The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “What’s amiss?” Ramsay asked.

  Gilmour glanced up at his elder brother with a grin. “Either I am mistaken, and I never am, or … he is a she.”

  Ramsay was afoot in a second, beside his brothers in an instant.

  “Nay. He’s—” Lachlan argued and swiped aside the plaid tam that covered the victim’s head. A tangle of flaxen curls tumbled across his brother’s arm. “A lassie!” he hissed.

  “Aye,” Gilmour said and ran his fingers gently across a smudged cheekbone. “And as bonny as the sunrise.”

  “A lassie,” Lachlan repeated.

  “With a warrior on her trail,” Gilmour said.

  “The warrior!” Lachlan rose slowly to his feet, shoulders bunched forward like an angry bull. “He did this to her.”

  “But why?” Gilmour rose beside him to peer into the woods.

  “And where is he now?”

  “Gone. And we’d best be, too.”

  “Aye.” Lachlan tightened his fists and gazed down at the unconscious form. “Fetch me mount, Mour, and hand her to me when I am astride.”

  “You?” Gilmour scoffed. “Were she a side of mutton, I would consider allowing you to take her home. But she’s a lassie, and I am undoubtedly the man for the job.”

  “You jest,” Lachlan said.

  “You mistook her for a lad, brother.”

  “Which has naught to do with me ability to carry her.”

  “What if you mistake her for a stone or a twig or a … an apple core and discard her along the way?”

  “You’ll be keeping your wayward hands to yourself, Gilmour, or by the saints, I’ll—”

  “Sweet Almighty!” Ramsay said, and pushing his brothers impatiently aside, lifted the girl into his arms, and strode for his horse.

  Chapter Two

  “The warrior, was he a Munro?” Flanna asked.

  The brothers were closeted in the solar with their parents, the notorious laird and lady of Dun Ard.

  “I know not,” Lachlan answered. “We gave chase without delay.” Ramsay watched him pace across the woven carpet and onto rough timber. “But he eluded us.”

  “Eluded how?” ‘Twas their father who spoke, christened Roderic but generally called the Rogue by those who knew him well.

  Lachlan shrugged, giving a single lift to his heavy shoulders. He had inherited their grandfather’s bulk, while Ramsay had inherited … what? His mother’s cautious skepticism, perhaps. He glanced at her and almost smiled. She was known as the Flame of the MacGowans—and the only woman able to keep the Rogue on a leash.

  “I know not,” Lachlan was saying. “One moment he was there, and the next …” He blew out a sharp exhalation. “Gone.”

  “Gone?” said the laird and lady in unison.

  “I know you think our Lachlan has lost his wits,” Gilmour said, one hip cocked against a tall leather trunk. “And in the light of the news that he could not tell that yonder sleeping beauty was a lassie, well …” He shook his head, candlelight shining off his wheat toned hair. “I can understand your feelings, but truly the warrior did seem to vanish into—”

  “Were it not for me, you would never have left Dun Ard at the outset and the lassie would still be lying out there alone and unsheltered,” Lachlan said.

  “And were it not for me, you would be calling her Angus and challenging her to a wrestling—”

  “We’d best learn where she belongs soon,” Flanna interrupted. “Before ‘tis too late.”

  The room went silent with her unsaid words.

  “She’ll come to,” Lachlan said. “Surely she will.”

  “I pray you are right,” Flanna said. “But until then, we would be well advised to inform her clansmen of her whereabouts.”

  “How do we find her kin?”

  “Surely someone has missed her,” Roderic said. “She is a bonny lass, and …” His words faded to a halt as he glanced toward the Flame. “So I am told.”

  His bride of near thirty years raised a single brow at him. “You have not noticed for yourself, then?”

  “Of course not, me love,” he said and grinned as he took her hand. ” ‘Tis Gilmour who has brought me reports.”

  “I see. So you think her comely, Mour?” Flanna asked.

  “Aye.” His smile matched his father’s almost to perfection. “But not half so bonny as you, Mother.”

  She chuckled, as though she’d heard a hundred such lies and was not inclined to believe a single one of them.

  “But nearly as pretty as Gilmour,” Lachlan said.

  Flanna laughed aloud, and though Gilmour sent a scathing glare in his elder brother’s direction, humor lit his eyes.

  “And what of you, Ramsay?” Roderic asked. “You have been unusually quiet. Do you not find her comely?”

  Ramsay shrugged. He would rather listen to the others banter than to join in himself. Since returning from Edinburgh some months ago, he found Dun Ard changed somehow … and yet he knew that it had not changed at all. It was only his perception that had been altered. His parents had always been devout and loyal leaders of the clan MacGowan. His brothers had always bickered. The Flame had always adored the Rogue and had that adoration returned a hundred fold, but perhaps Ramsay had not appreciated it before, had not realized how rare and precious a thing they shared. Not until Lorna, he thought, and turned his mind aside, careful to keep his expression impassive.

  “I suspect she is bonny enough,” he said.

  “Bonny enough?” Lachlan snorted.

  “She has the face of an angel,” Gilmour argued. “Me Mary is the very embodiment of purity and grace. ‘Tis simply that Ram—”

  “Mary?” said three voices in unison.

  Gilmour canted a grin at them. “The lass needs a name; I have come to call her Mary.”

  “Whyever—” Lachlan began, but Ramsay interrupted.

  “As in the sainted mother of God,” he said, and rose irritably to his feet.

  The solar went silent.

  “Something peeves you, Ramsay?” Flanna asked.

  He shot her a glance. They had a connection, he and his mother, and he had no wish to lie to her. But if the truth be told, something did bother him, though he did not know exactly what it was.

  “Nay, nothing peeves me, Mother,” he said. ” ‘Tis simply that …” He paced, following much the same course Lachlan had, past the rarely used gittern and lute. While the Flame of the MacGowans was adept with a bow and downright devilish with a dirk, she was unexceptional in the more ladylike arts. Mayhap that accounted for her lack of coquettish behavior. Ramsay had expected to find that same forthright quality in other women, and been disappointed.

  “Simply what?” she asked now.

  “We know nothing of the woman,” he said. “True, she may be as saintly as me brothers suspect, but perhaps she is the opposite.”

  “You’re daft!” said Lachlan.

  “He is,” Gilmour agreed casually. “He is daft.”

  “And what, pray tell, has made you decide that, brothers?” he asked, keeping his tone level. “The fact that I think a bonny face might hide an evil heart? What if she were old and crotchety with a wart on her nose and a balding pate? Then might she be evil?”

  “Certainly,” Gilmour said.

  “Of course,” agreed Lachlan.

  Ramsay glowered, though he tried not to. “Mother, talk to them.”

  But she was smiling and the Rogue was chuckling out loud.

  “Me thinks ‘tis a bit early to decide whether she be sinner or saint,” Flanna said. “Mayhap we could wait until she awakens, at least. Don’t you agree, me sons?”

  “Aye,” Lachlan said.

  “I’m willing to wait forever for her to awaken, if need be,” Gilmour replied.

  “And you?” Flanna asked, looking at Ramsay.

  Having shoved his emotions neatly back out of sight, he shrugged. “It matters little to me what her temperament proves to be. I only hope that she is not a spy.”

&n
bsp; “A spy!” For a moment he thought Lachlan might actually launch himself across the room at him. Lachlan, after all, had always been prone to sharp flashes of temper. He remained as he was, however, though his square hands ground to fists. “Your time at court has turned your brain soft. The lass could no more be a spy than I could be a … a … rotting parsnip.”

  “I’ve oft wondered about the similarities,” Gilmour murmured, straightening from the trunk.

  “And why not?” Ramsay asked, ignoring him. “With sentiment turning against the French every day, there may be any sort of trouble brewing against us. Remember, brothers, Norman blood does flow through our veins.”

  “She is no spy,” Lachlan said and Ramsay shrugged.

  “Then perhaps she’s—”

  “Hold!” Flanna’s voice rang against the stone wall, her eyes gleaming nearly as bright as her auburn hair in the light of the nearby candles. ” ‘Tis not our place to determine what she is just yet. Not until we learn who she is.”

  “She is no—” Lachlan began, but Flanna raised her hand for silence.

  “Gilmour, I’ve a mission for you. You will travel to Braeburn and ask if perchance they are missing one flaxen haired maid.”

  He nodded. “Aye, Mother, though I am loath to leave the fox to guard the hen house.”

  She stared at him quizzically for a moment, then turned to her husband. “He is your son,” she said, asking for an explanation.

  “Methinks he refers to Lachlan as the fox,” Roderic said.

  “Ahh.” She turned back toward her third born son with a raised brow. “Never have I heard my ancestral home called a hen house before, Mour. But rest assured, I’ve a task for your brother as well.

  “Lachlan, you will attempt to find the warrior—” she began, but Roderic shook his head and she turned toward him. “Nay?”

  “Send our Lachlan to find the man who may have wished the sainted Mary harm?” He shrugged, laughter in his eyes. “Methinks ‘twould be best if the warrior retains the ability to walk when he is brought to our fair keep.”

  She nodded. “Lachlan, you will ride to Braeburn and inquire about the maid. Gilmour, you find the warrior. And Ramsay …” She turned toward him, her eyes slightly narrowed as she examined his face. “What of you, my son?”

  He resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. It seemed like a lifetime that she stared at him, but finally she spoke.

  “You will find the maid’s mount.”

  “As you wish, Mother,” he said with some relief for her averted gaze.

  She smiled. “Good. With God’s grace, by the morrow we will know the maid’s true identity.”

  “She is no spy,” muttered Lachlan, eyeing Ramsay.

  He shrugged. “A heretic, then. Or a murderess, or—”

  “A heretic!” Lachlan rasped.

  “A—” Gilmour began, but Flanna rose abruptly to her feet.

  “Quiet!”

  “A murderess!” Gilmour snorted.

  Roderic rose beside his wife. “Lads,” he said, his voice deep. “Your lady mother called for silence. Surely you’ve no wish to upset her. She might … swoon.”

  “Aye,” said Gilmour wryly “And I might suddenly burst into a hundred wee pieces, like a shattered mug, but I rather doubt it.”

  “Are you saying your mother is less than the epitome of fragile femininity?” Roderic asked.

  Silence spread over the room like spilled ink. The brothers glanced nervously at each other and away.

  “Well, Father,” Gilmour said finally. “Malcolm of Ryland does still bear that scar.”

  “Aye,” Lachlan added. “And I think mayhap Haydan the Hawk could have defended himself without Mother’s assistance.”

  “Scars,” Roderic said, as if dismissing such an inconsequential topic. “How can you speak of scars in the presence of me fair bride? Look at her. Is she not as delicate as a spring blossom?”

  Flanna lowered her eyes and lifted one hand delicately toward her bosom. A little eyelash batting and she would have fit into the queen’s entourage like a cog into its niche, but not a soul there seemed wont to mention the disparity between her reputation and her demeanor.

  “No comments?” Roderic asked finally. “Very well, then. What have you learned here, lads?”

  “Not to trust Mother’s innocent expressions?” Gilmour murmured. Lachlan grinned, then cleared his throat as he glanced away.

  “What say you, Mour?” Roderic asked.

  ” ‘Tis naught.”

  “I was quite certain you spoke, so tell us what sage wisdom you have learned from this day.”

  Gilmour clasped his hands behind his back and spoke like a chastised lad. “Not to judge truth on mere appearances?”

  “Well said.” Roderic grinned as he kissed his wife’s hand, then placed it upon his arm. “Try to remember that as you go forth.”

  “Aye, Father,” Gilmour promised.

  “I shall,” Lachlan agreed.

  * * * * *

  They failed.

  Twenty-four hours later, Ramsay stood in the door-way of the infirmary and listened to his brothers with a mix of resignation and humor.

  “Her eyes are sapphire,” Gilmour said.

  “You do not know the color of her eyes,” Lachlan argued. “Just as you do not know her name.”

  “Unless I am wrong. And I never am …” Gilmour smiled wistfully as he gently squeezed the hand of the woman who slept on the mattress between them. “Her eyes are as blue as the heavens from which she was sent to me.”

  “To you,” Lachlan scoffed.

  “Certainly to me. Who else …”

  Ramsay let their words filter into nothingness as he watched the girl. By virtue of her silence alone, she seemed far more intelligent than his two rambling brothers.

  Her face was nearly round, saved from being babyish by her pointy little chin. Against her ivory cheeks, her downy lashes seemed almost dark, though they were truly no darker than her hair, which was the rich hue of summer barley. It was as long as his arm and as luminous as the morning sun. ‘Twas little wonder, really, that his brothers were daft over her. It was a hard won lesson, to learn to separate a woman’s looks from her soul, and if one was to judge her by her face … well … the word “saint” did come to mind.

  But strangely, it was her hands that fascinated him. They were so slim, so refined and pale and delicate. Placed together on the coverlet, they made it seem almost as if she were praying, and in a moment they twitched ever so slightly, as if moved by her own supplication.

  Aye, she seemed angelic, perfect, a tiny slip of bliss sent to earth in the form of a woman. But he had known perfection before, had spent sleepless nights waiting to know it again—to hold her, to beg her for one more kiss, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing she was too pure, too good. Only to find …

  “I’ll not have you saying that sort of thing about the lass,” Lachlan said. His voice was low, challenging. All humor had fled from his tone, but far be it from Gilmour to care about that note of warning.

  “Just because she’s an angel doesn’t mean she does not possess the same desires and needs of other women. It doesn’t mean she will not want me,” Mour said, and caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “But you are right: an innocent should not hear such words. I must keep me thoughts to meself.”

  “As well as your hands,” Lachlan said, and knocked the other’s arm aside. “Or I’ll see you tossed arse first from the infirmary.”

  Gilmour laughed as if genuinely surprised. “Please tell me you do not think to have her for yourself, brother.”

  Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “And why not?”

  “Because you … well … you …” Gilmour flipped his hand up and down as if encompassing his brother’s entire being. “An angel does not belong with an ogre.”

  “And neither does she belong with the devil.”

  “Truly, Lachlan, she is much too refined to be had by the likes of you. Look at that angelic face,” Gilmour said
, and once again stroked his fingers up her cheek. Look at that—”

  But in that instant the angel awoke. Her eyes flew open. “Unhand me,” she growled.

  “You’re awake!” Gilmour’s eyes widened.

  “Praise be!”

  She jerked her gaze to the right at the sound of Lachlan’s voice. “Touch me, either one of you, and I swear by the living God I’ll see you cut and quartered before the dawn.”

  Chapter Three

  Anora remained very still. Where was she? Had the Munro caught her? Or—

  The warrior! He had chased her and she’d run. Panicked. She knew better than that, better than to show fear.

  “They are blue.”

  She snapped her gaze to the man at her right. He was dark, broad, powerful. She’d learned long ago never to trust a powerful man.

  “What?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “Your eyes,” he said. “They are blue.”

  “Mary?”

  She swept her attention to her left. The man there was fair haired, winsome, ungodly handsome. She’d learned long ago never to trust a handsome man.

  “What did you call me?” she asked.

  “Mary. ‘Tis the name I gave you whilst you slept, for I imagine you look like the sainted mother of Christ.”

  Flattery. She let herself relax a smidgen, but she couldn’t be careless, for oft those who spoke of saints were the antithesis of holiness themselves.

  “You needn’t worry,” said the fair haired man, “for we will not harm you.”

  “Nay,” agreed the other, his voice deep and earnest. “Indeed I will guard you with me very life.”

  She carefully soothed her voice to one of schooled refinement. “Where am I? Who are you?”

  “You have come to Dun Ard, the high fortress.” The fair haired man smiled easily. “We be the brothers MacGowan. I am called Gilmour, and yonder broad pillar is Lachlan.”

  The MacGowans! Even in her home in the far north, she had heard of them.

  “Lass?”

  “Aye?” She stilled the rapid beat of her heart and raised her chin a notch.

  “Your name … ‘tis not Mary by any wee chance, is it?”