Page 37

Isobel stood perfectly still in the doorway of her bedchamber, lest any movement be misconstrued for acceptance. "Me apologies," she said and turned her gaze from the big Irishman to the one called Cheval, "but I fear Lady Madelaine was mistaken. I have no wish for company this eventide."

"My lady said you might be shy," said Boots. "But once you see the size of me tools you'll not be so retiring-

He was big, huge, really, outweighing her by a good five stone, and every ounce seemed to be packed in tight muscle bound through his thighs and torso. Chances were good that he'd be able to beat her both in a foot race and in a battle of strength.

"I assure you," she said. "I am not shy. I simply have no need of company just now."

"You heard her, O'Banyon," said Cheval. "Good night to you, then.

And I assure you, my lady, you've made the right choice, for if the truth be told, his tool is more the size of a hand trowel than a plow shear.

If you take me meaning." She turned her attention to him.

He was just slightly smaller than his companion, but where the booted fellow was dark the horse was fair-haired and grinning.

"Believe this," she said and tried to push the door shut, "I've no interest whatsoever in the size of either. Now if you would be so kind as to—"

"Three hands," Cheval said and with seemingly no effort atall, pressed into the room.

She scowled at him. "What's that?"

"Me own tool," he said. "I measure it in hands like the height of a steed. 'Tis three hands if it's an inch."

"Then it's not an inch," said Boots and pushed in beside him. "Aren't you the wee bonny flower? And randy too, by what me lady says."

"Get out of me room or you shall surely regret it."

Boots grinned. "Lady Madelaine said you was lonely," he said and stepped toward her.

Isobel turned and snatched a lighted candle from a nearby candelabra.

She held it waist high, where it would do the most damage.

The flame flickered and wax dripped to the woolen tapestry beneath her feet, but she held it steady.

"Did she also say you'd have to forfeit your beloved tools ?” she asked.

"Nay." Boots scowled. "In truth, I do not think she would be pleased if she could not enjoy me—" he began, but suddenly he lunged, and though he was the size of a largish bullock, he could move with surprising speed.

One instant the candle was in her hand, the next it was snuffed out beneath their feet and she was pressed up against him like grapes in a vat.

"Do you feel that, lassie?" he asked and smiled as he pressed his hips against hers. "I'm rearing for you already, but I can take me time if that be your preference."

"Let me go." She said the words carefully, but if the truth be known, panic was welling up like dark water around her.

"Now, lass, there be no need to fret. I only—"

"Boots, isn't it?" asked a voice.

"MacGowan!" Isobel turned her gaze frantically toward the door, and he was there, dressed in naught but an adequate plaid and looking disturbingly unconcerned.

"So laddie," said Boots, his tone congenial. "Finished with Polly already are you? 'Tis not surprising, I suppose. She's a quick one is our Polly. But soon enough beggin' for more."

"Aye, she was asking for you already," MacGowan said. "Were I you I'd go to her post haste."

"Aye, she's taken a likin' to me, she has. But I'm a wee bit busy just now. Cheval, why not go see to her?"

" 'Tis you she's wanting, O'Banyon. I'll take care of your duties here."

"Nay, I'll—"

"She wants the two of you," MacGowan interrupted. "Something about a friendly goat and a couple bottles of wine."

"You jest," said Cheval after a moment and laughed.

"What kind of goat?" asked Boots.

"A bonny one. What do you say?" asked Gilmour. "Isobel's not interested."

"You're sorely mistaken, MacGowan. And too, I work for the lady of the house, and she asked me to come."

"She made a mistake."

"The lady is never mistook," said Boots, his brows lowering.

MacGowan watched him for a moment then smiled, but the expression was strangely grim. "Care to know what I've heard said of your Lady Madelaine of Delshutt?"

O'Banyon's dark brows lowered even more. Cheval was already turning toward him, hands formed to fists.

"You've something to say about the baroness?"

"Aye," Mour said. "Come into the hall and I'll share the news."

"You'll not want me out there if you've naught good to say of the lady."

MacGowan grinned. "You'd best come too, Irishman, unless you believe the rumors I've heard spread."

"Aye," O'Banyon agreed. "But it can wait. I've got me duties here first."

"Do you hear that?" Gilmour asked, turning to Cheval. "It seems your Irish friend has little desire to defend your lady's honor."

"Aye, and he'll pay his due," said the horse and stepped into the hall after MacGowan. "But I'll see to you—"

The words came to an abrupt halt. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the sound of something solid striking the floor.

MacGowan appeared in a second. His smile was gone and a bright light sparked in his azure eyes. "I am a peaceable fellow, Irishman," he said, "but if you don't loose the lass, you'll regret it for as long as you can recall—which, judging by your intellect, may not last till the morn."

Boots smiled as he stroked his knuckles down Isobel's cheek. "Spoilin' for a fight already, MacGowan?"

"Not atall," he said and turned his hands palms up. "I've no wish for trouble."

"Truly?" O'Banyon said and slipped one huge hand down Isobel's shoulder.

"Truly," Gilmour agreed affably. "But if you don't take your hands off her I'll have your liver for me breakfast."

O'Banyon laughed. "You think you can take me, lad?"

"I think the lass could take an Irishman. I am simply here to save her the trouble."

"So it's the Irish you don't like, is it?"

"Aye, that and moldy gruel and—"

O'Banyon launched toward Gilmour. Isobel screamed an instant before they made contact.

Boots struck his adversary just below the ribs.

MacGowan flew backward and slammed against the wall behind him.

There was an audible grunt of pain before he sagged against the plaster, but when Boots tried to scoop him into his arms, he came to life like a corpse from the grave, thumping his feet against the wall and driving Boots wildly backward.

They landed in a pile with MacGowan on top.

O'Banyon pulled a knife from the high tops of his boots. Gilmour rolled to his feet. The Irishman rose more slowly, but lunged immediately.

Isobel screamed again, but it was Lady Madelaine's voice that seemed to reverberate in the room.

"What goes on here?" she asked in a dark voice, and O'Banyon skidded to a hand, skimming his gaze from MacGowan to his lady and back.

Breathing hard, he wiped his knuckles against his nose. Blood smeared from his fingers to his wrist. "I was just doing me job, me lady."

"I do not recall telling you to kill the Scotsman."

"Aye, but you told me to see to the lassie's needs."

"And you thought she needed MacGowan dead?"

O'Banyon shifted his gaze and shuffled his feet. They were, Gilmour realized, the size of Highland sheep. "Mayhap I got me blood up and forgot—"

"Well, get your blood back down," Madelaine ordered, "and go to your chambers."

"He insulted—" Boots began, but the baroness interrupted him.

"To your chambers," she repeated.

O'Banyon bobbed his agreement and shuffled sheepishly toward the door. "Me apologies, me lady."

"Aye well, on second thought," Madelaine said and sighed, "hie yourself to my solar... and take Cheval with you."

Boots chanced a grin, then ducked his head and hurried from the room. In a moment they heard him grunt as he hoisted his friend to his feet. Cheval's voice sounded groggily disoriented as they made their staggering way down the hall.

Isobel's bed chamber fell silent.

"Well," said Madelaine finally. "Are the two of you always so amusing?"

"I would appreciate it if you would keep your playthings to yourself henceforth, me lady," MacGowan said and snatched his plaid back to his waist before it abandoned him completely.

"But Polly would be ever so disappointed if I did not share," Madelaine said, spearing MacGowan with an arch gaze. "And what of you, chere? Did you find my playthings diverting?"

Mind spinning, Isobel pulled her gaze from MacGowan's face to Lady Madelaine's. "They are certainly... large."

Madelaine smiled. "Aye, that they are and quite tractable normally. I can send them back to you when they're a bit more... patient if you like."

"Me thanks," Isobel said shakily, "but I think not."

The lady raised a brow and shifted her gaze to Gilmour. "And what of you, MacGowan? Shall I send Polly to see to your wounds?"

"Nay."

"You are right, of course. 'Tis Belva's place to see to you since you were her so gallant champ—"

"I'll be fine," Gilmour said and stepped toward the door, but Madelaine blocked his way.

"You're bleeding," she said and nodded to his arm.

" 'Tis naught. I'll see to it meself."

"My carpets have no fondness for blood. Sit down."

"Nay, I—"

"Such a difficult one you've found for yourself, Belva," Madelaine said. "Sit down, MacGowan, or I'll change my mind about tethering you hand and foot."

He bristled. “Truth to tell, I do not think your lads are up to the task, me lady."

"I was thinking of my maid servants," she said. "They would enjoy it more and mayhap you would enjoy watching, Belva. What say you?"

Somehow all the oxygen seemed to have been sucked out of the room. "I'll..." Isobel's voice was breathy. "I'll see to him meself."

Madelaine looked at her as if surprised, then smiled.

"Very well then," she said and turned with regal coolness toward the door. "But don't be too noisy about it, will you? We don't want the girls to get jealous."

She closed the door with a smile. The room fell silent.