Page 54

A throng filled the great hall of Evermyst.

Gilmour's sister Shona stood near the corner, laughing with her cousins as their children played nearby. They were a noisy lot, but for Sara's wee Maggie, who sat out of the way, stroking a hound that looked like a wolf and whispering earnestly to Claude.

Not far away Gilmour's parents mingled with a host of old friends and new. But it was to Isobel that Mour's attention always strayed.

She was there, in the center of the hall, as radiant as the sunrise, as beautiful as spring.

They were wed, truly and forever. Gilmour tried to adjust to the realization, but it took some doing, for his heart could hardly believe his good fortune.

"Mour."

He jerked back to the conversation at hand. "What's that?"

Ramsay grinned. He and Anora had nearly drowned when they'd first been attacked by Winbourne's men, but they had managed to escape, only to be caught again.

It was during the ensuing battle that he had been wounded, but since then he'd spent a good deal of time abed.

Rarely had his wife left his side, and that time seemed to have done much to improve both his health and his disposition. "I said, 'twas a fine wedding."

"Ahh." Mour nodded. Where was she now? Oh yes, she was speaking to the Munro, he realized, and scowled.

He had spent too much time apart from her during his recovery.

It had taken weeks for his arm to heal, for he'd dislocated it again, and recuperation had given him too much time to think, to dream about the night to come.

"I am glad you could attend," Lachlan said.

Gilmour jerked his attention back to his brothers and they laughed.

"He seems a bit distracted, does he not, brother?" Lachlan asked.

"Aye, he does that," Ramsay agreed. "Not so glib on this night of nights."

"Nor so cocky as usual."

The Munro was laughing as he lowered his head toward Isobel. Gilmour's finger twitched.

"Mayhap our wee brother is nervous," Ramsay suggested.

"Nervous?" Gilmour said with a start. "Why would I be?"

They chuckled again and Gilmour grinned. "Ahh well, we cannot all be so worldly wise as you, Ram."

" 'Tis true," Ramsay agreed.

"Nor as lucky as you," Mour added and turned his smile on Lachlan.

"Lucky?" Lachlan grumbled, already on the defensive.

"Aye," Gilmour said, all innocence. "I heard that you were saved by another from sure death."

"Humm." Lachlan shifted his gaze around the hall. "The warrior who led us to the battle," he said, and found the lad called Hunter standing alone near the door. "He is not much to look at."

It was true. He was neither tall nor particularly brawny, but there was a soberness to him, a reticence that warned of caution.

" 'Tis said he carried you unconscious from the firth to the keep," Gilmour added.

"Aye," Lachlan admitted, "although I would have been fine on me own, mind."

"Of course," Ramsay agreed.

"Aye." Gilmour concurred. "Still, 'twas good of him to carry an ingrate like you all that way."

Lachlan looked taken aback. "Who here is an ingrate?" he asked. "I thanked him." He scowled. "A bloody lot of good it did, though. He will barely say three words in return."

"Ahh well. Maybe that's because..." Gilmour shrugged. "He's a woman."

A moment of silence was observed. Then, "What?" Lachlan snapped.

Gilmour turned his gaze to his bride again, then back to his brother. "The warrior. Your champion. He's a woman," he said and strode off to greet his guests.

"I am glad you came," Isobel said, and the Munro grunted.

"You thought I would not?"

"I admit that I have thought some evil against you."

His brows scrunched over his narrow eyes.

"When I saw you at the inn with MacGow... with me husband, I thought that you planned some trouble."

He tensed. "But now you know better?"

"He would not tell me your purpose there."

"Aye, well that is best, for I'd hate to kill him on his wedding day."

"Perhaps you could tell us then, Laird Munro."

He turned at the sound of a woman's voice then widened his eyes at the sight of Lady Madelaine. "Who are you?"

The lady raised her brows at him. "I am someone who knows bad manners when she sees them."

He scowled, immediately offended. "You are uncommonly outspoken for a woman with no protector at hand."

"And you are uncommonly large for... anything."

"Aye. I am," he snarled and squeezed his hands to fists.

Isobel tensed.

Madelaine smiled. "Everywhere?" she asked.

"Lady Mad—" Isobel gasped, but Madelaine turned a haughty expression on the girl.

"I understand that your new position at Evermyst allows you some rein," said Madelaine. "But run along now, Belva. Innes and I have things to discuss."

Isobel stepped closer. " 'Tis a fragile peace that exists between the Frasers and the Munros," she murmured. "I would not have you—"

"Do you know his secret yet?" Madelaine interrupted.

"What?"

"Your husband's secret. Do you know it yet?"

"Mour's?"

The lady's brows raised again. "Do you have another husband?"

"Nay, I—"

"Do not fret." Madelaine smiled knowingly as she placed a hand on the Munro's massive arm. "You will find out soon enough," she said and glanced toward the women, who hurried to escort Isobel to her wedding bed.

"Ho, the rogue of the rogues!" shouted the crowd, and hoisted the bridegroom into the air.

A hundred voices echoed through the keep as lascivious suggestions were shouted and Gilmour was borne from the great hall and up the stairs to his chambers. The chambers he would share with Isobel.

Gilmour's throat felt strangely dry. In truth, the past month was a blur in his mind.

Somehow the battle at the firth had been won, even though he'd made a dozen mistakes.

He should have recognized Winbourne's men at the Duke's Inn.

He should have realized the evil in the man.

He should have questioned Ailis and known that she had told Winbourne Isobel's true identity.

The two of them would bother Bel no more, for the baron was dead and Ailis had left the village, but he could have avoided much hardship if his wits had been sharper.

“To Gilmour!" someone bellowed.

A host of cheers followed as he was jostled down a narrow hallway. They were almost there.

"And to his lady!" someone else yelled. "Who will surely benefit from his years of practice this night."

There were loud guffaws as he was tipped toward the floor. The mob was well into their cups and Gilmour had to scramble to gain his feet.

"Perhaps we should stay," yelled another, "and see the deed done right."

Gilmour grinned and raised a hand. "I would dearly love to assist you in your quest for knowledge," he said, "but I fear there are some things that must be learned on one's own." He cleared his throat, and his hand was somewhat unsteady against the door latch. "Good night to you, lads."

Well wishes were bellowed amidst a bevy of foolish suggestions, but as Gilmour opened the door, the crowd began to disperse.

He stepped inside. The room was dim. A single candle flickered by the window, casting its golden glow upon the woman in the bed.

"Good eventide," she said, her voice low.

Gilmour managed to shut the door. "Good eventide," he answered, and remained by the portal. "They, ahh..." He nodded toward the hallway from whence he had just come. "The lads thought mayhap we should spend this night together."

"Did they?" Her hair had been loosed about her ivory shoulders. Candlelight gilded the soft waves and cast a pink hue to her cheeks. Or perhaps it was a blush.

He moved a step closer.

" 'Twas a fine wedding," he said, although in truth he barely remembered it. He had almost lost her, but he would not be so careless again.

"Aye. 'Twas," she agreed.

"I was surprised Lady Madelaine made the journey to share in the festivities."

"I fear she has plans for the Munro."

"About the Munro..." He cleared his throat. "The thought has occurred to me that if I had been honest with you from the start, mayhap we could have avoided some hardship."

"Honest?" she asked.

"About me reasons for being with him at the Lion. Mayhap if I had shared the truth you could have trusted me sooner."

"Nay," she said and glanced at her hands on the coverlet.

"For I could not let meself trust." She paused for a moment as she fiddled with the blanket.

"I could not let meself be like all the others who swooned for you, and ye.

.." She shrugged. "From the first I longed for you, but I dared not let you know.

I tried to believe that you were involved in Anora's disappearance.

Indeed, I felt a MacGowan was there when she nearly drowned.

But it was Ramsay, and I suspect I would have known that if I'd let meself.

I tried to believe you were selfish and superstitious and—"

"Vain," he finished.

"You are vain," she countered and he grinned.

"Mayhap I owe the Munro me thanks," he said. "After all, it was he who led me to your door."

"And all because he wished to learn to woo a maid."

"You knew our reasons all along?" he asked, stepping toward her.

"Nay," she said. "I just found out this night. Rhone told me."

He stared at her, perplexed.

"The warrior," she explained. "I believe you call him Hunter. On a night some weeks back, I asked him to find out what evil you and Munro were plotting."

" 'Twas Hunter you met with by the Mill?"

"You followed me?"

There was a note of outrage in her voice, so he grinned, hoping to disarm her. Tonight would be a poor time for an argument.

"I had to," he explained. "For I feared you were planning a tryst."

"Perhaps I was," she said, and he smiled. "There have been men who adored me in the past, even if I have not had so many conquests as you."

The smile dropped from Mour's face. "About that," he said, and took another step toward the bed.

She looked like a wee angel just sent from heaven, for she wore naught but a voluminous white gown.

It lay loose at the shoulders, with the open ties falling with casual greed across her bonny breasts.

His throat felt dry. He should have told her the truth long ago.

"Isobel, there have been many women who—"

"You needn't tell me the number," she said softly, but her voice was a bit forlorn. "So long as I am the last."

He seated himself on the edge of the bed, facing her. "You will be the last, Bel, that I swear. But—"

"Then that is enough."

"Nay. I must say this, so that you know." He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. "There have been many women who were—"

She kissed him. Heat suffused him, rattling his wits, and he pulled back quickly, lest he lose his nerve.

"Bel," he said. "I am untried."

Her mouth opened, but no words came, and her hps remained parted for a moment. "What's that?"

He winced as he drew her hand into his. "The truth is this, lass," he said and stroked her wrist. "Never have I bedded a woman."

Some sound escaped her throat. He wasn't certain what it was, exactly.

"But the tales of..." she began.

He shrugged. "Just tales, I fear. I have always admired women—many woman—and they seem to be... rather fond of me, but there was never one who..." He lost all words for an instant. "Who I wished to live out me days with."

"You're a virgin!"

" 'Tis not as bad as all that," he said, taken aback. "I realize the groom is expected to have a bit of experience. But I truly doubt if I am incapable of learning the—"

She wrapped her fingers in his doublet and kissed him again. Desire roared through him. With a groan, he pressed her back upon the pillows.

Her fingers were busy on his buttons, and in a moment his doublet lay open. He moaned at the feel of her hand against his chest then gently suckled her bottom lip. She trembled, and in an instant his brooch was undone from his tartan.

He kissed her throat, her shoulder, the tiny v where her pulse beat like thunder.

She groaned, but her hands had already slipped to his belt.

Slowly, reverently, he slid his palm down her shoulder, scooping the gown away from her pearlescent flesh and kissing every satiny inch revealed. Dear heavens, she was perfect. He slipped one finger along the edge of her gown then followed the ribbon down, down, over her nipple.

It was that which most fascinated him. That nipple, just below the fabric. So close. He leaned in and gently kissed it.

She gasped as her hands tightened against his belt.

"Dammit, MacGowan." She yanked at his buckle. "Are you going to help me with this thing, or am I going to have to find someone with more experience?"

He growled, lowered his hands to his belt, and ripped it away.

His plaid was gone in a second. Her hands felt hot and nervous as they grasped his tunic. Their gazes met as she pulled it up, skimming the fabric along his abdomen, up his chest, over his head. And then he was naked.

He leaned toward her, aching with need, but she pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back as she ran her gaze down his hard muscled form.

"What do you want now, Bel?" he asked, his voice deep and low.

"Me?" She moved her gaze slowly up his rippled torso. "I want what all women want," she whispered. "I want Mour."