Page 8

It didn't take Gilmour long to tend to Francois's wounds.

Soon he was bandaged and secured a few stalls down the row from the tempting bay.

And though Mour tried to draw out the procedure, eventually there was nothing to do but secure a room for another night.

Morose and irritable, he made his way down the rutted village streets in the opposite direction of the Red Lion.

At the far end of Henshaw near the listing palisade, he found an old wattle and daub building that dared call itself the Duke's Inn.

Stepping inside, Mour nodded to Laird Grier, who was just exiting the common room.

Only two patrons remained. They were a rough looking pair.

One large and brutish, the other effeminate and twitchy, they sat hunched over their mead.

Gilmour found a seat and tried to believe it wasn't too bad a place to spend the night, but after one sip of ale, he realized the drink was as sour as the company and somehow he could not stay.

It was almost dark when he found himself in the Red Lion once again.

Taking a seat not far from the cozy fire, he noticed a new maid delivering drinks and decided that all would be well.

Perhaps there would not even be a reason for him to see Isobel.

Requesting a meal from the bright eyed lass, he settled in to drink his ale and listen to the gossip.

It was a mixed group that gathered at the Red Lion.

Fishers and crofters rubbed elbows with merchants and lords, and though Gilmour was loath to believe it, he had to admit that his meal was extraordinary.

Although he generally favored the earthy taste of ale, he requested a goblet of wine and steadfastly kept his gaze from the kitchen door.

Patrons came and went. Laughter swelled and lulled and the hour grew late.

To his left, a gnarled gaffer leaned his bony back against a wall and spun a yarn to his audience. Gilmour listened with half an ear until the old man's tale came to a breathless ending. A moment of silence followed before a red-nosed miller shook his head and quaffed his ale.

"It cannot be true. No livin' horse could jump so high."

"Nay," agreed another. "You dream, old man."

Gilmour took a swig of his drink and shrugged. "Just because your own mounts cannot soar, does not mean all steeds are bound to the earth."

A half dozen faces turned toward him. He met their eyes with an easy smile. "Methinks we MacGowans must raise a different type of mount if you do not think the gaffer's tale possible."

"MacGowan, you say?" asked the nearest man. He was as lean as a lance, with a sallow complexion and a decided lack of teeth.

"Aye. I am Gilmour of the MacGowan."

"Lady Flame's lad?" asked the old man, cocking his head as if able to hear from one ear alone.

Mour gave the gaffer a smile. "You know me mother, do you?"

A sigh left the grizzled lips. "Once upon a summer's eve I had the good fortune of delivering a steed to Dun Ard."

"Then you know the tales be true," Mour said.

"That she is the most bonny maid of all time?"

Gilmour raised his brows. "I meant the tales of her ability with horses."

"Oh. Aye," agreed the old man, but his eyes still looked dreamy and a nearby patron laughed.

"I have indeed heard that the Flame of the Mac- Gowans is a rare jewel. 'Tis said, in fact, that one of the Duke of Nairnon's statues was modeled after her. And you know his statues are all bare—"

Gilmour cleared his throat. "Let us not forget that we speak of me mother here. I've no wish to have a need to defend her honor."

"Aye," someone murmured. " 'Tis said the Flame is best at doing that herself."

"Are you suggesting that me mother is less than the epitome of femininity?" Mour asked, his voice low and steady as he eyed the crowd.

A quiver of nervousness ran through the group.

"I only meant that I heard it is wise to keep a dirk out of her... that is to say, there are tales—"

"And they all be true." Gilmour shook his head as though resigned to his fate and contemplated his wine. "I tell you, lads, 'tis difficult indeed for a boy to prove his mettle when his mother is forever batding any who would challenge him."

"Say you that her laird did not keep her from interfering?"

Gilmour gave the speaker a dry glance. "Me father is many things. But a fool he is not."

"So Roderic the Rogue has his hands full," mused someone.

"Aye," agreed another, "and judging by the king's statue, me own hands should be so lucky."

Laughter followed the statement. Gilmour tried to scowl, but his mother would be the last to be offended by such a statement, while his father would be downright jolly. So he lifted his mug in a sort of salute and said, "Careful what you wish for, laddies."

"What say you?"

Mour took a sip. There was a delicate taste of lavender in the wine. He mused over that for a second as his audience waited. "Me sister is much like me lady mother."

"And is she wed?"

A few chuckles sounded from Gilmour's listeners.

"Indeed, she is," Mour admitted. "Though Da despaired for a time of ever finding her a spouse."

"If she looks like the Lady Flame, why was it a worry?"

"Might you know of a Laird Halwart of Downshire?"

"Aye. I've heard of him."

"He courted me sister for a time."

The man called Redmont shrugged. "He seems unscathed by the experience."

Mour sipped again. "Aye, he does indeed, but have you ever wondered why he has no heirs?"

"There's a tale here, lads," said the gaffer, and Gilmour grinned.

"Aye, there is," he agreed and launched happily into the story.

One tale led to another, and that to another, but still not a soul interrupted, for Gilmour was not one to let a simple thing like truth stand in the way of a good yarn.

His only pauses were made for dramatic effect or to thank the barmaid, who finally pulled up a seat nearby.

Not a soul left and only one more entered—the young man with the leather jerkin who took a chair and sat quietly near the fire. Minutes slipped into hours before Gilmour began to wind up his final yarn.

"So there I was," Gilmour said, "with naught but a scrap of cloth about me loins and a wood ax to defend meself against her five towering brothers."

"Should we be expecting an heir from you anytime soon, MacGowan?" asked Redmont.

Mour joined in the chuckles even as he shook his head. "It looked bad for me, that it did, so I told them God's own truth. Lads, I said, you can reap vengeance if you like, but this I swear—I did naught that the lass did not beg me to do with her own lips."

"And that quieted her kinsmen?"

Gilmour shook his head sadly. "In truth, it had quite the opposite effect.

They came at me in a rush, so I raised me ax to defend meself, but just as I did.

.. me only meager garment abandoned me. I was bare-naked to the world.

Sure as sunrise I thought they would kill me, but sudden as the wind they stopped, took one long glance at the whole of me, and bolted in the opposite direction.

" He took another sip of wine. "I never set me eyes on them again. "

"And why is that?"

Gilmour shrugged, "I can only assume they were intimidated by the size of my"—he glanced at the barmaid and grinned—"ax."

Laughter broke out like a wild torrent.

The barmaid rose, swishing her skirts about her ankles as she did so. "I'd like to stay," she said, "but I fear the lies be getting a bit thick hereabouts."

"Lies!" Mour gave her a wounded expression. "Surely you do not doubt me story, Fleta."

"And what if I did, MacGowan?" she asked, glancing down at him, her legs slightly spread as if prepared to do battle.

"That depends," he said and grinned up at her, "whether you doubt the outcome... or the size."

Wild hoots of approval followed, but the maid was not to be outdone.

Raising her brows, she crossed her arms against her buxom chest. "They say seeing is believing, MacGowan."

Gilmour rose slowly, doing nothing to contain his grin as he set his hands to his belt. "I am always happy to assist another's faith, but..." He tilted his head toward their onlookers. "I've no wish to belittle the lads here."

There were snorts from the men, but Fleta was grinning openly.

"A private showing, then?" she asked.

"I'm always—"

"Lads," Isobel interrupted. Gilmour turned toward her. She was standing not far from the kitchen door, eyeing his listeners. "I do so hate to interrupt your revelry, but if we do not lock up, we do not open again on the morrow."

There were boyish groans of disappointment, but she soon shooed them out the door until only the barmaid and Gilmour remained.

"I'm waiting for—" Fleta began, but Isobel interrupted again.

"Plums could use your help in the kitchen, if you're not too busy, Fleta."

The barmaid shrugged as she turned her gaze from Gilmour to Isobel. "Me imaginings are generally better than real life anyway."

Mour grinned. "I hope you have a large imagination then, lassie."

She laughed as she swayed her way into the kitchen.

Then only Isobel and Gilmour remained.

"So..." She lifted a trio of mugs from a table. "You are still here, MacGowan."

He watched her carefully and found that a belly full of ale was a kindly ally where she was concerned. Nonchalance was his friend.

"Aye, Bel, I am here. Me presence doesn't bother you, does it?"

She shrugged. Candlelight stroked her skin like a lover's slow caress. "Of course not. Why should it?"

"I believe you said you dislike me."

She smiled. "In truth, MacGowan, I am not overly fond of many of me patrons. That does not mean I refuse their coin."

"Should the coin not go to the owner, Bel?"

"Master Gibbs is getting on in years. 'Twas his idea that I take over the duties as well as collect the funds."

"After knowing you so short a time?"

"Mayhap he is more trusting than you."

"And mayhap you give him more than is good for his aging heart, aye?"

She stared at him. "Is that the ale talking, or is it the charming rogue himself?"