Page 51

Isobel turned, her heart pounding. "Is this how you manage to deflower all your scores of virtuous maids?"

Gilmour didn't move, but stood watching her as if perplexed. "Are you saying we are locked in?"

"Do you pretend to be surprised?"

His brows rose with his grin, which lifted one corner of his tantalizing mouth. "You think I planned this?"

She rattled the latch. "How else would it have become locked?"

"Mayhap it was Senga's doing. Or else 'twas you what locked the door."

"What?"

"You want me, Bel, but you are afraid to admit it. Mayhap this is your way of having me while yet denying your desire."

"You are surely daft!"

"And you are afraid. But I will not hurt you."

"I am not afraid of you."

"Then come hither."

"Just because I am not afraid does not mean that I will lie with you."

He laughed. "And just because I can, does not mean that I will."

She scowled.

"Come away from the door. Do you know where we are?"

She glanced about. "In the heart of the mountain."

"I believe 'twas your mother's secret chambers."

"What? Why?"

Turning, he paced to the nearby trunk then crouched to lift something from the ironbound box. The contents were flat and draped with blue velvet. The fabric fell away, and Isobel saw that it had covered a portrait.

Gilmour lifted it into the light so she could see the painting of a young girl. Her gown was an emerald hue, her hair bright as gold, and in her eyes there was happiness.

"Anora," she sighed, taking the portrait.

But Gilmour shook his head. "Look again, lass."

She scowled at him then turned her gaze back to the portrait. It was then that she saw the tiny silver shell that hung from her wee neck.

" 'Tis me," she breathed.

"Aye."

"But the Holiers did not have the funds to commission—"

" 'Twas your mother," Mour said. "She knew your whereabouts and made sure of your safety."

"How do you know?"

"Because she cherished you, lass, and she commissioned this portrait to remember you by."

Isobel's eyes stung. " 'Twas guilt for sending me away."

" 'Twas love, Isobel, whether you can admit it or nay."

"Then why did she not..."

"Rescue you?" he asked.

She nodded against her will. As she stared at the small girl in the portrait, she could not help but remember the years that followed. Years of terror and hunger and dark hopelessness. If ever there was a child that needed rescuing, it had been she. And perhaps she still did.

"Evermyst was in turmoil," he said, his voice soft. "The Munros were hammering at its very door, and your mother... it must not have been much later when she died."

Isobel's stomach twisted. "All the trouble she went through to make certain her daughters were not accused of witchcraft, only to be accused of that very thing herself."

"I am sorry, Bel," he said.

She raised her chin. "Nay. There is naught—"

"Do not say it, lass," he interrupted, his soft tone full of emotion. "Do not deny the pain. You should have been cherished. You should have been held close and had the treasures of Evermyst for your own."

"What treasures?" she asked and forcing a laugh, bent to reach into the ancient trunk.

A second velvet bound portrait came away in her hand.

"A pair of paintings of lassies torn apart at birth?

" she asked, but just then the velvet slipped away to reveal the portrait beneath.

The oil was not of Isobel, but of a fair-haired lad.

He was approximately the same age as the girl in the other frame, but where her mouth bore a whimsical smile, his was turned down beneath eyes of blue intensity. And about his neck hung a silver shell.

Isobel caught her breath even as Gilmour moved closer.

"Did your mother bear a son?"

She shook her head, her fingers tingling. "Nay," she whispered. "She would not have given up a lad." She shook her head, feeling dizzy. "Nay, she would have wanted a son."

The stone chamber fell silent. "Is that what you think, Isobel? That she gave you up because she did not want you?"

"Nay." She yanked her gaze from the portrait and shook her head. "Of course not. 'Twas because she could not keep me safe. This I know."

"Aye, you know it with your mind," Gilmour said. "But what of your heart?"

Her heart wanted to weep, to cry for the tiny girl in the emerald gown. "Me heart is well," she said and placed the portrait back in the trunk to rise.

"She cherished you, Bel," he repeated.

She stood, feeling restless. "And how do you know that, MacGowan?"

He rose and towered over her. "Because I know you."

She felt the blood drain from her face.

"Who is there who could resist loving you?"

"There are a few," she said, her throat tight.

"Dollag?" he asked.

She turned away. "To name one."

"She was evil, Isobel. Warped by pain and circumstances. It does not mean you are unlovable."

"Unlovable?" She laughed. "I never thought I was."

"Didn't you?"

"Nay," she said, but it was difficult to force out that simple denial.

"So you have felt the touch of love?"

"Of course."

"By whom?"

" 'Tis none of your affair, MacGowan."

"By whom, Bel?"

Her mind scrambled. "Me sister loves me."

"Aye." He nodded. "That she does, lass. And yet you fled."

"I did not."

"Then why did you leave Evermyst—this place you might have called home?"

"I grew weary of the sameness of the days."

"And thus you left the only person who cherished you or whom you cherished in return?"

It was difficult to breathe. "I do not know what you speak of."

"Don't you?" he asked and stepped closer. "What is the real reason for your departure?"

She felt trapped, terrified. "Leave me be, MacGowan. You are forever baiting me. Perhaps you are the reason I left."

"Aye." He nodded. "Meself and Anora. The two who love you."

She gasped a breath and fell back a pace as if struck, but he did not follow her.

"What did you think, Bel? That I spend me days pursuing every lass I meet?"

"Aye. You are the rogue," she whispered.

"Even a rogue must meet his match," he said and reached for her.

She stumbled out of his embrace, breathing hard. "Nay."

"Believe what you will of others," he said. "But know this. If you will have me, I will not fail you. Not today or for all time. I will cherish only—"

"Nay! Quit your lies! I do not wish to hear them."

"Isobel—" He reached for her again, but she slapped his hand away. "There is no need to fear," he said and stepped closer.

"I do not love you," she said, and he stopped where he stood. "Nor shall I. Not today or ever."

"Do not say things you will regret, lass."

"Regret?" She laughed. "I will tell you what I regret, MacGowan. I regret ever meeting you. I regret every moment we have spent together, for I know the truth."

He stood very still, his face expressionless. "And what is the truth, lass?"

"You have no caring for others. 'Tis all a farce, for 'tis you who has taken me sister and plans to reign over Evermyst."

He said nothing for several seconds. "Is that truly what you believe?"

She could barely breathe, could not possibly think. "Aye," she whispered.

"Me apologies, then," he said and bowing at the waist, turned toward the door. For a moment the latch resisted, but the tendons in his wrist tightened and the door sprang open, listing on one leather hinge as he strode away.

The air left Isobel's lungs in a rash. She felt sick to her stomach, dizzy in her head, and suddenly the room seemed too small, stifling.

She rushed out of it, but she could not bear to see him, could not return to Evermyst. She pivoted to the right, down toward the water's edge. She would find solace there, peace.

It was as dark as death in the passageway, but she did not care. She had to escape, get away, forget.

But from the end of the hall she heard a noise.

The guard. She slowed her course. It was as dark as sin down here.

Not a lantern was lit, for even though the passage was well hidden, they would not risk a light.

Pausing, she listened, but all she heard was the lap of waves against the roots of Evermyst. Then, when she strained her ears, she could hear the guard's quiet breaths.

He slept, so she crouched low beneath the stone arch and passed on silent feet before him, around the curve of rock and out into the open.

Moonlight fell softly on the face of the water, gilding the waves.

She took a deep breath of night air and found her way around the steep roots of Evermyst. Not far from the escape route was her favored spot in all the world.

The place where she and Anora had oft gone together.

'Twas there that her feet took her now, winding down the side of Evermyst until she came to a quiet inlet.

Nearly surrounded by the mountain's towering heights, the water here was still and hidden.

Here it was quiet, soothing, and it dawned on her suddenly that she should have found her way here sooner, should have found this place where memories of Anora lived so strong.

She would sit a while and let the images come to her—but in that instant she heard a noise.

It was only the slightest crackle of sound, and yet she froze, fear skittering wildly up her spine as she turned.

"Isobel," said a voice. "You have come."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Who goes there?"

For a moment not a soul moved, and then, from the deepest shadows, a figure stepped forth.