The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  Thrilled by her newfound freedom, she had followed a butterfly’s course and pulled herself to her feet at the edge of the rushing water of the firth.

  Terror gripped him even as he bellowed her name.

  Everything seemed strangely slow, after that. He saw Mary look up, saw Isobel glance toward him, then away. He heard her shriek the baby’s name in sheer terror, but even as she bolted toward the child, it seemed as if her movements were mired in time.

  Wee Mary started violently, and then, like a mug set atremble, she tumbled backward, striking her bottom on the edge of the cliff, then rolling inexorably toward the water.

  Mour saw the waves splash skyward, white and frothy. He heard Isobel’s scream echo Helena’s, but the child was already gone beneath the restless waters, being swept relentlessly downstream. Sunlight glinted golden off the tip of a wave. Isobel raced on, but the water’s edge was a lifetime away. Directly below him, Gilmour thought he saw a flash of red. In an instant he was at the cliff’s edge, and for a heartbeat he remained. And then he was falling, tumbling hopelessly toward the sea. The water struck him like a stone wall then closed around him, sucking him in. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Panic clawed at his gut, but off to his left a streak of red caught his eye.

  Mary! Her memory tore aside the terror, and he turned, fighting his way through the tumultuous waters.

  There! Red again. He tried to pull himself toward it. But suddenly it was gone. He turned about, trying to find her, but frothy water was everywhere, stinging his throat, burning his lungs.

  Air! He needed air, but in his mind’s eye he saw the child’s limp form. He heard the weeping, felt the despair. Desperate, he turned again, and there, not two rods away he saw a flash of color.

  Clawing through the water, he pulled himself toward it. Gone. Gone again, and his lungs were bursting. But there it was again! He reached out, and his hand closed around something, but the current crashed against him. A burst of pain blasted at his shoulder. Agony crushed his chest.

  He could think of nothing but air now. Where was it? Up. But where was up? Frantic, he tore through the water. But there was no hope. Only pain. Only white, burning pain swirling around him, blasting his mind and pulling him down into the screaming abyss.

  Gilmour thrashed into awareness, trying to reach the surface, his lungs burning.

  “MacGowan! Lie still.”

  He jerked again, reeling in hopelessness, but reality settled slowly around him. He was no longer beneath the waves. No longer dying. He took a deep breath. The air burned his lungs, but it was air and not the aching brine.

  He turned and realized that he was lying in Evermyst’s infirmary.

  “MacGowan.” Isobel’s voice was quieter now, but her face, when he focused on it, was as pale as death. Memories stormed back; Mary beneath the waves, her tiny body pummeled just beyond his grasp.

  “Mary—” The name tore at his throat. Terror ripped at his heart. “Did you find her?”

  Isobel stared at him. Her face seemed bleached of all color but for the stark blue of her eyes.

  “Nay.” He shook his head, disavowing her sorrow. “Nay!” he groaned and closing his eyes, swept his arm across his face, shutting out the world.

  “MacGowan.” He felt her hands on his arm, but he pushed her away, not able to look into her face.

  “Leave me be,” he ordered, but she touched his arm again.

  “MacGowan, wee Mary is well.”

  The world seemed to halt around him. He tried a careful breath then slowly opened his eyes. They stung, as did his throat.

  “She is well,” Isobel repeated. ” ‘Twas you who saved her.”

  He searched for words, for belief, but nothing came for a moment.

  “Do you lie?” he asked.

  “Nay.”

  He tried to reach for her, but his arm did not move and he glanced down, distracted.

  “Healer said…” Isobel began then grimaced, making the teardrop glitter in a shaft of light that fell through the high, narrow window. “Healer said it had been yanked out of place.”

  He scowled, first at the bandage that bound his arm to his chest, then at her.

  “Your arm,” she said. ” ‘Twas not in its socket. But she says it will mend well.”

  Memories blurred in his mind. Water, terror, pain, but nothing of bearing wee Mary to shore.

  “It took Tree some time to pry your fingers from her clothing.” She cleared her throat. “It seems they had locked in the fabric before you fell unconscious.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t reach shore.”

  “Nay, but you had reached the surface and were easy to find. While Mary…” Her mouth twitched and her next words were barely audible. “I could not get to her.”

  He realized suddenly that she was wet, her gown hanging heavy and damp from her narrow shoulders. It made her look all the more fragile. “You should remove those garments,” he said and felt strangely heavy himself, as though he were still weighed down by the water. As though his mind was working with unusual slowness.

  She said nothing.

  He scowled. “You are certain she is well?”

  “Aye.”

  He remained silent for a moment. “Was it you who saved me?”

  “I was not strong enough. Tree pulled you out.” She cleared her throat. “You brought Mary with you… though you were not awake.”

  “Why aren’t you with her now?”

  She wrung her hands. “I wish to know why—”

  ” ‘Tis enough now.” A harsh voice cut her off, and Gilmour raised his gaze. The movement made his head swim, but he focused on the familiar face of Evermyst’s physician. “Rest now, me laird,” she said. ” ‘Tis bad enough that we have lost your brother.”

  “Why do you—” Isobel began, but Healer stopped her.

  “Quit now, girl,” she insisted. “Can you not see the debt we owe Laird Gilmour?”

  He watched Isobel as she backed away from him. She said nothing, only stared for a moment longer, then turned and slipped from the room.

  “Isobel.”

  Bel turned at the sound of her name, but did not remove her hands from the dough she was kneading. Two days had passed since MacGowan had saved Mary. She hadn’t seen either of them since. Indeed, she had said little more to Claude, who had slept almost continuously since her arrival. “What is it, Meara?”

  “Laird Gilmour is in need of ale.”

  Isobel shifted her gaze to a nearby maid who was just swinging a steaming pot away from the fire.

  “Clarinda,” she said. “Might you—”

  “Clarinda is busy,” Meara said. ” ‘Tis you who must fetch it for him.”

  “The bread needs—”

  “I care not what the bread needs,” Meara interrupted. ” ‘Tis your task to do. After all, he saved your lady’s child. The least you can do is bring him a mug to quench his thirst before he sleeps.”

  Something akin to fear curled in Isobel’s stomach, but she raised her chin and looked the old woman in the eye. “I do not take orders from you, Meara of the Fold.”

  The old woman’s grizzled brows rose as if shot from a cannon. “Don’t you now, lassie?”

  “Nay,” she said and returned her gaze to her dough. “I do not. Take him the ale yourself if you’re so convinced with his needs.”

  The old woman was silent for a moment, then, “So you are ready to declare yourself?”

  “What’s that?” Isobel glanced up sharply.

  “I, too, think it is time for you to take your rightful place. Clarinda can be the first to know.”

  Clarinda was just lifting a round bottomed pot from the glowing embers and turned her reddened face toward them. “What is it I should know?”

  Meara turned her gaze slowly from Isobel to the maid. “The truth is this, lass—”

  “I shall take him the ale,” Isobel said.

  Meara smiled. “There’s a good lass,” she crooned. “You’ll find him
in the infirmary. And take wee Mary from him so he can sleep.”

  Isobel made her way slowly down the darkened hall toward the sick room. Her bread needed attention, and though Clarinda was good enough with soups and the like she was far from adept at baking. Bel should be back in the kitchen where she belonged.

  Candlelight spilled from the open door of the infirmary, but the glow did not quite meet the far wall.

  Isobel’s feet slowed even more as she approached her destination. Damn Meara. The old woman was hardly the lady of the keep. In fact, Isobel thought, her stomach churning, if she wished, she could leave this very night. Could flee Evermyst and never return. Not because she was afraid, as others suggested. Nay, ‘twas because…

  Voices murmured from the infirmary, stopping her thoughts.

  “You are well?” Claude spoke just above a whisper. So she had left her bed to find the man who had given her a name.

  “Aye, lassie,” Mour said. “I only be here to gain sympathy from the maids. And to spend time with wee Mary, of course. Do I not look pitiable?”

  Aye, he was pitiable—not a champion at all, but a vain rogue, Bel told herself and stepped level with the doorway, intending to finish her task and be gone. But one glance into the room and she halted, frozen in the dimness of the empty hallway.

  Inside the narrow chamber, candlelight shone in a golden circle around the bed, and in the center of that circle sat MacGowan. His hair glimmered like dark honey upon his bare shoulders and below that, where his arm was trussed to his chest by white bandage, his muscles rippled in rows across his abdomen. But even that sight was not the one which stopped Isobel’s breath in her throat. Nay, it was the tenderness of his expression that seized her.

  Propped upon his arm, Mary lay motionless, gazing with sleepy adoration into his eyes. Her tiny, bowed lips were slightly parted and one perfect hand was curled into the bandage that crossed his chest.

  As for wee Plums, she stood cautiously back from him, her fingers wrapped tight in the folds of her rumpled gown.

  “You should be abed, Claude, me love,” MacGowan said, but the girl shook her head.

  “I…” Her words faltered. “Feared…”

  “There now, lass. There is no need to fear,” Mour soothed, but Claude spoke again, her voice broken, her right hand crunching her much-abused skirt.

  “I thought I had k-killed you.”

  “Killed me? Nay!”

  “I thought…” There was a long painful pause. “When I care… die…” She labored for breath through her terror and in the hallway Isobel squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the girl’s ravaged thoughts burning to her own soul. “…I arrived and… couldn’t see you… waves…”

  Her words were no longer discernible, but were lost in her breathy panic.

  “Hush, now,” Mour soothed. ” ‘Tis silly, you’re being. I am not dead, wee lass, nor will I be anytime soon, God willing.”

  A few stuttered breaths could be heard, but nothing else.

  “Be calm now. All is well.”

  “You fell… so far.”

  “Nay,” he denied, and reaching past Mary, took her hand in his own. “Nay, lass, ‘twas hardly a drop atall.” Gently, he tugged her forward until she nearly touched his bed. “Little more than a wee step into a bath, really. Maid Isobel does as much for sport.”

  “She… won’t speak to me.”

  “Isobel?”

  The girl nodded. “She knows it is me fault that—”

  “Nay, she thinks no such thing. She is worried, is all.”

  Claude shook her head, but he squeezed her hand and drew her closer still. “Here now, I’ve a few things to tell you, Claude, and these things you will believe, for I will not be lying to you. You had nothing to do with me dive into the firth, heroic though it was. ‘Twas Mary here who decided to take a swim. I but tried to fetch her out. And here we are, both safe and hale. ‘Tis not your fault and Isobel knows this as well as I.”

  Silence settled over the chamber for several moments. Claude punished her faded gown with her free hand.

  “You left,” she murmured.

  It took him a moment to respond, to catch up to her thoughts. “I know, lass,” he said. “But I would have returned to Henshaw when I could. You should not have come so far alone. There are many evils between here and the Red Lion’s front door.”

  “Francois came back.”

  “Of course he did, lass, for he remembered your kindness. But you should have remained where it is safe.”

  “He is fleet.”

  ” ‘Tis true,” Mour agreed, “and he would have kept you safe if he could, but what if brigands came upon you whilst you slept? Then you would have been caught afoot, and I dare not think what might have befallen you.”

  The world seemed utterly silent before the girl spoke again, just barely above a whisper. “You asked me to care for him. And I knew…”

  Isobel squeezed her eyes closed against the words, for she already knew the truth. The girl had not slept. Nay, she had left all she knew, had risked her life and remained astride for days on end just to be near—

  “I knew Francois could not live without you,” Claude whispered and in that moment the horn spilled from Isobel’s hand and crashed to the floor at her feet.

  Mary jerked. Claude started, and Gilmour raised his smoldering gaze to Bel’s.

  “Isobel,” he breathed. “Is something amiss?”

  She tried to speak, but her throat burned and her eyes stung, and in the end there was nothing she could do but wrap her fist about her silver shell and flee back to the safety of the kitchens.

  Chapter 26

  Gilmour awoke some time later. It felt cool in the room and dank. Shifting slightly, he realized wee Mary still lay in his arms. Claude had left sometime before, her brown eyes wide, but her brow untroubled.

  Near his bed, the candle flickered in a wayward draft. Perhaps it was Senga, he thought, and smiled as he stroked Mary’s golden locks. She was safe. Isobel was well. Even Claude had arrived unscathed. Thus, all was right, for Ramsay would not return to find that those he cherished had been lost.

  He would return. Gilmour was certain of it. Ramsay was too surly, too obstinate to be lost forever. And then there was the matter of Anora. Not while he lived would Ram allow evil to befall his bride. Therefore, Gilmour simply had to make certain all they held dear still prospered upon their return.

  He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to find assurance in the babe’s closeness. Wee Mary was safe, he repeated, but as the thought passed through his mind, she wriggled closer as if chilled.

  Gilmour snuggled the child against him. The small infirmary, which usually seemed so warm, felt strangely cool just now, and surely a draft would do the babe no good. He’d best return her to her own bed. Carefully scooping the wee cherub onto his hale arm, Gilmour rose to his feet and stepped into the hallway.

  Despite his thoughts to the contrary, it was not yet late. Companionable voices sounded from the great hall, and though he was not usually the sort to avoid an ale and a good yarn, he did so now, turning down a dim hallway toward the nursery.

  Stepping through that doorway, he bent carefully and placed the bairn into her cradle before drawing the woolens up around her. He prepared to leave then, but in that instant the babe opened her eyes with a startled cry. Dropping to his knees, he rocked the tiny bed back and forth and sang to her in Gaelic. The tiny body relaxed, the sleepy eyes fell closed, but for several moments Mour could not leave. Instead, he crouched over her and whispered a prayer of safety for this night and always.

  “Laird MacGowan.”

  Startled, Gilmour looked toward Helena.

  “What be you doing here?” she whispered.

  “Wee Mary sleeps,” he said, keeping his voice low as he rose somewhat sheepishly to his feet. “I thought it best to return her here.”

  “But you should not have left your own bed. I came to fetch her. And when I found her gone—” She lifted a quiveri
ng hand to her vast bosom as words failed her.

  “All is well, Helena. Fear not.”

  “Aye,” she said and nodded quickly as she shuffled forward to huddle over the cradle for an elongated moment. “All is well because of you.” She glanced up, her faded eyes filled with tears. “And for that I owe you an endless debt.”

  “You owe me nothing.”

  ” ‘Twas me own folly that…” For a moment she could not go on. ” ‘Twas me own fault that she was endangered.”

  “It’ll do no good to dwell on it.”

  “So it is true,” she whispered and stared at him, her eyes wide with fear.

  “What is true?”

  “You are as your brother,” she said, and lifting her overskirt, buried her face in the soiled folds to sob.

  Gilmour stared at her in perplexity.

  “There now,” he soothed uneasily. “What is amiss?”

  “Do you not see?” she asked, glancing up. ” ‘Tis the prophesy come true again. Always I knew you were loving and beloved. One glance at your bonny smile told me true.” She sniffled as she stared at him. “But now I fear you have the other attributes, as well.”

  “Other—”

  “Peace and power and cunning and kindness,” she said. “You possess them all, me laird.”

  Smiling, he reached out to wipe a tear from the old woman’s plump cheek. “I am flattered, but I do not understand why you would find such an idea distressing. Surely this would be a good—”

  “Do you not understand?” she asked, her voice anguished. “You have become our champion.”

  He tried to discern her meaning, but gave up with a shake of his head.

  “Another hero to save Evermyst,” she explained impatiently. “Another hero to wed a Fraser bride. And though I cherish Isobel, I cannot bear to lose…” She collapsed into tears again, scrunching her skirt against her reddened face.

  “Helena, calm yourself,” he soothed. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I know the truth,” she stuttered.