The Fraser Bride (24 page)

Anora’s lips trembled. Ramsay scowled, forcing himself to keep from touching her, from pulling her up against him.

“Swear it!” he ordered.

“I swear.” Her back was as straight as a lance, her chin squared.

By sheer force of will, he turned away. The crowd was silent as he passed through. The flagstones in the bailey rang as he stepped onto them.

Gryfon tucked his hirsute head, half dragging his groom across the worn turf.

“He is eager,” panted the lad.

“Aye.”

“MacGowan!” The challenge roared up from the valley again.

“He and the Munro,” said Ramsay, and wished to hell that he felt some semblance of that same eagerness. But whatever hot-blooded foolishness had urged him into this battle was long gone now, leaving him cool-headed and introspective. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could do but mount his steed and pray. Beside him, Duncan mounted a dappled gelding and accompanied him from the courtyard. The portcullis moaned rustily as it was hauled up, but behind that was silence, as if all the world already mourned his demise.

All the world but Gryfon, who champed at the bit and pranced forward when the iron gate was barely above his withers, threatening to decapitate his rider before the Munro had a chance. Ramsay swore with feeling and tightened the reins, but it did little to slow the bay’s eager pace.

Not far past the portcullis, the land fell sharply away. Ramsay leaned against the bit and swayed to Gryfon’s sliding descent, until suddenly, and far too soon, they had reached the valley.

“So …” The Munro sat astride a gigantic destrier on the bald knob of a flat topped hill. “You have finally come.”

Good Christ, the man looked to be as big as Evermyst itself, and his steed stood a good eighteen hands at the withers. Half covered in metal, it appeared as indestructible as a mountain, and upon its back the Munro rode with massive arrogance, his chest garbed in black iron but his head bare, showing his grizzly beard and jutting forehead.

“So you haven’t lost your nerve, have you?”

Nay, only his sanity, Ramsay thought, eyeing his huge opponent. ” ‘Tis not too late to change your mind, Munro,” he said, hoping he sounded casual, as if battling this beast of a man would be no great feat.

“Change me mind?” The beast shifted in his saddle, wrapped in iron and mounted on a battering ram. “And why would I be doing that, laddie?”

“Mayhap you’ve no wish to die this day.” As threats went, that one wasn’t too bad. ‘Twas even spoken with some bravado.

Munro grinned, an evil slant of crooked teeth in the mess of his beard. ” ‘Tis you who will die, MacGowan, for you’ve made a whore of the woman I chose for me own.”

Whore!
He’d never liked the sound of that word, and hearing it in association with Notmary made anger seep with insidious heat through his system.

“Come now, do not disappoint me, laddie. You talked so grand and brawny in the hall. I hoped you might prove something of a challenge. After all, I’ve not had a rousing good fight in some days. If you put up a decent fight I’ll not tell the lady what a coward you were in the end. Come now, boy, ‘tis a good day to die.”

“Feel free, then,” Ramsay said.

Munro laughed. “Let the battle be joined,” he rumbled, and reached down to pull his sword from its sheath beside his pommel. “There would be little sport in killing you where you stand.”

It seemed their charming dialogue was at an end. Ramsay loosened Gryfon’s reins. The bay pranced forward like a princeling on parade, snorting a guttural challenge at the larger stallion as they went.

The Munro’s steed reared, pawing at them with a giant hoof before dropping to the ground. So it would not be merely a battle between men, Ramsay deduced, but a battle of horses as well.

Munro scowled as he watched them come. “It will not look good if I kill you on such a wee small steed, MacGowan. Come, I will mount you on one of me own before we begin.”

The black struck out viciously, slamming an iron-shod forefoot against Gryfon’s chest.

“I would ask another favor instead,” Ramsay said, holding back his own vengeful steed. “Keep this battle between you and me. None will come to me aid. Thus none should come to yours.”

“Agreed,” Munro said.

“And when quiet has settled on the hills, I will have paid the debt in full. No one else shall suffer.”

“No one?” Munro lowered his gorse bush brows. “By that you mean me betrothed.”

Ramsay said nothing, but glanced forward. The hills that encompassed the small glen were steep, covered in verdant turf and kissed with dew. A trio of boulders stood halfway up the eastern hillock, casting long shadows before them, and the sun, just now cresting the trees, shone with brilliance on the world.

Ramsay locked each detail away in his mind.

“So you care for her, do you?” Munro growled. “But does she care for you?”

Munro’s destrier, though surely as powerful as his immense size and bad temper promised, bobbed his head ever so slightly when it walked. A bruise in its left forefoot mayhap, Ramsay mused.

“MacGowan!”

Ramsay turned coolly toward his opponent.

” ‘Twould be a pity to kill you where you sit and deprive me men of their sport,” Munro said. “Hence you will answer me question and grant yourself a few more breaths. Did she go to you in hopes of vying us against each other, or does she care for you?”

Ramsay stared point blank at the huge warrior. “If I win, the lass will never be yours,” he said evenly. “And if I lose, you shall treat her well and know that I have paid the price for her sins against you, imagined or otherwise.”

“Damn you to hell!” Munro rasped, his veins popping swollen and reddened from his neck. “Answer me straight and true. Does she cherish you?”

Jealousy! So obvious now, it steamed from him in waves. Why hadn’t he seen it before, Ramsay wondered, and felt a moment of giddiness for the arrival of such a mind-fogging emotion.

“Speak!” Munro growled, and reaching out, twisted a fist into Ramsay’s tunic. “Or before this day is done you will surely beg to die.”

“If it’s the truth you want, ‘tis the truth you’ll get,” Ramsay said, and let just a dram of anger seep into his tone. “She lay with me so that when she must do the same with you, she could forever pretend she was back in me arms and not with the animal who would take her against her will.”

Munro dropped his fist away. “You lie like an Englishman.”

Ramsay grinned. “And you stink like a swine.”

Munro roared in rage and lashed with his sword, but Ramsay had already tapped his steed’s barrel. With the speed of the desert horse, Gryfon pivoted away. Munro’s blade swept past his back, but Ramsay was already turning and arced his own blade toward Munro’s ribs.

Metal clanged against metal.

Fool! Avoid the armor—aim for the legs or the arms. But there was no time for self recrimination, for Munro was already charging.

Gryfon swung away at the last instant. The black thundered past, slid to a halt, and spun, but Munro’s reach was ungodly long. He chopped sideways. Ramsay parried, knocking the blade downward, then hissed as it skimmed across his thigh.

Munro roared and leapt forward, but Gryfon turned away on his own as Ramsay grappled for balance. Munro was closing in. No time! No time!

Ramsay grasped the reins in tight desperation, fighting to cue his mount. For the briefest moment Gryfon faltered, but then he leapt—straight into the air, striking out behind him.

Ramsay heard the thud of hooves against flesh, but when he turned it was clear that the black had taken the blows. Stunned, the big horse halted for a moment.

“So, MacGowan.” Munro’s voice rumbled in the glen. “Your wee mount has a bit of training, does he? And you are neither so eager to die as you seemed yesterday nor so weak livered as you seemed this morn.”

Ramsay gritted his teeth against the pain of his wound. “Why the talk now, Munro? Could it be that you are scared?”

Munro charged with a roar. Ramsay slammed the other’s blade away and sliced sideways, cutting the huge man’s arm, but not for a moment did he hesitate. Bellowing with rage, he hacked with the frenzied strength of a madman. Ramsay parried. The huge horse leapt forward, pushing Gryfon beneath his immense weight.

They were forced off balance, and Gryfon scrambled for footing under the black steed’s onslaught. Ramsay faltered and Munro struck, sweeping his blade in a wide arc.

Pain sliced through Ramsay’s chest. Beneath him, Gryfon stumbled to his feet and lunged uphill. Ramsay tried to tighten his hand around the hilt of his sword, but the world spun around him. His blade tilted and dropped from numb fingers.

‘Twas over. Over.
Yet his fingers dipped to the sheath in his boot. He was barely able to pull the dirk free.

“Not ready to give up yet, MacGowan?” Munro’s voice seemed to come from a thousand misty leagues away. Ramsay turned his steed with shaky hands. A half dozen rods of downhill slope lay between them. So little room, so little time. But if Munro was badly wounded, Anora could yet escape.

Ramsay straightened with an effort. “Are you going to fight me, Munro,” he asked, “or will you simply kill me with your stench?”

Munro’s war-cry seemed muffled, but even through his haze, Ramsay realized he was charging. He never knew if he cued his own mount, only knew that they were galloping madly, charging downhill, away from the sun, straight toward the enormous black.

Pain pulsed at every step. Hold on! Hold on!

They were about to collide. For the briefest moment, he saw Munro squint against the sun, saw light reflect against his bloodied sword, and then, “Up!” Ramsay yelled. Gryfon gathered himself and leapt.

Munro’s lips moved and he slashed out with his sword, but suddenly Ramsay was soaring, flying like a dove. Then just as suddenly the world jolted and they were spilling downward. He tried to stay astride, but the earth spiraled toward his face. Something struck him. Hooves churned past. Gryfon’s. Another’s. And then the world went quiet.

Eternity settled softly in.

“Ramsay.” He heard Anora’s voice from his dream—like a prayer, like a psalm. ‘Twas that dream that made him recall his mission.

Munro! He remembered the giant with a jerk and raised himself to one elbow. Beneath him, the earth felt slippery and warm, but when he glanced up he saw his goal.

Munro—on the ground. A gash stretched from his brow to his hairline, but even now he was struggling to rise.

“Nay.” Ramsay could not hear his own voice, though he knew he had spoken. “You’ll not have her,” he whispered, and pushed himself to his knees. The world spun like a top, sucking him in, but Munro rose to his feet and staggered forward.

“Damn you,” Ramsay growled. He struggled to stand, and teetered toward the giant. The earth slanted away, tripping him up, but finally Munro loomed before him.

“Come on then. Come on,” Ramsay challenged, and waved his dirk, but when he glanced down he noticed that his hand was empty.

Munro grinned, lifted his sword—and toppled like a gargantuan oak to the earth.

Ramsay watched and realized rather belatedly that he himself was staring at the sky.

Fluffy clouds adorned the blueness like woolly lambs at play.

“Ramsay, my beloved,” whispered his dreams.

Anora—as he imagined her. Soft, trusting. Beautiful. No fear, no doubt, just love shining from her angelic face. He would not see her again, for he was dying. But at least she was safe, even now traveling away from Munro. She had promised. And he had made certain of it.

“MacGowan!”

She would not be his, but neither would she be the Munro’s.

“Wake up, MacGowan!”

He groaned as pain wracked his body, then opened his eyes with aching effort and focused.

She was there, pressing a cloth to his chest and yelling orders over her shoulder.

“Damn it to hell!” he murmured groggily. “You lied again.”

Ramsay was vaguely aware of a crowd arguing loudly around the Munro.

“To Evermyst. We’ll nurse him there.”

“Be you daft? ‘Tis Evermyst what has bested him. We—”

The voices faded to mist. Faces blurred. But Ramsay dared not die now, for the Munros were still in the valley. Bloody bastards! And Anora, damn her, was not yet safe. He struggled to rise.

“Me apologies!” Duncan’s voice pierced the haze for a moment. “She—”

“Why is she here?” Ramsay growled. He fought to sit up, but a half dozen hands held him down.

“Me laird.” Duncan’s tone was wheedling. “She did not wish to go.”

“Did not wish—” In that instant, he recognized the round bruise on the lad’s temple. “The bed post?”

“Aye, sir. She is quite mean.”

“Quiet now!” Anora ordered. She was nearby, stealing his breath. There was strength in her voice, beauty in her face. But what the lad said was true, he realized numbly—she
was
quite mean.

“You swore on your mother’s grave,” he intoned, his voice weary.

Her eyes caught his, bursting with emotion on his aching soul. Around them the bustle of the world hushed.

“My mother has no grave,” she said.

He tried to make sense of her words, but there seemed to be none. “Why—”

“Quiet! This will hurt,” she said, and stood abruptly. “Take him now.”

“Why does she—” he began, but suddenly the world exploded. Pain crashed through him, stopping his heart, mangling his leg, and on the wings of that agony came blessed blackness.

* * * * *

Pain throbbed through Ramsay like wild, pounding hooves, thrumming, insistent. ‘Twas that alone that awakened him. He opened his eyes slowly. A ceiling appeared with lethargic slowness. It was gray, distant, braced with wooden beams as big around as his aching thigh.

“You have returned.”

Ramsay shifted his gaze sideways. Anora stood near the wall. Her hands were clasped, her knuckles white, her face the same.

“I knew you would.”

His mind drifted dizzily for a moment, dredging up hard memories. Blood, pain, galloping hooves, horrible bravery. He winced. “Gryfon, is he—”

“Your steed is fine,” she said, then, “Though you do not even like him.”