The MacGowan Betrothal E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 457

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2001

Beschreibung

From the bestselling author of award-winning historical romance, Lois Greiman, a classic Scottish Highlander Romance "Lois Greiman creates the ideal atmosphere for her compelling tale, placing her strong characters in difficult situations and building a dramatic conflict that keeps us wondering just how their relationship will be resolved. Ms. Greiman's hallmark powerful storytelling makes her a must-read author." –Romantic Times Highland Rogues #2 1535, Scotland Gilmour MacGowan can have any lass he desires…except for the headstrong and beautiful Isobel Frasier who wants nothing to do with the arrogant head of Clan MacGowan. But Gilmour is used to getting what he wants… and he wants Isobel! Fiercely independent—and a wee tad stubborn—Isobel must not marry if she's going to protect her own clan, especially if that rogue of rogues, Gilmour is the threat he appears to be (tempting though he is…!) Then unexpected danger rears its head, and, as Gilmour and Isobel journey through the Highlands together, they may find that loving your enemy is the most satisfying adventure of them all!

Leseprobe

THE MACGOWAN BETROTHAL

HIGHLAND ROGUES

BOOK TWO

LOIS GREIMAN

CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Discover More By Lois Greiman

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About the Author

This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 by Lois Greiman

Ebook ISBN: 9781625173331

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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To Micki Nuding, the best editor in the universe. Thanks for laughing and crying in all the right places.

PREFACE

THE PROPHECY

He who would take a Fraser bride, these few rules he must abide.

Peaceable yet powerful he must be, cunning but kind to me and thee.

The last rule but not of less import, he'll be the loving and beloved sort.

If a Fraser bride he longs to take, he'll remember these rules for his life's sake.

For the swain who forgets the things I've said, will find himself amongst the dead.

Meara of the Fold

PROLOGUE

Isobel scanned the great hall, making certain all was prepared for the feast.

'Twas the eve of Christmas at lofty Evermyst. The Yule log, as large around as a destrier's barrel, burned bright and merry in the great hall's giant hearth. Red berried holly gaily adorned the walls in sprigs of twelve while the scent of roast boar and ginger dolls wafted dreamily throughout the keep.

Thronged with Frasers and MacGowans and assorted guests, the high castle had never been merrier. Near the broad wooden stairs, a group of brightly dressed children laughed over their game of hot cockles while their elders continued their jubilant wassailing, toasting every nonsensical thing that came to mind. And beneath an arched doorway, where fresh cut mistletoe was hung by a scarlet string, Ramsay MacGowan pulled his young bride into his embrace.

"You cannot escape me so quickly, love," he murmured, "for you still owe me a good dozen kisses."

"A dozen?" Anora's tone was breathy. And though she glanced at her husband as if horrified, Isobel could not help but notice her sister's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with happiness.

"Aye," Ramsay murmured, bending closer to his wife's upturned face. "One for each day of Christmas. 'Tis tradition, is it not?"

"Mayhap 'tis tradition by your father's hearth, Rogue," Anora chided. "But here at Evermyst, we find better things to occupy our time."

"Do you now?" Ramsay asked, his tone hopeful, and Anora laughed in that sweet, silvery tone Isobel had come to love so well.

"I but meant I must see where our Mary has got off to."

"Ahh," said Ramsay, and glancing past Isobel, spied the babe crawling toward a bevy of giggling women who played hoodman's bluff nearby. Resignation crossed his handsome features, but happiness still shone in his soulful eyes. "Mour," he said, but when there was no response, he raised his voice and tried again. "Gilmour."

From the midst of the happy crowd, Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, straightened. A white sleeve was tied securely about his eyes, but his slanted grin was evident as he reached blindly toward the maids who danced about him. "Is it not clear that I am busy, brother?"

"Aye, and 'tis that very thing that worries me. Make yourself useful now and see to wee Mary."

"Mary?" Gilmour said, turning his head. "Ahh, Mary, me love!" he declared and without removing the blindfold, strode rapidly through the crowd to snatch the babe from the rushes. Tossing her into the air, he caught her above his head and kissed her apple bright cheek. The baby's squeals of joy were mixed with the young women's cries of dismay, for vowing blindness he had patted more than a few in quite inappropriate places.

"Whatever is amiss?" Gilmour asked as he pulled the cloth from his eyes. "Surely you do not think I could see through me hood."

There was a general gasp of dismay and Gilmour laughed, flashing that crooked smile that made wise fathers blanch from London to Lisbon. "Blindfold me with the cloth of your choosing, then," he challenged, "and we can begin anew."

Laughter mixed with a dozen voices, and in the melee, Gilmour settled wee Mary against his chest and turned his attention to Isobel.

Their gazes met, and in that moment his expression turned almost somber, almost devoid of that devilish spark that was his alone. "And what of you, wee Bel of the feast?" he asked. "Will you be joining us in our merriment?"

For a moment the entire world seemed to still. She could hear naught but her own heartbeat as she stared at him above the pitchers she carried.

"Laird Gilmour, we be ready for you," a maid called and giggled as she held up metal gauntlets and an ancient visor.

Isobel broke free of her trance. "Nay," she said and lifted the pitchers as proof of her duties. "I am needed elsewhere."

"Aye," he murmured, and grinning, brushed her hand with his own. "And badly."

A shiver coursed through Isobel, but she lifted her chin and refused to acknowledge the feelings, for she knew precisely what his words meant. The rogue of the rogues was on the prowl again. But despite that knowledge, despite the maids giggling inanely in the background, despite the months she'd spent learning to fend off his advances, not a single scathing rejoinder came to her lips.

Laughter swelled around her and suddenly it seemed too warm in this place, too warm and merry and smothering. She could not breathe, could not think. Then an epiphany presented itself, shining on her like a single ray of sunlight.

Her days at Evermyst had come to an end. It was time for her to leave.

CHAPTER1

Henshaw, Scotland

The month of May, in the year of our Lord 1535

"Effie lass, your hair is as lovely as me stallion's. And like me destrier..." The Munro leaned closer to the maid. She stepped warily backward, eyes wide, for even seated, he towered over her. "The very sight of such a bonny filly makes me long to bree—"

"You have our thanks, Elga!" Gilmour interrupted hastily. Straightening, he drew the maid's attention to him with the full force of his renowned smile.

The Red Lion's young serving maid pulled her gaze from Innes Munro and let it fall on Gilmour. He noticed with some satisfaction that for a fraction of a second she forgot to inhale, but it was her breathy sigh that did his heart the most good.

"The meal was a rare treat," he continued and found that he was able to relax somewhat now that the Munro had ceased his horrendous attempt to be charming. "And your kind attention has been much appreciated."

"I am happy I have pleased you, me laird," she said and curtsied. She had not yet reached eight and ten years, but she knew how to flirt using nothing more than her eyes. Of course, her breasts, prettily displayed above the kindly bodice of her gown, did nothing to detract from her charms. Ahh...women.

"Shall I fetch you a bit more ale?" she asked, dimpling coquettishly.

"I am tempted, Elga," he said and knew immediately that she realized he was thinking of more than the ale, for she blushed and dimpled all the more. "But nay, I'd best not."

"More of Issa's manchet bread?" she suggested. "Or another wedge of crowdie, perhaps?"

"Nay. Naught. I am well sated."

"Well, I am not sated atall" rumbled Innes Munro, scowling, first at Mour, then at the maid. "But I think you might be up to the task of seeing the job done if you've a mind to, lass. You've but to show me to your chamber and I'll—"

"What's that?" Gilmour rose abruptly to his feet, grasping the maid's arm as he did so. "I believe I hear your master calling."

Elga stared at him with wide, dreamy eyes. "Nay," she breathed. "Master Gibbs is not—"

"Mayhap it was the cook, then. You'd best go, wee Elga," Mour insisted and dropping his hand to hers, bent to kiss her knuckles. " 'Twould wound me grievously if you came to trouble on me own account."

"Oh. I..." She floundered for words as he caressed her fingers with his thumb. "You will return?" she asked.

"I'll be back this very night if you'll promise me a tumble--" began the Munro, but Gilmour interrupted again.

"Certainly," he said. "We shall return. But you must go now."

She left with a troubled glance for Innes and a smile for Mour, but it was really the sway of her skirts that was the most intriguing.

"What the hell be you doing?" Innes rumbled, snatching Gilmour's attention from the girl with the grating of his voice. "She was just now warming up to me."

Gilmour found his seat and nodded casually to Russell Grier, Baron of Winbourne, who was nursing a horn of spirits some tables away.

The baron raised his drink. "Laird Gilmour of Evermyst," he called. "Where one can see forever and even the goat herder is bonny."

"To your health," greeted Mour and raised his ale. It would have been better if no one knew of the Munro's sojourn at the Red Lion, but rumor said Winbourne had troubles of his own to worry on, and by the looks of things, he was a goodly way into his cups. So Gilmour turned his attention back to his giant companion. "Warming up to her," he said, keeping his tone level. "She was about to crack you on the pate with your own goblet. What the devil did you think you were about?"

The Munro's heavy brow lowered dangerously. "I was wooing her, I was."

"Wooing! If you were wooing, I was birthing—" Gilmour began, but in that instant he noticed the other man's right hand. It was as big as a battering ram and wrapped rather suggestively about a short bladed dagger. Raising his brows, Gilmour tilted a slow grin from the knife to the bearer. "In truth," he said, nodding thoughtfully, "I've seen worse attempts." Though the chieftain of the notorious Munros couldn't flirt worth sparrow droppings, he was the devil himself when it came to knife play. "Still, if I am to help you I think you may need a wee bit more practice."

"I have practiced," grumbled the other.

"Aye. Well, these things take time." The word "forever" came to mind.

"I tire of this game," said the Munro. "Playing cat to these scrawny kitchen mice."

Tire of flirting? Was it possible? Gilmour wondered then brought his attention rapidly back to the matter at hand: Innes Munro, his lack of charm, and his knife.

"It but takes time to understand a woman's mind," Gilmour said.

Munro deepened his scowl. "And how did you learn, MacGowan?"

Mour mulled over the giant lord's question. After all, there was no need to teach an eagle to soar. "Some are simply better suited for certain tasks than others," he began diplomatically. "In truth, I'm not particularly gifted at..." But now that he thought about it, he couldn't name a single task he wasn't particularly gifted at. He smiled at that realization and began to announce his findings, but at that second Munro shifted his knife with suggestive malevolence.

"How are you at dying?" he rumbled and Gilmour laughed out loud.

Time with the Munro had its merry moments after all.

"Easy now, Innes," he said. "How would it look if you attempted to kill me right here in the Red Lion?"

"Attempted?" Munro's brows lowered even more, all but hiding his porcine eyes.

"Aye," agreed Gilmour. "Losing a battle rarely makes a man appealing. Thus I would suggest that you have a try at the lassies again before—"

"Are you challenging me, MacGowan?"

Gilmour knew it would be unwise to answer such a question with a grin, but some said a mischievous imp resided in his soul and though Mour would have liked to deny it, he feared it would be less than honest to do so.

"Nay, not challenging you," he said, trying, against the odds, to keep his expression perfectly somber. "Merely attempting to fulfill me end of—" he began, but just then two women exited the kitchen, drawing Munro's attention abruptly away.

Gilmour glanced in that direction and raised his brows. They stood with their backs to the tables, and although one was broad from stem to stem, the other was as shapely and delicate as a summer blossom.

"Now there's a likely looking maid," Gilmour mused, his own interest roused already. "You've but to recall what I've told you."

Munro said nothing. Neither did his attention shift from the women.

"Remember," Gilmour said, his voice low, "best not to compare them to beasts of any sort. Never refer to lovemaking as breeding. In fact," he added, glancing at Munro's lax jaw, " 'twould be best to refrain from mentioning lovemaking atall and... are you listening?"

"Lovemaking," Munro intoned.

"Aye," Gilmour agreed and glanced once more at the women. "Show an interest in her," he added. "Not just in bedding her, and for the sake of heaven, learn her name. Can you do that?"

The great bull of a man turned mutinously toward him. "Do you think me daft?"

Gilmour might be a good many things, but he wasn't fool enough to answer such an inflammatory question outright. Neither was he cautious enough to ignore it altogether. "What was her name then, Munro?"

"Whose?"

"The lass who just left."

"That bit of a thing what served us?"

"Aye. What was her name?"

Munro glared as his thick lips pursed inside his unkempt, bushy red beard. "Effie."

"Nay."

"Edrea."

"Nay."

"Damnation," growled Laird Munro. " 'Tis Edrea if I say 'tis Edrea."

Gilmour leaned his shoulder against the wall and stared across the table at the giant. " 'Tis Edrea if she is an entirely different maid who happened to be christened Edrea."

"Are you challenging—shh!" Munro hissed, darting his eyes sideways and back. "She's coming."

"Who is—"

"Don't look," Munro warned, slipping his dirk back into its boot sheath and wiping a hand on his plaid. "What shall I do?"

Gilmour raised his brows in surprise, but the huge man's expression of abject panic was difficult to ignore.

"Greet her," he said, "but don't growl. Compliment the inn. She must be employed here."

From the corner of his eye, Gilmour saw the women part company. The larger of the two exited through the door while the slim maid turned back toward the kitchens. But just then her wrist was grasped by a patron at a table across the room. She turned abruptly toward him.

"Marry me, Issa," slurred the man.

His drunken companion slipped an arm about the girl's willowy waist and pulled her closer. "Nay. The lass is mine," he argued and murmured something unheard.

Gilmour rose silently to his feet. He was a good natured fellow by all accounts, but it went against his grain to see a maid handled against her will. Thus, he meandered across the stretch of floor between them.

"Is there trouble afoot?" he asked.

The girl didn't look up, but addressed the men who restrained her. "I am flattered, Regan of Longwater, but I fear your proposition may be humanly impossible. At least in your present state," she added and slipped easily from the men's grasps as they chuckled.

"No trouble," she said and lifted her gaze to Gilmour. "And a good thing, for you, MacGowan..." she added, "for you will forever be more the sort to cause trouble than to cure it."

Gilmour stared for a moment. "Damn me."

"A mite late for that, I fear," she countered and strode toward the kitchen.

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.

CHAPTER2

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 her 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."

She laughed again. "Gilmour MacGowan," she said, "the rogue of the rogues. Jealous of a simple blacksmith. Who would have thought it possible?"

"No one in her right mind, but that would not include you, would it, Bel? So feel free to enjoy your delusions if they brighten your day."

"Me thanks," she said, and he nodded.

"Are you getting near to telling me why you have come by, then?" he asked.

She fiddled with the bedpost for an instant, looking more like the hesitant lass all had known at Evermyst and less the harpy who had revealed herself to him alone. "I but wished for some word of me sister."

"Anora is well."

"You have spoken to her recently?"

"Aye. Just before leaving. She and Ram were about to challenge the firth for a visit to Levenlair."

"And leave Evermyst unprotected?"

"Lachlan shall remain behind."

"Then your brothers are well, also?"

"Lachlan is..." Mour shrugged. "Well, Lachlan is Lachlan. Cantankerous and bedeviled. But Ramsay is content. In truth, I have never seen him happier."

Though she smiled, there was a shadow of unidentified emotion in her eyes. Sadness, perhaps. Or loneliness. Maybe he should have been ashamed that the expression intrigued him, but Gilmour had oft found that shame was overrated.

" 'Tis glad I am of course to know that marriage agrees with him," she said.

"But?"

She glanced at him, surprise in her eyes. "What?"

"You are glad of course, but..."

"I am glad that me sister and her laird are happy. That is all."

"Then you care not that me brother has taken the love of the sister so long lost to you? You care not that your dearest and nearest kinswoman adores Ram so devoutly that she has all but forgotten your bond with her?"

A dozen emotions flashed through her eyes before she lowered her gaze to her hands, twisted against her pinned up overskirt. "Mayhap..." Her voice was very soft suddenly. "Mayhap 'twould be easier if I had never found her."

Guilt speared him at the honest regret in her voice. Never had she revealed so much of herself to him. She looked small and helpless against the backdrop of his bed. Her elfish face was lowered, her sapphire eyes hidden by downcast lids.

"How could it be better to never have known her?" he asked.

"I've heard it said..." She glanced up through her lashes at him. "That 'tis better to have lost your love than never to know love atall."

He nodded, urging her to go on.

"But I think 'tis not true. I think mayhap 'twould have been better to have gone forever thinking meself alone in the world."

Her sadness was all but palpable now. "You are not alone, lass," he said simply. "I should not have said the things I did."

"Nay." She shook her head slowly. Firelight danced across the golden waves of her hair and one lone diamond-bright tear traced down her alabaster cheek. "You were right. Me sister prefers to spend her days with her husband. And 'tis as it should be, of course," she added quickly. "It is simply that I..." She paused, seeming to fight for the proper words while Gilmour struggled to remain where he was, removed from her.

"You are lonely," he said, completing her sentence.

She raised her gaze. Against her milky complexion, her lips looked as bright and succulent as wild berries and he swallowed hard, using every bit of little-used self control at his disposal.

"You understand," she murmured.

A second tear followed its mate's course, slipping more rapidly down her cheek to fall past the point of her peaked chin and onto the high rise of her breast. Gone was the modest gown she had worn below-stairs, replaced by this garment of white linen. Strange that he hadn't noticed that earlier, he thought, for now he couldn't take his eyes off her—her loveliness, her loneliness, her breasts, so pale and full and tempting, with that single tear slipping down the dramatic curve into darkness—soft, tantalizing darkness.

"You know how I feel, then," she said.

"Aye, lass," he agreed and still remained unmoving, though it was difficult to raise his gaze from the tear's descent. " 'Tis only natural that you would miss the only one with whom you share blood."

"So you would miss your brothers?"

"Nay." He grinned. "But I would miss your sister."

She laughed, but the sound was unnatural, hiccup- ing slightly at the end before she raised her hands to her face. "I am sorry," she murmured. " 'Tis simply that I... I..." All other words were lost. There was nothing Gilmour could do but go to her. No choice but to slip his arms gently about her minuscule waist.

No corset stiffened her torso. Beneath her simple, virginal garment there was nothing but flesh—soft, lovely flesh.

"There now, sweet lass," he said, calming his breathing. "There be no need to cry, for you can return to Evermyst on the morrow, if you wish."

She shook her head, but even as she did so, she slid her arms hungrily about his neck as if starved for his strength, his compassion. " 'Tis not true." She whispered the words, brushing the sound with tender sweetness against his ear lobe. It shivered titilatingly down his neck.

"Aye, lass. I will take you there on me own steed in the morn, if you like."

"You do not understand."

Her hair felt like satin beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, a heady mix of sweet herbs and something deeper, something that was only Isobel. He remembered smelling it before, catching a whiff of it when she passed him at Evermyst. Smelling that sweet, unique aroma and feeling himself harden with the scent. Aye, he had forever wanted her, ever since the very first.

"I cannot go back," she whispered. The sliver of sound quivered over his bare shoulder, and against his chest her breasts felt as soft and enticing as heaven. "For I cannot bear the truth."

He stroked her hair again, feeling her emotion in his very soul. "And what truth is that, lassie?"

"You do not know what it was like, for you have always..." She paused, clearing her throat and laughing a little. "You have always been adored. But I had no one. Not until Nora. And then 'twas as if the world blossomed. I was everything to her, and she to me. 'Twas as if we shared one mind."

Her body felt as firm and supple as a bending reed in his arms with her hips pressed against his and her thighs, so sweet and strong, spread ever so slightly to encompass one of his own.

"Do not be sad, lass," he whispered, finding it suddenly hard to speak for the need that rushed through him. "Me earlier words were cruel. I am certain your sister misses you as surely as you miss her."

She whimpered softly against his neck as if such a thought evoked too much emotion to contain. "Do you think so?" she asked, lifting her face a bit to look into his eyes.

He smiled, for truly, her beauty was unsurpassed, with her heaven-wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Aye, lass, I know it. Her love for me brother has not diminished her adoration for you."

"You think not?"

"Nay," he said and swept her hair gently from her face. Dampened by her tears, it curled intimately about his fingers. "Come back with me and judge for yourself."

She managed a tremulous smile, but shook her head at the same time. "I cannot. Evermyst is not me place in the world."

"Where then do you belong, Bel?"

She shrugged. The movement caused her breasts to lift lovingly against his naked chest. A thousand wanton desires sprinted like devils through his overheated system, but she was lonely and hurting, and he would not take advantage of those raw feelings. Never let it be said that Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, could not tempt a maid without such emotions to aid his cause.

"Mayhap this be me place," she whispered.

"Here?" His heart pounded against her bosom. "In me arms?"

She smiled and lowered her eyes. "In Henshaw," she said. "At the Red Lion."

His desire throbbed insistently, and he could not help but wonder if she felt it. "Surely not, lass, for you were gently born."

Looking down at her delicate face, he could just see the slight tilt of her lips as she smiled sadly. "Gently born, mayhap, but not gently reared. Do you forget? I am naught but a commoner."

" 'Tis not true. You are the daughter of the laird and lady of Evermyst and therefore it is only proper that you have all that the title entails."

"Nay," she said. "Me mother was right to send me away at birth, for there are many who would pit one sister against the other for the sake of her inheritance, and even more who would believe that both siblings are evil for the circumstances of their birth."

"Thus you would spend your life as a commoner, even though you know 'tis not true?"

"In truth, I am far more comfortable with the bare feet of a laborer than with the satin slippers of a lady."

"But surely you cannot plan to go on like this, lass, for you are far too delicate to spend your days in hard labor."

"Delicate?" She laughed a little and canted her head so that her gaze rested with feline softness on him and her hips pressed ever so gently against his. Gilmour tightened his jaw against the delectable onslaught. "Mayhap you do not know me so well as you think, MacGowan," she whispered.

He remained unmoving against her, lest the slightest motion send him over the edge of desire. "Do not fear, lass, me brother Ramsay will..." he began, but just then her lips touched his neck. A thousand errant sensations sizzled through him like living sparks. "Will..." He tried to catch the lashing tail of his displaced thoughts, but they had been burnt beyond recognition.

"Will what?" Her whisper shivered against his throat.

"Will find you a suitable husband," he said, but she had tilted her head downward now and kissed his collarbone. His head fell back of its own accord.

"And what if I do not want some stodgy but suitable husband?" she asked.

Her hand slid with slow warmth down his arm. He should stop her now, but somehow his muscles failed to do so, for her touch was like magic, unreal, beyond hope, and as it slid from his arm to his belly, he felt the flames of desire dance like demons in his aching nether parts.

"What if I want a lover instead?" she whispered, and suddenly her hand dipped beneath the weight of his plaid. The tartan unfurled like spring bracken, falling hopelessly to the floor at their feet. "What if I want you?"

"Lass..." It was difficult to breathe, impossible to move. "I do not think—"

" 'Tis best. Do not think," she murmured and slipped her hand lower. It closed with velvet warmth around him and suddenly all thought was gone, burned to ashes by the satin strength of her touch.

Inhibition was laid waste. Good sense flew like autumn leaves. There was nothing he could do but lift her into his arms. Nothing to do but bear her to the bed behind her and there he laid her upon the mattress. She did not resist, did not hesitate. Instead, she curved her slim fingers about his neck and drew him closer. Their lips touched like a dream, but she was impatient, eager—nay, hot for him—and suddenly he could not wait another moment to gaze at her beauty. He pressed her gown upward, revealing the ivory smoothness of her thighs, but he could not rush here where perfection lay. He dropped to his knees beside the mattress. Sliding his hands up one delicate calf, he kissed the inner curve of her knee. She gasped and he smiled against her flesh, loving her reaction and then kissing higher, over the sweet length of her thigh, drawing ever nearer Utopia.

"Mour!" He heard her gasp of pleasure, but refused to be rushed, for he had waited long for such a moment.

Thus he slid his fingers over the arch of her hip and upward, feeling the luscious curve of her waist, loving every intimate detail of her and kissing each one in turn, her hip, her belly, her navel.

She jerked at the sensation and he lingered there a moment, sliding both palms beneath her buttocks to lift her upward and lave his tongue across the dent of her birthing scar.

"MacGowan!" Her fingers tangled in his hair with some force.

"Aye, me love?" he whispered, lifting his head enough to gaze into her frantic face. "What is it you would have me do?"

Her body was taut with desire, her knees bent in a supplication of unhidden need. 'Touch me," she whispered.

They were the sweetest words ever spoken, so sweet, in fact, that he longed to hear them again.

"What's that you say, lass?" he asked.

But suddenly the dulcet melody of her voice roughened into an ungodly deep timbre. "I said, touch me again and I'll kill you here and now!"

Gilmour wrenched his eyes open even as he jerked backward. Sleep fled like frightened lambkins, leaving him to stare dumbfounded into the narrowed eyes of Innes Munro.

CHAPTER3

"Munro! What the devil are you doing here?"

Gilmour rasped, but memories of the night before were already rushing back. Not enough room at the inn. They'd been forced to share, and somewhere in his desire maddened dreams, he'd made a foul mistake.

"I'll tell you what I'm doing lad, I'm preparing to kill me first MacGowan," growled the giant, and in that moment Mour realized that the man's right hand was well out of sight. "One more move and the rogue of the rogues will trouble maids no more."

Gilmour lowered his gaze ever so slowly. It was no great surprise to find the Munro's fist wrapped about his much favored dirk.

"I preferred the dream," Mour said, watching the knife.

"You were dreaming?" Munro's tone sounded doubtful.

Gilmour raised his brows. "You thought me awake?"

No answer was forthcoming.

"I've no wish to offend you, Munro, but you're not me usual type."

"If I thought otherwise you'd be propositioning the devil this very minute!" snarled the Munro.

"That seems more than just," Gilmour said and found that his ardor could cool quite quickly when in the proper company. The last golden memory of Isobel fled his misty brain, and he backed out of bed, fully dressed and immensely happy to realize it. "In fact, methinks it would be preferable to die by your hand than to have others learn of me mistake."

The Munro scowled, still holding his knife at the ready as though not quite certain Gilmour could control his passion for his oversized and somewhat aromatic bed mate. "So you'll be telling no one?"

Gilmour wondered vaguely who he would ever want to share such news with. He cleared his throat. "No one comes to mind."

Munro's scowl deepened as he too backed from bed. "I'll have your vow."

"You have me word of honor." And that was the truth.

The Munro glared one more instant, then nodded and slipped his dirk grouchily into his boot sheath. It was then that Mour realized the giant had worn his boots to bed, but truly—the more clothing available in their present situation, the better, he thought, and turned gratefully away.

"Who did you dream of?"

Gratitude fled, for events had been humiliating enough without admitting his lurid dreams for a maid who did naught but barb him. "What's that?" he asked, pretending confusion as he dipped his hands into the wooden basin set on a stool near the door. The scent of rosemary filled his nostrils as he splashed the washing water onto his face. What he needed was a good cold lochan and never to set eyes on Isobel of the Frasers again.

"Who was it you were dreaming of? Was it the cheese maker?"

"Ailsa?" Gilmour asked, remembering Evermyst's buxom goat herder with some relief.

"Aye. I think that be her name. 'Tis said she be a lively tumble."

" 'Tis said," Gilmour replied, preoccupied.

Munro laughed. "For such a frolicking dream, the rogue sounds none too happy. Could it be you chose the wrong maid?"

Gilmour sent the giant a peeved expression. "Aye, he was hairier than I prefer. And ungodly large."

"And a bit more vengeful than most lassies, though..." The Munro stopped suddenly, his mouth remaining open. " 'Twasn't your brother's bride you dreamt of, was it?"

Gilmour scowled. "I fear me bid for Anora is already past. She chose another. Poorly, but 'tis too late to change her mind now, I suspect."

"Ummm," Munro agreed, which made Mour wonder for a moment about the giant's own feelings for Ramsay's lovely wife. After all, there was a time he had hoped to have her for his own. But whether he'd wanted her for her own delectable self or for her unbreachable keep, no one knew for certain. "Who then do you..." Munro began, but suddenly his heavy brows dipped dangerously. " 'Tis not the Red Lion wench you covet, is it?"

Gilmour's stomach clamped as he remembered Munro's words from the night before. How could he have forgotten that this Goliath had his eye on Isobel? Bugger it! He should have never agreed to help Innes. Even though he dearly needed assistance, it could only lead to trouble.

"Let me say this." Gilmour set his plaid straight then opened the door. "The sooner I return to Evermyst, the better I'll like it."

Munro followed him down the stairs, and the wooden steps groaned beneath his heavy weight. "So the Red Lion maid does not interest you?"

Gilmour prepared to shake his head as he stepped into the common room, but just at that instant, as if called from hell itself, Isobel came into view. She wore a gown of dusky blue, pinned up at the sides to show a pale underskirt. Her sleeves were the color of a midnight sky and one tiny braid entwined with scarlet ribbon encircled her golden head like a crown. For one brief moment, Mour could not speak.

"MacGowan!" Munro growled. "Does the Red Lion's maid interest you?"

Isobel turned away, whisking like a wind-blown petal into the kitchen.

"Nay," he managed. "No interest atall."

" 'Tis good," Innes said, seating himself at the nearest table, "for I'd hate to have yet another reason to kill you before our task is finished here."

"Aye, 'twould indeed be a shame."