Snow Raven

by Patricia McAllister

  “’Tis an honor, miss,” Nell said in a soft voice. She was still abed, her glossy brown curls tumbling down around her shoulders. Though small-framed, she appeared sturdy and capable, and Merry unconsciously relaxed. She also sensed, somehow, that this young woman would be as fierce as a tiger where children were concerned.

  Feeling a sudden tug on her own heartstrings, Merry said, “I’m sorry for your recent losses, Nell.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened, and for a moment Merry thought she might cry, but then Nell gave a brave sniffle and choked out, “Yer so kind, miss. I canna hardly picture ye as a Sassenach lady.”

  “Aye, our Nell here would nae believe me at first when I told her ye dinna sprout horns from yer flaming hair,” Hertha put in merrily.

  Merry laughed. “Methinks Lord Lindsay might disagree with you there.” Hands on her hips, Merry gazed around the small chamber, cold and dismal as her own before she and Hertha had put it to rights. Already her mind tidied and swept and restored the room so the patient might rest more comfortably.

  She had a sudden idea. She knew Hertha would cooperate, for the tiring woman had approved of her fastidious nature more than once. With a smile tugging at her lips, Merry vowed to enlist the aid of Hertha and the good women of Auchmull in rendering these ramshackle quarters more livable. It was unconscionable that a young woman suffering childbed trauma and an old woman with aching joints should be subjected to such a cold, cheerless place. Thus resolved, Merry began planning her first tasks as Auchmull’s makeshift chatelaine, for nothing buoyed her spirits more than assuming control of disaster and magically transforming chaos into order.

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER, RAN returned from riding over his demesne in a foul mood. The message had been delivered to Wickham as planned, but as yet no response issued from the great border peel. He had expected a cry of outrage, one he hoped to hear echoing across the Grampians for miles distant. Nothing.

  He knew Sir Jasper for the calculating, cold-hearted bastard he was. But surely even a puffed-up Sassenach lordling would not be immune to a lady’s call of distress. Especially when she was his fiancée, chosen for her courtly connections and favor in the queen’s eye. To occupy himself while awaiting Wickham’s response, Ran rode out and checked on the welfare of his tenants and kinsmen, as he did each autumn after Mabon and the harvesting, assuring they had enough stores for the long winter ahead. Rain started during his last leg, an icy drizzle that quickly soaked his woolen breccan and turned to snow within the last mile. A wet snow he knew would not stick, but a daunting reminder of the hard dark days to come.

  Responsibility weighed heavily upon Ran’s mind, a legacy from the last Earl of Crawford who had drummed the notion into his son’s head from birth. Ran had been carefully groomed for his role as clan chief, and personal preferences were inconsequential to his sire.

  Normally he did not mind the duties associated with his lot in life; after all, it had led to his union with Blair, but in the past months Ran questioned his position. Over a hundred depended on him for food, shelter, and protection. Lindsays and all their related septs were fiercely loyal to the core, but Ran was starting to resent, however churlishly, their childlike devotion. He was a loner by nature, not a leader, though his reiving days were legendary, and word that The Wolf of Badanloch had joined the Scotts for a border foray brought a sparkle to his kinsmen’s eyes and much comment this day wherever he went.

  Ran knew they prayed The Wolf had returned so all might be right with the world. In his heart, he knew it could never be. Nothing would be the same without Blair. His hands tightened in Uar’s coarse mane and he blinked back a mist of emotion, resolved not to succumb again. Sobs shook him for one dark night after she died, as if an angry god rattled him in a knotted fist, but since then he had turned grief into hard, cold resolve and nothing, nobody, would ford his defenses again. On this much, he was determined.

  Riding through the wet snow, up the muddied path toward Auchmull, Ran gazed bleakly at his legacy and the keep he called home. Sweet Jesu, had ever a castle seemed so empty, devoid of light or warmth, Blair’s laughter forever gone, only the shuffle of feet and murmuring servants lending any sign of life. He had never thought he might despise Auchmull as he did his daunting childhood home, Edzell, but at this moment he desired nothing more than to wheel Uar about and disappear into the cloak of night.

  He pressed on, however, meeting Brodie in the yard, who took charge of Uar at once and informed him of Gilbert and Hugo’s return. Ran nodded and swung down from his tired steed, groping for energy he did not find. He knew all that awaited was a cold hearth and an empty trencher, for he thought it nonsense a meal should await a man who came and went like the wind.

  Wearily he trudged up the steps and into the hall, where he stopped short and blinked stray snowflakes from his lashes. Surely he was imagining things now. He heard a low murmur of voices coming from the great hall, a clink of glass and … laughter. A woman’s laughter. Not husky like Blair’s, but silvery, tinkling, like a fairy’s mischievous chuckle. He unfastened his soaked breccan and tossed it onto a wooden peg, beginning a slow burn even as the laughter subsided into a contented drone of conversation. He recognized Gilbert’s voice and frowned. Whatever was going on, Ran intended it would stop at once.

  He burst into the hall without fanfare and the abrupt, guilty silence confirmed his suspicions. Gilbert was lounging upon the low couch before the hearth, which blazed as brightly as Ran’s temper. His little brother looked quite at ease, too, falling band undone and carelessly draped about his neck, dark hair mussed and violet-blue eyes glinting with high spirits. Ran’s narrowed gaze traveled down to Hugo, where the blond giant sprawled on the rug before the hearth, toasting his huge, dirty bare feet as casually as if he attended a country fair.

  But it was Merry Tanner who captured the brunt of his attentions, draped as she was across a burgundy velvet chair, one leg slung in very unladylike posture across the arm of the chair, a golden slipper dangling from her toes. She was wearing some outrageous courtly frippery, a lavish gown of pale-gold silk trimmed with ivory lace and seed pearls, whose skirts were so voluminous she appeared to be a redheaded doll propped in the chair.

  At Ran’s entrance her laughter trailed off, and she struggled to sit upright, but dissolved into soft gale of giggles when she was unable to effect a graceful recovery. Ran noted the nearly empty glass of claret clasped in her little hand, and his frowning gaze traveled from his prisoner back to Gilbert, then swiftly crossed the shockingly clean, orderly great hall.

  “Ran. Welcome home!”

  Ran ignored Gil’s cheerful greeting. “I presume your mission was accomplished to my satisfaction?” His deadly cold voice echoed in the hall as he looked at Gilbert. The young knave stopped grinning and sprang up like a puppet at his inquiry. He shifted nervously under Ran’s regard, but maintained his jaunty air.

  “Aye, Mistress Tanner’s man will recover nicely. We saw him to an inn, left him in the care of a couple who promised to see him home. I left my own purse for their troubles.”

  “’Twas the least you could do, I should think.” Ran offered no compliment when none was warranted. His gaze raked Gil up and down. “You do not appear much the worse for wear, despite your lengthy journey.”

  “We’ve been back a whole day. You were out riding the hinterlands, Hertha said.” Gil sounded a trifle defensive, and Ran’s ire raised a notch further when he saw the boy sneak a glance at Merry, as if seeking her support or reassurance.

  She had set the liquor aside and appeared considerably sobered, through her gray-green eyes were bright from spirits or with spirit and her overall air was defiant. She righted herself in the chair and smoothed her skirts, returning Ran’s cool regard. “Indeed. Welcome home, milord.”

  “Home? Not as I recollect it.” Ran’s retort encompassed the merrily crackling hearth, the jewel-toned rugs he had not seen for months, which had been relegated to storage after Blair’s death. He
felt as if an army of emotion invaded his home, the contented demeanor of the others only mocking his private despair. How dare any woman, and Wickham’s at that, assume proprietary rights over Auchmull, how brazen of the Sassenach wench to move items about and clean and rearrange to her heart’s content, as if she owned the place! Ran stared daggers at Merry, but she raised her chin a notch and their silent battle of wills raged beneath the already tense undercurrents in the hall.

  “Mistress Tanner has been amusing us with tales of a masque at Greenwich this eve,” Gil put in quickly to ease the awkwardness, his grin raffish as ever. “I declare, I should very much like to visit Glorianna’s Court one day.”

  “One does not step unwitting into an adder’s nest, Gil,” Ran said, still looking at Merry. “’Tis the first lesson in life I thought I had taught you.”

  Merry bristled at his remark. “Methinks judging the worth of somebody of whom one has no personal knowledge rather high-handed, Lord Lindsay.”

  Her cool use of his title informed Ran she was in a high dudgeon, but he no longer cared. At this point he wanted her out of his life, her meddling ways relegated to the court where she belonged.

  “I see you are quick to take advantage of the slightest lapse in rules, Mistress Merry,” Ran said as he glanced over the unfamiliar hall.

  “Christ’s wounds!” Gilbert suddenly exploded. “This place was a sty! You cannot deny the change is for the better, Ran, and I, for one, have no complaint.” The younger man flung himself back on the couch, hands linked over his middle as he glared at Ran with a sulky countenance.

  “’Tis not the place of a prisoner to rearrange furniture, Gil. I hold you responsible for letting matters get out of hand. I told everyone Mistress Tanner was to keep to her room until negotiations finished.”

  “What negotiations?” Gil hurled back. His defiance touched a nerve in Ran and suddenly he resolved to clear the room.

  “That’s enough. You and Hugo are dismissed for the night. Don’t trifle with my temper any more than you already have. And as for you, Mistress Tanner—”

  “Aye?” Merry faced Ran with equal aplomb, rising from the chair and folding her arms across a décolletage he noticed was far too daring for every day wear. Had she attempted a curtsey, he was willing to wager her breasts would tumble out in all their silken ivory glory.

  Ran flushed at the thought, feeling overheated. He was used to the hall being cold and dank, and the warmth permeating his bones now, while welcome, was most disconcerting. So were the emotions this redheaded woman roused in his chest, her clear eyes transmitting both a silent challenge and a plea he found strangely compelling. Exciting, even.

  He did not understand his attraction to a woman so unlike Blair, his beloved wife. None could compare to his flaxen-haired, sweet-natured lass and he was determined none should ever try. He tore his gaze from Merry with some effort.

  “’Tis over late,” he muttered. “We shall speak on such matters another time. For now, ’tis enough you understand when boundaries have been crossed.”

  “Aye, milord. I understand quite well.” Merry’s voice was frosty as she spun on her heel and vacated the hall, leaving only the scent of damask roses in her wake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  LATE THE NEXT EVENING, just before the crimson sun slid down behind the dark-gray clouds marching over Auchmull, a rider arrived at the gates.

  Hertha found Merry gazing out at the thickening clouds from the single, narrow window in her room. “Och, ’tis surely the messenger from Braidwood. Lord Ranald is away.”

  Jolted from her reverie, Merry turned from the window. “I’d like to meet the rider in the yard,” she said. “Mayhap he has word of how Jem is doing.”

  “I’ll stay and finish mending this hem, lass. Ye go on ahead.”

  Tossing Hertha a quick nod of thanks, Merry grabbed up a cloak, gathered up her cumbersome skirts, and hurried out the door. It never occurred to her to think she might be breaking Ranald’s rules. Even after the previous night’s incident, she was determined she would make the best of her lot. She’d been cooped up too long without benefit of fresh air or stimulating company, and was anxious for news about her fate.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t forget the chilly reception she’d received from Auchmull’s inhabitants upon her first appearance, and she paused to self-consciously tug up the hood of her cloak about her face. In the twilight, her features and distinctive red hair were reduced to shadowy nothingness. She completed her journey without incident.

  The inner ward was bustling with activity as Auchmull kinsmen were busy unloading a wagon piled high with kegs of heather ale. Merry heard grumbling as she passed by the workers, most of it directed at her.

  “I thought she was supposed to be our prisoner, nae our bleedin’ royal guest!”

  “Did ye see the gown she wore at sup? Whoosh! How many falderals does the Sassenach wench have, I wonder?”

  “Enough to snare poor Ran, nae doubt,” one fellow snickered under his breath as he swung down the last barrel with no little ease, and it slammed to the ground at his feet.

  Merry overheard more muttered remarks about the fickle hearts of females as the men rolled off the barrels. She stared after them a moment, troubled by what she’d heard. There was no lost love for her in any of their voices. Why their opinions should matter at all was just as disconcerting as the contents of their speech.

  Merry saw the lone rider had dismounted and was tending his steed. Duncan and Brodie had gone with Ranald after dinner on a mission to purchase a horse to replace the stolen one, and though Gilbert was supposed to be guarding her, he and Hugo had imbibed over much with the meal and lolled about the hall, slumped laughing over a half-finished chess game.

  Merry approached the messenger, supposing he was bewildered why he was not hailed with eager questions. The other men had admitted him after a cursory inspection and gone about their business tending the ale.

  With the fading light silhouetting the man’s figure against the horizon, Merry couldn’t make out much more than the fact he seemed very cold or tired. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, and a long cloak was tightly wrapped about his body, a hood shadowing his features. His hands appeared strong, however, as he juggled the reins about. He was gazing straight ahead, and Merry approached from the side.

  “Excuse me,” she said quietly. “I was wondering if you might carry word from Braidwood.”

  The man started, his head swinging around sharply at the sound of her voice. She made out a narrow, sharp-featured face belonging to a youngish man with a curl of brown hair dangling over his brow. He was not uncommonly large, but appeared sturdy.

  “Mistress Tanner?” he inquired warily, studying her closely.

  “Aye.”

  “My name is Cullen Maclean.”

  “Cullen!” she exclaimed as a wave of shock and disbelief rolled over her mind, threatening to overshadow her composure. Blair Lindsay’s brother. The dreaded “Black Cullen” Hertha had warned her about. His blue eyes narrowed in warning.

  “Hush, gel,” he said, and glanced around them furtively. “There’s others who’ll overhear ye. And if ye wish to leave Auchmull alive, ’tis wise ye listen to me. I bear word from Sir Wickham.”

  Merry realized with a sense of mounting hope he must be part and parcel of some rescue attempt. He could help her. It seemed ironic she should be forced to turn to Lindsay’s brother-in-law for aid, but she did not question her good fortune.

  Lowering her voice, she said rapidly, “La, you won’t believe what’s happened to me. ’Tis all so incredible. But of course, you must know. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  He gave her a level look with uncanny blue eyes. “Dinna say The Wolf has nae earned his reputation,” he growled under his breath. “Like Blair, ye seek to find a conscience where there is none. Ye women hae to go and meddle wi’ things ye know nothin’ about.”

  Merry had a sudden pang of fear. Perhaps he was right. Maybe the last s
hred of humanity she sought in Ranald’s dark eyes was simply not there. Now Cullen Maclean appeared to be her best chance for rescue, and Merry was desperate for an explanation.

  “You’re right,” she blurted. “’Twas wrong of me to foolishly trust Lindsay. I thought him Providence at first, after the coach accident. It seemed coincidental when he appeared at my rescue—”

  “Nae so coincidental now, eh?” Cullen said, and she thought he might be laughing at her with those cool blue eyes.

  “Nay,” Merry said softly, stepping forward so she could see his face more clearly beneath the hood. “What has Sir Jasper to say of these appalling matters?”

  “He is livid,” Blair’s brother tersely responded. “He will have Lindsay’s head for this. A grave insult hae been dealt the house of Wickham, and as Macleans are vassal to Sir Jasper we shall stand wi’ him against The Wolf o’ Badanloch.”

  Merry was gravely silent a moment. “How did it happen, Cullen? How did your sister die?”

  He didn’t immediately answer her. Instead, his keen gaze moved across the yard, where he spied several men hurrying out from the keep.

  “Yer lord and master has noted yer absence, lass,” Cullen told her. “’Pears he dinna trust ye.”

  “Lord Lindsay is not my lord or master,” Merry replied sharply, but as she spun about, she saw Gilbert Lindsay dashing down the steps, clothing rumpled, raking a hand through his dark hair, a frantic expression on his face. He had been ordered to watch over her, and Ranald had trusted him to the task.

  “Ran’s a clever one,” Cullen mused in a low voice, “but he canna watch us all at once.” He shook his head and a faint smile sketched his lips. “Och, what a coil this be.”

  “I had nothing to do with any of this,” Merry said defensively, realizing with a sinking sense of despair that Gilbert’s frantic search about the yard would soon unearth them both. Gil had not drawn attention to her missing status since he obviously did not wish Ran to know of his failings, but he was now striding in their general direction. Soon she would lose her only chance for answers.