Death had never particularly frightened him, but the thought of Wickham ordering someone else to do his dirty work made his blood run cold. None other had motive, except perhaps a Maclean or two, and they were sniveling cowards, the lot of them.
The only doubts he had now concerned Merry Tanner. Ran had to admit the woman daunted him. Assuming the task of chatelaine at Auchmull had infuriated him, but he grudgingly admired her pluck. He could not deny she had a winsome air, and others obviously agreed, for Hertha and Gilbert and Hugo all hurried to her bidding now. Others were coming ’round, too, including those who had cursed loudest when she came. Mistress Merry had a way of giving orders that left one feeling grateful for the task. Truly, she was a whirlwind to be reckoned with.
Not that it wasn’t in the vixen to scheme like a master, he was sure. Yet Merry was nothing if not proud. He had decided to let her be where matters in the household were concerned. He couldn’t quite imagine her instructing some lowly servant to kill him, not when she’d so dearly love to do the deed herself. In her eyes, and those of her family, he surely deserved it, though.
Ran cursed under his breath and finished his brandy in one gulp. He set the snifter aside and resumed thumbing through Auchmull’s accounts, aware of the numbers dancing meaninglessly before his eyes. Usually he enjoyed handling his own ledgers. It made up for not having a family, in a small way.
He kept himself so busy with overseeing his lands he didn’t have too much time to think about Merry, or how she might feel in his bed, her fair skin warm and silken to the touch …
Abruptly he slammed the ledger shut. Jesu, he was a fool. The woman didn’t want him. He didn’t want her. Their kisses were mistakes, whatever drew them together so inexplicably was simply prompted by desperation or convenience. She’d marry Wickham in the end, if Ran didn’t kill the scoundrel first. His lips curved in a bitter smile at the memory of how he and Blair met and later handfasted. The Highland Games. Ah, had it really been less than two years ago? It seemed nigh a lifetime behind him now.
He remembered how fetching Blair had looked in purple heather plaid, her flaxen hair a riotous tangle about her shoulders, blue eyes sparkling like the waters of Badanloch. He recalled how she’d shown off her new little dirk, which she kept cleverly hidden up one sleeve. She’d informed all the lads there that they’d better not try anything, because if her brother Black Cullen didn’t gut them, she would!
The Games had been a gesture of truce between the clans for years. Fighting was forbidden, and there was a strict code of honor, but Ran cared less about any of it when Blair pulled him aside one evening to show him her prized weapon. They had met on and off in secret for several months by then, and though they had kissed and exchanged small tokens of love, naught had been said of a future between them. Too much bad blood yet raged between Lindsays and Macleans.
There was a mischievous glint in her eye as Blair drew him behind a stand of oak and hawthorn trees, and presented the little dagger for his inspection.
“Do ye think I’m well protected now from the likes of lusty men?” she’d saucily inquired in her soft Highland burr.
Ran spared the dagger a contemptuous glance and then flashed her a grin. “That would not stop a fly, sweetheart.” Unbidden, he reached out and drew her into his arms. Blair gasped and mock-struggled.
“Ssh, lovey, we don’t want to call the troops,” Ran chuckled, and brought his lips down on hers. Suddenly, he felt the sharp point of the little dagger digging into his neck. With a muttered oath, he let her go.
“Ye’ll nae take such liberties with me again, Ranald Lindsay,” Blair hissed, eyes narrowing to gleaming slits of sky blue. “’Tis a ring I’ll hae, or a tumble ye’ll nae get!”
He laughed at her spunk. “I think you’d run away with me this night, if I asked it, hinny.”
The dagger dropped to her side. “What!” she cried, and her denial was too swift, too hot. It proved his words true.
“Blair, I know the Macleans intend you for the Chief of Clan Donald, and though I’m an earl, I’m not half as rich as he. But we both know your heart belongs to The Wolf.”
Ran’s gaze on her was warm and knowing. He recalled her broken cry as she flew into his arms and nestled there like a little white dove.
“Aye, Ranald! I am yours. Never think that of me, that I could wed another,” she whispered, and he was moved by the tears in her eyes. She dropped the dagger in the grass and surrendered to him. There was something else in her eyes, as if love and utter despair had mingled to turn them a piercing, shadowed blue. He was troubled by her obvious agony, but Blair didn’t speak for a long moment. She simply laid her head upon his chest.
“I canna cry off the wedding wi’ Macdonald,” she murmured thickly into his velvet doublet, “but please know ’tis for the best, for both of us.”
“Do you crave eternal misery, Blair?” he demanded roughly, hauling her back from him by a silken hank of her hair. “Because I don’t! Not a night goes by that I don’t dream of you, hinny. Of you in my arms, my bed, my life …”
“Oh, Ran!” Her sudden, heartrending sob shattered his anger like fragile glass. He grabbed Blair fiercely, protectively, in his arms. She raised her face to his, her loch-blue eyes glittering with tears. This time, she did not deny his kisses … or his claim on her heart…
Ran shook himself free of the haunting memory with a start.
His fist came down on his desk with a crash, the pen flew from his grip. Blair had wed him and paid the price. He had, in essence, killed the thing he loved most in life. The mighty Wolf of Badanloch buried his face in his hands, and wept like a bairn.
Chapter Fifteen
OVER THREE FEET OF snow fell during the night. A pristine, glittering sheet of white covered everything. All of Auchmull was slow to rouse the next morning. It felt good to lay abed, Merry thought, stretching contentedly beneath the heavy blankets. Usually the hustle and bustle in the halls awoke her long before dawn. This time the servants were content to sleep in, too. Of course, she had nigh exhausted them with her lists of chores over the past few days. She chuckled, for though they all complained, none could deny the castle was beginning to resemble something more than a mews.
Eventually Merry straggled from bed. Hertha offered to help her to dress in one of the practical woolen gowns Ran’s sister had left behind.
“Come wi’ me, lass,” Hertha said, holding up Merry’s cloak. “Ye look like ye need a breath of fresh air.”
“What about Lord Lindsay?”
The elderly woman sniffed. “What, indeed. He’s nae got the right to keep ye all penned up like a milch cow!”
Merry giggled. “Oh, Hertha, I’m supposed to be a prisoner. You will make his lordship ever so angry if you persist in treating me like an honored guest.”
“I’ve benefit of age and wisdom,” Hertha said. “I changed Lord Ranald’s nappies nae so long ago. Both of ye can humor an old woman now.”
As the two women shared a conspiratorial grin, Merry realized they had become friends, different as they were. She was grateful for Hertha’s cheerful presence. It made it easier to ignore the furtive, hostile looks tossed at her from any Lindsay kin. Although she noticed they had decreased of late.
Most of the women and children were inside today, barricaded away from the cold and snow. Merry buried her chilled hands deep into the pockets of her cloak and discovered the remaining scone she had snitched from the kitchen the night before. She gave half to Hertha after making the woman promise she wouldn’t tell. On the contrary, Hertha seemed delighted by Merry’s boldness. They happily munched the scone together, watching the activity in the yard.
While they were outside, a sudden uproar in the gatehouse brought more men running. There were muffled shouts and words exchanged between the gatehouse guards and the men on the other side of Auchmull’s great gate, but no words were readily discernible. The women exchanged concerned looks when they realized somebody was running to get Lord Lindsay. But ther
e was no time to slip back into the keep before Ranald arrived, clad in his red watch kilt and tartan.
Barely glancing at Merry, he brushed by the two women and went to consult with his men across the yard. He looked mightily displeased about something, muscular arms folded across his chest, but eventually he nodded, and the huge gate was slowly drawn upward on oiled hinges, shuddering and groaning with the weight of the snow.
A group of perhaps twenty-five men were ranged behind the gate, and their horses snorted great clouds of steam. They rode slowly forward once the gate had cleared the wall, and Merry heard Hertha release an inadvertent gasp.
“’Tis Sir Wickham! Oh, lass, no wonder Lord Ranald looks so fearful angry.”
Hertha’s voice was barely above a whisper, but nonetheless Merry looked to see if the man under discussion had possibly overheard. She tensed with expectation as the leader of the band nudged his fine gray mare forward. She was surprised by her first glimpse of Sir Jasper. The sight of a rigid fellow with fussily coifed blond curls and a neatly trimmed beard did not compare favorably with the miniature in her possession.
Wickham’s cloak was swept back to reveal a canary-yellow doublet and beribboned breeches of bright red velvet. Merry saw his riding boots had matching red heels. He rode with one hand held out at an affected angle, the other gripping the reins with pale, thin fingers. He looked about as dangerous as a monk.
Merry might have chuckled were she not so nervous, and appalled by this telling portrait of a man she had imagined as hale, handsome, and hearty. Wickham’s horse looked ready to expire from the journey. A glance aside showed Hertha was not amused, either.
“Oh, miss. He’s a devil, that one. Dinna let his foppish ways deceive ye.”
As if sensing their perusal, Sir Jasper drew his laboring horse to a halt and eyed the two women across the yard. His pursed little mouth resembled a rosebud from a distance, but Hertha shivered and clutched Merry’s arm.
“He’s seen ye, lass! Och, those beady little eyes o’ his dinna miss a thing …”
For such a gaudy fashion plate, Sir Jasper had a surprisingly strong voice.
“Well met, Milord Lindsay,” he said as the unsmiling laird of Auchmull stepped forward to meet him. “I’ve come so we might settle things peaceably, eh? Man to man.”
Ranald nodded curtly. “Your men may wait in the ward. I see you followed my decree of no weapons.”
“But of course,” Sir Jasper responded, arching an elegantly plucked brow. “We are not barbarians, Lindsay.” The slight emphasis upon the “we” seemed to imply otherwise in the case of Highlanders, and Merry overheard an angry murmur among the watching clansmen.
A sweep of her gaze over the assembled throng revealed eyes bright with emotion, jaws clenched with mute rage. Clearly Sir Jasper was despised among these quarters. She saw his cool gray gaze skimming the crowd, alighting on her where she stood slightly apart from the rest with Hertha.
He nodded short recognition, but addressed Ranald instead. “’Tis true then. The brave Wolf of Badanloch captured himself a pretty little English partridge.” Sir Jasper laughed, and a few of his men turned and leered across the yard at Merry as a squire hurried to take his mount.
“Are you here for business or socializing?” came Ranald’s cool reply, delivered in a voice so low Merry almost didn’t hear it. “If you wish to have your fiancée restored to your side, then I suggest we begin negotiations as soon as possible.”
Sir Jasper shrugged and dismounted from his horse with the aid of his squire. He fastidiously brushed at his clothing, and for some reason airs which might have seemed elegant at court appeared ludicrous here. Dismissing the squire, Sir Jasper turned his attentions on Merry.
“Mistress Tanner, I regret our first meeting must be under such unfortunate circumstances,” he said, bowing over her hand, ignoring Ranald’s challenging stare. As he rose, Sir Jasper’s cool gray eyes raked slowly up and down Merry’s trembling body. She felt stripped and exposed beneath his gaze. Her hands clutched in defensive fists at her sides. It suddenly was hard to breathe. She was so infuriated by his rude appraisal she didn’t realize Ranald had joined her on the steps.
Taking her arm, in light but possessive grip, Ranald said to Sir Jasper, “There will be plenty of opportunity for you to socialize with the lady when she is your wife. I suggest you concentrate upon meeting my demands if you wish to depart Auchmull with your Tudor prize.”
The words were delivered in a mock civil, yet firm voice. Sir Jasper’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then abruptly he laughed, and strode past them where he stood at the entrance to the keep.
“’Tis a pity you do not possess the legendary Lindsay good humor, milord,” Wickham said. “Under other circumstances, perhaps we might be allies.”
Ranald’s dark gaze smoldered where it rested upon the other man. “I find such a notion utterly abhorrent.”
Sir Jasper looked taken aback. He stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully, gray eyes glinting, but Merry noticed he did not provoke The Wolf of Badanloch further.
Chapter Sixteen
“MY COMPLIMENTS, MILORD. YOU set a fine table,” Sir Jasper said, and followed up his statement with an exaggerated yawn behind one gloved hand. He pushed back his chair, signaling he was finished. The two men dined in private this eve, to conduct the business at hand.
As if on cue, a serving girl moved forward from the shadows, her blonde hair like a glistening mantle about her shoulders. Jasper glanced up with interest. The wench was a comely thing, young the way he liked them, with pretty blue eyes and a saucy swing to her hips.
“More ale, sir?” She bent over to fill his tankard, and he ogled her swelling bosom with appreciation.
“Siany! ’Twill be all for the evening,” Ranald said sharply, dismissing the girl. Jasper smiled with faint amusement as he took a long draught of ale, then yanked a lace kerchief from his sleeve and dabbed a cloth to his lips.
“Aye,” he mused, stalking Siany like a predator with his narrowed gaze until she had left the hall, “you set a fine table, indeed, Lindsay.”
“You’ve not come to sample the wine nor the wenches,” Ran said curtly. “Supposedly you wish to free Mistress Tanner from my dastardly clutches.” He leaned forward, folding his arms across the table as he met the other man’s gaze levelly.
Jasper let an expansive smile crossed his face. “Now then, civil conversation is hardly out of hand,” he rebuked Ran. He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Our families used to socialize, y’know. Your ancestors and mine were united in more than one cause over the centuries.”
“I cannot account for past foolishness on the part of my relatives.”
Jasper smiled thinly. “I believe by tradition I still invite the Lindsays for Twelfth Night at Braidwood each year. Your mother was not so ungrateful while she lived. Lady Lindsay sent a costly gift, at least.”
Ranald scowled down the length of the table at his English nemesis. In turn, Jasper noted with considerable irritation that the young earl had not so much as gained an ounce of fat over the past months. Nor had Lindsay wasted away from grief. The Wolf was still lean and strong and dangerous-looking, his darkness accentuated tonight by the stark black watch belted plaid he wore. Ranald’s dark eyes gleamed with a deadly light. Not without reason had Jasper insisted upon a food taster, though the memory of Lindsay’s mocking sneer at his request still burned in his gullet.
Jasper considered Ranald Lindsay little more than a glorified savage, a Highland rogue who plundered and pillaged from some archaic sense of tradition rather than any true need. Certainly the Earl of Crawford did not need to go reiving with lawless scoundrels, and though the laird’s illegal activities had stopped after the death of his wife, Jasper knew it would only be a matter of time before The Wolf hunted again beneath the moon.
He also knew Lindsay bore a personal grudge against him over Blair, as did half the Highlands. Jasper’s reputation as a hard taskmaster did not lend him popularity among th
e lower classes, and many enjoyed seeing The Wolf of Badanloch snapping at his heels. Jasper returned the favor by spurring on the story of the killings at Badanloch. Clearly it was a topic Lindsay wished to forget, and for that very reason he raised it now.
“You’ve heard of the legend of Badanloch, I presume?” Jasper inquired. “A most amusing bard passed by Braidwood on his way south, and regaled us there with the knotty tale.”
Ranald asked in a deceptively soft voice, “How much did you pay him, Wickham?”
Jasper frowned. He did not like the way this upstart laird kept turning the tables on him. With an airy shrug, he said, “Well, what’s one less Maclean anyhow? You’ve had that lot raking at your back for nigh two hundred years. Don’t tell me you’re sorry to hear of Suttie Maclean’s passing, either.”
“I never bore Blair’s father any ill will.”
Jasper shrugged. “’Tis odd, but Cullen Maclean does not seem to believe that.”
“I care not one bawbee what opinion Black Cullen holds of me.”
“Nor are you apparently swayed by the lovely little prize you have in your possession.”
Ranald stiffened slightly at the reference to Merry, but his expression remained shuttered. He clearly sensed Jasper was pressing the issue of Badanloch for a reason.
“There was a traitor,” Ranald said. “Someone intercepted my truce-bearing messenger. Fergus never reached Maclean’s camp. When he did not return, I assumed I had Suttie’s answer. Later Fergus’s body was found floating in the loch. Of course, you would know nothing of this, I presume.”
Jasper restrained his temper as he fumbled for the linen napkin in his lap. He pressed it hard against his mouth for a moment, leaving a stain from berries he had eaten.
“I have taken enough insult from you, Lindsay,” he said, hurling the napkin aside. “You must know I don’t meddle in common clan frays, being far more inclined to gentlemanly pursuits at Court.”
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