The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morning dawned with irritating brightness.

  Ramsay gritted his teeth as he pulled his tunic over his head, groaned as he adjusted his plaid, and swore out loud as he belted it in place. No use suffering in silence. After all, there was no one here he was trying to impress. Nay, all he was trying to do was leave. His injuries were hardly life threatening.

  Opening the chamber door was something of a challenge, but he managed it, then the few steps across the hallway, reminding himself every second that his wounds were just superficial. By the time he reached the stairs, his head felt light and his knees a bit unsteady. Then he remembered the night before, and pushed resolutely onward. The steps beneath his boots seemed to be a thousand leagues away.

  Below, faces turned to stare up at him—a plump, graying matron, a scarred soldier, a buxom dark haired maid with a basket of cheese. The great hall gradually grew silent, but in a moment a small figure parted a crowd, and Anora stood before him.

  “MacGowan.” Clothed in a worn violet gown, she seemed unusually pale this morn. He kept silent, merely giving her a nod. “You should not be up and about.”

  He mustered a smile. Even that much effort threatened to rip his chest in two, but he reminded himself that he did not like her, and sharpened his roguish grin. “I am flattered that you wish to keep me in your bed, lass, but I fear I cannot stay there.”

  She scowled. “Are you feeling feverish?”

  Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to his ready wit. “Nay,” he said and returned a scowl for her lack of appreciation. “I am returning home.”

  “Home!” The word skittered from her lips. “You jest,” she said, and even her little cherry mouth seemed pale.

  He stared at it.

  “MacGowan!” she rasped.

  “Your pardon?” he said, finding her eyes.

  “I said you will return to your bed this instant.”

  “I cannot,” he said, and refused to allow his gaze to slip to her mouth again, for it was too soft. But neither could he look into her eyes, for they had an unhappy tendency to pull him in. Even her hands were not safe, for they were so fragile and expressive that after one glance he found he wanted nothing more than to cradle them in his own and promise her his everlasting protection.

  Christ! If he stayed until sunset, he’d be able to look at nothing past the toes of her shoes—which were damnably small.

  “There are deeds that need doing,” he said, and shuffled his gaze toward the distant window where the woman called Ailsa hovered, listening intently.

  “You are not ready to leave here, MacGowan. You are too weak.”

  Aye, he was weak, and how well she knew it. That was the very reason he must go, to send his clansmen to keep her safe. “I request that you see me horse readied,” he said and, employing all his strength, managed to ease down the final two steps.

  “You cannot leave.” Her words sounded tortured. He raised his eyes to hers, and for once, he saw a tangle of uncertain emotions there. Regret? Sadness? Fear? Loneliness?

  But nay, he was being the fool again. Whatever she felt, it was not loss for his departure.

  “You need not worry,” he said, forcing himself past her. “When I reach Dun Ard, I will send word to the king and tell him of your troubles here. There is no love lost between the Stuarts and the Munros. He will set all to—”

  “MacGowan—” Her voice was low, breathy, and though he did his best to be strong, he could not resist her eyes.

  “Aye?”

  “Please … I …” She gazed up at him. The great hall was as silent as nightfall, as if every ear strained to hear their words. “I will see that your breakfast is readied,” she said, and turned abruptly away.

  His knees almost buckled, but he forced himself across the floor to the nearest table and lowered himself gratefully to its bench. The walls dipped, but he remained very still until they steadied. Gradually, the volume grew around him again.

  “Me laird.”

  Ramsay turned carefully, lest pieces of his anatomy fall from his body like autumn leaves. Duncan’s young face was hopelessly earnest.

  “Tell me ‘tis not true. You are not leaving.”

  “Aye, I am, thus I would appreciate it if you would ready me—”

  “But you cannot. You have been badly wounded. What if you weaken?”

  If he was any weaker, his head would fall straight from his neck onto his—

  A scream sounded nearly in his ear, and he twisted about. Pain sliced his arm, then his attacker was upon him, slashing again. He reacted out of instinct, catching the arm and holding it away from his chest.

  “Bastard!” The insult shrieked through the hall. Ramsay jerked his gaze to his attacker’s face. Deirdre! Surprise and pain weakened his grip and in that instant she jerked her knee wildly upward.

  Agony shot through his thigh, burning like hot iron. Letting go, he staggered backward, barely finding his feet. She launched herself at him with a scream. He managed to catch her wrist, but the force of her impetus knocked him backward. She landed atop him, pounding the breath from his body, but he twisted desperately, flipping her over as he did so. Her hand cracked against the floor, and the blade tumbled from her fingers.

  She screamed something harsh and inarticulate, and then, in wriggling frustration, she spat in his face. Her knees scrambled, trying to strike him.

  “Still! Be still,” he ordered, and though she finally quieted, her crazed eyes bore into him with scalding hatred.

  “Coward!” she screamed. “Kill me, then! And kill the babe, since you were too much the woman to kill the sire.”

  Her words filtered slowly into his consciousness, and as reality came home to him, he slid off her and skimmed his gaze down her soiled form. Her gown was bunched between her thighs, and her swollen belly rose like a melon from her middle.

  “What now, MacGowan?” she sneered, spread on the floor like a victim of war. “Has the battle got you randy?”

  He pulled his hands away in horror, and in that instant she snatched up her knife.

  Anora screamed, a man cursed, and then Deirdre was pulled away to wriggle in a soldier’s capable hands.

  Ramsay lay on his back, dazed and aching.

  “MacGowan.” Anora was beside him in an instant. “Are you hurt?”

  He considered her question for an instant, then let his eyes fall closed. “I think so.”

  “You’re bleeding. He’s bleeding!” she called out. “Tree, David, take him back to his room.”

  Pain sliced him as hands the size of mallets bore him away. Far above, the smoke-darkened beams swayed hazily.

  “Carefully,” he groaned.

  “What?” Anora leaned close, trying to hear.

  “I said …” He could barely manage a whisper. “Carefully.”

  “Careful,” she breathed to his bearers. “Be—”

  But her words were cut short by cackling laughter.

  “That’s right. Take him away,” Deirdre screamed. “Coddle him. But ‘twill do no good.”

  The journey up the stairs hurt like hell.

  “Hide beneath the lady’s skirts, MacGowan!” screamed the crazed voice. “Use your feeble wick whilst you can, for Munro will come soon enough, and then it will be gone. Mayhap I’ll use it as a bottle stop.”

  “Sweet Almighty!” Ramsay rasped, jostled between his two bearers.

  Anora swung the door open and they hustled him inside. Ramsay moaned as they eased him back onto the pillows.

  “I do not think this Deirdre likes me.”

  “How badly are you hurt?” Anora’s face was pale, her fingers unsteady as she wrestled with his belt buckle.

  “I’m not about to die, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “You’re not?”

  He hoped not. “Nay,” he said. ” ‘Twould be horribly embarrassing.” His belt fell open. “What are you doing?”

  “Tree, find out what’s keeping Meara. David,
take Deirdre … to the dungeon.”

  They departed in an instant. Anora set her fingers to the brooch that held Ramsay’s plaid crossed against his chest. For a moment the emerald cat eyes flashed against her hand, then she tugged his tunic upward. The process seemed entirely unrelated to him.

  “I’ve done nothing to her,” he said. His own voice seemed entirely unrelated to him. “And yet she hates me.”

  “Quiet now. Meara will be here soon.”

  “Women usually do not detest me until they get to know me. Except for you, of course. Yet she does. Why is that?”

  “I fear it will hurt if I remove your tunic.”

  “It hurts already.”

  “I could cut it off.”

  “You could leave it be.”

  “MacGowan—”

  “Leave it be, Notmary. I’ve worse troubles than that, just now.”

  “You vowed not to die. You’ll not be going back on your promise.” Emotion quivered in her voice.

  “As you will, then.” Refusing to try to read her feelings, he leaned his head back against the wall.

  “I will cut it off,” she said, and reaching for the sheath in his boot, pulled out his dirk by its antler handle. It sliced easily through his shirt. In a moment she was tugging the fabric away from his right arm. He heard the soft intake of her breath and turned hazily to stare at the wound himself.

  “Humnph.” It was all he could think to say.

  “She opened your old wound.”

  “I see that.”

  “Helena, get Meara,” she said, as a stout maid hurried in with a bowl.

  “Why does this Deirdre hate me so?”

  The maid hustled out.

  “Some say she is possessed. Some say the ghost has made her mad.”

  Tearing a square from his shirt, she dipped it into the nearby bowl and carefully washed the blood from his flesh. The fingers of her left hand were wrapped gently about his elbow. They looked slim and fragile against the darker flesh of his arm, and he pulled his attention away with some difficulty.

  “And what of you?” he asked. “Do you think she is possessed by the shade?”

  “Nay! Senga is not evil. She would never harm one of her own.”

  “One of her own?”

  “Deirdre is a Fraser.”

  “Then why her attachment to the Munros?”

  Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm. The feelings smoked through his system, easing the pain like a draught of wine.

  “She says the babe is the Munro’s seed.”

  “Is it?”

  “I know not. Perhaps she lies, or perhaps …” She shrugged. “Her memory is a chancy thing, but he has not claimed it. Nor will another, for she is …” Her voice broke. “I am sorry.” Her voice broke. “I did not believe she was a danger. But recently her behavior has been …” She shook her head. “I fear her condition worsens.”

  “She has not always been like this?”

  “Nay. Before her fall she was a gentle soul, though she … she liked the lads.”

  He said nothing.

  “Ailsa was bringing in her goats when she found Deirdre at the bottom of Potter’s Crag. Unconscious, and pale as death.”

  “And you do not know how it happened?”

  “Your chest is bleeding again.” Anora’s voice was very small, her hand unutterably soft when it stroked his shoulder. He pulled his gaze away and concentrated on the far wall. A crack ran diagonally from the corner.

  “It will heal. And what of Deirdre?” he asked.

  “She had not a scratch on her, yet she was unconscious for some time. When she awoke …” She shrugged. “She suffers from headaches. Some days she is docile and kind, sometimes she is frightening. There are those who think that she should be put away before she hurts another. But I could not …” Her words faded to a halt. “Too many mistakes,” she whispered. “I should not have let you come here.”

  There was such hurt in her voice, a world of aching regret.

  “You could not stop me. I came of me own free will,” he said.

  “And you have lived to regret it,” she whispered.

  If only he could regret meeting her, but even now he was trapped in her eyes. He kept his hands carefully at his sides, refusing to let them reach for her.

  “You cannot be expected to withstand the Munro alone,” he said. “There was naught you could do but seek help.”

  “I could have wed him.”

  Ramsay’s stomach clenched.

  “He is the Munro,” she said. “Powerful, wealthy. Many of my own people think me foolish for rejecting him. Some simply think me weak, afraid of men.”

  “Who thinks so?”

  “Ailsa, for one.”

  He thought back. An image of a buxom woman with dark hair came to mind. He motioned toward his own chest. “The maid with the—”

  “Aye,” she interrupted.

  “And what do you think?”

  “Mayhap she is right.”

  “If that is case, why did you refuse him?”

  “Because the Munro is cruel. Barbaric. He cannot be trusted, yet I dared not tell him nay. Thus I pretended to honor my father’s wishes until I could find help. But the more I came to know him, the more certain I was that he would mistreat my people.” Her voice was soft as evening shade. “But mayhap ‘tis only myself I worry for. I could not bear the thought of …”

  Her fingers slipped with silken thoughtfulness over his bandage and onto his belly. It contracted with agonizing excitement beneath her touch, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t move. “Of what?” he asked.

  “Of being touched. Of touching.” She raised her gaze, catching his. “But now …” Her voice was a whisper.

  “What?” His own was nearly too low to hear.

  “I find I can think of little else.”

  He could think of nothing to say. Could think of nothing at all, in fact, but that her lips were too bright, her eyes too wide, her touch too soft to resist. He should say nay now, save himself from the misery she was sure to cause him, but she was leaning closer and God help him, one kiss might well be worth death.

  He held his breath, waiting. Her hand felt like heaven and hell against his abdomen, her eyes shone in the morning light, and his heart, damn it, was squeezed like a bellows in his chest.

  “MacGowan,” she whispered.

  “Notmary,” he hissed, and then she kissed him.

  Feelings exploded like fireworks inside him. Pleasure and pain all mixed in a—

  “What’s this, then?”

  At the sound of Meara’s voice, Anora jerked away and launched to her feet. The old woman stood in the doorway with Isobel behind.

  “Have you got your own way of healing then, lass?”

  “Meara.” Her voice was breathy, panicked. Ramsay’s heart commenced beating again, though he had thought it might not. “I thought mayhap you weren’t coming.”

  “I see that.”

  “Well, I …” She stopped, snapping her gaze to Isobel, who stared back, her gaze just as wide. “I leave him in your hands, Meara.” Sparing one rapid fire glance for Ramsay, she rushed out the door.

  Meara’s eyes were as dark and inscrutable as she approached the bed. It creaked beneath her weight.

  Ramsay’s tunic lay in tatters upon the mattress and his heart was still doing a wild fling in his chest, but he forced himself to remain stoically still beneath her stare.

  “The lassie’s been hurt enough without the likes of you, MacGowan,” she said.

  He scowled. “I’ve no intention of hurting her.”

  “And mayhap you be too wounded to know how to do anything else just now,” she said.

  A crash of memories smote him. Pain, guilt, fear.

  She was right. Even if Anora cared for him, he had no caring to give back.

  “I will leave on the morrow,” he said.

  For a moment the old woman stared at him, and then she snorted. “You’re not good enough for the like
s of her and never will be, but if you leave tomorrow, laddie, I’ll kill you meself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “He is handsome.” Isobel’s voice was soft.

  Anora snapped her gaze to the girl’s. Had the maid read her thoughts? “Who?” she asked, but if Isobel was fooled she did not show it.

  “The MacGowan.”

  “Oh.” Anora fiddled with the linen on her lap. Embroidery had always seemed a frivolous thing to her, but for years frivolity had been one of her masks, and now she found it helped her relax after scampering from the infirmary like a scared rabbit. It had been a long day, filled with grinding doubts and crumbling discipline. “So you think him bonny, do you?”

  “Aye. Who would not?”

  She shrugged, but the movement felt stiff. ‘Twas not like her to lie to Isobel. In fact, she didn’t know if it was possible, but the feelings inside her were so raw, so fresh and roiling and uncertain, that she dared not expose them to the light of scrutiny, lest her world crumble to ashes around her. A noise caught her attention. ‘Twas faint but disturbing, like the shadow of a scream.

  “What was that?” Anora asked.

  “I know not. Mayhap ‘twas Senga,” Isobel murmured. “Who would not think the MacGowan handsome?” she repeated.

  Anora glanced up. “Mayhap someone who cannot trust men.”

  ” ‘Twas a long while ago, Anora.”

  “But still fresh in my mind.” She stood abruptly to pace, her embroidery forgotten.

  “Then you have no feelings for him?”

  She should say no, yet she could not quite manage the words. “What if he learns the truth, Isobel? I cannot risk it.”

  “Then what shall you do?”

  “I need do nothing. He’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Will he?” Isobel’s tone was uncertain.

  “Of course. There is naught keeping him here.”

  Anora waited for Isobel to respond, to argue, to say nay, there was every reason for MacGowan to stay, for ‘twas obvious he had lost his heart to the lady of the keep. But she said no such thing.

  “You will not miss him?”

  “Of course not. When he leaves, things will be as they were.”