Page 16

The possibilities spun through Gilmour's mind like swirling autumn leaves. Replacing Francois's foot on the ground, he swept his hand down the stallion's neck and tightened his girth.

If he had interpreted Isobel's conversation with Laird Grier correctly, she should be here any moment.

It seemed the good baron had a weakness for mushrooms and it was clear enough that Isobel wished to please him.

A few words with Martha had told Mour that Isobel gathered her ingredients for the day's meals in the morning.

A passing conversation with Elga had informed him that the Red Lion's kitchen was devoid of mushrooms, thus he waited in Francois's stall, for a bit of dialogue with Fleta had informed him that Isobel was wont to ride her mare when she went gathering.

It was only a matter of minutes before the stable door opened and closed.

Light footfalls hurried down the hard-packed aisle and soon he heard Isobel crooning to her steed.

It was then that Mour stepped out into the aisle with Francois following eagerly behind.

Walking toward the door, Gilmour stopped abruptly as he glanced into the mare's stall.

"Isobel?" He made certain he sounded surprised and couldn't help but grin a little when she jumped at the sound of his voice. "And what might you be doing here? Dare I hope that you've come to meet me?"

She scowled at him. Her gown was woven of a simple gray plaid, yet its hue seemed to make her eyes as bright and wide as the morning sky. "Are you leaving us so soon, MacGowan?"

"Nay," he said. "Wee Claude has done a fine job with him, but I fear he needs more exercise."

For a moment her eyes clouded, but then she smoothed her expression and glanced haughtily at the golden stallion. "He looks quite hale to me."

"Aye, well..." Mour tugged at the reins, trying to calm the animal's restive motion. "He is very brave. Much like his master."

"Deflowering virtuous maids takes some nerve, does it?"

"You'd be surprised," he said and watched as she led the mare over to a slight outcropping of rock that protruded from the stable wall.

Stepping onto it, she tugged the mare over, but just as she was about to jump onto the animal's back, Francois nickered, and the mare, pricking her ears forward and back, sidled away.

Isobel tried again, but Francois, encouraged by the mare's interest, arched his golden neck and pranced in place. The mare all but batted her eyes at such a manly display and flatly refused to cooperate with her mistress' urgings.

"Here, let me assist you," Gilmour said, and stepped forward, but Isobel backed quickly away.

"Nay, I am fine."

Not a stride separated them, making it possible for Gilmour to examine her upturned face at close quarters—her bowed mouth, her feline eyes.

If she didn't have that hideously disfiguring scar, he might almost be tempted to kiss her.

.. again. And she might be tempted to pin-prick him.

.. again. "Still stirred up from our time together in your cottage? " he asked.

She narrowed those impishly slanted eyes. "I was not stirred up."

"Excited, then."

"Have you nothing better to do than torment me?"

"One can only deflower virtuous maids for so long before..." He sighed with studied drama. "I fear even that loses its appeal."

"Your life is indeed difficult."

" 'Tis true," he agreed. "Let me give you a leg up."

She began to argue, but he bent and cupped his palms near her left knee. "Step on me hands."

"I was thinking of other regions."

"You'd best mount up before Francois becomes porous."

She glanced at the flirting stallion, frowned, then, seeming to think it wise to remove herself from between the two beasts, stepped into his palms.

It was simple enough to boost her onto the mare's back, but her skirts, misplaced by the procedure, bunched irregularly under her legs.

It seemed only courtly that he smoothed them out, tugging them gently over her knee to skim them down the delicate muscles of her calves.

It was a simple process. Innocent really, yet he hardened immediately, making it difficult to pull his hands away.

Isobel, on the other hand, was already urging her mount toward the door. His hand fell reluctantly away even as other parts reached for her.

"And where are you off to this fine morn?" he asked, following behind on foot.

Isobel snatched her basket from the door top where she'd left it as the bay cast a sidelong glance at Francois. "Please do not concern yourself with me, MacGowan," she said. "See to your mount. 'Tis quite obvious he needs your care."

But his mount was now prancing in place, thumping his shod feet with cadenced impatience against the hard-packed earth in an attempt to catch the mare. Gilmour tightened the reins a tad.

"Francois but needs to stretch his legs a bit," he said, ignoring the steed's ridiculous display of burgeoning good health, "to ascertain whether he is fit for the journey home. Mayhap we could ride together."

"Pray, do not put yourself out," she said, and ducked as she passed beneath the stone arch of the stable door.

Gilmour followed, then mounted as Francois kept up a mincing piaffe.

" 'Tis no trouble," he insisted, riding behind. "After all, 'tis me duty as a man of honor to see to your safety."

She raised one dubious brow at him but said nothing, and the sun, just past the edge of the nearby woods, sparkled with golden optimism on the shabby village below.

Beside the tanner's cottage two sows faced off in apparent disagreement, and farther down the lane, an old man ambled along pushing a wooden barrow.

"Good morningtide to you, Issa," he rasped in a voice that comes with old age and wood smoke. Stopping jerkily, he gazed up at her. "I had a mind to bring these fine eel to the inn lest you're in need of a bit of fresh meat."

"I am indeed," said Isobel. 'Talk to Fleta. She'll see to it."

"Me thanks," said the old man and leaning his bent back over the cart, pushed off again.

Gilmour let Francois ease into a high stepping trot. "So, Bel, where are we off to?"

"Good morning to you," called a woman who was just opening the cobbler's shop for the day.

Isobel answered, but kept riding.

"A mystery, is it?" Gilmour asked, allowing his stallion to reach the mare's side. The steed canted his golden nose in that direction, snuffling her scent in greedy wafts as he nickered in deep-throated appreciation.

"There's no need to pretend, MacGowan," Isobel said, then, "Good day to you, Birtle.

" The lad had not yet reached his twelfth birthday, little more than wee Claude's age, and yet Gilmour could have sworn he saw a spark of adoration in the boy's upturned face.

"Would you hurry on to the inn, lad, and tell Fleta that I said to give old Flynn an extra copper for his eels? "

The boy took off at a gallop, his knees bony beneath his flying plaid.

"And what am I pretending?" Gilmour asked, happy to have her attention to himself for a moment again.

"That you do not know where I'm going."

"I'm flattered."

She glanced at him, her question written on her face.

"I did not know you thought me gifted enough to read your mind."

"Not gifted," she corrected. "Meddlesome. You are following me, just as you did some nights back. Just as you most probably have every night since that time."

Although she was irritatingly correct, he just laughed and leaned closer. "Lass, it's only just morning."

Again she scowled at him.

"I'm hardly expecting you to go bathing in the bold light of day."

She turned her face away and steadied her mare, which arched her long black tail and eyed Francois askance.

Silence settled in for a long stretch of time; enough time, in fact, for Gilmour to wish he could see her hideously disfiguring scar from this angle.

Because from where he sat, perfection seemed unavoidable.

"I wish to know why you are following me," she said finally.

"Is it too early to consider bathing?"

It was possible that she was blushing, but maybe it was just the rosy hue of the morning light that colored her cheeks. "Why?"

They rode side by side through Henshaw's slanting gate, and although Gilmour was uncertain why such an idea would enter his head, he couldn't help but think that such an ancient fence was not enough to protect a woman like Isobel from the evils of the world at large.

"You are me brother's wife's sister," he said finally, "and the only person I know in this village. Surely it doesn't seem strange that I spend a few minutes in your company when I happen to see you pass by."

"What of Fleta? She seems willing to share her time with you."

He couldn't help but smile. "Jealous, Isobel?"

"Daft, MacGowan?" she countered and nudged her mare into a canter.

Francois needed no encouragement to follow.

Beneath the robin's egg sky, the road curled like a russet ribbon over a rock-strewn hillock and beyond.

Isobel reined the bay to the east, leaving the path and making her way through gorsebushes and heather until they reached a quiet stand of crack willows.

Dismounting quickly, she let her mare roam and carried her basket into the woods.

Gilmour threw his leg over Francois's high pommel and jumped to the ground also, but deemed it wise to keep his stallion close to hand, for no matter what was said of him, he was still more trustworthy than his stallion.

The steed took a few willing steps, then tugged on the reins and glanced longingly back at the mare.

"Best not to think about it," Gilmour said and remembered that it was difficult to walk in a state of arousal. Apparently, hideously disfiguring scars didn't bother him as much as he had hoped.