by Lois Greiman
MacGowan scowled. He was, she saw, dressed in a tunic and his ridiculously ineffective plaid. “What harm has he done you, lass?”
She shifted her eyes quickly away. Madelaine did not know of her kinship with Anora; she did not know that the Munros had accused Isobel’s mother of witchcraft. Did not know, in fact, that it was the Munros who had caused her death, and who might very well cause her own should they learn that twins had been born to the lady of Evermyst.
“Isobel,” he said and took a quick step forward. “Did he force himself on you?”
“Nay!” She was desperate to keep him at bay, for she could not think when he was near. “Nay,” she repeated and turned toward Madelaine. “Me lady, though you have done much for me already, I would ask a bit more. Might I beg a few supplies to make me journey the faster?”
“You hope to travel alone into the far north?”
“Aye—”
“Nay,” Gilmour interrupted. “Not alone.”
Isobel tried to argue, but within an hour’s time they were mounted on matching gray steeds.
“Me thanks again, me lady,” Isobel said.
Madelaine smiled. She was dressed to perfection in an ivory gown that showed her bosom to high advantage with her hair swept up and away from her face. “I would ask one request,” she said and stepping forward, spoke softly. “When you return the steeds I will expect a full report on the rogue’s performance.”
Isobel widened her eyes and shot a glance toward MacGowan, who was packing supplies in black leather bags behind the high cantle of his borrowed saddle. “I have no intention of—”
“Neither does the sun intend to rise each morning in the east,” Madelaine said. “And yet it does.”
“Me lady,” Isobel began, but Madelaine interrupted with a lift of her hand.
“Be happy that I am not demanding that you share the bounty. I but ask for a report. And to know if I am right about his secret.”
Isobel glanced toward Gilmour again. He was just mounting, swinging one leg over the steed’s croup, and revealing sun darkened muscles halfway up his thigh. “What secret?” she asked, though her throat had gone dry.
“If I told you, ‘twould not be a secret,” Madelaine said, and smiling enigmatically, sent them on their way.
They rode in silence for a long while. Near noon, they rested their steeds for a spell and shared a bit of the fine white bread that Madelaine had sent with them.
“I would beg one question.”
Isobel glanced up. They sat on the bank of a rustling burn, and while the silence between them had been wearing, she feared that any conversation would be more so. Indeed, being in the same universe with him was tiring.
“Do you truly think I plan some evil against me brother, or were you merely using that as an excuse to be rid of me?”
Isobel fiddled with her wooden mug and refused to look at him. “You’ve given me no explanation for keeping company with the Munro.”
“On the contrary—”
“Other than the fact that he is a good drinking companion,” she said.
He nodded once. “And so, the jump to believing I intend me own brother harm. And what harm, I wonder?” he added. “Abduction? Murder?”
She said nothing.
“Why, Isobel? Why would I do it?”
“I do not know.”
“Then I would ask what you believe.”
She shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Mayhap you are jealous.”
“Jealous. Of what?”
“Of your elder brother.”
“Ramsay?” he said and laughed. It sounded forced.
“I forget,” she said. “The great rogue of the rogues has no one of whom he is jealous. For he has all he could want.” Silence settled over the glen, broken only by the soft rush of water nearby. “Except his brother’s inheritance, his brother’s…” She smiled faintly, remembering. “Allure.”
“Allure? Ramsay?”
“One can see his soul in his very eyes,” she said. “Depth there is and kindness. Still, there was a time I thought Anora daft for loving him. Until…”
“Continue.”
” ‘Tis naught,” she said and prepared to rise. “We had best press on.”
He caught her wrist. “Until what?”
She caught his gaze. “Until he kissed me.”
“He kissed you!”
Her heart lurched in her chest for the intensity of his tone, but she calmed herself. “Aye, he kissed me,” she said. “Indeed, I offered more once upon a time.”
“Nay!” The sound seemed to come from the depths of his soul, but ‘twas surely only his vanity that was hurting.
“Aye, I did indeed,” she said.
“Was he such a magnificent lover then?”
“I would not know,” she said, “for he sent me away. It seems he wished for no one but me sister.”
His grip on her arm relaxed somewhat. “So he did not have you?”
“He is an honorable man.”
“Shall I be jealous of that too then?”
“Nay. Not you,” she said, and though she tried to sound sardonic, she could not quite manage it while remembering the night just past.
“Only his inheritance?”
“And his bride, of course.” She had not meant to say the words, but they slipped out unbidden.
“Anora?”
“You have admitted to being tempted.”
His voice rose. “I am attracted to her, thus you think I would see Ramsay gone so that I could have her for meself?”
“We should go,” she said again, but he held her firm.
“After all we have endured together, you still think such of me? That I would harm me brother to hold his wife?”
“Where Anora goes, so goes Evermyst,” she said, holding desperately to her beliefs lest she fall like a feather beneath his charms. “Mayhap ‘tis the lofty keep that you covet. You would not be the first. Indeed, the Munro thought to have it by taking me sister and—”
“You would compare me with Innes Munro?”
“There are likenesses.”
“I did not know you lusted so for the man.”
“I do not lust after—”
“But you do for me.”
“Nay, I—”
“You admitted as much, lass. Do you disremember?”
“I…” She searched for an explanation, but his closeness was boggling, and he grinned, seeming to read her mind. “I was merely attempting to make you feel better,” she said.
His grin widened. “Shall I prove you a liar?” He drew her closer.
“Nay!” she said, and pulled away. He released his grip and she calmed her voice. “Mayhap you care not for me sister’s well being, but I do.”
She mounted rapidly then turned her steed away. For a moment she hoped he might let the matter pass, but she was wrong.
“Who has mistreated you so that you would distrust me as you do, Isobel?”
“Why do you ask, MacGowan? Would you defend me honor?”
“Who has mistreated you?” he asked again.
Their gazes caught and held, but she toned away. “I am not me sister,” she said. “Indeed, I spent much of me own youth in Madelaine’s household, and there is none more likely to teach a lass to be unafraid of the pleasures of the flesh.”
“So you enjoyed her lads, did you?”
She shifted her eyes away. “Who would not?”
“Then why did you not accept their offer last night?”
“Do I not still have the freedom to say no if it pleases me?”
“So you were merely not interested at that time.”
“That is so.”
“You lie, Bel. When you left me you were wet with longing.”
She could not look at him. “You flatter yourself,” she said and felt heat rise up her neck to her ears.
He leaned closer, nudging his gray to the side so that his knee brushed against hers. “Nay lass, you flatter me. Each time you trem
ble, each time you sigh—and yet I am made to beg for the merest touch. Why is that, lass, when you want my touch so?”
“I do not.”
“Aye, you do, but you are frightened. So I ask again, who has wounded you?”
“I have not been wounded.”
“Aye, you—” he began, then paused. She turned rapidly toward him, thinking there was some evil on the road ahead, but his eyes were for her alone.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Men have not mistreated you?” he asked.
“Nay. Not until you,” she said, but he barely acknowledged the gibe.
” ‘Tis the answer then,” he said.
“The answer to what?”
“Why you turn me aside. ‘Tis not pain that you fear, but pleasure.”
Her breath stopped in her chest. “What foolishness do you spew now? Why would anyone be afraid of pleasure?” She turned to stare woodenly between her mount’s ears. Even so she could feel his gaze, hot as sunlight on her face.
“I do not know, Isobel,” he said. “But I wish to.”
“This I tell you; I am not afraid of anything you—” she began, but when she met his eyes, she saw they were dark and earnest. No humor showed there, only interest and concern and the unwanted darkness of compassion. “We waste time,” she said, and setting her heels to her mount, pressed frantically toward Evermyst.
Chapter 20
The inn where they stopped had none of the amenities of the Red Lion. The food smelted suspect, the ale was sour, and the common room was dirtier than the Lion’s front stoop. Thus they drank heavily spiced wine and sat in silence as Gilmour tried to understand the mystery that was Isobel.
In the tallow candlelight, she looked tense and uncertain. Why? What troubles bothered her? he wondered, and watched her avoid his gaze until she was unable to ignore him any longer.
“What is it you want?” she said finally.
“I was simply thinking that it was good of Lady Madelaine to lend us coin for an inn. If we are frugal, we shall have enough for this night and the next.”
“Nay,” she argued. ‘Tonight will require most of our sum.”
“Not if we share a room.”
She stared at him. “This night will require most of our sum,” she repeated.
” ‘Tis a rough area, Bel. Surely you’ve no wish to spend the night with other travelers rather than taking advantage of me protection?”
“That is me wish exactly,” she said and stirred her wooden ladle about in her stew. It smelled strongly of onions, yet the scent could not quite hide the idea that the mutton had seen a number of days before meeting the broth.
Gilmour settled his shoulder against the wall to his right and studied her.
“Tell me, lass, who is it that fostered you in your early years?”
She abandoned her ladle with something of a start. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged as if the topic was of no great interest to him. “I but wish to pass the time. I dare not eat the food, so I wonder when Meara took you from your mother’s arms, to whom did she send you?”
“I don’t remember them,” she said and pushing her stew aside, took a drink of wine.
“Then where did you spend your youth?”
“Wherever I wished. Then, as now, I had no wish to stay in one place for any great length of time.”
“Even after finding your sister?”
Her gaze flickered to him and away. ” ‘Twas time to be off, is all.”
“But surely you could not have simply come and gone when you were a wee lass. Someone must have cared for you. Did they live close to Evermyst?”
“Nay,” she said and drank again.
“Who were they?”
“No one of import.”
“You jest,” he said. “Surely those who nurtured you in your early years are important.”
“As I told you, I do not remember them.”
“Was it a man and wife? Were they nobles? They must have had names at the least?”
“It matters naught,” she insisted and fidgeted with her mug.
“Of course—”
“They died!” she said, then drew a slow breath. “Of a fever… and not so far from this place.”
“Oh. I am sorry.”
“There is no need. I can no longer even recall their faces.”
“How old were you when they found their graves?”
She cleared her throat and drank again. “Five years, mayhap. I am unsure. I was only told that I was…” She stopped again.
He watched her. She was small and fragile, yet there was a rare strength to her, like that of a finely crafted rapier. “A bonny lass?” he guessed, imagining her youth. “Bright as a bauble? Sharp as a dirk?”
She glanced quickly up, and in her eyes there was some indefinable emotion that cut his breath from his throat even before she spoke. “Dollag said only that I was very small.” She paused, fidgeting again. “Not worth a sliver.”
Gilmour froze as the bright image faded to nothingness in his mind. “Dollag?” he asked.
Her fine lips were slightly pursed, and one hand lay curled into itself upon the rough tabletop, but she spoke casually. “She took me in after the Holiers’ deaths.”
“The Holiers? So they had names after all?”
” ‘Tis only what Dollag called them—the Holiers Than Thous. The villagers called her Limp About Dollag. One leg was not right. ‘Twas quite painful for her, I believe. Mayhap that had some bearing on her temperament.”
Reaching casually for the wine bottle, Gilmour filled her mug. “She was unkind,” he said.
She took another sip from her mug and lowered her gaze. “When I was a wee lass I thought the Holiers had asked Dollag to take me, and I wondered…” She paused.
“What?” he asked and tried to sound unrushed.
” ‘Tis growing late. I should find me bed.”
“Only the fleas await you,” Gilmour said and smiled, hoping to disarm her. “What is it you wondered?”
She glanced toward the door, then back at him. “I wondered what I had done to make them despise me so.”
His stomach lurched. “Enough to send you to Dollag?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but remained perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might weaken her defenses somehow. And in that moment he realized the strength it took for her to put her memories to words. To open the wounds for him to see.
“This I tell you, Bel,” he said, his voice low and certain, “they could not have despised you.”
She smiled a little, but the expression was as fragile as hoarfrost, never reaching her eyes. “Maybe they did not,” she agreed. “Dollag hated them. So perhaps they were kindly folk after all.”
It seemed almost that in that moment she was a child again, tiny, defenseless. No bigger than Ramsay’s wee Mary, wanting naught more than to be loved and cherished. It made him want desperately to pull her into his arms, to defy the idea that she could have spent her young years in loneliness. To promise that forever and always she would be safe—but he was not quite that foolish.
“They had no other children?” he asked, his tone idle, his fingers tight on his mug.
“I pray not.” The words came very fast.
Gilmour snapped his gaze to her, hoping she would explain without prodding, but she did not. “Why do you pray, Isobel?”
“I but jest,” she said, but her tone was tight. “They had no other children. I am certain of it.”
If the truth be told, he wished to hear no more. Indeed, all he wanted was to take her into his embrace, to stroke her hair and kiss away the horrors of her past. But he could not fix them if he did not understand them. “You were very young,” he said. “How can you be certain the Holiers had no other wee ones?”
“They did not!” she snapped and her hand shook, jostling the contents of her mug. Lifting it, she drained the thing then peered inside. “She lied. I am certain of it,” she whispered.
&n
bsp; His gut twisted with premonition, but he kept his voice carefully steady. “Lied about what?”
“The baby.” She whispered the words like a wee helpless lass, too frightened to speak aloud. She swallowed and glanced furtively up at him as her fingers twisted about the empty mug. “Dollag said there was a baby, but it was even smaller than I. Worth naught, thus she used it for the fire.”
He dared not move, lest he frighten away the horrible truth.
“So I had best behave,” she breathed. Her voice had taken on a childish lisp and her eyes were as bright as river-swept stones. “For the winters were cold and wood was hard to come—”
“Bloody hell!” Gilmour’s stool clattered to the floor as he jerked to his feet. Isobel started and faces turned, but he cared not, for he could no longer remain apart from her. She reared back as if struck, but he gathered her into his arms and pulled her against the refuge of his chest. Above her silken head, he closed his eyes and struggled for calm.
“Is she dead?” he rasped.
She was trembling. It took her a moment to respond, and when she did her voice was uncertain, as though she were lost. “Wh-what?”
Not a soul spoke and in that moment he realized that every eye was focused on them. Even the innkeeper had emerged from the kitchen to stare, so Gilmour bent, and slipping his arm behind her knees, lifted her against his chest. Turning on his heel, he passed by the proprietor and in a hushed voice said simply, “Me wife and I shall be sharing a room, alone.”
He realized upon reaching the hallway that he didn’t know which room was unoccupied, but she felt like a doll of rags in his arms and more than anything in life he needed a place to kiss her, to hold her, to comfort her.
The second door stood open. He turned inside and finding it empty, closed the portal with his foot then strode across the room to sit on the bed. She remained unmoving upon his lap, curled against his chest like a wounded kitten, and he took a steadying breath, trying to calm himself.
Slowly, gently, he ran his hand along the waves of her hair. It fell soft and endless down her narrow back, but he failed to notice her delicate curves, for in his mind was a tiny girl with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart. Fear for herself. Aye. But fear for another, too, for it seemed that she was terrified for a babe that may never have existed.