Page 27

It was little wider than his chest, but they managed to wriggle into it and peer out into the darkness, legs cramping as they fought for breath.

Close at hand, a man swore. Gilmour held his breath. Isobel's fingers tightened in his tunic. Footsteps rushed toward them. Mour tried to reach his dirk, but the footfalls rustled past.

Gilmour let his eyes fall closed and pulled Bel tighter up against him. Minutes passed like hours. Noises crackled and moans threatened, but they remained unfound until fatigue took them finally and they slept, wrapped like frightened hedgehogs in their hole.

Sometime during the night they awoke. Something stirred outside their den, but they had no way of knowing what it was and no way to escape if they must, so they lay together barely breathing until the moment passed and they slept again.

An eternity later, gray light filtered slowly into their lair. Isobel exited first, slithering her way out of the hole and pummeling Mour in the process. He creaked out next. They stood in silence, listening, before Mour turned toward her.

"You've a gift for acting," he said. "I thought you truly wished to kill me."

She said nothing, but stared silently into the dimness.

"Bel?"

She turned abruptly toward him. "Why?" she asked. "Why did they do it?"

He shook his head, as baffled as she. "I had nothing to do with it."

"I know that," she said and turning rapidly away, headed toward the north.

Gilmour followed her, for indeed, there was not much else to be done, and there seemed little point in staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

At midmorning, they found a bit of watercress growing in a trickling burn and as they walked they ate a bit.

Sometime near noon they heard a sound and hid in the woods.

But the noise passed and soon they were moving on.

It was apparent, though, that they could not go much farther without food. Gilmour limped to a halt.

"What are you doing?" Isobel asked and turned toward him.

He glanced up. "Resting."

She peered into the woods, her expression strained. "We cannot stop here."

He almost laughed. "Then mayhap you should not have stabbed me in the leg," he said and turned down his stocking to examine the wound on his calf. It was swollen and red and throbbed like other appendages which were wont to grant him a good deal more pleasure.

She pushed his hands away. "I would not have stabbed you if you had not gotten yourself trussed up like a Michaelmas goose "

"And I would not have been trussed up," he said, "if you had the least bit of sense."

She was tearing a strip of cloth from her underskirt and raised her head, her eyes snapping. "So it is me own fault that I was attacked."

"Mayhap," he said, "but 'tis certainly your fault for attacking me at the very outset. What the devil were you thinking?"

She began bandaging his leg, and she was none too gentle. "I was thinking you were proving to be the scoundrel I always thought you to be."

"Scoundrel! If that were the case why would I bother to find you, ensconce meself by the brigands' fire, engage them in a lively tale, befriend—"

"You're an ass, MacGowan," she said and tied off the bandage with a vengeance. "Did you never think that it was those very things that made me believe you were in their league?"

"Surely not." He stared at her in utter astonishment.

She stared back. "What is it, MacGowan? Do you think yourself so charming that no matter what the circumstances, women will trust you and adore you and throw themselves into your arms?"

"Aye, that is exactly what I expect."

"Then you are sadly mistook," she said and tramped off through the woods.

He had little choice but to follow. And indeed, though he tried to remain mute, he found it quite impossible.

"I assure you," he said, "women... normal women do find me charming."

"Hush." She raised a hand. "Someone comes."

He fell immediately silent, his head slightly cocked, then. "They're on the road, but are they friend or foe?"

"We dare not risk finding out."

"And neither can we walk all the way to Evermyst without sustenance." He hurried through the woods, then dropped to his belly and wriggled toward the road.

He heard the laughter long before he heard the voices.

It was high and feminine and leisurely, accented between the neat clip clops of a cart horse, and in his wildest imaginings, he could not imagine either Roy or Baron sounding so delightful.

Thus, after a moment's hesitation, he rose to his feet and stepped forward.

Isobel snatched desperately at his sleeve. "What are you doing?"

"Saving our lives," he said and pulled out of her grasp.

The cart came closer. He could see the horse now, a piebald cob with a steady trot and a regal curve to its well muscled crest. Behind it perched a woman. She was a large, shapely maid and elegantly dressed.

"How do you plan to save us?" hissed Bel.

Gilmour grinned. "By being charming," he said and stepped onto the road.

The cob slowed to a walk then halted, champing its bit.

"Good day me fair lady," Gilmour said and executed a bow that hurt his knee and sent daggers skittering through his chest. "What a pleasure it is to find you here on this day of days. I wonder if—"

"What do you want?" The question was said in a hard voice that brooked no quarter. Even the piebald seemed impatient, shaking his spotted head and glaring through blue cast eyes.

Still, Gilmour stepped closer. After all, the whole of Scotland couldn't suddenly be immune to his charms. Mayhap the woman couldn't see his roguish grin. "Have no fear, me—"

"One more step and it may well be your last," she said. "As you can see, me steed is eager to be off and would not be averse to crushing you to dust on his way to his stables."

Gilmour raised his hands. "I assure you, lass, I mean you no harm."

"And I assure you, it would be wise to worry about your own fate if you do not remove yourself from the road this—"

"Lady Madelaine?" Isobel said.

Gilmour shifted his gaze toward the rear as Bel stepped onto the road.

"Belva?"

"Me lady!" Bel stumbled forward, her damp, grubby skirt crumpled in one fist. "Is it you?"

"Mon enfant! Mademoiselles! 'Tis Belva," proclaimed the lady and suddenly there was a rush of women piling from the dray like an unfettered stream. They hurried past Gilmour, surrounding Isobel as if she were the duchess of York.

"Whatever brings you here?"

"Are you well?"

"Come. Let us not delay here." The large lady glanced down the road. "Hie yourselves into the cart. 'Tis not a long journey to Delshutt Manor."

And so Bel was ushered away, leaving Gilmour to stand in the road like yesterday's cabbage.

They seemed to remember him at the last moment.

"But what of him?" asked a wispy voice.

All eyes turned in his direction. "Is he accompanying you, Belva?" asked the woman ensconced behind the reins.

It took Isobel an inordinately long time to answer.

"Aye," she said finally, and with a wave of an imperious hand from the woman called Madelaine, he was urged to pile into the cart with the others.

It jostled beneath him, threatening to jerk his joints loose at every turn as the women cooed over Isobel.

Aye, he thought, and wished with fervent earnestness for unconsciousness. He was still charming.