Snow Raven (41 page)

Here Ran had escaped, managing to elude the queen’s soldiers just as they swept down upon Edzell in search of him. Kinross was away at the Stuart Court, and while Darra was left to deal with the minor Tudor inquisition, Ran did not doubt his spirited sister was equal to the task. By now, he wryly reflected, the soldiers were probably wishing they had never crossed the path of the undaunted Lady Deuchar. Fortunately, Gil and Darra’s boys had been sent to safety before the invasion, and Ran doubted Elizabeth Tudor considered it worthwhile annoying a powerful border lord like Scott simply to question children about his whereabouts.

The isolation of Invermark suited his nature, and soothed his anger somewhat, but he knew the entire clan stood to suffer for the latest happenings. King James was well pleased with his capture of the reivers of crown cattle, but sooner or later he would cave in to his royal cousin’s demand and reluctantly uphold the charges of outlawry. Ran might conceivably evade everyone for weeks yet, for the spring was too cold and young for easy traveling with troops, but he realized Invermark was but a temporary solution.

Besides, there was the matter of Merry. Thank Jesu he had sent her home to England, though he had done so in a fit of anger rather than concern for her welfare. He walked up the stairs of the central tower, overlooking the Gothic battlements and the distant Howe of the Mearns and felt the spring breezes ruffle his hair, whip his kilt and tartan about his body.

Growing up, Ran felt closer to his grandfather than he ever had his own sire, and here in the splendid seclusion of a rugged outpost, he imagined, for a moment, he lived in easier days, a petty laird in a humble keep. Good company, hearty but simple food, a woman with a ready laugh and a sparkle in her eye … He shifted slightly, bracing one foot against a crumbled pinnacle, and in his mind’s eye heard the silvery laughter of his wife. She burst from the castle into the glen, humming beneath her breath, turned and shielded her eyes against the sunlight as she looked up at him.

“Whatever are you doing way up there, milord?” she laughed at him. “You’ll tumble and crack your thick Scots noggin, and I’ll not be a bit to blame …”

Ran felt his breath leave him in a sudden rush, for the vision in the imaginary sunlit glen was not Blair, but Merry. Merry of the blazing hair and rain-colored eyes, the ready smile and dazzling wit, and a heart open to him with such innocent devotion he felt a corresponding ache in his own breast.

The pain was as daunting as the joy as he realized what he had been denying for months. How hard he had fought against the notion of loving anyone, much less an impertinent
Sassenach
lass with the magic to make Blair’s memory fade. It was the source of his true terror, this gradual understanding there might be another who could ease his grief, bring him happiness when he wanted so desperately to cling to old wounds, never let them heal. It was fear had prompted him to lash out, push her away.

Ran took another shuddering breath, scouring his surroundings through new eyes as the red-haired woman faded into the mists of dreams and furtive hopes. Love … he had felt love for Blair Maclean, aye, of an intensity so fierce it bordered on obsession. This emotion with Merry was different, softer, more blurred and indistinct, yet oddly comforting just the same. He knew somehow he could turn to Merry, lay his head on her shoulder. She would hold him, never question the need for it, nor doubt his strength. Could this not be love also?

Mayhap love was not always the finely honed passion of a blade; maybe it was the gentle brush of a fingertip across a cheek, or warm laughter flowing across the room, gazes meeting and sharing a smile, all of these and more. He sat down suddenly, as if stunned, upon the edge of a caen stone turret, and never heard the mocking caws of a white raven in the wind.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER, RAN risked a quick return to Auchmull for more supplies, and there heard the news of Merry’s return and subsequent disappearance. By then, she had been missing a day. When he realized she must have ridden out and met with disaster, he swore under his breath and smacked a balled fist into the palm of his other hand.

“By all the bloody hounds of hell! Doesn’t the woman have half a brain?” Ran, seeing the genuine alarm in Nell’s face, softened his tone. “’Twas the height of foolishness for her to return at such a time. D’you have any idea where she went?”

Nell shook her head. A second later, she ventured, “I do remember she kept asking about Badanloch before she vanished, milord.”

“What about it?”

“Lady Merry wanted to ken exactly where ’twas. When I asked why, she said she had a fancy to visit it sometime.”

“Badanloch,” Ran mused softly. He was still taut with rage from being hunted by the Tudor soldiers; encountering a pack of Macleans trespassing on Lindsay lands on the way here had not improved his temper any. Though the supposed “enemy” had turned out to be nothing more than a handful of youths intent upon some mischief-making in another clan’s territory.

Despite their breaking up into separate groups and fleeing, he’d caught a couple of them, and obnoxious as the boys were, Ran believed their story that they knew nothing about Merry or any possible kidnapping. One of the older lads, named Malcolm, had particularly impressed Ran with his cool head and obvious intelligence. He appeared to be only about ten or so, but his natural Highland defiance had tickled Ran. Malcolm had been utterly unimpressed finding himself the prisoner of the Earl of Crawford, until Ran had given him a good switching. Then at last there had been a grudging respect in the lad’s eyes.

Ran finally set the Maclean lads free after questioning them at length. Back at Auchmull he quizzed the guard who had delivered the note to Merry, but the man admitted he couldn’t attest to the contents of the urgent message she’d supposedly received. At this news, ominous chill gripped Ran. Someone had deliberately lured his wife away from Auchmull. But why?

* * *

THE RAIN WAS A solid downpour by the time Merry finally straggled from the forest, shivering and soaked to the skin. She was exhausted and dispirited, stricken with fear. Faced with the ruthless elements, she’d almost turned back and offered herself into Sir Jasper’s hands again. She had never been of strong constitution, and the weird shadows and sounds of the primal forest sent deep chills wracking through her. It seemed she had been walking, or stumbling rather, for hours. Time ceased to matter, for the mist never completely burned from the woods.

Once free of the meadow, she fell to her knees in the slick meadow grasses and pressed the painful stitch in her side. Her hair hung in sodden ropes around her, and her shirt and breeches were torn from the thorns and branches she’d encountered during her flight. She wondered if she could ever get up again. Yet she knew she must get back to Auchmull somehow.

After a respite, Merry heaved herself up again and staggered on. She had barked her shin on a lichen-covered boulder sometime earlier, and her bruised, bloodied knee throbbed and burned with every step she took. She knew she must look a sight. Fashion had never been farther from her mind, however, and somehow she doubted it would ever mean much again.

Gray sheets of rain had changed the landscape into a murky, indistinct canvas of threatening cliffs and deep gullies. Merry soon lost sight of the washed-out trail left from Orlaith’s hooves. Uncertain of her directions, she was soon forced to admit she seemed to be going in circles. Auchmull was nowhere in sight. Only the icy rain, beating a steady tattoo upon her head, provided any company for a lone woman wandering through the hills.

At last Merry could go no further. She stumbled, slid, collapsed in a heap on the wet ground. Her shoulders shook from the cold. A second later, she heard the drumming of hooves, over her pounding heart.

Peering out through her waterfall of wet hair, Merry saw horses galloping across the meadow towards her. Her fingers dug into the mud with fury, resignation. The desperate flight, risking her life, had all been for naught. Sir Jasper had found her again.

Merry waited, weary with resignation. She could not summon the strength to plead for mercy; there was nothing left now but a cold hollow ache and the remnants of a bruised heart.

When a horse slid to a stop in the damp grass beside her, she looked up dully, like a trapped animal. She let out a spontaneous cry. Ran! He vaulted from the saddle, dropped to his knees in the mud and grabbed her in his arms. Merry was wracked with dry sobs as he clutched her fiercely against his heart.

“Ssh, sweetheart,” he soothed her in his soft Highland burr, “you’re safe now. Safe …”

“How did you find me?” she sobbed.

“Nell remembered you asked about Badanloch. I was following a hunch, nothing more.”

Ran unfastened his badge, swept off his breccan and wrapped it around her. Merry clutched at the edge of the tartan, which was so large it nearly enveloped her like a blanket there on the grass and mud. She spoke through chattering teeth.

“W-wickham m-murdered B-Blair …”

Something flashed in Ran’s eyes, no doubt the same agony preventing him from ever loving her, and Merry drew the breccan tighter as if it might shield her from further pain. Ran did not speak for a moment, simply held her clutched against him. After a while, he nodded.

“I always suspected, lass, but could never prove it.”

“Hugo …” she whispered, dreading word of this betrayal more than the other. “He turned, Ran. To Wickham.” She licked her lips, wondering what else she might say to ease such a devastating blow. Ran whitened and drew in his breath, but didn’t look as shocked as she expected.

“’Tis the matter of inheritance?”

She gave a jerky little nod “’Twas all planned, Ran. The Badanloch massacre came about because Hugo killed your messenger, Nell’s husband. Later, Sir Jasper staged the attack upon the wedding party, hoping you would blame Macleans and inflame the feud more.”

She inhaled deeply, trying to measure what his brooding silence might mean. “Hugo has joined up with Wickham now. I saw a few other disgruntled Lindsays among the lot. They held me there in the woods, hoping to lure you into a trap.”

Ran threaded his fingers through her damp hair, drawing her tightly against him. “Sweet Jesu,” he whispered roughly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Merry exulted in his embrace, but feared to respond. Mayhap the emotion of the moment, the shock of Hugo’s betrayal had unsettled his reasoning. He still did not know about Blair and Wickham, the depth of their real relationship, the fact the child had not been his. Merry opened her mouth to tell Ran everything, but his lips silenced her. Gently yet urgently, with the depth of intensity she had only dreamed of henceforth, The Wolf of Badanloch kissed her. She clung to his broad shoulders, weeping, and suddenly nothing mattered but the reunion of two lost and hungry souls in the mist.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“WELL, ’TIS SURELY A scene worthy of courtly accolade.”

Sir Jasper’s snarl was precipitated by horsemen bursting from the wood, and Merry shuddered as the Englishman’s soldiers surrounded her and Ran. Ran came to his feet, still holding Merry, his dark gaze never wavering from the man taunting him from horseback.

“I thought a wolf was only capable of rending others, not offering succor,” Sir Jasper mused as he cast a disparaging glance upon the couple. “Or would you say this wolf, in particular, has a soft spot for red-haired lassies?” He gave the edge of his tartan a mocking flip in Ran’s direction, but the latter did not react. Sir Jasper shifted impatiently in the saddle.

“You saved me the trouble of returning to Auchmull with a ransom demand, milord.” Sir Jasper smiled coldly at his adversary. “How nice to find both my objects neatly clumped together. Most considerate, wouldn’t you concur, Hugo?”

The blond man riding at his side nodded, but Merry noticed Hugo did not seem to be of quite the same swaggering bent as before. Mayhap Ran’s cold, dark stare unnerved him more than he cared to reveal.

“I’m sorry,” Merry whispered to her husband, but he brushed his lips against her hair.

“Lass, I would have come for you at the ends of the earth,” Ran murmured, and she sensed his relief that matters were almost resolved, however daunting it might be. Within minutes they were taken into Sir Jasper’s custody, without visible protest on Ran’s part, for he knew the odds of one man against two dozen. Yet their destination was not Auchmull or Braidwood. Sir Jasper had discovered the queen’s soldiers left Edzell, and deemed it more suitable for his purposes. He was certain the lovely Lady Deuchar would not refuse him admittance once she saw the other guests he brought.

The captives rode double on Dearg, Merry clinging to Ran’s waist and trying to keep her seat on the animal’s sweat-slicked back. She wore Ran’s breccan, but still shook from the cold.

Merry tensed with fear as each mile passed and they drew nigh their destination, for she knew what awaited them was far more deadly than the queen’s displeasure. By contrast, Ran seemed resolved, his jaw set. Hugo had removed Ran’s claymore earlier and slung it across his own back, the deadly blade glittering bright silver in the late-spring sunshine. Weaponless, Ran was as vulnerable as any man. The mix of anger and devastation on his face when Hugo took his weapon had wounded Merry as deeply.

She understood his bitterness, wondered if Hugo would ever feel safe venturing anywhere alone again. Doubtless, Ran intended to sink Scathach home in the traitor’s breast at first opportunity. Though she shuddered at the terrible thought, she knew the unwritten code of the Highland vengeance was clear. Hugo had betrayed his kin, bastard or not, and revenge would linger on every Lindsay’s lips until the giant fell.

Dearg plodded on through the damp undergrowth, straining from the unaccustomed burden. All around them small forest creatures chirped and chattered, falling silent only as the horses passed. Then the noises would resume, cocooning them with a cacophony of sound. At last the rain slowed, and then stopped. They all knew it to be only a temporary respite.

During the journey, Merry recognized places where she had rested and hidden from her pursuers. When they reached Badanloch, the clearing was empty, the encampment deserted, but she felt the same ominous sensations which had stalked her here before. The urge to escape was overwhelming.