The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  She gave a squeak of terror and froze.

  “Damnation, woman,” he said, looking shocked. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “N—nothing,” she said, and raised her chin, though it bobbled on the lift.

  He stared at her in puzzlement for a moment, then snorted. “Nothing! You lack the good sense of a goat. I have come through fight and flood to keep you safe, yet you think I would threaten you now?” For an instant his expression softened, but he firmed it with a glare. “Turn around.”

  She couldn’t. Couldn’t move, dared not speak, lest her voice betray her yet again.

  Their gazes held, but in a second he spun her away with one hand. In an instant she felt his fingers on her laces. Her lungs cramped with fear, and her muscles knotted as her gown loosened. She felt a breath of air on her shoulders and prepared to bolt, but even before she moved, his fingers fell away.

  “There you be, then.” His tone was oddly hoarse. “I will …” She heard him back away and turned, carefully holding her gown in place. “I will see what keeps your bath,” he said.

  In a moment, he was gone. The room was empty but for the memory of the warmth of his hand, the deep timbre of his voice. Why had he not pressed his advantage? ‘Twas surely not because he lacked the strength. Nor that he lacked the opportunity. She herself had declared him her husband. Therefore, in the eyes of god and king, he had the right to do with her as he would. None would come to her rescue. So why …

  Kindness!

  The word came to her mind unbidden.

  Kindness and cunning. Power and peacefulness. Loving and …

  But no. She pushed the ragged thoughts from her head.

  She had no time to consider such girlish ideals. He was a man—selfish, dangerous.

  She peeled the wet gown from her skin with some effort. It was heavy, scraping along the gooseflesh that erupted from her arms and chest. Stepping from the sodden pile, she hugged herself as she snatched a blanket from the bed and wrapped it quickly about her frigid body. Then, still freezing cold, she crawled onto the straw stuffed mattress and snuggled beneath the covers.

  Minutes ticked away as she warmed slowly. Fatigue slipped in on silent feet. Her eyes dropped closed.

  A knock. “Me lady?”

  She awoke with a start, unable to guess how long she’d been sleeping. Knuckles rapped at the door once again.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  ” ‘Tis the house servants, bearing your bathing tub.”

  She called them in, and the door creaked open. Two young women, one short and buxom, one tall and handsome, shimmied into the room, carrying a barrel between them. It stood barely two feet wide and three long, but when the maids exited, Anora dropped the blanket and stepped gratefully inside. Warmth rose up her legs like a blessed tide. She lowered herself, filling the tub. The liquid heaven rose higher, covering her breasts, shivering over her shoulders. Reaching for the sliver of soap left by the servants, she washed luxuriously until the water was milky white. It flowed over her shoulders in kindly waves, relaxing her muscles, easing her—

  The door opened abruptly.

  Anora sank into the vat, splashing water as she went.

  “So.” Ramsay stood in the doorway. “Your bath arrived.”

  It took her several seconds to catch her breath. “Why are you here?”

  “To assist me bonny bride with her bath, of course.”

  “Get out,” she said, but his dark gaze was steady on her face as he closed the door behind him. Striding to the bed, he tossed a white bundle on the surface and turned. “Not even if you pelted me with rotten apples,” he said, and chuckled as he lifted a bottle toward her. “Here, ‘twill warm you up the faster.”

  Sunk to her shoulders in the barrel, she glared at him. “You’ve been drinking.”

  He bowed. “Aye, me bonny lass. That I have.”

  “Leave here.”

  “You forget, me love. We are wed.”

  “I’d sooner wed a swine.”

  “First the fruit and then the swine. Best be cautious, Notmary, or you’ll find yourself abed with a boar,” he said, and grinned as he took another swig from the bottle.

  “Not in this lifetime,” she said.

  “Not in this lifetime what?”

  She didn’t answer, but watched him carefully.

  “You’ll not wed or you’ll not wed a bore?”

  Silence echoed in the room for a moment.

  “Surely every woman wishes to wed,” she said.

  He studied her in silence, his expression solemn now. “Then why do you tremble when men touch you?”

  Her breath caught in her throat, but she refused to look away. Or maybe she could not. “You should not judge my actions by the way I am with you.”

  “So ‘tis just me that you find so objectionable?”

  For a moment she saw something in his face, a fleeting emotion she could not quite place. “Surely you cannot blame me for being choosy.”

  As he stepped closer to the tub, sharp edged scrutiny replaced whatever emotion she had seen in his expression. “Surely not,” he said. “You have a right and a duty to be choosy. After all, you are the lady of Levenlair.”

  Did he say it with sarcasm? “Aye, I am,” she said, sinking lower still.

  “And therefore you must be cautious not to wed beneath yourself,” he added, and rested a hand on the edge of the bathing tub.

  She forced herself to keep breathing and refused to look at his fingers, though they were very close and undeniably powerful. “Aye,” she agreed.

  “But what if you found that you were beneath me?”

  She forced a laugh. “Beneath you? Have you any idea the blood that flows through my veins? My mother’s kin are—”

  “Mayhap I meant it in a more physical sense,” he said, and leaned closer.

  The breath caught in her throat in a hard knot. “Touch me and I swear you shall regret having ever met me.”

  He stared at her, unmoving for a moment, and then straightened slowly. “I fear you are too late with that warning, lass. Now, out with you,” he said, his tone tired.

  “Out?”

  “Of the tub.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Very possibly true. Get out.”

  She glanced right and left, found nothing with which to hide herself and turned frantically back toward him. “You’ll have to leave first.”

  “Nay.”

  “Then—”

  “Get out,” he repeated calmly.

  “Turn …” Her voice shook. She calmed it with all the strength that was in her. “Turn your back,” she ordered.

  He only grinned.

  Fear congealed in her stomach. Beneath the water, her hands trembled. “Please,” she murmured.

  The silence lasted forever, her gut tightened even more, but just when she was certain he would refuse, he turned away.

  She didn’t delay an instant. Reaching for the towel that hung a few feet away, she rose from the water and covered herself in one fleeting movement. The towel whipped over the surface of her bath, then swept around her body, spraying water as it went. She saw a droplet land on the dark crown of MacGowan’s hair and stood frozen for a moment, mesmerized by the sight.

  “Can I assume you are decent?”

  His words spurred her back into action. Lurching over the edge of the tub, she rushed for the bed … and felt her feet slip out from under her. Her stomach jerked, her body tottered, and her feet did a wild little dance of desperation. She tried to stifle her cry of fear, but it slipped out unheeded. He turned with the speed of a giant cat, grasping her by a bare arm and dragging her back to stability.

  She found her balance with some difficulty, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

  “Lass.” His voice was low, his lips very near. “Are you quite well?”

  “I … certainly,” she said, and raised her chin a notch though her heart still pounded. “I am fine, and …” She chanced a gla
nce at his face. So close. So solemn. “And I had no need of your help.”

  “Ahh.” He drew a deep breath and nodded slightly. “Then I must assume your little dance was enacted solely in the hope of attracting me attention.”

  She pulled her gaze frantically to his, but he was already laughing. “Have a care, Notmary,” he said, and reaching out, casually tucked her drooping towel more firmly between her breasts. “I have no wish to cart an injured lass halfway across Scotland.”

  Stepping back a pace, he kicked off his boots and let his cloak fall to the floor. Then he lifted his hands to the cat-faced brooch that secured his plaid to his tunic. It came away and in a moment he was tugging the end of the great plaid from beneath his belt. She stared, mesmerized, but then reality cracked into her brain.

  “What are you about?” she gasped.

  “I am about …” He loosened the wide leather band from his waist. “To have meself a bathe.”

  “What?” For just one moment she feared her eyes might pop like ripe grapes out of their sockets.

  “A bath,” he said, and let his belt fall to the floor.

  She watched it drop, then shifted her gaze with lightning speed back to his face. “You cannot.”

  “I assure you,” he said, and tugged his tartan away from his body, “I can, and I shall.” His plaid fell away. He stood in nothing but his tunic now, and though his shirt reached to mid-thigh, she felt her face sizzle at the sight.” … Away.”

  Belatedly realizing he’d been talking, Anora shifted her attention to his face.

  He shrugged and reached for the edge of his shirt.

  “What! What?” she said, stumbling backward and bumping unceremoniously into the very vessel she had just exited.

  He scowled at her as if she were pesky and perhaps somewhat daft. “I said, I am not so selfish with the sight of me own bared body as you. So if you are weak disciplined, you may wish to turn away.”

  She felt the rough, warm wood of the barrel against her bare calves, but kept her hands clenched in the top of the towel that hugged her body.

  He stared at her. “Lass,” he said finally, “I fear if I disrobe before your eyes, you may faint dead away, and I must warn you, I’m loath to waste me time on reviving you.”

  His words seeped slowly into her consciousness. She pursed her lips. “Let me assure you,” she said, swallowing and stiffening her spine, “you have naught that would addle my wits.”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then simply bent his arm over his shoulder, grasped the back of his tunic, and whisked it over his head.

  Her jaw came unhinged. She bumbled backward and felt the tub teeter with the force of her weight, but couldn’t pull her paralyzed gaze from his nether parts.

  Only when he took a step forward did her attention snap to his face. She tried to escape, but she was frozen in place, trapped between the tub and his solid weight.

  She dared not breathe, dared not move. He loomed over her. But it was neither his height nor his bulk than paralyzed her. It was his arousal.

  Long and thick, it reared near the flat expanse of his abdomen.

  She had seen that before, had felt the terrible ravages, and fear froze her in place.

  His hands closed around her arms.

  “Nay!” she cowered away, but he was already pulling her forward, and there was no one to save her.

  Chapter Ten

  His eyes bore into hers. His hands felt like talons around her arms, and against her thigh, she felt the hard crush of his desire.

  Panic choked her, cutting off her breath. “Nay!” The single word barely creaked past her lips. Terror burned like bile in her soul, but in that moment he pressed her impatiently aside.

  “Damnation!” he growled. “Can I not even bathe without you blocking me way?”

  She stared at him as he stepped into the tub. Her heart thumped back into action. Her knees threatened to spill her to the floor.

  “Hand me the soap.”

  It took a moment before her voice would function. “Wh—what?”

  “The soap,” he said, and dunked his head beneath the water’s rippled surface. He reappeared a moment later, seal slick hair washed back from his dark features. Only one narrow, recalcitrant lock dared leave its brethren and brave the hard mass of his chest. Dark as midnight, it curled silkily around the dusky circle of his nipple.

  She stared.

  He scowled, first at her, then at the soap, and she wrenched her brain back into working order. Trying to disavow the tremor in her hand, she reached for the bar of tallow and lye, but when she handed it over, the missile slipped like a loosed arrow from her fingers and rocketed off his shoulder.

  He winced, and though his fingers were working at loosing one narrow braid, his gaze never left her face. “Your intentions may be cruel,” he said, “but your aim is fair to middling.”

  Only then did she notice his wound. It sliced across his bicep in a line of red so angry it was nearly black.

  She caught her breath. “Is that from …” Words failed. “From when—”

  “From when I saved your hide?” His tone was casual, as if he’d saved women every day of his life since infancy. “Aye,” he said, and loosed the other braid before raking his hair back from his hard edged features. The solitary strand of hair skimmed reluctantly away from his chest.

  “Oh.” Somehow she hadn’t thought … she hadn’t envisioned. In truth, she hadn’t realized what a crime it would seem to wound him, to defile such beautiful—

  Beautiful what? The thought struck her suddenly, and she stopped all movement, listening to her heart beat like a smithy’s rounding hammer against her ribs.

  Men were not beautiful. They were cold and selfish—tyrants whom she must outmaneuver at every turn. She glanced at him again, reminding herself that he was not beautiful. She must be deluded, faint, overwrought, she thought, but as her gaze skimmed downward again, she realized her mistake. Even a selfish tyrant could be a thing of physical splendor.

  Water lapped at his hard packed belly. Sculpted like an ancient god, he was nearly twice her size, easily able to overpower her, and yet he had not …

  “Get dressed.”

  She snapped her attention foggily to his face. “What?”

  “There’s a gown on the bed.” He nodded in that direction. The slick, roguish lock of hair she’d noticed earlier slid from its mates and reached with sultry slyness for his nipple again. “Put it on afore you catch the ague.”

  She opened her mouth, although she wasn’t at all certain what she meant to say. That single lock of hair held her mesmerized, breathless, lost.

  “I’ll not look.”

  Not look? As if he expected her to trust him. As if she were so naive that she would believe his words simply because he spoke them. ‘Twas ridiculous, of course, and yet when she found his gaze again, she had no strength to insist that he turn aside. Instead, she paced stiffly toward the bed.

  The gown was a simple thing. Made of white linen, it was laced at the throat and wrists with blue ribbon. A bed gown. The reality of the situation struck her like a blow. They would be sharing this pallet, forced together like man and wife, with nothing to save her from his advances.

  She glanced nervously over her shoulder, and found that despite her own nervous wonderings, his head was back, his eyes closed as he scrubbed his hair with the depleted sliver of soap.

  He showed not the least bit of interest in her. Nay, ‘twas more than disinterest, she realized. He hated her. Her stomach flipped.

  ‘Twas fear that made her feel so strangely, she thought, but a tiny inkling in her mind wondered. True, she did not like him, yet he made her feel strangely unsteady.

  But that was hardly a mystery: it had not been an easy week. Indeed, anyone might become unbalanced. It meant nothing. Nothing had changed. She would return to Evermyst, for she missed everything about it— the dizzying heights, the crumbling towers. But mostly she missed her people; Isobel’s soft spoken w
itticisms, Meara’s advice. Even the old women’s bickering arguments were missed.

  She would return home and do what she must. After all, feelings mattered little to men. Only coupling … her thoughts crashed to a halt and her stomach fluttered.

  Glancing once more in Ramsay’s direction, Anora whipped the gown over her head. Then, beneath the security of the floor-length linen, she unwrapped the towel and let it fall to the floor.

  One more glance assured her that he still was not looking. She stepped out from the ring of towel, hung in on a nearby peg, and returned silently to the bed.

  Nerves jumping, she wrung her hands and paced again, casting wary glances in his direction.

  “Ague.”

  She stopped mid-stride at the sound of his voice, but he had not even turned toward her. Instead, he scrubbed studiously at an underarm. The muscles in his chest danced with the movement. She tore her gaze from them and prepared to ask what he meant, but the truth dawned on her. His one mission in life was to be rid of her. If she became sick with the ague that goal might very well be delayed.

  She crawled nervously into bed and dragged the blankets over her bent knees. Only minutes before, this very spot had seemed heavenly, but now the mattress felt lumpy, her nerves stretched tight. She sat very still, trying to breathe normally, but there was nothing to do, nowhere to look … except at him.

  “Our meal should arrive soon.” He didn’t glance at her as he spoke. Neither did he wince as he scrubbed at his wound. “Try to sleep until then.”

  While he was there? In her room, with his clothes lying in a sodden heap and his body bare—

  “Will you cease staring at me!” he growled.

  She turned jerkily away, but there was nothing else to see. “I …” She was out of her depth, shaky and uncertain “I am sorry.”

  “You’re what?” The surprise in his voice was clear.

  She tucked her knees closer to her chest and scowled at the window as the seconds ticked past. She plucked fretfully at a loose thread in the blanket, then flitted her gaze to his. “I am not without feelings.”

  He snorted and rubbed absently at his broad chest. “Ahh,” he said. “I see. You jest.”