile with MacGowan on top.

  O’Banyon pulled a knife from the high tops of his boots. Gilmour rolled to his feet. The Irishman rose more slowly, but lunged immediately.

  Isobel screamed again, but it was Lady Madelaine’s voice that seemed to reverberate in the room.

  “What goes on here?” she asked in a dark voice, and O’Banyon skidded to a hand, skimming his gaze from MacGowan to his lady and back.

  Breathing hard, he wiped his knuckles against his nose. Blood smeared from his fingers to his wrist. “I was just doing me job, me lady.”

  “I do not recall telling you to kill the Scotsman.”

  “Aye, but you told me to see to the lassie’s needs.”

  “And you thought she needed MacGowan dead?”

  O’Banyon shifted his gaze and shuffled his feet. They were, Gilmour realized, the size of Highland sheep. “Mayhap I got me blood up and forgot—”

  “Well, get your blood back down,” Madelaine ordered, “and go to your chambers.”

  “He insulted—” Boots began, but the baroness interrupted him.

  “To your chambers,” she repeated.

  O’Banyon bobbed his agreement and shuffled sheepishly toward the door. “Me apologies, me lady.”

  “Aye well, on second thought,” Madelaine said and sighed, “hie yourself to my solar… and take Cheval with you.”

  Boots chanced a grin, then ducked his head and hurried from the room. In a moment they heard him grunt as he hoisted his friend to his feet. Cheval’s voice sounded groggily disoriented as they made their staggering way down the hall.

  Isobel’s bed chamber fell silent.

  “Well,” said Madelaine finally. “Are the two of you always so amusing?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would keep your playthings to yourself henceforth, me lady,” MacGowan said and snatched his plaid back to his waist before it abandoned him completely.

  “But Polly would be ever so disappointed if I did not share,” Madelaine said, spearing MacGowan with an arch gaze. “And what of you, chere? Did you find my playthings diverting?”

  Mind spinning, Isobel pulled her gaze from MacGowan’s face to Lady Madelaine’s. “They are certainly… large.”

  Madelaine smiled. “Aye, that they are and quite tractable normally. I can send them back to you when they’re a bit more… patient if you like.”

  “Me thanks,” Isobel said shakily, “but I think not.”

  The lady raised a brow and shifted her gaze to Gilmour. “And what of you, MacGowan? Shall I send Polly to see to your wounds?”

  “Nay.”

  “You are right, of course. ‘Tis Belva’s place to see to you since you were her so gallant champ—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Gilmour said and stepped toward the door, but Madelaine blocked his way.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said and nodded to his arm.

  ” ‘Tis naught. I’ll see to it meself.”

  “My carpets have no fondness for blood. Sit down.”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Such a difficult one you’ve found for yourself, Belva,” Madelaine said. “Sit down, MacGowan, or I’ll change my mind about tethering you hand and foot.”

  He bristled. “Truth to tell, I do not think your lads are up to the task, me lady.”

  “I was thinking of my maid servants,” she said. “They would enjoy it more and mayhap you would enjoy watching, Belva. What say you?”

  Somehow all the oxygen seemed to have been sucked out of the room. “I’ll…” Isobel’s voice was breathy. “I’ll see to him meself.”

  Madelaine looked at her as if surprised, then smiled.

  “Very well then,” she said and turned with regal coolness toward the door. “But don’t be too noisy about it, will you? We don’t want the girls to get jealous.”

  She closed the door with a smile. The room fell silent.

  Isobel cleared her throat. Gilmour turned toward her, and despite everything, he felt his desire tighten restlessly beneath his haphazard plaid.

  Isobel kept her gaze resolutely on Gilmour’s face.

  Bugger it!

  “Me wounds be fine,” he said.

  She nodded. “Nevertheless, you’d best stay for a spell, lest she…” She cleared her throat again. “Lady Madelaine has her own way of doing things.”

  “So I noticed,” he said, and scowled at the door. He was not a temperamental sort, neither did he rise easily to anger, but he felt that emotion now, swelling strong in his veins.

  “So she…” Isobel wrung her hands and took a few faltering steps across the floor. “Did you speak to her?”

  “Aye.”

  “In your chamber?”

  Her tone sounded strange. He turned toward her. “What’s that?”

  “I was just curious whether she came to your chamber.”

  “Why do you ask, Bel?”

  “No reason. She just said she might.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Truly?” he said. “Might you think she finds me appealing?”

  “I would not know.”

  “But you’re a woman. You must have some idea what she’s thinking,” he said and took a step toward her. “Indeed—”

  “Halt!” Her voice was shrill, close to panic.

  He stopped where he stood.<
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  “Listen, MacGowan, I’ve taken about all I care to take, what with Madelaine and Polly and those two giant clods. I am sick to death of playing games, so if you wish for the truth, here it be. You are handsome and you are charming and when I am with you I want nothing more than to rip the clothes from your…” Her gaze fell down his body, reminding him with some clarity that he wore very little. “You are bonny,” she said, soothing her tone. “Polly seems to think so. As does Madelaine. Mayhap even Cheval covets you. Whatever the case, I’ll not stand in your way.” She seemed breathless and agitated.

  Gilmour grinned. ” ‘Tis actually O’Banyon I have me eye on.”

  “What?” The air seemed to leave her lungs in a whoosh of sound.

  He laughed, then sobered and approached her slowly. “You think me bonny, Isobel?” he asked and reached for her hand.

  She let him take it, though she closed her eyes at the first touch of flesh against flesh. “My, but you’re a needy one, MacGowan.”

  “You’ve no idea,” he said and leaning down, brushed his lips against hers. She trembled beneath him and he straightened. “Good night, Bel,” he said and turned away, but she held his hand.

  “You cannot go.”

  His breath caught hopefully in his throat. “Why’s that?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “You need rest.”

  “I go to seek me bed even now.”

  “There will be someone in it.”

  “What?”

  “Either Polly or Dena or…” Her voice dropped off. She cleared her throat. “If you’ve a mind for their company, I’ve no wish to keep you from them.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked and shifted toward her.

  She almost winced. “I am tired, MacGowan. Too tired for sparring.”

  ” ‘Tis not sparring I had on me mind.”

  “I see that,” she said, then dragged her gaze away from his plaid.

  He laughed. “What would you have me do, Bel? Return to me chambers and fend off all comers so you can sleep soundly in your virginal bed?”

  She stiffened. “Do whatever you like.”

  He raised his brows and moved closer. “Truly?”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” he said. “You meant that though you are not willing to give yourself to me, you’d like to know that I am forever longing for you. Is it not so?”

  She said nothing.

  He smoothed his fingertips across her cheek. “For one who confesses to be lowly reared, you have a good deal of arrogance, Bel.”

  “I think it may have been bred into me.”

  He laughed softly, relaxing a smidgen. “However did you come to this household?”

  “It seemed a safer place than that which I left behind.”

  “Safer?”

  “I was two and ten,” she said. “And I did not care for the smell of the man I was to be given to.”

  “Nay!” His hand tightened in her hair.

  “Aye,” she said.

  “I am sorry.”

  She caught his gaze with her own. “Have you ever taken a lass of twelve, MacGowan?”

  He gritted his teeth and for a moment she thought he would not answer. “Nay.”

  “Have you ever taken a woman against her will?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think a woman has little will where you are concerned,” she said and sighed when he brushed his knuckles down her neck. ” ‘Tis a truth you have used to your advantage.”

  “Why did you not take the lads up on their offer?”

  “I did not want to.”

  “I heard something about three hands length. ‘Tis quite impressive—if one has to prove his worth by size.”

  “How long were you listening?”

  He kept his fingers from forming to fists. “Long enough to wish to kill them.”

  She glanced up, surprise in her eyes. “Why?”

  “Will they be back?”

  She was silent for several seconds. “Mayhap.”

  “This night?”

  She shrugged. Firelight gleamed in her eyes and danced across her ivory throat. Against his chest, he could feel her bosom rise and fall, and beneath his fingers, her skin felt as soft as heaven.

  “I will sleep on the floor,” he said.

  “You’re wounded,” she protested.

  “Are you suggesting we share a bed?”

  She licked her lips. ” ‘Twould make Lady Madelaine ecstatic.”

  “And you?”

  “I can always scream for help should the need arise.”

  “The need arose long ago,” he said dryly and scowled as he turned toward the bed. “But I would not scream if I were you—for in this house they surely would only gather to watch.”

  Chapter 19

  Dreams, warm and heady, soothed Isobel, and she luxuriated in them. Here, in the haven of her imaginings, she felt safe and whole. ‘Twas a place she had oft visited, a place where she was loved and cherished, protected and revered. A place that she dare not speak of aloud. But she would enjoy it while she could. So she smiled in her sleep and hugged her pillow closer. It was warm and firm and rippled with…

  She opened her eyes with a start.

  Gilmour MacGowan stared over his shoulder at her. “Shall I scream for help?” he asked.

  She realized that her arm was hooked low around his hard waist, and one knee was pressed up between his thighs.

  The door burst open. Isobel snatched herself to the far side of the bed, and Polly, smiling from ear to ear, popped into the room, brandishing a tray.

  “Good morningtide. Don’t the two of you look cozy. Didn’t even have time to remove your gown, aye? Well, that’s the way of it. Leastways, you got the rogue naked, aye?” She chuckled and scurried forward. “That’s it. Sit up now. ‘Tis time to break the fast. Although it looks as if the fast has been broke good and proper, huh?” She giggled and plopped herself down on the bed beside Gilmour. “Ummm,” she said, and reaching out, stroked Gilmour’s bare chest.

  Isobel curled her lip and reached for Polly’s hair, but in that instant lucidness visited her. Yanking her hand back, she sprang to her feet.

  Polly started wildly. “Is something amiss, Isabella?”

  “Nay. Nay,” she said and spinning about on one heel, fled the room. The floor felt cool against her bare feet as she rushed on, hurrying down the hall until she reached Madelaine’s door. Although it seemed against the house rules, she rapped twice.

  “Enter.”

  Madelaine sat upright in her broad four poster, her green eyes still sleepy and her dark hair tousled.

  “I have to leave.” The words left Isobel’s lips before she had a moment to calm them.

  “Belva,” Madelaine said. “Up so soon? I thought surely you would sleep late.” She smiled and smoothed the blankets over her bent knees. “Or stay abed late at the least.”

  “Nay. I must away.”

  “Sit and…” Madelaine gave a small sigh then smiled. “Have a seat and let us talk about it.”

  “Nay, I…” Isobel began, but in that instant the blankets moved while Madelaine remained still. A moment later a booted foot appeared from beneath the blankets. It was extremely large. She took a deep breath. “I must go now.” The blankets rustled. “Immediately.”

  Madelaine sighed and shifted her gaze to the blankets, which she lifted slightly. “Very nice,” she said, “but I fear our Belva needs my attention more than you do just now.”

  O’Banyon’s head emerged from beneath the covers, massive as a bullock. “She could join us if she’s a mind.”

  “Aye,” Madelaine agreed. “But I think the lass had more than enough in her bed last night. Go break the fast, lad,” she said. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  He rose from the bed, completely naked but for his boots, which rose nearly to his knees. Isobel kept her gaze resolutely on Madelaine, who patted the man’s bulging behind. Nor did she miss what bulged on his opposite side.<
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  The door opened and closed.

  “What’s this about leaving now?” Madelaine asked.

  “I must,” Isobel repeated.

  “Was the rogue so frightening, then?”

  “This has nothing to do with MacGowan.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye, ‘tis simply…” The blankets stirred again. Isobel stared at the shifting blankets and Madelaine shrugged.

  “I get lonely. Now, why must you leave?”

  Isobel rushed her gaze to Madelaine’s sleepy eyes. “I must return to Evermyst.”

  “Whyever for?”

  “I feel I am needed there. I fear for Lady Anora’s safety.”

  “Why?”

  “I had… dreams.”

  Madelaine idly moved the blankets aside to stroke her hand down a broad, male shoulder.

  Isobel cleared her throat. “Dreams of Lady Anora in trouble.”

  “Truly? ‘Tis not the sort of dream I expected to visit you after last night.”

  “We became very close while I stayed at Evermyst.”

  “He is a bonny lad, and quite taken with you if—”

  “I refer to Lady Anora and I.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I need to leave alone, me lady.”

  Madelaine’s surprise was evident. “May I ask why?”

  Because she could not be near the rogue another second without giving herself to the wild impulses that tore at her. But that was not a worthy reason, and none she cared to share. “In truth, me lady, I am not atall certain of the rogue’s intent. He…” She searched madly for some kind of reasoning that would make sense. “When first he came to the Red Lion, he accompanied the Munro.”

  “Aye, so you have said. Innes Munro, Laird of the Munros. How large is he, exactly?”

  “He is a barbarian.”

  Madelaine raised her brows. “Even better.”

  “More than once he threatened me sis… me lady’s peace. Why now would a MacGowan befriend him unless he plans some evil against his brother?”

  “I know not,” admitted Madelaine and lifted her gaze to a point behind Isobel’s left shoulder. “Why might that be, Monsieur Rogue?”

  Isobel jerked about just in time to see Gilmour shrug. “Truth to tell, the Munro is a most likable drinking companion.”

  “The Munro is a bastard!” Isobel spat the words, surprising herself as much as any by her vehemence.