by Lois Greiman
Chapter Fourteen
It made little difference that the sun shone and the breeze was warm as they journeyed north. The day dragged by in misery.
Ramsay had not purchased another mount, for he had little coin and less to barter, and so they rode double. Of course, it was not the fact that she sat nearly upon his lap and he was unable to allow himself to touch so much as the ends of her wind rustled hair that irritated him. Nay. A dozen other problems worried at his mind.
They’d been riding forever, Gryfon was weary, and despite the sunlight and breeze, Ramsay’s damned plaid was still damp. Damp and chafing every time Notmary shifted against him, every time she twisted to find more comfort so that her breast brushed …
She turned slightly, and her hair, soft as kitten fur, stroked across his cheek.
He swore under his breath.
“What is it?” she asked. Her tone was worried as she turned slightly and her left breast, determined to cause trouble, pressed more forcefully against his arm.
He stared at her, frantically searching for flaws, but while her personality supplied a host of them, her face revealed pitifully few.
“Did you hear something?” she asked.
He drew himself back to the present. “We’d best stop. The horse is tired.”
“Oh.” ‘Twas very nearly the first word she had uttered all day, and it turned out to be the last.
The night was damp, fitful, unfulfilling. The next day was no better, and his mood not the least improved.
By the following evening, he was all but insane and found himself gritting his teeth each time the girl twisted or straightened … or breathed.
“Sit!” He barked the word without meaning to, then glared at her when she turned toward him. For one fleeting moment, her expression was fearful, but she remedied that in an instant.
“What is amiss?” Her tone now was perfectly modulated, like that of a duchess speaking to her serfs.
“Nothing,” he said, and counted to twelve in Latin. ‘Twas after all a godly language. ” ‘Twould simply be appreciated if you would sit still.”
She stared at him, so irritatingly cool that he wanted to shake her. “So you have changed your mind, have you?” she asked, her voice level.
Ramsay yanked his gaze from hers and stared out into the gathering darkness. “I’ve not the haziest idea what you speak of.”
“Truly?”
Good God, she was maddening. He shifted his gaze back to her face and scowled. “I am not a liar.”
“Nay.” The smallest corner of a superior smile lifted her lips. ” ‘Tis I who am the liar and I who am the tease. Is that not what you were thinking?”
“Nay.” He shifted his gaze toward the horizon. “I was thinking you are a tremendous pain in the arse.”
“Do not worry. ‘Tis not too late to take back your vow to extract revenge on my behalf.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
She glanced up through her lashes, as if surprised at his naivete. “I am a tease, a wanton. Therefore it was my own fault, was it not, MacGowan?”
“If you have something to say, don’t waste me time, lassie, for me patience is a bit short just now.”
” ‘Tis just this: you think ‘twas my own fault that I was raped.”
His stomach cramped with emotion. The last thing he wished to think about just now was her stolen innocence. Far better to hate her than to ache for her.
She was still watching him. “If you cannot lie, you cannot deny it, can you?” She cocked her head saucily, but her voice was muted. “You blame me.”
Darkness fell in dusky mist around them. She felt small but staunchly stiff in his arms.
“Is that what you want me to do?” he asked. “Blame you?”
“Nay,” she said. “What reason could I have to wish that?”
” ‘Twould give you a likely reason to hate me, would it not?”
She wasn’t breathing. He could tell by the cessation of motion of her ribs against his arm as he held the reins. “I do not need another reason to hate you, MacGowan.”
He held her gaze. “Good,” he said finally, and leaned forward so that their faces were mere inches apart. “For this I know, lass: you were a child when your innocence was stolen from you, a babe to be protected and cherished. ‘Twas not your sin, no matter how much you wish me to believe the opposite.”
For a moment she stared at him unspeaking, and then she turned stiffly away to look between Gryfon’s truncated ears.
The night was long again and quiet, but when Ramsay glanced up it seemed that she was forever watching him. Every time, though, her eyes flickered away. Even after they had eaten their simple fare and found their respective pallets, he could feel her eyes on him.
Morning dawned. Ramsay ate sparingly, then saddled their mount. Gryfon, true to his usual bad nature, managed to step on his master’s foot twice before the girth was tightened. Not so merry himself, Ramsay kneed the steed in the barrel and was repaid with a stinging slap from Gryfon’s tail across his cheek. Glaring then, they called a silent truce.
Nursing his bruised foot, Ramsay mounted gingerly, then bent to assist the lass. The night had been miserable and his sleep poor. Still, as she settled before him in the saddle, he felt his wick nudge toward his belt, and he scowled.
Miles slipped away beneath the stallion’s hooves. Sometime before noon, clouds gathered over the western hills and boiled overhead.
“Why do you keep him?” Notmary asked, not turning toward Ramsay when she spoke.
“Who?”
“Gryfon,” she said. “I saw Dun Ard’s stable. ‘Tis not for lack of mounts that you ride this one. I but wondered why.”
“Why?” His mood had not improved in the least.
” ‘Tis simply conversation,” she said, still facing forward. “Did his ears freeze?”
“Aye,” he said, loath to participate in this particular topic. It could do him no good.
“How?”
“He was too damned stubborn to be born in the spring like any other self respecting horse.”
“A winter bairn?”
“Aye.”
“His ears were already frozen when you found him?”
“He was already dead when I found him.”
Her brows rose and she turned partially toward him, punishing him with a slight brush of her breast.
He steeled himself against the sensation and concentrated on talking. “As it turns out, I only thought he was dead. Once we were rid of the wolves, we were able to get him to his feet. ‘Twas then that he first kicked me.”
“But you brought him home. Nursed him back to health.”
“He was the last foal from wee Lochan Gorm, Mother’s favorite, and she was loath to lose his final colt. ‘Tis the only reason.”
“I have a feeling there might be more to it.”
“Well, your feeling is wrong.”
“So you did not care for him? Pity him? Cherish him?”
“Cherish him!” Ramsay said and snorted as he glowered at the stallion’s flattened ears. “I don’t even like the damned horse.”
“I see,” Notmary said, and they fell back into silence.
By evening, thunder rumbled ominously and the wind picked up, blowing the first droplets of rain into their faces.
Just before darkness obliterated the countryside, they came to a sheltered spot by a burn. Surrounded by a thick copse of horse chestnuts, it looked to be a dry enough spot to hide from the elements. It even seemed safe to chance a fire here, and by its heat they ate the last of the bread and cheese they’d brought from the inn. Sitting with their backs against the rough trunks of a twin pair of chestnut trees, they watched the erratic flicker of flame.
“If we follow the burn we will reach my home late on the morrow.”
Ramsay glanced up, surprised from his reverie. “You know the country round about?”
“Aye.” Again silence. She cleared her throat and watched the fl
ame again. “There is something I would say before we reach the journey’s end.”
If he dared glance her way he would see the golden sketch of her profile limned by firelight—as delicate as a memory, as indelible as a stone carving.
“I am …” She paused and fiddled with a fold in her gown.
He waited. Around them, the wind howled like a banshee, but hidden away in their little copse they were dry and cozy.
“I am grateful for all you have done.”
He almost smiled as he poked a faggot back into the fire with a crooked branch. “I hope it did not reveal too much of yourself to say so, lass.”
She stared at him, wide eyed.
“Never have I met a woman so sparse with details of herself.”
“And what of you, Ramsay of Dun Ard?” she asked. “What have you revealed of yourself?”
He shouldn’t have started down this path, he realized belatedly, and shrugged as if the subject held no interest for him. “There is little to tell that you cannot see with your own eyes.”
“Truly?”
“Aye.”
“So you are an uncomplicated man.”
“Aye.”
“Who lived an idyllic childhood and has floated into manhood without a care.”
“I am impressed by your perceptiveness.”
She watched him for an instant. “Tell me again that you do not lie.”
“I do not lie.” It was more difficult to force out the words than he had expected, even though it was not an outright lie. A shadowed truth, perhaps, but not a lie.
“Tell me, Ramsay of the MacGowans,” she said. “Why have you never wed?”
The flame was fascinating, or at least it was a good excuse not to look at her, to keep his expressions hidden from her too-sharp gaze. “Mayhap I had hoped for the same freedom you have.”
She laughed a little, though the sound was forced. “Do I have some freedom I have forgot?”
“To marry for reasons other than duty. Is that not what you told me?”
“Aye.” She glanced away. ” ‘Tis true.”
“And yet you are not wed.”
She sat very still. “Could it be that you intentionally turn the conversation away from yourself?”
“There are no dark mysteries hidden away in my soul. Not like you, Notmary.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Who, then, is Lorna?”
Every muscle cranked up tight at the sound of her name, but Ramsay relaxed them carefully one by one and took his time before turning back to her. “Why do you ask?”
“Why do you not tell me?”
He shrugged. ” ‘Tis no great secret. She was a … lady I met at court.”
The silence seemed hopelessly hard, but he refused to shift like a recalcitrant lad under her gaze.
“She was no one you held dear, then?”
He gritted his teeth and debated another lie. “Where did you hear her name?”
“From Gilmour.”
He nodded. “Me brother has been known to talk too much on occasion.” He wished Gilmour were there so he could discuss the matter with him in person. “On all occasions,” he added ruefully.
“He said you were besotted.”
Ramsay wished for the life of him that he could deny it, but his propensity for creative lying was just about at its finish.
“Is she comely?”
“Aye.” He did his best to sound casual, as if the matter was of no great importance to him. “Aye, she was that.”
“Was?”
“I suspect she is still.”
“You no longer see her?”
“She married another.”
“Why?” There was something in her tone that made him glance her way. Awe, perhaps—or at least an honest lack of understanding, and though her feelings should not matter, he felt an aching need to determine what they were.
“Mayhap she was hopelessly enamored,” Ramsay said.
“With him but not with you?” Her voice was feather soft. “I do not think so.”
“Then why?” he asked, almost able to keep the emotion from his voice.
“I would guess her chosen bridegroom was not a common cotter.”
“The Saxon king’s second cousin.”
She smiled a little and glanced down at her clasped hands. “Power and wealth. I would guess that there lies your answer.”
“And for that she would …” He paused, fighting for calm, for the careful reserve he had learned to build around himself.
“What?”
He clasped the answer firmly into silence. The wind shifted, swirling hard driven rain drops into their tiny camp. “We had best seek some sleep.”
“What would she do?”
He stared at her, almost tempted to tell her the story he had shared with no other.
” ‘Twill be fairly dry beneath those branches,” he said, and rose, glancing at the small bower created by the sheltering chestnuts. “I will make me bed out here.”
“And if it rains?”
He scowled. ” ‘Twill keep me alert, lest we be discovered.” Sweet Almighty, what a marvelous martyr he had become.
She shifted her gaze toward the alcove then back to him. ” ‘Twould surely do you no good to be drenched again.”
But it would do him a world of good to hold her, for she looked so small and soft that his arms ached to—
Amazing. While Lorna had taught him much of pain, it seemed he had learned little of common sense.
“I remain here,” he said, thinking that martyrdom was surely much safer than idiocy.
She watched him for a long, silent moment, then said, “About the night at the inn, I—”
“Go to sleep, lass,” he said quietly.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he refused to allow it, interrupting once again.
“I am hoping to be canonized soon,” he assured her.
“After you die of the ague?”
“I do not think martyrs are allowed to die of something so mundane.”
She smiled a little, and he forced himself to keep breathing. ‘Twas only a smile, after all, the slightest tilt of the lips. “You will find shelter if the rain worsens?”
He stared at her for a moment, knowing he should say no. Agreeing to spend the night near her was foolishness, and standing here arguing with her, merely seeing her hair glimmer in the firelight, watching the flash of her eyes, was nearly his undoing. He pulled his gaze back toward the fire.
“MacGowan.” Her voice was very small. “I am sorry.”
When he glanced at her, he saw that her face looked so tragic and solemn and sweet that his heart wrenched at the sight of it.
“For …” She seemed to wrestle with herself for a moment, but finally she spoke again. “Your loss.”
“Loss?” he repeated and curled his hands into tense fists.
“For losing Lorna.”
“Oh. Aye.” He relaxed marginally. “Good night, lass,” he said, and fetching Gryfon, found him a sheltered spot where grass grew in abundance.
* * * * *
The night was endless. The wind moaned, rain drops slashed at unexpected intervals into his face, and beneath him the earth felt as hard and unforgiving as old sins.
Ramsay sat up with an irritated snarl and stared with longing at the hidden alcove. The wind cursed at him and spat wet leaves into his face.
Enough was enough, he thought, and jerked to his feet. So what if he was a fool? So what if he was weak where she was concerned? At this juncture he was surely too exhausted and too damned cantankerous to be aroused by her.
Besides, if he tried anything idiotic, she would most likely dismember him.
Scraping the branches aside, he crouched low and entered. It was smaller even than he had thought, but there was just enough space to crawl in behind her. Still, there was no place to put his arms—no place but around her.
“MacGowan?” Her voice was drowsy, but no note of pani
c evidenced the tone as he settled his arm cautiously across her waist.
“Aye.” His own voice was gruff, low, foolish. ” ‘Tis I. Go to sleep. You are safe.”
“I know,” she breathed and slipped back into her dreams.
* * * * *
When morning dawned, Ramsay awoke slowly. She lay against his body, her hair scattered like living gold across his arm, her buttocks pressed snugly against his erection.
He swore in silence and arose with a start.
“MacGowan?” She sat up just as quickly, her sleepy eyes wide. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay! Nay,” he said, smoothing his tone. “All is well.”
“It is time to leave?” she asked, and brushed a scattered lock from her face with the back of her hand.
Ramsay held his breath as he watched. He’d always had a weakness for women who brushed scattered locks from their faces with … oh, what the hell—she made him randy as a hound. “Aye. ‘Tis well past time to leave. I will fetch our mount,” he said.
In a hopeless attempt to save his failing peace of mind, Ramsay insisted she sit behind him today. It should have been safer than having her perching atop his manhood. Out of sight, out of mind, after all. But even after plaiting her hair into a long fat braid that morn, soft wisps of it were wont to flow against his neck, and now and again her breasts would bump against his back, joggling his mind and hardening his body. He gritted his teeth against the temptation and faced resolutely forward.
Beneath them the miles wore away, bearing them closer and closer to their destination, to the time when he would no longer be tormented by her nearness. ‘Twas surely a good thing, he told himself as they traversed a burn. Water splashed up around Gryfon’s high-stepping legs.
Then he heard Notmary gasp. “Nay!”
“What is it?”
“Go!” she said, and slipped sideways. He gripped her arm frantically.
“Mary!”
“Let me go!”
“Why?”
“You must—” she began hastily, but at that instant, the sound of hoofbeats reached his ears.
Jerking about, he faced uphill.
Mounted soldiers galloped down upon them. There were a dozen at least, and each one rode a white horse.