The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  He followed. “What be you doing here, Isobel?”

  “I work here, MacGowan. And you?” She turned in the mortared doorway, her shapely form framed by the arch, her golden curls limned by the fire behind her.

  “Work—”

  “Aye,” she interrupted and smiled as if he were a wee lad questioning his elders. “Work. Mayhap you have heard the word before.”

  Gilmour remembered instantly and poignantly why he disliked this woman. It wasn’t because she had wounded his brother in battle at their first meeting, or even because she had attempted to have his other brother abducted before his marriage to her sister. It was because she had a wicked tongue and truly lacked any sort of appropriate appreciation for his God-given charms. She was wholly unlike the other women at Evermyst. Even Ailsa, the bonny, dark-haired widow who forever yearned after Ramsay, had a softness for him.

  “I believe I have heard of work,” he said. “I but failed to realize it involved pricking the paying customers.”

  “Only if those customers be me kin by marriage.” She said the words softly so that none other would hear of their bond and motioned toward a slim maid child even as she turned away. “Plums, mind the eel sauce.”

  “I thought you had traveled to Edinburgh,” Mour said.

  Isobel glanced up from swinging a metal arm away from the fire. Uncovering the hanging pot, she tasted the contents then swept the entire thing back over the flame. “Whyever would you think so, MacGowan?”

  He leaned a shoulder against a rough timber set into the doorway and watched her work. The sight was disturbing. Not because she labored, for though her veins flowed with noble blood, there was none he’d rather see toil. What disturbed him was the fact that she had shed the dowdy garments she had forever worn at Evermyst and now stood dressed in a bright and simple gown that seemed to accentuate every feminine curve. “Mayhap ‘tis because that is where you said you were going,” he suggested.

  “Ahhh yes,” she agreed. “Well, there is a likely explanation.”

  “Which is?”

  “I lied.”

  Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Mour bent a leg, placing a foot upon the wall behind him. The thin lass called Plums glanced timidly toward him. A reddish purple birthmark covered her left ear lobe and part of her jaw. He gave her a quick grin, but she glanced rapidly away. “Any particular reason?” he asked, turning his attention back to Bel.

  She shrugged. “So you would no longer bother me.”

  It happened then: his little finger twitched. He had first noticed it over a year ago when he’d just met her. There was something about her that made him twitch. He’d never quite ascertained when it had ceased, but he now assumed that it was immediately upon her exodus from Evermyst. It had been blessedly sedate at the high keep since then—so sedate, in fact, that he had considered returning to his parents’ castle to the south.

  Once upon a time he had asked old Meara of Evermyst how she could be certain Isobel was Anora’s kin. After all, they had been separated at birth, and Isobel had been lost. Still, the question had been somewhat facetious, for they looked to be nearly identical. But where Anora was charming and refined, Isobel was cool and harsh. At least to him. Old Meara, however, had explained that before giving up the babe, a wee shell-shaped pendant had been placed about her neck. He had mentioned at the time that the girl wore no such pendant, but Meara was dismissive. It seemed that Isobel had described it perfectly and declared it lost. So he supposed he would not get away with calling her an impostor, regardless of her caustic temperament. “I did not bother you,” he corrected.

  “A pinch more mint, Plums,” Isobel said, tasting another concoction before turning briefly toward him. “Aye, you did, MacGowan. But I can hardly blame you. Love is like that, I suppose.”

  “Love.” With the sternest of control, Mour kept himself from jerking like a mishandled marionette. Even his voice remained even. Only his pinkie moved.

  She shrugged. “Infatuation, then,” she corrected.

  “Are you suggesting that I am infatuated with you, lass?”

  She did nothing but stare at him, her eyes wide and innocent in her elfish face.

  “Me apologies if I have given you the wrong impression, Bel, but I fear I have no interest in you other than a brotherly—”

  She laughed and turned away. “The tarts are ready, Birtle, me lad. Have a care not to burn yourself.”

  “Aye, mistress.”

  “Then why are you here, MacGowan?” she asked, facing him suddenly.

  Gilmour stared at her. He had much preferred the subservient kitchen maid she had pretended to be when in the company of others at Evermyst. Indeed, she had once believed she was naught but a servant, for upon her humble entrance into the world, her lady mother had sent her away lest some superstitious fool believe that twins were the devil’s own. Even in these modern times there were those who were eager to cry, “Witch.” But there was no need for that subterfuge here at the Red Lion; there was no one to guess the truth. And indeed, perhaps none to care if they did. None but Gilmour himself, and unfortunately, he had vowed to keep his knowledge a secret.

  “MacGowan,” she repeated, arms akimbo. “I asked why you are here.”

  The smile had faded from her lips, and it dawned on him quite suddenly that a good lie was in order—for if he began spouting the truth, there could well be sobering consequences for both himself and his kin.

  “I heard that the spirits here are quite exceptional.” He had intended to praise the meals, but she was obviously in charge of that front and he had no wish to enhance her obviously inflated concept of herself.

  “So you rode ten leagues from Evermyst for a draught?”

  “I was quite parched.”

  “And Stout Helena’s brews could not satisfy you?”

  He smiled. “I am not an easy man to sate.”

  “Actually,” she said. “I have heard the opposite, that you are quite an easy man.”

  “Why is it that I think you mean to insult me, Bel?”

  “Perhaps because I do,” she said and smiled before beginning to chop a pile of green herbage set upon a wooden board.

  “Tell me something, Isobel,” he said, and strode across the kitchen to stand beside her. “Why do you constantly barb me?”

  “Is it the truth you want, MacGowan?” she asked, glancing up.

  “Might it be complimentary?”

  She stared at him for an instant, then raised her fair brows and laughed.

  “What is so amusing?” rumbled a voice from behind.

  Gilmour swore in silence.

  “Me laird.” Isobel’s voice was suddenly soft.

  The Munro stepped even with Gilmour and stared. “Lady Anora?”

  “Nay, me laird,” she said. ” ‘Tis Isobel. Me lady’s maid some months past.”

  “Nay. You look—”

  “Much like me lady. I know. ‘Twas the similarity that first caused her to take me in, and ‘tis said that familiarity only sharpens those attributes.”

  “Isobel?” His tone was still harsh with suspicion.

  “Aye. See,” she said. Pulling a gray cloth from a nearby table, she covered her hair. It was then that Mour noticed that she had once again begun to slouch.

  The Munro’s scowl deepened. “What be you doing here, lass?”

  “Me lady had no further use of me, so I went abroad to make me fortune. And what of you, me laird, why do you honor us with your presence here?”

  Innes shifted his gaze to Gilmour and away. “I was hungry.”

  “Ahhh.” The word sounded perfectly innocent, but there was something in her eyes that spoke volumes. “I hope you found the meal to your liking.”

  Munro glanced about the kitchen. “You do the cooking here?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis fortunate that I’ve been able to find a place that would take me on.”

  “Mayhap they are the fortunate ones.”

  She curtsied shyly. “You flatter me, me laird.
”

  “I do not,” Munro denied, then brightened slightly as he realized this was not an accusation. Still, his brows remained scrunched over his narrow eyes “You look quite bonny in those bright colors, lass.”

  Hands fluttering, Isobel giggled and dropped her gaze to the cutting board.

  Gilmour stared agog at the rapid change in her demeanor.

  “Aye, you don’t look half so scrawny as I recall. In truth, the sight of you such makes me wish to…” The Munro paused, shifting his gaze toward Mour. “Invite you for a draught.”

  “Oh.” Isobel’s voice was breathy. “I am honored, me laird. But I cannot. Me duties here keep me quite busy.”

  “Could you not—”

  “Well, we’d best be off, then,” Gilmour interrupted as he grasped the Munro’s thick elbow. “Good eventide to you, Isobel.”

  “Good eventide.”

  “What the devil be you doing?” Munro gritted, trying to hang back.

  “Leaving the maid to her duties,” Gilmour said. “

  “Tis what a gentle man would do.”

  “I am not a gentle man.”

  Gilmour glanced over his shoulder at a bemused Isobel and hustled the giant into the dining area. “That is what I am to help you change,” he said and slid back onto his stool as half a dozen curious faces turned toward him.

  The Munro stared down at him. “Me plan was just about to take shape,” he said, his tone a bit too smooth for Gilmour’s peace of mind. “And it will take a bit more than the likes of you to change me course now, lad.”

  Gilmour lifted his goblet and shrugged. “Then by all means, have at it… if you don’t care that all of Scotland will know your reasons for coming here.”

  The Munro stood before him as stiff as a lance. “Might you be threatening me, MacGowan?”

  From a distant table, the baron of Winbourne stopped his dialogue in mid sentence, while beside the hearth a clean shaven young man dressed in dark leather watched with grim, almost familiar eyes.

  “Nay,” Gilmour said softly, “no threats.” His muscles were coiled as tight as wagon springs. “And mayhap I am entirely wrong. Even if the maid spent the night with the great laird of the Munros, perhaps she would feel no need to tell her friends at Evermyst of your time here.”

  The Munro’s scowl was black enough to burn a hole through Gilmour’s forehead, but Mour ignored it as he sipped his ale.

  “There would be much to talk about,” rumbled Innes.

  “I can only assume,” Gilmour agreed dryly.

  “The Munro of the Munro’s gifting a simple serving wench with his attentions.”

  “I’m certain it would be difficult for her to keep the news to herself.”

  “Aye,” rumbled Innes, glancing toward the kitchen. “Aye. Mayhap I had best find me bed before I am tempted beyond me own resolve and ruin her for all other men, huh?” he said and banged Gilmour on the shoulder with his list.

  “Aye,” Mour agreed sourly.

  Later, as Mour opened the stable door to check on his steed, he wondered what the devil Isobel was doing here, so far from the comforts of her sister’s keep. Might she be concocting some evil scheme against his brother Ramsay?

  And more important, why the devil was she flirting with the Munro like he was some damned princeling? The man could barely pronounce his own name. And as for looks… there was no point even considering the possibility that she might be attracted to him. Was there?

  Questions washed through Gilmour’s mind as he made certain Francois was secure. The stallion had something of a roving eye and was wont to find trouble for himself if the possibility presented itself. But all seemed well, so Mour closed the door and made his way back toward the inn. In his mind, Isobel’s willowy image danced with subconscious seductiveness from table to table as she laughed huskily with her inebriated customers.

  Gilmour scowled as he made his way up the narrow stairs toward his bedchamber. Why would she choose to remain a servant when she had every opportunity to live nobly high above the crashing tide at Evermyst?

  He didn’t know the answer, but it certainly would be interesting to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Fatigue weighed heavily on Gilmour as he entered the rented room. Memories of the day just past flitted through his mind in a dreamlike haze as he slipped his leather sporran over his head and readied for bed. He did not wear the leather bag around his waist to lie against the front of his body, for he found that it impeded movement… of all sorts. Instead, it generally hung from his shoulder, crossing his chest just below the pewter tipped lace at the neck of his tunic and residing at his right hip.

  Tossing it upon his mattress, he pulled his dirk from beneath his belt. Crafted of Spanish steel, the Maiden was as sharp as sin with the handle molded in the shape of a buxom woman. When it was grasped, Mour’s hand settled intimately between her hips and her bosom, but he ignored her voluptuous figure just now and tossed her beside his sporran on the bed. He then reached for his buckle and wondered with idle curiosity where Isobel slept. Did she reside here in the inn? Was she close at hand? Was she alone?

  The wide belt cut into the muscles of his abdomen before he loosened the tension and let it drop to the floor.

  Why was she so cool to him? He had done naught to her.

  In fact, he had been nothing but complimentary, he thought, as he unwound the shortened length of green tartan from about his waist. He saw little use for the many yards of wool most Scotsmen wore. His own plaid left a good deal of muscular thigh showing beneath it and did not bunch and fold like most, but wound just twice about his body.

  The fairer sex had always found him alluring, yet Isobel merely seemed amused by him. What a strange lass she was. Not once had she sighed when she looked at him. Not once had she glanced up at him through her lashes as maids were wont to do. There must be something amiss with her. After all, her sister Anora had been quite genteel where he was concerned. Not fawning in that lovely way that women did, but she’d been suitably impressed. Of course, by all accounts, she’d given his brother Ramsay a devil of a chase before marrying him, and—

  Gilmour’s hands stilled for a moment, then absently folded the plaid and set it aside.

  That was it, then—the reason Isobel tormented him so. She was in love with him. There could be no other explanation. After all, she couldn’t dislike him. Women simply didn’t. Therefore it must be that she was hiding her true feelings behind her contempt.

  The poor thing! How obvious it was now, and how difficult it must be for her. She probably felt as though she were far beneath him. But there was no need, really. Even though her noble blood had never been acknowledged by the world at large, he knew she was high born. But in actuality, he cared little about a woman’s station in life. If she was female, he appreciated her. And if she was bonny and female, he adored her. Which put Isobel in a fine position, for she was decidedly female. And as for physical attributes, well…

  Reaching for the hem of his tunic, Gilmour snatched it over his head and folded it away. Flexing his shoulders, he set his downy wren feather to fluttering in his braid before it settled restlessly back against his neck.

  In a matter of seconds, he was bare-naked and threw back the blankets of his bed with a grin. Aye, the lass must feel somewhat awestruck by him, but if the truth be known, she almost made him feel insecure. And all the while she had been feeling inferior to—

  A whisper of noise sounded from the hallway and he turned, scowling through the candlelit dimness toward the door. Had he imagined it, or—

  It came again, slightly louder. Reaching for his plaid, he wrapped it about his waist and gathered it at one lean hip.

  Who could it be? he wondered, but suddenly he knew. As if he could see her standing before him, he knew. It was Isobel, come to admit her true feelings: that she could think of naught but him. That she had loved him from the very first.

  He opened the door without delay, and she was there, small and lovely, with h
er robin’s egg eyes glowing in the candlelight.

  “MacGowan,” she said, her expression inscrutable as she took in his near nudity. “You look like hell itself. Is something amiss?”

  The smile dropped from Gilmour’s lips, and he bunched the woolen tighter against his middle as his happy dream dissipated like silvery fog.

  “Did you want something, Bel?” he asked, steadying his equilibrium. “Or did you just come to ogle?”

  Her fair brows rose in sharp surprise. “I take it you’ve not met Smitty.”

  The woman had a tendency to change the subject without warning. ‘Twas one of the many things he disliked about her. “Nay,” he said, tucking die plaid under itself and leaning with studied casualness against the rough door jamb. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Ahh, well, that would explain a bit of your conceit, unjustified though it be.”

  He grinned, lifting just one corner of his mouth. “I am many things, lass, and conceited may indeed be amongst them. But ‘tis not unjustified, of that I assure you.”

  “Well…” She pressed past him as if he were a somewhat moldy side of beef. “You’d not be so cocksure should you dare compare yourself with the Smitty.”

  He turned, wondering if Anora would take offense if he throttled her wee sister. “A man among men, I’m certain,” he said.

  She glanced up at him and in her eyes was that bedazzled light he had seen a hundred times—only on those other occasions, the expression had been reserved for him. “Each day at eventide, after he shoes his last steed, he removes his tunic and goes to the river to wash the sweat from his manly form.”

  Gilmour’s finger twitched. “I’m certain ‘tis quite exciting for you.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then drew herself from her trance and laughed.

  “MacGowan,” she said, her tone filled with surprise, “you’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Jealous?” he said, his tone bland.

  “Of Smitty.”

  “Aye, in fact I am, lass,” he said, closing the door and pacing closer, “for I am thinking mayhap you do not offend his ears by speaking to him, but only watch as he lumbers down to the river.”