Page 6

"Munro! What the devil are you doing here?"

Gilmour rasped, but memories of the night before were already rushing back. Not enough room at the inn. They'd been forced to share, and somewhere in his desire maddened dreams, he'd made a foul mistake.

"I'll tell you what I'm doing lad, I'm preparing to kill me first MacGowan," growled the giant, and in that moment Mour realized that the man's right hand was well out of sight. "One more move and the rogue of the rogues will trouble maids no more."

Gilmour lowered his gaze ever so slowly. It was no great surprise to find the Munro's fist wrapped about his much favored dirk.

"I preferred the dream," Mour said, watching the knife.

"You were dreaming?" Munro's tone sounded doubtful.

Gilmour raised his brows. "You thought me awake?"

No answer was forthcoming.

"I've no wish to offend you, Munro, but you're not me usual type."

"If I thought otherwise you'd be propositioning the devil this very minute!" snarled the Munro.

"That seems more than just," Gilmour said and found that his ardor could cool quite quickly when in the proper company.

The last golden memory of Isobel fled his misty brain, and he backed out of bed, fully dressed and immensely happy to realize it.

"In fact, methinks it would be preferable to die by your hand than to have others learn of me mistake. "

The Munro scowled, still holding his knife at the ready as though not quite certain Gilmour could control his passion for his oversized and somewhat aromatic bed mate. "So you'll be telling no one?"

Gilmour wondered vaguely who he would ever want to share such news with. He cleared his throat. "No one comes to mind."

Munro's scowl deepened as he too backed from bed. "I'll have your vow."

"You have me word of honor." And that was the truth.

The Munro glared one more instant, then nodded and slipped his dirk grouchily into his boot sheath. It was then that Mour realized the giant had worn his boots to bed, but truly—the more clothing available in their present situation, the better, he thought, and turned gratefully away.

"Who did you dream of?"

Gratitude fled, for events had been humiliating enough without admitting his lurid dreams for a maid who did naught but barb him.

"What's that?" he asked, pretending confusion as he dipped his hands into the wooden basin set on a stool near the door.

The scent of rosemary filled his nostrils as he splashed the washing water onto his face.

What he needed was a good cold lochan and never to set eyes on Isobel of the Frasers again.

"Who was it you were dreaming of? Was it the cheese maker?"

"Ailsa?" Gilmour asked, remembering Evermyst's buxom goat herder with some relief.

"Aye. I think that be her name. 'Tis said she be a lively tumble."

" 'Tis said," Gilmour replied, preoccupied.

Munro laughed. "For such a frolicking dream, the rogue sounds none too happy. Could it be you chose the wrong maid?"

Gilmour sent the giant a peeved expression. "Aye, he was hairier than I prefer. And ungodly large."

"And a bit more vengeful than most lassies, though..." The Munro stopped suddenly, his mouth remaining open. " 'Twasn't your brother's bride you dreamt of, was it?"

Gilmour scowled. "I fear me bid for Anora is already past. She chose another. Poorly, but 'tis too late to change her mind now, I suspect."

"Ummm," Munro agreed, which made Mour wonder for a moment about the giant's own feelings for Ramsay's lovely wife.

After all, there was a time he had hoped to have her for his own.

But whether he'd wanted her for her own delectable self or for her unbreachable keep, no one knew for certain.

"Who then do you..." Munro began, but suddenly his heavy brows dipped dangerously.

" 'Tis not the Red Lion wench you covet, is it? "

Gilmour's stomach clamped as he remembered Munro's words from the night before. How could he have forgotten that this Goliath had his eye on Isobel? Bugger it! He should have never agreed to help Innes. Even though he dearly needed assistance, it could only lead to trouble.

"Let me say this." Gilmour set his plaid straight then opened the door. "The sooner I return to Evermyst, the better I'll like it."

Munro followed him down the stairs, and the wooden steps groaned beneath his heavy weight. "So the Red Lion maid does not interest you?"

Gilmour prepared to shake his head as he stepped into the common room, but just at that instant, as if called from hell itself, Isobel came into view.

She wore a gown of dusky blue, pinned up at the sides to show a pale underskirt.

Her sleeves were the color of a midnight sky and one tiny braid entwined with scarlet ribbon encircled her golden head like a crown.

For one brief moment, Mour could not speak.

"MacGowan!" Munro growled. "Does the Red Lion's maid interest you?"

Isobel turned away, whisking like a wind-blown petal into the kitchen.

"Nay," he managed. "No interest atall."

" 'Tis good," Innes said, seating himself at the nearest table, "for I'd hate to have yet another reason to kill you before our task is finished here."

"Aye, 'twould indeed be a shame."

Their plan was to break the fast and leave Henshaw, but the ale was well to the Munro's liking, and by the time the broad maid called Martha returned with more, he was only too happy to sample another few mugs and proclaim each better than the last.

By mid morn the Munro was well into his cups, by noon he was sloshing like a beer wagon, and Isobel still had not reappeared from the kitchen.

Not that Gilmour cared. After all, he had had time to consider his dream and deduced it meant naught.

It was merely Isobel's aloof demeanor that threw him off the mark.

The sooner he saw other maids—normal maids, maids who fawned over him—the better off he would be.

He would return to Evermyst post haste, and soon the lassies would be flattering him with outrageous remarks while he bounced a wee, giggling Mary on his knee and forgot all about Isobel's unnatural ability to ignore his charms.

"It would be wise to reach our destination before the light fails us," Gilmour said.

"What's your hurry, lad?" Munro asked and beamed across the room at Martha, the stout brew mistress. "We've more ale to finish off. And I've barely tasted her honey meads."

"If you're determined to drink Martha's entire supply, mayhap 'twould be wiser to hire a wagon to carry it back to your keep."

"What a clever idea!" Munro roared. His voice had grown louder by the minute.

"But at me own keep..." He leaned closer to the stout maid who had concocted the stuff.

She was by no means a great beauty, but mayhap size and brewing skill covered a host of flaws for a man of Innes Munro's ilk.

"There will be no clever ale mistress to sweeten the brew. Aye?"

The big woman laughed. The sound was low, her words lower still, or perhaps the Munro's roaring had simply dulled Gilmour's hearing. Whatever the case, Munro chuckled in return, his face red with drink.

"What say you?" Munro asked, his voice finally hushed somewhat, "would you return to me keep with me, sweet Martha?"

"I am flattered, me laird, but me place is here with me son at the Red Lion."

"It's a son you have, is it?" Munro asked.

Martha began to answer, but just at that moment, the door opened. Silvery laughter entered the room, heralding Isobel's arrival. Something stirred in Gilmour's gut like a waking dragon.

"You cannot stay all the day through," Isobel said, her gaze on her companion. Her male companion. "Eventually Master Gibbs will toss you out on your pate."

"It may well be worth the bruising if you would see to my wounds. What say you, Maid Isobel?" asked the man at her side.

"I say..." She smiled at him, her eyes alight. "Enjoy the meal, Regan of Longwater. It may be the best you get from me."

"May be?" He sounded breathlessly hopeful.

"And what of me, Isobel?" asked the baron of Winbourne, who again sat beside the hearth. "If I am bruised will you see to me?"

"That depends what part is bruised, me laird."

The balding baron grinned. "Name the part, lass, I'll see what can be done."

She laughed as she swept past the tables. "I cook, lads. Naught else. Unless..." Her gaze skimmed the crowd then settled for an instant on the aging baron. "One of those parts be irresistible."

Laughter followed her into the kitchen. Gilmour arose abruptly, his finger twitching. "I go to prepare the horses," he said. "Be ready, Munro, if you wish to ride with me."

"Nay, MacGowan," argued the Munro. "Ready a wagon, for I like your suggestion. If I cannot have the bonny brew-mistress, I shall make do with her brew."

Gilmour saddled his own steed first. Francois was cooperative enough, though he was wont to tilt his golden head toward the left in an attempt to gaze fondly at the bay mare in the adjacent stall.

"She'll only cause you trouble," Mour growled as he pulled up the girth, but Francois tossed his heavy mane and sidled sideways, and in the end Gilmour was convinced to allow him to roam loose in his box so as to spend a few more minutes flirting with the bay.

Although it took a good deal of time to locate a draught horse and suitable dray, the Munro was still not prepared to leave when Gilmour returned to the inn for him.

In fact, very little had changed. Regan of Longwater still nursed a brew at a table beside the door and the Munro was still deep in his cups, speaking to Isobel.

"I don't believe a word of it, Laird Munro," she was saying.

" 'Tis true," he argued, glancing boyishly toward his mug. "There was not a hog to be found when I awoke in die morning. Turns out they cared no more for the smell of me than I for them."

She laughed. "You smell just fine to me, me laird."

Did he blush? Gilmour stared agog at the sight.

"You're over-kind, lassie."

Charming? A charming drunk? Innes Munro?