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He opened his mouth to answer, but she turned and slipped like a fairy through the doorway. He thrust his foot into the opening without cognizant thought then winced as the heavy timber slammed against his calfskin shoe.

"Get out," she ordered.

"When you tell me the truth," he said, and pressed into the opening. She thumped her palm against his chest and leaned against the door, but she was a frail thing. Either that or she wasn't trying very hard, he thought, and almost smiled.

"The truth!" She laughed, sounding breathless. "You are the last man to deserve the truth, MacGowan."

"Nevertheless," he said; then paused to touch his wound with careful pathos. "Pity oft opens doors otherwise closed, and I have been sorely wounded while trying to defend—"

Pain stabbed his hand. He yanked it out of harm's way and in the same moment felt her heel slam against his knee. Even as he stumbled back, the door thudded shut.

Rubbing his wounded knuckles, he glowered at the offensive wood. Blast the maid and her devilish gown pins. "Bel," he called, more miffed by her trickery than her pin pricks, "let me enter."

"Go away, MacGowan."

"I will do so when you tell me what happened at the burn."

"I was followed by a deceitful lout who spied on my few private moments."

He smiled wistfully at the memory, but unfortunately there was more afoot here than a naked fairy woman in the moonlight.

"Open the door," he insisted.

"And why would I be doing that?"

He put his fingers to his skull. Aye, it was blood. "Because I am wounded by your own hand."

"If you do not like the treatment, you should not have followed me."

"And if you do not like me hanging about your door, you should not have struck me."

"You admit the truth then? That you slunk through the darkness to spy on me?"

There seemed little reason to deny it. After all, the lass may be piteously scarred, but she was not a fool. "Would me confession gain me entry?" he asked.

"Nay, but 'twould give me a reason to report your churlish behavior to your brother."

"Believe me, lassie..." His fingers felt sticky as he rubbed them together. "Ramsay would be the last man to be surprised by me behavior."

"Leave me be, MacGowan. Now and forever."

He scowled at the door." 'Tis clear you do not know the rules to this game, lass."

"We play a game do we?"

"Aye. 'Tis the game where the hero saves the damsel in distress."

"I was not in distress."

"Then, in gratitude," he continued, ignoring her denial, "she sees to his wounds and coos over his bravery."

He could hear her snort clearly through the door. It was distinctly unladylike. Yet another flaw.

"But if the damsel fails to do her part, die rules change," he added.

"Do they now?"

"Aye," he said and leaned a shoulder against the cottage wall. "Then the hero goes to the inn and tells all he knows about how the damsel likes to disrobe before swimming naked as a bairn in the burn. Generally, it causes quite a stir amongst the village folk and—"

The door opened with a snap. "I am trying to believe that even you would not do such a thing."

He grinned. "Any luck thus far, lassie?"

She opened the door the rest of the way and nodded toward the interior. He stepped inside. A single tallow candle glowed in the room, spilling light across the rough table where it sat.

"What do you want?" she asked and closed the door behind him.

Light flickered across her face, shading her eyes an unearthly blue, glimmering along the crimped waves of her honey toned hair.

It was certainly a shame about that hideous scar. Where the hell was it, again?

"You are supposed to see to me wound," he said, "sustained in a grand attempt to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"That was me very next question."

She didn't respond.

He glanced about. "You live here alone?"

"Who were you expecting, MacGowan?"

He quelled any relief that might try to well up inside him.

"You have no protector, then?" he asked.

She turned away. "And what would he protect me from? Men who might try to force their way into me home?"

"Those who would mean you harm."

"No one means me harm," she said. "Leastways, not until you."

'Truly? Then what frightened you?"

She glanced away, and for an instant a flicker of worry crossed her elvish features. " 'Twas naught but me imagination."

"Truly? I would not have thought you the skittish sort."

"And I would not have thought you the shallow sort... until I met you."

He propped a booted foot upon a nearby trunk. "You spoke your sister's name."

She caught his gaze for one nervous moment. "You are mistaken."

"Rarely."

"And astonishingly vain."

"Always. What did you fear?"

Her scowl deepened for an instant, but finally she flipped her palm upward and spoke as if the incident was of little import. "I remained beneath the water too long and became frightened, is all."

“Truly?" he asked, not believing a word. "And you seem so at home in the water."

"Meara tells me I was born to Evermyst and therefore the waves will forever call to me."

"I meself have a new found appreciation of water," he said. "What frightened you, lass?"

" 'Twas nothing."

"Were you caught in the plants? Wedged between sunken branches?"

"As I said, 'twas merely me imagination. I panicked and—"

"Panicked." He watched her carefully. He had first met her some months ago on a wildling night in a battle with the fierce Munros.

Not a flicker of fear had crossed her ethereal features then.

He touched the wound on his skull again.

"Tell me, lass, do you always attack your protector when you panic? "

"You are not me protector," she said then scowled at his wound, looking peeved. But he wondered if her hands shook just a mite. " 'Tis just like you to get yourself injured, MacGowan," she said. "Sit down. I'll have a look at it."

He shrugged and took a seat on a three-legged stool that threatened to spill him onto the swept dirt of her floor. "Since you are so gracious."

The room fell silent for a moment. She probed at his skull, none to gently, and he gave her a sidelong glance of discontent.

"It should be stitched."

"I think not."

"It will scar."

"Truly?" he said and couldn't quite contain the enthusiasm in his voice.

"Is that good news, then?"

He shrugged, not controlling his grin. "Maids like scars."

"Do they, now?" She crossed her arms against her breasts, and they pressed upward slightly. He concentrated hard on her scar. Unfortunately, it was difficult to see in the dim light.

"Ramsay has several. Scars, that is."

"How fortunate for him," she said but there was little conviction in his voice.

"He won Anora."

"And you think 'tis because of his scars?"

He widened his grin. "If the truth be told, lass, I am superior in every other way."

"So that's your hope, to gain a few scars and win me sister's adoration?"

"What's that?" he asked, tilting his gaze up to hers in surprise.

"You're not about to deny that you are attracted to her, are you?"

He snorted. "Saint Michael himself would be attracted to her."

"She will not leave her husband."

It took a moment for her meaning to become clear. "Is that what you think?" He swiftly rose from the stool. "That I would cuckold me own brother?"

She shrugged as if unconcerned and moved casually away. "I've seen you look at her."

"And I've heard you speak her name in the dark, then strike out with a rock. Why?"

She turned away, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

"Why?" he repeated.

"I was afraid and confused. Me sister and I spent much time beside the water at Evermyst. I thought for a moment that she was with me, and I feared I could not save—" Her eyes were enormously wide as she paused for breath.

"What?"

"I feared I could not save meself. That I was about to drown."

"You were already on shore."

"As I said, I was confused."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the truth. "What threatened you, Isobel?"

She shrugged, pushing aside the emotion he had almost been able to read in her face. "I struck out blindly."

"Hoping to save..." He remembered how she had gasped her sister's name. But what were the emotions behind it? "... Yourself."

"Let me go," she said, but her voice was soft, her eyes wide in her delicate face. 'Twas a face that was meant to be cherished, a body meant to be worshipped.

And yet, here she was, alone in a poor village, with not a soul to care for her. Why, when she harbored such strong emotion for her sister?

"Cannot you admit your feelings, Isobel?"

Her breath stopped short in her throat. "I have no feelings for you, MacGowan."

He was honestly startled. "I meant your feelings for your sister."

"Oh." She darted her gaze sideways. "Anora has been good to me. I have not denied that."

"And you cherish her?"

She shrugged. "It makes little difference, for I was not meant for life at Evermyst."

"Then what were you meant for?"

She glanced about dismissively. "Cooking in Henshaw. Weaving in Glenshire. I am at home where ever I travel."

"And you do not long for a place of your own? A family?"

"In truth, I would not know what to do with a family."

"Surely you remember your own childhood."

"Aye," she said simply. "I do."

He watched her closely, trying to read her thoughts, but she showed little in her expression. "And you do not miss being coddled and cherished?"

She pulled her arm stiffly from his grasp. "You should not judge others’ lives by your own, MacGowan."

"Old Meara said she gave you to a woman who longed for children but was blessed with none of her own." He could imagine her as a child, a tiny cherub, as round and bright as a bauble. She would giggle like wee Mary, her tiny cheeks rosy as her mother beamed and her father chuckled.

"Perhaps," she said, and in that fleeting moment he saw the truth revealed in her face.

"Your foster parents were not kind to you."

"It doesn't matter."

"Aye, it does," he said, and something grew hard and cold in his belly. "It matters a good deal."

She didn't respond, but set her shoes beside the misshapen straw mattress that was her bed.

"I wish to know the truth, Bel," he said and she turned toward him, her tilted eyes bright in the tallow light.

"You want to drink fine ale by the fire side and tell outlandish tales to women who bat their eyelashes and flatter your vanity. But the truth, MacGowan? I think not."

"Did they harm you?" he asked, his voice low.

"Why do you ask?"

He said nothing, but his gut was knotted like twisted hemp.

"Because I have noble blood? Is that why you care?"

"Meara gave you to them in good faith. They were to cherish you, Bel. Did they not?"

Her face was sober, her slanted eyes intent, but she said nothing.

"Tell me, lass," he said, stepping rapidly forward, "have you never been cherished? Adored? Coddled?"

She backed abruptly away. "You'd best go, MacGowan. Master Gibbs has given me this cottage to use, if he learns you were here I may well lose me place at the inn."

"Are you afraid?" he asked and took another step toward her.

"What?"

"Of being cherished," he said. "Are you afraid?"

She breathed a laugh. "Aye," she admitted. "I have no fear of hunger or brigands or evil, but kindness..." She faked a shiver. "I cannot abide it."

He was close enough now to touch her, and he reached up slowly. Her face felt indecently soft against his palm. "At Dunard, me home..." He paused to skim his thumb across her cheek. "Every lassie is treated like a princess."

She seemed to have ceased breathing, but she managed to speak. "Are they?"

"Aye. Me father thought me sister could do no wrong. Spoiled her shameless, he did. Just as Ramsay will spoil his wee fosterling."

"Spare the whipping, burn the sauce," Bel said. "I do not like burned sauce."

Slipping his hand backward, Mour brushed her hair behind her ear. It was as delicate as an unfurled rose. He followed its upward curve with his fingertip. "You have no desire to be spoiled?"

"It seems to me that if one is spoiled she is also owned."

"Owned?" he said and carefully curled his hand around the back of her neck. "Mayhap she is only loved."

"I would not know." Her tone sounded breathless as she pressed her back against the wall behind her.

"Because you were not loved?"

"The past is past," she said, "and of no interest to me."

"And what of the present?" he murmured. "Have you no wish to be loved today?"

"Nay," she whispered.

"Or kissed?" He knew he shouldn't move closer. He knew he shouldn't touch her. And when he leaned in, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he shouldn't kiss her.

But he did, softly, upon the cheek. And once that bridge was crossed, he could not seem to stop, for he kissed her jaw then moved lower, down the smooth, endless track of her neck.

Her skin was warm and supple, her breathing shallow, and when he forced himself to lift his head, he saw that her eyes were closed.

"Mayhap being loved would not be so hideous," he suggested.

She opened her eyes and turned them slowly to his. "Methinks," she said, "that you are mistaking love for lust."

He could not help but smile, for desire shone like a gemstone fire in the depths of her eyes. "Either way, lass," he said, "I am well flattered."