The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  She stood, feeling restless. “And how do you know that, MacGowan?”

  He rose and towered over her. “Because I know you.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Who is there who could resist loving you?”

  “There are a few,” she said, her throat tight.

  “Dollag?” he asked.

  She turned away. “To name one.”

  “She was evil, Isobel. Warped by pain and circumstances. It does not mean you are unlovable.”

  “Unlovable?” She laughed. “I never thought I was.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Nay,” she said, but it was difficult to force out that simple denial.

  “So you have felt the touch of love?”

  “Of course.”

  “By whom?”

  ” ‘Tis none of your affair, MacGowan.”

  “By whom, Bel?”

  Her mind scrambled. “Me sister loves me.”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “That she does, lass. And yet you fled.”

  “I did not.”

  “Then why did you leave Evermyst—this place you might have called home?”

  “I grew weary of the sameness of the days.”

  “And thus you left the only person who cherished you or whom you cherished in return?”

  It was difficult to breathe. “I do not know what you speak of.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked and stepped closer. “What is the real reason for your departure?”

  She felt trapped, terrified. “Leave me be, MacGowan. You are forever baiting me. Perhaps you are the reason I left.”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Meself and Anora. The two who love you.”

  She gasped a breath and fell back a pace as if struck, but he did not follow her.

  “What did you think, Bel? That I spend me days pursuing every lass I meet?”

  “Aye. You are the rogue,” she whispered.

  “Even a rogue must meet his match,” he said and reached for her.

  She stumbled out of his embrace, breathing hard. “Nay.”

  “Believe what you will of others,” he said. “But know this. If you will have me, I will not fail you. Not today or for all time. I will cherish only—”

  “Nay! Quit your lies! I do not wish to hear them.”

  “Isobel—” He reached for her again, but she slapped his hand away. “There is no need to fear,” he said and stepped closer.

  “I do not love you,” she said, and he stopped where he stood. “Nor shall I. Not today or ever.”

  “Do not say things you will regret, lass.”

  “Regret?” She laughed. “I will tell you what I regret, MacGowan. I regret ever meeting you. I regret every moment we have spent together, for I know the truth.”

  He stood very still, his face expressionless. “And what is the truth, lass?”

  “You have no caring for others. ‘Tis all a farce, for ‘tis you who has taken me sister and plans to reign over Evermyst.”

  He said nothing for several seconds. “Is that truly what you believe?”

  She could barely breathe, could not possibly think. “Aye,” she whispered.

  “Me apologies, then,” he said and bowing at the waist, turned toward the door. For a moment the latch resisted, but the tendons in his wrist tightened and the door sprang open, listing on one leather hinge as he strode away.

  The air left Isobel’s lungs in a rash. She felt sick to her stomach, dizzy in her head, and suddenly the room seemed too small, stifling. She rushed out of it, but she could not bear to see him, could not return to Evermyst. She pivoted to the right, down toward the water’s edge. She would find solace there, peace.

  It was as dark as death in the passageway, but she did not care. She had to escape, get away, forget.

  But from the end of the hall she heard a noise. The guard. She slowed her course. It was as dark as sin down here. Not a lantern was lit, for even though the passage was well hidden, they would not risk a light. Pausing, she listened, but all she heard was the lap of waves against the roots of Evermyst. Then, when she strained her ears, she could hear the guard’s quiet breaths. He slept, so she crouched low beneath the stone arch and passed on silent feet before him, around the curve of rock and out into the open.

  Moonlight fell softly on the face of the water, gilding the waves. She took a deep breath of night air and found her way around the steep roots of Evermyst. Not far from the escape route was her favored spot in all the world. The place where she and Anora had oft gone together. ‘Twas there that her feet took her now, winding down the side of Evermyst until she came to a quiet inlet. Nearly surrounded by the mountain’s towering heights, the water here was still and hidden. Here it was quiet, soothing, and it dawned on her suddenly that she should have found her way here sooner, should have found this place where memories of Anora lived so strong. She would sit a while and let the images come to her—but in that instant she heard a noise. It was only the slightest crackle of sound, and yet she froze, fear skittering wildly up her spine as she turned.

  “Isobel,” said a voice. “You have come.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Who goes there?”

  For a moment not a soul moved, and then, from the deepest shadows, a figure stepped forth.

  Chapter 28

  Isobel reared back. “Laird Winbourne?” she breathed.

  “Aye.” Moonlight flashed across his smile. “You’ve given me quite a chase, lass.”

  “Chase?” she asked, then suddenly, she knew. It had been he who had snatched her the first time. Why? Why? her mind screamed. But there was no time to consider that; there was only time to escape. She pivoted away, but hands closed around her. She tried to scream, but her mouth was covered, and suddenly she was being carried. Wrestling madly, she tried to get away, but already she could feel the cut of hemp against her wrists as her arms were bound behind her back. Cloth pressed across her mouth and nose, threatening to smother her. She moaned against the pressure and the fabric slipped lower, closing up her mouth as it was pulled tight behind her head.

  Through the rush of blood in her ears she heard voices, and then they were moving, marching toward the sea.

  Why? Panic filled her and she struggled all the harder. The earth rocked beneath her, and it took several seconds to realize that she was in a boat. Already they were moving, rowing rapidly toward an unknown destination. There was nothing she could do. Indeed, she could barely breathe. And so she lay, unmoving, waiting, worrying until a lifetime later the hull of the boat scraped against earth.

  They dragged her out of the vessel and a short time later she found herself in the depths of a woods.

  Set upon her feet, she burst away from her captors. Stumbling on the uneven turf, she shambled to a halt as she glanced wildly around her. But no new terror met her gaze.

  “There is no need to fear.” Winbourne’s voice was soft. She shifted her eyes rapidly in his direction. “I’ll remove your gag if you promise to be a good lass.”

  She crushed her panic with all her might, until it was a dull roar in her ears. Then she nodded. Striding over to her, he turned her away from him then worked at the knot.

  “It’s damnably tight isn’t it? My poor lass,” he murmured and finally the fabric slipped away.

  She spun toward him. “Why?” The word sounded garbled, barely audible for the pain in her throat.

  “Do not try to talk yet, my Bel. Not until you’ve soothed your throat. Finn, fetch the poor lass some mead.”

  She ignored the words. ” ‘Twas you who took me before,” she accused.

  He nodded. “I admit that it was my lads. I left them in Henshaw to do the task, for I could ill afford to be connected to your abduction. Indeed, I worried that MacGowan had seen me with them at the Duke’s Inn and would suspect something, but apparently I had other things to worry on. It seems that if I wish a task well done, I’d best see to it myself. Here,” he said, taking a horn from Finn. Even in
the darkness she recognized the man’s lean, wolfish form. “Drink this.” He nudged it toward her mouth. She turned away. “Come now, lass,” Winbourne crooned. “I’ve no intention of harming you. You have my solemn vow.”

  “Then what is your intent?”

  “Drink and I will tell you.”

  She did so, her gaze never leaving his face.

  He smiled like a doting uncle. “There’s a good lass. Now, where shall I start?”

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  He lifted one hand as if to apologize. “To become my bride.”

  Her knees buckled, but he caught her and held her until her legs steadied. “Here, drink more.”

  “You jest,” she croaked.

  “Nay, lass, I do not.”

  “Why me?”

  He smiled again. “Such modesty is becoming, but surely you know that you are bonny.”

  “I think there would be other bonny maids willing to marry you.”

  “Perhaps because of my station, you think I could take any woman to wife,” he said and paced slowly before her. She followed him with her gaze. “But you would be mistaken, Isobel. Indeed, I asked for your sister’s hand long ago.”

  “Anor—” she began, then stopped abruptly on a sharp intake of breath. “I have no sister.”

  He laughed. “Aye you do,” he argued gently. “A twin, in fact. I’ve known for some time. Indeed, I spent a few nights with the maid named Ailis. I fear she has no particular love for you, lass. Something about mating in the womb.”

  Isobel shook her head, but even she wasn’t sure if she still denied kinship or if it was a gesture of her confusion.

  “But I do not particularly care what you and your sister did in the womb. Some years ago, I made a bid for Anora’s hand in marriage. I was willing to give her time. After all, rumor has it that she was hard used in her youth. I thought that mayhap her hauteur was really naught more than fear of men. But she had no trouble with MacGowan, it seems.”

  She shook her head again, and he laughed as if amused by her confusion.

  ” ‘Tis simply this, lass,” he said. “I am the fourth son of an old man who has squandered his fortune, so I was left to my own defenses. Evermyst would make a fine port with a goodly profit if managed correctly. Long I have wanted it for my own, but the lady of the keep would not accept me. Still, I did not give up. Even after her marriage, I thought there might be hope. I considered getting rid of her pesky husband and wooing her again, but she seems strangely attached to him. It would not work,” he said and sighed. “Thus, you must be lady of the keep, and you must be my bride.”

  She felt her stomach curdle. “And what of Anora?”

  “Come now, lass,” he crooned. “You know what must happen to Anora.”

  She felt faint, weak, terrified.

  “Indeed, the widow Ailis thought you had considered it yourself.”

  “Considered what?”

  “How best to be rid of her.”

  Isobel tried to shake her head, but it seemed as if the world was spinning around her.

  “You can admit the truth, lass. I will not hold it against you. You hoped to be the lady of Evermyst. Indeed, with your sad childhood, how could you not long for that power? The moment I met you, I knew there was something strange about you. Something…” He paused, watching her askance. “Something… familiar, and yet not so. It took me some time to learn the truth. You are the lady’s twin. So tell me lass, are you the saintly one or the evil one?”

  She shook her head, fighting down the panic and he laughed.

  “It matters naught, for your new life will begin soon.”

  Fear skittered like icy water down her spine.

  “Sleep now. I have matters to attend to.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice quavered. “Where’s Anora?” she cried, but he was already out of sight and she was being pulled away.

  The night was endless. Tied to a tree in abject darkness, she slept in fitful starts and horrible wakenings. Dawn came like gray dishwater, washing over the land.

  Footsteps startled her. She jerked her head up and Winbourne was there again.

  “My apologies for your poor accommodations,” he said and going behind her, undid her knots. “But I dared not let you go free lest you ruin our lives forever.”

  She stood painfully. Her knees threatened to spill her to the ground, but she kept upright by dint of willpower alone. “I will not marry you.” Her voice was harsh, low.

  He smiled indulgently. “I fear you have no choice, lass.”

  “There is always a choice.”

  He scowled. “What say—” he began, but a sound stopped his words. “Ahh. They have arrived.”

  Premonition jerked Isobel upright. Three horses stepped into the firelight.

  Anora rode before one of the baron’s men. Her cheek was bruised, her hair filthy and disheveled, but she was alive, hale. She turned her head and caught Isobel’s gaze.

  “Blakeley. Where are the others?” asked Winbourne.

  The guard stepped from his mount, and Isobel noticed that one of his eyes was swollen shut. “There was some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Baron and Kirk are dead.”

  Winbourne swore with vengeance. “And MacGowan?”

  “Dead also.”

  Isobel jerked, but even from this distance, she could feel her sister’s emotions. There was terror there. Terror and aching fatigue, but not hopelessness.

  “Dead?” said Winbourne. “Who killed him?”

  “Kirk.”

  “Where is the body?”

  Blakeley scowled. “It was lost… in the river. I had no time to retrieve it. You said to bring the woman here as soon as we could take her.”

  Winbourne paced closer, dragging Isobel along.

  “Aye, you were to bring her here as proof, lest you muck up the job like you did on the river.”

  “I have her now.”

  “So you do. But it took the lot of you to find her, and half of you to misdirect those who search for her. You’ve seen no sign of Laird Lachlan and his men?”

  “Nay. They are far gone, heading south after Owen. They’ll not catch him.”

  “Good,” said Winbourne and turned. “Lady Anora,” he said. “You’ve given my men some trouble.”

  Her face was ungodly pale, but her chin was lifted. “Why have you done this?”

  “I would tell you, your ladyship, but I fear there is no time. For you were to be dead long ago.

  “Finn.” From somewhere behind Isobel, Finn stepped forward. “Cut her throat,” he said. “But have a care with the gown. We’ll need it for my bride.”

  Finn strode across the turf and grabbed Anora’s bound wrists.

  Panic burst in Isobel like a flood.

  “He’s not dead!” she gasped.

  The guard jerked. Finn froze, and Winbourne turned slowly toward her.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Anora’s husband,” she said. “He’s not dead.”

  The baron narrowed his eyes. “And how would you know that, my love?”

  “Isobel!” Anora’s voice rang in the stillness. “Please—” she began, but Isobel cut her off, her gaze never leaving Winbourne.

  “You were right,” she rasped. “She is me sister. Me twin.” Her legs were shaking. “And I can… read her thoughts.”

  The guard fell back a pace.

  Even Winbourne seemed to falter. “You are a witch?” he asked.

  “I can read her thoughts,” she repeated. “And he is not dead.”

  “Blakeley?” said Winbourne, turning.

  The guard licked his lips and squinted through his good eye. “The rogue was grievously wounded when we left him.”

  “But not dead.”

  “Jackdaw battled him.”

  “And you did not assist?” Winbourne growled.

  “I was to return here—”

  “He will give himself up for her!
” Isobel interrupted.

  Winbourne turned toward her. “What’s that?”

  “If you do not harm her, Laird Ramsay will give himself up for her.”

  “He is dead,” Anora argued. “I know it.”

  The baron stared at her for a moment then smiled. “So he yet lives and you would give your life for him.”

  “Nay,” Anora rasped, but Isobel spoke simultaneously.

  “If you keep her safe until his arrival, you will have him.”

  Winbourne turned toward her, his expression bright. “So you have seen the wisdom of my plan?”

  “Aye,” she said and swallowed her bile. “But you cannot kill her yet.”

  Silence lay like poison on the camp before the baron spoke again.

  “Very well. Finn, tie the lady yonder so that her husband will see her when—”

  “I tell you he is dead by now!” interrupted the guard, but Winbourne turned to Anora, boring his gaze into hers.

  “Nay,” he said finally. “He is not dead, but he soon shall be.”

  He gave orders rapidly. In minutes, Anora was tied to a tree. Isobel was positioned nearby. The night fell over them like a dark tide as Winbourne sent his guards into the woods.

  Minutes dragged by like hours. Terror grated at Isobel. The night seemed to darken. Fatigue wore at her, but suddenly a scream broke the silence.

  Isobel jerked. Footsteps whipped through the darkness. Winbourne wrenched his sword from its sheath as a guard galloped into camp, dropped his sword from bloody fingers, and toppled slowly to the ground.

  It was Roy, but his eyes were glazed and his hands lifeless.

  “Finn!” Winbourne commanded, and the brigand smiled as he pressed his sword to Anora’s throat. “MacGowan!” called the baron. “If you do not want to see her dead, you will come in unarmed.”

  Not a sound answered him. Seconds sliced away.

  “Very well then,” Winbourne yelled and glancing toward Finn, raised his arm.

  “Halt!” shouted a voice.

  Isobel held her breath as a wraith-like figure stepped from the shadows.

  Winbourne smiled. “So you have—” His words stopped as he squinted into the darkness. Firelight glinted off the other’s golden hair. “You’re not her husband.”

  Gilmour MacGowan smiled grimly. His bandage was gone, and his hands were empty. “And lucky you are that I am not,” he said, still approaching the fire. “For me brother is not so forgiving as meself.”