Snow Raven

by Patricia McAllister

  They were several days’ ride yet from the border, and Auchmull. It amazed him still she had agreed so readily to the journey, but then it was obvious she was anxious to lay eyes upon her betrothed. No cost too high, no journey too far for the cause of true love, Ran thought bitterly. He felt his gaze drifting once more from the stars and found his attention focused on the sleeping woman. Wickham’s woman. Sweet Jesu, here was his chance.

  The idea had only flirted with him before, but Ran felt it solidifying by the moment. Meredith Tanner was completely dependent upon him for her survival. He had shared his water, the better portion of Hertha’s Forfar Bridies, and now the warmth of a Highland tartan. Her reputation, if not her entire family’s, rested in his hands. He could shame this lass, and Wickham by association. If a moment’s conscience flared, Ran shrugged it aside. He had no personal quarrel with the Tanners. Mayhap a fine match would be lost, but in the end he would save this redheaded vixen untold years of agony.

  Meredith Tanner was not displeasing to look upon. Not a ravishing beauty by any means, but fair enough and sweetly curved in all the right places. His gaze traveled downward, where her hips lay hidden beneath the colorful tartan. It was hard to judge through a damned farthingale, but they seemed sleek enough for bed sport yet broad enough for bearing a man’s bairns.

  As if sensing his perusal, Merry’s eyes suddenly snapped open. By firelight her irises were iridescent silvery green. She did not seem alarmed, but rather confused by her surroundings. She sat up awkwardly on one hip, blinking at Ran somewhat dazedly.

  “How long did I sleep?” she asked.

  “Several hours. ’Tis almost dawn.” He cleared his husky throat and gestured at the faint blush on the horizon. “Hungry?”

  Merry nodded. “Parched, too.” She ran a hand over her disheveled hair as if to magically restore her coiffure, but already the blazing locks had slipped to her waist and the ends defiantly curled there from the lingering humidity.

  Ran rose and retrieved a soft leather water bag from Uar’s saddle, returned and handed it to her without a word. She nodded gratefully, uncorking it without the faintest evidence of hesitation such as she’d displayed last night. She drank, while Ran watched the slim column of her throat. He wondered if any man had dared taste that rarefied ivory flesh before. He knew the queen demanded absolute loyalty from her ladies in waiting, with chastity as the ultimate end. He also knew of the Court’s reputation for corrupting innocents. Into which category did Merry Tanner fall?

  There was an obvious coquetry in her manner of speech, laughter, even something so minute as a slanted glance from those gray-green eyes. She had been carefully coached, or else emerged, into a state of womanly graces, complete with the talent to pout, rail, or cry at the drop of a pin. Ran detested such artifices. False emotions were worse than the unholy rage that gripped him whenever he thought of his dead wife and child. At least his rage was honest. As keen and glittering as the blade he wished to drive through Wickham’s black heart.

  At the moment, however. Merry did not appear either coy or simpering. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was bruised from exhaustion and her cheeks hollowed with shadow. When she finished drinking, he fetched a makeshift meal to break their fast, handing two barley bannocks to her without a word. She nibbled cautiously at the dry bread between sips of water while Ran tended to Uar.

  Merry finished the humble meal, rose and drew Lindsay’s tartan closer about her shoulders, shivering in the humid morning air. A glance at her soiled skirts revealed they were damp as well, ruined beyond repair. How Jane would scold! Her tiring woman seemed to take personal pride in her lady’s wardrobe, and was quite a termagant whenever her authority in such matters was usurped.

  Merry’s attentions moved from a quick study of the makeshift camp to Ranald Lindsay. His back faced her as he resaddled his mount. Even without his tartan, clad only in breeks and a bishop-sleeved white shirt, wavy dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders, he was ruggedly handsome. With a sudden burst of vanity, Merry wished she did not appear so rumpled and weary. She had never traveled well, even in the queen’s retinue with the utmost comfort of a luxurious coach and frequent breaks. Lindsay must suppose her as fragile as the wildflowers Uar demolished with one wide swath of his ugly head, as the horse greedily grazed a fresh patch of ground where his master led him.

  It was too tempting to whimper about things he could not change, like the weather, but Merry vowed she would not give him the satisfaction of succumbing to female ploys. If she was to gain and keep the respect of such a stalwart man, she must call upon her own internal strength. Just as she was thus resolved, he turned suddenly and captured her in his dark gaze.

  “Merry?”

  Ranald extended a large hand with those artist’s fingers so she might mount Uar with his assistance. Merry felt the breath leave her in a silent rush, and without a word stepped forward and laid her smaller, paler hand in his. He glanced at the point where their flesh made contact as if he, too, was startled by an invisible tingle racing up his spine.

  Soon she was safely settled in the saddle, her ruined skirts arranged as neatly as if she rode in a royal procession. Habit was a hard thing to break, though Merry sensed her riding companion’s mixed amusement and chagrin. Why bother to act a lady when one presently resembled a tumbled bawd?

  “We shall cover ground more quickly, now the rain has fled.” Ranald’s remark did not require a response, but Merry offered one anyway.

  “’Tis fortunate, too, for I confess I am weary of the journey already.”

  “Or the company?”

  She smiled at the touch of asperity in his tone. “Nay, Ranald, you have not given me any cause for grief. Indeed, but for the timeliness of your rescue, I daresay I might still be sprawled within that coach, while the gentle Welsh rain poured down upon me.”

  He laughed, a spontaneous and warm sound. It rumbled through his chest and hence Merry’s by proximity, as by necessity she was pressed back against him to make room for her voluminous skirts. She liked his laugh, when it was not tinged by ugly sarcasm or scorn. Was this Lindsay not so dour-natured, she could see him winning hands and hearts at Court.

  They rode for several hours, stopping only for brief rests and another barley bannock. At first it did not occur to Merry to wonder why Lindsay avoided the inns and villages scattered throughout the Welsh province, but when she spied a distant spiral of smoke and sighed longingly, it seemed he read her mind.

  “A fire and hot food must seem very tempting right now, I am sure.” He pronounced “very” more like “verra,” another unconscious reversion to his Scots heritage.

  “Oh, aye! You cannot imagine. I could soak for a week in a hot tub, and eat with both hands all the while.”

  Again a hint of humor in his chuckle, “If you ate so enthusiastically, you should never fit into such an elegant gown again.”

  “Formerly elegant.” Merry frowned, touching the soiled fabric.

  “Precisely the reason why I dare not expose you to public scrutiny, Merry. Certainly gossip travels quickly, even in these rural parts. Word would reach the queen of your being seen in such a state of disarray, riding double with a barbarian and disheveled in a most alarming manner.”

  “I had not thought of that. S’truth, Her Grace would be enraged.”

  Merry decided it was most considerate of Lindsay to protect her reputation, despite her niggling suspicion he gained great amusement from regarding her as some sort of dim-witted little prude. She shuddered at the mental image of her walking into an inn full of strangers on Lord Lindsay’s arm, her skirts torn and muddied, wearing the man’s tartan for warmth and modesty.

  Nay, ’twould never do. Word of a red-haired woman with the Scottish laird would reach the queen’s ear eventually, and none of Merry’s charms would serve to soften Her Majesty’s opinion on the matter. She would be branded a strumpet, Lindsay’s whore. Merry shivered, for to lose reputation at Court was a fate worse than death.


  Her worst fears materialized later in the afternoon, when they encountered another party headed south on the narrow country road. Ranald cursed and yanked at Uar’s reins the moment they heard the approaching hoof beats, but it was too late to avoid the passerby. Rather than plunge guiltily into the underbrush, he drew his mount up and they waited tensely as the other man slowed his galloping gray to a prancing halt.

  “Hail and well met!”

  The fair-haired rider wore a fine woolen cloak trimmed with fur, over a jerkin and doublet of watchet-green, embroidered with gold. Merry instantly recognized those colors and the soft cap he wore. A royal messenger! The worst possible soul she might encounter under the circumstances.

  She had no notion if Lord Lindsay knew the occupation of the fellow or not, but she dug an elbow into his ribs just the same, silently warning him. She dared not speak for fear her refined speech would betray her, and she was not about to attempt mimicking a peasant’s accent.

  She waited tensely while Ranald took stock of their situation, and when he spoke his utter calm amazed her. So did his sudden, rolling Scottish burr.

  “Greetings, sir. We bid ye pleasant travels.”

  The messenger nodded, touching the rim of his cap as his curious gaze flickered over them both. A red-haired woman, wrapped in tartan. A big, burly Scot riding double with her on a shaggy Highlands pony. What was more unremarkable? Nevertheless, he eyed the Scot’s scabbard and the healthy-sized sword inside it with respect.

  “Aye, a good day for journeying. Is the road passable after the rains?”

  “Och, if ye stay off the Cambrian branch, where the coaches caused such great ruts.” Merry suspected the real reason Ranald discouraged that road; her uncle’s wrecked coach lay in grim splendor amidst the greenery, and a royal messenger would recognize the crest on the door.

  The other man nodded at Lindsay’s advice, but made no move to press on. He obviously was not in any hurry; doubtless returned from delivering a message or royal summons, and malingering on his way back. Merry shifted uneasily in the saddle when his gaze fell on the hem of her skirt, visible beneath the long tartan. She saw his eyes narrow, as he recognized the quality even through the mud stains.

  Sensing the change in atmosphere, Ran spoke quickly “Och, mon, we must be pressing on … make the border before dark.”

  The other man’s gaze had risen to study Merry’s features by then. “Aye,” he said, as if he aimed to memorize her face, just in case. Perhaps he did not recognize Merry, but Ran sensed his curiosity and suspicion mounting by the minute. His right hand slipped down to the hilt of his claymore, hidden behind the mound of Merry’s skirts, while the other still cradled her about the waist in intimate fashion. There was only one way he could think of for throwing the other man off guard, but it required the woman’s cooperation.

  When the queen’s messenger made no move to press on, Ran moved his left hand and ran it lightly, caressingly, over Merry’s form through the layers of tartan and silk. She gasped, loud enough for the other man to hear and yet did not betray her identity with some foolish remark. She and Ran both knew she had too much at stake.

  The other man’s eyebrow arched slightly, but as Ran hoped, a smirk curved his lips. The old image of the lusty Highlander groping a comely lass did help serve his cause. Now, if only he could make Merry squeal and squirm a bit …

  “Canna blame a mon for wantin’ to hurry home wi’ his blushing bride,” Ran said, adding what he trusted came across as a suitably crude laugh. “Welsh mud dinna serve half so well as a pile of rushes in the stables. Aye, hinny?”

  Ran pulled Merry back against him, wrapping his fingers in the flaming hair. He held her immobile while his lips crushed down on hers in a passable imitation of a rough, emphatic kiss. She was too shocked to struggle at first, and by the time she gathered her wits again, he had already released her to the coarse laughter of both men.

  Merry’s gasp this time was laced with outrage, and Ran knew there would be hell to pay later. Still, he enjoyed a fleeting moment of the woman’s discomfiture, knowing she dared not react openly without betraying her identity. That did not stop the little witch from digging her sharp little elbow into his ribs again, more emphatically than called for. Ran grunted with surprise, his ringing laughter cut short by the lancing pain in his side.

  The queen’s man chuckled, his suspicion abating. A wedding explained a fine gown on a mud-stained Highland lassie. He touched the brim of his cap and his heels to his horse at the same time.

  “Travel swiftly,” he said, grinning at the flushed maiden as he passed. Maid no more, indeed, judging by her fine Highland blush. He envied the Scot his flame-haired prize, but not the trials he’d endure in taming her. One did not envy the doomed.

  As the gray galloped off behind them, Merry twisted in the saddle and glared at Ran. “Cad! How dare you presume to manhandle me …”

  “Would you have preferred the alternative?” Ran calmly rejoined. “The man was on the verge of challenging us. If I had been forced to defend us, the outcome would not have been pretty.”

  She angrily tossed her burnished curls. “Whatever can you mean?”

  “I was ready to cut him down.”

  “A queen’s messenger! Are you mad?” Her voice echoed in the little clearing, but when she glanced into Ranald’s dark eyes she saw they were twinkling. “You … you are naught but a barbarian, sirrah,” she sputtered.

  Ran grinned and touched his heels to Uar’s sides. “Aye, lass.” He would not presume to argue with a Sassenach wench whose farthingale was tied in a knot.

  Chapter Seven

  THE BORDER WAS THE daunting line drawn between English might and Scottish determination, and for centuries had seen all manner of bloodshed, strife, and treaties made and broken over tankards of heather ale. To cross in daylight was pure folly, unless one bore the protection of either Tudor or Stuart arms, and a brace of men besides. The border reivers were famous for their feistiness, and their genetic predisposition for a fight.

  Merry knew much of this already from gossip at Court, yet she saw no alarm on Ranald’s face as they made for the border. Indeed, he appeared bored as they navigated small streams and hillocks. Conversation had dwindled to inane subjects a long time ago, and Merry had given up trying to pry the barest civility from the man. It was not that he was a dullard. On the contrary, she suspected he would keep her on her toes if a match of wit and wills ever came to pass. Alas, he did not seem so inclined.

  For the longest time after his kiss, Merry’s lips throbbed with a cadence no less steady than the horse’s hooves. Such a brazen act was deserving of a slap, or perhaps a challenge to a duel. Certainly her father Slade would be outraged if he knew of Lindsay’s boldness. Her Irish mother was fiercer yet, but a secret romantic beneath her bluster. More than once she had hinted it would take a strong man to handle her flame-haired daughter. Merry suspected Bryony might approve of the laird of Lindsay, which made her all the more determined to detest him.

  In the beginning, she had given Ranald the benefit of the doubt, supposing his little brother an imp and Ranald serving as Gilbert Lindsay’s long-suffering guardian. But that kiss … ohhh, that wicked, willful kiss! Merry seethed, remembering how he’d seized her hair by the nape of her neck to hold her fast, baring her vulnerable throat and shaming her before the queen’s messenger. Worse, she had not struggled overmuch, too shocked at first. By the time she’d gathered her wits, the Scot had already released her, his hearty laughter making her cheeks burn like Greek fire.

  It was only for show, Ranald later implied … but was it? Merry simply could not fathom the necessity of such a thorough, punishing kiss. Yet she avoided the issue when she failed to acknowledge her body’s reaction. Her spine stiffened while her belly fluttered in anticipation, and a deep, sweet ache spread throughout her loins, culminating in a tingling she could not define.

  Aye, she had played at love before, dallying with bold knaves in the queen’s gardens and sneakin
g kisses in the halls. But never had a man so affected her as Ranald Lindsay did, with a single burning glance from those dark, dark eyes. She knew those eyes scoured the surrounding countryside now, ever alert though his relaxed posture did not betray any undue concern.

  Merry had just decided he was possessed of some magical cloak of invisibility when a fearsome shout rang over the hills.

  “Bellendaine! Bellendaine!”

  Echoing answers, the lusty cheers of a number of men. Merry panicked when she saw a dozen kilt-clad warriors riding down upon them. These men were fierce, armed with pikestaffs and short swords. She glanced back at Lindsay, expecting to see fear or concern sketched across his saturnine features at last, but to her surprise his lips parted not in shock but mirth.

  The slow grin spreading across his face transformed the brooding laird into a winsome dark knight for a moment, and Merry felt the familiar coil of tension in her belly. La, but the Earl of Crawford was comely! She had never seen him truly smile until this moment, and it seemed the years fell away, and she glimpsed a darker version of the mischievous Gilbert.

  The band of Scots circled their ponies about Uar, several shaking their fists in their air. Merry realized it was all for a show of bravado when Lindsay laughed outright, his deep chuckle quelling the would-be marauders and obviously disappointing their leader.

  A big, freckle-faced man with a wild mane of red hair grinned rawly at them from the back of a shaggy piebald.

  “Dinna fash yersel drawin’ a claymore, Lindsay,” he said, his burr so thick Merry could hardly follow it. She shook her head as if she might shake off the entire lot of brigands, and the fellow roared with laughter.