“Tho’ a drukken reiver makes fer a muckle gab,” Brodie said in a teasing tone as he poured golden-brown heather ale into the tankard his uncle offered up.
“Haud yer gab, pup!” The Scott cried with mock outrage, but then he reached out and thoroughly ruffled the boy’s rusty mop. Brodie’s hazel eyes twinkled with delight.
“Can I go, Uncle Gord?” he wheedled, drawing out the “o” in “go” so long that everyone listening chuckled. It was obvious the youth was regarded with much affection in the clan.
“Na, ye wee nickum,” Scott grumbled. “Now leave me be.” As the pleading became more eloquent, he waved aside the youth like a bothersome fly. At last Brodie returned to his spot beside the hearth, sulking there over the cup of watered wine his Aunt Fiona permitted him.
While the men gathered round Gord Scott in anticipation of the night’s adventure, Lady Scott invited Merry to the solar for quiet conversation and a late dessert of early berries and clotted cream. The room was cozily decorated in shades of gold and forest green, with delicate furniture imported from France and luxurious tapestries softening harsh stone walls. Fiona lit an assortment of candles in iron sconces, banishing the shadows. Shortly they heard the horses being saddled in the inner court, the coarse laughter and drunken boasts of the reivers preparing for departure. Fiona rose and went to the window, looking down upon the scene but briefly before she drew the green velvet curtains closed. Merry sensed the woman’s distress and remarked, “It must be difficult, being a border wife.”
“Aye.” Fiona sighed, her demeanor sober as she returned and lowered her girth carefully into a deep chair fashioned for comfort. “The thought ’tis always there that one day Gord may not return. Goldielands would fall to the mercy of the strongest Scott, or mayhap a greedy English neighbor, and then my fate and the children’s would be decided by a stranger.”
“You are young yet, and very beautiful,” Merry said. “Doubtless the new owner would wish to wed you, and secure the loyalty of your kinsmen as well.”
Fiona appeared to shudder. “I see you are not unfamiliar with the practical Scots nature.”
Merry laughed. “Scotland cannot lay sole claim to practicality, I fear,” she said. “’Tis much the same in England. Rich widows fetch a high price in the Tudor Court. More so if they are comely. A stubborn man can always be swayed by a pretty face.”
“Certainly it must make the aftertaste more pleasant,” Fiona agreed with a smile as she sipped at a chamomile drink she had poured for both women. Setting the cup and saucer aside, she invited, “Tell me of your betrothed, Mistress Tanner. What sort of man is he?”
“Meredith. Merry to my friends and family.” When Fiona nodded and smiled in response, Merry sensed their green friendship quickly ripening. “I fear I know little of milord husband-to-be. He is said to be handsome, possessed of a well-turned leg, and accounted a good dancer.”
Fiona chuckled. “The latter ’tis an important attribute in Tudor circles, I take it?”
“Oh, aye, to me it is. I adore dancing. I should be heartbroken if he did not permit frequent visits to Court after we wed, especially attendance at the masques Her Grace puts on. Already I have half a dozen costume notions I have not yet had opportunity to display.
“I am quite vexed I missed the spring masque planned at Greenwich. I was going as Diana, goddess of the hunt. I had a marvelous outfit made, a jerkin of amber damask and trunk-hose of moss green with gold stripes. I had a jeweled quiver fashioned to sling over one shoulder. There was also a yew bow painted gold, and arrows with ruby tips.”
“Sounds more like Cupid,” Fiona remarked with a laugh, and Merry nodded, smiling impishly.
“Aye, I confess the mischievous thought did occur to me that I should target Wickham while wearing the garb, and reveal my identity whilst he was quite outraged.”
“Wickham?” Fiona stared at her, the pleasant smile instantly replaced by a guarded look Merry did not understand.
“Aye, Sir Jasper Wickham. He is my betrothed.”
“Oh, my God.” Fiona’s hands flew to her mouth, her blue eyes huge. Shock rendered her nearly speechless, though Merry was unable to let it pass.
“What is amiss, Fiona?”
The golden-haired woman took several deep, ragged breaths and finally regained her composure. “Does … Ran know this?”
Merry nodded, frowning. “Aye, I told him at once I was en route for a meeting at Whitehall with the man I am marrying.” She tilted her head. “You seem uncommonly alarmed. Is there something about Wickham I should know?”
“I do not know what to tell you, Merry.” Fiona shook her head in obvious distress. “I only know Ran blames an Englishman named Wickham for his wife’s death. His rage is evident whenever the man’s name arises.”
“He said nothing of it. There was no reaction when I mentioned Sir Jasper, none at all.”
Fiona nodded, looking stricken. “That is what worries me. Ran’s silence is deadlier than his rage. ’Tis possible he has forgiven the man, I suppose, whatever trespasses he incurred, but far more likely he bides his time for … some sort of opportunity.”
“Such as?” Merry did not want to admit Fiona’s words frightened her, but they did. She already knew dark undercurrents swirled beneath Lindsay’s calm exterior, yet she did not know what lengths he might go to in order to gain satisfaction. Was it possible he intended using her in some manner? He might have killed her a dozen times over if it was personal harm he planned, so the plot, if there was one, was more subtle than either she or Fiona suspected.
“Auchmull,” she whispered.
Fiona nodded emphatically. “You must not go there, under any circumstances. I shall appeal to Gord, insist you stay on with us until Wickham can be contacted. Hopefully Ran will suspect nothing, if I give him no cause for doubt. We have always been friends, more like brother and sister.”
“If Lindsay did anything to me, he should reckon with the queen,” Merry said a trifle shakily. The full impact of Fiona’s words had yet to sink in. “Would he see Tudor wrath brought to bear upon the entire Lindsay clan?”
“For Blair’s sake, aye.” Fiona did not hesitate, and Merry felt a pang of emotion she did not intend examining too closely. “He adored Blair beyond this earth. Her shadow has never left his eyes since her death.”
“How did she die?”
“I am not certain, exactly. There was an incident involving Wickham, I know. Something about Blair becoming lost, forced into accepting shelter at Wickham’s keep. She took ill, I believe, and Wickham did not send for Ran. Not until ’twas too late. She died, and Ran holds the Englishman responsible.”
“’Tis a very thin tale,” Merry said, frowning. “There must be much more to it.”
“No doubt, there is. Ran does not talk much of the incident, nor do those of wise persuasion ask for detail. I advise you, Merry, against trifling with his temper. ’Tis slow to rise, but once established, there is no escaping unscathed. Growing up at Edzell, Darra and I both suffered his occasional blasts of cold rage. There was a time, for about three years, when I did not speak with Ran at all.”
Merry set her jaw. “Yet you had reason for wishing reconciliation. I have none. I owe Ranald Lindsay nothing, neither fealty nor respect. He lost the latter when he did not tell me of his previous acquaintance with Wickham.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken. Some months have passed since Blair’s death, his anger may have eased by now.”
“Nevertheless, I do not intend to be an unwitting pawn any longer. When he returns from reiving with his border cronies, he will deal with me in an honest fashion or by heavens he will learn firsthand of a Tanner temper, as well.”
* * *
MERRY WAS WAITING IN the great hall when the men returned in the wee hours of the early morn. Shouts and excited whinnies of horses heralded their arrival, and there was no doubt as to their success when the doors flew open and Lord Scott strode in. Swaggered, rather, his broad face gleaming with sweat and g
rinning with triumph, the docked tail of a calf swinging from his own red braids. Most of the men had peeled off on the way back, returning home to their own wives and warm hearths, so the number entering with the laird was considerably smaller than that which had left. The handful included Ranald.
Merry’s eyes widened at his appearance. His kilt was torn, revealing one bloodied knee when he walked. It was obvious he favored his right leg now, and whatever happened was likely not innocuous, for his shirt was stained and smeared with dried blood. Someone had plaited his dark hair, which fell in straggling clumps over his broad shoulders, a victim of wind and rain, and he looked for all the world like a wild Highlander there to storm Goldielands. Yet there was a gleam in his dark eyes she did not recall before, a sketch of primal satisfaction. Something deep within her shivered, and courage almost deserted her.
Too late. The Scott noted her in the shadows, and seemed surprised. “Hout! What’s this?”
Merry stepped forward, her head held high. She looked not at Scott, but Ranald Lindsay. “’Twould appear there is dire need for some answers, sirrah.” Never was she so aware of her own diminutive size as the bloodstained Wolf of Badanloch loomed over her, and their gazes met and locked. He must have read the icy glint of anger in her eyes, yet his only response was a faint shrug that mocked her confrontation.
“What is your claim against Wickham? I demand an answer, milord.” Merry’s voice shook, but she was pleased her body did not do likewise. The other men lapsed into stunned silence, drifting away to their beds, but Lindsay remained firmly planted before her and The Scott folded his brawny arms and observed their terse exchange with interest.
“My quarrel with Wickham does not concern you.” Ranald’s words were clipped, intending discouragement, but Merry was buying none of it.
“Then why did you feign ignorance whenever I mentioned his name? This reeks of the ultimate deceit, and I would know why you lied.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “I did not lie, woman. I merely did not offer comment on a matter which warranted none.”
Lord Scott spoke drunkenly, breaking the strained silence that followed. “Whaur is m’ wife, lass?”
“Fiona wished to stay up, but she was weary. She says this babe has tired her more than the others.”
Gordon Scott nodded, looking concerned. After a muttered good night, he sought the comforts of his chamber and his fair Fiona. Soon only Ranald and Merry remained in the hall, as the weary reivers retired one by one.
“I take it the raid was successful.” Merry cast a disparaging glance over her gore-stained adversary, and as if deliberately provoking her, Ranald drew his great claymore and minutely examined the blade. She shuddered at the action, as the evil weapon lay balanced across his big palms. Firelight gleamed off the cold steel, but Merry noted no blood there. Frowning in puzzlement, she looked at him and caught a glimpse of mockery in his eyes.
“You assumed the worst, I see.”
“I had no other indication. The blood—”
“Cattle. Calves too young to run, beasts too old to keep up are swiftly dispatched. ’Tis a messy business, aye, but Gord and his clansmen are most efficient.” He returned the sword to its rest upon his hip, folding his arms as he considered her.
“Then …” Merry licked her lips nervously, “there was no battle?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “D’you not suppose someone would be hammering at the gates if there had been?” He gave a short laugh. “Sassenach may not be bright, but Sweet Jesu, they are dogged.”
“A thief is a thief, and should be summarily dealt with,” Merry angrily replied, stung by his reference to half her heritage. “What you did was no better than Gilbert’s foray into highway robbery. I pray you hang for it!”
She tossed her head, whirling away. To her surprise, Ranald reached out and seized her left arm firmly, pinning her in place. Her outraged glare elicited only a stony stare in response, and to her further indignation he actually laughed. Faith, but she was beginning to loathe the rogue!
“Unhand me at once,” she hissed.
“When I am ready.” His dark gaze raked her contemptuously. “You wished to know about Sir Jasper Wickham. Don’t ask if you cannot handle the reply, woman.”
She subsided in place, but her anger did not abate. “Very well. I am listening.”
“Aye, you are quite right I had no intentions of telling you of my prior acquaintance with the man. First, there is no reason you should find interest in such discourse, because it does not concern you. Secondly, I knew you should refuse to accompany me anywhere if you knew the true depth of rancor between Wickham and me.”
Merry nodded, but her attention remained on the steely grip Lindsay maintained on her. Just his touch made her quiver deep inside with some emotion she cared not to examine too closely. She felt his strength, the warmth of his fingers encircling her upper arm. Even through the soft wool sleeve his touch was as searing as the flames in the great hearth.
“You are quite right,” she said a trifle breathlessly. “I should have refused your escort at once, for it appears you are every bit the Scots scoundrel your little brother is.”
Something flashed in those dark eyes. “If you damme me for a knave, madame, then I may as well die a sated knave.” Suddenly Ranald yanked her into his arms, pinning her firmly by the shoulders as he brought his lips hard upon hers. Merry gasped through the kiss, clutching his waist in a reflex she later despised. He threaded a big hand through her crown of hair, tugging Peigi’s creation apart so the braids fell heavily to her hips. The twisting knot in her lower belly unfurled like a rope flung wild, and she moaned beneath the fierce assault of his hot, hungry mouth.
Then he was kissing her neck, ear, leaving a fevered trail down her shivering flesh where he tugged aside the cloth draping her shoulder, and gently bit her shoulder blade. Merry’s eyes flew open, as the wince of pain was quickly soothed by a swirl of his tongue which left her gasping. Madness, sheer madness, yet his passionate assault did naught but heat her blood and fire her senses until she, too, was rendered wild with primitive emotion, a hammering need.
The exquisite sensations his touch evoked left her trembling, but sanity warred with the base instincts of their powerful attraction. The male scent of him, heady with the sweat of exertion, the coppery tang of dried blood, brought her to her senses. Her gaze focused on his stained shirt, she felt a corresponding shock sweep over her.
“Nay … !”
He silenced her protest with a final kiss, bordering on savagery in its intensity. Then he set her roughly back, dark eyes glittering with either satisfaction or icy triumph, perhaps both.
“There. A taste of a true scoundrel, Mistress Tanner.” His mocking voice rang in the hall, or mayhap it was Merry’s own shame and despair that made it seem so.
“I despise you, sirrah! You are naught but the lowest cad to e’er walk the earth.”
“No doubt you are quite right.” Ranald’s cold glance was dismissing as he turned away, his boot heel echoing with finality. He paused near the stairs and cast a final word at her. “You wonder if I intend turning you over to Wickham on the morrow. The answer is nay. You will be my guest at Auchmull until I say otherwise.”
“I will see you in hell first!” Merry cried after him.
“So be it, madame. So be it.”
Chapter Ten
THE NIGHT PASSED TENSELY for Merry, though she comforted herself with the knowledge Fiona would never permit Lindsay to remove her beyond Goldielands. Upon rising, she was pleased Peigi awaited her, the young girl anxious and willing to sculpt some new creation from Merry’s wayward locks. She also brought another outfit Fiona had insisted their guest accept, a gown of fine green linen with a darker green velvet cape and cork-heeled shoes to match. Peigi dressed the auburn curls off Merry’s forehead with a small lace cap on the back of her head. The heavy hair was secured with velvet ribbons matching the gown, a simple but fetching country look.
Certainly it
never occurred to Merry she might endure any travel, so she wore her farthingale and joined the others early to break her fast. There were trenchers of thick, honeyed oatmeal called drammach, and flaky biscuits appeared when Gordon Scott called for “bakes.” As the meal commenced and Fiona did not appear, Merry inquired after her hostess. The Scott frowned and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“She’s warsling wi’ a fever, lass,” he said. “I sent fer Mother MacDougall last night, an’ Fiona dree the garlic and May butter.”
Merry felt a tingle of unease when she realized her champion, likely her only defender, was indisposed. As if her thoughts were as transparent as her expression, she saw Ranald nod slightly, as if satisfied there should be no further obstacle to his intentions. Merry felt tension settle over the meal and picked at her food, no longer hungry. Before Lord Scott departed again in anticipation of counting his new cattle, she asked if she might visit Fiona.
The border lord denied her request, though less gruffly than she supposed, pointing out his lady wife needed her rest and should be fine “on the morrow or so.” The trouble was Merry would not be there, for as soon as their host departed for the pastures Ranald called for his horse to be saddled and she realized he was seizing opportunity by the horns.
Ran saw the daggers in Merry’s eyes when she looked across the table at him. “I am not going anywhere with you, sirrah,” she hissed as the lasses cleared the table, pretending not to listen in and lingering all the while.
“I do not recall asking your opinion,” he said curtly. “We have stayed our welcome and ’tis time to press on. You may have half an hour to assemble your things, no more.”
At least the Tudor wench was bright enough to realize her options were nil, Ran thought. There were none Merry could appeal to, and after aborted attempts to locate Goldielands’ lord, she flew upstairs and salvaged what was left of the time remaining. She reappeared in the great hall, defiant auburn curls already escaping the confines of the severe hairstyle Peigi inflicted on her. By then she was shaking with indignation. She clutched a bundle in her arms, the remnants of her old gown. She regarded Ran as one might a slithering serpent.
Snow Raven Page 9