The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “I noticed nothing more than a wound on your thigh and chest,” she said.

  “What?” he rasped.

  She straightened even more, though her cheeks were slightly reddened. “Poor we may be, but still I am lady of this keep. ‘Tis my duty to—”

  “You saw me in the whole?”

  “You are not the first, but as I said, I saw nothing amiss … in that region.”

  “Christ!” He’d been naked, and wounded, and unconscious, and in plain view of her and God knew who else. “Christ!” he said again and beneath the blankets his manhood jerked with inappropriate enthusiasm. “You cannot tell just by looking. I am most probably irreparably damaged.”

  “I’ve not known a man to say such a thing,” she murmured. “Unless he was trying to make me feel pity. To trick me into his bed.”

  Good Lord! He forced a grin. His face was getting tired. “You’ve found me out, lass.”

  She took another two steps toward him. “So that’s it, then? You be still attempting to … couple with me?”

  “You may not be me type, lass, but …” God, she was beautiful. “It has been some time for me. You can hardly blame me for trying.”

  Her expression was disturbingly somber. What would it take to make her smile, he wondered, and found that despite everything—her lunacy, her deceit, the irritating pain that throbbed through him, he still longed with hopeless fervency to take her into his arms.

  “Nay, I do not blame you,” she said, and taking one more step, perched cautiously on the edge of his mattress.

  “You don’t?” His words sounded as weak as a girl child’s.

  “The truth is, MacGowan, I owe you.”

  He tried to speak. Nothing came out.

  “But I have little to offer,” she said, and reaching out, set her palm upon his arm. Flesh against flesh. “Thus …” she began.

  There was no air in the room. No air—and he realized that he had forgotten to inhale. He did so now.

  “Thus I propose a solution.”

  “Solution?”

  “I do not like to owe men.”

  He wanted to assure her that she owed him nothing, but he was wracked with a fear that if he spoke, the truth would spill out like a break-tide. He wanted her with such intensity that he ached with the longing; he could think of nothing else, and yes, though he knew he was a fool, he would die to keep her safe.

  “Neither do I like to fear them,” she said, “and since I am indebted …”

  Breathe. Breathe.

  “And you are injured, mayhap ‘twould be wise for me to …” Her hand slid up his arm and onto his chest, and suddenly he was breathing too fast. “To repay you, and mayhap overcome my fear at the same time.”

  ‘Twas lunacy! And yet his body screamed for her. Willing … nay, eager to have her at any price, for however long she offered. So what if she had no feelings for him? It mattered little. Surely he had learned not to care. But … to have her and lose her …

  “What say you?” she whispered.

  “Nay.” The refusal was so low Ramsay himself could barely believe it had left his lips.

  “What?” Her voice was breathy, close, shivering up his spine like magic.

  “I fear I am more grievously injured than I suspected,” he said, forgetting where he had ended with his lies, and no longer caring to work out the tangled snarl.

  “No interest?”

  He swallowed. “Nay. None at all.”

  She leaned slowly forward. He watched her lips until he could no longer see them, and then they touched his. Desire burned hot as a poker, and he trembled like a leaf beneath its heat.

  “Still nothing?” she whispered.

  He managed somehow to shake his head.

  She drew her hand carefully from his chest and rose to her feet. “You are a liar.” She said the words softly but with absolute conviction.

  “Me!” Air rushed back into his lungs. ” ‘Tis you who is the liar!”

  “Aye. But at least I am good at it,” she said, and turning toward the door, left without another word.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Naught has changed. ‘Tis the same as before the Munro came to Evermyst,” Anora began, but Meara was already shaking her head. Flickering candlelight chased shadows across the oil portraits that adorned the walls of the solar.

  “All has changed and you well know it, lass. The Munro is injured but not dead. Do you think he will take that defeat kindly? Nay, he shall redouble his efforts to have this place.”

  “Then we shall redouble our efforts to keep it from him,” Anora said.

  “Aye.” Isobel’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Senga may well be feeling restless.”

  “Hush,” Meara scolded. “This is not a game, and I do not wish to play.” She turned her attention on Anora and scowled. “Long ago, I made a vow to keep you safe. Mayhap I have already compromised that vow. But …” Her expression softened and her rheumy eyes grew misty as she glanced again at Isobel. “When I saw her face …” The room went silent. She cleared her throat. “Still, I will not worsen the condition by acting as if all is well when it is not. The Munro is angry and he is yet powerful.”

  “Senga—”

  “And he is no fool!” Meara snarled. “He is not his sire.”

  “Neither was his brother,” Anora said. “And yet that one is dead.”

  “Cuthbert was all cruelty. The devil’s own, but none too cunning. His younger brother may seem the same sort, but do not underestimate him. He is not so dim as he appears.”

  “So what would you have me do?” Anora asked. “Give myself to my mother’s killers? Become a Munro so that—”

  “I would have you be wise!” Meara warned. “Not a foolish girl bound by old wounds.”

  “You would call me foolish for struggling to keep my own?”

  “Nay, for turning aside those who can help you.”

  “I will help myself and my people.”

  “And what of the prophecy?”

  Anora shifted her eyes away. “What of it?”

  “The lad challenged the bull in his own valley, lass.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “Save your foolish act for someone stupid enough to be fooled by it,” Meara growled. “You know exactly what I speak of. A veritable stranger championed you. What does that say to you?”

  “It means nothing,” Anora said. “He did it for naught but personal reasons.”

  “Oh. And how do you know that, lass?”

  It was never good to give Meara too much information. Already her ancient eyes were gleaming.

  “He told me himself,” Anora said, and clasped her hands lest she fidget.

  “And what else did he say?”

  “It matters little,” she insisted. “He fought for the glory of fighting. He is not peaceable.”

  “Oh? And what of powerful?”

  “The Munro would have surely killed him were it not for MacGowan’s—”

  “Cunning?” Meara finished.

  “Steed,” Anora countered.

  “Ahh. So ‘tis the horse that is cunning. How interesting. Is it the horse that is kind, also?”

  “I’ve no reason to believe either of them is kind.”

  “Then you must carry his child in truth.”

  She felt herself pale. “Why do you say such a thing?”

  “Because I can think of no other reason he might risk his life. Can you?”

  “I’ve no way of knowing the man’s mind.”

  ” ‘Tis true, lass, for you do not even know your own.”

  “I know my mind well and good,” she argued. ” ‘Tis in my mind to care for my own people. ‘Tis in my mind to believe that none has the right to take me against my own will.”

  “Or with your will.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just this, lass,” Meara said, and took a few scraping steps toward her. “There is only one test that the lad has yet to prove.”r />
  Her throat felt tight. “He’s proved none of them.”

  “Aye, he has, and you well know it. ‘Tis only the love that is yet unproved.”

  “Love!” Anora said, panic welling inside her. “I fear you’ve gone as daft as Deirdre. Mayhap—”

  “Why not admit your true feelings?”

  Anora flickered her gaze away, settling on Isobel’s wide eyes for just a moment before yanking it aside. “Because there are no true feelings to admit.”

  Meara stared at her, then nodded once. “Then you’d best let another see to his wounds, lass. For you’ve surely got other things to worry on.”

  Anora’s stomach flopped. ” ‘Tis my place to see to Evermyst’s guests lest—”

  “I’m certain I can find another to care for the MacGowan. Indeed, he will probably flourish beneath a hand that does not find his company so onerous.”

  A dozen arguments came to mind, but before she could herd one off from the others, Meara spoke again.

  “He is not so hard to look upon, aye? What say you, Isobel? Might you find the time to look after the braw lad?”

  “I—” The maid speared her gaze to Anora’s, but Meara drew her attention back.

  “Come now, lass, Evermyst owes him a great debt, and since you are now one of Evermyst’s own …” She shrugged.

  Anora wrung her hands. Isobel watched the nervous movement with a scowl, then nodded once to Meara.

  “Aye, I can see to him.”

  “Good, then,” Meara said, and shuffled toward Isobel. “You’re a fine child, lass. Now go, see if there is aught he needs.”

  “But he is most probably asleep, and—”

  “He is awake,” Meara said, and ushered the girl toward the door.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know something of men, lass, unlike some others here. The lad is yet awake, for he has things on his mind. Go to him,” she said slyly. “See what needs he may have.”

  Anora almost called them back, but in a moment the door had closed and she was alone.

  * * * * *

  Ramsay lay awake in the narrow room. His chest hurt and his leg felt stiff, but ‘twas not the pain that kept him from sleep. Questions and worries and roiling memories gnawed at him.

  Why was he here? Why was he such a dolt? Why—

  A soft knock sounded at the door. His breath stopped. Anora?

  “Who is it?”

  The silence seemed to last forever, broken only by the throbbing of his heart against his bandaged ribs.

  ” ‘Tis the maid Isobel. May I enter?”

  Was she lying yet again? Was it Anora come to see him at this late hour? Clenching the blankets in his fists, he called out, “Aye. Come hither.”

  The door opened with a soft creak, and Isobel stepped inside. She wore the same droopy coif as he had seen before, and her gown had gone unchanged. But in the flickering light of the single candle, her eyes were bright blue and strangely familiar, as if he had seen them in a dream.

  “You are Lady Anora’s maid servant,” he said.

  She bobbed a nervous curtsy. “Aye, sir. I am that.” Her voice was little above a whisper. “Come to see to your needs before you find sleep.”

  “Me needs?” His breath stopped again. What needs? Could it be that Anora had sent this lass to lie with him? ‘Twas obvious enough that he had not fooled her. She knew that, despite his words to the contrary, he yearned for her with a pathetic longing. Could it be that she had sent this lass to take her place in his arms, to—

  “You have done much to help us, me laird,” she murmured. She stood some distance from the candle, looking drab and hunched and rumpled, as though she would rather crawl into a hole than be there in his chamber. Yet strangely there was something about her that intrigued him, something he couldn’t quite name. “And I wonder why.”

  “What?”

  “That is to say … ‘twas very kind of you to champion me lady, especially since she is betrothed to another.”

  He frowned. “The Munro challenged me. I could not, with good conscience, run away.”

  “So that was your reasoning, was it, me laird?”

  He stared at her. Even Dun Ard’s outspoken servants were not usually so forthright. “I am weary, lass,” he said. “Mayhap you could tell me your true purpose for being here and we could both save ourselves some sleep.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced sideways, her mobile mouth a pink bow. “Me apologies, me laird. ‘Twas not me mission to be impertinent.”

  He exhaled. “And ‘twas not mine to be an ass.” His head seemed heavy suddenly. He leaned it back against the wall and wished to hell that he had never laid eyes on Anora Fraser, never been captured by her wiles. “What were you sent to do, lass?”

  She blinked at him, then lowered her eyes, but even so, it felt like she watched him. “Me lady is worried for your well being.”

  “How so?”

  The flicker of a frown skittered across the girl’s elfin face. “She is grateful for your help …” She paused and wrung her narrow hands. “Even though …”

  “Even though?”

  “Me lady …” Her voice trailed away yet again. “She does not … trust men.”

  Ramsay tried to keep the emotion from his face, but try as he might, he could not forget the night in the inn. Could not forget the aching, doltish need to make the world right for her, to soothe her fears and hold her forever with nothing between them but warmth and peace.

  “Me laird?”

  He glanced up with a scowl. “What?”

  “I said, I hope you will not hold her … lack of interest against her.”

  “Lack of interest?”

  “In you.”

  Painful honesty. How agonizingly refreshing in this place of lies. “I only fought the Munro because he challenged me,” Ramsay said, his voice carefully level. “I believe I already explained that.”

  “Of course,” she said, and bobbed a nervous curtsy. Me apologies. Then I suppose … I suppose there be nothing holding you here.”

  He scowled. “Other than the fact that me leg’s been hacked in two.”

  She skittered her eyes sideways, swallowed, and stepped forward. “You’ve been lucky thus far, and better your leg than your head.”

  “I didn’t know there were designs on me head.”

  “Have you not heard of the shade?”

  “Evermyst’s ghost?”

  “Aye.” Another quick glance sideways, as if she feared the spirit might come through the very walls around her. “Senga.”

  “She has a name?”

  “Doesn’t your grandmother?”

  He scowled. “Were we not just talking of a ghost?”

  “Aye.” She bobbed a nod. ” ‘Tis me lady’s grandmother.”

  “Oh?”

  ” ‘Tis said her husband strangled her in a jealous rage. Thus she remains in this world, seeking vengeance on any who might harm her kin.”

  ” ‘Tis lucky for me, then, that I have no such intentions.”

  “Neither did her husband when they first wed, but I suspect that being murdered may have made her a bit suspicious.”

  “I see,” he said, keeping his voice even.

  She scowled. “Do you disbelieve in ghosts?”

  “Thus far, the dead have done me less harm than the living.”

  “You should not disregard their powers,” she whispered.

  “Tell me, lass. Why would you care if I do?”

  “I’ve no wish to see you killed, me laird.”

  “No?”

  “Nay.” Her voice was breathy with surprise. “Of course not,” she said, and took a few steps forward. “For you are bold and kind and …” A smile flickered over her face, but somehow it did not quite reach her lovely eyes. “And bonny. Tell me, me laird,” she whispered, and stepped a mite closer. “Do you find me repulsive?”

  “Nay.” In fact, there was something strangely alluring about her, despite her cowed demeanor and unke
mpt appearance. Still, his wick, always too enthusiastic for his own good, seemed to be sound asleep. Damnation! ‘Twould be just his luck that the one woman who repeatedly threatened his life would be the only woman who stirred his blood. “Hardly that, lass.”

  “Then you would not mind if I would snuff out the candle and …” The room pitched suddenly into darkness. “Join you for a small piece of time?”

  He frowned, for to his utter confusion, he found that he wanted nothing more than to lie in the darkness and dream of …

  “Aye,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’d appreciate your company.”

  “Would you?” The mattress sighed beneath her slight weight. “And what else would you do, me laird?”

  There was something about the way she spoke that reminded him of Anora. How she sounded when her guard was down and she was soft and honest and …

  But suddenly Isobel kissed him, tumbling his thoughts into chaos. He pressed a hand to her shoulder, ready to push her away. Yet Anora didn’t want him, didn’t care for him in the least. Why should he not take advantage of this maid’s offer? Desperately trying for some sort of arousal, he slipped his hand up her throat, sweeping off her coif. Her hair tumbled free, and she shifted back.

  A slim ray of moonlight slanted through the window, and in that ray he saw a fragile lass who was small and afraid and hopelessly beautiful.

  “Anora,” he whispered feverishly.

  “Nay!” Her gasp was sharp. She jerked away, stumbling to her feet. “Nay! ‘Tis me, Isobel.”

  His mind spun. Guilt and hopelessness washed him. “Me apologies, lass. I … I am sorry.” She was beyond the reach of the fickle moonbeams now, but it wouldn’t matter if she stood in the full light of day; he would still imagine Anora, would see her figure in every swaying flower, hear her voice in every sparrow’s song. Damn him! “Me wounds must have addled me brain,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  “Aye,” she said, already backing toward the door, and in a moment she was gone, leaving him alone.

  Damn him to hell! He scrubbed his hands dismally over his face. He was an ass and a dolt, desperate and hopeless and idiotic. And one thing was certain. It was time to leave.