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Gilmour awoke slowly. His aches had diminished, but his limbs felt heavy and slightly chilled. Still, he was absolutely content to remain where he was, for he was comfortable, and just now that seemed the most wondrous of things.

"So who is he?" The woman's voice was husky and smooth, like well-spiced cider, and he almost opened his eyes. But it was so sweet to just lie there, utterly still and unresponsive even though the voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"His name is Gilmour, of the Dunard MacGowans." Isobel's voice, on the other hand, was unmistakable. Dulcet and quiet in the stillness of the candlelit room.

"Ahhh," said the other and her name seeped slowly into Gilmour's memory. Lady Madelaine, she had been called. Large, commanding, and unmistakably French. "And why is he with you?"

"I was... set upon."

"Attacked? Non! By whom?"

Isobel paced. Gilmour could hear her light footfalls against the floor, for although he kept his eyes closed, he had leisurely discerned a few things.

One was that they were inside a room of some sort, most probably in the chamber where he had fallen asleep the night before.

A wizened little woman of indistinguishable heritage had jabbered something about dressing his wounds, but fatigue had overwhelmed him, and he'd been able to do nothing more than take a bit of food and drink before falling into oblivion.

They'd obviously decided rest was the best medicine, for here he remained, perfectly content so long as no one was trying to kill him.

It was interesting how one's standards lowered so quickly.

"I recognized none of the men who took me," Isobel was saying. "In truth, I know no one who might wish me ill. Except—"

"Who?"

"Him."

Me! Gilmour thought.

"This MacGowan?" Lady Madelaine's tone evidenced her surprise. "What grievance does he have against you?"

Aye, what grievance indeed? Gilmour wondered foggily.

"I know not. I have done him no harm."

Gilmour's chest throbbed an argument, but it was so wonderful to simply lie there in silence.

"Then why do you suppose he wishes you ill?"

"I first met him at Castle Evermyst where I stayed for a spell. He is the brother by law of Anora— Lady Anora, whom I served there. Even then we... had words."

Madelaine was quiet for several heartbeats, and when she spoke it was as if she were musing.

"So he is the son of Roderic the Rogue, who is.

.. let me think... a duke now, I believe.

And his lady mother, well honored at court and known by all as the Flame.

You were a servant in his brother's castle and you. .. had words."

There was utter silence for a moment, then, "Just because I am beneath him in me station does not give him the right to..." She paused. "He thinks himself quite irresistible."

"Most men do, ma chere." There was a shrug in her voice.

"And most men are wrong," Isobel stated.

"But not this one?"

"Especially this one!"

Gilmour almost scowled. Madelaine laughed.

"So he wished to take you to his bed, oui?"

Isobel said nothing, but the elder woman continued nevertheless. "And why did you refuse? From all I hear he has the coin and the... gear... to make it well worth your effort."

"I was not interested in his proposal."

The older woman was silent for a moment, and it almost seemed in Gilmour's misty state that he could feel her gaze on him. "Ahh. Well, on with your tale then."

"Eventually I left Evermyst to—"

"Why?" Madelaine interrupted.

"I... 'Twas time, is all."

"Tell me, mon petit enfant, have you ever wondered why you run?"

"I did not run. I merely felt it was time to be off."

"So you left the comforts of the castle where they adored you. I am correct in assuming they adored you am I not, Belva?"

Madelaine obviously did not know that Evermyst's lady was Isobel's sister, and yet she had guessed well. Evermyst's people did cherish her. Of course, she probably hadn't stabbed more than two or three of them—an action which had a tendency of cooling one's feelings toward another. Perhaps.

"I got on well there," Isobel admitted.

"I thought you would. Nevertheless, you ran—"

"I did not run."

"Ahhh, yes. You went to..." Lady Madelaine paused, waiting for Isobel to continue.

"I lived for some months in the village of Henshaw, where I prepared the meals at an inn called the Red Lion. All was—"

"You have such a talent with the spices. 'Tis like magic. I oft wondered if hunger made you gifted. Perhaps those of us who are forever well fed do not appreciate fine food as we should. But I prattle. Go on with your tale. Were you happy at the Red Lion?"

"Happy?" Was Isobel's tone a bit strained now? Was he awake? Or was he dreaming? "I suspect I was. Happy enough."

"But not filled with joy as you were at Evermyst?"

"What makes you say so?"

"No reason. Continue."

"I was content in what I did." She said it with some feeling. "Then one evening MacGowan turned up in the common room."

"And began where he left off with his propositions," suggested Madelaine. "But still you were not interested?"

"Nay."

" 'Tis strange. For even with the bruises he is quite fair to look upon."

Gilmour almost smiled. But he did not, for there were few times in his life when he had more enjoyed doing nothing. He felt strangely at peace, almost dreamlike, and ever so interested. It took him a moment to realize that Isobel had not answered.

"Belva?"

"What?"

"Do you not agree?"

"Regarding what, me lady?"

"Do you not agree that he is a bonny lad? Almost... sweet of face." Her tone was retrospective. "Yet deliriously wicked at the self same time."

Isobel cleared her throat. "He is bonny enough, I suppose."

"Ahhh," Madelaine said and laughed. "So he made his appeal yet again and you refused him... yet again. But I still do not know how you wound up here, so near Delshutt Manor, looking as if you'd been trampled by a maddened bull."

"I thought all would be well in Henshaw even after MacGowan's arrival. After all, the Munro was about to return to his home and—"

"The Munro?" asked Lady Madelaine, her interest piqued. "I have heard tales of him. Tell me, Belva love, is he as large as they say?"

"Aye..." Isobel sounded baffled and somewhat distracted. "I suspect he is. At any rate, I assumed MacGowan would accompany him on his journey north, but his mount became injured and so he continued to stay at—"

"Why did he not purchase a new steed?"

Looking at the situation from this new position, with his body battered like a wind-blown apple,

Gilmour had to admit that such an idea had a good deal of appeal.

"I do not know," Isobel said. "But it makes little difference. Whatever the reason, he stayed on at the inn."

"Ahh. So he remained at the Red Lion and continued to bedevil you."

The room was quiet for a moment. "Aye."

"And you did not enjoy his overtures?"

"Nay! Of course not."

"There is no need to become distraught, chere," Madelaine said.

"I have been abducted and threatened and chased down like a hunted hare. I think I have the right—"

"Poor enfant. But let us continue with the tale, shall we?" Lady Madelaine soothed. "So he was interested in you and you were not completely certain how you felt about his attentions. Thus—"

" 'Tis not true. I had no interest atall in his advances."

"Ahhh. Well, let us forget that part for a spell. Now, what of the abduction? How did you end up in the company of the young rogue?"

Isobel sighed then paced again. "He had taken to following me home."

"From the inn?"

"Aye."

"In the dark."

"Aye."

Gilmour could almost hear Lady Madelaine's cream-eating smile. "Continue."

"Aye, he would follow me home, and—"

“Tell me, Belva, do you still love the water so?"

Memories washed over Gilmour like mulled wine.

As for himself, he had never been comfortable in the water.

It wasn't that he was afraid of it... exactly.

He just appreciated the fact that land did not have a tendency to flow out from under his feet like water did.

But seeing her by the river's edge with the moonlight stroking her ivory breasts and waves lapping her delicate ankles, had made him feel somewhat differently.

Of course, he'd rather she didn't push him off a cliff again.

In fact, now that he thought about it, there was no reason she couldn't simply disrobe for him and pretend she was by the river.

"Aye. I am ever at home in the water," Bel admitted. "Why do you ask?"

"Simple curiosity. Nothing more. So he followed you to your home but still you refused his advances."

"I..." Isobel's voice fell into silence like a pebble in a pond.

"Belva?"

"Of course I refused him."

"Ahhh. Go on."

"Then one night I was attacked, knocked unconscious and carried away. When I awoke I knew not where I was. All I knew was that I had been abducted and that he was at their campsite, laughing and conversing with them. 'Twas perfectly logical to assume—"

"That he was one of your captors."

"Aye."

"But..." Madelaine let the word lie there in the quiet.

"But I think I... may have been mistaken."

May have been! They'd beaten the living stuffing out of him.

"And why do you think so?" Madelaine asked.

"Well, when I said his name..."

And tried to kill him!

"They grabbed him and..." To her credit, Isobel seemed unable to go on.

"And?"

"In truth," Bel murmured, her voice feather soft. "I thought he was dead."

"And this distressed you?"

"Of course it distressed me. I never wished for him—"

"They beat him," Madelaine interrupted.

"Aye."

"And kicked him, by the looks of it."

"Aye."

"And stabbed him."

"Ay... well, in actuality... I do not think they... stabbed him."

"I was certain Liddie said there were stab wounds on his chest and leg."

Isobel cleared her throat. "Aye, well, it could be that those wounds were caused by... meself."

"You stabbed him?"

Damn right she did. And it hurt like the devil.

"When I saw him by the fire with the brigands I..."

"What?"

"I fear I lost control."