Page 40

The inn where they stopped had none of the amenities of the Red Lion. The food smelted suspect, the ale was sour, and the common room was dirtier than the Lion's front stoop. Thus they drank heavily spiced wine and sat in silence as Gilmour tried to understand the mystery that was Isobel.

In the tallow candlelight, she looked tense and uncertain. Why? What troubles bothered her? he wondered, and watched her avoid his gaze until she was unable to ignore him any longer.

"What is it you want?" she said finally.

"I was simply thinking that it was good of Lady Madelaine to lend us coin for an inn. If we are frugal, we shall have enough for this night and the next."

"Nay," she argued. 'Tonight will require most of our sum."

"Not if we share a room."

She stared at him. "This night will require most of our sum," she repeated.

" 'Tis a rough area, Bel. Surely you've no wish to spend the night with other travelers rather than taking advantage of me protection?"

"That is me wish exactly," she said and stirred her wooden ladle about in her stew. It smelled strongly of onions, yet the scent could not quite hide the idea that the mutton had seen a number of days before meeting the broth.

Gilmour settled his shoulder against the wall to his right and studied her.

"Tell me, lass, who is it that fostered you in your early years?"

She abandoned her ladle with something of a start. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged as if the topic was of no great interest to him. "I but wish to pass the time. I dare not eat the food, so I wonder when Meara took you from your mother's arms, to whom did she send you?"

"I don't remember them," she said and pushing her stew aside, took a drink of wine.

"Then where did you spend your youth?"

"Wherever I wished. Then, as now, I had no wish to stay in one place for any great length of time."

"Even after finding your sister?"

Her gaze flickered to him and away. " 'Twas time to be off, is all."

"But surely you could not have simply come and gone when you were a wee lass. Someone must have cared for you. Did they live close to Evermyst?"

"Nay," she said and drank again.

"Who were they?"

"No one of import."

"You jest," he said. "Surely those who nurtured you in your early years are important."

"As I told you, I do not remember them."

"Was it a man and wife? Were they nobles? They must have had names at the least?"

"It matters naught," she insisted and fidgeted with her mug.

"Of course—"

"They died!" she said, then drew a slow breath. "Of a fever... and not so far from this place."

"Oh. I am sorry."

"There is no need. I can no longer even recall their faces."

"How old were you when they found their graves?"

She cleared her throat and drank again. "Five years, mayhap. I am unsure. I was only told that I was..." She stopped again.

He watched her. She was small and fragile, yet there was a rare strength to her, like that of a finely crafted rapier. "A bonny lass?" he guessed, imagining her youth. "Bright as a bauble? Sharp as a dirk?"

She glanced quickly up, and in her eyes there was some indefinable emotion that cut his breath from his throat even before she spoke. "Dollag said only that I was very small." She paused, fidgeting again. "Not worth a sliver."

Gilmour froze as the bright image faded to nothingness in his mind. "Dollag?" he asked.

Her fine lips were slightly pursed, and one hand lay curled into itself upon the rough tabletop, but she spoke casually. "She took me in after the Holiers' deaths."

"The Holiers? So they had names after all?"

" 'Tis only what Dollag called them—the Holiers Than Thous. The villagers called her Limp About Dollag. One leg was not right. 'Twas quite painful for her, I believe. Mayhap that had some bearing on her temperament."

Reaching casually for the wine bottle, Gilmour filled her mug. "She was unkind," he said.

She took another sip from her mug and lowered her gaze. "When I was a wee lass I thought the Holiers had asked Dollag to take me, and I wondered..." She paused.

"What?" he asked and tried to sound unrushed.

" 'Tis growing late. I should find me bed."

"Only the fleas await you," Gilmour said and smiled, hoping to disarm her. "What is it you wondered?"

She glanced toward the door, then back at him. "I wondered what I had done to make them despise me so."

His stomach lurched. "Enough to send you to Dollag?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but remained perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might weaken her defenses somehow. And in that moment he realized the strength it took for her to put her memories to words. To open the wounds for him to see.

"This I tell you, Bel," he said, his voice low and certain, "they could not have despised you."

She smiled a little, but the expression was as fragile as hoarfrost, never reaching her eyes. "Maybe they did not," she agreed. "Dollag hated them. So perhaps they were kindly folk after all."

It seemed almost that in that moment she was a child again, tiny, defenseless.

No bigger than Ramsay's wee Mary, wanting naught more than to be loved and cherished.

It made him want desperately to pull her into his arms, to defy the idea that she could have spent her young years in loneliness.

To promise that forever and always she would be safe—but he was not quite that foolish.

"They had no other children?" he asked, his tone idle, his fingers tight on his mug.

"I pray not." The words came very fast.

Gilmour snapped his gaze to her, hoping she would explain without prodding, but she did not. "Why do you pray, Isobel?"

"I but jest," she said, but her tone was tight. "They had no other children. I am certain of it."

If the truth be told, he wished to hear no more.

Indeed, all he wanted was to take her into his embrace, to stroke her hair and kiss away the horrors of her past. But he could not fix them if he did not understand them.

"You were very young," he said. "How can you be certain the Holiers had no other wee ones? "

"They did not!" she snapped and her hand shook, jostling the contents of her mug. Lifting it, she drained the thing then peered inside. "She lied. I am certain of it," she whispered.

His gut twisted with premonition, but he kept his voice carefully steady. "Lied about what?"

"The baby." She whispered the words like a wee helpless lass, too frightened to speak aloud. She swallowed and glanced furtively up at him as her fingers twisted about the empty mug. "Dollag said there was a baby, but it was even smaller than I. Worth naught, thus she used it for the fire."

He dared not move, lest he frighten away the horrible truth.

"So I had best behave," she breathed. Her voice had taken on a childish lisp and her eyes were as bright as river-swept stones. "For the winters were cold and wood was hard to come—"

"Bloody hell!" Gilmour's stool clattered to the floor as he jerked to his feet.

Isobel started and faces turned, but he cared not, for he could no longer remain apart from her.

She reared back as if struck, but he gathered her into his arms and pulled her against the refuge of his chest. Above her silken head, he closed his eyes and struggled for calm.

"Is she dead?" he rasped.

She was trembling. It took her a moment to respond, and when she did her voice was uncertain, as though she were lost. "Wh-what?"

Not a soul spoke and in that moment he realized that every eye was focused on them.

Even the innkeeper had emerged from the kitchen to stare, so Gilmour bent, and slipping his arm behind her knees, lifted her against his chest. Turning on his heel, he passed by the proprietor and in a hushed voice said simply, "Me wife and I shall be sharing a room, alone. "

He realized upon reaching the hallway that he didn't know which room was unoccupied, but she felt like a doll of rags in his arms and more than anything in life he needed a place to kiss her, to hold her, to comfort her.

The second door stood open. He turned inside and finding it empty, closed the portal with his foot then strode across the room to sit on the bed. She remained unmoving upon his lap, curled against his chest like a wounded kitten, and he took a steadying breath, trying to calm himself.

Slowly, gently, he ran his hand along the waves of her hair.

It fell soft and endless down her narrow back, but he failed to notice her delicate curves, for in his mind was a tiny girl with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart.

Fear for herself. Aye. But fear for another, too, for it seemed that she was terrified for a babe that may never have existed.

His fingers tightened in her hair, but he loosened them with an effort and stroked again. She felt small and soft and heavenly in his arms. " 'Tis not your fault, lass," he whispered. "No matter what happened, there is naught you could have done."

"She was not always cruel." The words were so soft he had to lean closer to hear. "She did not take me shell."

"Shell?"

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "And once upon a sunny day she limped down to the market and brought me back an orange.

" Her fingers curled into his tunic, and she cuddled closer as if wanting to hide.

" 'Twas a magnificent thing, it was. I feared for a time that she meant to tease me with it, but nay.

.." Her voice was filled with wonder. "She gave it to me to keep for me own.

I thought mayhap that she must not detest me so.

'Tis a strange truth," she said and paused as if lost in her thoughts, "that a moment of kindness only makes the stripes the worse. "

He gritted his teeth and damned the woman to hell, but he kept stroking her gently.

"She oft couldn't sleep... because of her leg." She drew her own limbs closer to her chest, curling into herself. "If I was awake I was swifter than she, but..."

His teeth ached. He unclenched his jaw, forcing himself to relax a smidgen. "She struck you whilst you slept?"

"There were times when I hid in the woods, but it was so dark." Her voice dropped away. "And cold. And once the lads from the village found me."

His hand trembled, but he forced it down her hair once again. He felt her whisper against his chest, as though she were afraid someone else would hear her secrets.

"Mayhap I was no bigger than a sliver, but I had seen what Hamish had done with the butcher's daughter, and I had learned to be cautious," she said and shivered.

Time ticked along on creaky feet. Gilmour waited for calm, but it did not come. Still, he waited.

"I hid well. Deep in the bracken, where they would not find me, but I had forgot about his hound.

I could hear it coming for me through the ferns, and close on its footfalls was Hamish.

Mayhap I should have stayed hid away, but I remembered the butcher's daughter and at the last moment I sprang from hiding.

He was there, looming over me like the devil himself with the other lads behind him. "

Silence settled in. Gilmour's heart thumped against his ribs like a heavy drum as he waited for her to speak again.

"Tell me, Isobel." He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up strength. "Did he harm you?"

"He reached for me. Like a bear he was, with hands like giant paws.

I felt it swipe across me chest even as I leapt and knew his finger had caught in me pendant, but at that moment, I cared not, for 'twas me shell or me life.

" She burrowed deeper against Gilmour. "Me chain broke and I fell backward.

'Twas then that he laughed, for he thought he had me, but I was quick as a mouse, and I scrambled away before he could call his lads.

Still..." She sighed and curled her fingers absently against the simple bodice of her gown. "I miss me wee silvery shell."

"The one given to you by your mother?"

Again, she didn't seem to hear him, but kept her hand loosely against her chest. "There were times when I would imagine that I was the daughter of a great lady.

'Twas she who had given me the tiny pendant, of course, because she cherished me so.

Still, I dared not try to get it back," she whispered.

The bastard! Gilmour stroked her hair once again, careful to keep the sweep of his hand steady. "You are safe now," he said, but the damned words sounded weak and ineffective to his own ears. "All is well."

"Aye." Her fingers loosened a bit. "Aye, I am no longer a weakling child and Hamish is far away."

"Where?" he asked, and forced his hand to return to its soothing course down her satiny hair.

She sighed. He eased her off his lap and onto the mattress. She did not look up, but curled against the coverlet as if she were spent.

"Isobel," he murmured and brushed the hair back from her elvish face. "Where did you live with Dollag?"

"Glencroe," she said and winced as if struck. " 'Tis not so very close."

But close enough to bring back such haunting horrors. "You are safe, lassie," he said. "None will harm you."

"I can use a sling," she said, "and a knife."

"I remember, Isobel," he said and smoothed his palm down her arm. It felt as lax as a child's beneath his hand. "You are a strong woman."

"Gordon of the Mill did not think so."

He truly did not wish to hear any more, for his blood felt hot, but he was not a violent man. Nay, he was a lover, and he would soothe her. "Gordon was a fool," he said.

"Aye." Her lips twitched into a small smile, but she did not open her eyes. "A fool he was, for he thought he could pay Dollag and I would lie with him."

Neither was he a cursing man, but a foul word slipped out and for a moment he could do nothing but remain motionless and wait for the rage to pass.

Her eyes opened wearily. "I escaped, MacGowan."

"Aye." He swallowed hard and kept his hands to himself now lest she feel them tremble. "That you did."

"And I will not go back, for I am safe now."

"You are safe, Isobel."

Her eyes fell closed again. "And mayhap..." For a moment he thought she had fallen asleep, for she was quiet for a long while, and when she finally spoke her voice was so soft that he could barely hear her. "Mayhap 'tis best the babe died, for she was not as strong as I," she whispered.

He waited in silence a long while. Waited for her to speak again. She did not. Waited for the anger to pass. It did not.

So he watched her as she slept, not fitful or restless, but soundly, like a wee small babe who trusted him.

Finally he rose, but when he stepped away he found that his strides were short and tense, his fists still clenched.

He paced the room, glancing now and then at the small still figure on the bed. He was a lover, he reminded him. Not a violent man. He was a lover.

He ground his teeth as he reached for the door latch. Aye, he was a lover—but there were few things he loved more than justice.