The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  His fingers tightened in her hair, but he loosened them with an effort and stroked again. She felt small and soft and heavenly in his arms. ” ‘Tis not your fault, lass,” he whispered. “No matter what happened, there is naught you could have done.”

  “She was not always cruel.” The words were so soft he had to lean closer to hear. “She did not take me shell.”

  “Shell?”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “And once upon a sunny day she limped down to the market and brought me back an orange.” Her fingers curled into his tunic, and she cuddled closer as if wanting to hide. ” ‘Twas a magnificent thing, it was. I feared for a time that she meant to tease me with it, but nay…” Her voice was filled with wonder. “She gave it to me to keep for me own. I thought mayhap that she must not detest me so. ‘Tis a strange truth,” she said and paused as if lost in her thoughts, “that a moment of kindness only makes the stripes the worse.”

  He gritted his teeth and damned the woman to hell, but he kept stroking her gently.

  “She oft couldn’t sleep… because of her leg.” She drew her own limbs closer to her chest, curling into herself. “If I was awake I was swifter than she, but…”

  His teeth ached. He unclenched his jaw, forcing himself to relax a smidgen. “She struck you whilst you slept?”

  “There were times when I hid in the woods, but it was so dark.” Her voice dropped away. “And cold. And once the lads from the village found me.”

  His hand trembled, but he forced it down her hair once again. He felt her whisper against his chest, as though she were afraid someone else would hear her secrets.

  “Mayhap I was no bigger than a sliver, but I had seen what Hamish had done with the butcher’s daughter, and I had learned to be cautious,” she said and shivered.

  Time ticked along on creaky feet. Gilmour waited for calm, but it did not come. Still, he waited.

  “I hid well. Deep in the bracken, where they would not find me, but I had forgot about his hound. I could hear it coming for me through the ferns, and close on its footfalls was Hamish. Mayhap I should have stayed hid away, but I remembered the butcher’s daughter and at the last moment I sprang from hiding. He was there, looming over me like the devil himself with the other lads behind him.”

  Silence settled in. Gilmour’s heart thumped against his ribs like a heavy drum as he waited for her to speak again.

  “Tell me, Isobel.” He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up strength. “Did he harm you?”

  “He reached for me. Like a bear he was, with hands like giant paws. I felt it swipe across me chest even as I leapt and knew his finger had caught in me pendant, but at that moment, I cared not, for ‘twas me shell or me life.” She burrowed deeper against Gilmour. “Me chain broke and I fell backward. ‘Twas then that he laughed, for he thought he had me, but I was quick as a mouse, and I scrambled away before he could call his lads. Still…” She sighed and curled her fingers absently against the simple bodice of her gown. “I miss me wee silvery shell.”

  “The one given to you by your mother?”

  Again, she didn’t seem to hear him, but kept her hand loosely against her chest. “There were times when I would imagine that I was the daughter of a great lady. ‘Twas she who had given me the tiny pendant, of course, because she cherished me so. Still, I dared not try to get it back,” she whispered.

  The bastard! Gilmour stroked her hair once again, careful to keep the sweep of his hand steady. “You are safe now,” he said, but the damned words sounded weak and ineffective to his own ears. “All is well.”

  “Aye.” Her fingers loosened a bit. “Aye, I am no longer a weakling child and Hamish is far away.”

  “Where?” he asked, and forced his hand to return to its soothing course down her satiny hair.

  She sighed. He eased her off his lap and onto the mattress. She did not look up, but curled against the coverlet as if she were spent.

  “Isobel,” he murmured and brushed the hair back from her elvish face. “Where did you live with Dollag?”

  “Glencroe,” she said and winced as if struck. ” ‘Tis not so very close.”

  But close enough to bring back such haunting horrors. “You are safe, lassie,” he said. “None will harm you.”

  “I can use a sling,” she said, “and a knife.”

  “I remember, Isobel,” he said and smoothed his palm down her arm. It felt as lax as a child’s beneath his hand. “You are a strong woman.”

  “Gordon of the Mill did not think so.”

  He truly did not wish to hear any more, for his blood felt hot, but he was not a violent man. Nay, he was a lover, and he would soothe her. “Gordon was a fool,” he said.

  “Aye.” Her lips twitched into a small smile, but she did not open her eyes. “A fool he was, for he thought he could pay Dollag and I would lie with him.”

  Neither was he a cursing man, but a foul word slipped out and for a moment he could do nothing but remain motionless and wait for the rage to pass.

  Her eyes opened wearily. “I escaped, MacGowan.”

  “Aye.” He swallowed hard and kept his hands to himself now lest she feel them tremble. “That you did.”

  “And I will not go back, for I am safe now.”

  “You are safe, Isobel.”

  Her eyes fell closed again. “And mayhap…” For a moment he thought she had fallen asleep, for she was quiet for a long while, and when she finally spoke her voice was so soft that he could barely hear her. “Mayhap ‘tis best the babe died, for she was not as strong as I,” she whispered.

  He waited in silence a long while. Waited for her to speak again. She did not. Waited for the anger to pass. It did not.

  So he watched her as she slept, not fitful or restless, but soundly, like a wee small babe who trusted him.

  Finally he rose, but when he stepped away he found that his strides were short and tense, his fists still clenched.

  He paced the room, glancing now and then at the small still figure on the bed. He was a lover, he reminded him. Not a violent man. He was a lover.

  He ground his teeth as he reached for the door latch. Aye, he was a lover—but there were few things he loved more than justice.

  Chapter 21

  Isobel awoke slowly.” Her mouth felt dry and her body limp. Light seeped from the narrow window behind her and memories returned slowly to her—words she had spoken, truths she had spilled.

  MacGowan. Where was he? she wondered and sitting up, turned to find him watching her. He sat upon an oaken trunk not far from the bed, his fine body bent forward, his elbows on his knees. As she watched, he straightened slowly, his gaze solemn and unwavering.

  Her throat tightened nervously.

  “About last night,” she began and cleared her throat. “I fear the wine did not agree with me. Indeed, mayhap it was spoiled and the spices but hid its quality, for it quite addled me brain.”

  He still watched her, his notorious smile noticeably absent. “Did it?”

  “Aye.”

  He looked tired, she thought, yet relaxed somehow. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up, exposing his lower arms. Veins swelled from his browned skin, weaving double paths toward his broad elbows. Quiet strength exuded from him and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to slip into his arms and be held by that strength. But she would not, for weakness was one thing she could ill afford.

  ” ‘Twas most likely the wine and fatigue,” she said. “Conspiring against me.”

  “You were tired,” he agreed.

  “Aye, and I fear me imaginings got the better of me.

  He leaned back, resting his weight against the wall behind him, but still he did not speak. She cleared her throat.

  “I… me apologies,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She forced a laugh and flipped a hand at him as though he were silly to ask. “For the blathering. I am not usually so foolish. But what with the attack and the escape and Lady Madelaine… perhap
s one cannot blame me mind for taking flight and…” She almost could not force out the words, though she was not sure why. “And imagining such a ridiculous past, making up names and whatnot. Truth to be told, I can barely remember me youth, it was that nondescript. Serene really with—”

  “Isobel.” His voice was solemn and steady. She took a breath and hoped to hell he believed her lies more readily than he believed her truths.

  “Aye?”

  “Dollag is dead.”

  She sat bolt upright, her heart lurching in her chest. “How do you know this?”

  “I made a journey last night.”

  ‘To Glencroe?” she asked, but now she could see that his shoes were atypically muddy and his plaid stained.

  “Aye.” He nodded soberly. “To meet with Dollag.”

  “And she is…” Her heart lurched again. “Did you—”

  “I was not the one who killed her.”

  Her breath stopped in her throat and her lips moved but she found no words for several seconds. Then, “I never imagined you were.”

  He scowled as if he’d assumed too much, then continued. “She died some years back.” His fists tightened then loosened, as if by the greatest of control. “Painfully, I am told.”

  “Oh. I… I am—”

  “Don’t say you are sorry!” He jerked to his feet and she started, frightened by the action. “Do not say it, Isobel.”

  She nodded once and watched him.

  “I spoke to those who knew her. They remembered you, also. A wee ragged lass, they said. You were there for some five years or more and then gone. They knew not where, though they said they tried to find out if—”

  “Who tried?”

  “I believe she was called Dulcie of the Craigs.”

  “Dulcie,” she said, remembering against her will. “She was kind to me.”

  “Kind?” His fists ground together again and he paced. “She said you oft had bruises and that you seemed forever hungry.”

  ” ‘Twas a time she gave me a pigeon pie all for me own,” she said and smiled.

  “A pie!” he growled. “She knew you were being beaten by Dollag. Indeed, she feared that the hag might have killed you and disposed of your body, and yet she did nothing.”

  Isobel felt breathless and pale.

  “Is that the ‘kindness’ you endured all those—”

  “How?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Did Dulcie say how she thought Dollag might have gotten rid of me body?”

  He scowled. “Nay, she…” he began, then paused and took a deep breath as he realized her thoughts. “There was no babe.”

  “What?”

  “The Holiers, who fostered you, had no babe after you, and Dollag was never seen with a bairn.”

  Hot relief flooded her. “She lied, then.”

  “Aye, there was no babe killed by Dollag, Isobel. No one for you to protect.”

  “She lied,” Bel repeated.

  “Aye,” he said and watched her with eyes dark with emotion, “but ‘twas hardly her greatest sin.”

  “Nay,” she agreed and lifting her gaze to his, forced a laugh and tried to shake off his sympathy. “She stank, too. Like a—”

  “Hamish sends his apologies.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Hamish?”

  He flexed his hands and she noticed now that his knuckles were bruised and that the wound above his ear had been reopened.

  “You saw Hamish?”

  “Aye. He begs your forgiveness for his sins against you and wishes you naught but good.”

  “You challenged him,” she whispered.

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Hamish was cruel. Cruel and bold and strong as a bull.”

  “Mayhap he was not so strong as he thought,” Gilmour said and paced again, his strides restiess. “Mayhap he was only bold when he tormented wee lassies.”

  “Did you fight him?”

  “Of course not,” he said, and scowled. “I thought you knew, I am a lover, not a fighter. Hamish was quite reasonable when I explained things.”

  “Explained things,” she said. “To Hamish.”

  “Aye,” he said and flexed his fists. He almost didn’t wince.

  She watched the movement. “Why did you fight him?”

  “I told you—”

  “You bandied with him,” she interrupted and scowled, trying to understand. “And since you are still walking, I shall assume that you won. I but wonder why.”

  A muscle danced in Gilmour’s jaw and he turned restlessly away. “We had a difference of opinion.”

  Her throat felt tight, but she forced out words. “About what?”

  “About how wee lassies should be treated.” He tightened his fingers on the shutter beside the window before turning to her. “He gave me this for you,” he said and held out his closed fist, palm up.

  Her gaze caught on his hand. Strong, yet elegant somehow, it was bruised, abraded across the knuckles. She swallowed. Her eyes binned and though she knew better than to try to speak, the words came.

  “What is it?” she asked, keeping her hands closed tight by her sides.

  He said nothing, but reaching for her wrist, drew it upward and turned it. She opened it, breathlessly, and without a word, he dropped a tiny silver shell into her palm.

  Her throat closed up and her eyes burned.

  “I’m sorry Isobel,” he murmured.

  She tried to swallow, but she couldn’t.

  “Don’t cry, lass.”

  “I don’t cry.”

  “Bel,” he said and took a step toward her, but a thousand emotions scorched her soul. She turned and fled the room.

  Gilmour followed her, racing down the steps in hot pursuit. The door slammed in his face, but he grasped the handle and prepared to yank it open when the innkeeper yelled.

  “Ay!” he barked. “You wouldn’t be thinking of leaving without paying, would you now?”

  Gilmour slowed his breathing and opened his sporran.

  By the time he reached the stable, Isobel was pulling up the girth on her mount. “Where are you bound?” he asked.

  “To Evermyst,” she said.

  “Could it not wait until after we break our fast?”

  “Nay,” she said and when she turned he could see that she had strung the silver shell onto a rough piece of hemp and hung it about her neck. “Anora is in danger.”

  “Is she?” he said. “Or is it you who are in danger?”

  “Me?” Her eyes looked bright and haunted, but she laughed. “Nay. Of course not.”

  “So you are not afraid.”

  Unbuckling the horse’s head collar, she fitted the bit to the animal’s mouth and scowled at him. “Afraid of what? I am no longer a helpless lass, but—”

  “Afraid of being loved.”

  “Loved?” She barked a wild laugh as she mounted. “Is that how you secure your conquests, MacGowan, by making them confuse love and lust?”

  “Mayhap,” he said and caught her reins just as surely as he caught her gaze with his own. “Mayhap that is why I have had so many lovers, aye, Isobel? Because they mistake emotion for nothing more than physical desire.”

  “Mayhap,” she said, but the word was a whisper.

  “But you are not confused,” he added, “for you understand love perfectly.”

  For a moment she failed to speak, but finally she yanked the reins from his hand and pivoted away.

  They spent that night in a nunnery. The accommodations were Spartan, but satisfactory. Gilmour slept fitfully and rose with the sun. He assured himself that he was not worried that Isobel would leave without him. Still, his stomach settled at the sight of her, and soon they were off again.

  Sometime after noon the clouds banked up in the west and rain began blowing into their faces. Seeing a crofter’s cottage from a hilltop, they headed toward that refuge only to find that the cottage was no more than a ramshackle wall of tumbled stone. Nevertheless
, with the rain worsening, they prepared to spend the night there. They made a small peat fire, then shared a bit of the provisions they had brought with them. Reaching across the flame, Gilmour handed her a chunk of stone-ground bread and for a moment their fingers brushed.

  Isobel snapped her hand back, nearly dropping the bread in the fire.

  Gilmour settled his back against the lone wall and perused her. “Tell me, Bel,” he said finally, “what do you recall of the Holiers who fostered you?”

  She darted her gaze to his. “Hoping to hear another sad tale, MacGowan?” she asked.

  “Hardly that; I merely pass the time.”

  ” ‘Tis good,” she said, “for the Holiers were naught but kind to me.”

  “So you remember them well?”

  The memories were faint, not more than shadows and light that played across her mind with wisps of quiet voices. But she remembered the laughter. Aye, that she remembered well.

  “Her name was Dearling,” Bel said finally.

  “Dearling.” She could feel his gaze on her. “I’ve not heard that name before.”

  “Aye well, ‘tis what Da called her.”

  “And what did your da call you, Bel?”

  She shrugged. “I imagine he called me by me…” she began, but memories were crowding in, threatening.

  “What is it?”

  ” ‘Tis naught,” she said, striving for nonchalance, but she could still feel his gaze on his face.

  “Have you remembered something?”

  “Nay.”

  Quiet stretched out around them, and it was into that silence that Gilmour spoke.

  “Your da,” he said, “he called you Dearling too, did he not?”

  She shot her gaze to his.

  “Of course he would,” he said and leaned onto one elbow, still watching her. “For Dearling was not a name at all, but an endearment. He cherished you.”

  Pain gnawed slowly at her chest, but she ignored it. ‘Tell me, MacGowan, why do you glory in dredging up such memories?”

  “Fond memories should not hurt,” he said as if surprised.

  “Then why—” she began, but stopped herself abruptly. “Nay, they do not hurt,” she agreed. “I merely asked why you care to shuffle about in them.”

  ” ‘Tis simply intriguing to learn what events shaped a soul. Are you not curious about me own growing up years?”