The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  “Your mind is far away this night.”

  He glanced up, caught Ailis’s smile and soothed his own scowl. He was getting as crotchety as Lachlan and as introspective as Ramsay. “Me apologies,” he said. “But there is a good deal to ponder.”

  “Aye,” she agreed. “I too worry about your brother and his wife.”

  “Do you?”

  “Aye. She is me departed husband’s distant cousin, you know, and Ramsay…” She didn’t sigh exactly, but her bosom lifted slightly as if she entertained lurid thoughts. “Your brother is an extraordinary man.”

  Extraordinary! Gilmour almost snorted. He’d heard quite enough of Ramsay’s fine qualities for one night, thank you, and—

  “And a gentle man,” she added, her tone dreamy.

  Gilmour slammed his foolish jealousy to a halt. Gentle? Was she implying that she and Ramsay had some special bond?

  “What do you think has befallen them?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know, but…”

  “But what?”

  ” ‘Tis naught,” she said and turned as if to leave.

  Gilmour caught her arm. “Please, Ailis, if you know anything that might shed light on this matter, I would much appreciate it.”

  She glanced about. “I fear this is not the place to speak of such things.”

  Surprise smote him. Did she really have some knowledge that she might share? “Where, then?”

  “I have a cottage in the village.”

  He remained still for a moment, his mind racing along with his pulse. “Very well,” he agreed.

  She smiled, then straightening, hurried away.

  Gilmour did not rise immediately. He finished his ale instead and finally, when he saw that Ailis was no longer in the great hall, he too departed.

  It was not difficult finding her house, and when he knocked, she answered promptly.

  “Laird Gilmour.” Her tone was somewhat breathy, her dark hair down about her shoulders. “Come in.”

  He did so. Her cottage was a humble place, tidy, lighted by a single candle.

  “Would you like some ale?”

  “Nay. Me thanks.”

  “Mead, mayhap?”

  “I would hear what you know of me brother’s disappearance,” he said and she nodded gravely.

  “Aye. Of course,” she agreed and wrung her hands. “Let me just say at the outset that I wish to cause no trouble. I merely strive to do what is right.”

  He said nothing, only watching her.

  ” ‘Tis Anora,” she said finally. “She never wished to marry.”

  He tried to figure some connection between her words and their present conversation. Nothing came to mind. “What’s that?”

  She glanced at her hands. “She was… afeared of men.”

  Betrayed, Isobel had said.

  “Indeed, before her marriage, I thought…” she began, but stopped as if embarrassed.

  “What is it you thought?”

  “Remember please that I have naught but the highest regard for Lady Anora.”

  He would have assumed as much if she didn’t insist on him believing that very thing, but now he wondered. “Of course,” he said and nodded his encouragement.

  She wrung her hands again. “Since Isobel’s arrival at Evermyst, they spent much of their time together.” He waited, saying nothing as she watched him closely.

  “They were… companions,” she said, as if in explanation.

  ” ‘Tis only natural, I suppose, since—”

  ” ‘Tis nothing natural about it.”

  Her meaning dawned on him with a start. “Do you mean to say Lady Anora is… attracted to women?”

  “It gives me no joy to say these things, me laird, but with your brother’s disappearance…” She shrugged as if pained. “The truth is she and Isobel were oft closeted away together. And once upon a time, late at night when I went to the river… I found them together.”

  He felt as if his eyes might very well pop from his head. “Together…?” he asked, his imagination running wild.

  “Aye, me laird.”

  “And were they doing something…” He shook his head slowly, trying to remain lucid. “Unseemly?”

  She leaned closer. “They were… swimming.”

  “Naked?”

  “What?” She reared back slightly as if surprised.

  He cleared his throat and tried to calm his wayward thoughts. His imagination was running wild and seemed to be taking his wick with it. “Were they unclothed?”

  “Nay.”

  He almost sighed with disappointment. The Fraser twins… swimming naked. Ahhh.

  “But they wore only their shifts, and ‘tis surely not normal to spend such time in the water. So I…” She paused. “I am shamed to admit it, me laird, but I hid behind the bracken and listened while they talked.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  She remained silent for several seconds, then, “They are sisters,” she whispered. “Twins.”

  He continued to wait, but realized finally that this was the extent of her secret knowledge. “I fear I do not see the connection between their possible kinship and me brother’s—”

  “Do you not understand?” she hissed. “They…” Shifting her gaze, she scanned the walls as if they might well have ears then added, “They were lovers in the womb.”

  His brows shot into his hairline. Now this was news.

  “Have you not heard that ‘tis the way with twins? They mate while yet unborn,” she insisted. “Their lady mother knew this. She knew, and so she separated them. But somehow, by hook or by crook, they found each other and wished to renew… their bond.”

  Gilmour struggled to consider her words. “But if such is the case, why did Anora wed me brother atall?”

  “Your pardon, me laird,” Ailis said and smiled a little, “but the MacGowan name carries some power even here in the far north. And too, your brother’s arrival saved Anora from wedding the Munro, or any other of the swains who came to Evermyst in an attempt to claim her hand.”

  “So you think she married Ramsay to gain her own ends.”

  “As I said, me laird, I have naught but the highest regard for me lady, but now Laird Ramsay is missing and I…” Her voice broke and a whimper of dismay escaped her pretty lips. “I do not trust this Isobel and I fear—” She sniffled and he moved forward to console her. She melted into his arms. “I fear she has gotten rid of Ramsay so that she can be reunited with her sister.”

  “There now,” Gilmour said and stroked her hair. “You needn’t fear, lass, for if the truth be told, I think some wee trouble has befallen me brother and his wife and that they will be home posthaste.”

  “But if that is so, why would Isobel return now just when Ramsay has disappeared?”

  “Tell me, Ailis,” he said, his mind spinning, “have you told others about your suspicions?”

  She gazed into his eyes and shook her head.

  “Have you shared your belief that they are sisters?”

  She tightened her arms about his waist and pressed her face against his shoulder.

  “Ailis?”

  “Nay,” she said, “I feared I could trust no one but you.”

  “Then you needn’t worry, lass. For I am certain ‘tis only fear for your lady that makes you believe such things. She seemed happy with me brother, did she not?”

  “Aye,” she agreed hopefully and glanced up again. “She did, and you are right, I am sure, for who would not be happy in the arms of one of the famous rogues?”

  He smiled. There were few things on earth that he enjoyed more than flattery. Isobel never flattered him. In fact, she spent a good deal of time confronting him with his faults and the rest of their time driving him insane. She was opinionated and sharp witted. He had never like opinionated, sharp-witted women, so why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? Could Ailis be right? Might the girl be attracted to women? But she had trembled beneath his hands. Had it been revulsion? Nay, he
could not yearn for a woman who did not yearn back. And despite everything, he did yearn. Just the memory of her in the burn hardened—

  “The brothers MacGowan have indeed been the answer to our prayers here at Evermyst,” she whispered. “Peaceful and powerful, cunning and kind, loving and…” She paused, looking him straight in the eye. “Beloved.”

  He smiled. ” ‘Tis kind of you to—” he began, but just then she rose up on her toes and kissed him.

  Placing his hands gently on Ailis’s arms, he eased back. “It is not that I do not wish to stay,” he said. “But I fear I must return to the keep.”

  “And disappoint your desire? There is none at the castle who can give you what I can,” she said and kissed him again.

  “I am sorry,” he said and caught her hands in his own. “But I fear I must leave.”

  It was not a simple task to fight his way out of her cottage, but finally he succeeded. The great hall was dark when he reached it, but Gilmour made his way past the sleeping hounds and servants without lighting a candle and slipped up the stairs toward the bed chamber he had once shared with Lachlan. The castle seemed strangely quiet and a cool draft wafted up from the hall. He glanced behind to see if the door had been opened.

  “Most remain longer.”

  Gilmour started at the words and jerked about, but the speaker was only Meara, leaning on her gnarled staff as she gazed at him with bird bright eyes from the top of the stairs.

  “What say you?” he asked.

  “Most remain longer at the widow’s house,” she said. “Why did you not?”

  He raised his brows. “What makes you think I was with the widow?”

  She scowled, drawing her overgrown eyebrows together in a wrinkled line. “What is it that makes you think me a fool?”

  He reached the top step and gazed down at her. “I would call you many things Meara of the Fold,” he said. “Fool would not be amongst them.”

  “Why such a swift return?” she repeated.

  The top of her grizzled head barely reached the cat-eyed sporran that hung from his shoulder, but there was a force to her and a crackling intellect that warned one and all to watch his step.

  “Tell me, old woman, what do you think happened to me brother?” he asked.

  “You think I know?”

  “I think you know a good deal.”

  “So mayhap I have plotted some evil against him?”

  “How would Isobel rise to her rightful place?”

  It was her turn to start in surprise. Then she nodded down the narrow hallway. “Come,” she said and waddled off.

  Taking a square, ironbound lantern from a peg on the wall, she pushed open a door and stepped inside. Gilmour followed. The old woman raised the light and its mellow glow flickered off oiled portraits, gleaming from one to another until Meara stopped in front of a vast, gilded painting. The woman portrayed there was young and bonny. Her hair was the color of summer wheat and her lips bowed up in a winsome expression, but it was her eyes that captivated him. They were Isobel’s eyes, and yet they were not.

  “Anora?” he asked.

  “Nay,” said the old woman. ” ‘Twas Lady Senga, their grandmother.”

  He thought for a moment. “So you had some loyalty to this Senga,” he said, “and now her estranged granddaughter has returned, looking so like her kinswoman that you cannot bear to see her act the servant. But how, I wonder, do you plan to elevate her station?”

  “You listened in on our words,” she said.

  “How?” he asked, ignoring her accusation.

  “You think I would sacrifice Anora so that her ragged sister might take her place as lady of this hall?”

  He shrugged and followed the course of the wall, glancing at the portraits there. “Mayhap you feel some guilt for your part in Isobel’s past.”

  “There is blame aplenty.” She sounded weary, and when he glanced her way he saw that she had taken a seat not far from a half-finished tapestry. The loom stood silent and waiting.

  “You regret your actions?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “I regret idiocy.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Superstition!” she spat. “Fear! They make fools of men.”

  “But not of women?”

  She shrugged, looking weary and ungodly old. “Often enough they make martyrs of women.”

  Something cramped in his gut. “So ‘tis best that Isobel was sacrificed.”

  She scowled at him. “Isobel was not born to be a sacrificial lamb. Isobel was born to survive.”

  “And to take Anora’s place when that lady falls?”

  She creaked with surprising speed to her feet. “There was a moment when I thought you had some intelligence, MacGowan. Try not to dissuade me now. Why did you return so speedily from the widow’s cottage?”

  He watched her as he milled Ailis’s words about in his mind. “Why did your lady wed me brother?”

  She seemed surprised by his question. “Have you not heard the prophesy?”

  “Aye. It just so happens that I care little for the tales of old wives.”

  “So that’s what the prophesy is to you? Naught but a tale spun by idle tongues?”

  He lifted an appeasing palm and she snorted. “Mayhap I was entirely wrong about you, lad.”

  “In what regard?”

  “Mayhap you are not in the least bit cunning.”

  “And mayhap you could answer one simple question put before you, old woman,” he said and stepped toward her. “Why did she marry me brother?”

  “Because she could not live without him.”

  Gilmour stopped in his tracks some six feet from her. Meara glared up at him.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “She was not complete without him.”

  “So she found Ramsay… appealing?”

  The old woman tilted her head like an aging crow. “Appealing?”

  “She was… attracted to him.”

  Meara snorted. “Hell lad, I was attracted…” she began and stopped abruptly. “What did the widow tell you?”

  Gilmour cleared his throat and Meara cackled a laugh.

  “So that’s what she says to lure bonny lads into her bed these days? That the woman he truly desires will never desire him?”

  “I know not what you speak of.”

  “I speak of Ailis’s lies,” she croaked and pointed her staff at him with vengeance. “She knows not that the lassies be born of the same womb, thus she must think of another way to spill suspicion on them. But I never thought that a MacGowan would believe…” She paused again, eyeing him like a hungry raven. “Did you couple with her or nay, lad?”

  The question took him back a pace. ” ‘Tis none of your concern.”

  “All that concerns me lassies concerns me,” she rasped. “So tell… But wait. You were not gone long enough, not if your reputation was honestly earned.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. Never in the past had his reputation irritated him more. In truth, it did nothing but bedevil him these days. “After all your years upon this earth, you must surely know that rumors are rarely true.”

  The old woman’s eyes brightened even more. “What are you saying, lad?”

  “Only that you should not believe all you hear.”

  Not for a moment did her arrow sharp gaze leave his face, and then she mumbled something. Something he could not quite hear.

  “What say you?” he asked, canting his head.

  She grinned toothlessly. “Aye, it takes power to do what you have done. And surely with your bonny looks, you are sorely tested.” She nodded and chuckled. “Aye. You are lovable. But of the other…” Her voice drifted away.

  “What are you mumbling about, old one?” he asked, but she merely shuffled toward the door.

  “Time will tell,” she muttered. “Time and circumstances.”

  Chapter 25

  Gilmour stood on the grassy slope beside Evermyst’s towering heights.
Isobel had left the keep in a creaking dray sometime earlier, had accompanied Stout Helena and wee Mary, escorted by Tree down the tortuous trail toward the village. But upon reaching the level plain below, the women had dismounted with the babe and foraged out upon the warm, sun-dappled grassland in an apparent search for wild herbs.

  Who was Isobel, really? Gone were the bright garments she had worn in Henshaw. Once again she was garbed in a weathered gown and sloppy coif, but it made little difference, for he had seen beyond her ragged clothing to the woman beneath.

  From directly above them, he watched her bend and pluck up some unknown plant, watched Helena set wee Mary on the ground not far away. Dressed in a cherry red shift, the child sat upon the turf and gazed into the sun as Helena presented her with a flower. She giggled and smiled, displaying tiny, bright teeth. The sight soothed his soul somehow. Still, questions nagged at him. Where were Anora and Ramsay, and what did Isobel know of their disappearance?

  He had always believed that she cared for her sister. But if such was the case, why did she not mourn? Why did she not worry? There was no way for her to be certain of Anora’s whereabouts unless she herself had ordained them.

  Scowling, Gilmour raised his gaze as he caught a flash of movement on the road that wound from the south toward Evermyst. At this distance he could not tell who it was, someone on horseback perhaps.

  Minutes ticked by. The traveler came closer. It was two horses. Gilmour straightened, his heart beating faster. Could it be Ramsay and Anora? But nay. He saw now that only one horse was ridden, and that by a tiny person, too small to be Anora.

  Francois! He recognized his steed suddenly and saw Stout Helena straighten as she shielded her eyes to gaze in the direction of the road. Isobel turned, paused, then rushed up the hill toward the rider.

  In that instant, Mour realized the traveler was Claude, mounted astride Francois, and following behind was Isobel’s mare. Gilmour laughed out loud and prepared to descend the rocky stairs toward them, but in that instant a cool draft of air swept over him. It shivered up his spine, raising the hair at the back of his neck. He turned with stiff premonition to scan the figures far below, but all seemed well. Isobel was already reaching for Claude’s hand. Helena was making her way through the heather toward the newcomer, and wee Mary… Like a blow to his throat, his breath stopped. Mary was gone. Disappeared! But nay, there she was.