The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  The room fell quiet, and in the silence she felt suddenly very alone and weary. She would give much for someone to trust, to share her troubles, to lighten her load. But she had no one. Only she could protect her people—kindly Helena, clumsy but ever loyal Duncan, even poor Deirdre’s fate was in her hands. She must be smart, careful. She would use what she could when she must, and waste nothing, especially this man’s strength, so long as she had access to it. Aye, she must play her part carefully, lest her people suffer for her failure.

  “I can bandage that for you,” she said, her voice small and soft.

  His glower was daunting. She shifted her gaze breathlessly away.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I …” She pursed her lips and blinked at the blankets. “I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

  He laughed. “Why do you offer, Notmary?”

  “My name is not Notmary!” Anger mixed with a dozen unknown emotions.

  “Could it be that you make the offer because you are attracted to me?” he asked.

  Her breathing stopped, but she lifted her chin slowly. ” ‘Tis yet a far way to me homeland,” she said.

  “Ahh, so you still need me.”

  “You’d do me little good dead.”

  He watched her for a moment, then chuckled. “Honesty. From you,” he said and grinned. ” ‘Tis almost worth the wounding.”

  She knew she should be insulted. Should, in fact, argue, and yet she could not, for she was mesmerized. Why, she wasn’t certain. His teeth were imperfect, his dimples unbalanced. Yet she could not look away, could not draw her gaze from the tilted wonderment of his smile.

  A new kind of fear curled in her stomach.

  He sobered. “Me arm will be fine,” he assured her, his tone low. “You needn’t worry. I have no intention of dying. Not before I return you to Levenlair, at the least.”

  “I …” She wrenched her gaze away. “My thanks.”

  “I’m not planning to survive for your sake alone.” Even when he scowled, his eyes were hopelessly entrancing, deep and dark and filled with secrets he did not share.

  She fidgeted and forced her gaze to the blankets. It was a strangely difficult task. “I will bind your wound.”

  Silence. She glanced up, and he shrugged. Muscles, bare and shining wet, bulged and relaxed.

  “As you will,” he said and placed his hands on the rim of the tub, but there he paused expectantly. She stared at him. “I am about to rise.”

  “Oh!” she said and froze.

  “I would suggest you turn away.”

  “Oh,” she repeated and slipped a shaky palm over her eyes. She heard his splashing exit and kept her gaze carefully averted as he padded across the floor.

  “Are you … covered?”

  “Me plaid is drying,” he said.

  Did that mean he planned to remain naked? Her heart rate bumped up a pace.

  “But fear not. There are extra linens.”

  She wished to come up with some rejoinder, but found that all words were stuck tight in her throat.

  ‘Twas then that the bed creaked. Yanking her hand from her eyes, Anora found herself staring point blank into his.

  He shrugged, so close she could watch the languid progress of one tiny droplet as it made its way between the tightly packed mounds of his chest. “There is nowhere else to sit,” he said.

  She struggled to breathe.

  “Me laird?”

  Anora jumped at the sound of the voice from the far side of the door.

  “Aye?” He turned with a scowl, his lower body wrapped in a towel.

  “Be you ready to sup?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Come straightaway.”

  The door creaked open. Two maids stood in the entryway. The nearer bobbed a curtsy. She was small and plump, with pink cheeks and a goodly mass of bosom straining to escape her bodice. “Cheers, me laird. Me lady.” She curtsied again. “Me name is Glenna. And this be Mary. Just new to the inn,” she said and nodded rather curtly toward the woman behind her. Mary was considerably taller, straight of back and solemn, with strong shoulders and an entrancing face. It was not beautiful, exactly, but fascinating enough to draw Anora’s attention from Ramsay for a moment.

  “Mary,” he mused, glancing momentarily at Anora. “A much revered and oft used name.”

  “Aye,” Anora said, feeling breathless as she glanced back at MacGowan.

  He turned his attention slowly from her face. “What have you brought for us, then?” he asked.

  Anora noticed that he made no attempt to hide the great length of his muscular thighs from the servants.

  She also noticed that Glenna made no pretense of ignoring the display. ” ‘Tis Farley’s best for you, we’ve brought. Hot pigeon pie and sweet mead.”

  “Me thanks,” he said and stood to receive the meal, but Glenna waved him back even as she advanced.

  “Do not disturb yourself, Sir. You’ve had yourself a hard—oh!” she gasped and bobbled the pitcher in her hand.

  Anora held her breath and followed the woman’s gaze.

  “Your arm, me laird! ‘Tis wounded.”

  He glanced toward it, then gave the maid an encouraging smile. ” ‘Tis good of you to notice, but not to worry, lass. ‘Tis not important.”

  ” ‘Tis,” she countered, and hurried breathlessly forward. “It must be seen to, and I’ve some skill at the healing arts.”

  “You are kind,” he said. “But you need not—”

  “But I must,” she argued, so near now that her bosom bobbled nearly under his very nose. His dark brows rose a fraction of an inch. “I must before—”

  ” Tis his wife’s task.” ‘Twas the tall maid who spoke. They turned in unison to stare at her.

  “What?” Glenna asked coolly.

  The woman scowled back, looking uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Anora held her breath.

  “Surely ‘tis the lady’s right to see to her husband’s wounds.”

  “Oh. Of course,” said Glenna. “I simply thought … that is to say … some women do not care to be bothered …” Her gaze skimmed his bare chest and lower. “I only mean … I am available … if the lady has no wish to see to your needs.”

  Silence echoed in the room for a resounding second, then, “Your food,” said the tall maid, and striding forward, shoved a wooden trencher into Ramsay’s hands. Honey mead sloshed over the rim of the horn mug as the tray bumped aggressively into his chest. He steadied it absently and raised his gaze, but she was already backing away, wiping her palms hard against her drab skirt as she did so. “Give him the pitcher,” she ordered, her tone low, but the other maid just stared, seeming transfixed by a small droplet of ale that slid lazily between his pectorals.

  “Now!” Mary ordered, and elbowed the other with some force.

  “What? Oh!” said Glenna and jumped, red faced. “Your drink. Of course,” she said and thrust the clay vessel toward him. Bobbling the trencher, he took the mead while Glenna wrung her hands and managed to step back a pace. “Might there be anything else you need?”

  “Nay.” His voice sounded somewhat confused. “I do not think—”

  “A larger linen, mayhap?” Glenna’s gaze swept longingly downward.

  He shifted his leg, managing to hide a few scant inches of bulging thigh from her view.

  “More bread? A—”

  “We must away,” Mary said.

  “A change of garments!” Glenna gasped, seeing his wet plaid hanging nearby, but Mary was glowering now.

  “Come along,” she said.

  Glenna turned on her. “You’ll not be giving me orders your first day on the job,” she snarled, but continued to back from the room. “Please, me laird,” she said, sweet faced again, “if you be in need of anything, anything at all, you’ve but to—”

  The door slammed on the last few words, and the room fell into silence.

  Ramsay cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “That was … unusual.”

 
“Was it?” Anora asked, keeping her voice carefully cool.

  He turned his eyes toward her and scowled. “You did not notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “The maid, Mary. Did she not seem …” He shrugged, looking perplexed. “Familiar?”

  Familiar? Nay. But there was something about her … something that she could not quite place.

  “And the maid, Glenna.” He scowled. “Did she not seem somewhat …”

  “Enamored?”

  He stared at her, and then he grinned. It was just the slightest tilting of his lips, but her stomach tightened at the boyish expression. “I am flattered, lass, but I was about to say, confused.”

  She felt her face warm beneath his perusal, but refused to lower her gaze. “Is there a difference?”

  They sat immobile, watching each other from ridiculously close proximity for an endless moment. Then, “Eat,” he said, and twisting about, set the trencher on the bed between them.

  He didn’t have to tell her twice. Reaching for the round loaf of bread, she wrested off a dark piece. Though overdone and somewhat stale, it tasted like heaven when she took a bite. He did the same, then drank a swig from the mug and handed it over.

  The mead was gold and mellow, warming her immediately. She reached for the wooden ladle that rested on the trencher. The pie’s crust was bubbled and brown, and when she cut into it the scent of the filling wafted upward in a warm cloud that made her lightheaded with hunger. Scooping up a bit of the filling, she tasted the broth. It was rich and warm, a delicious meld of spices and meats.

  ” ‘Tis a strange opinion for one so young.”

  She paused with her hand midway back to the pie.

  He held the mug loosely in one hand, and she noticed how his fingers, though long and powerful, looked as sensitive as a scholar’s as they curved around the hollowed horn. “How is it that you know the correlation between being enamored and confused at such a tender age?”

  Tension tightened her stomach, pushing hunger aside. ” ‘Tis not only the passing of time that teaches wisdom,” she said, and replaced the ladle on the trencher.

  “What, then?”

  “Are you not hungry?” she asked.

  “Can I not be hungry and curious all at once?”

  “Nay.” She said the word before she spoke, then scowled and took another hunk of bread, though her own hunger had dulled.

  He shrugged, unconcerned. The room fell into silence as he ate. She tasted the pudding again, but it had lost its euphoric flavor, for her mind continued to turn like a burning spit.

  “You did not disagree,” she said finally, and though she refused to turn toward him, she could feel his gaze on her, dark and moody.

  Keep quiet, she told herself, and fiddled with the ladle as she struggled to obey her own commands, but it was no use. “So you think love is naught but foolishness?” she asked.

  He lowered the mug and scowled. “I said nothing of love.”

  “But ‘tis true,” she said, examining the pie. “You do not believe it exists.”

  Not a sound echoed in the silence for a moment, but he spoke finally. “You have met the Flame and you have met the Rogue.”

  She watched him. “Your parents.” Something akin to pain tightened around her heart. “They have love?”

  He emptied the mug and refilled it from the pitcher. “She lives for him.” His tone was matter of fact, but his eyes … there was some emotion in his dark, soulful eyes that she could not quite name. “He would die for her.”

  The words fell like dusk into the quiet of the room.

  “Is that love, then?” Her voice was much quieter than she’d intended.

  “Is that what you believe?” he asked, and their eyes met.

  For a moment it seemed as if her heart were beating in slow motion, as if the entire universe had slowed its daily march. She tore her gaze from his with an effort. “I do not believe in love,” she said and forced herself to scoop out a spoonful of meat and broth.

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Survival.” The word came out of its own accord. She knew immediately that she should not have loosed it, for honesty was not a luxury she could afford.

  “At all costs?” he asked.

  She wanted to lie. But his eyes were so steady on hers. “What else is there?” she asked.

  “Some seem to find more.”

  “I need no more.”

  He watched her. She could tell without glancing up. “Not even a family?”

  Family! Her gut twisted in fear. In her mind’s eye she revisited her dream—saw the hulking form of the Munro bent over Isobel. Or was it herself he tormented? Sometimes the dreams were skewed, the meanings uncertain.

  “You have you no wish for children?” he asked.

  “Children?” She glanced up, surprised from her own tumbling thoughts and he scowled, his mouth tight.

  “Some think the need for family is a greater drive than any other.”

  “And some think to improve their own lot through the sale of their offspring.”

  “What?”

  She berated herself silently. “Here,” she said and shoved the trencher toward him. “I have had enough.”

  “Sale?” he asked, undeterred.

  “Why else would a father promise away his daughter?”

  “Have you been promised?”

  She loosened her muscles with a careful effort. “My own father has been dead for nearly a year, and ill some time afore that. I was speaking of the practice in general.”

  “Have you been promised?” he asked again, his voice a low monotone.

  She couldn’t look at him. ” ‘Twas decided some time ago that the women of … Levenlair … would choose their own mates.”

  “Decided by whom?”

  “The king. It seems he was quite fond of the maid Mother saved from death.”

  “Your mother? She is a healer?”

  “She was … observant.” Anora glanced toward the window. The sky outside was growing dark. “And no stranger to the sea. ‘Twas from the parapet that she noticed the failing ship.”

  “Ahh.” He drank again and bent one knee so that the linen slipped down his powerful thigh like a slow tide. “So you are free to marry for love, and yet you do not believe it exists. There is some irony in that, I suppose.”

  “And what of you, Ramsay of Dun Ard? Despite your parents’ affection, you seem no more certain of love than I.”

  He shrugged and passed her the mug. “Here. Drink,” he said. Their fingers met for a moment against the smooth horn before he pulled his away and she could not help but notice the warmth of his flesh, could not stop the gossamer shimmer of feeling that shivered down her spine.

  She dropped her gaze with lightning speed. “What do you believe in, MacGowan?” she asked.

  He dropped his dark head against the bed’s oaken frame, exposing the taut tendons in his throat and seeming to pull her gaze downward, over the hard muscles of his chest. “Lust,” he said quietly. “I am a true believer in lust.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Lust!” Her eyes looked skeptical and cool in her ivory face, but her hand was curled as tight as a frightened child’s against the coverlet. “What is there to believe of lust?”

  He shrugged, careful to appear as distant as she. “Lust will gain us what we most yearn for. ‘Tis the way of man.”

  “But not the way of women.”

  “Nay?” He glanced at her. Aye, she was beautiful. Despite the fact that he neither trusted nor liked her, he could no longer deny that. “What do you lust for?”

  “There is naught I—” she began, but he interrupted with a snort.

  “There is no reason to lie, Notmary. I will see you safely to Levenlair regardless of your answer.”

  She straightened slightly, and her breasts pressed more firmly against the fortunate fabric of her gown. He scowled and pulled his gaze back to her eyes, for ‘twas her eyes that could lie so damnably well. �
�I lust after nothing,” she said.

  And not a flicker of discord in her expression, but the tendons in her hands tightened almost imperceptibly.

  He almost smiled. “What then brought you to Dun Ard?”

  “I believe ‘twas you, if your brothers’ stories be true.”

  He canted his head in concession to her answer which was no answer at all. “And what brought you from the north?”

  “I told you already. My cousin was with child and needed comforting.”

  “What cousin was that?”

  She paused not for an instant. “Lillias, the Lamonts’ middle daughter.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did she bear the child safely?”

  “Oh.” She fidgeted with the coverlet for the briefest of moments. “Aye. Thanks be to God. All is well.”

  “A son or a daughter?”

  ” ‘Tis a girl.”

  A dozen emotions twisted unexpectedly in his heart, but he shoved them impatiently aside as he delved deeper. “Ahh, a wee lassie. What be her name?”

  “I …” For a fraction of an instant, her eyes widened and her quick answers ceased.

  ” ‘Tis not Mary, is it?” he asked, keeping his voice innocent.

  She dropped her gaze to her hands. “You mock me,” she said.

  Regret sliced through him, for without her cool eyes and regal expression, she seemed small and afraid. He longed to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and promise to keep her safe from the world. But there was a limit to his foolishness. Still, he could not quite manage to make his voice hard when he next spoke.

  “You do not necessarily seem the type to comfort a cousin during her lying in. I am merely curious about your reasons,” he said. ” ‘Twas a long journey from your home in the north just to console your kinswoman.”

  “Some think the need for family a stronger drive than any other.” She quoted him almost exactly.

  “But surely your family at Levenlair needs you also. Your sisters or—”

  “I have no sister.”

  He scowled at her speedy answer. “And what of your mother?”

  “She … drowned … some years back.”

  “Drowned?”

  “She was not a witch!”

  Sweet Almighty, what was that all about? he wondered, and stared at her in open surprise. Her eyes, for once, were guileless and as wide as forever. “I did not think she—”