The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Let the women go, Grier.”

  “Guards!” he yelled.

  A brigand leapt from the shadows. Moonlight glimmered off his sword as it sliced toward Gilmour.

  Isobel screamed. Mour ducked and came up with Roy’s sword in his hand. He swung and the guard shrieked. In one fluid motion, Gilmour turned toward Winbourne.

  Winbourne stood frozen. “She’ll die!” he warned.

  Finn grasped his sword in both hands in preparation, but a sound whistled through the darkness and suddenly Finn was stumbling backward. His weapon fell to the earth as he raised his hands uselessly to the Maiden’s blade in his throat.

  A shadow stepped from the blackness.

  “Ramsay!” Anora moaned and he came, knife held before him in a bloody fist.

  Riders leapt from the darkness. Gilmour swiped and ducked. Isobel screamed in fear. Ramsay sliced through Anora’s bonds, dragging her into the darkness, and Gilmour was alone, fighting off the brigands who streamed toward him. He was surrounded now, but suddenly a cry tore through the night.

  The earth trembled beneath thundering hooves and a score of horsemen leapt into the fray.

  “Brother!” Lachlan yelled, and suddenly the tide was turned.

  The brigands fell aside as the men of Evermyst rained down upon them. Through the melee, Isobel saw Winbourne fly toward her. In an instant, she felt his hand in her hair and a second later she saw Gilmour.

  “One step closer, MacGowan and she dies.” The words hissed by her ear, and she felt the tip of his blade press into her neck.

  “Let her go.” Gilmour’s voice was low and steady. “Let her go, Winbourne and you’ll not die this day.”

  The knife left her throat for a moment. Her hands burst free. But her hair was wrapped hard and fast in his fingers, and pain pricked her neck again as she was pulled backward.

  “Drop your sword!” Winbourne hissed, “or she’ll die this instant.”

  Gilmour stopped. Winbourne pressed the blade more aggressively to her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, but even so, she knew the moment Gilmour dropped his weapon.

  “Follow us and she’s as good as dead, MacGowan,” Winbourne said, and suddenly she was being dragged through the woods. She hung back, digging in her heels, but he crashed his fist against her skull. Fire exploded in her head. She reeled as he lifted her into his arms. They jolted through the darkness. She tried to struggle, but her limbs were weak, the world was hazy, and suddenly it was swaying.

  A boat. They were back on a boat.

  “Nay!” Isobel cried and struggled for the gunnel, gripping the edge with clawed fingers. Winbourne struck her again. She reeled sideways, but heard a roar of fury, and saw Gilmour launch from the shore. He struck Winbourne’s shoulder, and they toppled into the black waters.

  “MacGowan!” Isobel wrenched upright, but they had already sunk out of sight. The water boiled white and rabid. A knife streaked above the waves and she screamed as the men broke the surface. Winbourne stabbed at Mour but MacGowan caught the other’s wrist, immobilizing it inches from his chest, and then they were under again, scrapping and flailing.

  Gripping the gunnel, Isobel tried to peer into the depths, but she could see nothing. Muffled cries echoed from the camp, but not a sound was heard from the water.

  Terror drowned Isobel. She could wait no longer. Drawing a deep breath, she dived beneath the waves. Water closed over her head. Blackness greeted her, but there was something to her right. She streamed toward it. Fabric met her fingers, but the body was limp. With a lung bursting effort, she pedaled toward the surface.

  “MacGowan! MacGowan!” she sobbed and turned the body over.

  The baron ofWinbourne lay limp on the water’s surface.

  Sobbing, she turned, her gaze skimming the water. Nothing. She took a deep breath, but in that instant Winbourne’s arm streaked around her neck.

  She screamed, but the sound was warbled for she was already sinking beneath the waves. Lungs burning, she jabbed him with her elbow. Pain sliced her arm, but of a sudden he was ripped away from her. She spun around and there was Gilmour.

  Winbourne raised his hand. The blade flashed in the moonlight. Screaming, Isobel slammed her fist against his skull. The knife veered sideways and in that second, Gilmour caught it and drove it downward. There was a gasping hiss of agony, and then Winbourne sank slowly beneath the waves.

  Isobel watched him go. It took her a moment to realize that Gilmour had gone down with him.

  Screaming his name, she launched forward and dragged him back up to the surface. He was like lead in her hands, but she pulled him toward shore.

  “MacGowan!” she rasped. “MacGowan!”

  He didn’t answer, but lolled in the water.

  Tears streamed hot and unnoticed down her cheeks. “Nay!” she screamed, but he did not move. “You cannot die now, Mour! You cannot die.”

  The world seemed utterly silent. Then, “Why… is that… Bel?”

  The words were barely audible, forced from lips that were all but immobile.

  “MacGowan?” she rasped.

  He coughed, breathing hard. “Why… can’t I… die now?”

  “You’re alive,” she breathed and he lifted one hand weakly to her cheek.

  “I would have been… true to you, Isobel. That… I swear.” Letting his hand fall into the water, he dropped his head to the side.

  “Nay! Nay! MacGowan!” she wailed, and wrapping her arm about him, pulled him up against her body. “You cannot die! You cannot. Not now that I know the truth.”

  “What… truth?” he whispered and she cupped a shaking palm against his cheek.

  Her voice quavered. “You are powerful and peaceable, and cunning and kind.”

  His eyes opened slowly and he winced. “But am I…” He coughed. “Beloved?”

  Panic filled her, the panic of a lifetime alone. And as she hesitated, he slipped quietly beneath the waves.

  “Aye!” she cried and sobbing, dragged him back up. “Aye! You are beloved.”

  “Then…” He coughed again. “You will marry me?”

  She trembled. How could she bear to love and lose? How could she touch, then live out her days without it? How—

  Gilmour sighed and slumped into the water.

  “I’ll marry you!” she shrieked and pulled his head up. But his eyes remained closed.

  “MacGowan, wake up!” she sobbed.

  Nothing, not the slightest movement, nor a breath of air.

  “MacGowan! You cannot die, now,” she whispered, “for you owe me a wedding night.”

  He moaned and opened his eyes slowly. “Did you say wedding night, lass?”

  “Aye,” she said, sobbing and laughing all at once as she pressed him toward the shore.

  “Very well, then. One wedding night… for the Lady Bel,” he said, and crawling onto dry land, promptly passed out.

  Chapter 29

  A throng filled the great hall of Evermyst.

  Gilmour’s sister Shona stood near the corner, laughing with her cousins as their children played nearby. They were a noisy lot, but for Sara’s wee Maggie, who sat out of the way, stroking a hound that looked like a wolf and whispering earnestly to Claude.

  Not far away Gilmour’s parents mingled with a host of old friends and new. But it was to Isobel that Mour’s attention always strayed.

  She was there, in the center of the hall, as radiant as the sunrise, as beautiful as spring.

  They were wed, truly and forever. Gilmour tried to adjust to the realization, but it took some doing, for his heart could hardly believe his good fortune.

  “Mour.”

  He jerked back to the conversation at hand. “What’s that?”

  Ramsay grinned. He and Anora had nearly drowned when they’d first been attacked by Winbourne’s men, but they had managed to escape, only to be caught again. It was during the ensuing battle that he had been wounded, but since then he�
��d spent a good deal of time abed. Rarely had his wife left his side, and that time seemed to have done much to improve both his health and his disposition. “I said, ‘twas a fine wedding.”

  “Ahh.” Mour nodded. Where was she now? Oh yes, she was speaking to the Munro, he realized, and scowled. He had spent too much time apart from her during his recovery. It had taken weeks for his arm to heal, for he’d dislocated it again, and recuperation had given him too much time to think, to dream about the night to come.

  “I am glad you could attend,” Lachlan said.

  Gilmour jerked his attention back to his brothers and they laughed.

  “He seems a bit distracted, does he not, brother?” Lachlan asked.

  “Aye, he does that,” Ramsay agreed. “Not so glib on this night of nights.”

  “Nor so cocky as usual.”

  The Munro was laughing as he lowered his head toward Isobel. Gilmour’s finger twitched.

  “Mayhap our wee brother is nervous,” Ramsay suggested.

  “Nervous?” Gilmour said with a start. “Why would I be?”

  They chuckled again and Gilmour grinned. “Ahh well, we cannot all be so worldly wise as you, Ram.”

  ” ‘Tis true,” Ramsay agreed.

  “Nor as lucky as you,” Mour added and turned his smile on Lachlan.

  “Lucky?” Lachlan grumbled, already on the defensive.

  “Aye,” Gilmour said, all innocence. “I heard that you were saved by another from sure death.”

  “Humm.” Lachlan shifted his gaze around the hall. “The warrior who led us to the battle,” he said, and found the lad called Hunter standing alone near the door. “He is not much to look at.”

  It was true. He was neither tall nor particularly brawny, but there was a soberness to him, a reticence that warned of caution.

  ” ‘Tis said he carried you unconscious from the firth to the keep,” Gilmour added.

  “Aye,” Lachlan admitted, “although I would have been fine on me own, mind.”

  “Of course,” Ramsay agreed.

  “Aye.” Gilmour concurred. “Still, ‘twas good of him to carry an ingrate like you all that way.”

  Lachlan looked taken aback. “Who here is an ingrate?” he asked. “I thanked him.” He scowled. “A bloody lot of good it did, though. He will barely say three words in return.”

  “Ahh well. Maybe that’s because…” Gilmour shrugged. “He’s a woman.”

  A moment of silence was observed. Then, “What?” Lachlan snapped.

  Gilmour turned his gaze to his bride again, then back to his brother. “The warrior. Your champion. He’s a woman,” he said and strode off to greet his guests.

  “I am glad you came,” Isobel said, and the Munro grunted.

  “You thought I would not?”

  “I admit that I have thought some evil against you.”

  His brows scrunched over his narrow eyes.

  “When I saw you at the inn with MacGow… with me husband, I thought that you planned some trouble.”

  He tensed. “But now you know better?”

  “He would not tell me your purpose there.”

  “Aye, well that is best, for I’d hate to kill him on his wedding day.”

  “Perhaps you could tell us then, Laird Munro.”

  He turned at the sound of a woman’s voice then widened his eyes at the sight of Lady Madelaine. “Who are you?”

  The lady raised her brows at him. “I am someone who knows bad manners when she sees them.”

  He scowled, immediately offended. “You are uncommonly outspoken for a woman with no protector at hand.”

  “And you are uncommonly large for… anything.”

  “Aye. I am,” he snarled and squeezed his hands to fists.

  Isobel tensed.

  Madelaine smiled. “Everywhere?” she asked.

  “Lady Mad—” Isobel gasped, but Madelaine turned a haughty expression on the girl.

  “I understand that your new position at Evermyst allows you some rein,” said Madelaine. “But run along now, Belva. Innes and I have things to discuss.”

  Isobel stepped closer. ” ‘Tis a fragile peace that exists between the Frasers and the Munros,” she murmured. “I would not have you—”

  “Do you know his secret yet?” Madelaine interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Your husband’s secret. Do you know it yet?”

  “Mour’s?”

  The lady’s brows raised again. “Do you have another husband?”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Do not fret.” Madelaine smiled knowingly as she placed a hand on the Munro’s massive arm. “You will find out soon enough,” she said and glanced toward the women, who hurried to escort Isobel to her wedding bed.

  “Ho, the rogue of the rogues!” shouted the crowd, and hoisted the bridegroom into the air.

  A hundred voices echoed through the keep as lascivious suggestions were shouted and Gilmour was borne from the great hall and up the stairs to his chambers. The chambers he would share with Isobel.

  Gilmour’s throat felt strangely dry. In truth, the past month was a blur in his mind. Somehow the battle at the firth had been won, even though he’d made a dozen mistakes. He should have recognized Winbourne’s men at the Duke’s Inn. He should have realized the evil in the man. He should have questioned Ailis and known that she had told Winbourne Isobel’s true identity. The two of them would bother Bel no more, for the baron was dead and Ailis had left the village, but he could have avoided much hardship if his wits had been sharper.

  “To Gilmour!” someone bellowed.

  A host of cheers followed as he was jostled down a narrow hallway. They were almost there.

  “And to his lady!” someone else yelled. “Who will surely benefit from his years of practice this night.”

  There were loud guffaws as he was tipped toward the floor. The mob was well into their cups and Gilmour had to scramble to gain his feet.

  “Perhaps we should stay,” yelled another, “and see the deed done right.”

  Gilmour grinned and raised a hand. “I would dearly love to assist you in your quest for knowledge,” he said, “but I fear there are some things that must be learned on one’s own.” He cleared his throat, and his hand was somewhat unsteady against the door latch. “Good night to you, lads.”

  Well wishes were bellowed amidst a bevy of foolish suggestions, but as Gilmour opened the door, the crowd began to disperse.

  He stepped inside. The room was dim. A single candle flickered by the window, casting its golden glow upon the woman in the bed.

  “Good eventide,” she said, her voice low.

  Gilmour managed to shut the door. “Good eventide,” he answered, and remained by the portal. “They, ahh…” He nodded toward the hallway from whence he had just come. “The lads thought mayhap we should spend this night together.”

  “Did they?” Her hair had been loosed about her ivory shoulders. Candlelight gilded the soft waves and cast a pink hue to her cheeks. Or perhaps it was a blush.

  He moved a step closer.

  ” ‘Twas a fine wedding,” he said, although in truth he barely remembered it. He had almost lost her, but he would not be so careless again.

  “Aye. ‘Twas,” she agreed.

  “I was surprised Lady Madelaine made the journey to share in the festivities.”

  “I fear she has plans for the Munro.”

  “About the Munro…” He cleared his throat. “The thought has occurred to me that if I had been honest with you from the start, mayhap we could have avoided some hardship.”

  “Honest?” she asked.

  “About me reasons for being with him at the Lion. Mayhap if I had shared the truth you could have trusted me sooner.”

  “Nay,” she said and glanced at her hands on the coverlet. “For I could not let meself trust.” She paused for a moment as she fiddled with the blanket. “I could not let meself be like all the others who swooned for you, and ye…” She shrugged. �
�From the first I longed for you, but I dared not let you know. I tried to believe that you were involved in Anora’s disappearance. Indeed, I felt a MacGowan was there when she nearly drowned. But it was Ramsay, and I suspect I would have known that if I’d let meself. I tried to believe you were selfish and superstitious and—”

  “Vain,” he finished.

  “You are vain,” she countered and he grinned.

  “Mayhap I owe the Munro me thanks,” he said. “After all, it was he who led me to your door.”

  “And all because he wished to learn to woo a maid.”

  “You knew our reasons all along?” he asked, stepping toward her.

  “Nay,” she said. “I just found out this night. Rhone told me.”

  He stared at her, perplexed.

  “The warrior,” she explained. “I believe you call him Hunter. On a night some weeks back, I asked him to find out what evil you and Munro were plotting.”

  ” ‘Twas Hunter you met with by the Mill?”

  “You followed me?”

  There was a note of outrage in her voice, so he grinned, hoping to disarm her. Tonight would be a poor time for an argument.

  “I had to,” he explained. “For I feared you were planning a tryst.”

  “Perhaps I was,” she said, and he smiled. “There have been men who adored me in the past, even if I have not had so many conquests as you.”

  The smile dropped from Mour’s face. “About that,” he said, and took another step toward the bed. She looked like a wee angel just sent from heaven, for she wore naught but a voluminous white gown. It lay loose at the shoulders, with the open ties falling with casual greed across her bonny breasts. His throat felt dry. He should have told her the truth long ago. “Isobel, there have been many women who—”

  “You needn’t tell me the number,” she said softly, but her voice was a bit forlorn. “So long as I am the last.”

  He seated himself on the edge of the bed, facing her. “You will be the last, Bel, that I swear. But—”

  “Then that is enough.”

  “Nay. I must say this, so that you know.” He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. “There have been many women who were—”