Snow Raven (12 page)

“Then why did you feign ignorance whenever I mentioned his name? This reeks of the ultimate deceit, and I would know why you lied.”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I did not lie, woman. I merely did not offer comment on a matter which warranted none.”

Lord Scott spoke drunkenly, breaking the strained silence that followed. “Whaur is m’ wife, lass?”

“Fiona wished to stay up, but she was weary. She says this babe has tired her more than the others.”

Gordon Scott nodded, looking concerned. After a muttered good night, he sought the comforts of his chamber and his fair Fiona. Soon only Ranald and Merry remained in the hall, as the weary reivers retired one by one.

“I take it the raid was successful.” Merry cast a disparaging glance over her gore-stained adversary, and as if deliberately provoking her, Ranald drew his great claymore and minutely examined the blade. She shuddered at the action, as the evil weapon lay balanced across his big palms. Firelight gleamed off the cold steel, but Merry noted no blood there. Frowning in puzzlement, she looked at him and caught a glimpse of mockery in his eyes.

“You assumed the worst, I see.”

“I had no other indication. The blood—”

“Cattle. Calves too young to run, beasts too old to keep up are swiftly dispatched. ’Tis a messy business, aye, but Gord and his clansmen are most efficient.” He returned the sword to its rest upon his hip, folding his arms as he considered her.

“Then …” Merry licked her lips nervously, “there was no battle?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “D’you not suppose someone would be hammering at the gates if there had been?” He gave a short laugh. “
Sassenach
may not be bright, but Sweet Jesu, they are dogged.”

“A thief is a thief, and should be summarily dealt with,” Merry angrily replied, stung by his reference to half her heritage. “What you did was no better than Gilbert’s foray into highway robbery. I pray you hang for it!”

She tossed her head, whirling away. To her surprise, Ranald reached out and seized her left arm firmly, pinning her in place. Her outraged glare elicited only a stony stare in response, and to her further indignation he actually laughed. Faith, but she was beginning to loathe the rogue!

“Unhand me at once,” she hissed.

“When I am ready.” His dark gaze raked her contemptuously. “You wished to know about Sir Jasper Wickham. Don’t ask if you cannot handle the reply, woman.”

She subsided in place, but her anger did not abate. “Very well. I am listening.”

“Aye, you are quite right I had no intentions of telling you of my prior acquaintance with the man. First, there is no reason you should find interest in such discourse, because it does not concern you. Secondly, I knew you should refuse to accompany me anywhere if you knew the true depth of rancor between Wickham and me.”

Merry nodded, but her attention remained on the steely grip Lindsay maintained on her. Just his touch made her quiver deep inside with some emotion she cared not to examine too closely. She felt his strength, the warmth of his fingers encircling her upper arm. Even through the soft wool sleeve his touch was as searing as the flames in the great hearth.

“You are quite right,” she said a trifle breathlessly. “I should have refused your escort at once, for it appears you are every bit the Scots scoundrel your little brother is.”

Something flashed in those dark eyes. “If you damme me for a knave, madame, then I may as well die a sated knave.” Suddenly Ranald yanked her into his arms, pinning her firmly by the shoulders as he brought his lips hard upon hers. Merry gasped through the kiss, clutching his waist in a reflex she later despised. He threaded a big hand through her crown of hair, tugging Peigi’s creation apart so the braids fell heavily to her hips. The twisting knot in her lower belly unfurled like a rope flung wild, and she moaned beneath the fierce assault of his hot, hungry mouth.

Then he was kissing her neck, ear, leaving a fevered trail down her shivering flesh where he tugged aside the cloth draping her shoulder, and gently bit her shoulder blade. Merry’s eyes flew open, as the wince of pain was quickly soothed by a swirl of his tongue which left her gasping. Madness, sheer madness, yet his passionate assault did naught but heat her blood and fire her senses until she, too, was rendered wild with primitive emotion, a hammering need.

The exquisite sensations his touch evoked left her trembling, but sanity warred with the base instincts of their powerful attraction. The male scent of him, heady with the sweat of exertion, the coppery tang of dried blood, brought her to her senses. Her gaze focused on his stained shirt, she felt a corresponding shock sweep over her.

“Nay … !”

He silenced her protest with a final kiss, bordering on savagery in its intensity. Then he set her roughly back, dark eyes glittering with either satisfaction or icy triumph, perhaps both.

“There. A taste of a true scoundrel, Mistress Tanner.” His mocking voice rang in the hall, or mayhap it was Merry’s own shame and despair that made it seem so.

“I despise you, sirrah! You are naught but the lowest cad to e’er walk the earth.”

“No doubt you are quite right.” Ranald’s cold glance was dismissing as he turned away, his boot heel echoing with finality. He paused near the stairs and cast a final word at her. “You wonder if I intend turning you over to Wickham on the morrow. The answer is nay. You will be my guest at Auchmull until I say otherwise.”

“I will see you in hell first!” Merry cried after him.

“So be it, madame. So be it.”

Chapter Ten

THE NIGHT PASSED TENSELY for Merry, though she comforted herself with the knowledge Fiona would never permit Lindsay to remove her beyond Goldielands. Upon rising, she was pleased Peigi awaited her, the young girl anxious and willing to sculpt some new creation from Merry’s wayward locks. She also brought another outfit Fiona had insisted their guest accept, a gown of fine green linen with a darker green velvet cape and cork-heeled shoes to match. Peigi dressed the auburn curls off Merry’s forehead with a small lace cap on the back of her head. The heavy hair was secured with velvet ribbons matching the gown, a simple but fetching country look.

Certainly it never occurred to Merry she might endure any travel, so she wore her farthingale and joined the others early to break her fast. There were trenchers of thick, honeyed oatmeal called drammach, and flaky biscuits appeared when Gordon Scott called for “bakes.” As the meal commenced and Fiona did not appear, Merry inquired after her hostess. The Scott frowned and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“She’s warsling wi’ a fever, lass,” he said. “I sent fer Mother MacDougall last night, an’ Fiona dree the garlic and May butter.”

Merry felt a tingle of unease when she realized her champion, likely her only defender, was indisposed. As if her thoughts were as transparent as her expression, she saw Ranald nod slightly, as if satisfied there should be no further obstacle to his intentions. Merry felt tension settle over the meal and picked at her food, no longer hungry. Before Lord Scott departed again in anticipation of counting his new cattle, she asked if she might visit Fiona.

The border lord denied her request, though less gruffly than she supposed, pointing out his lady wife needed her rest and should be fine “on the morrow or so.” The trouble was Merry would not be there, for as soon as their host departed for the pastures Ranald called for his horse to be saddled and she realized he was seizing opportunity by the horns.

Ran saw the daggers in Merry’s eyes when she looked across the table at him. “I am not going anywhere with you, sirrah,” she hissed as the lasses cleared the table, pretending not to listen in and lingering all the while.

“I do not recall asking your opinion,” he said curtly. “We have stayed our welcome and ’tis time to press on. You may have half an hour to assemble your things, no more.”

At least the Tudor wench was bright enough to realize her options were nil, Ran thought. There were none Merry could appeal to, and after aborted attempts to locate Goldielands’ lord, she flew upstairs and salvaged what was left of the time remaining. She reappeared in the great hall, defiant auburn curls already escaping the confines of the severe hairstyle Peigi inflicted on her. By then she was shaking with indignation. She clutched a bundle in her arms, the remnants of her old gown. She regarded Ran as one might a slithering serpent.

He did not care. Her opinion of him was as inconsequential as Wickham’s. His sole intent was to use this woman as a trump card and thus render the enemy vulnerable. She appeared bright enough she grasped the concept herself. Meek she might never be, but biddable she was, and for now that was all that mattered.

While Brodie saddled Uar in the yard, Ran sought out their host. Gord was clearly worried about his wife, pacing the room where Fiona normally tended business matters in the mornings. First, Gord reminded Ran of his promise to foster Brodie for a year, and Ran agreed this was a good time for the lad to come. Gilbert was staying at Auchmull however long Darra would permit it, and the boys could take their lessons together.

Then the subject of Fiona rose. For being such a crusty soul, it was obvious the Scott was shaken by Fiona’s sudden illness.

Gord gestured helplessly when Ran inquired after Fiona. “Wae worth! Ta crone canna find what’s wrong. ’Tis afeared she’ll lose the bairn.”

Ran laid a hand on the laird’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gord. Truly.”

The other nodded, looking stricken and at a loss. “Mother MacDougall said pr’haps a bad shock … Fi maunna be moved …”

Ran frowned at the mention of the old woman Beitris. He considered her a troublemaker. “I think a proper doctor should be sent for, Gord. Do not trust superstition to save your family.”

“Spoken a’lik one who trusts none,” replied The Scott, raking a big hand through his rusty mane. “Fi winna let me call any.”

“That’s because she is an over proud MacDougall.” A ghost of a smile touched Ran’s lips.

“Pride, och. Ye ken tha’, too.”

“Aye. Let me send for a physic from Sterling, a man of some renown.”

Gord nodded, his blue eyes moist with emotion. Without another word he clutched Ran quickly and fiercely, in a silent gesture of thanks, then hurried off to hover at his wife’s bedside. Gazing after his old friend, Ran felt both sympathy and a faint pang of … was it envy? Surely not. The notion of being thrust into a position for caring for another person again, of being responsible, was sheer anathema to him. He had opened his heart to one woman, Blair Maclean, and there would never be another for him. On this, he was firmly resolved.

* * *

THE JOURNEY TO AUCHMULL seemed interminable. Merry was accounted a good rider, so though Lord Lindsay had offered her the services of Uar again, she was determined to exert some measure of defiance. Her pride would not let her appear weak before the enemy, and so she regally requested her own mount from the Goldielands stables.

Fortunately, the sorrel mare produced by Brodie Scott was docile and easy to manage. The boy referred to her as Ladybird. Still, trying to ride in a farthingale in an unfamiliar saddle proved no easy task. Ranald did not trust her with the reins, of course. Ladybird was secured and led, palfrey-style, behind his high-spirited gelding.

The early snows were far deeper in the Highlands than Merry expected. As the three rode up out of the gentle borderlands where Goldielands was situated, the going got measurably rougher. Several times Ladybird plunged to her fetlocks in the snow and floundered to regain her balance. The horses snorted great white clouds of steam as they slowly plowed through a narrow, high pass overlooking the side of wild Scotland she had never seen.

Glancing down over the steep cliff, Merry felt a familiar fear seize her in its grip. She remembered with sickening clarity the sensation of slipping, teetering on the edge, as she had walked a high stone wall at Raven’s Hall that her twin had dared her to climb. Then the horrifying feeling when she realized her balance would not hold. Kat’s grin had faded, too, as she reached out to steady her sister, too late. Eight-year-old Merry plunged over the wall, her cry silenced by the impact of hard ground. She had suffered a terror of heights ever since. She shivered now, cold despite the warm velvet cloak with its fur-lined hood that Fiona had given her. Merry would have given anything to have the other woman accompany her, if only as a companion in misery, but naturally it was impossible due to Fiona’s present indisposition, not to mention the fact she knew Lindsay would have flatly refused.

Blinking stray snowflakes from her eyelashes, Merry turned her attentions from the cliff to study the man riding ahead to her right. Ranald rode with a natural grace and style that might have seemed affected on any other man. She noted he looked utterly at ease in the saddle, as if he’d been born on a horse and took their long journey in stride. Yet, as ever, Merry sensed he was uncommonly alert. As if sensing her perusal, he glanced over his shoulder. But his eyes were completely unreadable, shadowed.

“How do you fare?” he asked her.

Merry wondered if it was concern or merely politeness that prompted his question. After all, he should appear hard-hearted indeed not to inquire after the welfare of a woman he had, in essence, kidnapped.

“I am tired, milord,” Merry admitted. She was aware of him watching her closely as he nodded, and noticed for the first time the crest badge pinned to his black cloak. Like The Scott’s, it was a silver strap-and-buckle style. Instead of a stag, however, the image of a swan rising from a coronet seemed a stark contrast to the spirited motto,
Endure Fort
. She wondered if the man was like the badge, a measure of both gentleness and strength. Thus far, she had only seen evidence of the latter.

Merry’s grip on the saddle tightened as Brodie Scott’s pony suddenly slipped and went down on its side with a crash. Luckily its rider was flung clear. As Ladybird came to a smooth halt beside Ranald’s mount, Merry saw he did not hesitate. He leaped down from his saddle and assisted the injured youth to his feet.