The Fraser Bride (19 page)

“Oh.” He loosened his grip a mite. “What of this warrior?”

“He came out of nowhere.” She kept her voice low, her eyes averted. “Galloping toward me, and I was afraid.”

“Who was he?”

She did not need to see his face to feel his anger. The Munro did not like others to challenge what he had claimed for his own. “I do not know.”

“Did he harm you?” The words were gritted, his right arm, as thick around as her leg, tightened dangerously again.

“Nay. Indeed, ‘twas then that MacGowan found me.”

“Ahh.” His grip loosened a little. They were climbing, ascending the nearly vertical slope that led to Evermyst’s all but unbreachable heights. From beyond the rocky slopes that acted as natural walls about the path, she could hear the rhythmic wash of the waves against the castle’s very roots. “So you saw this mysterious warrior, MacGowan?”

For a moment he did not answer, then, “We caught a glimpse of him.”

“We?”

“Me brothers were with me.”

“The brother rogues. I have heard of you.”

Ramsay held his gaze. “And we of you.”

Munro grinned, showing the gap in his teeth. “So the tales of me prowess spreads.”

“I have heard tales; that I will say.”

“They all be true.”

“I never doubted it.”

Munro stared for a moment, then grinned as if he’d decided to accept the words as a compliment. “So you and your brothers saved me wee lady.”

“We took her to Dun Ard.”

“Did you, now?” His tone was careful; his small eyes, were narrowed. “And what happened there?”

Memories burned through Anora’s mind like a thousand blazing candles. Ramsay’s touch, his kiss, his—

“There was little time for aught,” Ramsay said, his tone even, “for from the first moment she awoke, she wished to return to … her home.”

He had almost said “to Levenlair,” Anora thought, and realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Awoke?” The heavy timbre of the Munro’s voice echoed as they passed through the stone arch of Evermyst’s outer curtain, and for an instant, he shifted his eyes suspiciously around him as if the very walls contained unseen foes. But to her it was naught but home.

Ailsa, Anora’s second cousin by marriage, stood beside the worn path, her back to the rock behind her. Her breasts, full and pale in the morning light, were all but bare to the world. Grazing on the uneven turf, her goats chewed rapidly as they cocked their heads at the passing riders. “I thank God you have found her,” said Ailsa, but her buxom presence did nothing to distract the Munro.

“Awoke?” he growled again. “You were with her when she awoke, MacGowan?”

Ramsay said nothing.

“I was unconscious when the MacGowans found me,” Anora explained.

“What’s this?” Munro leaned closer, pressing his heavy chest against her back.

“I fell from Pearl, and—”

“Slow down there, lass. It seems this tale gets the more interesting as it unravels. Methinks we’d best sit and discuss it at length. MacGowan, you will join us, of course.”

“Nay,” Anora said.

“What?”

“I would like some time to rest, me laird, afore—”

“Lassie,” someone crooned.

Anora jerked her attention to the doorway of the keep where an ancient woman stood bent and scowling over a black walnut staff. “Meara,” she breathed. “You are well?”

“Aye, lassie. Aye.”

“And Isobel?” she asked, barely able to force out the question.

“Aye.”

“What of Deirdre and Clarinda?”

“All are safe. And what of you?” The old woman took a feeble step toward them. “You are well?”

“Aye, she be fine,” said the Munro. “And you will speak with her soon enough. But for now she is recounting the tale of her adventures to her betrothed.”

Ignoring the Munro, Meara scuttled forward a few steps. “You are well?” she asked again, her gaze pinned on Anora’s face.

“I am fine,” she answered and held the old woman’s gaze for a moment, longing for … nay,
needing
her ancient wisdom to see her through. She pulled her gaze from Meara’s and lifted it to the huge man behind her. “But I am tired. Mayhap we could speak later, me laird.”

“I will hear the tale—”

“Surely even
you
can see that the lass is exhausted, Munro!” Meara croaked.

He tightened his arm about Anora’s ribs and straightened. “Methinks it would be wise of you to treat your laird with some respect, old woman.”

Meara drew herself up to her full and astoundingly unimpressive height. “And methinks
you
are a—”

Anora gave a quiet sigh and forced herself to go limp in his arms.

“Anora!” Meara croaked.

“Lady,” Munro rumbled and shook her roughly. “Lady.”

“What have you done to her?”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“By the saints,” Meara swore, hobbling forward, “if you’ve hurt her, you’ll be supping with her grandmother this very night.”

” ‘Tis nothing,” Munro rumbled, but a note of uncertainty had crept into his tone. “She’s but fainted.”

“Fainted!” Meara turned her attention aside to skim the faces around them and returned to MacGowan with a jolt. “You! What’s your name?”

“I am called Ramsay.”

“Come hither and catch the lass.”

He remained as he was. “That would be her betrothed’s—”

“Come!” Meara ordered.

Apparently he did so, for despite the fact that she lay slumped against the Munro’s chest, Anora could hear the creak of his saddle as he dismounted.

“Let her go,” Meara insisted.

“She is mine to—”

“Release her!” Meara ordered. “Or you’ll not have to worry on her ancestors’ wrath, for me own will be vicious enough.”

He loosened his meaty grip. Anora felt herself slipping, but in a moment she was caught in Ramsay’s arms. It took all her concentration to remain relaxed as he bore her to his chest.

“Inside!” Meara ordered. “Up the stairs.”

A half dozen voices murmured around her as servants and kinsmen drew close.

“Me lady!”

“She is returned!”

“What happened?” Isobel’s worried voice joined the throng.

“She fainted,” Meara said.

“Fainted!” Isobel’s eyes widened.

“Hush now, child. Up the stairs, lad.”

MacGowan’s footfalls were steady and sure, and in a moment she was laid upon her own bed. It sighed beneath her back. Ramsay drew his arms slowly away. Meara took her hand.

“Is she well?” Ramsay asked.

“What concern is it of yours, laddie?” Munro’s voice was strangely silky.

“Mayhap the lad has a heart,” Meara said, “unlike some others in this room. Isobel, fetch a mug of ale for your lady.”

Feather-light footsteps skittered away and heavy ones paced closer. “So I have no heart, old woman?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure to check,” said Meara. “But ‘tis possible, I suspect.”

“And ‘tis
just
as possible that yours will be forfeited as soon as—”

“What say you, laddie?” Meara asked, interrupting brusquely. “Do you think the Munro here has a heart?”

The room went silent.

“I’ve been told all have one,” Ramsay said finally ” ‘Tis. simply that some use them more effectively than others.”

Meara laughed, but her mirth was interrupted by the sound of the Munro’s dirk slicing from its scabbard.

“I hate to kill a guest!” Munro rumbled.

“Aye,” Ramsay continued. “All have a heart, but a mind …”

There was a growl of rumbling rage.

“Munro!” Meara snapped. “Remember the prophecy or share your sire’s fate.”

There was deadly silence for a moment, followed by the sound of a razor-edged dirk meeting its sheath again. “Surely not,” Munro rumbled, “for me own motives are naught but generous. Indeed, ‘tis only me tender mercies I wish to bestow upon the lady—naught else.”

Meara opened her mouth to retort, but Anora squeezed her hand and the old woman’s face fell back into a scowl. “Then get yourself gone from here,” she said. “And let the lass rest.”

“You will tell me when she awakens.”

Anora squeezed again, and the old woman paused. “I would be pleased as always to serve me laird.”

There was a moment of tense silence as if he pondered her words. ” ‘Tis good. And now for you, MacGowan. Come.” His voice held that frightening silkiness again. “We shall share a mug while you regale me with stories of the time you spent with me bride-to-be.”

Footsteps crossed the floor. The door closed with resounding finality, then silence filled the room. Anora waited, breath held as she listened to the sounds of nothing, but in a moment the silence was broken by the creak of the door again.

“Forget something, me laird?” Meara asked.

“Aye.” Munro’s voice was deep with disappointment as though he thought to find her already awake. “Care for her well, old woman, or ‘twill be you who haunts this keep.” With that he turned and made his way heavily down the wooden stairs.

“Lassie!” Helena hustled in, tears already brimming in her faded green eyes as she clasped Anora in her plump arms. “I was worried sick. Where have you been? Are you well? You can’t imagine—”

“Don’t tax the girl with your feeble questions,” Meara said, prodding the other aside with the tip of her gnarled cane. “What happened with your uncle, lass?”

Anora scooted upward to prop her back against the headboard wall behind her. “He did not come.”

“Well, hell’s belfry, I can see that,” Meara scolded. “But why? He is your father’s kin. ‘Tis his duty to see to your well being.”

“He was more than willing, until he realized ‘twas the Munro who had claimed my hand in marriage.”

“Did you not tell him of the prophecy? Did you not tell him that Evermyst must be mastered by the proper man, lest blood flow and—”

“Aye. I told him. But he did not care, so long as the blood was not his own.”

“Then we are left to our own devices.” Meara’s voice was low.

“Me lady,” Isobel whispered, entering the room with a mug clasped between her narrow hands. In a moment she knelt beside the bed, the drink abandoned on the floor. “You are returned, hale and healthy.” Reaching out, she folded Anora’s hand in her own. “I feared the worst.”

“Isobel.” Anora grasped the maid’s grubby hand and drew in the sight of her, the stodgy coif, the elfin face. “You are well?”

“Aye.”

“I dreamed that you—” She lost her voice for a moment.

Their gazes met and melded, blue on blue.

“Nay,” Isobel whispered. “I am well. It has not come to pass. Not—”

“Stout Helena!” Meara said. “Can’t you see the lass is faint with hunger?”

Helena speared a glare at the elder woman, then lowered her gaze to Anora and smiled mistily. “Is there aught I can fetch for you, lass?”

Anora reached out with her free hand, grasping the other’s dimpled fingers. ” ‘Tis wondrous to see you, Helena. I missed you so.”

The matron hugged Anora’s fingers to her plump bosom for a moment. “And I you, lass. And I you,” she said, then released Anora’s fingers and wiped her nose with her apron. “Now I go to prepare a feast.”

The door closed soundly behind her.

“Finally!” Meara said. “Now, tell me, lass—what has not passed? What did you dream?”

Isobel spoke. “That the Munro learned the truth.”

“Lord save us! Nay!” Meara pleaded.

“It has not happened!” Isobel whispered. “And it will not. I will not let it.”

“You cannot prevent it,” Meara said, and turned herself creakily from the bed. “You think yourselves the clever ones, the pair of you, but the Munro is not as foolish as he appears, and—”

” ‘Twould nearly defy the impossible,” Isobel finished. And though the world lay like a horrible weight on Anora’s shoulders, she could not help but smile, for she was home, among her people.

” ‘Tis not a matter for mirth,” Meara warned her.

“Eventually even that great hulking oaf will see through your weak-kneed demonstrations, just as he will see through Isobel’s cloying filth. And as for ghosts—” She snorted, a harsh sound in the grim silence.

“What about ghosts?” Anora asked.

No one spoke.

“What of ghosts?” she asked again. “Was it Senga? Did she make herself known?”

“What did you think would happen if the Munro moved himself into her home?”

“He didn’t.”

“Aye,” Meara agreed. “Moved into your own chamber he did, lass.”

“And Senga?”

” ‘Twas nothing much,” Isobel said.

“Nothing much,” Meara agreed. “If you do not think it strange to awaken to find your throat cut!”

“Throat—”

” ‘Twas not cut,” Isobel soothed. ” ‘Twas only blood.”

“Aye!” Meara glared at Isobel. “A stripe across the Munro’s neck just so.” She made a swipe with one bent finger across her own neck. “As if it had been cut with a knife. ‘Twas his scream that woke me in the early morn.”

The corner of a grin lifted Isobel’s mobile mouth. “He screams like a house maid.”

“Nay,” Anora breathed.

” ‘Tis no laughing matter!” Meara snarled. “Although …” For a moment her face evidenced an expression that could almost be considered a smile. “It did me old heart good to see his broad backside hustling out of our keep. Still …” The scowl was firmly back in place. “He is not his father, lassies. Mark me words. He will not fear the spirits forever, nor did he inherit his sire’s weak heart.”

“Mayhap ‘twas not a weak heart that killed his da at all,” Isobel said. “But a visit from Senga, just as is said.”

“Or mayhap ‘twas justice for what they did to your dear mother,” Meara hissed, her voice low. “But whatever the cause, ‘tis his younger son we must worry on now. And this much I know: he’ll not stay gone, not so long as Evermyst overlooks the very waters he longs to control. He means to take our home, and if he must bed a Fraser to take hold of it, so much the better.”

“I cannot wed him,” Anora whispered.

“Mayhap his fear of Senga—” Isobel began, but Meara interrupted.

“We cannot depend on the spirits to protect us. We must think of another means.”

“It seems a vast waste of a perfectly good ghost,” Isobel murmured.

“Hush, now. I’m thinking,” Meara said, and in a moment, slanted her narrow eyes toward Anora. “This MacGowan—tell me of him.”