Page 18

Why in heaven's name did he still follow her?

Isobel wondered. She had done everything possible to be rid of him. Indeed, in the woods, Isobel had thought he might strike her or force her. Instead, he had done nothing but drop his hand and allow her to leave, and though he had followed her back to Henshaw, he had stayed some distance behind.

The following morning he had again spent time with Plums. Isobel had watched from the window of the inn as he'd taught her to climb the stone wall then scramble onto the stallion's muscular withers.

It had taken her several attempts to squirm into place, but when she'd achieved that feat, Isobel could see her tiny glimmer of a smile even from that distance.

Claude, he called her, and already the kitchen help had begun to follow suit.

Strange it was, and though Bel was certain it could not be true, the girl seemed changed somehow, as if a different name had given her a different spirit.

She stood straighter, moved easier, and made Bel's heart leap with hope.

Why had he done it? What did he care about a mousy lass with a purple birthmark and a limp?

Nothing. He was bored. Surely that was all there was to it, yet when the girl glanced at Mour, her eyes glowed and Isobel was uncertain whether to weep or rejoice for her newfound interest in life.

Soon he would tire of Henshaw, that much was certain.

And though Isobel herself looked forward to that day with anticipation, wee Claude could well be crushed.

After all, she was only a child, alone in the world and easily bedazzled by MacGowan's charm.

One could hardly blame her for being enchanted by the roguish twist of his smile or the shivery roughness of his laughter.

But soon he would be gone. What would happen to the girl then?

Already, he was ignoring Isobel. It was a relief, of course, for it seemed that he barely knew she was alive, as if he were unmoved by her admiration for the laird of Winbourne.

But still when she had left the inn only minutes before, MacGowan had followed her.

She could hear his footsteps off to the side, and the knowledge that he was there made her heart quicken, which made her feet quicken.

After all, she was not some foolish maid ready to reel at the sight of his tilted grin, she thought, and tightened her hand on her lantern. It shook the slightest bit.

He was there, just a breath away, watching her. All she need do was ask, and he would come. Fortunately for her, she had no intention of asking.

It wasn't far now, just a few more rods to her cottage, and the solid strength of her door would stand guard between them.

But her feet stopped, as if with a will of their own, and she listened.

The footfalls were close now, just a short distance behind her and continued for a moment after she paused. He was losing his gift of stealth.

"I know you're there," she began, but suddenly he rose up behind her and slapped a hand across her mouth.

She jerked and twisted about, but he held her tight to his chest, barely allowing her to breathe.

Panic rose like bile in her throat and she tried to scream.

It was no use. She struggled violently, but he was ungodly strong and suddenly someone grabbed her feet, lifting them into the air.

So he had hired a brigand to help him. But what were his plans? And why? The answer came in a flash of panic. He hoped to take her against her will, but he dare not show his face lest his family learn the truth.

He planned to rape her without repercussions, she thought, and jerking her head to the side, managed to sink her teeth into his palm.

He cursed out loud and yanked away. She slipped downward, shrieking, her mouth free, but in an instant she was grabbed again and clasped hard, his arm banded like iron across her chest.

She tried to scream again, but he hissed a curse and slapped his hand across her nose and mouth.

The air ceased immediately. She couldn't breathe and wrestled violently, but it was no use.

No hope! Perhaps she had been wrong. It wasn't rape he planned at all.

But murder! Why? Her mind reeled, but there was no time for questions or panic.

She had not survived so long only to die beneath the hand of a spoiled rogue.

She would not give him the satisfaction, she vowed, and so, after one last violent jerk, she went limp in their arms.

A chuckle of satisfaction issued from the man at her feet, but she remained still, unbreathing. Her lungs screamed for air, but she waited, struggling for patience. A moment longer. Just a moment, though her ears were ringing and her head spun.

"She'll do us no good dead," her captor whispered and eased his grip. Air washed into her lungs.

Isobel screamed and struck out at the same time, flailing with her hands and feet.

Thrown off balance, her captors scrambled to hold her, but she was already slipping sideways.

Her shoulder hit the ground with a jolt, but her legs were still caught.

She kicked madly. Her heel struck something solid and she heard a grunt of pain, but hands were already reaching for her, drawing her back under control.

"Nay!" she shrieked, and felt a fist cuff the side of her skull.

Her head reeled, sounds dimmed, and it seemed for a moment as if all movement ceased. There was nothing she could do now. She had lost. Her mind drifted. Memories washed over her—the soothing sound of restless waves, a gentle touch, the sweet scents of earth and grass.

"Bel!"

Isobel blinked, finding with some surprise that she was free and lay on the turf upon her back. She could breathe and filled her lungs, just to be sure.

"Are you well?"

She turned her head. Gilmour MacGowan crouched on one knee beside her.

"You!" The word croaked from her hps. "Why—" she began, but in that instant confusion swamped her. The voice whispered in the darkness had not sounded like his. And if he were the brigand, why did he yet remain?

"Bel," he murmured and touched his fingers to her cheek. Did they tremble just a bit? "You are safe now."

"Safe?" She could not seem to think, to pull together one single truth as she stared into his moon-shadowed eyes.

Footsteps rushed up from behind them. Isobel jerked her attention in that direction, but in the darkness she could see naught but a shadow among shadows.

"What happened?" asked a gruff voice.

"Who goes there?" asked MacGowan, and even though he no longer touched her, Isobel could feel his tension.

"Who attacked you?" asked the newcomer again, and now Bel recognized the voice. 'Twas Hunter, the warrior from the inn. In his hand was a sword. It gleamed dully in the moonlight.

"I do not know," she breathed, eyeing the blade.

"Come." His tone was brusque and husky as he motioned with his sword. "I will see you home."

MacGowan rose with cat-like caution from her side.

Absolute silence filled the night for several seconds then Gilmour turned to peer into the darkness where the brigands had disappeared.

Silently pulling the dirk from his belt, he twisted back toward the warrior.

"I would object," he growled, "but someone had best follow the bastards and learn what they were about. "

The warrior paused, his eyes seeming to pierce the blackness. " 'Tis dark."

"Aye," MacGowan agreed and turned his blade. Its edge glimmered a silent threat in the moonlight. "But it has been a long while since I was afeared of the night. Care for the lass while I am—"

"Do you suggest that I am afraid?" asked the warrior and took a step forward.

"We waste time," snarled Mour, impatience in his voice.

"Aye." The warrior nodded once. "See to the maid. I shall return when I find the answers."

"Nay," said Bel. "Don't go." But he was already turning away. For a moment there was a sparkle of silver from the charm hung about his neck, and then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

"Where do you hurt?" MacGowan asked, and Isobel turned toward him in surprise, for already he knelt beside her, his tone calm, his dirk sheathed.

She lay in silence for a moment, then drew a careful breath and assured herself she was still free, still safe. "Tell me, MacGowan," she said softly, "did you ever intend to pursue me tormentors?"

He shifted slightly, skimming one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her thighs. "There's something odd about that Hunter," he said. "If you insist on getting yourself ravaged, at least it should be by someone with a sense of humor."

"You tricked him."

"He's eager enough to do battle. He but needed a bit of encouragement. Put your arm about me neck."

"I can walk."

" 'Tis a good thing to know," he said and lifting her against the hard strength of his chest, carried her down the path to her cottage.

Somehow he managed the latch with one hand and finally they were inside. In a moment he laid her gently on her mattress and moved to bar the door.

"Are you well?" he asked.

She watched his shadow cross the floor. "Aye. I am fine."

"Do you know who they were?"

She heard him fumble with a steel and flint. Light flared up like hope, illuminating his face. It was as beautiful as ever, but he turned, and in that light, she saw the wound above his ear. It had been reopened and oozed a droplet of blood down the flat plane of his chiseled cheek.

Her breathing ceased as she stared at him.

Setting the lantern aside, he turned and stopped. "What is it?"

"Your wound," she said. " 'Tis bleeding."

Absently, he set his fingers against the cut. " 'Tis naught," he assured her. "Just..." But he paused suddenly, catching her gaze with his own. "Why do you mention it?"

"I struggled against the brigands," she said, holding her breath for a moment and feeling the stiffness of her suspicions. "I kicked one of them in the head."