by Lois Greiman
“Nay.”
“Well, then,” he said and sighed, “we’ll simply have to entertain ourselves with your memories, won’t we?”
She should have learned by now that no matter how innocuous his statements, there was always a catch with him.
“So he called you Dearling,” he said, “and how did he spend his days? Was he a landlord or a merchant or—?”
“He was a leatherwright.” She fell silent for a moment as memories crowded in. “Even Dollag had no ill to say of his craftsmanship.”
“So he was a fair craftsman?”
“Beyond fair,” she said and though she would hate to admit it, a hint of forgotten pride crept into her voice. “Upon their bed was the hide of a ram that he had tanned. ‘Twas soft and thick, and when I was afraid they would…”
Silence again, heavy and deep, broken only by the crackle of their fire.
“What did they do, Isobel?”
She caught his gaze then shifted her eyes away. “I would sleep between them at times.”
” ‘Twas a large bed?”
“No larger than most, I suppose.”
“It must have been close quarters then lying between them.”
“Aye. Close and warm.”
“And safe.”
She said nothing.
“And sometimes your mother would stroke your hair and tell you what a bonny lass you were.”
Memories crowded in.
“And when the storms raged outside, mayhap your da would tell you wildling tales to put your mind at rest.”
“He would sing to drown out the sound of the thunder. And Mum would laugh and cover me ears and say that his singing was surely worse…”
She swallowed hard. They were gone. She was alone, and she did not mind, for it had made her strong.
The fire crackled and hissed when a few wayward drops struck burning embers.
“Tell me, lass…” MacGowan’s voice was as deep as the night. “Since the time when you were a wee lass, has there been a time when you were touched?”
“Aye, of course there—”
“Not in anger,” he said. “Nor in passing.”
“Lady Madelaine was always generous with her—”
“Neither do I speak of passion,” he said. “But of touch freely given, with nothing to be gained.”
” ‘Tis none of your—”
“How long has it been,” he asked, “since you trusted?”
It seemed as if her heart were thrumming in her very throat. “Because I do not trust you, MacGowan, does not mean that I do not trust others,” she said.
He watched her in silence.
She swallowed and hurried her gaze back to the flame. “When trust is warranted, I trust.”
“Do you?”
“Aye.”
“Then what have I done to shun your trust, Isobel?”
She stared at him, and he was beautiful, his eyes solemn, his hands mesmerizing, and his body so alluring every fiber in her body begged for his attention.
“You are afraid of me, Isobel,” he murmured. “Afraid that if I touch you again you’ll be unable to live without it. Afraid that once you have lain with me you’ll die without me in your bed.”
She laughed. “You are vain beyond words.”
“Mayhap.” He smiled, then, without warning, he leaned close. She held her breath as his lips touched hers and she trembled to her very soul. “But I am also right,” he whispered and rising to his feet, left her alone.
Chapter 22
Dreams plagued Isobel that night. Dreams of dark places and cruel laughter. Dreams of gentle hands and loving words. Dreams of Anora. She awoke with a start, breathing hard and afraid.
“What is it?” Gilmour asked, but she could not explain.
Anora was in trouble, that much she knew and ‘twas for that reason that she turned to hurry home. The miles rushed beneath the hooves of their borrowed horses, until finally, just as the sun dropped behind the horizon, they saw Evermyst’s turrets rise high above the crashing waters of the firth below.
Fatigued and worried, Isobel pressed her mount up the precipitous climb that led to the keep’s outer curtain. Pulling the hood of her borrowed cape up over her hair, she stopped before the portcullis.
“Who goes there?” called the gate keeper.
” ‘Tis I,” Bel said, making her voice soft and mild. “Lady Anora’s maid servant and—”
“Lady Anora?” The gate keeper raised his lantern and peered through the circle of light in their direction. “Is she with you then?”
Gilmour pressed his mount closer to the iron grill. “Is the lady not safely inside the keep, Hal?”
“Laird Gilmour, is that you?”
“Aye. ‘Tis.” His voice was impatient. “And what of Lady Anora?”
“Have you not heard? The lady and—”
“Quiet,” warned another voice. “Do you want the whole of Scotland to know our worries? Raise the portcullis. They’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
It seemed to take forever for the iron bound gate to rise.
“The truth?” Gilmour ducked under the gate, rode ahead and straightened, his face intense in the gathering darkness. “What truth do you speak of, Thomas? Where is the Lady Anora?”
“We do not know, me laird. She has not yet returned, but Laird Lachlan searches for them even now.”
“Them?”
“Laird Ramsay had accompanied her. They traveled the burn alone, but they never reached their destination. ‘Twas some days hence that the boat was found. Empty it was, and overturned.”
“And the babe? What of her?”
“The babe?”
“Wee Mary,” Gilmour said, his tone strained. “Did she journey with them?”
“Nay, me laird. She was left behind with her nursemaid.”
“And Lachlan? How long has it been since he left this keep?”
“Two days, me laird. He and half the warriors of Evermyst have gone to search for them, but I fear…” He paused.
Gilmour straightened. “What is it you fear, Thomas?”
The old gatekeeper shook his gnarled head. “The burn is bedeviled with falls and snags. I fear they may not be found.”
“Lachlan is on the search. If there is aught to be found, he will find it. But do not despair, for Ramsay is too stubborn to die easily. He will return, as will your lady. Fear not, Thomas. Keep your vigil and your prayers and all will be well,” he said and turning his mount, he rode up the slope to the inner curtain.
Isobel followed, her heart tapping hard against her ribs, her fingers clenched on the reins as she rode through the next gate and into the cobbled courtyard toward the hall. So her premonitions had been right: Anora was in trouble. But—
“Lassie!”
Bel jerked her attention toward the broad doors of the hall. “Meara,” she gasped and slipping from her mount’s back, ran to the frail old woman who leaned upon her cane beside the stairs. “Tell me, have you heard aught from her?”
Meara of the Fold shook her head, though that simple movement seemed almost more than her fragile body could withstand. “Nay, lass. I am sorry. It seems forever since she has been gone and not a word to soothe me. But what of you? Have you had no forewarning? No—”
It was at that moment that the door opened and another woman rushed down the stairs toward them, a babe hugged to her bosom.
“Me wee lass! You have returned,” rasped the newcomer and grabbing Isobel with her free arm, pulled her close.
Isobel extracted herself carefully, feeling Gilmour’s gaze on her back. “Aye, Helena. I am returned,” she said and touched her niece’s back, just to make sure she was real, that she, at least, was safe. “But what is this dreadful news?”
“Lady Anora,” Helena began, her broad face worried as Mary turned to stare at them with sky wide eyes. “She has gone and not returned. I fear—”
“Keep your fears to yourself, Stout Helena,” Meara ordered. “We’ve enough
of our own.”
“How is the babe faring?” Gilmour asked, stepping forward.
Mary gazed at him with shell round eyes then lifted her arms in a solemn request. He took her without a second’s hesitation, drawing her against the strength of his chest. Stroking her back, Mour closed his eyes for a moment and whispered something to the child. And the babe, at the tender age of less than a year, dropped her head against his shoulder with an audible sigh.
Isobel could not help but stare, for despite everything—the babe’s tragic past, the rogue’s recent arrival, and the turmoil that surrounded them—Mary trusted him. Indeed, if the child’s expression was true, she adored him.
Absolute silence filled the place as every woman stared until Gilmour glanced about him with a scowl. “Is something amiss?”
Helena swiped away a tear and Meara cleared her throat.
“Duncan.” Her tone was brusque. “Where is that lad? Duncan!” she yelled and a giant young man appeared.
“Maid Isobel,” he said, wiping ale from his lips with the back of an enormous hand. “You have returned.”
“Aye,” she agreed and smiled. “You are well, Tree?”
He bobbed his head shyly, not quite able to meet her eyes. “I won the wrestling match last—”
“Aye, that’s all well and good,” Meara interrupted. “But the lass and the rogue are weary. See to their mounts, Duncan. And Helena…”
The old cook stiffened at the other’s imperious tone.
“Well…” groused Meara, pausing as she glanced up at the other. “I suspect you are tired in your old age. I’ll get another to fetch their meals.”
“I am not so withered as you,” Helena said. “And certainly not too weary to see that these two be fed. Come hither,” she insisted and hurried back up the stairs she had just descended.
The meal arrived in a matter of minutes, but while Gilmour ate in the great hall with the child upon his lap, Isobel dined in the kitchens where the other servants ate.
As for Meara, she tottered about the far side of the long, rough-hewn table and leaned upon her cane beside Isobel. “Is she well?” Her voice was scratchy and low, and when Isobel lifted her gaze, she saw the deep worry in her ancient eyes.
“I pray so,” Bel murmured.
“What’s this?” Meara’s voice rose slightly. “Do you say that you are uncertain of the welfare of your own—?”
Isobel glanced at a passing servant. Meara fell silent then creaked down to sit beside the maid on the trestle.
“Tell me what you know,” insisted the old woman.
“I dreamed I was drowning,” Isobel began.
“Drowning!” Meara’s bent fingers clutched frantically at Bel’s sleeve. “Where?”
“I meself was in a shallow burn when the fears took me.
“And you think it was Anora that was in peril.”
“Aye. Of that much I am certain.”
“But you could not tell where she was?”
“Nay. Only that she found the surface and escaped whatever evil held her.”
“And now?”
Isobel shook her head, trying to see through the shadows. “I do not know, but I feel she is well.”
“Then why has she not returned to us?”
“Because she cannot. Something or someone keeps her away.”
“Someone?” Meara’s voice was low. “Who?”
Isobel’s mind rushed along. “I do not know.”
Meara narrowed her rheumy eyes. “But you suspect.”
Bel did not answer, but shifted her gaze toward the door, remembering the feelings that had overwhelmed her. Remembering the impressions of MacGowan.
“You think someone in this keep wishes her ill?”
“I cannot be sure.”
“Nay.” Meara shook her head. “It cannot be. There is not a Fraser who does not love his lady.”
“Nay. Not a Fraser.”
Meara drew back as if slapped. “You are wrong,” she said. “Her husband cherishes her like none other. He was meant to be hers for all time. The prophesy foretold him; it could not have been wrong. He would not harm—” She stopped abruptly. “You do not mean it is Ramsay who wishes her ill.”
“Nay, but when the fear took me, I felt MacGowan’s presence.”
“Laird Gilmour?” Meara hissed.
Isobel merely nodded.
The old woman watched her closely. “Tell me, Isobel, why do you think this?”
“Mayhap it is not Anora that the brigand wishes to harm,” she whispered. “Mayhap, ‘tis Laird Ramsay he hopes to be rid of.”
“You think Laird Gilmour would harm his own brother?”
” ‘Tis a horrid sin, but one that has been done since the beginning of time,” she murmured.
“But why do you suspect him?”
“When first I saw him he was in Henshaw with the Munro.”
Meara remained silent as if waiting.
” ‘Twas shortly after that I felt as if I was drowning.”
Still the old woman said nothing, but stared at her with unblinking eyes.
“Why would he be with the Munro unless he were planning some evil against the Frasers?” Isobel asked.
“Do you forget that a peace has been forged between the clans?”
“Nay, I do not forget,” hissed Isobel, “but might it not be that Gilmour means to shatter this peace, to be rid of his brother so that he can have Anora for his own?”
The ancient brows rose in surprise. “You think it is our lady and not Evermyst that he covets?”
“He has long adored her.”
“Has he?”
Isobel fidgeted a mite under the woman’s withering gaze. “Have you not noticed how his eyes follow her when she is near?”
“Nay,” Meara said, “I have not, but mayhap I have not been watching this rogue as closely as you have.”
Isobel drew herself up. “Mayhap I do not trust him so easily as some just because he is bonny and charming.
Meara’s brows rose, creasing a million additional wrinkles into her dried apple face. “Is that why you suspect him, Isobel? Because you lust for him?”
“I do not lust for—”
“Whyever not?”
Isobel searched for words but found none and the old woman chuckled.
Bel pursed her lips. “Just because I was not raised as a noble does not mean that I have no morals, old woman.”
“Of course not,” said Meara and stilled her laughter. “Me apologies,” she said. “I see that you have no feelings for Laird Gilmour. After all, as a Fraser lass, you too must follow the prophesy.”
“What?”
“The prophesy. Surely you have heard it,” Meara scolded. “You cannot blame me for thinking the rogue of the rogues might possess the necessary attributes. Kindness, cunning, power—”
“MacGowan?”
“You think not, lass?”
“Nay,” she breathed, her lungs too tight in her chest.
The old woman shrugged, but her eyes were ungodly bright as she watched Bel. “Mayhap you are right. Still, glad I am that you are back where you belong, and glad that you have brought this news of your sister. But what shall we do now? Have your gifts given you any idea where we might search for her?”
Isobel scowled, trying to keep up to the old woman’s flitting thoughts. “Lachlan searches for her even as we speak, does he not?”
“Aye, he and three score of Evermyst’s finest warriors.”
“Then there is no more to be done. Leastways, not unless I have some idea where to look. Until then I will remain here, for here is where I feel her the strongest.”
“Aye,” Meara agreed quietly and rose laboriously to her feet. “Aye, stay here, lassie.” Cupping Isobel’s cheek, she stared deeply into her eyes. “Here is where you were born to be. It does me old heart good to see your face, even if it be half hidden by rags once again.”
Isobel smiled. ” ‘Tis good to return.”
Meara nodded.
“Aye. And do not fret, ‘twill not be much longer before you can take your rightful place amongst your people. Mark me words. I too see things,” she declared and grinned toothlessly. “As for this night, I’ve given instructions to ready Lady Anora’s chambers for you. Go there and await her return. God willing, she will need you soon.”
It was not much later that Isobel made her way down Evermyst’s narrow hallways to Anora’s chamber. The door creaked open and she stepped inside. A single candle had been left to flicker in the sconce beside the door. Anora’s four-poster bed remained as it always had, its broken foot post tilting slightly. A faded tapestry adorned the far wall and behind that tapestry was a hidden door through which Isobel had traveled more than once. During the Frasers’ trouble with the Munros, Senga had been quite an active ghost. Isobel smiled to herself. There had been advantages to being Evermyst’s shade. After all, ghosts were basically left alone, while flesh and blood was subject to all sorts of emotional upheaval.
Isobel quickly turned her thoughts aside. She was not some idle maid to worry over a bonny man’s smile; she had come here for a reason. Shutting her mind to all but Anora, she drew in the memories, feeling the feelings, but there was no danger that she could sense. Anora was safe. She must be. Isobel stepped farther inside. ‘Twas then that she noticed the tub that steamed full of water in the far corner. Since Anora’s wedding, Laird Ramsay had overseen some renovations at Evermyst. The walls had been shored up, a new well had been dug, and the plumbing had been altered so that water could be pumped to every floor. Tonight, this once, she would take advantage of that improvement, even though she was naught but a servant to the Fraser clan.
Pushing her hood back, Isobel removed her cape then slipped out of her overskirt. Pulling her chemise over her head, she dropped it to the floor with the rest of her garments. It felt marvelous to let down her hair, then tilt her head back and ease her fingers across her scalp. The water felt better yet, rising up her shins, then higher as she sank into the warm depths and leaned back against the smooth wood, reveling in the steam.
All would be well. Anora was safe. Whoever had threatened her had been thwarted. The sisters would be reunited, and mayhap this time Isobel would stay. MacGowan had been entirely wrong; she was not afraid of being cherished. Nor had her unexpected bond with Anora frightened her away. Neither was she afraid of Gilmour. True, he was handsome, and aye, he possessed a smile that challenged the light of the sun, but he was hardly the first to smile her way, and it was unlikely to send her scurrying for cover. In fact, she was not averse to admitting that memories of him brought a flush of pleasure. He had touched her like none other, had made her feel things that she had not felt before.