The Fraser Bride (4 page)

She moaned. The sound creaked weakly from her lips. She fluttered her fingers to her brow and let her head fall back against the downy pillow.

“Mary!”

“Lass! Are you—”

“What be you lads doing in here?” rasped an old voice, and suddenly Gilmour was brushed aside and an old woman appeared. Gray eyes widened in surprise. “Lass, you’ve come to.”

Anora said nothing, but moaned again, working for the perfect amount of pathos.

“All right then, lads. What have you done to her?”

“I was but passing by when I saw the lass was alone,” Gilmour said, “and since you were absent, I thought it best to check in on her.”

“Check in on her, you say.” The woman tsked as she felt Anora’s brow. “Ach.” She smiled, making her face crinkle like old parchment as she touched the backs of her fingers to her patient’s cheek. “Poor wee lassie—having to wake up to the likes of these three rogues, eh?”

“I assure you, we did nothing to alarm her,” Lachlan said.

The old woman dropped her gaze to the dirk he held. “What, then, were you doing, lad? Teaching her the feminine art of battle?”

Gilmour laughed. ” ‘Tis true, me brothers are sadly inept with the fairer sex, Elspeth. But I did nothing to cause her the least bit of alarm. Indeed—”

“Nothing?” scoffed the old woman, and snatching his arm, steered him toward the door. “There hasn’t been a day since your birth that you haven’t caused a bit of alarm. And that goes for the both of you.” She grabbed Ramsay’s arm en route. “Now go, the lot of you, and don’t be bothering the lass again until I say she be ready for company.”

She closed the door firmly behind them. For a moment the room seemed enormously quiet, and then she chuckled.

“Ahh.” She tsked as she approached the bed. “Me apologies, lass. They must have given you a start.” Her fingers felt cool against Anora’s cheek as she swept back her hair. “But then again, there be nastier faces to wake up to. Truth be told, they set me own heart to fluttering, and me their nan since the day they were birthed. ‘Tis shameful, I know. But Lachlan’s brawn, and me Ramsay’s … ach, but I do go on, and here you be with an ache in your head pounding like a war drum.”

“How did you know?”

“About your head?” She chuckled as she turned away, and in a moment she was back, a steaming kettle in her hand. ” ‘Tis me job to know, lass, for I’ve been trained by the healer herself.”

“The healer?” Anora watched the gnarled hands pour water into a horn mug and then dip, quick and efficient, into a leather bag. In a moment she was mixing dried herbs into the brew. There was something soothing about the way she moved. Something that reminded her of Meara’s ways.

“The healer.” Elspeth said the words with reverence. “The Lady Forbes. The lads’ auntie, she be. Each one of them has been patched up by her ladyship herself. ‘Tis said there be magic in her hands. And mayhap there is, for not one of them …” She sighed dreamily. “Well, a lass could do worse than to be bound to any one of the three, hey? Their father has earned a dukedom, and their lady mother …” She paused, her eyes alight. ” ‘Twas she who brought me here many years since. She who drew her sword against …” She swallowed hard and frowned for a moment, but finally she went on. ” ‘Tis enough to say that the lads have their mother’s fire. Aye,” she said, nodding sagely. “Their mother’s fire and their father’s strength. ‘Tis nothing they cannot best if they put their backs to it.”

Anora glanced toward the door, her mind spinning.

“Here now, lass,” said Elspeth, pressing the horn to her lips. “Drink this down. ‘Twill set you to dreaming, it will. But you’ll feel the better for the rest.”

* * * * *

“So what be your name, me wee one? I’ve not seen you about Evermyst before. Mayhap you’ve been hiding from the spirit, too?”

The girl said nothing, for she could not. Indeed, her heart was beating too hard for her to speak.

“The quiet sort.” The Munro laughed, nearly blocking out the sound of the sea that she so loved. His beard was bushy, as red as rowan berries, and it set to quivering with his mirth. ” ‘Tis me favorite type of maid. Come hither, lass.”

She shook her head, setting her droopy coif to waggling as she backed a step away.

“Relax, lassie. Have you not heard? I’m to be the new laird of this keep soon. ‘Twould be wise of you to make friends whilst you can, eh? Before your mistress returns. Come hither.”

Her legs were shaking and her hands, pressed against her soiled gown, felt damp with fear. “Please, me laird,” she whispered, “me lady has been good to me and I’ve no wish to displease her.”

“Displease her?” He laughed again. “So you think your mistress will be unwilling to share me?”

“I … I only know that—” she began, but in that moment he leapt.

He was ungodly quick for a big man. She tried to twist away, tried to escape, but there was no hope. His hand closed like a giant claw around her arm and she was swung toward him.

“There now, no need for fear, lass. I only—” His words stopped, ending in a hiss of surprise as his eyes widened, then narrowed. “Who are you?”

Her muscles ached with tension, and her lungs cramped with fear.

“Who the devil are you?” Reaching up, he snatched the drooping coif from her head. Golden tresses fell unencumbered to her waist, and without the dowdy headdress every inch of her face was visible. “Witch!” he rasped and yanked his sword from its sheath.

* * * * *

“Nay!” Anora awoke with a gasp, one arm covering her face, but no blade descended to end her life. ‘Twas a dream. Just a—

But no. She knew better. ‘Twas a harbinger of things that might be.

She must return to Evermyst! Immediately.

The floor felt cold against her bare feet, but she barely noticed, for already she was running, racing through the doorway toward the stairs.

Her mind spun. She must find Pearl. Leave Dun Ard. Head north. There was no time to delay, no time to stop, and no time to avoid the man who loomed before her. She struck him full on and fell, tumbling backward. Her feet scrambled as she tried to regain her balance, to escape, but he was already reaching for her.

“Nay!” She tried to twist away, but he pulled her back.

“Relax, lassie,” he said, and she froze. The words of her dream quivered like a spent arrow through her mind. In the darkness she could not see her captor’s face, but she knew him.

“Munro,” she whispered.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Let me go!”

“And why should I?”

She was shaking, straining away from him. “Let me be. You are neither peaceable nor beloved,” she rambled wildly.

“What’s that?”

She froze at the sound of his voice, for it was not raspy and hoarse, but smooth and bonny and surprised.

“Who …” She tried to stop her shaking, to see through the gloom. “Who are you?”

Silence again, then, “I believe I asked that first.”

“I am …” She couldn’t remember her lies. They were becoming twisted in her mind, melded with her frantic dreams. Where was she?
Who
was she?

“Are you well, lass?”

“Aye, but I must—” She must what? Run into the night like a demented banshee? She realized suddenly that he was leading her away like a lambkin on a string, and yet she could not seem to resist. The blackness of the hall receded beneath a distant glimmer of light. They turned a corner and he glanced toward her. His eyes struck her, soulful and intense. His hair, tossed as if by restless sleep, shone like polished mahogany in the tallow light. He was not the Munro. He was Ramsay MacGowan, but he’d said the words spoken in her dream, and—

“Mary,” he murmured. His breath fanned her cheek. His chest was bare and dark. It was as broad as a boulder and sculpted with mounded muscle and tugging sinew. Against her arm, his hand felt as powerful and unyielding as the rough timbers beneath her feet.

Power. ‘Twas what she needed to win the day. ‘Twas what she craved, and ‘twas here, right before her, if she could but harness it. And why could she not? Aye, he had seemed distrustful and distant at their first meeting, but that was in the full light of day. All men changed with the coming of darkness. That she had learned long ago. With an effort, she stilled the tremor in her hands. All her life men had admired her, had praised her golden tresses, her soft skin, her feminine form. Those attributes had gained her little but hardship so far, so it was surely time to collect on them. She was hardly above using her physical features to gain her ends, and MacGowan was hardly above feeling the bite of desire. That was a potent force indeed, but she would not be the one to pay the price this time.

“Ramsay,” she whispered. ” ‘Tis you.”

“Aye,” he said. His tone was quiet, cautious. “But why are you here?”

“I …” she turned her eyes sideways, forcing herself to be calm, to remember her mission. “I had a dream,” she whispered, and moved marginally closer.

“A dream?”

“Aye.” Her voice was only a wisp of sound in her own ears. “Aye. ‘Twas most … most …” She broke off.

“Lass, you are shaking.” He leaned slightly closer. His breath smelled of sweet wine, and when he slipped his arm around her back, she was able by dint of sheer will to keep from drawing away. “But you needn’t worry,” he said, and stroked her hair lightly.

“Nay. Not whilst you are here,” she said, and forced her eyes to fall closed. ” ‘Twas you I dreamt of.”

The stroking stopped, but she refused to look up to determine his mood.

“Not the one who frightened you, I hope.”

“Nay.” She paused, holding her breath as if ashamed to say the next words. “The one who saved me.”

She heard him draw a deep breath and then his hand moved again, but slowly, as if he were thinking. “How clever of me,” he said.

“Aye,” she murmured, and grasping his arms in shaky fingers, pulled herself closer so that her nipples touched his chest through her borrowed night rail. They tightened on contact, sending a tingling warning through her system. But she had no time to decipher warnings. “Clever and brave and ultimately chivalrous.”

“You took quite a blow to your head, lass. Are you certain you are not mistaking me for someone else? One of me brothers, mayhap?”

She forced a tremulous smile. “Nay, my laird. I am a fine judge of men. You are not the ogre you pretend to be.”

In the darkness, she watched his brows rise toward the line of his hair. “I am ever so happy to hear it,” he said. “But now I wonder, if you judge me so kindly, why you were afraid just moments ago?”

“I thought you were …” A bearded face flashed through her mind. She jerked at the image, then realized the opportunity that came with the fear and pulled herself closer to Ramsay’s warm chest.

“What is it, lass?”

She loosened her grip and eased back a scant half an inch. ” ‘Tis naught,” she breathed. “Only the dream.”

His gaze never wavered from her face. “But in the dream I saved you, did I not?” he asked, and eased his arm down her back, circling her waist.

Panic rose in her throat. Too close, her mind screamed. But she must play the game. All she held dear depended on it. “Aye,” she said, and remained as she was, in the circle of his arm. “You did.”

“Then surely I deserve a kiss,” he murmured, and suddenly his lips were against hers.

Her heart slammed into her ribs and her hands shook, but she allowed a moment’s touch, just the slightest flash of flesh against flesh before she pushed him away. He retreated the slightest distance, but she dare not fight him, lest he guess her mood. Instead, she lowered her eyes and fought a silent battle with the terror.

“Mary,” he whispered, his arm still around her. “Me bonny Mary.”

“Aye?” ‘Twas all she could do to force out that single word, to remain where she was.

“You kiss like an innocent, sweet lass,” he said and she forced herself to glance up through her lashes at him. “But …” He touched her chin, locking his gaze on hers. “You lie like a wanton.”

“What!” She reared away from him. In the darkness, her eyes looked as wide as a child’s. The innocence was a lie, of course. But against his arms her hands trembled, and for an instant he was tempted to pity her. To learn her past. To right the wrongs.

History, however, had taught him better than to give in to temptations. The price was more than he was willing to pay.

“You lie,” he said simply. “And quite convincingly, I might add.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She tried to pull away, but he kept his arm wrapped loosely about her back so that her upper body was slanted slightly away from him. The light from the tallow candle behind her shone through the thin fabric of her night rail. Her breasts, small and soft and hopelessly enticing, seemed to glow with an iridescent light of their own.

He had always had a weakness for glowing breasts, he thought wryly. Pulling his gaze from the sight with a hard effort, he snapped his attention to the conversation at hand.

“The Munro,” he said simply. Arousal lowered the timbre of his voice to a rumble, and he resented both the desire she caused and the proof of its existence.

She was staring up at him again, her eyes ungodly wide, her delicate body all but naked to his gaze. Beneath his plaid, his clueless arousal nudged toward his belt, and he scowled at its stirrings.

“Wh—who?” she murmured.

He managed to laugh. His wick had the sense of a drowning cow; it could do little more than bob to the surface. But his mind could learn from old wounds, and despite the sight of her breasts, the touch of her skin, and the sweet curve of her bottom against his arm, he remembered the pain of feminine lies.

“The Munro,” he said, feeling the words come a little more easily, though his hard desire refused to subside. “You said his name quite clearly.”

“I did not,” she gasped.

“Aye, lass, you did. When you so cleverly collided with me, you uttered his name.”

She stared at him for a moment longer and then she laughed. He felt her relax a smidgen in his arms. “I fear your hearing is not what it might be, good sir.” She turned slightly. Her breast brushed his arm, burning on contact. Against his conscious will, his muscles contracted, and she drew smoothly from his grip while he struggled for composure. But it had been some months since the pressure in his groin had been relieved and hard edged desire and clear-headed thinking made rare bedfellows indeed. “What did you say then?” Crossing his arms against his chest with hard won nonchalance, he watched her wander toward the light.