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Isobel awoke slowly." Her mouth felt dry and her body limp. Light seeped from the narrow window behind her and memories returned slowly to her—words she had spoken, truths she had spilled.

MacGowan. Where was he? she wondered and sitting up, turned to find him watching her. He sat upon an oaken trunk not far from the bed, his fine body bent forward, his elbows on his knees. As she watched, he straightened slowly, his gaze solemn and unwavering.

Her throat tightened nervously.

"About last night," she began and cleared her throat. "I fear the wine did not agree with me. Indeed, mayhap it was spoiled and the spices but hid its quality, for it quite addled me brain."

He still watched her, his notorious smile noticeably absent. "Did it?"

"Aye."

He looked tired, she thought, yet relaxed somehow.

The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up, exposing his lower arms. Veins swelled from his browned skin, weaving double paths toward his broad elbows.

Quiet strength exuded from him and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to slip into his arms and be held by that strength.

But she would not, for weakness was one thing she could ill afford.

" 'Twas most likely the wine and fatigue," she said. "Conspiring against me."

"You were tired," he agreed.

"Aye, and I fear me imaginings got the better of me.

He leaned back, resting his weight against the wall behind him, but still he did not speak. She cleared her throat.

"I... me apologies," she said.

"For what?"

She forced a laugh and flipped a hand at him as though he were silly to ask.

"For the blathering. I am not usually so foolish.

But what with the attack and the escape and Lady Madelaine.

.. perhaps one cannot blame me mind for taking flight and.

.." She almost could not force out the words, though she was not sure why.

"And imagining such a ridiculous past, making up names and whatnot.

Truth to be told, I can barely remember me youth, it was that nondescript. Serene really with—"

"Isobel." His voice was solemn and steady. She took a breath and hoped to hell he believed her lies more readily than he believed her truths.

"Aye?"

"Dollag is dead."

She sat bolt upright, her heart lurching in her chest. "How do you know this?"

"I made a journey last night."

'To Glencroe?" she asked, but now she could see that his shoes were atypically muddy and his plaid stained.

"Aye." He nodded soberly. “To meet with Dollag."

"And she is..." Her heart lurched again. "Did you—"

"I was not the one who killed her."

Her breath stopped in her throat and her lips moved but she found no words for several seconds. Then, "I never imagined you were."

He scowled as if he'd assumed too much, then continued. "She died some years back." His fists tightened then loosened, as if by the greatest of control. "Painfully, I am told."

"Oh. I... I am—"

"Don't say you are sorry!" He jerked to his feet and she started, frightened by the action. "Do not say it, Isobel."

She nodded once and watched him.

"I spoke to those who knew her. They remembered you, also. A wee ragged lass, they said. You were there for some five years or more and then gone. They knew not where, though they said they tried to find out if—"

"Who tried?"

"I believe she was called Dulcie of the Craigs."

"Dulcie," she said, remembering against her will. "She was kind to me."

"Kind?" His fists ground together again and he paced. "She said you oft had bruises and that you seemed forever hungry."

" 'Twas a time she gave me a pigeon pie all for me own," she said and smiled.

"A pie!" he growled. "She knew you were being beaten by Dollag. Indeed, she feared that the hag might have killed you and disposed of your body, and yet she did nothing."

Isobel felt breathless and pale.

"Is that the 'kindness' you endured all those—"

"How?" she asked.

"What?"

"Did Dulcie say how she thought Dollag might have gotten rid of me body?"

He scowled. "Nay, she..." he began, then paused and took a deep breath as he realized her thoughts. "There was no babe."

"What?"

"The Holiers, who fostered you, had no babe after you, and Dollag was never seen with a bairn."

Hot relief flooded her. "She lied, then."

"Aye, there was no babe killed by Dollag, Isobel. No one for you to protect."

"She lied," Bel repeated.

"Aye," he said and watched her with eyes dark with emotion, "but 'twas hardly her greatest sin."

"Nay," she agreed and lifting her gaze to his, forced a laugh and tried to shake off his sympathy. "She stank, too. Like a—"

"Hamish sends his apologies."

She felt the blood drain from her face. "Hamish?"

He flexed his hands and she noticed now that his knuckles were bruised and that the wound above his ear had been reopened.

"You saw Hamish?"

"Aye. He begs your forgiveness for his sins against you and wishes you naught but good."

"You challenged him," she whispered.

"Why do you think so?"

"Hamish was cruel. Cruel and bold and strong as a bull."

"Mayhap he was not so strong as he thought," Gilmour said and paced again, his strides restiess. "Mayhap he was only bold when he tormented wee lassies."

"Did you fight him?"

"Of course not," he said, and scowled. "I thought you knew, I am a lover, not a fighter. Hamish was quite reasonable when I explained things."

"Explained things," she said. “To Hamish."

"Aye," he said and flexed his fists. He almost didn't wince.

She watched the movement. "Why did you fight him?"

"I told you—"

"You bandied with him," she interrupted and scowled, trying to understand. "And since you are still walking, I shall assume that you won. I but wonder why."

A muscle danced in Gilmour's jaw and he turned restlessly away. "We had a difference of opinion."

Her throat felt tight, but she forced out words. "About what?"

"About how wee lassies should be treated." He tightened his fingers on the shutter beside the window before turning to her. "He gave me this for you," he said and held out his closed fist, palm up.

Her gaze caught on his hand. Strong, yet elegant somehow, it was bruised, abraded across the knuckles. She swallowed. Her eyes binned and though she knew better than to try to speak, the words came.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her hands closed tight by her sides.

He said nothing, but reaching for her wrist, drew it upward and turned it. She opened it, breathlessly, and without a word, he dropped a tiny silver shell into her palm.

Her throat closed up and her eyes burned.

"I'm sorry Isobel," he murmured.

She tried to swallow, but she couldn't.

"Don't cry, lass."

"I don't cry."

"Bel," he said and took a step toward her, but a thousand emotions scorched her soul. She turned and fled the room.

Gilmour followed her, racing down the steps in hot pursuit. The door slammed in his face, but he grasped the handle and prepared to yank it open when the innkeeper yelled.

"Ay!" he barked. "You wouldn't be thinking of leaving without paying, would you now?"

Gilmour slowed his breathing and opened his sporran.

By the time he reached the stable, Isobel was pulling up the girth on her mount. "Where are you bound?" he asked.

"To Evermyst," she said.

"Could it not wait until after we break our fast?"

"Nay," she said and when she turned he could see that she had strung the silver shell onto a rough piece of hemp and hung it about her neck. "Anora is in danger."

"Is she?" he said. "Or is it you who are in danger?"

"Me?" Her eyes looked bright and haunted, but she laughed. "Nay. Of course not."

"So you are not afraid."

Unbuckling the horse's head collar, she fitted the bit to the animal's mouth and scowled at him. "Afraid of what? I am no longer a helpless lass, but—"

"Afraid of being loved."

"Loved?" She barked a wild laugh as she mounted. "Is that how you secure your conquests, MacGowan, by making them confuse love and lust?"

"Mayhap," he said and caught her reins just as surely as he caught her gaze with his own. "Mayhap that is why I have had so many lovers, aye, Isobel? Because they mistake emotion for nothing more than physical desire."

"Mayhap," she said, but the word was a whisper.

"But you are not confused," he added, "for you understand love perfectly."

For a moment she failed to speak, but finally she yanked the reins from his hand and pivoted away.

They spent that night in a nunnery. The accommodations were Spartan, but satisfactory. Gilmour slept fitfully and rose with the sun. He assured himself that he was not worried that Isobel would leave without him. Still, his stomach settled at the sight of her, and soon they were off again.

Sometime after noon the clouds banked up in the west and rain began blowing into their faces.

Seeing a crofter's cottage from a hilltop, they headed toward that refuge only to find that the cottage was no more than a ramshackle wall of tumbled stone.

Nevertheless, with the rain worsening, they prepared to spend the night there.

They made a small peat fire, then shared a bit of the provisions they had brought with them.

Reaching across the flame, Gilmour handed her a chunk of stone-ground bread and for a moment their fingers brushed.

Isobel snapped her hand back, nearly dropping the bread in the fire.

Gilmour settled his back against the lone wall and perused her. "Tell me, Bel," he said finally, "what do you recall of the Holiers who fostered you?"

She darted her gaze to his. "Hoping to hear another sad tale, MacGowan?" she asked.

"Hardly that; I merely pass the time."

" 'Tis good," she said, "for the Holiers were naught but kind to me."

"So you remember them well?"

The memories were faint, not more than shadows and light that played across her mind with wisps of quiet voices. But she remembered the laughter. Aye, that she remembered well.

"Her name was Dearling," Bel said finally.

"Dearling." She could feel his gaze on her. "I've not heard that name before."

"Aye well, 'tis what Da called her."

"And what did your da call you, Bel?"

She shrugged. "I imagine he called me by me..." she began, but memories were crowding in, threatening.

"What is it?"

" 'Tis naught," she said, striving for nonchalance, but she could still feel his gaze on his face.

"Have you remembered something?"

"Nay."

Quiet stretched out around them, and it was into that silence that Gilmour spoke.

"Your da," he said, "he called you Dearling too, did he not?"

She shot her gaze to his.

"Of course he would," he said and leaned onto one elbow, still watching her. "For Dearling was not a name at all, but an endearment. He cherished you."

Pain gnawed slowly at her chest, but she ignored it. 'Tell me, MacGowan, why do you glory in dredging up such memories?"

"Fond memories should not hurt," he said as if surprised.

"Then why—" she began, but stopped herself abruptly. "Nay, they do not hurt," she agreed. "I merely asked why you care to shuffle about in them."

" 'Tis simply intriguing to learn what events shaped a soul. Are you not curious about me own growing up years?"

"Nay."

"Well, then," he said and sighed, "we'll simply have to entertain ourselves with your memories, won't we?"

She should have learned by now that no matter how innocuous his statements, there was always a catch with him.

"So he called you Dearling," he said, "and how did he spend his days? Was he a landlord or a merchant or—?"

"He was a leatherwright." She fell silent for a moment as memories crowded in. "Even Dollag had no ill to say of his craftsmanship."

"So he was a fair craftsman?"

"Beyond fair," she said and though she would hate to admit it, a hint of forgotten pride crept into her voice. "Upon their bed was the hide of a ram that he had tanned. 'Twas soft and thick, and when I was afraid they would..."

Silence again, heavy and deep, broken only by the crackle of their fire.

"What did they do, Isobel?"

She caught his gaze then shifted her eyes away. "I would sleep between them at times."

" 'Twas a large bed?"

"No larger than most, I suppose."

"It must have been close quarters then lying between them."

"Aye. Close and warm."

"And safe."

She said nothing.

"And sometimes your mother would stroke your hair and tell you what a bonny lass you were."

Memories crowded in.

"And when the storms raged outside, mayhap your da would tell you wildling tales to put your mind at rest."

"He would sing to drown out the sound of the thunder. And Mum would laugh and cover me ears and say that his singing was surely worse..."

She swallowed hard. They were gone. She was alone, and she did not mind, for it had made her strong.

The fire crackled and hissed when a few wayward drops struck burning embers.

"Tell me, lass..." MacGowan's voice was as deep as the night. "Since the time when you were a wee lass, has there been a time when you were touched?"

"Aye, of course there—"

"Not in anger," he said. "Nor in passing."

"Lady Madelaine was always generous with her—"

"Neither do I speak of passion," he said. "But of touch freely given, with nothing to be gained."

" 'Tis none of your—"

"How long has it been," he asked, "since you trusted?"

It seemed as if her heart were thrumming in her very throat. "Because I do not trust you, MacGowan, does not mean that I do not trust others," she said.

He watched her in silence.

She swallowed and hurried her gaze back to the flame. "When trust is warranted, I trust."

"Do you?"

"Aye."

"Then what have I done to shun your trust, Isobel?"

She stared at him, and he was beautiful, his eyes solemn, his hands mesmerizing, and his body so alluring every fiber in her body begged for his attention.

"You are afraid of me, Isobel," he murmured. "Afraid that if I touch you again you'll be unable to live without it. Afraid that once you have lain with me you'll die without me in your bed."

She laughed. "You are vain beyond words."

"Mayhap." He smiled, then, without warning, he leaned close. She held her breath as his lips touched hers and she trembled to her very soul. "But I am also right," he whispered and rising to his feet, left her alone.