The Fraser Bride (13 page)

For a moment it seemed as if her heart were beating in slow motion, as if the entire universe had slowed its daily march. She tore her gaze from his with an effort. “I do not believe in love,” she said and forced herself to scoop out a spoonful of meat and broth.

“What do you believe in?”

“Survival.” The word came out of its own accord. She knew immediately that she should not have loosed it, for honesty was not a luxury she could afford.

“At all costs?” he asked.

She wanted to lie. But his eyes were so steady on hers. “What else is there?” she asked.

“Some seem to find more.”

“I need no more.”

He watched her. She could tell without glancing up. “Not even a family?”

Family! Her gut twisted in fear. In her mind’s eye she revisited her dream—saw the hulking form of the Munro bent over Isobel. Or was it herself he tormented? Sometimes the dreams were skewed, the meanings uncertain.

“You have you no wish for children?” he asked.

“Children?” She glanced up, surprised from her own tumbling thoughts and he scowled, his mouth tight.

“Some think the need for family is a greater drive than any other.”

“And some think to improve their own lot through the sale of their offspring.”

“What?”

She berated herself silently. “Here,” she said and shoved the trencher toward him. “I have had enough.”

“Sale?” he asked, undeterred.

“Why else would a father promise away his daughter?”

“Have you been promised?”

She loosened her muscles with a careful effort. “My own father has been dead for nearly a year, and ill some time afore that. I was speaking of the practice in general.”

“Have you been promised?” he asked again, his voice a low monotone.

She couldn’t look at him. ” ‘Twas decided some time ago that the women of … Levenlair … would choose their own mates.”

“Decided by whom?”

“The king. It seems he was quite fond of the maid Mother saved from death.”

“Your mother? She is a healer?”

“She was … observant.” Anora glanced toward the window. The sky outside was growing dark. “And no stranger to the sea. ‘Twas from the parapet that she noticed the failing ship.”

“Ahh.” He drank again and bent one knee so that the linen slipped down his powerful thigh like a slow tide. “So you are free to marry for love, and yet you do not believe it exists. There is some irony in that, I suppose.”

“And what of you, Ramsay of Dun Ard? Despite your parents’ affection, you seem no more certain of love than I.”

He shrugged and passed her the mug. “Here. Drink,” he said. Their fingers met for a moment against the smooth horn before he pulled his away and she could not help but notice the warmth of his flesh, could not stop the gossamer shimmer of feeling that shivered down her spine.

She dropped her gaze with lightning speed. “What do you believe in, MacGowan?” she asked.

He dropped his dark head against the bed’s oaken frame, exposing the taut tendons in his throat and seeming to pull her gaze downward, over the hard muscles of his chest. “Lust,” he said quietly. “I am a true believer in lust.”

“Lust!” Her eyes looked skeptical and cool in her ivory face, but her hand was curled as tight as a frightened child’s against the coverlet. “What is there to believe of lust?”

He shrugged, careful to appear as distant as she. “Lust will gain us what we most yearn for. ‘Tis the way of man.”

“But not the way of women.”

“Nay?” He glanced at her. Aye, she was beautiful. Despite the fact that he neither trusted nor liked her, he could no longer deny that. “What do you lust for?”

“There is naught I—” she began, but he interrupted with a snort.

“There is no reason to lie, Notmary. I will see you safely to Levenlair regardless of your answer.”

She straightened slightly, and her breasts pressed more firmly against the fortunate fabric of her gown. He scowled and pulled his gaze back to her eyes, for ‘twas her eyes that could lie so damnably well. “I lust after nothing,” she said.

And not a flicker of discord in her expression, but the tendons in her hands tightened almost imperceptibly.

He almost smiled. “What then brought you to Dun Ard?”

“I believe ‘twas you, if your brothers’ stories be true.”

He canted his head in concession to her answer which was no answer at all. “And what brought you from the north?”

“I told you already. My cousin was with child and needed comforting.”

“What cousin was that?”

She paused not for an instant. “Lillias, the Lamonts’ middle daughter.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did she bear the child safely?”

“Oh.” She fidgeted with the coverlet for the briefest of moments. “Aye. Thanks be to God. All is well.”

“A son or a daughter?”

” ‘Tis a girl.”

A dozen emotions twisted unexpectedly in his heart, but he shoved them impatiently aside as he delved deeper. “Ahh, a wee lassie. What be her name?”

“I …” For a fraction of an instant, her eyes widened and her quick answers ceased.

” ‘Tis not Mary, is it?” he asked, keeping his voice innocent.

She dropped her gaze to her hands. “You mock me,” she said.

Regret sliced through him, for without her cool eyes and regal expression, she seemed small and afraid. He longed to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and promise to keep her safe from the world. But there was a limit to his foolishness. Still, he could not quite manage to make his voice hard when he next spoke.

“You do not necessarily seem the type to comfort a cousin during her lying in. I am merely curious about your reasons,” he said. ” ‘Twas a long journey from your home in the north just to console your kinswoman.”

“Some think the need for family a stronger drive than any other.” She quoted him almost exactly.

“But surely your family at Levenlair needs you also. Your sisters or—”

“I have no sister.”

He scowled at her speedy answer. “And what of your mother?”

“She … drowned … some years back.”

“Drowned?”

“She was not a witch!”

Sweet Almighty, what was that all about? he wondered, and stared at her in open surprise. Her eyes, for once, were guileless and as wide as forever. “I did not think she—”

“She merely loved the sea. Some do. My maid servant is also quite adept at swimming. There’s naught unusual in that, surely.” She watched him for an eternal moment, then shifted her gaze back to her hands. “But I fear the sea did not love my mother in return.”

“Thus you have no family.”

“I have family. Stout Helena was my uncle’s wife.

My maid, Isobel, is as dear as a sister to me, and Ailsa, who cares for the goats, is my cousin’s—”

“I meant, no immediate family. No siblings or parents.”

“Nay.”

“Mayhap that is why you do not believe in love.” Her eyes flickered up. “Your brothers … do you love them?”

He scowled, searching for an answer that would not undermine any masculinity she might believe him to possess. “In an irritating sort of way, aye.”

The beginning of a smile twitched her lips, but she sobered in an instant. “And I, too, care for my own people. Therefore I must reach home. I do not deny that I need your help, MacGowan. Thus, I would bind your wound now so that I can achieve that end sooner.”

She reached out and touched his arm. Warmth skittered across his flesh in the wake of her fingertips and all hope of sensible dialogue fled like loosed doves.

“I do not think it requires stitches,” she said.

“Nay.” He dropped his head back against the bed board again and refused to look at her. Lust was good and well to talk about, but he knew better than to allow such feral emotions into his own life. Better by far to remain distant, controlled, aloof. But maybe he’d drunk a bit much to reach for those lofty standards. ‘Twas to be hoped, though, that it was not too late for sanity. “It will heal on its own,” he said, and congratulated himself for his outstanding rational.

” ‘Tis hot to the touch,” she said.

Aye, beneath her fingertips, he did indeed feel warm. He refused to look at her, as part of his bid for sanity. “Do not worry yourself,” he said, but she was already rising. For a moment he glimpsed a flash of trim ankle. He’d always had a weakness for trim ankles, but in a moment her gown fell modestly back in place. Still, his wick had a damnably fine memory, and it stood alert, lest she bare the tiniest scrap of skin again, and it be called into emergency service.

Ramsay watched her hurry away from the bed with the remainder of their meal. In a moment she was bending away from him. Her bottom, hugged by her saintly gown, was shown to rounded perfection. His desire swelled to aching proportions. He’d always had a weakness for round bottoms hugged by … in that instant she turned, his dirk clasped in her delicate hand.

“What are your plans for me blade?” he asked, keeping his tone level.

“Are you worried?”

“Should I be?”

“Mayhap,” she said and eyed his chest for an instant. “If I were the lustful sort.”

“Ahh, fortunate I am, then.”

“Indeed,” she said and putting her knife to a bathing linen, sliced twice into the edge. She ripped off two strips, rolled the cloth into misshapen bundles and retraced her steps to the bed. Retrieving the bottle he’d brought earlier, she doused a rag and settled next to him on the mattress. It sighed happily beneath her tight little bottom. Ramsay gritted his teeth to keep from doing the same.

“Are you well?” she asked, pausing with the cloth only inches from his wound.

“Aye.” He exhaled deliberately, tried to relax, and reached, in some desperation, for the bottle. She touched the cloth to his wound just as he took his first sip. It tasted considerably better than it felt, but it was the slow brush of her fingers against his flesh that forced the hiss from his lips.

“I hurt you.”

“Nay.” He took another drink.

“I am sorry.”

“That you did not hurt me?”

“Nay.” Retrieving a rolled bandage, she set the edge to his arm. “That you are such a poor liar.”

He chuckled, but the mere rasp of her knuckles as they slanted across his chest was almost more than he could bear. Surely mead could drown his desire. ‘Twas said to have strong calming powers, but thus far his wick didn’t seem the least bit calm.

The silence in the room was smothering.

She cleared her throat. “You are dark.”

He could actually feel the tickle of her breath against his shoulder. The linen across his lap strained. “Aye.” Her hair was drying to feathery softness. He balled his hands to fists and concentrated on the pain. It was pathetically easy to ignore, so he thought about porridge. He had a strong revulsion for porridge. “I bear French blood on me mother’s side.”

“And hard,” she said.

“What?” He snapped his gaze to hers. She reared back as if struck.

“Scarred!” she said, wide eyed and undeniably startled. “You are scarred.”

He glared at her, his torso feeling too tight to accommodate all the necessary organs. “Oh.”

She leaned fractionally nearer to continue her job and the backs of her fingers slid languidly against the straining muscles of his side. “How …” She cleared her throat again. He couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks were pink with color that fingered delicately toward her bosom. He dragged his gaze away and remembered how porridge looked after it had cooled and congealed. “How did you come by the scars?”

Her voice was like nothing he had ever heard. Husky yet soft, and each whispered note seemed to pump his manhood more firmly toward his belly.

“The scars.” He dragged his attention back to her question. “I have brothers.”

“And I used to resent not having siblings,” she said, still bandaging. How damn long were those cloths?

“The scars were not intentional … usually,” he said.

“That one?” she asked, nodding toward his shoulder.

She was sitting painfully close, and each time she wrapped the cloth, her knee nudged his thigh. Porridge with gizzards! he thought frantically, and took a good long swig from the bottle. Ah, yes, he could remember how it smelled after it had been congealing for a day, but it was difficult to concentrate on it like he should, and if he didn’t answer she was likely to believe any sort of outlandish nonsense. Such as, her touch was driving him toward the teetering edge of insanity, and if she didn’t stop soon, he would be tempted beyond control to do something truly idiotic.

The back side of her wrist brushed his ribs, but her gaze remained on that half forgotten scar. He gritted his teeth and dredged up a memory. “Lachlan always felt a need to prove himself me equal, even when he was no bigger than a hare.”

“He attacked, you?” Her eyes were soft and wide, but he refused to notice.

“He hid himself in a tree and planned to land just in front of me as I walked beneath. The element of surprise has always appealed to him.”

“But?”

“But he misjudged and landed atop me. Bullock had made him a wee wooden sword which Lachlan always kept strapped to his hip. ‘Twas a more effective weapon than any of us suspected,” he said.

“And that one?” she asked, staring at a nick on the underside of his forearm. ” ‘Tis fresh.”

“Me brother Iain is still young.”

“It should be cleaned.”

“I cleaned it.”

“With mead,” she said, and reached across his body with her doused rag.

He tried to tell her no, to stop her from leaning across him, but he couldn’t force out the word. And though her breasts never actually touched him, his lungs compressed as if her bosom were pressed with heartfelt passion against his, as if he could feel the peaked bliss of them against his naked chest. The rich, warm scent of her filled his head, and the innocent brush of her gown against his bare leg was nearly more than he could bear.

Their faces were mere inches apart, the sassy tilt of her lips a breath away.

He hated her! his mind argued, but his doltish desire didn’t care a whit. Holding his breath, he reached out, no more able to stop himself than to still the beat of his heart. Her hair felt blissfully soft against his fingertips, and her skin, when he touched it, seemed like heaven. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Instead, she sat perfectly still as he skimmed down the delicate length of her throat and curved his hand behind her neck. He gave her one more chance to fly, gave himself one more chance to think, but the only organ that seemed to be functioning properly was insisting that he not think. That he just act.