The Fraser Bride (25 page)

He scowled and remembered to smooth his expression into one of unconcern. “Aye, well, I’m not particularly thrilled with you, either.”

“As you said, I cannot have every man swooning at my feet.”

The ceiling swam momentarily. “I fear I did not realize your methods when first I said that, Notmary.”

“My name is Anora. Anora of the Frasers.”

There was something in her voice. Something that drew him in. Vulnerability? Softness? Nay, he would be a fool to believe it, and he was rather tired of playing the fool. “A bit damned late to tell me now.” He struggled to sit up.

“What have you done to me?” he asked, and glanced toward his chest. It was bound beneath his arms in a long strip of white. He reached for the knot that held it in place. “I cannot breathe trussed like a Michaelmas goose.”

“Or mayhap ‘tis because the Munro tried to skewer you,” she said and, stepping quickly forward, pushed his hands aside. “Leave off or I’ll call Tree to keep you out of trouble.”

“Tree!” Ramsay snorted, but he left his hands where they fell. It took entirely too much energy to try to move anyway. “He could not keep a boulder on the ground.”

” ‘Tis not true,” she said, and fussed for a moment with his blanket. “He is not called Tree for no reason.”

“Aye. ‘Tis either his strength or his intellect.”

She smiled the slightest amount. Ramsay’s breathing stopped, but in an instant she sobered and straightened, her fingers still fretful. “Why did you do it?”

Dear God, she was beautiful, and sad, so sad, but ‘twas not his concern, he reminded himself, and harshly drew breath into his starving lungs. “Listen, Notmary,” he said, forcing his voice into gravelly depths. “I’ve recently been used as a target for a mounted Minotaur. Mayhap you could simply say what you mean this once.”

“Why did you tell Tree to take me away?”

Something dangerously fragile fluttered in his stomach. He would not let her know the truth. Indeed, he barely shared the truth with himself. “Because I knew you lied,” he said.

Her hands twisted about themselves. “And why do you care?”

“Mayhap you have not noticed, lass, but Munro is a wee bit irritating. I had no wish to see him take Evermyst.”

She watched him. “Meara said ‘twas because you are kind.”

His gut twisted up tighter. “I am not foolish enough to be kind, lass. On that you can depend.”

“Then why did you fight the battle? If not for kindness’ sake.”

Because he could not bear to think of her in Munro’s filthy hands. “As I said, I do not like the man.”

“And so you wished to kill him?”

“As soon as look at him,” he said, and realized a bit belatedly that that last statement might have benefited if he’d put a bit of emotion into his tone.

She pulled her gaze away and paced quietly toward the room’s narrow window.

“I heard that you offered him a chance to quit the battle,” she said finally. “Why would you do that if you wished to kill him?”

She was limned by the fading light from the window, her hair ablaze and her mouth pinkened by the setting sun. Beneath the blankets, his desire hardened.

Christ!

“Why?” she said again.

Ramsay snagged his attention back to the conversation and snorted. “You jest,” he said. “The man is as big as a bloody ox. ‘Twas no way in hell I would be able to best him.”

“And yet you did,” she murmured.

“Aye. I bested him,” he said. “By knocking him over the head with me horse.”

“By causing him to underestimate both you and your steed. By using every possible advantage against him. By cunning.” Her voice was as soft as a velvet sleeve. “Kindness and cunning. Power and peacefulness.”

The prophecy—mayhap she believed he was the one. Hope leapt inside him. He strangled it without a shred of mercy. ” ‘Tis not like you, Notmary, to look for virtue where there is none. ‘Twas luck and desperation that won me the day. Nothing else, and you well know it. But then, you are none to call the kettle black, aye? For you would lie to Saint Peter himself.”

She actually blanched. “I would do no such thing,” she whispered.

He snorted derisively and shook his head. It hurt. “You swore on your mother’s grave you would stay inside these walls, and that should Munro survive the battle, you would leave.”

She merely stared at him.

“What, lass? Do you disremember, or—”

“I told you, my mother has no grave, therefore the vow was null and void.”

“How in heaven’s name—”

“She had no wish to be burned as a witch. Thus she chose her own course. ‘Tis a long and deadly drop from Myst’s uppermost tower to the sea.”

He wished now that he could believe she was lying, but the horror in her eyes made it impossible.

“The waters never gave her back. More proof of her sins, I suspect. So you see why I lie, MacGowan?” she said. “Innes Munro has no more love for the Frasers than did his brother. How simple it would be for him to find a reason to believe that others are witches. And what then?” Her voice was a whisper as she turned back toward the window.

“Who? Who might he think is a witch?”

She gazed down at the bailey below. “Myself, of course,” she said. “And I may not have my mother’s courage.”

“You …” he began, but stopped himself, his mind spinning. ” ‘Tis not what you meant,” he said. “You wondered what would happen to your people.”

She turned back, the glimmer of a smile on her lips. “Now who looks for virtue where there is none?”

“Do not try to lie about this truth,” he said. “For this I know—you care for your people’s welfare.”

“They are all I have. We Frasers were once a great force, and Evermyst a grand fortress. Is it wrong of me to dream of seeing such days again?”

He mulled a dozen old conversations over in his mind. “Is that why you went to court, then? To find a wealthy nobleman?”

She held his gaze. ” ‘Twas my father’s hope to marry me well,” she said. ” ‘Tis why he sent me to Edinburgh. Indeed, even after …” She faltered, but in a moment, she went on. “Even afterward, he hoped Laird Tytherleigh would wish to marry me.”

Something akin to rage boiled inside him, but he kept his expression stoic. “And what of the prophecy?”

“Father didn’t think the viscount’s actions negated the possibility of him possessing the required attributes.”

Damn it to hell! “So when your father died, you hoped to choose your own mate, as the king had promised.”

“Nay. I hoped to have no mate at all, despite his promise to Munro. Hence my journey to my cousins.”

He canted his head.

“I appealed to them for assistance. But once I mentioned the name Munro, there was little hope of help from that front.”

“And what of your betrothed’s escort?”

“I left them before we reached my cousins, and hurried from there to the MacAras. But they were no more help than my kinsmen.”

“Thus you left there, too.”

“I still had hopes of finding assistance elsewhere.”

“With the MacGowans?”

She shrugged. “I learned at an early age not to be choosy.”

“And to lie.”

“And what should I have done? Spilled the entire truth and hoped that someone I had never met, someone who owed me naught, would risk his own life for a maid who could offer him nothing?” She twisted her hands together. “It would not have happened. Not until the sun fell into the sea. Not until the seasons ceased—”

“You are right,” he said. “Only a fool would see himself wounded for naught.”

She drew herself up, and the cool veneer settled back over her features. “So what is it that
you
wanted, MacGowan?”

He dared not think what he wished from her. The road to hell was paved with a woman’s charms. “Do you forget, lass? You said you were the lady of the great fortress of Levenlair. Surely there be vast opportunity there.”

She stood very still, thinking, and in a moment she spoke again, though it seemed she forced out the words. “You told me you did not believe I was Mary of Levenlair.”

” ‘Twas only so me brothers would not,” he lied.

“So you hoped to win my hand and thereby gain Levenlair’s fortune.”

He forced a laugh. “I fear I be not as greedy as some, lass. I only hoped for a bit of coin.”

“Then why, after you arrived here and saw that we had nothing … why did you still battle the Munro?”

“I told you. I did not like the look of him.”

“So it was not for me?” she murmured.

Had he wounded her? Did she care? Might it be that …

He swore silently and set his jaw. “In truth, you are not the sort to make me risk death, Notmary.”

“Then you do not … you are not … attracted to me?”

Her expression was so sincere, so melancholy. He was beginning to sweat and attempted to lift his leg just to feel the edge of pain skitter across his flesh. “Nay,” he said. “No more than average.”

“So why, at the inn—”

” ‘Twas nothing!” He spat out the words before she could go on, before she could remind him how she had felt in his arms, how her skin smelled, how her breath felt against—God help him, he was a daft prick! ” ‘Twas naught but a base reaction. Surely you, of all people, know better than to expect more from a man.”

“So you do not care for me? ‘Twas only … desire for coin that brought you here?”

He tried to grin, but the expression felt hideously ghoulish. “You make me sound very mercenary, lass.”

“And now I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing!” He immediately regretted the words. He had to act cool and self interested, lest his heart be wrenched from his chest yet again. “Unless you’re offering,” he corrected, and eyed her with what he hoped was lascivious interest.

“And if I offered …” She took a trio of quick steps toward him. “You would accept?”

His leer disintegrated into a scowl. “Mayhap you are too naive to understand what a leg injury does to a man.” Now he was the liar, for already his idiotic wick was lifting toward her, begging shamelessly for attention.

“I noticed nothing more than a wound on your thigh and chest,” she said.

“What?” he rasped.

She straightened even more, though her cheeks were slightly reddened. “Poor we may be, but still I am lady of this keep. ‘Tis my duty to—”

“You saw me in the whole?”

“You are not the first, but as I said, I saw nothing amiss … in that region.”

“Christ!” He’d been naked, and wounded, and unconscious, and in plain view of her and God knew who else. “Christ!” he said again and beneath the blankets his manhood jerked with inappropriate enthusiasm. “You cannot tell just by looking. I am most probably irreparably damaged.”

“I’ve not known a man to say such a thing,” she murmured. “Unless he was trying to make me feel pity. To trick me into his bed.”

Good Lord! He forced a grin. His face was getting tired. “You’ve found me out, lass.”

She took another two steps toward him. “So that’s it, then? You be still attempting to … couple with me?”

“You may not be me type, lass, but …” God, she was beautiful. “It has been some time for me. You can hardly blame me for trying.”

Her expression was disturbingly somber. What would it take to make her smile, he wondered, and found that despite everything—her lunacy, her deceit, the irritating pain that throbbed through him, he still longed with hopeless fervency to take her into his arms.

“Nay, I do not blame you,” she said, and taking one more step, perched cautiously on the edge of his mattress.

“You don’t?” His words sounded as weak as a girl child’s.

“The truth is, MacGowan, I owe you.”

He tried to speak. Nothing came out.

“But I have little to offer,” she said, and reaching out, set her palm upon his arm. Flesh against flesh. “Thus …” she began.

There was no air in the room. No air—and he realized that he had forgotten to inhale. He did so now.

“Thus I propose a solution.”

“Solution?”

“I do not like to owe men.”

He wanted to assure her that she owed him nothing, but he was wracked with a fear that if he spoke, the truth would spill out like a break-tide. He wanted her with such intensity that he ached with the longing; he could think of nothing else, and yes, though he knew he was a fool, he would die to keep her safe.

“Neither do I like to fear them,” she said, “and since I am indebted …”

Breathe. Breathe.

“And you are injured, mayhap ‘twould be wise for me to …” Her hand slid up his arm and onto his chest, and suddenly he was breathing too fast. “To repay you, and mayhap overcome my fear at the same time.”

‘Twas lunacy! And yet his body screamed for her. Willing … nay, eager to have her at any price, for however long she offered. So what if she had no feelings for him? It mattered little. Surely he had learned not to care. But … to have her and lose her …

“What say you?” she whispered.

“Nay.” The refusal was so low Ramsay himself could barely believe it had left his lips.

“What?” Her voice was breathy, close, shivering up his spine like magic.

“I fear I am more grievously injured than I suspected,” he said, forgetting where he had ended with his lies, and no longer caring to work out the tangled snarl.

“No interest?”

He swallowed. “Nay. None at all.”

She leaned slowly forward. He watched her lips until he could no longer see them, and then they touched his. Desire burned hot as a poker, and he trembled like a leaf beneath its heat.

“Still nothing?” she whispered.

He managed somehow to shake his head.

She drew her hand carefully from his chest and rose to her feet. “You are a liar.” She said the words softly but with absolute conviction.

“Me!” Air rushed back into his lungs. ” ‘Tis
you
who is the liar!”

“Aye. But at least I am good at it,” she said, and turning toward the door, left without another word.

“Naught has changed. ‘Tis the same as before the Munro came to Evermyst,” Anora began, but Meara was already shaking her head. Flickering candlelight chased shadows across the oil portraits that adorned the walls of the solar.

“All has changed and you well know it, lass. The Munro is injured but not dead. Do you think he will take that defeat kindly? Nay, he shall redouble his efforts to have this place.”