The Fraser Bride (22 page)

“By morn you shall be far gone,” she insisted.

“Gone?” he gritted. “Do you forget that the Munro guards the gate?”

“There is a way,” Meara said.

Ramsay shifted his gaze toward the old woman, half forgotten in her spot beside the door.

“What way?” he asked.

“Deep in the roots of Evermyst there is a path that leads to the sea. A boat waits at its mouth.”

“In the dark of the night you shall take that boat, and you shall escape,” Anora said.

Ramsay narrowed his eyes at her. “Escape?” he said finally. “From me love and her child?”

“There is no child, and you well know it,” she hissed.

“How would I know?” he gritted, stepping closer. “How would I know when everything you’ve told me is a lie? When I cannot believe the simplest word you say?”

She held her ground, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “This you can believe, MacGowan,” she said. “On the morrow the Munro will kill you unless you are far gone.”

“Then prepare me a stone now, Notmary, for tomorrow will be me last day upon this earth.”

“You will—” Anora began, but Meara’s harsh voice interrupted.

“Why would you risk your life, laddie?”

He scowled. “There is none who calls a MacGowan a coward.”

“You would rather be called a corpse?” Meara croaked.

He turned abruptly toward the window at the far side of the bed chamber. “I stay,” he said.

“Nay!” Anora’s voice was shrill and high pitched in the narrow room. “You cannot—”

“I can,” he countered evenly. “Now be gone, so that I may rest.”

“You’ll not—”

” ‘Tis his decision to make,” Meara interrupted.

“Are you mad?”

“Mayhap,” Meara said, and urged her toward the door. “But this I know—the lad must sleep.”

“Sleep!” They were insane—the both of them.

“Or pray,” Meara said, and grinned as she closed the door behind them.

” ‘Tis no laughing matter,” Anora rasped.

“Isn’t it?” Meara asked, and taking her arm, urged her down the hallway. “And why is that, lass? Is he not the answer to our prayers?”

“The answer—” She reared back, appalled and sickened. “I never asked for a sacrificial lamb.”

“Didn’t you? Remember the stakes: the Munros burn witches.”

“I am no witch,” she hissed.

“I was not speaking of you, lass. You are the lady here.”

Anora winced.

“You said he would leave if others believed that I bore another man’s child. You said his pride would make him go as surely as his fear would keep MacGowan safe.”

“I said ‘twas the only way to keep you and yours free. That is what you wished for, is it not?”

“Aye, but—”

“Then sacrifices must be made. Why would you care if the sacrifices are MacGowan’s?” Meara’s gaze was hawkishly sharp.

“I’ve no wish to see a man die,” she whispered.

“So you have no special feelings for him?”

Anora gripped her skirt in a trembling hand. “Little difference would it make. I had feelings for Lord Richard. Remember?”

Meara ignored the goad. “Might MacGowan be the one? Is that why you care for him?”

“I do
not
care for him. ‘Tis simply that I’ve no wish to have his death on my head.”

Meara pulled her to a halt. ” ‘Tis the lad’s own choice to stay. You’ve no say in it. You can but pray he has the power and the cunning to overcome the Munro.”

“You know what the outcome will be!”

“Do I?” Meara asked.

“The Munros are naught but killers.”

“And what is MacGowan? Peaceable? Kind? Cunning? Do not fret, lass. ‘Tis not your place to decide whether the lad fights or nay, no matter how much you love him.”

“Love him! I do not love him,” Anora whispered, but Meara turned away, leaving Anora alone by her bed chamber door.

She opened it in a daze. Her room was broad and barren. Not a single rug softened the cold wooden floor. Only a faded tapestry adorned the far wall. Still, she was home. Exhaustion flooded her. She needed sleep, forgetfulness, but at that moment a rap sounded at her door.

“Me lady?” Isobel’s voice was soft.

“Come in,” Anora called.

“Good eventide,” Isobel said, and curtsied so that her weathered coif flopped over her brow. Tucked into the rope that secured her gown to her waist was a slingshot made of wood and leather—to teach Jamie’s geese some respect for her herb garden, she often said. “Is there aught I can fetch for you before you seek your bed?”

“Nay.” Anora kept her tone cool. “But come hither. You may help me with my hair.”

“As you wish, me lady,” Isobel said, and closed the door behind her.

For a moment they stared at each other, then Anora entwined her fingers and turned her back. Taking the few steps between them, Isobel set her hands to her mistress’ plaited hair.

“Who listens in?” Anora asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“None that I know of.” Isobel’s words were just as soft, her fingers quick as they loosened Anora’s braid and spread the hair across her shoulders. “But there are surely those who would resent you if they knew you had no intention of wedding the Munro.”

“Do they forget what they have done to our clansmen? To Mother?”

“There are those amongst us who bear more Munro blood than Fraser.”

“And mayhap their heritage is the very reason they resent my delay in marrying the Munro. They see nothing but the Munros’ power and think an alliance with that clan can do us only good. But they are fools!” Still, uncertainty and guilt gnawed at Anora’s gut like wild hounds. “The Munros care not for the Frasers, and they never shall. This last laird is no different from the others. He has no intention of bettering our lot. Indeed, he has no use for us at all. We only take up space that he might use for—”

“Do you hear me arguing, Nora?”

Anora let her shoulders droop. “I cannot wed him,” she breathed.

“I will be the first to agree.”

“And if MacGowan wishes to fight him …” She remembered how he had looked at her with such loathing. She turned stiffly, finding Isobel’s hands with her own. Their gazes met with solemn consideration. “Mayhap he will win,” she whispered.

Isobel tightened her grip on Anora’s hands. “And what if he does win? You have said you carry his child.”

“He knows ‘tis not true.”

“Still, what’s to keep him from claiming you as his own?”

She shook her head. “He will not.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I have a feeling,” Anora said, and Isobel smiled at the statement they both used quite often.

“Truly,” Isobel said, “how do you know whether the MacGowan will claim you for his own?”

“He despises me,” Anora murmured.

“Then why did he vow to fight for you?”

“I do not know. To punish me, mayhap.”

“To punish
you!
It seems he will be the one being punished.”

“Don’t say that!”

Isobel scowled. “If I left—”

“Nay!” Anora gasped, and crushed the small maid’s hands in her own. “Nay, you must not leave me, Isobel. I have only just found you.”

“But what of MacGowan?”

She refused to think of him. “What Meara said is true. ‘Tis his choice to make, and ‘tis like a man to choose to fight when there is another way.”

“And what if he dies?”

Anora tightened her grip and her resolve. “Then ‘tis God’s will.”

“You think he is the—” Isobel began, but Anora jerked up her chin, employing that regal demeanor that had served her for so many years.

“I am fatigued,” she said. “And do not wish to speak of it any further.”

“Nora—”

“Nay!” Turning, she paced to the foot of her bed. Beneath her fretful fingers, the loose corner-post threatened to abandon the bed’s frame. “I’ve no more need of your assistance this night. You may leave.”

The room went silent for a moment. Anora pulled her grip carefully from the shaky post and half glanced over her shoulder.

“Might it be true?” Isobel’s voice was no more than a murmur in the dimness.

“What?”

“Do
you carry his child?”

She spun around. “You know better.”

“But you wish you did.”

“Nay!”

“Then what are these feelings you—”

“I am tired,” Anora repeated, unable to maintain her mask any longer. “Please, Isobel. Do not go dredging about in me thoughts just now.”

The girl’s sky blue eyes drilled into hers for a moment longer, then she nodded. “As you will then … me lady,” she murmured in her baby soft voice. “Sleep well.”

Anora said nothing, but watched the other turn silently away. The door closed with a creak of leather and wood, but Isobel’s question was all she heard.

What if he wins?

Anora paced fretfully. It would be his right to claim her. Emotion, unnamed and unwanted, sparked in her chest, but she doused it. He could not win against the Munro. Therefore he must escape now, while he could. But he refused.

She paced again, feeling restless.

What could she do? Meara was right; it was his choice, his alone. But why did he insist on this battle?

It did not matter. Her shoes rapped against the floor boards as she tread the same tired route. It did not matter why he chose this course, for she could not change his mind. It was out of her hands, and if he died—

At the thought, her knees buckled. She grabbed the bed’s corner-post to pull herself upright, and it came away in her fingers.

She stared at it in mute surprise. Perhaps it wasn’t out of her hands, after all.

Outside Ramsay’s high window, the world was black, but not half so black as his thoughts.

He is me love.

Remembering Anora’s words, he ground his hands into fists. She loved no one, least of all him. ‘Twas clear enough, for surely she had known how the Munro would react to her words, and just as surely she expected Ramsay to lose the battle, else she would not have suggested that he leave.

But there was the mystery. Why had she insisted that he go, when she did not care whether he lived or died?

It made no sense. Could it be that she cared just—

“Nay!” He said the word out loud and turned restlessly from the window.

Damn her! She did not care. She was incapable of caring, therefore …

The knock on his door was so soft that for a moment he thought he imagined it, but it came again.

He glared at the portal. “What do you want?” His tone was uninviting.

No response was forthcoming.

“Who’s there?” he asked again, and in a second a small voice answered.

” ‘Tis me, good sir, Isobel, sent to see to your needs.”

“I have no needs.”

“But Meara insisted that I bring you this cup of ale, and she shall be angry if I fail in me mission.” Silence for a moment. “Please, Master MacGowan, if you have a heart—”

Grinding his teeth, he strode across the floor and jerked the bar from the door. “Come in,” he snapped, but in that second his eyes narrowed.

“You!”

“Aye.” Notmary stepped quickly inside and pushed the door shut behind her.

“Tell me, lass, is it simply that you habitually forget your name, or are you so very fond of lying?”

She turned stiffly toward him, her narrow hands clasped. “I thought you might not grant me entry.”

“At times you are surprisingly astute for a deluded liar.”

She pursed her lips. “I did not come to spar with you.”

“Then you’ll be leaving?” He glared at her, but even now, he could not help but notice how her hair spread like spun gold over her shoulders, squared as they were like a small soldier’s. As if she faced the world alone and dared not admit her fear.

Christ, surely one as foolish as himself deserved to die at the hands of a man who was built like a bad tempered bull and smelled like a rotting seal.

“I cannot leave until …” She kept her hands twisted in the folds of her skirt.

“Until what? You’ve destroyed me life completely?”

“Until I thank you.”

He stared at her for a moment, then paced the length of the room, watching her. “For what,” he glowered. “For not telling the raging bull that you lied? That you do not carry me child? That you have no feelings for me or any other? That you are willing to see me die to avoid marrying him?”

” ‘Tis not true.” Her words were weak.

“What is untrue?” he asked. “That you are willing to see me die, or that you wish to avoid marrying him?”

“I asked you to leave.”

“Aye, you did that. Which makes me curious, lass. Why set up this wee charade in the first place? Why set forth the events to ensure this battle, only to try to stall it?”

“I cannot wed a Munro.”

“And why is that? Because they do not so readily believe your lies as some? Because you cannot manipulate—”

“Because they killed my mother.”

The air left his lungs in a painful rush, but he kept his head, forcing himself to remember their past. “You lie,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“She was alive when Ironfist took Evermyst.”

“Aye, she was alive then. And she was alive later. But after he died …” She turned away. “Some blamed his death on a weak heart, some on our ghost. But the Munro’s eldest son, Cuthbert, did not agreed. He was certain his sire was killed by the curses my mother threw at him. She was declared a witch.”

Ramsay almost reached for her, but surely ‘twas time he learned that a wounded creature was not necessarily one without teeth.

She said nothing, merely stared at him, and finally he forced himself to pull his gaze from her tortured eyes.

“So you want the Munros to suffer.”

“She was my mother,” she whispered.

“I am sorry.” He spoke to the wall, for he couldn’t trust himself to look at her.

“I did not come for your sympathy.” Her voice was little more than a breath of pain. She was close now, so close that he could feel the whisper of her words against his hair, could imagine once again how she would feel in his arms.

“Why then?” he asked.

“I only wanted to thank you.”

Don’t believe her,
his mind railed, but he could feel her emotions like an open wound. He turned, needing to hold her, and in that instant, she swung.