by Lois Greiman
He watched her for a moment, then, “Pleasure,” he said.
Hot sensations tingled low in her gut. “I’m afraid I have no need for your kind of pleasure.”
“Truly?”
Dear God, he had the devil’s own smile. It steamed at her through the darkness.
“That did not seem to be the way of it last night.”
Memories smote her again, but she struck back, driving them from her mind. “Regardless of how it seemed, I have no need of your…” What didn’t she need? “Company.”
“And what of me hands?” he asked, the devilish grin still in place.
“Nay.” She choked out the word. “Not them, either.” She was nearly to her cottage, nearly safe from his ungodly allure. She reached the rocky pathway and turned like a cornered hare near her door, but he blocked her escape with one arm across the entrance.
“And what of me mouth, wee Isobel?” He leaned in. There was a scent to him, something smoky and raw. She could only assume it was how a satyr would smell. His fingers touched her cheek and suddenly her neck felt strangely unable to support her head. His lips caressed the corner of her mouth. “Can you live without that?”
“Aye.” Her voice shook, actually shook, like a damned leaf in a gale.
His tongue touched the crease of her lips with the softness of a dream. “But do you want to?” he murmured.
“MacGowan, I—” she began, but in that moment he kissed her, full force with all the power of a dream and all the mind numbing appeal of a god. Her knees went weak, so that he braced an arm across her back, keeping her upright. Desire roared in her ears. Her head spun and her nether parts insisted that she act now before it was too late and she deny them the heaven they surely deserved.
But suddenly the kiss ceased, and she opened her eyes to find his, so close she could feel the steam rising from his soul.
“Well, love?” he whispered. “What were you saying?”
She had no idea. Not a clue, but in that instant his fingers touched hers. Energy sparked through her, jolting her upright with the horrid knowledge that the simple touch of his hand could scatter her wits.
She would not have it. Could not afford it. Bracing her legs against the storm, she licked her lips and gathered her wits like tiny bits of wool on the wind.
“I am sure you are much coveted as a lover, MacGowan.” Her knees trembled. She locked them hard and continued. “But I have… other plans.” What those plans were she could not imagine, but they did not include this man. Of that she was certain.
“Oh?” His tone was perfectly level, as if the kiss had never happened, as if it mattered not at all.
“Aye,” she said. “And I feel it would be best if you left Henshaw and did not return.”
He was silent for a moment as his fingers played across her wrist, like a master upon a lute. Her very tendons strummed beneath his touch. “You would not miss me?”
“Nay.” Too high, too squeaky, too great a lie! She cleared her throat to try something a tad more believable.
“Tell me, Isobel,” he said and skimmed his fingers over the crease of her elbow. “Is there another you have set your sights on?”
Her knees wobbled. “Another what?”
He chuckled and she tightened every muscle and pushed away from him.
“Aye!” she said, taking charge of her wits with a vengeance. “There is.”
He was silent for a moment. “Is it the good baron?”
She almost asked what baron he referred to, but clarity rang in her head for a moment and she nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis Laird Grier.”
Nothing seemed to move in the entire universe. She held her breath.
“Does he pleasure you?”
“What?”
“In bed.”
She could barely hear him, but she dared not lean closer, lest the maelstrom of his charisma drag her under.
“Have you taken him to your bed?”
Her head swam. She had to be rid of him before it was too late. Be rid. Be gone. Be safe. “Aye. I have.”
“And did you find pleasure there?”
“Of… of course.”
“And yet last night you responded to me touch like a virgin.”
“Well, I am not one of those virtuous few whom you delight in—”
“I think you are,” he said and slipped his arm about her waist. His eyes were like midnight stars, boring into hers. “In your soul. For you had not felt such feelings before.” His lips drew nearer. Her heart stopped. His mouth touched the hollow at the base of her throat and then all hell broke loose. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, swiping his tongue with liquid slowness across hers.
“MacGowan!” She pushed with all her might against his chest. It was as hard as an oaken table, and he moved not a smidgen. “I must not.”
“Because of the baron?”
“Aye.” Lord save her! She was breathing like a running mule. “Laird…” What the hell was his name? “Grier… is very jealous.”
“But he does not make you tremble,” he said, and skimmed his lingers beneath the weight of her hair.
Her body jerked in concert, and he grinned.
She pushed again at his chest. “I do not want you, MacGowan! Not this night. Not ever.”
The world went silent. He watched her.
“You are certain, Isobel?”
“Aye,” she said and her body screamed in silent protest. “I do not want you.”
“If I leave now, I leave for good, Bel.”
“Go.”
“I fear you will regret the results.”
“Nay,” she panted. “I will not.”
“Very well then,” he said and kissed her hard. Passion seared her, melting her will and whetting her appetite, but he stepped back.
Her knees threatened to spill her face first unto the earth, but she locked them tight and watched him turn away. Something inside her screamed his name, but she remained silent. ‘Twas best he leave, of course. ‘Twas good.
She turned toward her door, but in an instant she heard a sound behind her. Her heart stopped, awaiting him, and against her better judgment, she turned with a breathless smile.
For the briefest second she saw a shadow, a movement, a lift of something, and then, without warning, pain exploded in her head and darkness descended.
Chapter 10
Isobel woke slowly. Her head ached. She tried to lift her hand to her brow, but found that her wrists were immobilized behind her. She lay on her side in the darkness. Her hands were bound and she was alone. But nay, wait. She heard a rumble of male voices, and in the same instant she realized that a fire burned near the men, not ten rods away. Who were they? Why had they taken her?
Panic struck her as scattered shards of memories rushed in. She’d been near her cottage when she’d heard a movement. There was little to remember since then—only muffled images of dark upon dark as she’d awakened and slept and wakened. She had no way of knowing how long she had been unconscious, no way of knowing anything, so she concentrated on her last lucid moments.
MacGowan had been beside her, walking her home. Keeping her safe. Surely he couldn’t be involved with this. He may be spoiled and vain, but he had been kind to Claude, and—It was then that she heard another voice. “Damnable weather.”
It was almost familiar. Changed somehow, but almost…
MacGowan! She jerked toward the sound, craning her neck to see, and he was there. From her position on the ground, she could just see a portion of his face, but it was he, seated before the fire. Seated with her captors, and suddenly she knew the truth.
Every word he had spoken had been a lie. She didn’t know why, but one thing was certain: she had to escape before it was too late. If not for herself, for Anora—for even in her groggy state, she was certain that this plot did not revolve around a simple peasant girl like her. Nay, somehow the snare was set for the lady of Evermyst.
Rage coursed through her and she trembled. She should never have
allowed him to touch her, to—
But she would not dwell on that. Instead, she would focus all her energy on foiling his plans. So she listened, not moving, barely breathing. Still, she could hear no one nearby. Footfalls moved away from her, easily heard against her lower ear. It was dark, and she lay stretched on her side. Her ankles were tied, as were her wrists, but as far as she could tell, no one guarded her.
Ever so carefully, she moved her head, tilting it upward. A shadow moved away toward the fire, and for a moment she wondered if that shadow had carried her there. Her hip and one shoulder hurt, as if she’d been suddenly dropped beyond the light of the fire. Was that what had awakened her?
If she craned her neck carefully and slowly, she could see the men by the fire without being noticed. MacGowan sat facing the blaze. Anger brewed like venom in her soul. He would pay, but not just now. Not yet. For now she would keep her head, gain her feet, and find a way to escape.
But how? She winced at the pain in her shoulder then realized it was not soft turf that she lay on, but something hard and ungiving. Shifting her arm a fraction of an inch, she felt it scrape against a rock.
Perhaps if she eased her wrists over that stone she could sever her bonds. Perhaps… if they didn’t check on her. She glanced carefully toward the fire again. MacGowan faced her, pouring himself a draught from a bottle. Isobel held her breath, terror rattling her lungs, but if he saw her move, he gave no indication. Indeed, he acted as if he did not see her at all, and perhaps he couldn’t against the glare of the fire, for he turned casually away, still speaking to his companions.
“You’ve had no trouble, then…?”
His words flowed away. There were murmurs from the men who surrounded him, but she didn’t hear the words, for every bit of her attention was focused on the bastard she would make pay.
Drawing a steadying breath, she eased herself slowly across the ground, squirming silently along until she felt the rock against her wrists. She began sawing methodically at her bonds.
A voice swelled up and she froze, but all seemed well, and in a moment she continued on. Time ground away. Her arms cramped and she paused. It was that pause that saved her, for when she stopped, she heard footsteps.
Bel froze, not daring to turn toward the noise. Shutting her eyes, she prayed the man would pass her by.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stopped near her. He nudged her with his foot, and she sensed that he squatted beside her. It was then that she realized she had ceased to breathe. He leaned down. Panic splashed over her. He pressed his face against her breast, and it took all her will to remain still, to refrain from screaming, but soon he straightened.
“Lazy slut,” he said and rose, prodding her again with his boot.
She lay immobilized with fear, but the truth finally came to her: he’d been listening for a heartbeat and believed her still to be unconscious. She was safe for a while, but there was no way of knowing when they would check again. Indeed, she could not even guess what time of night it was or when they would be on the move again.
Fear held her paralyzed, but the murmur of MacGowan’s voice broke her free. His listeners laughed and she jerked, rasping her wrists against the sharp edge of die rock beneath her. She winced at the pain but refused to stop her sawing.
When the rope first gave way, she didn’t immediately realize it, but when she tugged, her hands moved the slightest amount. Hope flooded through her. It didn’t take long to sever the remaining threads. She waited, listening, before she drew her arms forward, and then, when she was certain no one watched, she pulled her knees to her chest and worked at the knots that tied her ankles. Her fingers tingled with pain and she couldn’t quite manage to grasp the rope. So she waited again, listening hard and fighting the sharp edge of terror. In her immobility she could feel her heart pound against her arm and prayed in silent desperation for strength. It returned finally, and when next she set her fingers to her bonds, the knot came free.
Slowly straightening her legs, she paused to listen before carefully rolling onto her chest. No untoward sound penetrated the quiet, only the murmur of voices from the campfire. She rolled slowly onto her opposite side, until she could see the men clearly.
There were seven of them by the fire. Was that the total count, or were there others lurking in the shadows?
Laughter echoed through the woods again and MacGowan raised a hand as if setting aside their appreciation.
Isobel’s hair rose on the back of her neck. The bastard! “I will not hurt you, Bel.” Anger surged through her, stiffening her muscles, strengthening her resolve.
He was a liar and a traitor, for here he sat with her captors—so secure, so certain of himself that he felt no need to hurry them on their way. After all, no one would suspect the charming rogue of any crime, and she was of such unimportance that none would come to save her.
But he had made a dire mistake, for she would save herself. Drawing her feet up under her, she rose to a crouch. Her heart boomed in her chest, squeezing it tight, but she crept forward. A voice rose from the fire. She jerked toward the noise. Her toe caught in the hem of her skirt, and she tripped, pitching wildly forward. Terror ripped through her, but she found her balance, and in the same instant, she turned toward the flame again. Seven pairs of eyes were watching her.
Isobel froze like a cornered hare, and then someone spoke, his voice barely rising above the boom of her heart.
“Get her!”
She didn’t consciously move, yet she found herself running, racing through the woods, her fist wrapped in her skirt. Branches whipped past her face, snagging her clothes, frightening gasps from her throat, raw now from fear and exertion.
Where were they? How far behind? She turned, straining her eyes through the darkness. Nothing. She could see no one. Perhaps—
“There you be.”
She bolted sideways, but it was already too late. A fist tangled in her hair, yanking her backward, and she shrieked in raw terror.
“Shut yer mouth, girlie or I’ll give you something to scream about, aye?” The tip of a knife pressed against her throat. She whimpered in fear and rolled her eyes toward the blade, but it was too close to see. Instead, she felt the heat of her captor pressed against her back. She remained as still as death, her breath coming in hard gasps, which pulled his gaze toward her heaving chest.
Meaty fingers shifted in her hair, and then he eased his arm around her, crushing against her breasts. “Mayhap we can take us a few minutes, aye? I got me an urge.” His arm loosened and the knife left her throat, disappearing somewhere below before his other hand shoved at her back.
“What are you about, Roy?”
Isobel was yanked to a halt even as she whipped her gaze to the newcomer.
“I got me a little business,” Roy said.
” ‘Is Lordship don’t want ‘er touched, y’knows.” The lad twitched like a weasel. ” ‘E don’t want ‘er touched.”
“Well now, that seems mighty selfish, don’t it? Flirting her up then keeping her for himself whilst we take all the risks?”
Keeping her for himself! The words rang through her head.
“Seems to me he’s got enough already without this little scheme.”
Isobel’s mind raced. What were they planning? Something against Anora. Isobel had not thought she could be a threat to her sister’s security, for so few knew of her kinship with the lady of Evermyst. But MacGowan knew, and now he planned some evil. What was it? Somehow to use her to overthrow Evermyst? To hold her for ransom until Anora paid?
“If’n you don’t take ‘er in, you’re going ta ‘ave to share,” said the second man, shifting from foot to foot.
Roy cursed then urged her back in the direction from whence she had come. She went willingly, for although she had been caught, she had not completely failed. Not yet, for one thing was clear: these men were only pawns.
She had but to be rid of MacGowan and the plot would crumble.
She stumbled. Her captor pro
dded her back onto her feet and she continued forward, her mind reeling. The man called Roy wore a knife. Where? She shifted her gaze sideways without turning her head. It was there. She could see the handle gleam dully in the firelight.
Firelight! They had almost reached their destination! Where was he? Where—
MacGowan stepped out of the woods only a short distance to her right. “What’s this, then?” he asked, and smiled. Rage boiled in her soul. Already he was close and coming closer still.
The man by the campfire swore, and Roy pushed her forward. She stumbled, but there was no time for failure, no room for defeat. She spun toward her captor, scrambling for his knife. It came away in her hand, and in the same instant she lunged.
MacGowan jerked sideways, but not fast enough. The tip of her blade skimmed along his chest, tearing open his tunic, and then, like a pack of wolves, the others dragged her down.
She went with a snarl. “Damn you!”
MacGowan stood, mouth opened, staring down at her.
“What the hell’s this?” A man raced into the campsite, then slowed, his eyes darting.
“I snagged her,” said Roy, “brought her back to camp. Then she sees him there and she goes mad.”
“Why?” The one near the woods flicked his eyes to MacGowan.
Gilmour raised his hands as if innocent. “I meant her no harm. I’ve not even—”
“No harm?” She snarled the words. “Harm me sister and you harm me! You’re a bastard, MacGowan! A bastard and a—”
“MacGowan?” The speaker was dark and lean as a scavenging wolf. “You said you were a Barclay.”
“Aye,” said Mour. “The lass is deluded, she is. Might that be why you keep her bound?”
“Deluded?” Facts melded with fiction in Isobel’s battered mind. “Have you lied to them too, MacGowan?” So she had not been the only one he’d duped. Nay, he had fooled the lot of them with his oily ways, but she would tell them the truth. She turned her gaze to the lean wolf. “He plans evil against his own brother as well as against the lady of Evermyst.” She rushed her gaze to the faces that surrounded her, but recognized none. Could it be that he had also lied to the gigantic laird he drank with at the Lion? “And what of the Munros? Did he tell you that they have made an alliance with the Frasers?” Not a soul spoke. “Aye, ‘tis true. If you fight me kinsmen, you will have a battle with the Munros as well.”
