Page 2

Henshaw, Scotland

"Effie lass, your hair is as lovely as me stallion's. And like me destrier..." The Munro leaned closer to the maid. She stepped warily backward, eyes wide, for even seated, he towered over her. "The very sight of such a bonny filly makes me long to bree—"

"You have our thanks, Elga!" Gilmour interrupted hastily. Straightening, he drew the maid's attention to him with the full force of his renowned smile.

The Red Lion's young serving maid pulled her gaze from Innes Munro and let it fall on Gilmour. He noticed with some satisfaction that for a fraction of a second she forgot to inhale, but it was her breathy sigh that did his heart the most good.

"The meal was a rare treat," he continued and found that he was able to relax somewhat now that the Munro had ceased his horrendous attempt to be charming. "And your kind attention has been much appreciated."

"I am happy I have pleased you, me laird," she said and curtsied.

She had not yet reached eight and ten years, but she knew how to flirt using nothing more than her eyes.

Of course, her breasts, prettily displayed above the kindly bodice of her gown, did nothing to detract from her charms. Ahh. ..women.

"Shall I fetch you a bit more ale?" she asked, dimpling coquettishly.

"I am tempted, Elga," he said and knew immediately that she realized he was thinking of more than the ale, for she blushed and dimpled all the more. "But nay, I'd best not."

"More of Issa's manchet bread?" she suggested. "Or another wedge of crowdie, perhaps?"

"Nay. Naught. I am well sated."

"Well, I am not sated atall" rumbled Innes Munro, scowling, first at Mour, then at the maid. "But I think you might be up to the task of seeing the job done if you've a mind to, lass. You've but to show me to your chamber and I'll—"

"What's that?" Gilmour rose abruptly to his feet, grasping the maid's arm as he did so. "I believe I hear your master calling."

Elga stared at him with wide, dreamy eyes. "Nay," she breathed. "Master Gibbs is not—"

"Mayhap it was the cook, then. You'd best go, wee Elga," Mour insisted and dropping his hand to hers, bent to kiss her knuckles. " 'Twould wound me grievously if you came to trouble on me own account."

"Oh. I..." She floundered for words as he caressed her fingers with his thumb. "You will return?" she asked.

"I'll be back this very night if you'll promise me a tumble--" began the Munro, but Gilmour interrupted again.

"Certainly," he said. "We shall return. But you must go now."

She left with a troubled glance for Innes and a smile for Mour, but it was really the sway of her skirts that was the most intriguing.

"What the hell be you doing?" Innes rumbled, snatching Gilmour's attention from the girl with the grating of his voice. "She was just now warming up to me."

Gilmour found his seat and nodded casually to Russell Grier, Baron of Winbourne, who was nursing a horn of spirits some tables away.

The baron raised his drink. "Laird Gilmour of Evermyst," he called. "Where one can see forever and even the goat herder is bonny."

"To your health," greeted Mour and raised his ale.

It would have been better if no one knew of the Munro's sojourn at the Red Lion, but rumor said Winbourne had troubles of his own to worry on, and by the looks of things, he was a goodly way into his cups.

So Gilmour turned his attention back to his giant companion.

"Warming up to her," he said, keeping his tone level.

"She was about to crack you on the pate with your own goblet.

What the devil did you think you were about? "

The Munro's heavy brow lowered dangerously. "I was wooing her, I was."

"Wooing! If you were wooing, I was birthing—" Gilmour began, but in that instant he noticed the other man's right hand.

It was as big as a battering ram and wrapped rather suggestively about a short bladed dagger.

Raising his brows, Gilmour tilted a slow grin from the knife to the bearer.

"In truth," he said, nodding thoughtfully, "I've seen worse attempts.

" Though the chieftain of the notorious Munros couldn't flirt worth sparrow droppings, he was the devil himself when it came to knife play.

"Still, if I am to help you I think you may need a wee bit more practice. "

"I have practiced," grumbled the other.

"Aye. Well, these things take time." The word "forever" came to mind.

"I tire of this game," said the Munro. "Playing cat to these scrawny kitchen mice."

Tire of flirting? Was it possible? Gilmour wondered then brought his attention rapidly back to the matter at hand: Innes Munro, his lack of charm, and his knife.

"It but takes time to understand a woman's mind," Gilmour said.

Munro deepened his scowl. "And how did you learn, MacGowan?"

Mour mulled over the giant lord's question.

After all, there was no need to teach an eagle to soar.

"Some are simply better suited for certain tasks than others," he began diplomatically.

"In truth, I'm not particularly gifted at.

.." But now that he thought about it, he couldn't name a single task he wasn't particularly gifted at.

He smiled at that realization and began to announce his findings, but at that second Munro shifted his knife with suggestive malevolence.

"How are you at dying?" he rumbled and Gilmour laughed out loud.

Time with the Munro had its merry moments after all.

"Easy now, Innes," he said. "How would it look if you attempted to kill me right here in the Red Lion?"

"Attempted?" Munro's brows lowered even more, all but hiding his porcine eyes.

"Aye," agreed Gilmour. "Losing a battle rarely makes a man appealing. Thus I would suggest that you have a try at the lassies again before—"

"Are you challenging me, MacGowan?"

Gilmour knew it would be unwise to answer such a question with a grin, but some said a mischievous imp resided in his soul and though Mour would have liked to deny it, he feared it would be less than honest to do so.

"Nay, not challenging you," he said, trying, against the odds, to keep his expression perfectly somber. "Merely attempting to fulfill me end of—" he began, but just then two women exited the kitchen, drawing Munro's attention abruptly away.

Gilmour glanced in that direction and raised his brows. They stood with their backs to the tables, and although one was broad from stem to stem, the other was as shapely and delicate as a summer blossom.

"Now there's a likely looking maid," Gilmour mused, his own interest roused already. "You've but to recall what I've told you."

Munro said nothing. Neither did his attention shift from the women.

"Remember," Gilmour said, his voice low, "best not to compare them to beasts of any sort. Never refer to lovemaking as breeding. In fact," he added, glancing at Munro's lax jaw, " 'twould be best to refrain from mentioning lovemaking atall and... are you listening?"

"Lovemaking," Munro intoned.

"Aye," Gilmour agreed and glanced once more at the women. "Show an interest in her," he added. "Not just in bedding her, and for the sake of heaven, learn her name. Can you do that?"

The great bull of a man turned mutinously toward him. "Do you think me daft?"

Gilmour might be a good many things, but he wasn't fool enough to answer such an inflammatory question outright. Neither was he cautious enough to ignore it altogether. "What was her name then, Munro?"

"Whose?"

"The lass who just left."

"That bit of a thing what served us?"

"Aye. What was her name?"

Munro glared as his thick lips pursed inside his unkempt, bushy red beard. "Effie."

"Nay."

"Edrea."

"Nay."

"Damnation," growled Laird Munro. " 'Tis Edrea if I say 'tis Edrea."

Gilmour leaned his shoulder against the wall and stared across the table at the giant. " 'Tis Edrea if she is an entirely different maid who happened to be christened Edrea."

"Are you challenging—shh!" Munro hissed, darting his eyes sideways and back. "She's coming."

"Who is—"

"Don't look," Munro warned, slipping his dirk back into its boot sheath and wiping a hand on his plaid. "What shall I do?"

Gilmour raised his brows in surprise, but the huge man's expression of abject panic was difficult to ignore.

"Greet her," he said, "but don't growl. Compliment the inn. She must be employed here."

From the corner of his eye, Gilmour saw the women part company. The larger of the two exited through the door while the slim maid turned back toward the kitchens. But just then her wrist was grasped by a patron at a table across the room. She turned abruptly toward him.

"Marry me, Issa," slurred the man.

His drunken companion slipped an arm about the girl's willowy waist and pulled her closer. "Nay. The lass is mine," he argued and murmured something unheard.

Gilmour rose silently to his feet. He was a good natured fellow by all accounts, but it went against his grain to see a maid handled against her will. Thus, he meandered across the stretch of floor between them.

"Is there trouble afoot?" he asked.

The girl didn't look up, but addressed the men who restrained her. "I am flattered, Regan of Longwater, but I fear your proposition may be humanly impossible. At least in your present state," she added and slipped easily from the men's grasps as they chuckled.

"No trouble," she said and lifted her gaze to Gilmour. "And a good thing, for you, MacGowan..." she added, "for you will forever be more the sort to cause trouble than to cure it."

Gilmour stared for a moment. "Damn me."

"A mite late for that, I fear," she countered and strode toward the kitchen.

He followed. "What be you doing here, Isobel?"

"I work here, MacGowan. And you?" She turned in the mortared doorway, her shapely form framed by the arch, her golden curls limned by the fire behind her.

"Work—"

"Aye," she interrupted and smiled as if he were a wee lad questioning his elders. "Work. Mayhap you have heard the word before."