The MacGowan Betrothal

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 woman'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.

1

Henshaw, Scotland

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

E ffie 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 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.

2

Fatigue weighed heavily on Gilmour as he entered the rented