Snow Raven

by Patricia McAllister

  Something suspiciously close to a smile touched the corners of his mouth. Beautifully shaped lips, she noted resentfully, the lower one full and slightly reddened as if a bee had stung it and flew away. His dark hair glistened with rain, and even at a distance she caught the scent of him, hauntingly familiar now though they had only the briefest of acquaintances.

  “I must needs remind the lady she had the option of riding.”

  Aye, trust him to toss that in her face! Merry stiffened, her gaze never leaving his. “I assume I delay your journey, milord?”

  “Not at all. I have, in fact, taken the liberty of sending the others ahead. I fear your man is not doing well.”

  “Jem looked uncommonly pale,” Merry agreed, frowning with concern.

  “Precisely why I instructed Gilbert and Hugo to ride on and see him settled for the night in a village or inn. Warmth is what he needs now, warmth and rest and plenty of quiet.”

  She nodded. It was difficult, nigh impossible, to ignore Ranald Lindsay looming over her, making her feel absurdly petite by comparison. Something about the man set her heart racing and yet raised an instinctive alarm, causing mixed feelings and confusing her senses. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the misty little clearing, the pressing of heavy air around them swirling her up in a maelstrom of emotion.

  “We should forge on as well.” Merry was dismayed at the sound of her own voice, breathless and too rushed to pass for the cool mien she was renowned for at Court. She glimpsed a flash of something in Lindsay’s dark eyes at her remark; was it amusement?

  “I quite agree. Travel will only worsen with the dastardly Welsh weather, I fear.”

  “Surely Scotland cannot be any vast improvement,” Merry said with some asperity, and when he chuckled at her remark she was quite surprised.

  “Have you ever been to Scotland, lass?”

  “Lass?” Merry looked at him, unsure if he meant to insult her or not, but quite unwilling to be mocked. She shook her head. “Please do not call me thusly. Nay, I’ve no need nor desire to cross the border until this year.”

  “Until the betrothal with … what was your fine lord’s name?”

  “Sir Jasper Wickham.” Merry did not attempt to conceal the annoyance in her tone this time, certain he was mocking her. Quite good at it, he was, too, she conceded with a silent annoyance. Those dark eyes gleamed with triumph, yet nothing but the smoothest of words escaped his lips.

  “Ah, the esteemed Sir Wickham.” Ranald nodded and managed to project an appropriately sincere air. She succumbed to the urge to bait him in turn and looked in the direction of a stirring dark shadow in the mists.

  “Your ill-natured mount, I presume?”

  He laughed shortly. “Aye, lass—ahh, milady. Resist though you may the notion of riding, at this late hour ’tis only sensible. Already the sun races us to the inn.”

  Merry knew he was right and clamped down the urge to mount a spirited, if token, resistance. She glanced at her muddied skirts, ruined slippers and sighed. She ached from head to toe; this miserable damp did nothing but accentuate her misery. Surely even an uncouth Scot was halfway bearable under such trying circumstances.

  “Pray assist me then.” Doing a passable imitation of Gloriana herself, Merry hiked her skirts and farthingale to her ankles and half stomped, half strode toward the tethered horse. It shied at her sudden emergence from the mist, but Lindsay was right there, soothing the nervous animal with a surprisingly gentle hand. Merry noticed his fingers were not blunt and thick like a peasant’s, but long and tapered, like those of a musician. It contrasted with his roughshod nature, and she felt breathless again. A kilt-clad warrior with an artist’s hands. Why did such a realization send little shudders through her?

  Before she realized it, Ranald Lindsay had circled her waist with those remarkable hands and boosted her easily into the saddle. She was forced by necessity of the farthingale to ride sidesaddle, and the seat was not suited for such, but Merry was a passable horsewoman. Her Majesty and Uncle Kit would have stood for nothing less. Every Tanner born was a neck-or-nothing rider, and she smiled as she supposed Lindsay assumed her a helpless bit of fluff clinging terrified to a horse’s mane.

  A second later he joined Merry, lithely swinging into position behind her, strong thighs again gripping the gelding’s sides, his hips seeming to meld against her backside through layers of material. Against her will, Merry gasped and gripped the gelding’s mane, and the instant she did so she sensed his amusement.

  Ranald Lindsay laughed low, in a rich baritone which rolled through her like the thunder in the distance, and before she could debate the wisdom of riding with a wild Scot, he had touched his heels to the horse’s ribs and they bolted into the mist.

  * * *

  AS UAR LAPSED INTO a canter over marshy ground, Ran steadied his passenger with one hand circling her waist. A tiny waist, he noted with an irritation he couldn’t fully explain, feeling the smooth ridges of whalebone stays blocking any definition of the flesh beneath. Meredith Tanner was like a female caged in steel and silk, enticingly near, yet beyond all boundaries just the same. For a painful moment, he imagined it was Blair he held in his arms, her flaxen hair spilling over her shoulders and her sweet laughter rippling over them like the wind.

  A deep shudder coursed through him, causing his arm to tighten about Mistress Tanner’s waist, and she let out a little mewl of pain.

  “Forgive me,” Ran muttered, immediately removing himself from any deliberate contact with the woman, only praying she wasn’t such a needle-wit as to slide off the saddle when they hit a rough spot. Grudgingly he conceded Mistress Tanner appeared to have some grasp of riding, as evidenced by her natural posture. Her tension came not from Uar’s unpredictable nature, he suspected, but the intimate contact necessitated by riding double with himself.

  She was not alone in her discomfort. His loins betrayed his need, his hunger after months of denial and suppression. After Blair’s death, he had not succumbed to any woman’s wiles, though there were certainly a share of fair lasses upon his demesne. Ran’s treacherous body reminded him he was not dead yet, though his heart had been burned and buried with his beloved wife and child. He set his jaw, feeling anger rise as his conscience warred with base physical needs.

  How could he look upon another woman, especially some court-bred tart who simpered about the magnificent rat she was to marry, a man spawned from the bowels of hell? A man who had enticed Blair to her untimely end. Wickham’s fiancée. The realization set him to shaking, not with fear but rather a cold, deadly rage all too familiar over the past months.

  How ironic life was. He had Wickham’s woman in his arms, a frilly Tudor rose as worthless as the snake himself. How easy it would be to simply lift his big hands and wrap them about her slender neck. Ran considered this course only briefly; it was not in his nature to murder innocents, even lasses as vexing as this red-haired virago. Besides, Wickham would not be truly injured by such an act. Shocked, perhaps, and maybe a trifle disturbed, but in his self-absorbed way, Sir Jasper would quickly forget and move on.

  Nay, the means to wound Wickham lay not in futile acts of desperation, but in slow, measured humiliation. He was a man whose reputation depended much upon public opinion, and the best way to strike at his black heart was to wound his ego.

  Ran’s lips thinned in a calculating smile. He imagined he held a proverbial sword to Wickham’s groin now, and with one quick thrust he could render a Sassenach fiend forever impotent.

  * * *

  MERRY WAS UNAWARE WHEN she nodded off, but what surprised her most was awaking with a jolt to find herself nestled intimately against Lord Lindsay. His muscular arm encircled her waist, and she leaned precariously to one side, her head cradled against his broad chest. She resisted a first impulse to jerk free, and instead inhaled slowly as her mind wildly sought any escape from looming humiliation. There didn’t seem to be any.

  It seemed they had traveled leagues already, and it had been dark for seve
ral hours. The rain had stopped, surrendering its hold on the heavens to a waxing moon bright with promise and a web of stars that tangled above them like a jeweled strand. Merry caught a whiff of saltwater and prayed it was Bristol Channel. Weariness gripped her like a stony hand, and she slumped back against Lord Lindsay despite her resolve. His sturdy frame seemed to absorb the worst impact of Uar’s jolting gait, cushioning the shock to her already bruised body.

  His deep voice rumbled against her hair. “Almost there, Mistress Tanner.”

  Merry nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Something about his presence, the masculine tones reverberating through her, set her quivering with both anticipation and an unfamiliar trepidation. Never had she felt so wary of a man, but then Lindsay was no ordinary man.

  “I confess I shall be glad to be quit of this roughshod beastie,” Merry said, attempting a carefree little laugh she did not feel. “Remind me, milord, to recommend my uncle as a source of fine, smooth-gaited steeds.”

  “Only if you address me as Ranald henceforth, and dispense with all manner of title.”

  Merry twisted in the saddle so she might look at him. By moonlight his features were darkly handsome, saturnine. She quelled an urge to shiver and instead injected mirth into her tone. “But y’are by rights a peer. ’Tis unseemly I should not acknowledge your status.”

  “More my bane.” Something flashed in his eyes, though his gaze remained steadfast ahead, not meeting hers. “Better yet, keep it simple. Ran will suffice for now.”

  Ranald … Ran … a name as harsh and unforgiving as the rugged mountains from whence this dark Scot issued, Merry thought. She conceded his request, though it did not rest easily with her courtly upbringing. She settled for his Christian name rather than a presumptuous nickname.

  “Very well, Ranald … how much longer to the inn? I thought ’twas but a few hours?”

  She peered ahead into the inky darkness, judging the emptiness of their surroundings by the lack of any light.

  He did not answer for a moment. “I remember you blamed me for missing an encounter with your betrothed.”

  “Not you specifically, of course. Your little brother—bent on mischief, that reckless, would-be, incompetent Highway Jack.”

  He chuckled low. “An apt description of young Gil. You ken he meant no mischief?”

  “Ken?” Merry glanced at him, the Scots dialect taking her by surprise. She sensed he worked hard to match her precise English, and by the way his hand balled under her rib cage, knew he was annoyed by the little slip.

  “You know he meant no harm. A cad’s trick, to be sure, but Gil has not a malicious bone in his body, lass.”

  “Merry, please.” It seemed only fair since he had invited her to indulge in similar familiarities, and she disliked the playful spin he put on “lass.” “As for your brother the knave, we shall see.” She kept her tone cool and noncommittal, expecting a plea or demand she be soft on the wayward cad. None came.

  Instead, they jogged on for several more miles in relative silence, until Merry remembered he had not answered her last question.

  “The inn, milor—Ranald. How far?”

  “We are not going to the inn.”

  “Nay?” Merry was surprised and no little disconcerted by this news. This time, she did wrench herself halfway round to stare at him. “Then where? Directly to Whitehall?”

  “No.”

  His curt response did not bode well for her temper. “Wherever are you taking me?”

  “The border.”

  “Border? You mean, north?”

  Merry heard herself stammering like an idiot, and flushed with frustration. Something about this man pushed her to the edge. Mayhap his refusal to deal with her directly. Whatever the source of this irritation, she was determined he would not get the best of her.

  “Indeed, I note we’ve changed directions. The moon was rising in the opposite direction when we left the glen.” Merry strove to remain calm, not easy considering she risked provoking a man who controlled not only the horse, but her very life at the moment.

  “Aye. It occurred to me you risk the queen’s certain wrath, Merry, for your tardiness, and also you have missed the one opportunity to meet your intended bridegroom before the ceremony. I but strive to set matters aright.”

  Merry frowned, not understanding where he led her. “Then where are we going?”

  “I am taking you to your betrothed.”

  Surprised, Merry did not quite know how to respond. Licking her lips, she carefully said, “I see … you curry Sir Wickham’s favor, then.”

  “Curry his …” Ranald started laughing, then abruptly went still and serious again. “Nay. Not at all.”

  “I am certain he would welcome your chivalry, sir, but Her Grace is not inclined to be so generous.”

  “Precisely why I decided you should not be subjected to such an intense interrogation when the accident ’twas hardly your fault. If I returned you to Whitehall posthaste as you wish, Her Majesty’s ire has but one focus. Time, and distance, will soften her mood.”

  Merry considered his words. It was true, Elizabeth was renowned for her vile temper. Like the proverbial adder, she often struck, blindly and without any particular target. Merry knew the queen must be incensed already by her failure to appear at Whitehall by the appointed hour, and once her slippers set foot in the place, she would be fair game to royal wrath.

  Merry shuddered. She had witnessed firsthand what damage Tudor temper might do, with the executions of Mary Queen of Scots and others. Her own father had narrowly escaped beheading on Tower Green. One did not toy with the fierce Tudor monarchs. Even a favorite such as Devereux might fall with the simple expiration of royal grace.

  “’Tis a point of consideration, to be sure,” she said, aware of him awaiting her response. “Yet how worse her wrath, upon discovering I avoided a lecture by fleeing north with a stranger? And a man at that? Faith, sirrah, you should know by now Her Grace does not tolerate any sort of scandal among the ranks of her ladies.”

  “Naturally I have taken that into consideration,” Ranald answered. “The accident provides more than ample excuse for any erratic behavior. There are also three other witnesses, besides ourselves, who can attest the vehicle was damaged irreparably. Perhaps Her Majesty’s position will soften when she hears your desire to meet your betrothed exceeded that of personal comfort.”

  Despite her cross mood, Merry chuckled. If only Lindsay knew! She was accounted a spoiled chit in her own family, and a cheerful but exacting taskmistress at Court. Her tiring woman, Jane, oft remarked her mistress would not so much as set foot in the hall on the days the servants emptied the slop buckets. True enough, Merry tended toward the fastidious end of the scale and preferred creature comforts to rough accommodations. Right now she wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot tub for hours, then sit curled up in her favorite chair before a blazing hearth whilst Jane brushed out her hair and rubbed it with a square of silk until it shone like crimson wine.

  She sighed, realizing it was too late to argue over which direction they were headed. Already they had traveled a goodly distance, and truth to tell, she was more than a little curious about meeting Sir Jasper. It would not bode well to turn up on her betrothed’s doorstep bedraggled and exhausted, however, and Merry wracked her mind for the solution. Mayhap Falcon’s Lair. Nay, she decided, Kat and her husband deserved their privacy after months of painful separation, and besides Merry had no desire to see her hard work all undone. Doubtless the moment she had left, the lackadaisical servants slipped into their cozy procrastination again.

  “How far is your own residence from Braidwood, milord?” Merry asked, forgetting his request she not adopt a formal title of address.

  The arm resting about her waist tightened, as if in silent rebuke. “Not very far.” She heard him inhale deeply, as if he might say something more. Yet the silence weighed like a hundred stone between them. She quietly, yet firmly, began again.

  “Would you
estimate within three days’ ride?”

  “Aye.”

  “Perhaps your lady wife would not find an unexpected guest too vexing?”

  Merry sensed, rather than saw, tension rippling throughout his broad frame. For a moment, she half expected him to hurl her bodily from Uar’s saddle. Though she did not understand the source of such a vehement reaction, she could hardly mistake it.

  “I live alone at Auchmull, but for kinsmen and servants.”

  “Oh.” Merry sought for the appropriate words, instinctively grasping the underlying message that she was not to pursue the matter any further. “I trust some of the retainers are female?”

  “Enough to safeguard your reputation, aye.” A hint of amusement colored his tone at last, and Merry relaxed. “I take it you would like to attend to some manner of … ahhh … restoration before you meet your future husband?”

  “Precisely.” Merry refused to be embarrassed over what might appear such a frivolous female notion. When Ranald laughed and agreed they might retire to Auchmull first, she felt instead a flush of triumph. For the first time since their paths had crossed, she and the Scottish wolf were seeing eye to eye.

  Chapter Six

  RAN GAZED AT THE redheaded woman curled in his tartan, where she slept on the damp ground. Firelight flickered across her features, burnishing her hair to living fire and sculpting alabaster angles from her cheekbones. A stray wisp of fiery hair clung to one cheek, adding an oddly poignant reminder of a sleeping bairn. Ran looked away, before he might find himself regarding Merry Tanner as anything but the self-centered little Sassenach bitch she was. Hell, not only had she demanded his tartan, but she insisted he stay awake, tend the fire, and kept watch for brigands as well.

  Not that he could sleep. Ran leaned back against the large boulder, his gaze drifting to the night sky instead. He remembered bits and pieces from his lessons as a lad at Edzell, and the mighty bull winked the red eye of Aldebaran at him as if confirming his memories. If only real life was as logical, as comforting as the old myths and legends. Ran had evolved into somewhat of a legend himself by now, and the stories of the fierce Wolf of Badanloch were ominous enough that Mistress Tanner should have run screaming into the wood whilst she had the chance. He chuckled softly at the thought, sparing a glance for the tousled-haired lass. At times she reminded him of an auburn-tressed elf, with her sharp little features and small frame. Her temper, however, was as fierce as any Highlander’s, he suspected. He had yet to test it fully.