by Lois Greiman
Gilmour wished he could say as much. “You do?”
She nodded miserably. “Wee Isobel,” Helena whispered, her voice strained from crying. “She is me lady’s sister true born.”
“Ah.” Was there anyone at Evermyst who didn’t know the truth? “So you know that, do you?”
“Aye. I am not so foolish as old Meara thinks.”
He smiled fondly. “Indeed not, but why does this make you so unhappy?”
“Isobel has been sent to us here at Evermyst,” she said as if everything was ultimately obvious. “And you to wed her.”
In truth, he couldn’t have been more surprised if she had told him he’d been send to draw the sun into the sky each morning, and no less sure of his ability to achieve that end. “I?” he asked, spreading a hand across his chest. “I was sent to wed Isobel?”
“Of course. ‘Tis clear that you long for her.”
“If that were true, why would this concern you?”
“Because she has been sent to replace her sister and you to replace your brother now that they are…” Words failed her and Mour grasped her arm in one hand.
“Helena,” he said, “hear me now. Me brother is not dead. Neither is his bride.” Fear curdled his stomach, but he could not believe, would not believe that they were gone forever. They were the brother rogues; naught could defeat him. But even as the thought passed through his mind he said a silent prayer. “Ramsay is alive,” he said, tightening his grip on her arm. “And he shall soon return with his bride.”
“Do you think so?” she whispered, glancing up through watery eyes.
“Aye,” he said, “and when they do, they shall find that all is well here at Evermyst.”
“But—”
He tightened his grip. “All must be well,” he said and fought down the desperation in his voice. “Thus I need you to care for wee Mary.”
“But I have f-failed.”
“You have not failed,” he said. “And you shall not. Now brace yourself woman, for Evermyst cannot survive without you.”
She sniffled and straightened slightly. “You are kind, me laird.”
“And bonny, too,” he said and grinned. “But don’t let it set you crying again or you’ll wake the babe.”
Helena chuckled sloppily and in the hallway Isobel blanched. It could not be true, she thought in a panic. He had not been sent to fulfill the prophesy. She was not a true Fraser and she did not want him, did not need—
She heard his footsteps approach, and stepped rapidly into a shadowed doorway. Fool! Surely she would be found, for he would walk right past her on his return to the infirmary.
It took only a moment, however, to realize that she was wrong. That he had gone in the opposite direction.
Scowling, she peeked out from behind the stone wall to watch his retreating back. Where was he going at this late hour? Could it be that he was planning some mischief even now? Could it be that he only saved the babe so that they would trust him all the more?
He was cunning, after all. Even Stout Helena admitted that. And mayhap that was his ploy, to win the hearts of the people and take his brother’s place here at lofty Evermyst. Mayhap he even planned to do just as Helena had suggested—to take Bel for a bride so that the castle would be rightfully his. But it would not work.
Stepping from her hiding place, Isobel padded silently down the hallway behind Mour, and when she saw that he did not turn aside either for the great hall or the kitchens, she hurried her steps. It was only a few minutes until she peeked around a corner and found him standing at the door to the master chamber, the very chamber where she had tried to rest only minutes before. He raised his hand as if to knock, then drew his fist back to his side, and turned away.
Isobel ducked rapidly out of sight, but there was no need, for in a moment she heard the sound of her door being opened.
He was entering her chambers.
How dare he go inside uninvited! Then she remembered that less than a full hour before she had sneaked down to the infirmary to spy on him. It was not that she was drawn to him, of course. Nor that the sight of him with wee Mary made her heart ache. Nay, she had no deep feelings for either him or the babe. ‘Twas simply that she needed to observe him in secret in order to determine his true motives. But he had been fast asleep. His sable lashes had fallen closed and his hair, soft as the babe’s, had curled about the corded strength of his throat. The feather that always adorned his single braid lay beside Mary’s parted lips and fluttered softly with each quiet sigh. But it was the sight of the babe’s hand atop his arm that had held Isobel hidden there for long minutes. Each perfect, ivory digit was spread upon the dark muscle near his elbow, and as she watched, it seemed almost that the babe had placed her hand there just so to feel the strength of him, to feel the safety, to know that despite every evil that threatened her world, he was there to keep her well.
But wee Mary was only a babe, and did not know that often those who profess to care for you are those who wound you the worst. She had yet to learn not to trust. But perhaps, with this man near she would not have to—
Nay. Isobel halted the thought. Fools trusted and fools died, and she was not a fool.
And what the devil was MacGowan still doing in Anora’s chamber? Though large by comparison, the rooms were hardly so immense that it would take him this long to—
A quiet gasp escaped her lips. Could it be that he had found the secret passage that wended through the rock to the firth? Or perhaps he had always known about it. Perhaps he was even now making his way toward the boat that waited on the water far below. But to what end?
Quietly leaving her hiding place, she pattered carefully down the hall and pressed her spine against the wall beside the bedchamber door. Not a whisper of sound did she hear. When the silence continued, she glanced inside. The room was dark, quiet, empty, but beside the bed… might there be a glimmer of light?
Stepping quietly into the room, she saw that the tapestry that adorned the wall had been pressed aside and the tiny door behind it had been left ajar.
It seemed she had little choice but to step through that portal and into the dark passageway. Little choice but to trip quietly through the blackness, fingers skimming the rough stone as she wended her way toward the heart of the mountain.
Why would he go to the boat? Where did he wish to be, and how did he plan to coerce the oarsman into following his directives? After all, the boat was meant to be used for emergencies only. Unless MacGowan planned some evil against the guard. Unless…
Her thoughts stopped abruptly, for in that instant, her fingers met thinnest air. The wall had disappeared. She stumbled to a halt, catching herself, and finding that that very wall continued only inches away. And yet, as she felt breathlessly about, she found that it was not the wall after all, but a door of sorts, made of the same stone that the hallway was carved from. Pushing her hand cautiously into the opening, she moved it slightly. It swung wide without a sound. She drew a careful breath, said a prayer, and stepped silently through.
The passage was narrow on the other side. Although she could see nothing, she could feel the closeness without even reaching out to the walls beside her. She moved more slowly now, down and inward, her heart thrumming in her chest.
It seemed like an eternity before she saw the glimmer of light to her right. She stopped, listening. Still, she could hear naught but the sound of her own breath in the darkness. Thus she moved, slowly, ever so slowly until she came to a gray rectangle that outlined an opening in the rock. No sound disturbed her, so she turned and peered into the chamber. It was dark but for a pale, distant light shining from behind a wall. A trunk stood near the door, but otherwise it was empty. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the chamber.
A dark form reared over her. She shrieked, jumping backward and knocking the door closed. The shadow swore and stumbled to a halt.
“Bugger it!”
“MacGowan?” Her voice quavered on his name as she pressed her back again
st the rough wood of the portal behind her.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Anger swelled up on the wings of her fright. “That is me own question to ask,” she said. “What were you doing in me sister’s chambers?”
Even in the dim light, she could see that his brows were pulled low over his eyes.
“I wished to talk to you,” he said. “But I found the light rather disturbing.”
“What light?”
“The one that shone from behind the tapestry.”
“The hidden door was open?”
“Nay.”
“Then ‘tis not possible that you could have seen a light.”
“One would tend to agree,” he admitted. “Unless Senga has a penchant for making mischief. I brought no light with me, and yet the candle glowed in this chamber.”
She stared at him. Was he joking or did he believe in shades? And if he believed, how much foolishness would he believe about herself and her sister? “Why are you here?”
“At Evermyst, or at—”
“Here,” she interrupted. “In this chamber. And how did you find it? I have lived at Evermyst for some time and never knew of its presence.”
He shrugged. “As I said, there was a light. Why are you here?”
Good question. “When I… returned to me sister’s chamber I saw that the passage had been breached.”
“But you did not know by whom?”
She carefully kept from fidgeting. “Nay. How could I?”
He grinned a little, his teeth as white as the bandage that crossed his bare chest. “You were following me.”
“And why would I do that, MacGowan?”
“Because you are in love with me.”
“I am not.”
“Aye, lass, you are,” he said and stepped toward her. “But you are afraid to admit it.”
She managed a laugh. It was not very convincing, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. “You have forever thought much too highly of yourself, MacGowan.”
“Mayhap,” he acquiesced and took a few deliberate steps around her, as if examining her from the side. “But perhaps not so highly as you think of me.”
“You, me laird, are deluded.”
“Why were you following me?”
“I was not—”
“Why did you come to the infirmary?”
She felt her face redden. “How did you know—” She halted, catching herself, but his brows were already raised.
“I was awake,” he said, then grinned with evil happiness. “Or was there another time? Tell me, sweet Bel, did you come back to watch me whilst I slept?”
“Nay,” she said and he laughed.
“Why not admit it?”
“Because it is not true.”
“I haven’t even told you what to admit yet.”
“But I know it will be false.”
“You wonder about me,” he said. “You wonder if I am as good as I think am.”
She said nothing.
“The truth is this, lass,” he said, his expression almost sober. “No one is as good as I think I am.”
Her lips parted in surprise but he continued on.
“The truth is this, Bel; luck was with me when wee Mary fell. Naught else, for as you know I am not a powerful swimmer.”
“Modesty?” she asked. “From you, MacGowan?”
He snorted. “Far from it. I simply have no wish for you to believe some nonsensical prophesy that was spoken long before our time.”
“I am not Helena, who believes—” She saw the trap, but it was already too late. His delighted grin told her as much.
“You heard?” he asked. “You were listening to me conversation with the woman.”
“Nay, I—”
“You were hiding in the hall,” he countered, “eavesdropping as I spoke in the nursery.”
“You’re daft.”
“Why did you come, Bel? Could it be that you could stay away no longer?” He took a step forward. “Could it be that you dream of me in your lonely bed and came to search for me?” He touched her cheek, and she swatted his hand away.
“I was not eavesdropping. I only came to check on the babe.”
“I dream of you, also,” he said. “But I will not let you believe that which is not true.”
“Then you are admitting that you are a daft cad who—”
“I am saying that we were not sent to replace Ramsay and Anora. Nor were we sent to fulfill some foolish prophesy.”
“I never thought so,” she said.
” ‘Tis good,” he said. “For when you give yourself to me, I do not want to think ‘tis because of some misguided belief.”
She tried to think of some scathing rejoinder, but for the life of her, she couldn’t. In fact, when she looked into his eyes, it was all she could do to continue to breathe.
“Tell me, Bel,” he murmured, lifting his hand to her cheek again. “Is it time?”
Desire curled like wood smoke through her, and though she ordered her feet to move, they would not.
“Are you ready?” he asked and kissed her. “I ask, for I must warn you: once you give yourself to me, I shall never let you go.”
Panic washed over her. Breaking away, she reached for the door. She jerked the latch, but nothing happened. Breathing hard, she tried again, but it was no use.
They were locked in.
Chapter 27
Isobel turned, her heart pounding. “Is this how you manage to deflower all your scores of virtuous maids?”
Gilmour didn’t move, but stood watching her as if perplexed. “Are you saying we are locked in?”
“Do you pretend to be surprised?”
His brows rose with his grin, which lifted one corner of his tantalizing mouth. “You think I planned this?”
She rattled the latch. “How else would it have become locked?”
“Mayhap it was Senga’s doing. Or else ‘twas you what locked the door.”
“What?”
“You want me, Bel, but you are afraid to admit it. Mayhap this is your way of having me while yet denying your desire.”
“You are surely daft!”
“And you are afraid. But I will not hurt you.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
“Then come hither.”
“Just because I am not afraid does not mean that I will lie with you.”
He laughed. “And just because I can, does not mean that I will.”
She scowled.
“Come away from the door. Do you know where we are?”
She glanced about. “In the heart of the mountain.”
“I believe ‘twas your mother’s secret chambers.”
“What? Why?”
Turning, he paced to the nearby trunk then crouched to lift something from the ironbound box. The contents were flat and draped with blue velvet. The fabric fell away, and Isobel saw that it had covered a portrait.
Gilmour lifted it into the light so she could see the painting of a young girl. Her gown was an emerald hue, her hair bright as gold, and in her eyes there was happiness.
“Anora,” she sighed, taking the portrait.
But Gilmour shook his head. “Look again, lass.”
She scowled at him then turned her gaze back to the portrait. It was then that she saw the tiny silver shell that hung from her wee neck.
” ‘Tis me,” she breathed.
“Aye.”
“But the Holiers did not have the funds to commission—”
” ‘Twas your mother,” Mour said. “She knew your whereabouts and made sure of your safety.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she cherished you, lass, and she commissioned this portrait to remember you by.”
Isobel’s eyes stung. ” ‘Twas guilt for sending me away.”
” ‘Twas love, Isobel, whether you can admit it or nay.”
“Then why did she not…”
“Rescue you?” he ask
ed.
She nodded against her will. As she stared at the small girl in the portrait, she could not help but remember the years that followed. Years of terror and hunger and dark hopelessness. If ever there was a child that needed rescuing, it had been she. And perhaps she still did.
“Evermyst was in turmoil,” he said, his voice soft. “The Munros were hammering at its very door, and your mother… it must not have been much later when she died.”
Isobel’s stomach twisted. “All the trouble she went through to make certain her daughters were not accused of witchcraft, only to be accused of that very thing herself.”
“I am sorry, Bel,” he said.
She raised her chin. “Nay. There is naught—”
“Do not say it, lass,” he interrupted, his soft tone full of emotion. “Do not deny the pain. You should have been cherished. You should have been held close and had the treasures of Evermyst for your own.”
“What treasures?” she asked and forcing a laugh, bent to reach into the ancient trunk. A second velvet bound portrait came away in her hand. “A pair of paintings of lassies torn apart at birth?” she asked, but just then the velvet slipped away to reveal the portrait beneath. The oil was not of Isobel, but of a fair-haired lad. He was approximately the same age as the girl in the other frame, but where her mouth bore a whimsical smile, his was turned down beneath eyes of blue intensity. And about his neck hung a silver shell.
Isobel caught her breath even as Gilmour moved closer.
“Did your mother bear a son?”
She shook her head, her fingers tingling. “Nay,” she whispered. “She would not have given up a lad.” She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “Nay, she would have wanted a son.”
The stone chamber fell silent. “Is that what you think, Isobel? That she gave you up because she did not want you?”
“Nay.” She yanked her gaze from the portrait and shook her head. “Of course not. ‘Twas because she could not keep me safe. This I know.”
“Aye, you know it with your mind,” Gilmour said. “But what of your heart?”
Her heart wanted to weep, to cry for the tiny girl in the emerald gown. “Me heart is well,” she said and placed the portrait back in the trunk to rise.
“She cherished you, Bel,” he repeated.