Page 47

Gilmour stood on the grassy slope beside Evermyst's towering heights.

Isobel had left the keep in a creaking dray sometime earlier, had accompanied Stout Helena and wee Mary, escorted by Tree down the tortuous trail toward the village.

But upon reaching the level plain below, the women had dismounted with the babe and foraged out upon the warm, sun-dappled grassland in an apparent search for wild herbs.

Who was Isobel, really? Gone were the bright garments she had worn in Henshaw. Once again she was garbed in a weathered gown and sloppy coif, but it made little difference, for he had seen beyond her ragged clothing to the woman beneath.

From directly above them, he watched her bend and pluck up some unknown plant, watched Helena set wee Mary on the ground not far away.

Dressed in a cherry red shift, the child sat upon the turf and gazed into the sun as Helena presented her with a flower.

She giggled and smiled, displaying tiny, bright teeth.

The sight soothed his soul somehow. Still, questions nagged at him.

Where were Anora and Ramsay, and what did Isobel know of their disappearance?

He had always believed that she cared for her sister. But if such was the case, why did she not mourn? Why did she not worry? There was no way for her to be certain of Anora's whereabouts unless she herself had ordained them.

Scowling, Gilmour raised his gaze as he caught a flash of movement on the road that wound from the south toward Evermyst. At this distance he could not tell who it was, someone on horseback perhaps.

Minutes ticked by. The traveler came closer. It was two horses. Gilmour straightened, his heart beating faster. Could it be Ramsay and Anora? But nay. He saw now that only one horse was ridden, and that by a tiny person, too small to be Anora.

Francois! He recognized his steed suddenly and saw Stout Helena straighten as she shielded her eyes to gaze in the direction of the road. Isobel turned, paused, then rushed up the hill toward the rider.

In that instant, Mour realized the traveler was Claude, mounted astride Francois, and following behind was Isobel's mare.

Gilmour laughed out loud and prepared to descend the rocky stairs toward them, but in that instant a cool draft of air swept over him.

It shivered up his spine, raising the hair at the back of his neck.

He turned with stiff premonition to scan the figures far below, but all seemed well.

Isobel was already reaching for Claude's hand.

Helena was making her way through the heather toward the newcomer, and wee Mary.

.. Like a blow to his throat, his breath stopped.

Mary was gone. Disappeared! But nay, there she was.

Thrilled by her newfound freedom, she had followed a butterfly's course and pulled herself to her feet at the edge of the rushing water of the firth.

Terror gripped him even as he bellowed her name.

Everything seemed strangely slow, after that. He saw Mary look up, saw Isobel glance toward him, then away. He heard her shriek the baby's name in sheer terror, but even as she bolted toward the child, it seemed as if her movements were mired in time.

Wee Mary started violently, and then, like a mug set atremble, she tumbled backward, striking her bottom on the edge of the cliff, then rolling inexorably toward the water.

Mour saw the waves splash skyward, white and frothy.

He heard Isobel's scream echo Helena's, but the child was already gone beneath the restless waters, being swept relentlessly downstream.

Sunlight glinted golden off the tip of a wave.

Isobel raced on, but the water's edge was a lifetime away.

Directly below him, Gilmour thought he saw a flash of red.

In an instant he was at the cliff's edge, and for a heartbeat he remained.

And then he was falling, tumbling hopelessly toward the sea.

The water struck him like a stone wall then closed around him, sucking him in.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Panic clawed at his gut, but off to his left a streak of red caught his eye.

Mary! Her memory tore aside the terror, and he turned, fighting his way through the tumultuous waters.

There! Red again. He tried to pull himself toward it. But suddenly it was gone. He turned about, trying to find her, but frothy water was everywhere, stinging his throat, burning his lungs.

Air! He needed air, but in his mind's eye he saw the child's limp form. He heard the weeping, felt the despair. Desperate, he turned again, and there, not two rods away he saw a flash of color.

Clawing through the water, he pulled himself toward it. Gone. Gone again, and his lungs were bursting. But there it was again! He reached out, and his hand closed around something, but the current crashed against him. A burst of pain blasted at his shoulder. Agony crushed his chest.

He could think of nothing but air now. Where was it? Up. But where was up? Frantic, he tore through the water. But there was no hope. Only pain. Only white, burning pain swirling around him, blasting his mind and pulling him down into the screaming abyss.

Gilmour thrashed into awareness, trying to reach the surface, his lungs burning.

"MacGowan! Lie still."

He jerked again, reeling in hopelessness, but reality settled slowly around him. He was no longer beneath the waves. No longer dying. He took a deep breath. The air burned his lungs, but it was air and not the aching brine.

He turned and realized that he was lying in Evermyst's infirmary.

"MacGowan." Isobel's voice was quieter now, but her face, when he focused on it, was as pale as death. Memories stormed back; Mary beneath the waves, her tiny body pummeled just beyond his grasp.

"Mary—" The name tore at his throat. Terror ripped at his heart. "Did you find her?"

Isobel stared at him. Her face seemed bleached of all color but for the stark blue of her eyes.

"Nay." He shook his head, disavowing her sorrow. "Nay!" he groaned and closing his eyes, swept his arm across his face, shutting out the world.

"MacGowan." He felt her hands on his arm, but he pushed her away, not able to look into her face.

"Leave me be," he ordered, but she touched his arm again.

"MacGowan, wee Mary is well."

The world seemed to halt around him. He tried a careful breath then slowly opened his eyes. They stung, as did his throat.

"She is well," Isobel repeated. " 'Twas you who saved her."

He searched for words, for belief, but nothing came for a moment.

"Do you lie?" he asked.

"Nay."

He tried to reach for her, but his arm did not move and he glanced down, distracted.

"Healer said..." Isobel began then grimaced, making the teardrop glitter in a shaft of light that fell through the high, narrow window. "Healer said it had been yanked out of place."

He scowled, first at the bandage that bound his arm to his chest, then at her.

"Your arm," she said. " 'Twas not in its socket. But she says it will mend well."

Memories blurred in his mind. Water, terror, pain, but nothing of bearing wee Mary to shore.

"It took Tree some time to pry your fingers from her clothing." She cleared her throat. "It seems they had locked in the fabric before you fell unconscious."

He shook his head. "I didn't reach shore."

"Nay, but you had reached the surface and were easy to find. While Mary..." Her mouth twitched and her next words were barely audible. "I could not get to her."

He realized suddenly that she was wet, her gown hanging heavy and damp from her narrow shoulders.

It made her look all the more fragile. "You should remove those garments," he said and felt strangely heavy himself, as though he were still weighed down by the water.

As though his mind was working with unusual slowness.

She said nothing.

He scowled. "You are certain she is well?"

"Aye."

He remained silent for a moment. "Was it you who saved me?"

"I was not strong enough. Tree pulled you out." She cleared her throat. "You brought Mary with you... though you were not awake."

"Why aren't you with her now?"

She wrung her hands. "I wish to know why—"

" 'Tis enough now." A harsh voice cut her off, and Gilmour raised his gaze. The movement made his head swim, but he focused on the familiar face of Evermyst's physician. "Rest now, me laird," she said. " 'Tis bad enough that we have lost your brother."

"Why do you—" Isobel began, but Healer stopped her.

"Quit now, girl," she insisted. "Can you not see the debt we owe Laird Gilmour?"

He watched Isobel as she backed away from him. She said nothing, only stared for a moment longer, then turned and slipped from the room.

"Isobel."

Bel turned at the sound of her name, but did not remove her hands from the dough she was kneading.

Two days had passed since MacGowan had saved Mary.

She hadn't seen either of them since. Indeed, she had said little more to Claude, who had slept almost continuously since her arrival. "What is it, Meara?"

"Laird Gilmour is in need of ale."

Isobel shifted her gaze to a nearby maid who was just swinging a steaming pot away from the fire.

"Clarinda," she said. "Might you—"

"Clarinda is busy," Meara said. " 'Tis you who must fetch it for him."

"The bread needs—"

"I care not what the bread needs," Meara interrupted. " 'Tis your task to do. After all, he saved your lady's child. The least you can do is bring him a mug to quench his thirst before he sleeps."

Something akin to fear curled in Isobel's stomach, but she raised her chin and looked the old woman in the eye. "I do not take orders from you, Meara of the Fold."

The old woman's grizzled brows rose as if shot from a cannon. "Don't you now, lassie?"

"Nay," she said and returned her gaze to her dough. "I do not. Take him the ale yourself if you're so convinced with his needs."

The old woman was silent for a moment, then, "So you are ready to declare yourself?"