Page 4

Fatigue weighed heavily on Gilmour as he entered the rented room.

Memories of the day just past flitted through his mind in a dreamlike haze as he slipped his leather sporran over his head and readied for bed.

He did not wear the leather bag around his waist to lie against the front of his body, for he found that it impeded movement.

.. of all sorts. Instead, it generally hung from his shoulder, crossing his chest just below the pewter tipped lace at the neck of his tunic and residing at his right hip.

Tossing it upon his mattress, he pulled his dirk from beneath his belt.

Crafted of Spanish steel, the Maiden was as sharp as sin with the handle molded in the shape of a buxom woman.

When it was grasped, Mour's hand settled intimately between her hips and her bosom, but he ignored her voluptuous figure just now and tossed her beside his sporran on the bed.

He then reached for his buckle and wondered with idle curiosity where Isobel slept.

Did she reside here in the inn? Was she close at hand? Was she alone?

The wide belt cut into the muscles of his abdomen before he loosened the tension and let it drop to the floor.

Why was she so cool to him? He had done naught to her.

In fact, he had been nothing but complimentary, he thought, as he unwound the shortened length of green tartan from about his waist. He saw little use for the many yards of wool most Scotsmen wore.

His own plaid left a good deal of muscular thigh showing beneath it and did not bunch and fold like most, but wound just twice about his body.

The fairer sex had always found him alluring, yet Isobel merely seemed amused by him.

What a strange lass she was. Not once had she sighed when she looked at him.

Not once had she glanced up at him through her lashes as maids were wont to do.

There must be something amiss with her. After all, her sister Anora had been quite genteel where he was concerned.

Not fawning in that lovely way that women did, but she'd been suitably impressed.

Of course, by all accounts, she'd given his brother Ramsay a devil of a chase before marrying him, and—

Gilmour's hands stilled for a moment, then absently folded the plaid and set it aside.

That was it, then—the reason Isobel tormented him so. She was in love with him. There could be no other explanation. After all, she couldn't dislike him. Women simply didn't. Therefore it must be that she was hiding her true feelings behind her contempt.

The poor thing! How obvious it was now, and how difficult it must be for her.

She probably felt as though she were far beneath him.

But there was no need, really. Even though her noble blood had never been acknowledged by the world at large, he knew she was high born.

But in actuality, he cared little about a woman's station in life.

If she was female, he appreciated her. And if she was bonny and female, he adored her.

Which put Isobel in a fine position, for she was decidedly female. And as for physical attributes, well...

Reaching for the hem of his tunic, Gilmour snatched it over his head and folded it away. Flexing his shoulders, he set his downy wren feather to fluttering in his braid before it settled restlessly back against his neck.

In a matter of seconds, he was bare-naked and threw back the blankets of his bed with a grin. Aye, the lass must feel somewhat awestruck by him, but if the truth be known, she almost made him feel insecure. And all the while she had been feeling inferior to—

A whisper of noise sounded from the hallway and he turned, scowling through the candlelit dimness toward the door. Had he imagined it, or—

It came again, slightly louder. Reaching for his plaid, he wrapped it about his waist and gathered it at one lean hip.

Who could it be? he wondered, but suddenly he knew. As if he could see her standing before him, he knew. It was Isobel, come to admit her true feelings: that she could think of naught but him. That she had loved him from the very first.

He opened the door without delay, and she was there, small and lovely, with her robin's egg eyes glowing in the candlelight.

"MacGowan," she said, her expression inscrutable as she took in his near nudity. "You look like hell itself. Is something amiss?"

The smile dropped from Gilmour's lips, and he bunched the woolen tighter against his middle as his happy dream dissipated like silvery fog.

"Did you want something, Bel?" he asked, steadying his equilibrium. "Or did you just come to ogle?"

Her fair brows rose in sharp surprise. "I take it you've not met Smitty."

The woman had a tendency to change the subject without warning. 'Twas one of the many things he disliked about her. "Nay," he said, tucking die plaid under itself and leaning with studied casualness against the rough door jamb. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Ahh, well, that would explain a bit of your conceit, unjustified though it be."

He grinned, lifting just one corner of his mouth. "I am many things, lass, and conceited may indeed be amongst them. But 'tis not unjustified, of that I assure you."

"Well..." She pressed past him as if he were a somewhat moldy side of beef. "You'd not be so cocksure should you dare compare yourself with the Smitty."

He turned, wondering if Anora would take offense if he throttled her wee sister. "A man among men, I'm certain," he said.

She glanced up at him and in her eyes was that bedazzled light he had seen a hundred times—only on those other occasions, the expression had been reserved for him.

"Each day at eventide, after he shoes his last steed, he removes his tunic and goes to the river to wash the sweat from his manly form. "

Gilmour's finger twitched. "I'm certain 'tis quite exciting for you."

She stared at him for a moment, then drew herself from her trance and laughed.

"MacGowan," she said, her tone filled with surprise, "you're not jealous, are you?"

"Jealous?" he said, his tone bland.

"Of Smitty."

"Aye, in fact I am, lass," he said, closing the door and pacing closer, "for I am thinking mayhap you do not offend his ears by speaking to him, but only watch as he lumbers down to the river."

She laughed again. "Gilmour MacGowan," she said, "the rogue of the rogues. Jealous of a simple blacksmith. Who would have thought it possible?"

"No one in her right mind, but that would not include you, would it, Bel? So feel free to enjoy your delusions if they brighten your day."

"Me thanks," she said, and he nodded.

"Are you getting near to telling me why you have come by, then?" he asked.

She fiddled with the bedpost for an instant, looking more like the hesitant lass all had known at Evermyst and less the harpy who had revealed herself to him alone. "I but wished for some word of me sister."

"Anora is well."

"You have spoken to her recently?"

"Aye. Just before leaving. She and Ram were about to challenge the firth for a visit to Levenlair."

"And leave Evermyst unprotected?"

"Lachlan shall remain behind."

"Then your brothers are well, also?"

"Lachlan is..." Mour shrugged. "Well, Lachlan is Lachlan. Cantankerous and bedeviled. But Ramsay is content. In truth, I have never seen him happier."

Though she smiled, there was a shadow of unidentified emotion in her eyes. Sadness, perhaps. Or loneliness. Maybe he should have been ashamed that the expression intrigued him, but Gilmour had oft found that shame was overrated.

" 'Tis glad I am of course to know that marriage agrees with him," she said.

"But?"

She glanced at him, surprise in her eyes. "What?"

"You are glad of course, but..."

"I am glad that me sister and her laird are happy. That is all."

"Then you care not that me brother has taken the love of the sister so long lost to you? You care not that your dearest and nearest kinswoman adores Ram so devoutly that she has all but forgotten your bond with her?"

A dozen emotions flashed through her eyes before she lowered her gaze to her hands, twisted against her pinned up overskirt. "Mayhap..." Her voice was very soft suddenly. "Mayhap 'twould be easier if I had never found her."

Guilt speared him at the honest regret in her voice. Never had she revealed so much of herself to him. She looked small and helpless against the backdrop of his bed. Her elfish face was lowered, her sapphire eyes hidden by downcast lids.

"How could it be better to never have known her?" he asked.

"I've heard it said..." She glanced up through her lashes at him. "That 'tis better to have lost your love than never to know love atall."

He nodded, urging her to go on.

"But I think 'tis not true. I think mayhap 'twould have been better to have gone forever thinking meself alone in the world."

Her sadness was all but palpable now. "You are not alone, lass," he said simply. "I should not have said the things I did."

"Nay." She shook her head slowly. Firelight danced across the golden waves of her hair and one lone diamond-bright tear traced down her alabaster cheek.

"You were right. Me sister prefers to spend her days with her husband.

And 'tis as it should be, of course," she added quickly.

"It is simply that I..." She paused, seeming to fight for the proper words while Gilmour struggled to remain where he was, removed from her.

"You are lonely," he said, completing her sentence.

She raised her gaze. Against her milky complexion, her lips looked as bright and succulent as wild berries and he swallowed hard, using every bit of little-used self control at his disposal.

"You understand," she murmured.