“Guid on ye, Ranald loon! Plucked a bonnie bizzam from the feckless Sassenach.”
Merry had no notion what a “bizzam” might be, but she suspected it was hardly a compliment. She scowled at the rude fellow with the braying manners and it only made him laugh harder. His big frame bent like a willow as gales of laughter shook him.
“Now, Gord, why ever would you assume the worst of me?” Ranald’s reply was laced with mirth as well, and his hand clamped Merry fast when she began fidgeting with agitation. She wanted to hurl some particularly colorful insults at the rough border reiver, yet she wasn’t entirely sure they were out of danger yet. Perhaps Ranald merely laughed along with the other man to preserve their lives.
“An’ the wud Wolf of Badanloch asks why.” The raw-boned border lord chuckled, his pale-blue gaze raking over Merry as if she was a particularly tasty morsel. “Walie! A sorry day indeed when a mon canna dub an old friend a proper Lord Rakeshanks.”
“Aye, well, that title ’tis surely reserved for Gordon Scott,” Ranald said with a twinkle in his tone that surprised Merry. He sounded … whimsical. One did not describe this man in such terms. She was surely mistaken.
She waited for Ranald to introduce her, and when none was forthcoming, she realized he intended to keep her identity a secret as he had with the messenger. She should have been relieved, but a tic of annoyance touched her instead. As if she had anything to be ashamed of!
It was a Lindsay who wrecked her uncle’s coach, and a Lindsay who swept her over the border to her betrothed without so much as a by-your-leave. Merry owed this bunch of Highland oafs nothing at all, except perhaps some small acknowledgment for the laird’s consideration. In turn she was asked to endure endless miles over rough terrain, the near-silent company of a sullen and moody companion, and now the lusty perusal of a border reiver. ’Twas not to be borne!
She raised her chin a notch and said calmly, “Greetings, Lord Scott. I am Mistress Meredith Tanner.”
Her precise, refined English clearly rocked the border lout back on his heels, or in this case, his saddle. He looked from her to Ranald, his gaze demanding further explanation. A certain wariness supplanted his mirth at her statement.
Ranald’s long fingers dug between her ribs. Merry flinched, realizing he was annoyed. He bade her be silent with his actions but she was tired of being mistaken for a trollop. She might be tousled and stained with mud, but she was still a lady beneath the grime. A virgin, for good measure.
“Mistress Tanner, eh?” Gordon Scott’s thick brogue added more than a touch of sarcasm, but Merry did not waver under his fierce stare. Just as quickly then he seemed to dismiss her, turning his broad grin on Lindsay instead.
“Been a hairst or two since ye visited Goldielands,” he drawled, wrapping one beefy fist around his leather pommel as he shifted his great bulk in place. “When was it last?”
“A year or so.” Something in Ranald’s manner did not encourage further pursuit of the topic, but The Scott seemed oblivious.
“A’maist forever,” he nodded, and for a moment the twinkle in his eyes dimmed. “Ochone! I heard about Blair—”
“Tell me of your kin,” Ranald interrupted, and to Merry’s surprise the topic of the mysterious Blair was neatly circumvented, while still she seethed at Lord Scott’s rudeness. “How many arrows in your quiver now, Gord?”
“Three and Fiona bairned again,” the big man said. He sounded proud, and for some reason Merry sensed a fleeting envy in Ranald. Nothing he said or did, just a woman’s intuition which told her he should have very much liked to be in Gordon Scott’s place at the moment.
“I take it your lady is well then?”
“Aye! Plump and feisty as a little cloker. Ye must come see! ’Tis but a hop to Goldielands as the bummie flies.”
Without waiting for their reply, Gordon Scott wheeled his sturdy mount around, and his men followed without demur. Merry looked back to Ranald, and saw mingled longing and regret sketched in those dark eyes.
“D’you wish to go?”
“’Twould be rude to decline,” he said. He chuckled. “Besides, I’ve never known Gord to take no for an answer.”
“Rudeness is something Lord Scott appears to grasp quite well.”
She sniffed, letting him know there was no place less she wished to be than the stronghold of some rough-hewn border lord. If Sir Jasper should hear of her folly … Merry frowned, realizing her betrothed might well cry off altogether. Rumor of her alone with Lord Lindsay, no matter how gallantly he behaved, would give rise to nasty speculation.
“Aye, Gord can be gruff, but he’s a good man. I think you’ll like his wife, Fiona,” Ranald said as he urged Uar into a canter after the other horses.
“Will she not find my bedraggled appearance … unseemly?” Merry worried aloud.
To her surprise, he laughed.
“I see you’ve not yet made acquaintance with the infamous Scotts of Goldielands.” He said no more, which left Merry’s curiosity unsatisfied and her desire to secure Ranald Lindsay’s confidence stronger than ever.
* * *
GOLDIELANDS, A FAMED BORDER peel, stood above the Teviot a mile or so beyond Hawick. There was nothing especially remarkable about the square stone keep, and its reputation came not from its appearance but rather those who occupied it. At once Merry noted the swarm of redheaded children spilling from the ward to greet the riders, and realized with a hint of amusement that here, at least, her flaming locks would not stand out.
Once again, Ranald read her mind with uncanny accuracy. His fingers playfully snatched and wiggled a blazing curl before her nose. “Almost like coming home, eh, lass?”
The momentary, uncharacteristic playfulness ended with her terse reply. “Hardly.” Merry freed her hair from his grasp with a sudden twist of her head, gazing off pensively for a moment toward the west. “We cannot be far from Braidwood now.”
Ranald did not reply, but just then a stocky, freckle-faced boy with an unruly mop of orange hair hurried up to take charge of Uar. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen, and though he wore homespun, he appeared reasonably clean and well fed.
“Welcome, sir,” the youth boomed out in a voice that was just beginning to turn, his mannerisms as rough-and-tumble as Lord Scott’s, his gestures just as sweeping.
“Brodie lad, can it truly be?” Ranald did not sound as if he feigned shock. “Last I saw you, you were a shaggy pup at Gord’s heels.”
“Aye,” Brodie laughed as he gave Uar’s forehead a hardy scratch which the gelding appeared to love. “But even ’ta stalk of a cabbage grows up.”
“A philosopher you’ll be, Brodie Scott,” Ranald predicted as he swung down from the animal and lifted Merry down. “Lad, please meet Mistress Tanner. I am escorting her home after an unfortunate carriage accident.”
Ranald’s smooth words almost convinced Merry of the innocence of their sojourn. She smiled at the wide-eyed youth. “Pleased to meet you, Brodie.”
The boy merely nodded, looking overwhelmed. He quickly busied himself unsaddling Uar, all the while sneaking surreptitious glances at Ranald and Merry as they crossed the inner ward.
The central grounds were bustling with livestock, children, and dogs as shaggy and unkempt as their young masters. Merry wrinkled her nose at the pungent if honest smells, but did not bother complaining. She knew Lindsay would dismiss any remark as that of a spoiled Tudor court-bred female, and mayhap he was right. She did not intend apologizing for her fastidious nature, and though her skirts were thoroughly soiled already, she raised them as she picked her way through the assorted mire and horse droppings in the yard.
Gordon Scott awaited them in the great hall, already sprawled back behind a trencher on the high seat. The narrow hall was functional but far neater than the ward, with thick Turkey carpets lining the walkway and a number of small, expertly woven tapestries lending accent of color here and there. As Merry’s eyes adjusted to the relative gloom, she made out the rows of gleaming weaponry
displayed above a huge hearth, rusted from the humidity but no less the fierce for it. Following her gaze, the border lord chuckled, seeming obliged then to offer a running commentary upon her surroundings.
“I find the gleades far more appealing when framed by Sassenach glaives,” The Scott said, grinning as he indicated the brace of captured swords ringing the hearthstone. There was no safe comment Merry might make in response to this boast, but a glance at Ranald revealed he looked amused, too. Both men seemed to derive great pleasure from her discomfiture.
With mingled relief and curiosity Merry regarded another woman who entered the hall at the opportune moment. Tall, sturdily built, with dark-gold hair neatly dressed under a lace cap, she commanded instant attention. Her gown of deep blue matched her clear eyes, and although obviously enceinte she carried herself with pride, neither embarrassed at her condition nor feeling obliged to hide away when guests arrived. She nodded greeting at Merry and Lord Lindsay, a warm smile curving her lips.
“Och, Fiona me luve!” Scott exclaimed, waving her over as his ruddy face beamed. His thick arm shot out and curled around her waist, drawing her against his side. It was apparent his adoration of the golden-haired woman went beyond mere lust when he reached up, drawing her head down to his for a moment and exchanging a passionate kiss.
Merry blushed, but Fiona Scott smiled through the kiss, straightening again so she might welcome their company more formally. “I bid you welcome to Goldielands,” she said, her voice soft yet commanding. It bore none of the rough border accent of her lord, and indeed by the graceful executions of each movement she might have been raised at Court.
Merry glanced at Ranald and saw him regarding Goldieland’s mistress as if an angel had suddenly appeared in a burst of golden flame. She was not certain why the admiring light in his eyes annoyed her; perhaps because he seemed to regard Merry with a critical air by comparison. Whatever the source of his emotion, it was clear he held Lady Scott in high esteem.
“How are you, Fi?” Ranald inquired when their gazes met, and the border lady smiled at him with warm recognition.
“Fat,” she laughed, patting her rounded abdomen, the very portrait of domestic bliss and tranquility. But for the sparkle of mirth in her deep blue eyes, Fiona might have passed for a suitably demure matron. Despite the irritation Ranald’s rapt attention engendered in her, and the shockingly intimate kiss the lady had exchanged with her lord husband in the hall, Merry decided she liked Gordon Scott’s wife.
She liked Fiona more when the woman turned on the crusty clan chief and thumped matter-of-factly upon his shoulder. “Gracious, Gord, where ’tis your hospitality. Have you offered our guests any ale or mead?”
The big man looked abashed at her rebuke. “Nay, luvey,” he muttered like a recalcitrant child, and Merry found herself smiling at the scene.
“Fi brews the finest heather ale this side of Glasgow,” Ranald put in for Merry’s benefit, and overhearing this, their hostess laughed again.
“Aye, Ran, but you would say anything sweet to curry MacDougall favor,” Fiona said with a saucy wink that quite surprised Merry. She was equally surprised The Scott did not lurch out of his seat and wrap his beefy hands around Lindsay’s throat for bantering with his wife, but the rusty-haired lord looked replete. Fiona’s presence alone seemed to calm him.
After introductions were completed, the lady of the keep summoned a silver tray bearing all manner of delicious treats, including caramel shorty and sweet iced cakes. Merry was ravenous after the tiring journey and meager fare thus far, and Fiona sensed this with her natural hostess instincts. She pressed Merry to try any number of the treats, then whispered instructions aside to a pair of young girls as to the evening menu.
“Of course you will stay the night,” Fiona said when Ranald remarked they must be headed on. When he tried to demur, the matter was settled with the simple arch of Lady Scott’s golden brow. After initial pleasantries and a more formal introduction was completed in the hall, Fiona offered Merry opportunity to freshen up. She led her guest upstairs where a small, neatly kept bed chamber stood service for travelers.
“Please consider Goldielands your home whilst on the road, Mistress Tanner,” Fiona graciously invited, and Merry smiled in response.
“Your hospitality is appreciated, milady,” she said, already eyeing the basin of fresh water with longing. “I feel obliged to explain I do not normally visit anyone in such a frightful state of dishevelment.”
Fiona nodded. “I know, my dear. ’Twas evident from the way you carry yourself, you are gently bred. You need not fear I will judge you harshly for the difficult circumstances that have befallen you.” There was a kind light in Lady Scott’s blue eyes, and Merry instinctively trusted her.
“Although,” Fiona continued with a twinkle, “I cannot help but wonder how you came to make the acquaintance of a notorious hermit like The Wolf of Badanloch.”
“Lord Lindsay, you mean?” Merry knew the answer already but needed time to seek a suitable reply. “Alack, he was kind enough to rescue me from the ruins of my coach after a disastrous encounter with bumbling highwaymen.” She did not feel obliged to identify the footpads, although she was fairly certain Lady Scott would have gotten a rich chuckle out of it.
“Aye, Ran can be chivalrous when he chooses to be,” Fiona said, and there was a troubled light in her eyes which prompted Merry to inquire after the lady’s familiarity with Lindsay.
“Oh, I was a MacDougall lass before wedding my wild Gord,” Fiona said with a laugh. “MacDougall daughters traditionally foster with Lindsays. I was sent to Edzell by my eighth birthday, as I was of an age with Darra Lindsay, Ran’s sister. There I learned the tasks of chatelaine and such alongside Darra, now Lady Deuchar. While being subjected to practical instruction, we girls also suffered the more creative pranks of Ran and his evil shadow.”
Merry smiled. “’Tis hard to imagine that one as lighthearted, milady.”
“Fiona, please. Fi, if you like. We do not stand on formalities at Goldielands.” Then Fiona nodded at Merry’s remark. “Aye, even in his younger days, Ran tended serious. Yet not so grave as he has become since Blair’s death.”
“Blair? Another sister?”
“Nay. His lady wife. You did not know?”
Merry shook her head, surprised at the pang that pierced her and took her breath. So Lord Lindsay had been married. Questions swirled in her mind, yet pursuit of the topic would only lead to Lady Scott’s curiosity and her own embarrassment. She assured herself the man’s past, or his current light o’loves, did not interest her in the slightest.
Chapter Eight
EVENING REPAST AT GOLDIELANDS tended toward the same general good-natured chaos as the keep itself, and the residents at table seemed content amidst screeching falcons and noisy children. Not only did the lord, and lady sup in the great banqueting hall, but all those within the realm of the Scotts of Branxholm attended festivities on a regular basis at the border stronghold. A bard came from St. Mary’s Loch, and by the deference with which even Lady Scott welcomed him, Merry supposed the sad-eyed man held some sort of sway over an audience.
Seosamh Douglas was at first glance innocuous, being slight of build for a man, with a scraggly mane of brown hair and an unkempt appearance that lent itself to the need for a good scrubbing. Merry fought the urge to suggest the fellow occasionally wade into the loch from whence he came, although for a certainty the water would have made short work of the island harp he carried tucked beneath one arm like a precious child. He never set down the humble instrument, not at table, but merely laid it across his lap while he availed himself of Scott hospitality.
Indeed, Merry admitted the fare might rival the Court’s in terms of generosity. Fully five tables creaked with the offerings of the house and any items guests felt inclined to bring. Loaves of golden bread, wheels of sharp cheese, and an assortment of wines but served to whet the guests’ appetites. There was salmon smoked to a tender flake, freshly caught trout, a
nd eel cooked in a sweet wine sauce. Crisply roasted boar and a full haunch of red deer appeased heartier appetites, while ladies were invited to indulge in pear-glazed partridge and pigeon’s eggs. No glass was left unfilled, no tankard remained dry for long. Ale and mead flowed as plentifully as the conversation around the long trencher tables in the banqueting hall.
At first, Merry felt self-conscious, even wearing the clean outfit Lady Scott insisted she borrow. The gown was of simple design compared to her court ensemble, but it was not peasant’s garb by any means. The gently scooped bodice and fitted waist complemented Merry’s figure. Surprisingly, the deep rose hue did not clash with her hair, nor did the wool scratch her delicate skin. Only the finest materials were used in Lady Scott’s gowns, and though the hem had been tacked so Merry might wear the taller woman’s garb, the gown otherwise appeared custom-made.
Lacking any proper jewelry, Merry decided to wear the red-gold raven amulet, sensing it would appeal to the earthy occupants of Goldielands. Whereas fine pearls might be wasted on swine, she did not mistake the covetous gleam in The Scott’s eye when his gaze fell upon the heavy gold ornament. Aye, she mused, Lord Scott was a genuine rascal indeed, for he obviously knew it for the ancient and priceless thing it was.
Even Ranald seemed impressed when Merry descended to the hall, restored from their travels thanks to their hostess. Her hair was freshly washed, and shone like the ruby wine in the glass he held. Lady Scott had offered Merry use of her own maid servant’s eldest daughter, and the clever Peigi had woven the auburn locks into a shimmering circle of braids about Merry’s head. The natural crown added several inches to her petite frame, and she felt more confident when she met his gaze. Being restored to cleanliness helped her self-esteem as well.
“I take it you do not regret our stopping at Goldielands altogether,” he remarked when Merry joined him before adjourning to the feast. She noticed his gaze, too, lingered for a moment on the raven amulet.
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