by Lois Greiman
“Reading another’s thoughts.”
“Me aunts have the gift.”
“Babes born together?” Her delicate body was tense, her slim hands clasped.
“Twins?” he questioned, eyeing her carefully.
” ‘Tis said they are of the devil.”
“Then half our lambkins are Satan’s own.”
“I do not speak of sheep.” Her tone was terse, though she tried to soothe it. “I speak of people.”
“Is it not God’s place to judge souls?”
“You … do not believe twins are evil?”
“Why do you care what I believe, lass?”
She stared at him, her eyes unearthly wide.
“Why?” he asked again.
“Because I … do not believe that my mother was a witch.”
“She was a twin?”
She delayed just a moment, as if scared to share the truth, then, “Aye,” she said. “But since her wee brother died at birth, they hushed the news, for they had no wish to start the rumors.”
“Of incest in the womb?”
She wrung her hands. ” ‘Tis surely a lie spread by folk with evil minds. And just as surely, twins are not born to different sires. It cannot be true, for then they would not look so much the same.”
“Whether ‘tis true or not, lass, it has naught to do with you.”
“Have you yet informed the Munro?”
Ramsay narrowed his eyes. “He plans to wed you, lass, not—”
“Not kill me?” she asked. “Are you certain of that, MacGowan? And if not me, who then? The Munros are ungodly superstitious, believing any sort of foolishness about those who displease them. Worse yet, they live by the sword. War is in their blood. Who will die? Someone I cherish, of that I am certain.” Her voice was ghostly soft, a whisper of fear in the flickering light.
“This boat—the Munros do not know of it?” he asked.
“Nay. ‘Tis well hidden. You would be safe.” Her words were quick and breathy, and her eyes shone in the candlelight. With hope? he wondered, but he squelched the thought.
“Deep within the rock it lies, and when it launches, ‘tis near impossible to see for several leagues,” she said.
“Then you shall be on that boat.”
Anora straightened. The light died in her eyes, snuffed out by some indefinable emotion. “And leave my people to fend for themselves?”
“Aye.”
“Nay, I will not.”
Anger welled up inside him. He tightened his fists and stepped forward. ” ‘Tis your fault I am here, lass. ‘Tis you who have lied and manipulated from the first. ‘Tis you who owe me. And ‘tis you who shall be on that boat.”
“You have no say in this.”
“Aye, I do,” he said, and reaching out, suddenly snatched her by the arm. “I meself will put you on the water. And there is naught you can do to stop me.”
She struggled wildly against him. “Do you disremember!” she hissed. “I am a witch.”
He pulled her closer until she stilled in his hands, holding her gaze with his own. “You are many things,” he said. “A liar. A fighter.” They were very close now. Indeed, below their waists, their bodies touched, though she bent away from him. “A seductress …”
His whispered words fell into the void of the night, and it seemed that the air was sucked from his very lungs, for suddenly the world was filled with naught but her.
“Do not fight him,” she whispered.
“Take the boat.”
“I will not, and you cannot make me, for ‘tis one of my own who guards the entrance, and he will not follow your orders.”
He closed his eyes in burning frustration for an instant, fighting anger, fatigue, her closeness. “Then you will remain within these walls whilst the battle rages, and if the Munro yet lives at the contest’s end, you will take your secret passage to safety.”
“Nay.”
“Aye!” he stormed. “You shall.”
“I—”
“Promise me! Or I swear by all that is holy, I will drag you onto your boat with me bare hands.” He paused, fighting for blessed calm. “I vow I will, lass.”
“As you will, then,” she said softly.
He loosened his grip, forcing his fingers to ease on her arms, but it took longer still to drop his hands from her flesh. “This oarsman, you can trust him?”
“Aye.”
He nodded, holding a tight rein on himself, but she was so close, so small and delicate and brave. The very scent of her skin seemed to fill his senses. He ground his teeth and stepped back a pace.
“If the Munro yet lives, you will go to Dun Ard,” he said. “Tell me father what has happened. He will keep you safe.”
“MacGowan …” she said, but he dared not let her speak, for just the sight of her hands clasped in silent supplication was nearly more than he could withstand.
He hardened his resolve. “I have your vow?”
“Aye.” Her voice was low, reverent. “You do.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ramsay stood on Evermyst’s highest tower and watched the sun rise out of the sea. The light caught the tips of the waves, casting them in heavenly hues of gold and sapphire. Behind him, somewhere in the bailey, a lark burst into song. So sweet it sounded, so fresh, as if it was the first thrush ever to greet the glory of a new day.
“Me laird.” A young man appeared beside him. Though he had surely not seen more than six and ten years, he was both taller and broader than Ramsay. Christened Duncan, he was more oft simply called Tree. He and his elders had tried to pack Ramsay into armor earlier that morning, but Ramsay had found it too confining. Thus he wore nothing more than a stitched vest made of double thick bear hide.
“I am come to assist you,” said young Duncan.
“Did you bring an army then?”
The lad shook his head, showing no sign if he appreciated the jest. ” ‘Tis nearly time,” he said. “The Munros awake. Already they crowd about Myst Vale, where you will battle.”
From the southern tower, Ramsay had seen their camp in the valley, but he had no wish to watch them prepare for the battle. He knew the Munro would be ready and that was enough.
“Me laird?”
“Aye.” Ramsay pulled his attention back to the lad. He had hands the size of masonry shovels and feet that promised more growth.
” ‘Tis time to break the fast.”
How had he come to this? Ramsay wondered. ‘Twas a twisted path indeed that had led him here, but he would not think of that now. Nay, he would empty his mind and break the fast, though he was not hungry. “Aye, lad, I come,” he said, and eyed the boy. Strength showed in every inch of his form and loyalty in his eyes. “But first I would ask you a favor.”
“You’ve but to name it,” Duncan said, and Ramsay nodded as they walked toward the stairs together.
In the end, it was not such a simple task to procure a promise from the boy, but finally he did. They fell silent as they rounded the last flight of steps.
The stone felt solid beneath Ramsay’s feet. From far ahead he heard a child laugh. The sound seemed to sparkle in the morning air, lighting the very world, but when he stepped into the hall silence followed, and it seemed to him a terrible pity that his arrival would forestall a bairn’s happy laughter. His footfalls rang in the stillness, and he found a seat.
Every eye in the hall seemed to watch him.
“Me laird.” He turned toward the soft voice, dwelling for a moment on its delicate tone, for this was a morn to savor every moment. The maid named Isobel stood beside the table. On her head she had the same worn coif as the day before. It drooped drunkenly over her temple, hiding her hair, but it could not distract from her eyes. They were immensely blue, he noticed, though she did not look directly at him. “A cup of spirits,” she said, “to aid you in your noble—”
“See to the others,” said a voice. Glancing up, Ramsay saw the woman called Ailsa push Isobel aside. “Take me own mead, me
laird?” she said, bending low to display what she had to offer.
“Me thanks, but—”
“Nay!” shrieked a guttural voice. He glanced up. ‘Twas the pregnant woman who shambled toward them. She was shabbily dressed, her dirty gown stretched tight over her protruding belly. “Nay,” she repeated, and grabbing the mug from Ailsa’s hand, drank it down in one fell swoop. It dribbled past the edges of her twisted mouth, falling on her gown, but she seemed not to notice. Instead, she splayed her fingers across her vast belly and belched. ” ‘Twould be a sin to waste good brew on a corpse, and that is surely what you will be in a few hours’ time. Just a corpse that will rot—”
“Leave off, Deirdre!” ordered a stout, matronly woman who stood nearby. “He’s done you no harm.”
“No harm. No harm,” the woman growled, and turned away, but as she glanced about, all eyes but the boldest and the youngest avoided hers. Even Evermyst’s soldiers pulled cautiously aside when she limped past.
“Me apologies, me laird. She is mad,” said Ailsa, offering the mug again, but Ramsay’s attention was caught on the pregnant woman’s stumbling exit.
“Look away,” whispered Duncan. ” ‘Tis an ill omen for you to dwell on the likes of her.”
“Drink, me laird,” urged Ailsa.
He turned his attention to the serving woman. “Me thanks,” he said, “But I’ll be needing me full wits about me today. Only food for me this morn, if you please.”
“As you wish, me—”
“MacGowan!” Though the sound bellowed up from far below in Evermyst’s broad vale, Munro’s voice rose as loud and raucous as a black crow’s hoarse challenge. “MacGowan, I wait.”
Whispers followed the words. Ramsay ignored the noise, speared himself a piece of venison from a nearby platter, and ate it slowly. Then Anora descended the stairs, and suddenly he could do nothing but watch her, for every detail of her seemed indescribably poignant. The blue of her eyes, the lift of her lips, the graceful flutter of her hands.
Ramsay pulled his gaze away with an effort. “You know your task, Duncan?” he asked, without turning to the boy.
“Aye, sir, I do.”
“All of Evermyst depends on you. You’ll not fail me, will you lad?”
He straightened slightly. “Nay, me laird, I will not.”
” ‘Tis good.” Reaching for a round loaf of coarse bread, Ramsay broke it in half and rose to his feet. “I go, then.”
“Me laird.” Anora stood not far away. “I beg a moment.”
When he turned toward her, the sight of her was nearly overwhelming—a delicate thing of beauty so fragile and fine that she took his breath away.
“I would have a word,” she murmured.
He should not let her speak, he knew, but on this particular morn when life seemed so sharply precious, he longed to hear her voice. Yet, she merely stood in silence, watching him.
“MacGowan!” The challenge rang up from the valley again.
She caught his sleeve in fingers strangely powerful for her fragile form. Her eyes were as wide as the heavens and vividly bright, as though tears waited to be shed. Yet he must ignore that fact. He must.
“You’ll stay put inside these walls,” he said.
“MacGowan.” Her voice was a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo through the silent hall.
“You’ll stay inside,” he repeated, and steeling himself, he lowered his voice. “And honor your vow.”
“I cannot—”
“You would lie to me again?” he asked. “On this, of all days?”
He watched her lips part, but he spoke first.
“Swear you will honor your vow. Swear it on your mother’s grave, or I will announce to all present that you are a liar.”
Anora’s lips trembled. Ramsay scowled, forcing himself to keep from touching her, from pulling her up against him.
“Swear it!” he ordered.
“I swear.” Her back was as straight as a lance, her chin squared.
By sheer force of will, he turned away. The crowd was silent as he passed through. The flagstones in the bailey rang as he stepped onto them.
Gryfon tucked his hirsute head, half dragging his groom across the worn turf.
“He is eager,” panted the lad.
“Aye.”
“MacGowan!” The challenge roared up from the valley again.
“He and the Munro,” said Ramsay, and wished to hell that he felt some semblance of that same eagerness. But whatever hot-blooded foolishness had urged him into this battle was long gone now, leaving him cool-headed and introspective. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could do but mount his steed and pray. Beside him, Duncan mounted a dappled gelding and accompanied him from the courtyard. The portcullis moaned rustily as it was hauled up, but behind that was silence, as if all the world already mourned his demise.
All the world but Gryfon, who champed at the bit and pranced forward when the iron gate was barely above his withers, threatening to decapitate his rider before the Munro had a chance. Ramsay swore with feeling and tightened the reins, but it did little to slow the bay’s eager pace.
Not far past the portcullis, the land fell sharply away. Ramsay leaned against the bit and swayed to Gryfon’s sliding descent, until suddenly, and far too soon, they had reached the valley.
“So …” The Munro sat astride a gigantic destrier on the bald knob of a flat topped hill. “You have finally come.”
Good Christ, the man looked to be as big as Evermyst itself, and his steed stood a good eighteen hands at the withers. Half covered in metal, it appeared as indestructible as a mountain, and upon its back the Munro rode with massive arrogance, his chest garbed in black iron but his head bare, showing his grizzly beard and jutting forehead.
“So you haven’t lost your nerve, have you?”
Nay, only his sanity, Ramsay thought, eyeing his huge opponent. ” ‘Tis not too late to change your mind, Munro,” he said, hoping he sounded casual, as if battling this beast of a man would be no great feat.
“Change me mind?” The beast shifted in his saddle, wrapped in iron and mounted on a battering ram. “And why would I be doing that, laddie?”
“Mayhap you’ve no wish to die this day.” As threats went, that one wasn’t too bad. ‘Twas even spoken with some bravado.
Munro grinned, an evil slant of crooked teeth in the mess of his beard. ” ‘Tis you who will die, MacGowan, for you’ve made a whore of the woman I chose for me own.”
Whore! He’d never liked the sound of that word, and hearing it in association with Notmary made anger seep with insidious heat through his system.
“Come now, do not disappoint me, laddie. You talked so grand and brawny in the hall. I hoped you might prove something of a challenge. After all, I’ve not had a rousing good fight in some days. If you put up a decent fight I’ll not tell the lady what a coward you were in the end. Come now, boy, ‘tis a good day to die.”
“Feel free, then,” Ramsay said.
Munro laughed. “Let the battle be joined,” he rumbled, and reached down to pull his sword from its sheath beside his pommel. “There would be little sport in killing you where you stand.”
It seemed their charming dialogue was at an end. Ramsay loosened Gryfon’s reins. The bay pranced forward like a princeling on parade, snorting a guttural challenge at the larger stallion as they went.
The Munro’s steed reared, pawing at them with a giant hoof before dropping to the ground. So it would not be merely a battle between men, Ramsay deduced, but a battle of horses as well.
Munro scowled as he watched them come. “It will not look good if I kill you on such a wee small steed, MacGowan. Come, I will mount you on one of me own before we begin.”
The black struck out viciously, slamming an iron-shod forefoot against Gryfon’s chest.
“I would ask another favor instead,” Ramsay said, holding back his own vengeful steed. “Keep this battle between you and me. None will come to me aid. Thus none should come to
yours.”
“Agreed,” Munro said.
“And when quiet has settled on the hills, I will have paid the debt in full. No one else shall suffer.”
“No one?” Munro lowered his gorse bush brows. “By that you mean me betrothed.”
Ramsay said nothing, but glanced forward. The hills that encompassed the small glen were steep, covered in verdant turf and kissed with dew. A trio of boulders stood halfway up the eastern hillock, casting long shadows before them, and the sun, just now cresting the trees, shone with brilliance on the world.
Ramsay locked each detail away in his mind.
“So you care for her, do you?” Munro growled. “But does she care for you?”
Munro’s destrier, though surely as powerful as his immense size and bad temper promised, bobbed his head ever so slightly when it walked. A bruise in its left forefoot mayhap, Ramsay mused.
“MacGowan!”
Ramsay turned coolly toward his opponent.
” ‘Twould be a pity to kill you where you sit and deprive me men of their sport,” Munro said. “Hence you will answer me question and grant yourself a few more breaths. Did she go to you in hopes of vying us against each other, or does she care for you?”
Ramsay stared point blank at the huge warrior. “If I win, the lass will never be yours,” he said evenly. “And if I lose, you shall treat her well and know that I have paid the price for her sins against you, imagined or otherwise.”
“Damn you to hell!” Munro rasped, his veins popping swollen and reddened from his neck. “Answer me straight and true. Does she cherish you?”
Jealousy! So obvious now, it steamed from him in waves. Why hadn’t he seen it before, Ramsay wondered, and felt a moment of giddiness for the arrival of such a mind-fogging emotion.
“Speak!” Munro growled, and reaching out, twisted a fist into Ramsay’s tunic. “Or before this day is done you will surely beg to die.”
“If it’s the truth you want, ‘tis the truth you’ll get,” Ramsay said, and let just a dram of anger seep into his tone. “She lay with me so that when she must do the same with you, she could forever pretend she was back in me arms and not with the animal who would take her against her will.”