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Gilmour just stopped himself from wincing. "Me apologies," he said. "I did not mean to impugn your virtue."

"Didn't you?"

"Nay. In fact, I have no wish for harsh feelings between us. I am simply out of sorts."

"I was sorry to hear of your steed's injuries."

"How did you know?"

"I spoke with Guthrie, the stable boy."

"You weren't checking up on me, were you Bel?" he asked, then chastised himself. Why in the name of all that was holy would he continue to try to flirt with her?

"I was checking on Wren."

He raised a brow.

"Me mare," she said. "Mayhap you saw her. I believe your steed was hanging over her wall when you found him."

Bugger it! He should have known the troublesome mare would be hers. "A wee bonny palfrey. Where did you get her?"

Gathering another trio of mugs, she glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen. "I would love to stay and chat the night through," she said, "but I have tasks to see to before I find me bed."

"Where is your bed?" Truly, there was something wrong with him.

"What's that?"

He refrained from knocking himself in the head as she turned back toward him. "I worry for your safety; you should not walk alone in the dark. 'Tis not wise."

Sharp humor shone in her azure eyes. "As long as you remain here, I am certain I will be untroubled. Henshaw is a peaceful place."

"And you imagine yourself safe here, without a protector?"

"I did not say I was without a protector."

His gut cramped. "So there is a man who looks after you?"

"I did not say that, either."

He tried not to grind his teeth. "He should take better care of you, Isobel."

Their gazes held tight.

"So that's it, then? The rogue of the rogues has stayed to protect me?" There was sarcasm in her tone.

Gilmour stared at her and realized quite suddenly that Francois would be fine on his own. Far better to leave the randy steed than wait for Isobel to make him insane.

"Perhaps I have," he said, and she watched him an instant before laughing.

He was mildly offended for a moment, but when the laughter showed no sign of lessening, he began to get truly peeved, and he was rarely peeved. Nevertheless, he waited until quiet entered the room before he spoke.

"Something amuses you, lass?"

"Aye." She was still smiling. "The idea of the rogue thinking of anyone but himself."

Settling a hip against a lengthy table, Mour watched her. "Whatever gave you such a low opinion of me?"

"I believe 'twas the few months I spent at Evermyst whilst you were there."

"You doubt that I could protect you?"

"Nay," she said. "I merely doubt that you would have time, considering your many interests."

"Such as?"

She shrugged. "Ailsa. Elga. Fleta. Shall I list them in order of time or size?"

" 'Tis no sin to enjoy women, Bel." He smiled. "Or to be enjoyed by them."

"And what of deflowering virtuous young maids?" Her tone was sharp and he raised his brows at her rancor.

"What of it?"

"Is that not a sin?"

"I suspect it is if they do not long to be deflowered, but once they have met me..." He let the sentence fall into silence and gave her a modest shrug.

She watched him very closely for an instant. "I truly do not think I have ever met a man who thinks so highly of himself."

His grin twisted up a mite, and he wondered if he was losing that innocent quality he was striving for. "I'm certain there are reasons, Bel."

"Meaning?"

"Most men have little reason to think highly of themselves."

"Not so much as you, at any rate."

"Exactly," he agreed.

"Well..." She took a deep breath and plunked the mugs back on the table. "On those words of wisdom, I shall wish you farewell."

"I thought you had tasks to finish here."

"I do," she admitted. "But suddenly I am feeling strangely nauseated."

He couldn't help but laugh, and stepped toward her as she turned to the door. "I have that effect on women sometimes."

She glanced up at him from a crooked angle. "I'm surprised you admit it."

"They usually get over their illness in a few months time."

She stumbled as his meaning came home to her, and he laughed harder.

"I jest, Bel," he said. "I have fathered no bairns."

"Oh? And how can you be certain?"

"Do you truly want to know, lass?" he asked, chuckling.

She scowled at him as she set a candle to the fire then fitted it back into an iron bound lantern. "Nay, I do not. But such a magnificent lover as you think yourself—"

"Magnificent." He laughed. "Who have you been speaking to, lass?"

"None but you," she said. Then, "Fleta," she called, raising her voice. "I fear I must leave now. Can you finish up for the night?"

An affirmative answer issued from the kitchen and soon Isobel had stepped outside. Gilmour followed without comment.

Silence settled between them. Up ahead in the darkness, the light from her swaying lantern shone off the smooth face of a puddle. Slipping his hand around her upper arm, Mour urged her aside.

"Would you like me to carry you?"

"Mayhap at me funeral," she said and pulled her arm firmly from his grasp.

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?"

She eyed him askance. "What do you mean by that?"

"Might you think I am planning your demise?"

"Are you?"

"I would hardly have time. What with all the virtuous maids yet to be deflowered."

She snorted, lifting her pale underskirt slightly, and pointedly ignoring him.

He gazed appreciatively at the trim turn of her ankles and grinned. "What possible reason could I have to wish you harm?" he asked.

"What reason could you have to be here atall?"

"You cannot believe that I wish to protect you?"

"If that is the case you can put your mind at ease," she said.

"You think you are capable of caring for yourself?"

Finding her way down a rough walkway of inlaid stones, she turned at the arched door of a thatched cottage. "More capable than you, MacGowan."

"You do not want me help?"

"The rumors are true then," she said. "You are indeed quick witted."

He bowed, making a show of his chivalry. "Your wish is granted then, me lady. I will bother you no more. Indeed, if I meet a score of slavering brigands, I vow to do naught but point them in your direction."

"Me thanks," she said and he nodded.

"Farewell to you," Mour said, and as he turned away a man smiled from the deep shadows of her cottage.