The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  Footsteps crossed the floor. The door closed with resounding finality, then silence filled the room. Anora waited, breath held as she listened to the sounds of nothing, but in a moment the silence was broken by the creak of the door again.

  “Forget something, me laird?” Meara asked.

  “Aye.” Munro’s voice was deep with disappointment as though he thought to find her already awake. “Care for her well, old woman, or ‘twill be you who haunts this keep.” With that he turned and made his way heavily down the wooden stairs.

  “Lassie!” Helena hustled in, tears already brimming in her faded green eyes as she clasped Anora in her plump arms. “I was worried sick. Where have you been? Are you well? You can’t imagine—”

  “Don’t tax the girl with your feeble questions,” Meara said, prodding the other aside with the tip of her gnarled cane. “What happened with your uncle, lass?”

  Anora scooted upward to prop her back against the headboard wall behind her. “He did not come.”

  “Well, hell’s belfry, I can see that,” Meara scolded. “But why? He is your father’s kin. ‘Tis his duty to see to your well being.”

  “He was more than willing, until he realized ‘twas the Munro who had claimed my hand in marriage.”

  “Did you not tell him of the prophecy? Did you not tell him that Evermyst must be mastered by the proper man, lest blood flow and—”

  “Aye. I told him. But he did not care, so long as the blood was not his own.”

  “Then we are left to our own devices.” Meara’s voice was low.

  “Me lady,” Isobel whispered, entering the room with a mug clasped between her narrow hands. In a moment she knelt beside the bed, the drink abandoned on the floor. “You are returned, hale and healthy.” Reaching out, she folded Anora’s hand in her own. “I feared the worst.”

  “Isobel.” Anora grasped the maid’s grubby hand and drew in the sight of her, the stodgy coif, the elfin face. “You are well?”

  “Aye.”

  “I dreamed that you—” She lost her voice for a moment.

  Their gazes met and melded, blue on blue.

  “Nay,” Isobel whispered. “I am well. It has not come to pass. Not—”

  “Stout Helena!” Meara said. “Can’t you see the lass is faint with hunger?”

  Helena speared a glare at the elder woman, then lowered her gaze to Anora and smiled mistily. “Is there aught I can fetch for you, lass?”

  Anora reached out with her free hand, grasping the other’s dimpled fingers. ” ‘Tis wondrous to see you, Helena. I missed you so.”

  The matron hugged Anora’s fingers to her plump bosom for a moment. “And I you, lass. And I you,” she said, then released Anora’s fingers and wiped her nose with her apron. “Now I go to prepare a feast.”

  The door closed soundly behind her.

  “Finally!” Meara said. “Now, tell me, lass—what has not passed? What did you dream?”

  Isobel spoke. “That the Munro learned the truth.”

  “Lord save us! Nay!” Meara pleaded.

  “It has not happened!” Isobel whispered. “And it will not. I will not let it.”

  “You cannot prevent it,” Meara said, and turned herself creakily from the bed. “You think yourselves the clever ones, the pair of you, but the Munro is not as foolish as he appears, and—”

  ” ‘Twould nearly defy the impossible,” Isobel finished. And though the world lay like a horrible weight on Anora’s shoulders, she could not help but smile, for she was home, among her people.

  ” ‘Tis not a matter for mirth,” Meara warned her.

  “Eventually even that great hulking oaf will see through your weak-kneed demonstrations, just as he will see through Isobel’s cloying filth. And as for ghosts—” She snorted, a harsh sound in the grim silence.

  “What about ghosts?” Anora asked.

  No one spoke.

  “What of ghosts?” she asked again. “Was it Senga? Did she make herself known?”

  “What did you think would happen if the Munro moved himself into her home?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Aye,” Meara agreed. “Moved into your own chamber he did, lass.”

  “And Senga?”

  ” ‘Twas nothing much,” Isobel said.

  “Nothing much,” Meara agreed. “If you do not think it strange to awaken to find your throat cut!”

  “Throat—”

  ” ‘Twas not cut,” Isobel soothed. ” ‘Twas only blood.”

  “Aye!” Meara glared at Isobel. “A stripe across the Munro’s neck just so.” She made a swipe with one bent finger across her own neck. “As if it had been cut with a knife. ‘Twas his scream that woke me in the early morn.”

  The corner of a grin lifted Isobel’s mobile mouth. “He screams like a house maid.”

  “Nay,” Anora breathed.

  ” ‘Tis no laughing matter!” Meara snarled. “Although …” For a moment her face evidenced an expression that could almost be considered a smile. “It did me old heart good to see his broad backside hustling out of our keep. Still …” The scowl was firmly back in place. “He is not his father, lassies. Mark me words. He will not fear the spirits forever, nor did he inherit his sire’s weak heart.”

  “Mayhap ‘twas not a weak heart that killed his da at all,” Isobel said. “But a visit from Senga, just as is said.”

  “Or mayhap ‘twas justice for what they did to your dear mother,” Meara hissed, her voice low. “But whatever the cause, ‘tis his younger son we must worry on now. And this much I know: he’ll not stay gone, not so long as Evermyst overlooks the very waters he longs to control. He means to take our home, and if he must bed a Fraser to take hold of it, so much the better.”

  “I cannot wed him,” Anora whispered.

  “Mayhap his fear of Senga—” Isobel began, but Meara interrupted.

  “We cannot depend on the spirits to protect us. We must think of another means.”

  “It seems a vast waste of a perfectly good ghost,” Isobel murmured.

  “Hush, now. I’m thinking,” Meara said, and in a moment, slanted her narrow eyes toward Anora. “This MacGowan—tell me of him.”

  Anora held her breath. “Why?”

  Meara stopped. “Why do you not tell me?”

  A hundred potent memories stormed through her mind. “Because he has naught to do with this matter.”

  “Naught to do? Do you forget where your loyalties lie?”

  “Nay, I do not. But neither do I trust a stranger to right my troubles.”

  “So that’s what he is to you, lass? Naught but a stranger?” The old woman’s eyes were as bright as river pebbles.

  Anora nearly squirmed under her gaze, like a small girl caught with her embroidery not done. “We traveled together, nothing more.”

  “You allowed a man to travel with you?”

  “I had little choice.”

  “One always has a choice, lassie, and ‘tis foolish of you to pretend otherwise. Why did you ride with him?”

  Anora said nothing.

  “Tell me, lass. Was he kind? Is he cunning?”

  “He—”

  “Are you fond of him?”

  “Nay!” Anora hissed. “He is a man.”

  The room went silent.

  “So you have noticed,” Meara said quietly. “And not only a man, but a MacGowan. Powerful, wealthy, and by the looks of him …” She almost grinned. “Fit and willing to come to your aid. Surely you have considered what this means.”

  “Aye.” Something twisted in her stomach. “I considered it. In truth, at first I thought ‘twas the answer to my prayers. I planned to return here with a score of trained warriors at my beck and call. But ‘twas not to be. We became separated from the others, and he …” She scowled, remembering the tremble of his hand after the warrior’s retreat. Had he really worried for her?

  “He what, lassie?” Meara’s gaze was as sharp as a well-stropped dirk.

  Anora low
ered her eyes to where her hand gripped Isobel’s. “He is only one man. Hardly enough to fight the strength of the Munros.”

  “Who is speaking of fighting? I only—”

  “Nay!” Anora’s heart bumped hard in her chest. “He will not become involved.”

  “So you care more for him than for your own, lass?”

  “Surely you know me better than that.”

  “Do I?”

  “Aye,” she whispered. ” ‘Tis not in me to care for a man.”

  The room was silent; then, ” ‘Tis good, lassie,” Meara said, her voice a rough whisper in the quiet. “For you know what you must do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Every word she’d ever uttered was a lie.

  Ramsay sat very still, letting his mind burn while keeping his face absolutely impassive.

  She was not named Mary. She was not the lady of Levenlair, and she was not free to marry where she would. She was betrothed! Ramsay stared across the wooden trestle table at the laird of the Munros. Big as a bull, he swallowed a hunk of cold pork, quaffed beer, then wiped his mouth with the back side of an enormous hairy-knuckled hand. Loathing rose in Ramsay’s gut, but he stamped it down. She deserved the hulking clod. And he her.

  Munro raised a horn to his thick lips once again. They sat in Evermyst’s great hall, surrounded by a dozen Munro warriors. Beyond them, servants hovered nervously. Only one maid, heavy with child, dared to come close, her mouth open as she watched in slumped awe.

  Ramsay lowered his gaze to his drink again. Thus far not a word had been spoken, and he would just as soon it continued that way. He was a peaceable man by nature, with little use for the kind of emotions that made fools of men.

  “So, laddie …”

  But if that hulking piece of horse shit called him laddie one more time, he’d shove the word down his cavern-sized throat.

  “You’ve spent some time with me betrothed, huh?” Beer foam was already stuck to Munro’s beard, but he took another swig and licked his lips. The foam remained with annoying tenacity.

  Ramsay said nothing.

  “Saved her, did you? Carried her to your keep?”

  Christ, his damned jaw was as wide a mule’s ass.

  “Or was it one of your brothers who carried her?”

  Funny thing, he just didn’t feel like conversing with the jawbone of an ass just now.

  “The MacGowan rogues.” The huge man nodded as if unconcerned with his companion’s laconic nature. “I have heard tales of your way with women, and I wonder if they be true.”

  Ramsay took a drink from his horn and silently considered its golden contents.

  “Damn it!” The table reverberated beneath the Munro’s gargantuan fist.

  Ramsay glanced up, careful to look just short of bored.

  “I asked you a question, laddie!” The words were growled into a room that had gone absolutely silent.

  Behind the Munro, the pregnant woman cackled an eerie laugh.

  “Aye. You did that.” Ramsay held his gaze. The man was as big as a tower wall and looked twice as solid, but damned if it wouldn’t feel fine to get off one clean punch. Of course, he would probably die then, which would be something of a drawback.

  Munro glared, shifted, glared again, then drew slowly back. “Ahh, but now you got me wondering, lad. Are you so brave that you do not care that you’ve pissed me off?” Reaching casually toward a pewter candleholder, he drew it into his hands, then, tilting it slightly, bent it with slow but steady pressure in two. “Or could it be that you’re so daft, you do not know the consequences?”

  Ramsay shifted his gaze from the candlestick to Munro’s face, then shook his head slightly as if attempting to clear it. “Me apologies,” he said. “Me mind wandered. What did you say?”

  For a moment Ramsay thought the great bull might charge, and indeed, maybe deep inside his soul, Ramsay hoped he would. But the Munro reared back and laughed, throwing his bellowing glee toward the high, smoky rafters.

  ‘Twas the perfect opportunity for an undercut to the chin. And so damned tempting.

  “I like your grit, laddie. That I do,” Munro said, settling back to stare again. “But you see, the thing is this.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Me future bride has left the escort I provided for her, gotten herself lost, and been brought home, unchaperoned and unwed, by a MacGowan rogue. Now, for meself, I am a tolerant man by nature, and I like you, but I am the Munro of the Munros and I would not have me men thinking poorly of me bride.”

  “Poorly?” Ramsay asked, keeping his tone even.

  “She seems the regal lady, too good for the likes of any man, huh? But sometimes I wonder, is she saint or is she whore?”

  “You’ve narrowed it down to one or the other, have you, Munro?” he asked, and drank again, forcing himself to swallow. After all, ‘twas hardly his place to guard the girl’s reputation. Below the table, he carefully loosened his fist.

  The Munro watched him like an eagle on a rat and leaned closer so that he all but whispered his next words. ” ‘Tis said by some that she whored for the laird of Tytherleigh nearly a decade ago.”

  Ramsay held himself very still. Though he tried to shut out the memories, he could not forget the sound of her voice as she had told him her story. Could not forget the bottomless sadness in her eyes nor the sight of her restless hands. “A decade,” he said softly. “It seems to me she would have been only a child then, Munro.”

  “Aye.” He leaned back a few inches and shrugged. “And all the better broke in early, huh?”

  Ramsay took another swig and waited for calm to descend, but he could think of little except how it would feel to drive his fist into the other man’s belly. Maybe he could get in a few good blows before the Munro’s warriors overtook him.

  “Have I surprised you, MacGowan? Mayhap you thought me the jealous sort. The kind to avenge her honor.” He laughed again and shook his giant head. “First off, Richard of Tytherleigh died some years ago, the bastard, and second, me old da taught me not to be a fool over a maid, no matter how …” He paused and shifted his gaze toward the stairway and back. “I will share a secret with you, laddie,” he said. ” ‘Tis hardly the thought of that wee scrawny thing in me bed that brings me here.” He drank and scowled. “She’s likely to break like a twig beneath me weight.”

  One clean blow to his nose—that was all Ramsay asked.

  “So you wonder. What stirs the Munro’s blood?”

  Ramsay watched him for a prolonged moment, then glanced at the warriors who occupied the table not far away. “I would say the fellow in the green tam. The one with the bonny eyes.”

  The Munro jerked, then curled a lip at the jest. “You have a clever tongue, laddie. I’d hate to cut it out.”

  Ramsay raised his horn in silent agreement.

  “Why, I wonder, are you in such a rush to die?” Munro mused, and sat back again, cradling his drinking horn against his barrel-like chest.

  “In truth, I am in no great hurry.”

  “Nay?”

  “No more than the average man.”

  “But ‘twas not the average man who escorted me betrothed back to her homeland. ‘Twas you,” Munro said, stabbing a blunt finger toward Ramsay’s chest. “And were you an average man, I might think you had fallen under her spell.”

  Ramsay’s stomach cramped.

  “There are such men,” Munro continued. “Those who grow weak at the sight of a wench. Addled at the touch of her wee fingers.” He placed a broad and filthy hand almost reverently against his chest, reminding Ramsay of seeing Anora’s hand just so not many minutes before. He scowled.

  “But not you,” Ramsay said. “You are unaffected.”

  “Me?” Munro barked a laugh and wrenched his hand into a fist. “Do I look like a milksop lassie to you, MacGowan?”

  A dozen possible answers swooped through Ramsay’s mind. Some were quite clever; all of them were likely to get him killed. He peered into his brew. “I can honestly s
ay, Munro, you do not look like any lassie I’ve ever seen.” It was debatable, in fact, whether he was actually human.

  ” ‘Tis true,” growled Munro. “Though I profess to cherish the lass, I am not so foolish as to let meself become enamored. Still, if I thought you hoped to win her hand, I’d take you apart piece by scrawny piece.”

  “Then you can rest easy.” Though Ramsay raised his mug to his lips, he was unable to swallow. “The maid’s hand holds no interest for me.”

  The Munro lunged from his chair, snatching Ramsay’s tunic just below his cat-eyed brooch. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  Ramsay glanced up, and though his nostrils flared and his oh-so-tolerant disposition threatened to burn a hole clean through his chest, he remained unmoving. “It only means that I have no interest in the lass at all.”

  “Damn you!” Munro snarled, and shoved against Ramsay’s chest so that he threatened to topple over backward. ” ‘Tis the Myst you’ve got your eye on, then.”

  Ramsay attempted to locate some sort of logic in the other’s words, but try as he might, he could find none.

  “Tell me, MacGowan, did your sire send you here? And what of your brothers and clansmen? Might they be hidden in the forest roundabout? Is that why you be so smug?”

  Ramsay’s mind spun.

  “Well, you needn’t be so sure, me young cockerel, for I’ll tell you now: Evermyst has never been taken, and won’t be by the likes of you.”

  Finally Munro’s logic dawned on Ramsay. ” ‘Tis the castle you covet.”

  Munro scowled. “What else?”

  The image of Anora’s firelit figure shone in Ramsay’s memory. Her hair was gilded, her eyes alight, and through the gossamer fabric of her night rail he could see every heavenly curve of her body. “You jest,” he said, momentarily forgetting himself, but he could see no sign of humor in the Munro’s low-browed expression. Indeed, he watched Ramsay as if trying to read his very thoughts.

  “Could it be that you are enamored with her? A MacGowan!” he said, as if the idea was ludicrous.

  Was he joking? Was he insane? It was impossible to guess.