by Lois Greiman
Reaching for the soap, she dunked it beneath the water and smoothed it over her shoulder. He had kissed her there, she remembered. And there. She closed her eyes and ran the bar, sweet with the smell of lavender, across her breasts. Her nipples peaked, but she doubted that it was because of the draft of cool air that curled through the chambers. Nay, during her time at Evermyst, she had become accustomed to those eerie currents of air that seemed to come from nowhere.
Evermyst, after all, was haunted. Isobel smiled a little, remembering. It was fear of Senga’s ghost that had sent the Munro slithering from this keep. No one need know that Isobel herself could be as ghostly as the next lass when the need arose.
Superstition was for fools and cowards, and she had not survived by being either. Nay, she had survived by her wit, by knowing the truth and using it to her best advantage.
She slipped the scented bar along her collarbone and remembered Gilmour’s touch there. She could admit the truth: it was thoughts of him that made her shiver. But he had only moved her physically. She did not long for him. Indeed, she didn’t even like him. Regardless how ridiculous Meara thought her suspicions were, she had no proof that it was not he who caused Anora’s disappearance, and if that was found to be true, she would hardly be brokenhearted, for he had elicited naught in her but a base response. Naught but animal instincts, and regardless what the noble class believed, human nature was little changed from animal nature. Just then her fingers skimmed the silver shell that hung from her neck. She closed her eyes, remembering how he had looked when he’d handed it to her.
Why had he done that? What did he hope to earn by retrieving it for her? Surely it was not simply out of kindness. If she had learned anything from Dollag, it was to be cautious, to trust no one. And that knowledge had thus far kept her safe.
So he had retrieved the shell in hopes of gaining her trust and gaining her gratitude. After all, he’d made it no secret that he desired her. Skimming the soap downward, she left a frothy trail of white between her breasts, then eased lower, over the dark honey hair and down between her thighs.
He had touched her there, too. Remembering his kisses, she spread her legs the slightest degree and let her head fall back as she slipped her hand lower still.
“Bel.”
Isobel slapped her arms across her chest and turned her head to peer frantically into the corner by the door.
Gilmour stood there, his arms crossed against his chest as he stared at her. “I but wondered,” he said, his grin flashing in the candlelight, “might you be needing some assistance?”
Chapter 23
Isobel’s cheeks felt hot, and her head strangely dizzy. “What are you doing here?”
Gilmour eased away from the wall, moving with that catlike elegance that was his alone. “I did not realize these were your chambers.”
“Then why were you slinking about like a fevered weasel?”
He smiled, but whether it was because of her words or his view, was uncertain. “So you are saying these are your rooms then, Isobel?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want, MacGowan?”
He brightened his smile, and between her legs, she felt the effect.
“Besides that which is obvious?” he asked.
She lifted her chin and did her best to calm her pulse. “Why are you here?”
“Originally I came to see your sister’s chambers. To try to guess what might have befallen her and Ramsay.”
“And have you discovered anything?”
“Aye, something quite interesting,” he said and leaned one hip against the nearby wall as he stared at her. Her breathing rushed along, though she did her best to calm it. “But I fear your presence here has driven me original intent quite out of me mind.”
“I’ve oft thought you were out of your mind.”
The dimple in his right cheek deepened. Her mouth went dry.
But he sobered in a moment, still watching her. “Where is Anora, Bel?”
Isobel drew a deep breath and told herself to be wise, careful, calculating. Or at least, to keep breathing. “You think I know?”
He watched her, his ungodly long lashes heavy over his narrowed eyes. “You are so bonny. There are times when I believe you can do no wrong.”
His words caused a shiver to tremble through her, but she forced herself to remain lucid. “You are right, MacGowan. ‘Tis a saint, I am.”
” ‘Tis what I thought of your sister when first I saw her unconscious on MacGowan land. Surely a lass of such beauty could do no harm, I thought.”
“Does your brother know how you adore his wife?”
“Does he know that you covet her place in the world?”
Isobel raised her brows as a dozen wild thoughts scurried through her mind. “Might it be that you believe I mean to be rid of me own sister in order to gain her home?” she asked.
“I overheard Meara and you in the kitchen.”
The words fell flatly into the silence and her mind spun, trying to recall exactly what she’d said. “Did you, now?” she asked and thought her tone was impressively steady.
“And I wonder how it is that Meara thinks you will soon take your rightful place.”
The old woman’s words rushed back to her. “I, too, wonder,” she said. “But you must have some idea, or you would not be here.”
” ‘Tis not necessarily true.” Leaving the wall, he paced nearer. “Where are they, Isobel?”
” ‘Twas the very question I hoped to ask you, MacGowan.”
“Me?” Lifting a mound of linens from where they hung on the tub’s rim, he seated himself. Although his expression remained cool, his nostrils flared like those of a blooded stallion’s. “Are you accusing me of me brother’s disappearance?”
“Why were you with the Munro?” She tried to pretend she wasn’t naked, that he wasn’t within touch, and that, despite everything, her body didn’t thrum for him.
“Ahh, that again. I had almost forgot. But of course, you thought from the beginning that I had evil intent, did you not?” Reaching out, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. She shivered, and for a moment, his fingers hovered near her cheek, but he pulled his hand back and watched her in silence.
She stilled her tremor then raised her chin a notch. “You haven’t answered me question,” she said.
“Nor have you answered mine. Where are they?”
She felt a flicker of fear skitter through her. After all, he was not only a man, nearly twice her size and strength, but he was also a MacGowan—and although she may be among her own people, most of them saw her as nothing more than a servant. But she had not survived a score of years by being paralyzed by fear.
‘Twas always best to take the initiative, to be in control. And almost anywhere was safer than here in the confines of this bath. Thus, it was time to leave. Forcing her arms to unbend, she reached nervously for the rim of the tub and eased herself to her feet. His gaze followed her. That much she knew, though she refused to look at him.
“I tell you, MacGowan,” she said, trying to distract him from her unveiled exodus. “I have no evil plans against me sister.”
Water coursed down her body as she stepped with false boldness from the tub. But she had forgotten that he held her towel, and she turned now, fighting panic.
“In truth, lass,” he said, his gaze hot as it raised to her eyes. “I long to… believe you.”
“But you cannot, for I am lowly born and surely covet me sister’s lofty station?” she asked and reaching out, grasped the towel. He held a corner and rose languidly, as if pulled to his feet by her movement. They stood now, face to face with little between them but that silly towel.
“Is it the truth?” he asked and stepped forward a half pace. “Is Evermyst your desire?”
“Nay,” she said and felt his nearness like a potent tonic, binning through her system like fire. “Is it yours?”
“You wish to know me own desire?” he asked and skimmed his gaze down her naked bod
y. She trembled beneath his perusal and when he tugged at the towel, she had no strength to keep it in her grasp. In fact, she barely managed a response.
“Aye,” she said.
“Then I’ll tell you true, sweet Bel.” He leaned toward her so that she felt the whisper of his words against her cheek. ” ‘Tis not cold stones piled one atop another that I covet. ‘Tis something much warmer.” He reached out. She closed her eyes in a hopeless attempt to remain aloof, to withstand the feel of his fingers, but he only slipped the towel about her back then pulled her slightly closer with the linen slung against her shoulder blades. “And softer.” It seemed like an eternity before his knuckles brushed her breast. She drew in a hard breath, but he was only wrapping the towel about her torso. “But mayhap if I did not already have a place of stone and mortar to shelter me, I would feel differently.”
“So that’s it, then? You think I must want me sister’s keep because I have nowhere else to make me home?”
” ‘Tis possible,” he murmured and trailed the back of his fingers along the edge of the towel.
“I do not covet what is me sister’s,” she said. “Indeed, it seems that being the lady of Evermyst has brought her little but sorrow.”
“Sorrow? Surely she had all that her position could secure for her.”
“Aye, a ragged clan that clamors for attention and a father who would all but sell her to the highest bidder.”
Gilmour raised his brows at her. “She was promised to another before me brother?”
“She was bartered about like a shorn sheep, MacGowan. She was used and discarded by the laird of Tytherleigh. Even so, our noble father thought the good laird would make her a fine match. But Tytherleigh had his eye on another, thus she was promised to Laird Grier of Winbourne, until Father learned of that one’s penniless state. It was surely not enough that he was a good man who cared for her, for Munro’s eldest son still wanted her. It mattered little that he was cruel and deceitful.
“Me sister had no one to turn to, no one who would challenge the laird of the Myst. Nay,” she said. “I do not covet what is me sister’s.”
He raised his brows. “Not even her husband, me brother with the soulful eyes?”
So he remembered her words. The realization sent emotion singing through her system, but she stilled such foolishness. After all, he was accusing her of heinous crimes. Surely even a hound would not be attracted in such a circumstance. She turned away, putting distance between them. “Do you think I hoped to be rid of Anora so that I might have a chance at winning your brother’s affections?”
“The thought has crossed me mind.”
She laughed aloud. “And what would make me think that a man like your brother would want the likes of me?” she asked and turned by the bed to watch him.
Emotion flickered in his eyes, but what it was, she was not quite sure. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you hope to win Ramsay’s affection?” There was something in his tone. Anger perhaps, but more. Jealousy? Could it be? Her heart skittered along on its dangerous course. “Did you?” he repeated and stepped forward to grasp her arms.
Their gazes clashed.
“I would not harm me sister,” she vowed. “Not if all the world were laid at me feet.”
His grip loosened slightly. “Not even for one who could fulfill the prophecy?”
She remembered Meara’s words with a start. “You do not have the attributes, MacGowan.”
His lips parted in surprise. “I meant me brother.”
“Oh. Nay. Of course not!” she snapped and jerked out of his grip. “I had naught to do with their disappearance, whether you believe me or nay.”
“Then why are you not worried?”
“You think I am not?”
“You are here,” he said, “bathing in the chambers they shared. Preparing to sleep without a care. You showed not the least bit of surprise that they were gone.”
She said nothing, but turned her gaze fretfully to the bed.
“Why were you not surprised, Bel?” he asked.
“Because I already believed that she was in trouble.”
He stood still, scowling. “How?”
Her mind raced. Obviously he had not heard the entirety of her conversation with Meara, or he would realize her sporadic ability to feel her sister’s thoughts. And that was good, for more than one woman had lost her life for what men perceived to be witchcraft.
“I knew because you were with the Munro, the very man who threatened me sister’s existence. Why else but to plan some evil against her?”
“The Munros and the Frasers are at peace,” he said, his tone rife with frustration.
” ‘Tis no reason to befriend him.”
“And so you think that I must be planning some evil plot? You could not believe such lunacy.”
“Why is it lunacy?” she asked. “Because you are a MacGowan? Because you are the rogue of the rogues? Because you have glided through your life without a care? Might it not be that you could not bear the fact that ‘twas your brother, and not you, who won Anora’s hand?”
“Mayhap I did not want her hand,” he said and took a step toward her.
She swallowed hard. “Then mayhap you could not bear the fact that your brother won the whole of her.”
He grinned and tilted his head in concession. “The whole of her is tempting,” he admitted and reaching out, brushed a lock of hair from Isobel’s face. “Why were you not surprised that she was gone?”
She pushed his hand aside. “I told you, because I already knew you had executed some plan against her.”
His hand had not gone far. In fact, he brushed the flat surface of his nails across her chin then ever so slowly drew them along the edge of one collarbone. “Have I?”
“Aye.”
He slipped two fingers gently into the tiny dell at the base of her throat. She felt her pulse thrum against them.
“And what is it I have done, bonny Bel?” he asked and slipped his fingers ever so slowly downward.
“I do not know. But you have failed!” she said and jerked away.
He didn’t try to follow, but watched her every move. “I have?”
She swallowed, steadying her nerves and trying desperately to determine what was going through his mind. “I… I pray so.”
“If I have plotted and failed, where are they, Isobel?”
She was trembling like a feeble lambkin and hated herself for it. “I would not tell you if I knew.”
“Because you do not trust me.”
“Aye! ‘Twould be foolish of me, since you are the one who put her in danger at the outset.”
“I did no such thing, and in your heart you know it.”
“I do not.”
“Then why did you kiss me?”
“I did not—”
“Why did you touch me? Why did you beg for me—”
“I never begged!” she gasped.
His smile was slow. “You do not think I harmed your sister,” he said. “You but use the possibility as a shield against me.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean, MacGowan.”
” ‘Tis yourself you do not trust, lass,” he said and slipped his arm about her waist.
She jerked away. “The truth is this, MacGowan. ‘Tis only meself I do trust, and none other.”
“Or so it has been for so long that you cannot bear the thought of letting another get close?”
“And why would I, MacGowan, when you are but awaiting a chance to accuse me of me own sister’s murder!”
“Murder!” His face went pale. “Tell me ‘tis not so.”
She felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. “Could it be that you truly believe this, MacGowan?” she said. “Could you truly believe that I am to blame for her disappearance?”
He ground his hands into fists and turned away. “In truth, I do not know what to believe.”
“And so you have decided to believe that I am a murde
rer.”
He glanced toward her, his eyes troubled. “Why were you not surprised that she was gone?”
“Have I not explained that already?”
“Nay, for you could not have believed that I would harm her!”
“So you can believe the worst of me, but I cannot possibly do the same of you, is that the way of it?”
He scowled. “You twist me words.”
“You twist your own words, MacGowan. The truth is you do not trust me. Indeed, you believe I have murdered me only sister, and yet you would bed me.”
He said nothing and she laughed. The sound was harsh against the masonry walls.
“Strange, is it not,” she said, “that such a man would think himself above suspicion?”
“Bel—”
“Get out,” she said and her voice was steady now.
“Tell me—”
“Get out!” she repeated.
For a moment she thought he would refuse, but finally he turned on his heel and left her.
Chapter 24
It was true, Gilmour thought, and took another quaff from his horn mug. He did not trust her and yet he wanted her.
“More ale, me laird?”
What exactly did that say about his moral integrity?
“Me laird?”
“What’s that?” He lifted his head and looked at Ailis. She was buxom, giving, available, and had been ever since he’d met her some months before. And although she sometimes smelled like the goats she herded, he had oft appreciated her charms. “Forgive me. Did you say something?”
“I asked if you wished for more ale.”
“Oh. Me thanks, but nay,” he said and returned his glare to his mug. Damn that Isobel. It wasn’t as if she trusted him. Hardly that. And yet she wanted him, too. Maybe.