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Gilmour swore in silence as he slipped through the darkness.

Three days had passed since he'd seen Isobel by the stream.

Three days since she'd disrobed in the darkness.

Three days since she'd stepped like a pixie princess into the misty waters.

Three days since he'd had a moment's relief from the hard ache of his desire.

He had vowed to find her physical flaws, and he had.

Above her left eye was a scar the size and shape of a winter pea.

He had concentrated on it for some hours and deduced, after several ales, that it was quite hideous.

Her hair, though fair and long, had a crimped sort of wave to it and was wont to creep from bondage down the back of her too narrow neck.

And her face... it was rather oddly shaped, really, almost triangular, with a tiny peaked chin like an impish elvish maid's, and slanted azure eyes that laughed at him at every turn.

Laughed. At him. Which pointed to a host of emotional flaws.

Aye, she was not normal, and though her waist might be minuscule and her breasts. ..

Mour realized suddenly that he wasn't breathing and forced himself to do so. In and out. In and out, as if everything was normal. Her breasts, after all, were nothing special.

In and out. In and out.

He liked buxom women, always had. And she was not buxom. In fact, her bosom was like the rest of her, small. And soft and fair and...

Bugger it! In and out. In and out, he reminded himself.

Nay, she was hardly perfect. Which meant that he must be following her because he did not trust her, not because he was enamored.

Aye, that was it. She was not a natural sort of maid, but did strange things in strange manners. Late night visits to darkened burns, clandestine meetings with unknown men. Nay, he did not trust her, and so he feared she might be planning a plot against his brother and his wife.

Relief splashed through him as he remembered his reasoning. They were perfectly sound, after all. He had heard Anora's name whispered in the dead of the night, and 'twas his duty to make certain there was no plot planned against his kinswoman.

But Isobel had almost reached her home, so apparently the maid had no secret meetings planned for this night, which meant that Mour was almost free of his duty and could...

But in that moment she glanced behind her and turned to the left.

Gilmour's heart lurched as he froze in the shadows. Was she going to the burn again? Dared he hope—

Not that he cared, he reminded himself, but when she stepped toward the palisade and disappeared from view, his lips chanted a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

He waited outside the line of rowan trees as long as he could then stepped quietly into the blackness toward the water.

Aye, there was a God, for the moon was bright once again.

And aye, He was kindly, for she was naked and shown to perfection in the silvery light.

For a moment he saw the glimmer of her body and then, like a mythical nymph, she slipped into the blessed water.

It flowed over her silken shoulders, and then, because he was straining to see, he realized that she had dived beneath the surface.

For a moment her legs flipped upward, just visible above the lapping waves, and then she was gone.

He held his breath in surprise. How was it that she could swim beneath the surface like a spotted eel? And why would she do such a thing? He had known others who could stay afloat in the water, but none who delighted in the depths, none who disappeared beneath the waves.

He shifted, searching the surface for sight of her, but she didn't appear.

Might she be in trouble? Could there be some sort of ravenous beast in the water?

Or—a man! The thought came to him suddenly.

Surely someone had been lying in wait for her and had pulled her under.

He was suddenly certain of it and took a quick step toward the burn, but in that instant she appeared, launching from the depths to shoot above the surface like a bobbing cork.

Water sprayed bright as quicksilver into the air.

He heard her harsh rasp for breath and then she was rushing wildly toward shore.

Fear! He could feel it. Snatching his dirk from his belt, Mour raced toward her.

"Nay!" she gasped as she scrambled onto the sand.

"Isobel." He reached for her with his free hand. His other was wrapped about his dirk and threatened the darkness around them, but no brigands attacked.

"Anora!" Isobel rasped.

Mour closed his hand around her arm, drawing her to him, to safety, but she screamed and struck him.

Pain reverberated in his skull. He staggered backward, still holding the knife in a dazed attempt to protect her.

"Nay!" She lunged toward him. "You'll not..." she began, but the remainder of her statement dropped into silence. She blinked, as if waking from a frightful dream, a rock falling unnoticed from her fingers. Only her ragged gasps could be heard for a moment, then, "Anora?" she murmured.

"What the devil!" Gilmour rasped, still staggering.

Her breath stopped for a moment. Her arm dropped. "MacGowan?"

"Aye." He steadied his stance and felt his skull, but whether the dampness he felt was water or blood was uncertain.

Still gripping the Maiden, he glanced about again.

He thought he heard a faint sound in the underbrush, but no evil was forthcoming.

None but the two of them stood upon the shore.

"Can I ask you something, lass?" he asked and felt his skull again.

She didn't answer, only stood like one transfixed, her wide eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Might you be possessed by a demon?"

"I..." She glanced around as if uncertain where she was. "I'm not..." she began, then paused and drew a slow breath. "What are you doing here?"

"I am saving you from whatever brigand tried to ravage you." He too glanced about. "But it seems there is—"

She crossed her arms against her breasts. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." He scowled, then glanced down to replace his weapon and think for a hard-pressed moment, but when he looked up, all he saw was the back of one leg flicking into the trees.

He tried to see into the brush, but there was little hope, for the darkness beneath the rowans was complete.

Still, he was certain she was already dressing.

A man's good fortune could only stretch so far, and he seemed to be fresh out.

Perhaps that was best, for it gave him a few moments to organize a decent reason for his presence there.

"I discovered this bonny spot some days hence," he said, raising his voice and peering into the underbrush.

" 'Tis a lovely place. Peaceful, and I find I most enjoy—"

"You followed me." Her voice came unbidden through the darkness.

"Followed you!" He forced a laugh. "Hardly that.

" He heard her walking away and followed tenaciously, pressing the branches aside in an attempt to see through the trees.

A flash of her hair was all that caught his eye, and he realized she had already shimmied through a hole in the palisade.

One glance told him it was too narrow for him to squeeze through, so he vaulted over the top and continued after her.

"Where do you go?" he asked, for she was dressed in a gown so dark it was all but impossible to see her in the night. She was carrying the lighter-colored gown that she oft kept pinned up at the sides. It must be the very devil getting those garments on over all that glorious wet skin in the...

She stopped abruptly. "Why did you follow me?"

She had dropped the rock sometime before, but he well remembered that she was the very devil with a sling shot and he had known women, his mother included, who were quite handy with a knife.

His sister Shona was rather deadly with a bow, so there was no way of knowing what the maid was capable of.

Indeed, her behavior of late was beyond strange.

Might she be mentally deranged? He wondered as she was still watching him with catlike intensity.

“Tell me, MacGowan," she said. "Have you run short of virtuous maids to deflower?"

"Are you saying you are not virtuous or that you wish to be deflowered?" he asked.

She gazed at him for one long moment, then turned and paced away into the darkness.

He followed. "What frightened you in the burn?"

No response was forthcoming.

He glanced behind, remembering her fear, her words. Anora, she had said. Why?

She kept walking.

"Did a beast frighten you? An animal of some sort?"

The silence was broken only by the muffled sound of her feet against the dirt path. He realized at that moment that she carried her shoes, and found that disturbingly fascinating for some time. It was only when her footfalls sounded against her own rock pathway that he came to his senses.

"Isobel!" he said, and grabbed her arm just before she reached her door. "You should not leave the inn alone."

She raised her chin slightly. Damnation, she was stunning... except for the hideously disfiguring scar, of course.

“Tell me, MacGowan," she said. "How do you know that I leave the inn alone?"

Oh hell, he thought, but soon found a way to leave wee Plums' collusion out of the conversation. After all, she had seen enough troubles in her short life without repaying her fierce loyalty with betrayal. "Either you left alone or you planned to swim naked with another," he reasoned.

She said nothing, and his gut twisted. Then good sense broke through his foolishness, reminding him that he had seen her there before. Alone.

He relaxed a smidgen, dropping her arm. “Tell me," he said. "Are you the kind to invite another into the burn with you?"

“Tell me," she said, "are you the kind to lie at every juncture?"