The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  Munro dropped his fist away. “You lie like an Englishman.”

  Ramsay grinned. “And you stink like a swine.”

  Munro roared in rage and lashed with his sword, but Ramsay had already tapped his steed’s barrel. With the speed of the desert horse, Gryfon pivoted away. Munro’s blade swept past his back, but Ramsay was already turning and arced his own blade toward Munro’s ribs.

  Metal clanged against metal.

  Fool! Avoid the armor—aim for the legs or the arms. But there was no time for self recrimination, for Munro was already charging.

  Gryfon swung away at the last instant. The black thundered past, slid to a halt, and spun, but Munro’s reach was ungodly long. He chopped sideways. Ramsay parried, knocking the blade downward, then hissed as it skimmed across his thigh.

  Munro roared and leapt forward, but Gryfon turned away on his own as Ramsay grappled for balance. Munro was closing in. No time! No time!

  Ramsay grasped the reins in tight desperation, fighting to cue his mount. For the briefest moment Gryfon faltered, but then he leapt—straight into the air, striking out behind him.

  Ramsay heard the thud of hooves against flesh, but when he turned it was clear that the black had taken the blows. Stunned, the big horse halted for a moment.

  “So, MacGowan.” Munro’s voice rumbled in the glen. “Your wee mount has a bit of training, does he? And you are neither so eager to die as you seemed yesterday nor so weak livered as you seemed this morn.”

  Ramsay gritted his teeth against the pain of his wound. “Why the talk now, Munro? Could it be that you are scared?”

  Munro charged with a roar. Ramsay slammed the other’s blade away and sliced sideways, cutting the huge man’s arm, but not for a moment did he hesitate. Bellowing with rage, he hacked with the frenzied strength of a madman. Ramsay parried. The huge horse leapt forward, pushing Gryfon beneath his immense weight.

  They were forced off balance, and Gryfon scrambled for footing under the black steed’s onslaught. Ramsay faltered and Munro struck, sweeping his blade in a wide arc.

  Pain sliced through Ramsay’s chest. Beneath him, Gryfon stumbled to his feet and lunged uphill. Ramsay tried to tighten his hand around the hilt of his sword, but the world spun around him. His blade tilted and dropped from numb fingers.

  ‘Twas over. Over. Yet his fingers dipped to the sheath in his boot. He was barely able to pull the dirk free.

  “Not ready to give up yet, MacGowan?” Munro’s voice seemed to come from a thousand misty leagues away. Ramsay turned his steed with shaky hands. A half dozen rods of downhill slope lay between them. So little room, so little time. But if Munro was badly wounded, Anora could yet escape.

  Ramsay straightened with an effort. “Are you going to fight me, Munro,” he asked, “or will you simply kill me with your stench?”

  Munro’s war-cry seemed muffled, but even through his haze, Ramsay realized he was charging. He never knew if he cued his own mount, only knew that they were galloping madly, charging downhill, away from the sun, straight toward the enormous black.

  Pain pulsed at every step. Hold on! Hold on!

  They were about to collide. For the briefest moment, he saw Munro squint against the sun, saw light reflect against his bloodied sword, and then, “Up!” Ramsay yelled. Gryfon gathered himself and leapt.

  Munro’s lips moved and he slashed out with his sword, but suddenly Ramsay was soaring, flying like a dove. Then just as suddenly the world jolted and they were spilling downward. He tried to stay astride, but the earth spiraled toward his face. Something struck him. Hooves churned past. Gryfon’s. Another’s. And then the world went quiet.

  Eternity settled softly in.

  “Ramsay.” He heard Anora’s voice from his dream—like a prayer, like a psalm. ‘Twas that dream that made him recall his mission.

  Munro! He remembered the giant with a jerk and raised himself to one elbow. Beneath him, the earth felt slippery and warm, but when he glanced up he saw his goal.

  Munro—on the ground. A gash stretched from his brow to his hairline, but even now he was struggling to rise.

  “Nay.” Ramsay could not hear his own voice, though he knew he had spoken. “You’ll not have her,” he whispered, and pushed himself to his knees. The world spun like a top, sucking him in, but Munro rose to his feet and staggered forward.

  “Damn you,” Ramsay growled. He struggled to stand, and teetered toward the giant. The earth slanted away, tripping him up, but finally Munro loomed before him.

  “Come on then. Come on,” Ramsay challenged, and waved his dirk, but when he glanced down he noticed that his hand was empty.

  Munro grinned, lifted his sword—and toppled like a gargantuan oak to the earth.

  Ramsay watched and realized rather belatedly that he himself was staring at the sky.

  Fluffy clouds adorned the blueness like woolly lambs at play.

  “Ramsay, my beloved,” whispered his dreams.

  Anora—as he imagined her. Soft, trusting. Beautiful. No fear, no doubt, just love shining from her angelic face. He would not see her again, for he was dying. But at least she was safe, even now traveling away from Munro. She had promised. And he had made certain of it.

  “MacGowan!”

  She would not be his, but neither would she be the Munro’s.

  “Wake up, MacGowan!”

  He groaned as pain wracked his body, then opened his eyes with aching effort and focused.

  She was there, pressing a cloth to his chest and yelling orders over her shoulder.

  “Damn it to hell!” he murmured groggily. “You lied again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ramsay was vaguely aware of a crowd arguing loudly around the Munro.

  “To Evermyst. We’ll nurse him there.”

  “Be you daft? ‘Tis Evermyst what has bested him. We—”

  The voices faded to mist. Faces blurred. But Ramsay dared not die now, for the Munros were still in the valley. Bloody bastards! And Anora, damn her, was not yet safe. He struggled to rise.

  “Me apologies!” Duncan’s voice pierced the haze for a moment. “She—”

  “Why is she here?” Ramsay growled. He fought to sit up, but a half dozen hands held him down.

  “Me laird.” Duncan’s tone was wheedling. “She did not wish to go.”

  “Did not wish—” In that instant, he recognized the round bruise on the lad’s temple. “The bed post?”

  “Aye, sir. She is quite mean.”

  “Quiet now!” Anora ordered. She was nearby, stealing his breath. There was strength in her voice, beauty in her face. But what the lad said was true, he realized numbly—she was quite mean.

  “You swore on your mother’s grave,” he intoned, his voice weary.

  Her eyes caught his, bursting with emotion on his aching soul. Around them the bustle of the world hushed.

  “My mother has no grave,” she said.

  He tried to make sense of her words, but there seemed to be none. “Why—”

  “Quiet! This will hurt,” she said, and stood abruptly. “Take him now.”

  “Why does she—” he began, but suddenly the world exploded. Pain crashed through him, stopping his heart, mangling his leg, and on the wings of that agony came blessed blackness.

  * * * * *

  Pain throbbed through Ramsay like wild, pounding hooves, thrumming, insistent. ‘Twas that alone that awakened him. He opened his eyes slowly. A ceiling appeared with lethargic slowness. It was gray, distant, braced with wooden beams as big around as his aching thigh.

  “You have returned.”

  Ramsay shifted his gaze sideways. Anora stood near the wall. Her hands were clasped, her knuckles white, her face the same.

  “I knew you would.”

  His mind drifted dizzily for a moment, dredging up hard memories. Blood, pain, galloping hooves, horrible bravery. He winced. “Gryfon, is he—”

  “Your steed is fine,” she said, then, “Though you do not even like hi
m.”

  He scowled and remembered to smooth his expression into one of unconcern. “Aye, well, I’m not particularly thrilled with you, either.”

  “As you said, I cannot have every man swooning at my feet.”

  The ceiling swam momentarily. “I fear I did not realize your methods when first I said that, Notmary.”

  “My name is Anora. Anora of the Frasers.”

  There was something in her voice. Something that drew him in. Vulnerability? Softness? Nay, he would be a fool to believe it, and he was rather tired of playing the fool. “A bit damned late to tell me now.” He struggled to sit up.

  “What have you done to me?” he asked, and glanced toward his chest. It was bound beneath his arms in a long strip of white. He reached for the knot that held it in place. “I cannot breathe trussed like a Michaelmas goose.”

  “Or mayhap ‘tis because the Munro tried to skewer you,” she said and, stepping quickly forward, pushed his hands aside. “Leave off or I’ll call Tree to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Tree!” Ramsay snorted, but he left his hands where they fell. It took entirely too much energy to try to move anyway. “He could not keep a boulder on the ground.”

  ” ‘Tis not true,” she said, and fussed for a moment with his blanket. “He is not called Tree for no reason.”

  “Aye. ‘Tis either his strength or his intellect.”

  She smiled the slightest amount. Ramsay’s breathing stopped, but in an instant she sobered and straightened, her fingers still fretful. “Why did you do it?”

  Dear God, she was beautiful, and sad, so sad, but ‘twas not his concern, he reminded himself, and harshly drew breath into his starving lungs. “Listen, Notmary,” he said, forcing his voice into gravelly depths. “I’ve recently been used as a target for a mounted Minotaur. Mayhap you could simply say what you mean this once.”

  “Why did you tell Tree to take me away?”

  Something dangerously fragile fluttered in his stomach. He would not let her know the truth. Indeed, he barely shared the truth with himself. “Because I knew you lied,” he said.

  Her hands twisted about themselves. “And why do you care?”

  “Mayhap you have not noticed, lass, but Munro is a wee bit irritating. I had no wish to see him take Evermyst.”

  She watched him. “Meara said ‘twas because you are kind.”

  His gut twisted up tighter. “I am not foolish enough to be kind, lass. On that you can depend.”

  “Then why did you fight the battle? If not for kindness’ sake.”

  Because he could not bear to think of her in Munro’s filthy hands. “As I said, I do not like the man.”

  “And so you wished to kill him?”

  “As soon as look at him,” he said, and realized a bit belatedly that that last statement might have benefited if he’d put a bit of emotion into his tone.

  She pulled her gaze away and paced quietly toward the room’s narrow window.

  “I heard that you offered him a chance to quit the battle,” she said finally. “Why would you do that if you wished to kill him?”

  She was limned by the fading light from the window, her hair ablaze and her mouth pinkened by the setting sun. Beneath the blankets, his desire hardened.

  Christ!

  “Why?” she said again.

  Ramsay snagged his attention back to the conversation and snorted. “You jest,” he said. “The man is as big as a bloody ox. ‘Twas no way in hell I would be able to best him.”

  “And yet you did,” she murmured.

  “Aye. I bested him,” he said. “By knocking him over the head with me horse.”

  “By causing him to underestimate both you and your steed. By using every possible advantage against him. By cunning.” Her voice was as soft as a velvet sleeve. “Kindness and cunning. Power and peacefulness.”

  The prophecy—mayhap she believed he was the one. Hope leapt inside him. He strangled it without a shred of mercy. ” ‘Tis not like you, Notmary, to look for virtue where there is none. ‘Twas luck and desperation that won me the day. Nothing else, and you well know it. But then, you are none to call the kettle black, aye? For you would lie to Saint Peter himself.”

  She actually blanched. “I would do no such thing,” she whispered.

  He snorted derisively and shook his head. It hurt. “You swore on your mother’s grave you would stay inside these walls, and that should Munro survive the battle, you would leave.”

  She merely stared at him.

  “What, lass? Do you disremember, or—”

  “I told you, my mother has no grave, therefore the vow was null and void.”

  “How in heaven’s name—”

  “She had no wish to be burned as a witch. Thus she chose her own course. ‘Tis a long and deadly drop from Myst’s uppermost tower to the sea.”

  He wished now that he could believe she was lying, but the horror in her eyes made it impossible.

  “The waters never gave her back. More proof of her sins, I suspect. So you see why I lie, MacGowan?” she said. “Innes Munro has no more love for the Frasers than did his brother. How simple it would be for him to find a reason to believe that others are witches. And what then?” Her voice was a whisper as she turned back toward the window.

  “Who? Who might he think is a witch?”

  She gazed down at the bailey below. “Myself, of course,” she said. “And I may not have my mother’s courage.”

  “You …” he began, but stopped himself, his mind spinning. ” ‘Tis not what you meant,” he said. “You wondered what would happen to your people.”

  She turned back, the glimmer of a smile on her lips. “Now who looks for virtue where there is none?”

  “Do not try to lie about this truth,” he said. “For this I know—you care for your people’s welfare.”

  “They are all I have. We Frasers were once a great force, and Evermyst a grand fortress. Is it wrong of me to dream of seeing such days again?”

  He mulled a dozen old conversations over in his mind. “Is that why you went to court, then? To find a wealthy nobleman?”

  She held his gaze. ” ‘Twas my father’s hope to marry me well,” she said. ” ‘Tis why he sent me to Edinburgh. Indeed, even after …” She faltered, but in a moment, she went on. “Even afterward, he hoped Laird Tytherleigh would wish to marry me.”

  Something akin to rage boiled inside him, but he kept his expression stoic. “And what of the prophecy?”

  “Father didn’t think the viscount’s actions negated the possibility of him possessing the required attributes.”

  Damn it to hell! “So when your father died, you hoped to choose your own mate, as the king had promised.”

  “Nay. I hoped to have no mate at all, despite his promise to Munro. Hence my journey to my cousins.”

  He canted his head.

  “I appealed to them for assistance. But once I mentioned the name Munro, there was little hope of help from that front.”

  “And what of your betrothed’s escort?”

  “I left them before we reached my cousins, and hurried from there to the MacAras. But they were no more help than my kinsmen.”

  “Thus you left there, too.”

  “I still had hopes of finding assistance elsewhere.”

  “With the MacGowans?”

  She shrugged. “I learned at an early age not to be choosy.”

  “And to lie.”

  “And what should I have done? Spilled the entire truth and hoped that someone I had never met, someone who owed me naught, would risk his own life for a maid who could offer him nothing?” She twisted her hands together. “It would not have happened. Not until the sun fell into the sea. Not until the seasons ceased—”

  “You are right,” he said. “Only a fool would see himself wounded for naught.”

  She drew herself up, and the cool veneer settled back over her features. “So what is it that you wanted, MacGowan?”

  He dared not think what he
wished from her. The road to hell was paved with a woman’s charms. “Do you forget, lass? You said you were the lady of the great fortress of Levenlair. Surely there be vast opportunity there.”

  She stood very still, thinking, and in a moment she spoke again, though it seemed she forced out the words. “You told me you did not believe I was Mary of Levenlair.”

  ” ‘Twas only so me brothers would not,” he lied.

  “So you hoped to win my hand and thereby gain Levenlair’s fortune.”

  He forced a laugh. “I fear I be not as greedy as some, lass. I only hoped for a bit of coin.”

  “Then why, after you arrived here and saw that we had nothing … why did you still battle the Munro?”

  “I told you. I did not like the look of him.”

  “So it was not for me?” she murmured.

  Had he wounded her? Did she care? Might it be that …

  He swore silently and set his jaw. “In truth, you are not the sort to make me risk death, Notmary.”

  “Then you do not … you are not … attracted to me?”

  Her expression was so sincere, so melancholy. He was beginning to sweat and attempted to lift his leg just to feel the edge of pain skitter across his flesh. “Nay,” he said. “No more than average.”

  “So why, at the inn—”

  ” ‘Twas nothing!” He spat out the words before she could go on, before she could remind him how she had felt in his arms, how her skin smelled, how her breath felt against—God help him, he was a daft prick! ” ‘Twas naught but a base reaction. Surely you, of all people, know better than to expect more from a man.”

  “So you do not care for me? ‘Twas only … desire for coin that brought you here?”

  He tried to grin, but the expression felt hideously ghoulish. “You make me sound very mercenary, lass.”

  “And now I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing!” He immediately regretted the words. He had to act cool and self interested, lest his heart be wrenched from his chest yet again. “Unless you’re offering,” he corrected, and eyed her with what he hoped was lascivious interest.

  “And if I offered …” She took a trio of quick steps toward him. “You would accept?”

  His leer disintegrated into a scowl. “Mayhap you are too naive to understand what a leg injury does to a man.” Now he was the liar, for already his idiotic wick was lifting toward her, begging shamelessly for attention.