Page 11

Perhaps he was coming down with a fever, he thought, but nay, there was nothing wrong with him.

He was simply eager to return to Evermyst with its secret passageways and grandmotherly ghosts—where he had brothers to torment and a tiny niece to coddle.

Indeed, wee Mary was growing by leaps and bounds and would soon be walking.

'Twas little wonder he felt such a strong need to leave Henshaw's dreary streets.

Well, Francois would soon be healed and able to travel.

Mour remained where he was, loitering in the shadows of the inn and drinking in the stillness of the night. The moon was nearly full, with only a slim slice pared from its right edge. A lovers' moon it was. Bright as a polished livre, it smiled down at him.

He scowled in return and shifted his shoulders from the rough plaster of the inn, but just as he did so, a door opened on creaky hinges.

"I assure you, I do not need company, Regan of Longwater," Isobel said.

The man murmured something in return and she laughed, her eyes bright in the light of her iron-bound lantern.

"Nay," she insisted and pulled her fingers firmly from his grip, "but I am well flattered. Goodnight to you."

With that, she hurried down the path to the south. Longwater remained still for a moment watching her, then, pulling his gaze away, he paced off in the opposite direction at a goodly clip.

The hairs on Gilmour's neck stood upright. "Why was the man leaving? It didn't seem right, for by the moonlight, one could still see the sway of Isobel's hips. Not that Mour cared, but if Longwater was so infatuated, why did he not stay to watch her out of sight?

Perhaps he had no intention of leaving her be?

What if he doubled back to accost her? And what of the dour, hauntingly familiar fellow called Hunter?

Where was he? He had left sometime before.

Might he not be hidden away with ill intent?

Indeed, there were any number of evil souls who might be lurking in the shadows, he thought, but the truth struck him suddenly: he was lurking in the shadows, and he certainly had no designs on her.

Therefore, there was probably no one in Henshaw who thought of Isobel Fraser any differently than he did.

His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him hurriedly down the path behind her, but in a matter of moments he lost her. She had extinguished her light, he realized, and sensed more than saw her turn off the path to the right.

Curious now, he hurried after, keeping to the shadows. Where was she going so late at night? It was only a matter of minutes before he knew the truth.

"Rhone?"

He heard her voice in a whisper of sound, but the answer was softer still.

"Issa?" The response came from the deepest of shadows. Against the glow of the moon, Gilmour saw the high, stark skeleton of the old mill. "You came."

"Oh course," she murmured and disappeared into the darkness of the shrubbery that surrounded the grain mill.

Gilmour's breath stopped in his throat. A tryst!

She had come here at this late hour to meet a lover when she blatantly turned him aside at every opportunity?

Who the devil was this Rhone, and why would he not come to the inn, or meet her in her own house?

What did they have to hide? Was he a married man, or. ..

Laird Winbourne!

The image of Isobel in the arms of the stodgy laird struck him like a blow to the side of his head. But why would that grand noble not court her openly?

It was none of his concern, of course, but curiosity and something less agreeable drew him deeper into the shadows until finally he could hear an irregular smattering of their murmured words.

"...I would... for you, Issa."

Her voice was softer, almost impossible to discern, but after a moment, Mour could hear the man's again.

Barely breathing, Mour shifted carefully through the brush that surrounded the mill.

"...Trouble," said the man, and then on an errant wisp of wind, Gilmour heard, "...Anora."

He froze where he was, grasping a branch in one hand and straining to hear.

Why had the unseen fellow spoken of Ramsay's wife?

What did they plan together here in the darkness?

But just then leaves rustled beneath the two, and the truth was obvious.

A lass did not often traipse through the village darkness to meet a man unless she planned to give herself to him. To that he could attest.

Emotions smoked in Gilmour's gut, but surely those emotions did not involve jealousy.

Nay, he was only concerned about his kinswoman's welfare.

What would Bel get in return for her favors?

It must be something substantial. Certainly it was not simply for lust's sake, or else surely she would have shown interest in. ..

The branch broke in Mour's hand. In the dark silence it sounded like the blast of a cannon.

He jerked, glancing up just in time to see Isobel step from the bushes.

In the moonlight, her face looked as pale and perfect as a newly minted coin, and for a moment he was held mesmerized, but she did not delay.

Instead, she turned and hurried away, leaving Gilmour to squint after her in silent surprise.

No tryst? No moans of pleasure? His mood soared, but he stifled the feelings.

After all, there was no way of knowing what had transpired or what she planned.

Where was she off to now? Had he scared her away from her intended pleasure, or had she only planned to speak to the man?

And was her lover even now sneaking through the brush to accost him?

Gilmour straightened and narrowed his eyes at the thought.

Let the bastard come. He'd be happy to.. .

A shadowy image exited the bushes and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Humph. What an odd thing. What kind of man would meet with Isobel of the Frasers and be content to leave in a matter of minutes? Gilmour had no answers. It seemed wise to follow the man and find out, but instead he found himself following Bel's course through the darkness.

Isobel jumped as laughter burst forth from the common room, but there was nothing to fear. Probably just another of MacGowan's far flung tales.

Ladling the last of the mutton stew into a wooden bowl, she kneaded her temples for a moment.

She was tired. Even though all had gone well during the meeting with Rhone the night before, her sleep had been fitful.

Had she imaged the noise in the bushes, or had someone been watching her from the shadows?

Nay, she was simply growing skittish, for on several occasions lately it had seemed that someone watched her, and yet no harm had befallen her.

All was well, or it would be if MacGowan would leave Henshaw.

Why had he come here? And why was he with limes Munro?

It could bode no good. Even though the Munros had formed a cautious alliance with the Frasers since Anora's wedding, Isobel didn't trust them.

Their clan had coveted Evermyst for many years, and it was unlikely that would have been altered by the exchange of a few vows.

So why was Ramsay's brother with the giant laird of that troublesome tribe?

And why had the bedeviling rogue remained behind? Could it be that he knew the truth?

"Is that—"

Isobel jumped at the sound of Fleta's voice then jerked about to see the smile drop from the other woman's face.

"Issa love, what's ailing you?" Fleta asked as she retrieved the stew. Although she was only a few years older than Isobel, she treated all with a motherly concern. So surely there was no reason to be irritated by the woman.

" 'Tis naught," Isobel breathed, but found herself wondering why Fleta looked so happy. In truth, though, she knew the answer. 'Twas MacGowan's shameless flirtations that had brought a smile to the maid's lips. Flitting her eyes downward, Isobel cleared her throat. "I am fatigued is all."

"Then why not go home?"

"I must clean up afore—"

"Nonsense." Fleta took her arm firmly, drawing her toward the back door. "Elga and I will tidy up. Birtle and Plums will help. You find your bed."

Bed. She stared aghast into Fleta's dark eyes. Was that what she was thinking about? Did she plan even now how best to coax everyone out of the inn so that she could sneak into MacGowan's bed?

"Are you well, love?" Fleta asked, her tone concerned.

"Aye." She almost jumped again, guilty at her thoughts.

After all, Fleta's affairs were none of her business, for she'd been naught but kind to Isobel since the day she'd arrived some months before.

"Aye. I am fine. Still, I could do with some rest. Perhaps I shall go home," she said and within moments she found herself ushered out the door, lantern in hand.

She scowled as she walked along. Aye, she would sleep well tonight and by morn she would be quite herself again, she thought, and glanced past her swaying circle of light into the darkness beyond.

All was well. MacGowan would soon be gone, and, in the meantime, if he entertained himself with Fleta it was no concern of hers.

Still, they seemed a mismatched pair. For all of Fleta's pretty eyes and kindly nature, she did not seem the type to appeal to MacGowan.

After all, he was vain and shallow and the thought of him holding her against the bare strength of his chest—

She stopped abruptly. Heaven's saints! What was wrong with her? She didn't care a whit who he held against his chest, bare or not. She had no interest in him whatsoever, except to find out why he was with the Munro.