by Lois Greiman
Her scowl deepened for an instant, but finally she flipped her palm upward and spoke as if the incident was of little import. “I remained beneath the water too long and became frightened, is all.”
“Truly?” he asked, not believing a word. “And you seem so at home in the water.”
“Meara tells me I was born to Evermyst and therefore the waves will forever call to me.”
“I meself have a new found appreciation of water,” he said. “What frightened you, lass?”
” ‘Twas nothing.”
“Were you caught in the plants? Wedged between sunken branches?”
“As I said, ‘twas merely me imagination. I panicked and—”
“Panicked.” He watched her carefully. He had first met her some months ago on a wildling night in a battle with the fierce Munros. Not a flicker of fear had crossed her ethereal features then. He touched the wound on his skull again. “Tell me, lass, do you always attack your protector when you panic?”
“You are not me protector,” she said then scowled at his wound, looking peeved. But he wondered if her hands shook just a mite. ” ‘Tis just like you to get yourself injured, MacGowan,” she said. “Sit down. I’ll have a look at it.”
He shrugged and took a seat on a three-legged stool that threatened to spill him onto the swept dirt of her floor. “Since you are so gracious.”
The room fell silent for a moment. She probed at his skull, none to gently, and he gave her a sidelong glance of discontent.
“It should be stitched.”
“I think not.”
“It will scar.”
“Truly?” he said and couldn’t quite contain the enthusiasm in his voice.
“Is that good news, then?”
He shrugged, not controlling his grin. “Maids like scars.”
“Do they, now?” She crossed her arms against her breasts, and they pressed upward slightly. He concentrated hard on her scar. Unfortunately, it was difficult to see in the dim light.
“Ramsay has several. Scars, that is.”
“How fortunate for him,” she said but there was little conviction in his voice.
“He won Anora.”
“And you think ‘tis because of his scars?”
He widened his grin. “If the truth be told, lass, I am superior in every other way.”
“So that’s your hope, to gain a few scars and win me sister’s adoration?”
“What’s that?” he asked, tilting his gaze up to hers in surprise.
“You’re not about to deny that you are attracted to her, are you?”
He snorted. “Saint Michael himself would be attracted to her.”
“She will not leave her husband.”
It took a moment for her meaning to become clear. “Is that what you think?” He swiftly rose from the stool. “That I would cuckold me own brother?”
She shrugged as if unconcerned and moved casually away. “I’ve seen you look at her.”
“And I’ve heard you speak her name in the dark, then strike out with a rock. Why?”
She turned away, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back.
“Why?” he repeated.
“I was afraid and confused. Me sister and I spent much time beside the water at Evermyst. I thought for a moment that she was with me, and I feared I could not save—” Her eyes were enormously wide as she paused for breath.
“What?”
“I feared I could not save meself. That I was about to drown.”
“You were already on shore.”
“As I said, I was confused.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the truth. “What threatened you, Isobel?”
She shrugged, pushing aside the emotion he had almost been able to read in her face. “I struck out blindly.”
“Hoping to save…” He remembered how she had gasped her sister’s name. But what were the emotions behind it? “… Yourself.”
“Let me go,” she said, but her voice was soft, her eyes wide in her delicate face. ‘Twas a face that was meant to be cherished, a body meant to be worshipped.
And yet, here she was, alone in a poor village, with not a soul to care for her. Why, when she harbored such strong emotion for her sister?
“Cannot you admit your feelings, Isobel?”
Her breath stopped short in her throat. “I have no feelings for you, MacGowan.”
He was honestly startled. “I meant your feelings for your sister.”
“Oh.” She darted her gaze sideways. “Anora has been good to me. I have not denied that.”
“And you cherish her?”
She shrugged. “It makes little difference, for I was not meant for life at Evermyst.”
“Then what were you meant for?”
She glanced about dismissively. “Cooking in Henshaw. Weaving in Glenshire. I am at home where ever I travel.”
“And you do not long for a place of your own? A family?”
“In truth, I would not know what to do with a family.”
“Surely you remember your own childhood.”
“Aye,” she said simply. “I do.”
He watched her closely, trying to read her thoughts, but she showed little in her expression. “And you do not miss being coddled and cherished?”
She pulled her arm stiffly from his grasp. “You should not judge others’ lives by your own, MacGowan.”
“Old Meara said she gave you to a woman who longed for children but was blessed with none of her own.” He could imagine her as a child, a tiny cherub, as round and bright as a bauble. She would giggle like wee Mary, her tiny cheeks rosy as her mother beamed and her father chuckled.
“Perhaps,” she said, and in that fleeting moment he saw the truth revealed in her face.
“Your foster parents were not kind to you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Aye, it does,” he said, and something grew hard and cold in his belly. “It matters a good deal.”
She didn’t respond, but set her shoes beside the misshapen straw mattress that was her bed.
“I wish to know the truth, Bel,” he said and she turned toward him, her tilted eyes bright in the tallow light.
“You want to drink fine ale by the fire side and tell outlandish tales to women who bat their eyelashes and flatter your vanity. But the truth, MacGowan? I think not.”
“Did they harm you?” he asked, his voice low.
“Why do you ask?”
He said nothing, but his gut was knotted like twisted hemp.
“Because I have noble blood? Is that why you care?”
“Meara gave you to them in good faith. They were to cherish you, Bel. Did they not?”
Her face was sober, her slanted eyes intent, but she said nothing.
“Tell me, lass,” he said, stepping rapidly forward, “have you never been cherished? Adored? Coddled?”
She backed abruptly away. “You’d best go, MacGowan. Master Gibbs has given me this cottage to use, if he learns you were here I may well lose me place at the inn.”
“Are you afraid?” he asked and took another step toward her.
“What?”
“Of being cherished,” he said. “Are you afraid?”
She breathed a laugh. “Aye,” she admitted. “I have no fear of hunger or brigands or evil, but kindness…” She faked a shiver. “I cannot abide it.”
He was close enough now to touch her, and he reached up slowly. Her face felt indecently soft against his palm. “At Dunard, me home…” He paused to skim his thumb across her cheek. “Every lassie is treated like a princess.”
She seemed to have ceased breathing, but she managed to speak. “Are they?”
“Aye. Me father thought me sister could do no wrong. Spoiled her shameless, he did. Just as Ramsay will spoil his wee fosterling.”
“Spare the whipping, burn the sauce,” Bel said. “I do not like burned sauce.”
Slipping his hand backward, Mour brushed her hair behind her ear. It was
as delicate as an unfurled rose. He followed its upward curve with his fingertip. “You have no desire to be spoiled?”
“It seems to me that if one is spoiled she is also owned.”
“Owned?” he said and carefully curled his hand around the back of her neck. “Mayhap she is only loved.”
“I would not know.” Her tone sounded breathless as she pressed her back against the wall behind her.
“Because you were not loved?”
“The past is past,” she said, “and of no interest to me.”
“And what of the present?” he murmured. “Have you no wish to be loved today?”
“Nay,” she whispered.
“Or kissed?” He knew he shouldn’t move closer. He knew he shouldn’t touch her. And when he leaned in, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he shouldn’t kiss her.
But he did, softly, upon the cheek. And once that bridge was crossed, he could not seem to stop, for he kissed her jaw then moved lower, down the smooth, endless track of her neck.
Her skin was warm and supple, her breathing shallow, and when he forced himself to lift his head, he saw that her eyes were closed.
“Mayhap being loved would not be so hideous,” he suggested.
She opened her eyes and turned them slowly to his. “Methinks,” she said, “that you are mistaking love for lust.”
He could not help but smile, for desire shone like a gemstone fire in the depths of her eyes. “Either way, lass,” he said, “I am well flattered.”
Chapter 7
Reality struck Isobel like a cold wave. She pressed her hands against the wall behind her and straightened abruptly. “Get out!” she ordered.
“I did not mean to anger you, Bel,” MacGowan said. “I merely wished to prove—”
“Out,” she repeated.
He raised a hand between them, palm outward, as if he were soothing a fractious mare. “I’ll do naught to harm—” he began, but somehow she managed to wrench the door open and prod him through it. Snatching a timber from its resting place against the wall, she shoved it home with a vengeance.
For a moment all the world was silent, then, “Hmm.” She could hear his voice easily through the solid portal. “Such a wee skittish thing, you are. Tell me, Bel, why is it that you fear me so?”
She said nothing. Quiet drew out again. Not until she heard him leave did she turn away. She wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, he was the one who should fear her, for she knew the truth. Aye, she knew he was up to no good and he would not get away with it, no matter how charming he was. No matter how his eyes danced when he smiled. No matter how it seemed that his laughter could dispel any worry, or that his hands could…
Clasping her own hands, she paced to the far wall.
Nay, she neither longed for him nor feared him, and yet she must be cautious, for she had been warned.
She shivered as the memory of the burn burst over her. All had been peaceful and soothing. Water had surrounded her, cradled her. And then it had happened. Something, someone, had seized her and held her under the waves. And yet there had been no one there, and it was not herself that was threatened atall, but Anora!
Isobel shivered and clasped her hands around her arms, trying to warm herself. It was confusing, baffling. She was herself, yet for a terrifying span of time she was not. She had been Anora, and she had been in danger. Pacing again, she tried to find her calm, to think. What did it mean? Was Anora in danger even now? Taking a deep breath, she paused for a moment, setting her mind free, and there it was, at the back of her consciousness, a moment of peace.
Anora was well. Isobel was certain of that. And yet, something had happened. Something or someone had threatened her. But who would—
“MacGowan.” She spoke the name aloud, unbidden, unwilling. And yet the word lay in the darkness, feeling right. Somehow MacGowan was involved. She knew it, felt it in her soul. But how? He had been here with her, watching her from the bank of the burn. Gooseflesh rose eerily along her forearms. Aye, he had watched her, had seen her enter the water, had followed her home, and there he had kissed her, had touched her, not as if she were someone of no consequence, but as if she were precious and perfect.
But why? Did he merely hope to distract her? Did he realize she could feel Anora’s emotions? Did he know she had sensed her sister’s panic? Was that the reason he was so concerned about her fear? But if he had somehow caused Anora’s unknown troubles, how could he be here at the same time? And why would he wish to harm Anora? He liked her, or at least he admired her. But mayhap he would sacrifice her for a greater gain. Mayhap he had set his sights on Evermyst. But in order to gain that citadel he would have to be rid of his brother, too. Was he that evil? He was vain and he was shallow, but evil…
She shook her head, trying to scatter the confusing thoughts that milled like wild bullocks in her head.
Anora was safe for now. Isobel could sense that much, and as for MacGowan, she would watch him, learn about him, and if he plotted any evil against her sister, he would surely live to regret it.
The night passed and morning began. Gilmour saw to Francois, but there was no need, for the wee lass was there already, stroking his heavy mane and feeding him bits of dark bread crusts. Once again, Mour boosted the tiny lass aboard the stallion’s broad back, trying not to touch her any longer than necessary, for she seemed so frightened beneath his hands. Once again he tried to guess her name, and once again, she refused to tell him, though for a moment she gave him that crooked grin when he suggested she might be King James himself, since the young monarch was well known for his disguises.
Stopping Francois before the Red Lion’s door, Mour glanced up at the girl and tried one last wild guess. Hunched over the stallion’s withers, she shook her head, and he could not help but notice the flash of fear and exhilaration she felt upon her high perch.
“Very well then,” he said. “Since I am certain you will see to Francois’s well being should any ill befall me, I shall forgive your reticence and wait for the truth on the morrow. Hop down here now, before your mistress wonders where you’ve gone.”
She glanced frightfully toward the earth far below and he motioned as if impatient.
“Come along now,” he urged, but in that moment the Red Lion’s door opened and Isobel stepped out. She was drying her hands and the scents of ginger and cinnamon wafted out with her.
“I need Plums’ assistance in the kitchen. Lift her down, if you please.” Her tone was brusque and yet there was something odd about her demeanor. Could it be that she was protecting the lass? From him? Could it be she saw some similarities between herself and the girl?
“Her name is not Plums,” he said, intrigued against his will.
“What’s that?’
“Her Christian name, ‘tis not Plums,” he repeated.
Isobel blinked at him. “Nevertheless—” she began.
“Thus I think she should be made to sit upon Francois until she tells me her given name.” He spoke in jest, yet when he glanced up at the lass, he saw that she was pale with some unspoken shame and that her fingers were wrapped white and tight into the steed’s flaxen mane.
“Let her be, MacGowan,” Bel ordered. Her voice was low and when he turned toward her, he saw the truth in her somber eyes. The girl had never been given a name, or if she had, it had long ago been forgotten in deference to her birthmark. He winced at his foolishness, but he was not called the rogue of the rogues for nothing, and shrugged in the same motion as he turned back toward the girl. “Very well, then, lassie,” he said. “Keep your secrets to yourself. But as for me I shall call you…. Claude.”
“Claude?” The girl whispered the name and Mour raised his brows as if she had protested.
” ‘Tis the queen of France’s given name. But if it is not good enough for you, I could call you….”
She was already shaking her head.
“Very well then, me bonny Claude, come down from your perch.”
Isobel stepped rapidly f
orward. “She cannot—”
“The queen of France is a wonder on a steed, and needs no man to help her dismount. Hold on to the mane, lass, and swing your leg over.”
“MacGowan,” Bel warned, but the girl was already sliding down the horse’s barrel.
Her skinny arms stretched and shook, but her toes were yet inches from the ground.
“Let go,” said Mour.
“MacGowan!” Isobel’s voice sounded panicked, but he stood between her and the girl and in that moment the child’s grip gave out.
She dropped with a small gasp of dismay, landed on her feet and wobbled sideways, but Gilmour shifted his weight ever so slightly, so that she bumped and steadied against his legs. He didn’t reach out to aid her but nodded once as she gained her balance.
“Just like the princess herself on her first try,” he said and bowed slightly from the waist. “Do not worry, Maid Claude,” he whispered. “Your royal secret is safe with me.”
Her eyes widened and then, like a startled lambkin, she pivoted and hurried toward the inn.
Gilmour turned back to Francois, but the look on Isobel’s face stopped him. For a moment she stared at him with eyes as wide as the child’s, and then she too turned and disappeared into the Red Lion.
It was the last he saw of her for some hours and the day seemed to drag away interminably, until, on the following morning, he stood in the stable and ran his hand down Francois’s injured cannon once again. The stallion picked unflinching at his barley hay and stared moodily down the aisle toward the unseen mare.
Aye, the steed was ready for the journey to Evermyst. There was no longer anything holding Mour in Henshaw. Except Isobel. Why had she stared at him with such solemnity after Claude’s departure? Not that he cared, for it surely wasn’t her charms that kept him there. Hardly that. Aye, he remembered how her eyes had fallen closed when he kissed her, remembered how her breath had locked in her ivory throat. But with fear or with pleasure? And if it was fear, what did she have to be afraid of? Was she planning some evil that she longed to keep from him?
Who had she met with in the dark of the night? Did she hold some grudge against her sister? Might it be that she resented the circumstances of her past so vehemently that she now sought revenge against those she perceived to be at fault? Did she hope to gain revenge only or was there a deeper plan? Might she intend to be rid of Anora in the wild hope of gaining Evermyst for her own?
