Snow Raven (7 page)

“Aye. It occurred to me you risk the queen’s certain wrath, Merry, for your tardiness, and also you have missed the one opportunity to meet your intended bridegroom before the ceremony. I but strive to set matters aright.”

Merry frowned, not understanding where he led her. “Then where are we going?”

“I am taking you to your betrothed.”

Surprised, Merry did not quite know how to respond. Licking her lips, she carefully said, “I see … you curry Sir Wickham’s favor, then.”

“Curry his …” Ranald started laughing, then abruptly went still and serious again. “Nay. Not at all.”

“I am certain he would welcome your chivalry, sir, but Her Grace is not inclined to be so generous.”

“Precisely why I decided you should not be subjected to such an intense interrogation when the accident ’twas hardly your fault. If I returned you to Whitehall posthaste as you wish, Her Majesty’s ire has but one focus. Time, and distance, will soften her mood.”

Merry considered his words. It was true, Elizabeth was renowned for her vile temper. Like the proverbial adder, she often struck, blindly and without any particular target. Merry knew the queen must be incensed already by her failure to appear at Whitehall by the appointed hour, and once her slippers set foot in the place, she would be fair game to royal wrath.

Merry shuddered. She had witnessed firsthand what damage Tudor temper might do, with the executions of Mary Queen of Scots and others. Her own father had narrowly escaped beheading on Tower Green. One did not toy with the fierce Tudor monarchs. Even a favorite such as Devereux might fall with the simple expiration of royal grace.

“’Tis a point of consideration, to be sure,” she said, aware of him awaiting her response. “Yet how worse her wrath, upon discovering I avoided a lecture by fleeing north with a stranger? And a man at that? Faith, sirrah, you should know by now Her Grace does not tolerate any sort of scandal among the ranks of her ladies.”

“Naturally I have taken that into consideration,” Ranald answered. “The accident provides more than ample excuse for any erratic behavior. There are also three other witnesses, besides ourselves, who can attest the vehicle was damaged irreparably. Perhaps Her Majesty’s position will soften when she hears your desire to meet your betrothed exceeded that of personal comfort.”

Despite her cross mood, Merry chuckled. If only Lindsay knew! She was accounted a spoiled chit in her own family, and a cheerful but exacting taskmistress at Court. Her tiring woman, Jane, oft remarked her mistress would not so much as set foot in the hall on the days the servants emptied the slop buckets. True enough, Merry tended toward the fastidious end of the scale and preferred creature comforts to rough accommodations. Right now she wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot tub for hours, then sit curled up in her favorite chair before a blazing hearth whilst Jane brushed out her hair and rubbed it with a square of silk until it shone like crimson wine.

She sighed, realizing it was too late to argue over which direction they were headed. Already they had traveled a goodly distance, and truth to tell, she was more than a little curious about meeting Sir Jasper. It would not bode well to turn up on her betrothed’s doorstep bedraggled and exhausted, however, and Merry wracked her mind for the solution. Mayhap Falcon’s Lair. Nay, she decided, Kat and her husband deserved their privacy after months of painful separation, and besides Merry had no desire to see her hard work all undone. Doubtless the moment she had left, the lackadaisical servants slipped into their cozy procrastination again.

“How far is your own residence from Braidwood, milord?” Merry asked, forgetting his request she not adopt a formal title of address.

The arm resting about her waist tightened, as if in silent rebuke. “Not very far.” She heard him inhale deeply, as if he might say something more. Yet the silence weighed like a hundred stone between them. She quietly, yet firmly, began again.

“Would you estimate within three days’ ride?”

“Aye.”

“Perhaps your lady wife would not find an unexpected guest too vexing?”

Merry sensed, rather than saw, tension rippling throughout his broad frame. For a moment, she half expected him to hurl her bodily from Uar’s saddle. Though she did not understand the source of such a vehement reaction, she could hardly mistake it.

“I live alone at Auchmull, but for kinsmen and servants.”

“Oh.” Merry sought for the appropriate words, instinctively grasping the underlying message that she was not to pursue the matter any further. “I trust some of the retainers are female?”

“Enough to safeguard your reputation, aye.” A hint of amusement colored his tone at last, and Merry relaxed. “I take it you would like to attend to some manner of … ahhh … restoration before you meet your future husband?”

“Precisely.” Merry refused to be embarrassed over what might appear such a frivolous female notion. When Ranald laughed and agreed they might retire to Auchmull first, she felt instead a flush of triumph. For the first time since their paths had crossed, she and the Scottish wolf were seeing eye to eye.

Chapter Six

RAN GAZED AT THE redheaded woman curled in his tartan, where she slept on the damp ground. Firelight flickered across her features, burnishing her hair to living fire and sculpting alabaster angles from her cheekbones. A stray wisp of fiery hair clung to one cheek, adding an oddly poignant reminder of a sleeping bairn. Ran looked away, before he might find himself regarding Merry Tanner as anything but the self-centered little
Sassenach
bitch she was. Hell, not only had she demanded his tartan, but she insisted he stay awake, tend the fire, and kept watch for brigands as well.

Not that he could sleep. Ran leaned back against the large boulder, his gaze drifting to the night sky instead. He remembered bits and pieces from his lessons as a lad at Edzell, and the mighty bull winked the red eye of Aldebaran at him as if confirming his memories. If only real life was as logical, as comforting as the old myths and legends. Ran had evolved into somewhat of a legend himself by now, and the stories of the fierce Wolf of Badanloch were ominous enough that Mistress Tanner should have run screaming into the wood whilst she had the chance. He chuckled softly at the thought, sparing a glance for the tousled-haired lass. At times she reminded him of an auburn-tressed elf, with her sharp little features and small frame. Her temper, however, was as fierce as any Highlander’s, he suspected. He had yet to test it fully.

They were several days’ ride yet from the border, and Auchmull. It amazed him still she had agreed so readily to the journey, but then it was obvious she was anxious to lay eyes upon her betrothed. No cost too high, no journey too far for the cause of true love, Ran thought bitterly. He felt his gaze drifting once more from the stars and found his attention focused on the sleeping woman. Wickham’s woman. Sweet Jesu, here was his chance.

The idea had only flirted with him before, but Ran felt it solidifying by the moment. Meredith Tanner was completely dependent upon him for her survival. He had shared his water, the better portion of Hertha’s Forfar Bridies, and now the warmth of a Highland tartan. Her reputation, if not her entire family’s, rested in his hands. He could shame this lass, and Wickham by association. If a moment’s conscience flared, Ran shrugged it aside. He had no personal quarrel with the Tanners. Mayhap a fine match would be lost, but in the end he would save this redheaded vixen untold years of agony.

Meredith Tanner was not displeasing to look upon. Not a ravishing beauty by any means, but fair enough and sweetly curved in all the right places. His gaze traveled downward, where her hips lay hidden beneath the colorful tartan. It was hard to judge through a damned farthingale, but they seemed sleek enough for bed sport yet broad enough for bearing a man’s bairns.

As if sensing his perusal, Merry’s eyes suddenly snapped open. By firelight her irises were iridescent silvery green. She did not seem alarmed, but rather confused by her surroundings. She sat up awkwardly on one hip, blinking at Ran somewhat dazedly.

“How long did I sleep?” she asked.

“Several hours. ’Tis almost dawn.” He cleared his husky throat and gestured at the faint blush on the horizon. “Hungry?”

Merry nodded. “Parched, too.” She ran a hand over her disheveled hair as if to magically restore her coiffure, but already the blazing locks had slipped to her waist and the ends defiantly curled there from the lingering humidity.

Ran rose and retrieved a soft leather water bag from Uar’s saddle, returned and handed it to her without a word. She nodded gratefully, uncorking it without the faintest evidence of hesitation such as she’d displayed last night. She drank, while Ran watched the slim column of her throat. He wondered if any man had dared taste that rarefied ivory flesh before. He knew the queen demanded absolute loyalty from her ladies in waiting, with chastity as the ultimate end. He also knew of the Court’s reputation for corrupting innocents. Into which category did Merry Tanner fall?

There was an obvious coquetry in her manner of speech, laughter, even something so minute as a slanted glance from those gray-green eyes. She had been carefully coached, or else emerged, into a state of womanly graces, complete with the talent to pout, rail, or cry at the drop of a pin. Ran detested such artifices. False emotions were worse than the unholy rage that gripped him whenever he thought of his dead wife and child. At least his rage was honest. As keen and glittering as the blade he wished to drive through Wickham’s black heart.

At the moment, however. Merry did not appear either coy or simpering. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was bruised from exhaustion and her cheeks hollowed with shadow. When she finished drinking, he fetched a makeshift meal to break their fast, handing two barley bannocks to her without a word. She nibbled cautiously at the dry bread between sips of water while Ran tended to Uar.

Merry finished the humble meal, rose and drew Lindsay’s tartan closer about her shoulders, shivering in the humid morning air. A glance at her soiled skirts revealed they were damp as well, ruined beyond repair. How Jane would scold! Her tiring woman seemed to take personal pride in her lady’s wardrobe, and was quite a termagant whenever her authority in such matters was usurped.

Merry’s attentions moved from a quick study of the makeshift camp to Ranald Lindsay. His back faced her as he resaddled his mount. Even without his tartan, clad only in breeks and a bishop-sleeved white shirt, wavy dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders, he was ruggedly handsome. With a sudden burst of vanity, Merry wished she did not appear so rumpled and weary. She had never traveled well, even in the queen’s retinue with the utmost comfort of a luxurious coach and frequent breaks. Lindsay must suppose her as fragile as the wildflowers Uar demolished with one wide swath of his ugly head, as the horse greedily grazed a fresh patch of ground where his master led him.

It was too tempting to whimper about things he could not change, like the weather, but Merry vowed she would not give him the satisfaction of succumbing to female ploys. If she was to gain and keep the respect of such a stalwart man, she must call upon her own internal strength. Just as she was thus resolved, he turned suddenly and captured her in his dark gaze.

“Merry?”

Ranald extended a large hand with those artist’s fingers so she might mount Uar with his assistance. Merry felt the breath leave her in a silent rush, and without a word stepped forward and laid her smaller, paler hand in his. He glanced at the point where their flesh made contact as if he, too, was startled by an invisible tingle racing up his spine.

Soon she was safely settled in the saddle, her ruined skirts arranged as neatly as if she rode in a royal procession. Habit was a hard thing to break, though Merry sensed her riding companion’s mixed amusement and chagrin. Why bother to act a lady when one presently resembled a tumbled bawd?

“We shall cover ground more quickly, now the rain has fled.” Ranald’s remark did not require a response, but Merry offered one anyway.

“’Tis fortunate, too, for I confess I am weary of the journey already.”

“Or the company?”

She smiled at the touch of asperity in his tone. “Nay, Ranald, you have not given me any cause for grief. Indeed, but for the timeliness of your rescue, I daresay I might still be sprawled within that coach, while the gentle Welsh rain poured down upon me.”

He laughed, a spontaneous and warm sound. It rumbled through his chest and hence Merry’s by proximity, as by necessity she was pressed back against him to make room for her voluminous skirts. She liked his laugh, when it was not tinged by ugly sarcasm or scorn. Was this Lindsay not so dour-natured, she could see him winning hands and hearts at Court.

They rode for several hours, stopping only for brief rests and another barley bannock. At first it did not occur to Merry to wonder why Lindsay avoided the inns and villages scattered throughout the Welsh province, but when she spied a distant spiral of smoke and sighed longingly, it seemed he read her mind.

“A fire and hot food must seem very tempting right now, I am sure.” He pronounced “very” more like “verra,” another unconscious reversion to his Scots heritage.

“Oh, aye! You cannot imagine. I could soak for a week in a hot tub, and eat with both hands all the while.”

Again a hint of humor in his chuckle, “If you ate so enthusiastically, you should never fit into such an elegant gown again.”

“Formerly elegant.” Merry frowned, touching the soiled fabric.

“Precisely the reason why I dare not expose you to public scrutiny, Merry. Certainly gossip travels quickly, even in these rural parts. Word would reach the queen of your being seen in such a state of disarray, riding double with a barbarian and disheveled in a most alarming manner.”

“I had not thought of that. S’truth, Her Grace would be enraged.”

Merry decided it was most considerate of Lindsay to protect her reputation, despite her niggling suspicion he gained great amusement from regarding her as some sort of dim-witted little prude. She shuddered at the mental image of her walking into an inn full of strangers on Lord Lindsay’s arm, her skirts torn and muddied, wearing the man’s tartan for warmth and modesty.