Page 49

Gilmour awoke some time later. It felt cool in the room and dank. Shifting slightly, he realized wee Mary still lay in his arms. Claude had left sometime before, her brown eyes wide, but her brow untroubled.

Near his bed, the candle flickered in a wayward draft. Perhaps it was Senga, he thought, and smiled as he stroked Mary's golden locks. She was safe. Isobel was well. Even Claude had arrived unscathed. Thus, all was right, for Ramsay would not return to find that those he cherished had been lost.

He would return. Gilmour was certain of it.

Ramsay was too surly, too obstinate to be lost forever.

And then there was the matter of Anora. Not while he lived would Ram allow evil to befall his bride.

Therefore, Gilmour simply had to make certain all they held dear still prospered upon their return.

He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to find assurance in the babe's closeness. Wee Mary was safe, he repeated, but as the thought passed through his mind, she wriggled closer as if chilled.

Gilmour snuggled the child against him. The small infirmary, which usually seemed so warm, felt strangely cool just now, and surely a draft would do the babe no good.

He'd best return her to her own bed. Carefully scooping the wee cherub onto his hale arm, Gilmour rose to his feet and stepped into the hallway.

Despite his thoughts to the contrary, it was not yet late. Companionable voices sounded from the great hall, and though he was not usually the sort to avoid an ale and a good yarn, he did so now, turning down a dim hallway toward the nursery.

Stepping through that doorway, he bent carefully and placed the bairn into her cradle before drawing the woolens up around her.

He prepared to leave then, but in that instant the babe opened her eyes with a startled cry.

Dropping to his knees, he rocked the tiny bed back and forth and sang to her in Gaelic.

The tiny body relaxed, the sleepy eyes fell closed, but for several moments Mour could not leave.

Instead, he crouched over her and whispered a prayer of safety for this night and always.

"Laird MacGowan."

Startled, Gilmour looked toward Helena.

"What be you doing here?" she whispered.

"Wee Mary sleeps," he said, keeping his voice low as he rose somewhat sheepishly to his feet. "I thought it best to return her here."

"But you should not have left your own bed. I came to fetch her. And when I found her gone—" She lifted a quivering hand to her vast bosom as words failed her.

"All is well, Helena. Fear not."

"Aye," she said and nodded quickly as she shuffled forward to huddle over the cradle for an elongated moment. "All is well because of you." She glanced up, her faded eyes filled with tears. "And for that I owe you an endless debt."

"You owe me nothing."

" 'Twas me own folly that..." For a moment she could not go on. " 'Twas me own fault that she was endangered."

"It'll do no good to dwell on it."

"So it is true," she whispered and stared at him, her eyes wide with fear.

"What is true?"

"You are as your brother," she said, and lifting her overskirt, buried her face in the soiled folds to sob.

Gilmour stared at her in perplexity.

"There now," he soothed uneasily. "What is amiss?"

"Do you not see?" she asked, glancing up. " 'Tis the prophesy come true again. Always I knew you were loving and beloved. One glance at your bonny smile told me true." She sniffled as she stared at him. "But now I fear you have the other attributes, as well."

"Other—"

"Peace and power and cunning and kindness," she said. "You possess them all, me laird."

Smiling, he reached out to wipe a tear from the old woman's plump cheek. "I am flattered, but I do not understand why you would find such an idea distressing. Surely this would be a good—"

"Do you not understand?" she asked, her voice anguished. "You have become our champion."

He tried to discern her meaning, but gave up with a shake of his head.

"Another hero to save Evermyst," she explained impatiently. "Another hero to wed a Fraser bride. And though I cherish Isobel, I cannot bear to lose..." She collapsed into tears again, scrunching her skirt against her reddened face.

"Helena, calm yourself," he soothed. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"I know the truth," she stuttered.

Gilmour wished he could say as much. "You do?"

She nodded miserably. "Wee Isobel," Helena whispered, her voice strained from crying. "She is me lady's sister true born."

"Ah." Was there anyone at Evermyst who didn't know the truth? "So you know that, do you?"

"Aye. I am not so foolish as old Meara thinks."

He smiled fondly. "Indeed not, but why does this make you so unhappy?"

"Isobel has been sent to us here at Evermyst," she said as if everything was ultimately obvious. "And you to wed her."

In truth, he couldn't have been more surprised if she had told him he'd been send to draw the sun into the sky each morning, and no less sure of his ability to achieve that end. "I?" he asked, spreading a hand across his chest. "I was sent to wed Isobel?"

"Of course. 'Tis clear that you long for her."

"If that were true, why would this concern you?"

"Because she has been sent to replace her sister and you to replace your brother now that they are..." Words failed her and Mour grasped her arm in one hand.

"Helena," he said, "hear me now. Me brother is not dead.

Neither is his bride." Fear curdled his stomach, but he could not believe, would not believe that they were gone forever.

They were the brother rogues; naught could defeat him.

But even as the thought passed through his mind he said a silent prayer.

"Ramsay is alive," he said, tightening his grip on her arm.

"And he shall soon return with his bride. "

"Do you think so?" she whispered, glancing up through watery eyes.

"Aye," he said, "and when they do, they shall find that all is well here at Evermyst."

"But—"

He tightened his grip. "All must be well," he said and fought down the desperation in his voice. "Thus I need you to care for wee Mary."

"But I have f-failed."

"You have not failed," he said. "And you shall not. Now brace yourself woman, for Evermyst cannot survive without you."

She sniffled and straightened slightly. "You are kind, me laird."

"And bonny, too," he said and grinned. "But don't let it set you crying again or you'll wake the babe."

Helena chuckled sloppily and in the hallway Isobel blanched. It could not be true, she thought in a panic. He had not been sent to fulfill the prophesy. She was not a true Fraser and she did not want him, did not need—

She heard his footsteps approach, and stepped rapidly into a shadowed doorway. Fool! Surely she would be found, for he would walk right past her on his return to the infirmary.

It took only a moment, however, to realize that she was wrong. That he had gone in the opposite direction.

Scowling, she peeked out from behind the stone wall to watch his retreating back. Where was he going at this late hour? Could it be that he was planning some mischief even now? Could it be that he only saved the babe so that they would trust him all the more?

He was cunning, after all. Even Stout Helena admitted that.

And mayhap that was his ploy, to win the hearts of the people and take his brother's place here at lofty Evermyst. Mayhap he even planned to do just as Helena had suggested—to take Bel for a bride so that the castle would be rightfully his. But it would not work.

Stepping from her hiding place, Isobel padded silently down the hallway behind Mour, and when she saw that he did not turn aside either for the great hall or the kitchens, she hurried her steps.

It was only a few minutes until she peeked around a corner and found him standing at the door to the master chamber, the very chamber where she had tried to rest only minutes before.

He raised his hand as if to knock, then drew his fist back to his side, and turned away.

Isobel ducked rapidly out of sight, but there was no need, for in a moment she heard the sound of her door being opened.

He was entering her chambers.

How dare he go inside uninvited! Then she remembered that less than a full hour before she had sneaked down to the infirmary to spy on him.

It was not that she was drawn to him, of course.

Nor that the sight of him with wee Mary made her heart ache.

Nay, she had no deep feelings for either him or the babe.

'Twas simply that she needed to observe him in secret in order to determine his true motives.

But he had been fast asleep. His sable lashes had fallen closed and his hair, soft as the babe's, had curled about the corded strength of his throat.

The feather that always adorned his single braid lay beside Mary's parted lips and fluttered softly with each quiet sigh.

But it was the sight of the babe's hand atop his arm that had held Isobel hidden there for long minutes.

Each perfect, ivory digit was spread upon the dark muscle near his elbow, and as she watched, it seemed almost that the babe had placed her hand there just so to feel the strength of him, to feel the safety, to know that despite every evil that threatened her world, he was there to keep her well.

But wee Mary was only a babe, and did not know that often those who profess to care for you are those who wound you the worst. She had yet to learn not to trust. But perhaps, with this man near she would not have to—

Nay. Isobel halted the thought. Fools trusted and fools died, and she was not a fool.

And what the devil was MacGowan still doing in Anora's chamber? Though large by comparison, the rooms were hardly so immense that it would take him this long to—