The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “You hardly think at all,” Lachlan said.

  “We cannot all be such scholars as thou, dear brother.”

  “And we cannot all—”

  “Hear me,” Ramsay interrupted. His head ached from lack of sleep and every muscle felt as tense as a drawn bow. “I am here merely to see you two dolts safely through this journey and back—naught else. I have no designs on the lass, so you can rest comforted on that account.”

  “No designs?” It was Lachlan who spoke, though his voice was little above a rumble.

  “Nay,” he confirmed.

  “No interest at all?”

  Ramsay said nothing.

  “So …” Gilmour nudged his mount closer and glanced at the girl. “You do not find her …” For a moment he seemed to lose his breath, but finally he sighed, pulled his attention back to his brother, and grinned with foolish enthusiasm. “You do not find her entrancing?”

  Ramsay’s muscles tightened another notch, like a crossbow stretched to breaking. Damn it all to hell! He should have stayed in bed, should have ignored the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones, should have forgotten how she felt in his …

  “Nay. I do not.” Tightening his grip on the reins, he turned Gryfon abruptly away.

  Lachlan glowered and Gilmour laughed. “This may prove to be even more fun than I expected.”

  Chapter Six

  The morning was misty, cool, and still. They rode at a steady pace, skirting boulders and ledges, avoiding the numerous rivulets and burns where they could and plowing through when they could not.

  By early afternoon the mist had fled, but the clouds had roiled in. They bubbled overhead, casting long shadows and cool sunlight randomly across the evergreen landscape.

  Up ahead, Mary’s maid servant giggled.

  Ramsay frowned at the noise. “Whatever happened to Elspeth?”

  “What?” Lachlan seemed distracted, his attention pinned on the group ahead. Gilmour rode beside Mary, and the maid Caraid, only slightly older than the girl she escorted, rode beside her.

  “Elspeth,” Ramsay repeated. “I thought she had been chosen to see to the lass’s well being during this journey.”

  “Mmmm.” Lachlan’s gaze never left Mary’s back. “It seems there is a bairn that needs birthing. She could not afford to leave Dun Ard.”

  “A bairn?”

  “Aye, Hazel of the Fens’ child.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Gilmour knows her.”

  “Of course,” Ramsay said. Or at least, Gilmour had thought of that excuse to keep Elspeth close to home. Caraid was young and comely and readily distracted. Elspeth was old, crotchety, and about as easily charmed as cracked shoe leather. And Gilmour was an ass. Beside Ramsay, Lachlan shifted restlessly in his saddle and cast him a jaundiced stare.

  “What do you mean, of course?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  Ramsay scowled. ” ‘Twill be a long journey, Lachlan. Do not look for deep meaning where there is none. I was merely trying to keep you entertained with me clever conversation.”

  “You think it’s his?”

  “What?”

  “Hazel’s bairn? Do you think it might be Mour’s?”

  Ramsay snapped his gaze to Lachlan’s, his gut cramping. “Is there a chance of it?”

  “A chance?” Lachlan chuckled, but the sound was less than jovial. ” ‘Tis Mour we speak of here, is it not?”

  “Aye.” Ramsay scowled. “The lad is … wayward at times, but—”

  “Wayward!” Lachlan growled. “He’s a randy hound without the scruples of a starved mackerel.”

  A slow burn began in Ramsay’s gut. He tightened his hands on the reins so that the leather bit into his fingers. “Does he have wee ones that we know nothing of?”

  “What’s that?” Lachlan asked, and turned his scowl from Gilmour to Ramsay.

  “Gilmour!” Ramsay gritted. “Has he fathered children?”

  Lachlan shifted his gaze away. “Nay,” he said sulkily, as if he were loath to admit it. “But he’s a lovable bastard, and if he tries any of that charming shit on the lass, he’ll be supping on me fist this night.”

  “Good Christ!” Ramsay wished to God he had stayed home.

  * * * * *

  It rained that night, not hard, but steady. By morning the road was slippery and the going slow.

  Again Gilmour rode beside Mary. Now and then Ramsay heard her golden laughter and his gut would spew out a bit more bile. Ahead of him, Lachlan’s stance became stiffer by the hour.

  By nightfall Ramsay’s stomach was twisted in a tight knot and Lachlan’s back looked as unbending as a lance.

  Tents were erected, supper prepared and consumed. Near the cook fire, Gilmour wended his way toward his wild tale’s dramatic ending. The soldiers listened intently, Caraid gasped, and Gilmour leaned toward his audience, his arm brushing Mary’s.

  As for Ramsay, he sat in the shadows, keeping his eyes averted from the flame, watching the night.

  He was a dolt for coming.

  “Nay!” someone said, but not to his own discordant thoughts.

  ” ‘Tis not true,” another chimed in.

  The clamor of discord yanked Ramsay’s attention toward the crowd, but there was no real trouble, only another unbelievable ending to one of Gilmour’s unbelievable tales. Of Roderic’s five sons, Gilmour was the most like their sire. Long on imagination, longer on charm, but short on any compunction to adhere to the truth when spinning a yarn, especially if there was a bonny lass near at hand.

  Ramsay tightened his fist around a branch of prickly gorse and felt better at the bite of thorns.

  From the fire beside him the noise dimmed. He heard a rustle of movement but refused to turn toward it. He might be an idiot but he knew enough not to get involved—not with her. He was here only to prevent trouble. Nothing about her fascinated him, not her kitten soft exterior nor her sharp edged attitude. Not her condescending voice nor her fretful hands. Nay, ‘twas only for his brothers that he had come. The bastards.

  “Mary,” said the younger of the two bastards.

  “Aye?”

  He heard her cool voice as clearly as Gilmour’s, though they were hidden from sight by shadows and brush.

  “Where do you go?” Gilmour took a few more steps, presumably closing the gap between himself and the girl.

  “Sir.” Her voice was quiet, with the slightest hint of teasing in it. “I fear ‘tis not for you to know.”

  “Ahh.” Another rustle of sound. Was he moving closer still? The prickly gorse snapped in Ramsay’s hand. “Private business.”

  “You are quite astute, my laird.”

  Gilmour chuckled. “Astute enough to know that a bonny lass such as yourself should not wander alone in the woods.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Mayhap you and I have a different meaning for ‘private business.’ “

  He laughed again. “I assure you, Mary mine, I will go only as far as you say. ‘Tis your prerogative to call a halt at any time.”

  Ramsay heard her skirts sigh against unseen underbrush. “Tell me, my laird, do we still talk of my venture into the woods?”

  “Most assuredly so. But if you like, we could speak of other things … afterward. The moon is quite bonny this night and me legs could use a new form of exercise. Mayhap—”

  “Brother!” Lachlan’s interruption startled even Ramsay, for the lad could move as silently as a shade when the mood suited him. “Might I have a word with you?”

  Ramsay exhaled and dropped the gorse to the ground. A droplet of unnoticed blood followed its descent.

  “In truth,” Gilmour said, “I was just discussing a matter of some import with the lass.”

  “And what of your teeth, brother?” Lachlan asked, his tone marvelously level. “Do you feel they have some import?”

  There was a slight pause and then Gilmour chuckled. “Mayhap you should see to your business, lass,” he sai
d. “It seems me brother wishes to speak to me.”

  In a moment she was gone, slipping quietly through the darkness of the woods.

  “So, brother,” Gilmour said, his tone cheery. “You wished to discuss teeth.”

  “Aye, I did. Where would you like yours?”

  “I had rather planned on keeping them where they are.” Gilmour’s chuckle grated on Ramsay’s nerves and was bound to do so three fold on Lachlan, who had never had the patience of a gnat.

  “Then you’d best keep your bloody hands off the lady of Levenlair.”

  ” ‘Tis exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  “But not what you hoped to do, aye?”

  Ramsay could almost hear the shrug in Gilmour’s tone. “If we have not hope, what have we?”

  “All your teeth set firmly in their place.”

  “It occurs to me,” Gilmour said, “that it has been some time since you and I have brawled. As I recall, I was smaller then.”

  “You imagine your size matters?”

  “Mayhap it matters a great deal.”

  “Are you challenging me, Mour?”

  “The lass is not for you,” Gilmour said, and spread his stance.

  “Tell me, brother, are you that bored or that foolish?”

  “Perhaps I am that smitten.”

  “Smitten!” Lachlan growled. “Randy, more like.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “There is where she’s concerned,” Lachlan growled. “You’ll take back your words or you’ll be eating them for—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Ramsay said, rising abruptly to his feet. “Shut up, the two of you.”

  “Ramsay!”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Listening to two fools babble in the darkness.”

  “Out here?”

  “Directly in Mary’s path to the burn?”

  Ramsay snarled a curse. “What the devil’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a pair of dolts, snarling over her like wolves on fresh carrion.”

  “Are you calling the lass carrion?” Lachlan asked, his tone disbelieving.

  Ramsay swore again, but Lachlan interrupted even that succinct bit of emotion.

  “Are you so callous that you do not know, brother?”

  “Know?”

  “Did you not see her as she lay unconscious? Did you not feel her sweetness? The lass is goodness itself.”

  Ramsay’s snort of laughter echoed in the woods. “Believe this, brother mine. She may be many things, but she is not goodness itself.”

  “Why do you say so?” Gilmour asked.

  “A dozen things. Do you not see it?” Ramsay asked, frustration burning through him. “Never is her story straight. Not when she first came to, not when she awoke in the night, not—”

  “When she awoke in what night?” Gilmour asked.

  “She said she had a dream,” Ramsay said. “That she was all atremble with fear when—”

  “She was afraid?”

  “When was this?” Lachlan asked.

  “Some nights ago. I caught her—”

  “You caught her?”

  “What were you doing in her room?”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “What were you wearing?”

  “If you touched her, I’ll break your head.”

  This last statement was from Lachlan, of course.

  Ramsay loosened his fists and exhaled between his teeth. ” ‘Tis a sad thing.”

  “What is?”

  “That me own brothers be daft as pigeons,” Ramsay said, and found, quite suddenly, that he rather favored the idea of a battle, for his muscles were as tight as wagon springs and his mind was boiling like soup stock.

  “Daft, are we?” Gilmour asked.

  “Aye, you are.”

  “Because we are not so jaded as you? Because we believe the fairer sex is just that? Because we believe she is good and kind and true?”

  “Just so,” Ramsay agreed.

  “And what do you think she is, brother?”

  If they wanted a fight, he would give it to them. Why the hell not? “She is, me wee, naive brothers, a liar.”

  A growl issued from Lachlan’s lips.

  “A liar?” Gilmour said. “Did you hear that, Lachlan?”

  “Aye,” came the snarled response.

  “And are we going to stand here and allow him to slander the lassie’s name so?”

  “Nay, I am not. I fear I am forced to defend her honor.”

  “You!” Gilmour said, glancing at Lachlan. ” ‘Tis me own place to fight him.”

  “Think again, brother.”

  ” ‘Tis my right. ‘Twas I who first knew her for what she was—a gentle lass of unequaled quality.”

  ” ‘Twas I who made it so that we were out and about at the outset.”

  ” ‘Twas I who—”

  “I’m older,” Lachlan snarled, and raised his fists to punctuate the depth of his feelings.

  “Well …” Gilmour shrugged. “You have me there. I cannot argue with God’s order of things.”

  Lachlan stepped forward, and Ramsay saw the lightning quick flash of Gilmour’s grin in the moonlight.

  “Damn!” Ramsay said and felt the anger rush from him like wind from a bellows. “You’re an arse, Gilmour.”

  Mour almost contained his chuckle. “You’d best save your insults for Lachlan here, brother. He’s spoiling for a fight, you know.”

  “Aye,” Ramsay said, “and while we’re beating each other senseless, you’ll be—” He paused. Within his chest, his heart stopped cold. “Where is she?”

  “Who?” Gilmour asked.

  “Mary!” Lachlan’s voice was low, his hand already on his sword.

  Ramsay swore and spun into the darkness.

  “Mary?”

  “Mary!” Her name rang through the forest.

  There was no answer. But somehow Ramsay knew there wouldn’t be. Knew it in his soul.

  “I’ll check camp,” Gilmour said, and Ram sprinted into the woods. His heart thumped to life in his chest, kicking hard and fast against his ribs.

  “Lass!” Lachlan called, thundering behind him.

  A stream glittered in the moonlight. Faint tracks shone in the darkness. Ramsay skidded to a halt.

  “Hoofprints!” Lachlan snarled, and fell to his knees. “The same as the warrior’s before.”

  “And the lassie’s tracks. She mounted the steed here.”

  “Can you follow in the dark?”

  “Aye. That I can.” Lachlan’s answer was a growl. He was already trotting along the stream, half crouched like a predator on a scent.

  “Go as far as you can. I’ll fetch our steeds,” Ramsay called as he raced back toward camp.

  Swiftly, orders were given, horses saddled, and men armed. They were mounted in moments and riding hard through the woods toward the stream. They met Lachlan near a bend. In seconds he was astride, leaning low in the saddle and leading them pell-mell through the night. Mud flew from his horse’s hooves. In the darkness, the faces around Ramsay looked grim. Even Gilmour’s expression was dire, for there was no time to lose. It was obvious from the tracks that the horse they followed was running hard, even with a double load. Running hard and taking the shortest route.

  Branches scraped leather and flesh, but that didn’t slow the riders’ pace. Even in the blackness, Lachlan could follow the trail. He had the uncanny instincts of a fox. They would catch up, Ramsay told himself. They would find her. Unless …

  A thought stabbed through his consciousness. They’d been riding hard for some time, but still no sign of the horse. Was it outdistancing them? With a double load? How—

  Ramsay hauled his mount in with a curse. Gryfon half reared, and Gilmour turned in the darkness.

  “Ride!” Ramsay ordered. “I’ll catch up.”

  But first he would check the tracks by the burn.

  Maybe she was racing ahead of them with the mysterious warrior. But then
again, maybe nothing was as it seemed.

  Chapter Seven

  The night flashed by in waves of terror and darkness. One moment Anora had been standing beside the burn, and the next she was grabbed from behind and forced onto a horse.

  She strained away from the warrior who rode behind her, trying to see his face, but he gave her no quarter. Even if she could see beyond the darkness and his helmet, she was not allowed to turn.

  “Stay!” he gritted, and tightened the arm banded around her waist. She froze, her heart striking hard against her ribs.

  “Who are you?” Her voice quavered in the darkness, but there was no answer, only the slightest tilt of the arm across her body.

  Beneath them, the midnight steed left the water and leapt, scrambling onto the shore before lurching toward the north at a hard gallop.

  Anora hunched forward, snatching for a hank of mane, and the warrior’s grip shifted, tightening like death across her bosom. She gasped for breath and bravery, but terror lit anew in her soul. “Why do you do this? What do you want?” she whispered.

  ‘Twas forever before he growled a response. ” ‘Tis I who should ask that question.”

  Her mind reeled. He acted as if she had wronged him in some way, but she did not know him. Did not recognize his voice, could not visualize his face, and yet when he spoke, there was something that welled up with the fear, something indefinable, just beyond the reach of her mind. She struggled to see past the barrier.

  “So now you wish to know me?” he snarled. His breath felt hot against her neck. ” ‘Tis a bit late for that, me lady.”

  “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

  “Wherever I wish.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am strong and you are weak. “Tis the way of the world, is it not?”

  Against the horse’s flying mane, Anora’s hand shook. Miles flew away beneath them. “Please.” She whispered the word into the oncoming wind. “Let me go.”

  No response.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The hard muscles of his legs tightened and against her chest his arm crushed her all the more. “Long has the sin gone unpunished.”

  The sound of distant water splashed against the edge of her consciousness. Were the MacGowans coming for her? But no. Her captor was ungodly clever. He’d dragged her onto a horse only to dismount in the water moments later. In an instant the horse had disappeared alone, and they had scrambled upstream to another mount and ridden in the opposite direction. No one would find her …