The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  His gaze followed its rise and fall. It was a bonny sight, and she was eager, unlike Mary, who had said in so many words that she had no interest at all.

  Aye, his mind argued. But her fairy quick hands—

  “Your lordship,” Glenna crooned, and crushed her breast against his biceps.

  Damn her fairy quick hands, Ramsay thought.

  “Glenna!”

  Ramsay shifted his gaze toward the newcomer as Glenna did the same. It was the tall maid who had brought the meal to his room. The tall maid with the regal bearing and the steely eyes. There was something about her that appealed to him. What was it? Oh yes, she was female. He chuckled quietly at his own razor-sharp wit.

  “Mary,” Glenna said and shifted her eyes sideways as if looking for something. “What be you doing here so soon?”

  “I’ve come to help you tidy up.”

  “Tidy up?” she said and snorted. “So he’s done with you already is he? Well, ‘tis your own hard luck. This one’s mine.”

  The tall maid straightened with a bewildered scowl. ” ‘Tis time to bar the doors for the night.”

  Glenna forced a smile. “Then bar them. I go to find dry garments for me friend here. Come along, me laird,” she said and pressing her impressive bosom against his arm, dragged him to his feet. He obliged as best he could, but his stomach sloshed with intoxicants and his feet wandered with a will of their own.

  “Glenna,” said the maid pointedly.

  “Good eventide, Mary.”

  “Glenna!” Mary said, her tone low as she shifted her gaze to Ramsay for an instant. “I believe de la Court needs your help in the kitchen.”

  “You did him in the kitchen?” she snarled.

  Mary’s scowl deepened. “You’d best go straightaway.”

  “And leave you to the gentleman here? I think not.”

  “I didn’t …” The tall maid raised her chin and lowered her voice. “I had no interest in your master’s proposal, if that’s what you think, but I believe he is hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Glenna’s eyes widened.

  “Aye. He asked for you.”

  The buxom maid stood quickly. “Stay put,” she ordered Ramsay. “If she’s lying, I shall return in a blink. And you …” She grabbed Mary’s sleeve. “Come with me.”

  Ramsay rested his hip precariously against the top rung of a nearby chair as the two hurried away.

  From his vantage point, he could see that the pitcher was not quite empty. He remedied that situation and glanced impatiently toward the kitchen.

  There was a muffled thud, then nothing.

  Maybe the two women were fighting over him, he thought and considered telling them he could handle them both. But upon fuzzy consideration, he decided better of it. There was something about the tall maid that suggested it would take a steadier hand to handle her.

  Where was Glenna? he wondered again. Her stallion was waiting. He chuckled quietly at his wit, nearly lost his perch on the back of the chair, and scrambled to stay upright.

  “Me laird.”

  Startled, he twisted toward the voice. The speaker stood nearly eye to eye with him.

  “Where’s Glenna?” he asked.

  Mary’s voice was low, her gaze steady. “She has been called away.”

  “Away?”

  “Aye,” she said, and followed with no explanation.

  “Ahh.” He scowled as he turned away. “Well then, I’ll be returning to me room.”

  “I will accompany you.”

  “What’s that?” He glanced hazily through the dimness at her.

  “I will accompany you.” She repeated her former statement with no more inflection than the first time.

  “To me room?”

  “Aye.”

  He pondered this for a moment. “Afeared I will be accosted on the way?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then …” Cleverness and patience seemed to have abandoned him completely. “Why?”

  “You are besotted with ale.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are.”

  ” ‘Tis kind of you to offer, but I assure you, lass …” It seemed rather odd, calling her by such a gentle endearment when she stood less than a hand’s breadth below his own substantial height. “I can reach me room without your help.”

  “I will—” she began, her voice firm, but a noise from the kitchen interrupted her words. Ducking her head slightly, she glanced up at him through her lashes. “Me apologies, me laird,” she murmured shyly.

  He stared. What an odd, erratic girl she was.

  ” ‘Tis sorry I be. I … have bungled it horribly.”

  “Bungled what?”

  “I …” She paused, still staring at the floor. “I like you.”

  “You—” he began, but realized with breathtaking abruptness that she had just loosened the laces of her gown. Her breasts, high and firm and pale, were just visible above her bodice. “Oh.” Perhaps they really had been fighting over him in the kitchens. He glanced distractedly in that direction.

  “Please.”

  “What?” He turned dizzily back toward her.

  “Please do not say nay.”

  “I …” Dear God, this was a strange place. “Mayhap you were right,” he said and placed a steadying hand on a nearby chair. “I may well be more inebriated than I first suspected.”

  “Aye.”

  “What?”

  “I … would make you very happy,” she said, and without glancing up, fingered her bodice open another fraction of an inch.

  “I am certain you would,” he said, but something about her actions made him feel suddenly old and lecherous. Whatever her reasons for the offer, something about her stiff movements made him doubt that she was overwhelmed with longing for him. “But I fear I am … fatigued.” It was immensely true. He was tired and confused and though he would not have thought it possible, he was no longer the least bit aroused. “Thus I bid you adieu.”

  “Adieu?”

  “Aye,” he said, and turned away.

  “But …” She was beside him in a moment, grasping his arm as he headed for the stairs. ” ‘Tis early still.”

  Her breast pressed against his bare arm, stirring up a bit of faded lust, but the night had been too bizarre for even his wayward wick to maintain much enthusiasm. “Mayhap I shall see you when we break the fast.”

  “Am I so unattractive?”

  He stopped on the stairs, startled by her words. “Nay.” Her eyes, he noticed, were an intriguing sort of silver blue and her expression intense. “Not at all, lass. ‘Tis simply that …” There was something disturbingly familiar about her. Something that he could not quite put his finger on, that grated at his consciousness and confused his already bumbling mind. “You are so young and—”

  “I am as old as she.”

  “Who?”

  “Your … wife.”

  His wife! Oh, Notmary. She was in his room. Alone. Lust stirred irrationally. He frowned. God Almighty, he was a dolt for not taking advantage of this opportunity. But this stately lass seemed somehow uneasy about her role of seductress.

  “You are bonny and alluring,” he said, sobering somewhat. “But I do not think you wish to do this thing. Therefore …” Easing her fingers from his arm, he kissed them gently. “I bid you goodnight,” he said.

  For one prolonged moment she stared at her fingers before lifting her amazed gaze back to his.

  He turned to leave, but from the corner of his eye he saw her reach beneath the folds of her gown. His besotted mind was almost lucid enough to sense the danger. Almost.

  “Goodnight,” she said, and raising an unseen object, struck him soundly on the head.

  Chapter Twelve

  Anora’s dreams were soft and deep. She lay dozing in a misty glen, cushioned by mosses and serenaded by larks. Not far away, the burn hustled happily toward the sea. The man beside her caused her to moan—but ‘twas not a moan of pain, nor of fear. Not this time.

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p; Nay, there was only pleasure here. His hands felt like magic against her skin, and when he spoke, the sound rippled in waves of ecstasy up her arched spine.

  “Wake up.”

  She moaned again, for ‘twas so wondrous to lie thus, loving and beloved.

  “Awake!”

  The mists parted regretfully. “MacGowan?” The name came easily to her lips, but in that same instant she realized her mistake. Her gasp was cut short by the cold touch of steel against her neck.

  “Say nothing.” The blade nudged her throat. “Rise.”

  “What—” Her voice shook.

  “Quiet!”

  “The warrior.” She whispered the words even as he reached out to drag her to her feet. “What do you want of me?”

  “Disrobe,” he rasped, and shook her by the arm. Even in the darkness, she could see him glance toward the door. “And be quick about it.” The point of his dagger nicked her throat. Fear welled up inside her like a winter wind.

  “I—I cannot.”

  “You can and you shall!” he snarled, and tightened his grip on her arm.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back the terror, locking away the memories. But even as she did so, she gripped her gown in trembling fingers. The linen shook as it slid up her legs. Cold air followed in its wake. Goose bumps coursed over her flesh.

  “Hurry up!”

  She pulled higher. A chill spilled over her breasts. Fabric brushed her face, and then she was naked. She kept her eyes pressed shut, barely feeling the tears that squeezed between her lids.

  She felt him step closer, felt his fingers touch her arm, and suddenly she could not bear it, would rather die than endure this again.

  “Nay!” She swung wildly at him. Her knuckles connected with his cheek. He stumbled back and she pivoted away, but in that instant his arm locked about her waist.

  She tried to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her air. She clawed desperately, fighting to be free.

  No hope. No hope, her mind screamed, but in that instant light streamed into the room. The warrior stumbled and she was tossed free to fall against the bed. Air washed into her lungs.

  Sounds boomed around her. Feet scuffled. Men grunted, and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the noise abated.

  Anora remained pressed back against the mattress behind her. Darkness lay like a blanket around her, but through that muffling blanket, she heard a moan. Terrified, she pressed more firmly against the pallet. The moan came again, and now, even in the dimness, she could see a crumpled shape against the far wall.

  “Who—who is it?”

  “Mary.” The shape shifted. “Are you well?”

  “MacGowan?” His name sounded breathy to her own ears.

  “Are you well?” He tried to rise, then crumpled again.

  “MacGowan!” She scurried across the floor on all fours. From somewhere far below she could hear the faint murmur of voices, but they mattered not. “You’re wounded.”

  “Aye, I do believe … are you naked?”

  Her breath stopped in her throat. She froze where she was, crouched over him, her hands clutched in his tunic.

  “Damn him!” The words were low and dark, filled with a deep, unspeakable anger. “Damn him to hell.” He shifted, rising unsteadily to his feet. She rose with him. “Bar the door behind me.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “Trust no one,” he warned, and stumbled toward the door.

  Frantic and unthinking, she tightened her fingers, dragging him to a halt. “Nay. Please.” They were the only words she could think of for a moment.

  She felt him turn toward her.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  Even in the darkness, she saw him reach up. His hand felt warm and ultimately strong against her cheek.

  “He did me no harm.”

  “But he meant to.” Ramsay turned as if that was all he needed to know, but she tugged him back.

  “He is far gone and you are wounded.”

  From the stairs, they heard an excited rush of voices.

  “Get in bed. Draw up the woolens,” Ramsay said, and urged her onto the mattress. She did as told, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

  “What goes on here?” Light beamed from the doorway, splashing brightness into the room. The proprietor lifted the iron bound lantern he carried, and by that illumination Ramsay saw the Frenchman wince as he flitted his gaze toward Anora. “What has happened?”

  Ramsay took one step sideways, blocking the man’s view of the bed. “There has been an intruder.”

  “An intruder! Nay,” de la Court said, and grimaced as if in pain. “The doors are barred for the night.”

  “The maid Mary let him in,” Ramsay said.

  “Mary?” gasped the Frenchman.

  ” ‘Twas she!” gasped a voice from the hallway.

  De la Court turned. Glenna’s face gleamed in the light of the single candle she carried. ” ‘Twas she who knocked me on the pate,” she said, holding a cloth to her head with her free hand.

  The Frenchman scowled. ” ‘Twas also she who kicked … who struck me.”

  “Nay!” Glenna gasped. “She said you were hurt in the kitchen.”

  “I was indeed hurt, though not in the kitchen,” de la Court said, and for just a moment laid his wrist across his crotch. “But why?” he asked, his face twitching. “She was such a comely … such an innocent thing.”

  “Innocent, me arse,” Glenna said. “She was a fresh bit of flesh come knocking at your door just this afternoon, is what she was. And me faithful as a hound all these months!”

  “Hush, before you wake the whole house,” warned the proprietor.

  “Afeared your icy-arsed missus will learn the truth?”

  ” ‘Twould do neither of us any good,” said the Frenchman, lowering the lantern with a wince. “Come, let us see to each other’s wounds.”

  ” ‘Tis just like you to worry about me, now that the other maids be out of reach,” she pouted.

  ” ‘Tis not true. You know …” he murmured, and let his voice slip into a whisper.

  Glenna giggled and he glanced past her toward the bed once more, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, madame. Is there aught I can do for you?”

  “Nay.” Anora felt dizzied and confused, startled by the private drama played out before her. “I am well.”

  “And my lord?”

  “I am well,” Ramsay said.

  “Then my prayers are answered,” de la Court said with pious brevity, and letting his fingertips trail momentarily down Glenna’s arm, hung his lantern on the peg beside the door. “Rest assured I shall not sleep until the light of morn.” He turned and hobbled away.

  The flame flickered as the door closed. The room fell silent as Ramsay turned toward the bed.

  Anora drew her knees closer to her chest. “How did you know ‘twas the other maid who let him in?”

  He scowled at her, saying nothing. In the single flickering light he looked large and formidable. The seconds ticked away as he crossed the room and reached for the bottle he’d left on the floor.

  Breathless and taut, Anora stared at him. “Did you bed her?”

  He straightened abruptly, his hand wrapped about the neck of the bottle. “Would you care?”

  She dropped her gaze. “It seems our lives are enmeshed for a time, Ramsay of Dun Ard.” The words were nearly impossible to force out, for a dozen other questions begged to be asked. “I would know what kind of man I am bound to.”

  He lowered himself slowly to the bed. “And I would know to whom I am bound. Thus I propose an exchange of information.”

  Her heart did a little trick beat. “What do you mean?”

  “I will tell you where I have spent the evening, if you will share a truth with me.”

  Beneath the blankets, she curled her naked toes. “What truth?”

  For a moment he said nothing. His eyes were as stead
y and solemn as a falcon’s, as mesmerizing as sin itself. “The maid called Mary, have you seen her before?”

  “Nay.”

  “Did she come to the room after me departure?”

  “Nay.”

  He scowled. “The man who came to this room, he came alone?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who was he?”

  Raw fear seared her nerves. “I do not know.”

  “Was he the warrior from before?”

  She nodded, barely able to do that much.

  “A Munro?”

  Tension cranked tighter. Lies lay like rabid hounds before her door. “I know no Munro,” she whispered, and tightened her fingers in the blanket.

  MacGowan stared at her a moment longer, then his expression changed to one of indifference and he turned away.

  “You’re wounded.” She said the words quickly, foolishly, as if she might want to keep him near. “Again, for me.”

  He shook his head and moved as if to rise, but her fingers snared his rumpled plaid, and the blankets, set free from her gripping hands, fell away from her body.

  Breathless and terrified, she reached to hide herself, but his gaze had already dropped to her breasts. She covered them quickly. His gaze rose more slowly.

  “Aye,” he said finally, his voice low. “I am wounded. And yet you will not answer me truthfully.”

  “I do not know the warrior,” she whispered.

  “Then answer me this: is he the one who causes you to tremble when I am near?”

  “I do not tremble.”

  “Your soul does,” he murmured. “Is he the reason?”

  There was so little air in the room, almost too little to allow her to shake her head.

  “Who then?”

  She wanted to hide, to lie, to look away, but she would not. Instead, she raised her chin and held his gaze. “When I was four and ten, my father sent me to court.” Against her knuckles, she felt the muscles bunch in his thigh. “I met a baron there. I thought him quite fashionable.” Her throat hurt with the effort to talk. “And refined … but he was betrothed. Still … I thought … I thought for love he would surely break the betrothal and wed me. I thought that was why he asked to meet me in the gardens after dark.” No more words came for a moment, though she told herself to go on. ‘Twas best he knew what he was dealing with. ‘Twas best he knew she was no innocent, for once he understood, ‘twould be so much easier to turn him aside. “I thought he came to pledge his troth to me.” Her throat felt ungodly tight. ” ‘Twas not the last time I was wrong about a man.”