Snow Raven (2 page)

Darra was not certain why this piqued her so; she valiantly resisted the urge to walk over and gather up the kirtle and yarn, crumple and toss both into the hearth. Had it been blazing as she wished, she might have done so. Ridding Auchmull of the last taint of Blair Maclean could not come soon enough.

Ran spoke next in such a cold vein it was as if he had read her thoughts.

“’Tis not death itself which I refuse to accept, but rather the means by which ’twas inflicted.”

“Blair’s death was an accident, Ran.”

“Was it?”

“Aye. Had she not been so foolish as to set out in the rain on some misplaced mission of supposed mercy—”

“Enough, Darra.” Ran’s voice was like a whip crack in the room.

She heeded the warning but could not resist one last retort. “’Tis a pity you insist upon being so foul-natured, Brother, because methinks there must be a bright mind behind the roar and bluster.”

He arched an eyebrow, and actually chuckled, to her surprise. “Coming from you, lass, I am not sure if that is a compliment or an insult.”

Darra shrugged. “You always were difficult,” she said with a sigh, and shook her head. She looked at Ran with sympathy. “I know how much you loved Blair …” she haltingly began.

Something shifted in Ran’s expression, and when he spoke his voice was cooler than ever. “As I know you never cared for my wife, is this your roundabout way of saying you’re sorry for my loss anyway?”

“I suppose so.”

He nodded curtly at her. “More than I expected. Thank you.”

“’Twas nothing personal, Ran. Blair would have made the right man a good wife.”

“Right man?”

Ran looked at her, his dark eyes blazing again. At moments such as these, Darra knew why her brother was called The Wolf of Badanloch, with a measure of awe and respect and no little fear. Any ordinary mortal would have quivered where they stood.

Lindsay women, however, were renowned for being just as courageous as their menfolk, and legend said the females of the line had inherited the powerful aura of the Ceasg, a Scottish Highland mermaid whose temper was as dangerous as any fathomless loch. Darra stood her ground and matched her brother glare for glare.

“Aye, the right man. Father tried to dissuade you from the notion of wedding a Maclean. Whenever tradition is broken, there are consequences to pay.”

“Consequences. Is that how you define Wickham’s actions?”

Ran’s voice was harsh, his eyes narrowed with rage. Just the mention of Wickham was enough to set him on edge again.

“I do not deny Sir Jasper is vulgar beyond belief,” Darra said, hesitating when she saw Ran’s scowl. “’Twas unfortunate he was the one Blair turned to in her hour of … need. However, the plain fact is, ’twas Blair’s and her family’s meddling that led to all the trouble in the first place.”

“Enough!” Ran’s snarl was that of a wounded wolf, and had Darra not been kin, she sensed he would have rent her in half with the great fists clutched at his sides. She did not feel inclined to press her luck further.

For a long moment, the siblings stared at each other, a familiar impasse broken only by the abrupt entrance of a third party.

A slim, handsome youth dashed into the great hall, somewhat breathless, his dark hair disheveled. Garbed in a sober black tunic, black braies and cloak, his boundless energy was nonetheless readily apparent, unchecked by the brooding atmosphere overlaying the room.

“I’m hungry,” Gilbert Lindsay began without preamble, his newly deepened voice both wheedling and matter-of-fact all at once. “Cook said nothing will be ready until this eve.”

Ran glanced at the younger man, seeing a reflection of his own self, light contrasting the dark. A grudging smile curved his lips. It was impossible for anyone, serf or lord, to remain impassive in the face of Lindsay charm. Fifteen-year old Gil’s deep dimples tugging at his cheeks betrayed both a mischievous nature and a
joie de vivre
that was contagious.

“We’ll feast after chapel,” Darra said, a motherly note entering her tone as she turned toward Gilbert. She, too, seemed relieved by the distraction he offered from an uncomfortable subject.

Ran chuckled as he looked at Gil. “Hmm, I distinctly recall you and Hugo feasting quite heartily on Hertha’s stove tatties and black buns not an hour ago.”

Gil’s violet-blue eyes twinkled. “Did we?” he shrugged affably. “Lud, I cannot recall. I feel as though I’m wasting away by the moment.” He patted his lean waist for dramatic emphasis, and extracted smiles from both onlookers.

Ran did not care to pursue a heated argument before young Gil, though there was much left between him and Darra as yet unsettled. “Mayhap after sup, I can show you some swordplay, lad.”

He reached up and lifted a gleaming blade from the mantel, gripping the leather-wrapped hilt of the claymore almost reverently. He detected Darra’s flinch from the corner of his eye, and chose to ignore it. By contrast, Gil perked up, stepping forward for a better view.

“Scathach,” Gil breathed, looking at the steel now balanced across the flats of Ran’s upturned palms. “’Tis been a long time since she graced us with her presence.”

Ran nodded. He had not held the weapon since … och, maybe it was better not to remember. He brushed a thumb across the dusty steel and remembered how it looked when it was coated with blood instead. How long had it been since Scathach sang a tune of simple vengeance?

Vengeance, aye. Ran thoughtfully slid the double-handed claymore into the scabbard at his side, adjusting himself to the feel of its weight at his side, absent for so long. Far too long. It felt like an old friend come home to stay.

Darra looked on with disapproval, distaste reflected in her eyes. Yet she held her tongue in check, either for Gil’s sake or simply to maintain the fragile truce of peace. Instead, she sighed.

“We must attend your appearance first,” Darra said to Gilbert as she stepped forward, reached out and smoothed his hair by habit. She ignored Gil’s attempt to duck and evade the hands straightening his collar and checking his laces, and she untied and briskly relaced his shirt until it met with her approval.

“Such disarray!” Darra clucked her tongue as Ran looked on, smiling a little, and Gil squirmed in unabashed misery. “One might suppose you have been living in the mews, Gilbert, not with the mighty Earl of Crawford.”

“Would I lived here at Auchmull always,” Gil muttered, either to spite his sister or express his unhappiness with his current status, a lad subjected to motherly fussing.

Ran chuckled, and felt the impact of Darra’s piercing glance.

“This is what comes from letting a lad run wild without measure.”

“Gil asked if he might stay on after the funeral, and you and Kinross agreed,” Ran reminded her. “Would you change the tale now to ease your conscience, lass?”

Darra frowned. She hated it when Ran called her lass; it made her feel younger than he, when she was the elder by fact of maturity. Also, she did not care for the niggling truth behind his words. He was ofttimes so blunt it startled her.

“Pierce and Thierry miss their uncle” was her somewhat evasive reply. “Gilbert kept the boys well occupied. I note there is nothing here at Auchmull to similarly engage young minds. Gilbert’s education has clearly suffered.”

“Rather you imply there is nothing of import here to learn,” Ran said. “I would disagree.”

“’Tis your prerogative, of course.” Darra nodded curtly. “Yet you must admit Gilbert has benefited from sharing Thierry’s tutor over the past year. In my opinion, his progress and his manners have noticeably declined whilst he’s been here.”

Gilbert made a protesting noise. “There is more to learn of life than Latin and theology.”

“Well said.” Ran smiled at his little brother, and their gazes met in a moment of perfect understanding. Darra noted the exchanged glance and felt a twinge of envy and a sudden compulsion to bring them both back to earth.

“Ross and I have spoken, and we are agreed upon one thing. We wish Gilbert to live with us at Edzell … permanently.”

Ran looked at Darra as if she’d slapped him. Whether he was appalled or simply stunned, it was clear he was not pleased by the prospect.

“Nay.”

The flat, harsh reply left no room for negotiation. Darra hesitated, doubting he deserved any explanation and yet feeling compelled to provide one.

“’Tis not any reflection upon your character, Ran,” she said. “However, Gilbert needs a stable family, a permanent place where discipline and love are measured in equal doses.”

Gilbert protested at the mention of discipline. “Am I allowed no say in this? I have seen fifteen winters, and being Highland winters, they should count even more.”

Ran gave a grudging chuckle, but Darra shook her head. “Go find Hugo, Gilbert. Ran and I must needs talk alone.”

“No.”

“No?” She looked at Gilbert sharply, not only hearing defiance but seeing it in his dogged stance, an imitation of Ran’s. Her gaze traveled from brother to brother, frustrated. “Even Father Pettigrew agrees ’tis the wisest decision. You would not gainsay your own confessor, I trust.”

“Neither will I allow a churchman’s meddling to disrupt Gilbert’s future,” Ran said. “The lad is in dire danger of becoming a useless ornament, a courtly decoration with neither mind nor courage. The greatest danger to this land is her lack of true defenders. Gil must learn the gentle art of war from the only warrior remaining in the Lindsay clan.”

Darra laughed. “Gentle? You?”

Had her short laugh been twice as cutting, it would not have made an impression. Ran was used to insults; they bounced off his armored emotions like so much chaff. He regarded his sister, his gaze coolly assessing.

“Gilbert will not join the legions of mealy-mouthed courtiers, Lady Deuchar. I forbid it.”

Darra bristled at his faintly sarcastic emphasis of her title.

“Oh, I see.
You
forbid it …”

“I am the laird of Lindsay, am I not? As you so oft remind me. Therefore my word is law, and I hope you take it to heart gracefully, for I do not intend to sit back and watch you and oh-so-gallant Ross turn a bright mind into some hideous mocking caricature of masculinity. If a man was meant to bow and scrape, surely Destiny would have sewn altar cushions to his knees.”

Darra gasped. “Ran! ’Tis blasphemy!”

He shrugged. “I speak not of the Church, though I suppose it may be applied there as well. I refer to those ill-favored fops like Wickham who drip lace from every edge and gush compliments as ceaselessly as a burn.”

“I was not aware compliments were out of fashion,” she said shortly, still ruffled by his cavalier comments about courtiers and the Church. Honestly, sometimes his manner was so devilishly cold.

She respected Ran, but she could not fathom him raising Gilbert alone. Gil needed to secure position at Court to keep the family in a favorable light. Ran disdained the entire ritual of pomp and circumstance, and although Darra was graciously acknowledged whenever she appeared, she did not wield the power of title Ran so contemptuously ignored.

Already he had dismissed the topic as unimportant and turned to Gilbert. “What of the riding wager with Hugo?”

Gil perked up. “I won!” The youth dug in his surcoat to show off his winnings, while Darra frowned in disapproval.

“This is the sort of example you would set?”

“Aye, and why not?” Ran did not spare her the courtesy of a glance, but chuckled as Gil, flushed with pride, displayed the glint of gold against his palm.

Darra whirled and left the great hall in a rustle of skirts. The slamming of the double doors behind her caused Gil to jump, but Ran was used to his sister’s fits of pique and did not flinch.

“’Twould appear the grand Lady Deuchar disapproves of my influence, Gil.”

Gil’s violet-blue eyes darkened. “Dar would keep me tied to her apron strings forever.”

“Now, you cannot blame her, lad. She took over the care of you when we lost Mother. I was away too much to be of any help, I fear. However much she might irk us both, she has a good head and heart. I know her to be a far better chatelaine than I shall ever aspire to.”

“She rules her own home like a self-righteous tyrant,” Gil said unhappily. “I think she has been reading far too much of the Virgin Queen and fancies herself a similar Scottish termagant.”

Ran laughed at Gil’s wry observation. He would admit a secret admiration for Elizabeth Tudor, and aye, his sister as well. It did not mean he agreed with their strong-arm tactics, but an intelligent lass was to be admired. If only from a safe distance.

Chapter Two

A fortnight later

near Cardigan, Wales

“WHAT D’YOU MEAN, THE road is impassable?”

Meredith Tanner sounded petulant as she poked her auburn head from the window of her uncle’s fine coach, and regarded her driver and the man he was speaking with in frustration and dismay.

The serf quickly doffed his hat, visibly awed by her elegant attire and no-nonsense demeanor, while Jem merely nodded at her statement.

“Aye, miss. The spring rains have washed out the main route. The streams are bursting, running amuck. We must choose a safer course.”

Merry’s gray-green eyes flashed, and Jem braced himself for a familiar flurry of brisk orders. Mistress Tanner had a sweet, even temperament when content, but proceeding cross-purposes to her wishes was never wise. Already he recognized the stubborn set of her lips and inwardly sighed, resigned to another fruitless argument.

“Jem, y’know I must return to Court directly. Her Majesty will be cross enough as ’tis, since I lingered overlong at Falcon’s Lair. Her permission to visit Kat was granted with the clear provision that I return to London and resume my duties as soon as possible.”

Jem nodded. There was nothing he could say to counter her statement. He knew their monarch’s infamous temper well enough from having served as the Tanner driver for years, whilst his master Sir Christopher danced attendance upon Henry Tudor’s little virago often enough.

He bit back a smile, however, as a mental comparison between the two redheads came to mind. Mistress Tanner was far younger, of course, and fresh as a hawthorn blossom in comparison to Elizabeth’s time-worn Tudor rose, but there was some intriguing likeness between maid and monarch. A keen wit, ready laughter, and a love of dance, mayhap.