by Lois Greiman
Gilmour’s breath caught hard in his throat, for she was naked.
Moonlight, saindy in its timing, skimmed past scattered branches and flooded like a beacon from the sky. It glimmered off her hair, casting it in a hundred silver hues as it flowed to her shoulders and caressed the tops of her ivory breasts. Shadows lay below, parted only by the magical movement of her thighs as she stepped into the water. It lapped in hungry, glistening waves about her delicate calves, reaching ever higher. She bent, scattering light across the lawn of her back and spilling it in kindly glory over the splendid twin curves of her buttocks.
Though she remained on the bank for only a matter of moments, every detail was chiseled indelibly in Gilmour’s mind, freezing his limbs and hardening him with instant, aching appreciation.
She slipped into the water, and her hair, bright as candlelight, spread across the waves like lily petals. His heart hammered heavily in his chest, and lower, where he was stiffened and aching, it beat again, like the rhythm of a slow drum, building tension, promising action.
But there would be no action.
Loosening his fists at his sides, Mour exhaled carefully then searched madly for reasons why there should be no action. She was, after all, of age. They were comparable in station and… but nay. He shook his head in a sad attempt to clear it. He didn’t like her. She was cool and aloof to him. And yet…
She glided through the waves like a water sprite bent on enchanting him. And he was enthralled, unmoving, unspeaking, barely daring to breathe, lest he break this spell and find that she was naught but a dream.
Mist rose in ghostly fingers along the edges of the pond and curled sleepily toward the dark, reaching branches above. It was into this mist that she finally arose, her ivory shoulders seeming to lift the rest of her spectacular body from the loving embrace of the waves.
Gilmour exhaled quietly. He had never seen her equal. Every line of her was as fluid and graceful as a swan. Every inch was as beautiful and refined as a work of art.
She lifted her hand to grasp a branch as she stepped into the shadows, and as she did so light glimmered down the length of her wet arm. Moonlight glistened in silver splendor across her lovely breasts, then fanned over her belly and fell in softened waves upon her thighs.
Gilmour stared at her unearthly beauty, and then she was gone, her perfection hidden by darkness and distance.
Something ached in his soul. He moved to follow her, but with his very first step, reality seized him.
What the devil was he thinking? She wasn’t perfection. She was snooty and aloof to him while being blatantly flirtatious with others. But her face was as perfect as…
Nay. ‘Twas not so different than a thousand other faces. And as for her form… for a moment his mind froze, seeming absolutely unable to compare her with others. But he forced himself.
Her form, he told himself silently, was neither so buxom as Fleta’s nor so youthful as Elga’s. In fact, there were a host of other maids just as appealing, and yet she seemed magi—
And yet nothing. There were no “and yets,” he thought, and madly reined in his skittering thoughts. She was no water sprite. No fairy folk. No enchanted being of any sort. She was simply a woman of flesh and bone, imperfect in a hundred ways. And once his erection eased enough to allow him to move, he would remember those imperfections and put her forever from his mind.
Chapter 6
Gilmour swore in silence as he slipped through the darkness. Three days had passed since he’d seen Isobel by the stream. Three days since she’d disrobed in the darkness. Three days since she’d stepped like a pixie princess into the misty waters. Three days since he’d had a moment’s relief from the hard ache of his desire.
He had vowed to find her physical flaws, and he had. Above her left eye was a scar the size and shape of a winter pea. He had concentrated on it for some hours and deduced, after several ales, that it was quite hideous. Her hair, though fair and long, had a crimped sort of wave to it and was wont to creep from bondage down the back of her too narrow neck. And her face… it was rather oddly shaped, really, almost triangular, with a tiny peaked chin like an impish elvish maid’s, and slanted azure eyes that laughed at him at every turn. Laughed. At him. Which pointed to a host of emotional flaws. Aye, she was not normal, and though her waist might be minuscule and her breasts…
Mour realized suddenly that he wasn’t breathing and forced himself to do so. In and out. In and out, as if everything was normal. Her breasts, after all, were nothing special.
In and out. In and out.
He liked buxom women, always had. And she was not buxom. In fact, her bosom was like the rest of her, small. And soft and fair and…
Bugger it! In and out. In and out, he reminded himself.
Nay, she was hardly perfect. Which meant that he must be following her because he did not trust her, not because he was enamored.
Aye, that was it. She was not a natural sort of maid, but did strange things in strange manners. Late night visits to darkened burns, clandestine meetings with unknown men. Nay, he did not trust her, and so he feared she might be planning a plot against his brother and his wife.
Relief splashed through him as he remembered his reasoning. They were perfectly sound, after all. He had heard Anora’s name whispered in the dead of the night, and ‘twas his duty to make certain there was no plot planned against his kinswoman.
But Isobel had almost reached her home, so apparently the maid had no secret meetings planned for this night, which meant that Mour was almost free of his duty and could…
But in that moment she glanced behind her and turned to the left.
Gilmour’s heart lurched as he froze in the shadows. Was she going to the burn again? Dared he hope—
Not that he cared, he reminded himself, but when she stepped toward the palisade and disappeared from view, his lips chanted a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
He waited outside the line of rowan trees as long as he could then stepped quietly into the blackness toward the water.
Aye, there was a God, for the moon was bright once again. And aye, He was kindly, for she was naked and shown to perfection in the silvery light. For a moment he saw the glimmer of her body and then, like a mythical nymph, she slipped into the blessed water. It flowed over her silken shoulders, and then, because he was straining to see, he realized that she had dived beneath the surface. For a moment her legs flipped upward, just visible above the lapping waves, and then she was gone.
He held his breath in surprise. How was it that she could swim beneath the surface like a spotted eel? And why would she do such a thing? He had known others who could stay afloat in the water, but none who delighted in the depths, none who disappeared beneath the waves.
He shifted, searching the surface for sight of her, but she didn’t appear. Might she be in trouble? Could there be some sort of ravenous beast in the water? Or—a man! The thought came to him suddenly. Surely someone had been lying in wait for her and had pulled her under. He was suddenly certain of it and took a quick step toward the burn, but in that instant she appeared, launching from the depths to shoot above the surface like a bobbing cork. Water sprayed bright as quicksilver into the air. He heard her harsh rasp for breath and then she was rushing wildly toward shore.
Fear! He could feel it. Snatching his dirk from his belt, Mour raced toward her.
“Nay!” she gasped as she scrambled onto the sand.
“Isobel.” He reached for her with his free hand. His other was wrapped about his dirk and threatened the darkness around them, but no brigands attacked.
“Anora!” Isobel rasped.
Mour closed his hand around her arm, drawing her to him, to safety, but she screamed and struck him.
Pain reverberated in his skull. He staggered backward, still holding the knife in a dazed attempt to protect her.
“Nay!” She lunged toward him. “You’ll not…” she began, but the remainder of her statement dropped into silence. She blinked, as i
f waking from a frightful dream, a rock falling unnoticed from her fingers. Only her ragged gasps could be heard for a moment, then, “Anora?” she murmured.
“What the devil!” Gilmour rasped, still staggering.
Her breath stopped for a moment. Her arm dropped. “MacGowan?”
“Aye.” He steadied his stance and felt his skull, but whether the dampness he felt was water or blood was uncertain. Still gripping the Maiden, he glanced about again. He thought he heard a faint sound in the underbrush, but no evil was forthcoming. None but the two of them stood upon the shore. “Can I ask you something, lass?” he asked and felt his skull again.
She didn’t answer, only stood like one transfixed, her wide eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“Might you be possessed by a demon?”
“I…” She glanced around as if uncertain where she was. “I’m not…” she began, then paused and drew a slow breath. “What are you doing here?”
“I am saving you from whatever brigand tried to ravage you.” He too glanced about. “But it seems there is—”
She crossed her arms against her breasts. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” He scowled, then glanced down to replace his weapon and think for a hard-pressed moment, but when he looked up, all he saw was the back of one leg flicking into the trees. He tried to see into the brush, but there was little hope, for the darkness beneath the rowans was complete. Still, he was certain she was already dressing. A man’s good fortune could only stretch so far, and he seemed to be fresh out. Perhaps that was best, for it gave him a few moments to organize a decent reason for his presence there. “I discovered this bonny spot some days hence,” he said, raising his voice and peering into the underbrush. ” ‘Tis a lovely place. Peaceful, and I find I most enjoy—”
“You followed me.” Her voice came unbidden through the darkness.
“Followed you!” He forced a laugh. “Hardly that.” He heard her walking away and followed tenaciously, pressing the branches aside in an attempt to see through the trees. A flash of her hair was all that caught his eye, and he realized she had already shimmied through a hole in the palisade. One glance told him it was too narrow for him to squeeze through, so he vaulted over the top and continued after her.
“Where do you go?” he asked, for she was dressed in a gown so dark it was all but impossible to see her in the night. She was carrying the lighter-colored gown that she oft kept pinned up at the sides. It must be the very devil getting those garments on over all that glorious wet skin in the…
She stopped abruptly. “Why did you follow me?”
She had dropped the rock sometime before, but he well remembered that she was the very devil with a sling shot and he had known women, his mother included, who were quite handy with a knife. His sister Shona was rather deadly with a bow, so there was no way of knowing what the maid was capable of. Indeed, her behavior of late was beyond strange. Might she be mentally deranged? He wondered as she was still watching him with catlike intensity.
“Tell me, MacGowan,” she said. “Have you run short of virtuous maids to deflower?”
“Are you saying you are not virtuous or that you wish to be deflowered?” he asked.
She gazed at him for one long moment, then turned and paced away into the darkness.
He followed. “What frightened you in the burn?”
No response was forthcoming.
He glanced behind, remembering her fear, her words. Anora, she had said. Why?
She kept walking.
“Did a beast frighten you? An animal of some sort?”
The silence was broken only by the muffled sound of her feet against the dirt path. He realized at that moment that she carried her shoes, and found that disturbingly fascinating for some time. It was only when her footfalls sounded against her own rock pathway that he came to his senses.
“Isobel!” he said, and grabbed her arm just before she reached her door. “You should not leave the inn alone.”
She raised her chin slightly. Damnation, she was stunning… except for the hideously disfiguring scar, of course.
“Tell me, MacGowan,” she said. “How do you know that I leave the inn alone?”
Oh hell, he thought, but soon found a way to leave wee Plums’ collusion out of the conversation. After all, she had seen enough troubles in her short life without repaying her fierce loyalty with betrayal. “Either you left alone or you planned to swim naked with another,” he reasoned.
She said nothing, and his gut twisted. Then good sense broke through his foolishness, reminding him that he had seen her there before. Alone.
He relaxed a smidgen, dropping her arm. “Tell me,” he said. “Are you the kind to invite another into the burn with you?”
“Tell me,” she said, “are you the kind to lie at every juncture?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she turned and slipped like a fairy through the doorway. He thrust his foot into the opening without cognizant thought then winced as the heavy timber slammed against his calfskin shoe.
“Get out,” she ordered.
“When you tell me the truth,” he said, and pressed into the opening. She thumped her palm against his chest and leaned against the door, but she was a frail thing. Either that or she wasn’t trying very hard, he thought, and almost smiled.
“The truth!” She laughed, sounding breathless. “You are the last man to deserve the truth, MacGowan.”
“Nevertheless,” he said; then paused to touch his wound with careful pathos. “Pity oft opens doors otherwise closed, and I have been sorely wounded while trying to defend—”
Pain stabbed his hand. He yanked it out of harm’s way and in the same moment felt her heel slam against his knee. Even as he stumbled back, the door thudded shut.
Rubbing his wounded knuckles, he glowered at the offensive wood. Blast the maid and her devilish gown pins. “Bel,” he called, more miffed by her trickery than her pin pricks, “let me enter.”
“Go away, MacGowan.”
“I will do so when you tell me what happened at the burn.”
“I was followed by a deceitful lout who spied on my few private moments.”
He smiled wistfully at the memory, but unfortunately there was more afoot here than a naked fairy woman in the moonlight.
“Open the door,” he insisted.
“And why would I be doing that?”
He put his fingers to his skull. Aye, it was blood. “Because I am wounded by your own hand.”
“If you do not like the treatment, you should not have followed me.”
“And if you do not like me hanging about your door, you should not have struck me.”
“You admit the truth then? That you slunk through the darkness to spy on me?”
There seemed little reason to deny it. After all, the lass may be piteously scarred, but she was not a fool. “Would me confession gain me entry?” he asked.
“Nay, but ‘twould give me a reason to report your churlish behavior to your brother.”
“Believe me, lassie…” His fingers felt sticky as he rubbed them together. “Ramsay would be the last man to be surprised by me behavior.”
“Leave me be, MacGowan. Now and forever.”
He scowled at the door.” ‘Tis clear you do not know the rules to this game, lass.”
“We play a game do we?”
“Aye. ‘Tis the game where the hero saves the damsel in distress.”
“I was not in distress.”
“Then, in gratitude,” he continued, ignoring her denial, “she sees to his wounds and coos over his bravery.”
He could hear her snort clearly through the door. It was distinctly unladylike. Yet another flaw.
“But if the damsel fails to do her part, die rules change,” he added.
“Do they now?”
“Aye,” he said and leaned a shoulder against the cottage wall. “Then the hero goes to the inn and tells all he knows about how the damsel likes to disrobe before swi
mming naked as a bairn in the burn. Generally, it causes quite a stir amongst the village folk and—”
The door opened with a snap. “I am trying to believe that even you would not do such a thing.”
He grinned. “Any luck thus far, lassie?”
She opened the door the rest of the way and nodded toward the interior. He stepped inside. A single tallow candle glowed in the room, spilling light across the rough table where it sat.
“What do you want?” she asked and closed the door behind him.
Light flickered across her face, shading her eyes an unearthly blue, glimmering along the crimped waves of her honey toned hair.
It was certainly a shame about that hideous scar. Where the hell was it, again?
“You are supposed to see to me wound,” he said, “sustained in a grand attempt to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
“That was me very next question.”
She didn’t respond.
He glanced about. “You live here alone?”
“Who were you expecting, MacGowan?”
He quelled any relief that might try to well up inside him.
“You have no protector, then?” he asked.
She turned away. “And what would he protect me from? Men who might try to force their way into me home?”
“Those who would mean you harm.”
“No one means me harm,” she said. “Leastways, not until you.”
‘Truly? Then what frightened you?”
She glanced away, and for an instant a flicker of worry crossed her elvish features. ” ‘Twas naught but me imagination.”
“Truly? I would not have thought you the skittish sort.”
“And I would not have thought you the shallow sort… until I met you.”
He propped a booted foot upon a nearby trunk. “You spoke your sister’s name.”
She caught his gaze for one nervous moment. “You are mistaken.”
“Rarely.”
“And astonishingly vain.”
“Always. What did you fear?”
