“Such as rape?”
Jasper stiffened and wouldn’t meet Ranald’s eye. Bastard! He knew the laird referred to a specific incident which had occurred at the Stuart Court two years ago. Jasper admitted he’d had a wee bit much to drink, and he’d roughly taken his pleasure with one of the castle wenches. How was he supposed to have known she was only twelve? The little bitch had been teasing him unmercifully.
The king hadn’t asked any explanation. He’d forced Jasper to give the girl a generous dower, then bundled her off to her relatives. There must not have been a child, for Jasper had heard not another word about it. He was sure Lindsay would be badgering him to support the little slut and her bastard otherwise. He felt the disgust emanating from Ranald’s eyes now like a killing frost.
“Come now, Lindsay, we are men of the world,” he finally said, stroking his beard reflectively. “Don’t begrudge me a little harmless pleasure.”
Ranald replied through gritted teeth. “You killed her, you Sassenach bastard,” he snarled. “Little Rosaleen Duncan died birthing you a son. Only I suppose you did not ever bother to find out.”
“A son, hmm?” Jasper was mildly interested. “You’re sure ’tis mine? She was a cheeky little thing, as I recall.”
“She was a virgin, damme you!”
Jasper stared at the younger man. By Jesu, Lindsay believed the words he spoke! He laughed. Aye, Lindsay must have been hot for the wench himself, and resentful he hadn’t gotten under her skirts first. Jasper was not about to accept blame for a slut’s behavior. He’d been dubbed as cunning as a fox and a slippery as an eel by one of his contemporaries at Court, and he was hardly going to sit back and let Lindsay spout moralistic slop at him.
Plastering a bland smile to his face to hide the devious workings within, he merely said, “You’ve always been chivalrous when it comes to the ladies, Lindsay.”
Ranald looked momentarily startled. Then he laughed, bitterly, as if remembering something himself.
Jasper sighed. “God’s bones, man! I’ll do my duty by the brat. Where is the newest Wickham?”
“Dead.” Ranald spoke flatly. His dark eyes scoured Jasper with withering contempt. “The bairn died, as well. Lady Deuchar saw to their burial at Edzell.”
Jasper felt a twinge of disappointment. “I wouldn’t have minded another son. I look after all my issue. Braidwood could use another Wickham or two, even born under the bar sinister.”
“You could have used a little restraint far more,” Ranald growled. He rose from the table, disgusted by Wickham’s presence and nonchalant attitude. He knew Sir Jasper ill-treated the serving women at his high seat at Braidwood, which made the fact of Blair’s death there all the more appalling.
Ranald remembered how he’d found little Rosaleen curled up in a ball in a corner of a room at Falklands Castle, bruised, her thin legs covered with blood. He had sent for Darra, and together they had bundled the poor child up and hurried her home to Edzell. Within a few months, the consequences of Wickham’s lust was obvious. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if she had died at Court, rather than in torturous childbirth later.
Ranald felt a quiver of white-hot emotion ripple through his frame, remembering how he had lost Blair, as well. He doubted he would ever know the full circumstances of his wife’s death at Braidwood, for Wickham was not forthcoming with details. The man seemed to enjoy taunting him with feigned ignorance and mock regrets. He could hurl himself across the table now, and crush Wickham’s scrawny neck in his hands, if he could find it under that ridiculous ruff he wore to his chin, but then he would never know what had happened to Blair. He burned to hear the details of her final moments, whether she had spoken of him, her last words, if any.
Wickham obviously knew this. His cocky demeanor spoke volumes. Both realized though Ran longed to slay him outright, he would have to answer to both the Stuart and Tudor monarchs. All the Lindsays stood to suffer if Ran’s rash temper overcame logic. Kidnapping the man’s fiancée was bad enough, outright murder might deprive Gilbert of the right to inherit should Ran swing for the crime.
Loathing curled Ran’s lip as he stared at the man now occupying the chair at the end of his dining hall. How he longed to turn the trestle table over, denying Wickham the meanest hospitality. Still, he was bitterly aware of the other’s very real power. Sir Jasper had the ear of the king, and he used his position ruthlessly. Ranald was surprised, however, when he heard King James and the court no longer visited Braidwood on their annual sojourn. Was their monarch finally beginning to get a true glimpse of the viper he so recklessly cradled to his own breast?
The matter was obviously on Wickham’s mind, too, for he suddenly frowned.
“Milord, pray let’s not be unreasonable,” he said cajolingly. “We both know you have something I want very much, and ’twould appear I also hold the key to some satisfaction on your part. We have but to agree on the niggling little details, n’est-ce-pas?”
Ran nodded curtly. “I agree. Keep to the business at hand. You wish Mistress Tanner safely returned, while I ask two things: return of my family lands, and answers.”
“Answers?” Sir Jasper sat back and steepled his thin, pale fingers under his chin, gazing at his adversary with that feigned innocence Ran found so infuriating.
“Aye. I want to know every last detail concerning Blair’s death.”
Wickham sighed heavily. “Milord, you have a mighty enough task ahead of you, if you are to reclaim the lands near Glenesk forfeited to the Macleans after Badanloch. Why torture yourself with visions of a woman you will never see again?”
Each word, cold and logical, was like a stabbing pain in Ran’s heart. Wickham dangled Blair’s last moments before him like a juicy haunch, watching The Wolf salivate, pacing back and forth with frustration. It was a game between them, Ran knew, an old game, but one that was beginning to wear dangerously thin.
“Let her go, Lindsay,” Wickham said, his voice gentle, and oh so reasonable. He leaned forward and folded his arms across the table, gazing at Ran pityingly. “Your dear lady wife is gone, to a better place. All that remains is you and me, and in her memory you owe peace a chance.”
“Do I?” Ran rose abruptly, kicking back his chair. He was pleased to see Wickham jump. He glared down the length of the table, wondering if Sir Jasper sensed how close he was to death at that very moment.
The other man regarded him warily, then rose to his feet. “I see there is nothing more to be gained by my presence here,” he said stiffly. “If we cannot come to terms, then I may as well depart now.”
Ran met his bluff coolly. “Aye, you might at that.”
* * *
WHILE THE TWO MEN squared off in Auchmull’s great hall, Merry took her meal in the privacy of her chamber. She was restless, nervous with anticipation. She finished her dinner, having not tasted a bite, and set the tray with the dishes aside to fitfully pace the room. She felt claustrophobic in the small stone chamber, and more than ever longed to fling open the window, if only to admit gusts of wind and sheeting snow. But the bolt had rusted shut on the lead pane, and after tugging at it uselessly for a while, Merry gave up and simply pressed her face to the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of any activity in the yard.
Auchmull was eerily quiet, for so many beneath the roof. Sir Jasper’s boisterous guardsmen had finally subsided to quietly drinking and gambling in the hall. Merry knew Cullen Maclean had not left yet, for the pass was temporarily blocked by snow. It might be days before it was clear again, since it was not true winter yet, though they all hoped for a gradual thaw. Hertha had explained a sudden thaw could raise the loch to a dangerous level, and cause flooding if the dirt levies broke.
Merry felt like beating her forehead against the glass. Would she never escape this place? The only thing she didn’t want to escape was the man. Ranald. She inhaled suddenly at the mere thought of him. Sweet Jesu, what a traitor she was, mooning over a man who was her intended’s worst enemy! She was a traitor to Sir Jas
per, the queen, her own family and moral fabric. But having met Sir Jasper, feeling nothing but instant repulsion despite his fine attire and fussy manners, Merry realized her life had altered its course. She couldn’t change her feelings, nor stop the anticipation racing through her blood at the very thought of Ran.
Her hands tightened on the windowsill, and already she felt the invisible ominous weight of Wickham’s wedding ring on her finger. She longed to yank it off, even symbolically, and cast it into the loch. How long could she keep up this pretense of being a loyal betrothed? She felt nothing but revulsion for the man she had agreed to marry, and soon she would be forced to share a stranger’s bed. She shuddered, biting a knuckle to keep from crying aloud with pure frustration. Her feelings meant naught, since Ranald could never return them. All his love was reserved still for his dead wife.
Merry drew in a ragged breath when she saw a dark figure suddenly emerge from the stables and stumble through the snow, clutching something to his chest. Cullen? She squinted to make out any details, but all she could tell for sure was that it was a man. He fell to his knees in the snow, wobbling drunkenly. Merry assumed he was intoxicated until she saw the dark stain spreading between the fingers clutched to his chest. Blood!
She didn’t think. She turned and ran instead, unbolting and flinging open her chamber door, grateful Ranald didn’t lock her in at night like a disobedient child. She flew down the hall, hoping Ranald was still there even at this late hour. He was. He and Sir Jasper had finished their supper, and appeared to be warily enduring each other’s company over cups of hot mulled wine.
Merry rushed past a pair of startled men-at-arms, and into the hall before anyone could stop her. She halted at Ranald’s side.
“A man!” she gasped out, pointing toward the stables. “Out in the snow … he looks injured.”
Ranald brushed past her. Merry was suddenly aware of being left alone with Sir Jasper. He stared at her like a hungry dog. For dinner, he had donned an elaborately embroidered blue velvet jerkin, the laces of which fastened over a puce-green satin waistcoat. Yards of frilly white lace had been sewn up into a huge ruff that rose so high it appeared he had no neck. His fingers winked with costly jewels as he waved his hands about.
She herself was wearing a gown of soft blue silk, embroidered with silver thread, the low neckline shirred with delicate French lace. Auburn plaits were wound around her head now, secured with pearl pins and silk ribbons Hertha had filched from the former Lady Lindsay’s collection.
Sir Jasper smiled ingratiatingly. “Good evening, my dear.” He leered at her in the courtly fashion to which she was well accustomed, but it seemed vulgar when compared to Ranald’s frank, forthright appreciation of a woman’s form.
“I regret you were unable to join us for the repast. I do so love feasting upon a fine spread.”
His cool gaze raked over her, the simple words carrying a wealth of disgusting connotations. Merry shuddered and started to turn away, unable to think of even a civil response. Suddenly a hand closed about her arm. Long, thin fingers dug into her flesh.
“Not so fast,” Sir Jasper said, his faint smile not matching the grim intensity of his gaze. “I have one question for you, Mistress Merry. Has The Wolf touched you?”
Merry gasped at his audacity. “Certainly not!”
The memories of her intense kisses with Ran caused her to flush, but she hoped Wickham assumed it was maidenly modesty that colored her pink. He seemed pleased by her sudden confusion, and nodded as if satisfied she was still a virgin.
“I asked Lord Lindsay if you could share our sup, but he said you were under the weather. I see now ’twas a falsehood, but I cannot blame you for wanting to avoid the man. He is little more than a coarse barbarian, a Highlander most foul.”
“He has behaved quite honorably toward me.” Merry spoke through gritted teeth, wondering why Wickham’s criticism was as painful as it was infuriating.
To her outrage, Sir Jasper held her hands fast with one of his own, reached out and rudely groped her breasts with the other.
“You’ve lovely tits, m’dear,” he remarked offhandedly. “A bit smaller than I prefer, but aye, they’ll do. They’ll do.”
On pure reflex, Merry yanked a hand free and slapped him. She had disciplined more than one randy knave at Court with such blunt technique. His status as her betrothed gained him no leverage with her heart. For all his intensity, Ranald Lindsay did not offend half as much as this leering, puffed-up peer who would treat her like some common bawd.
Sir Jasper swore, cradling his burning cheek. He stared at her in mingled shock and indignation but made no further move to molest her. Merry took a deep breath and seized opportunity to escape his company, nearly barreling into Ranald as he came striding back into the hall.
“One of my men is hurt—” he began, coming to an abrupt halt and looking from one to the other of them with marked suspicion.
“Do not imply ’twas one of mine who did it, milord,” Sir Jasper growled, his pride preventing him from commenting on the obvious; his reddened cheek made it plain enough. “Strict instructions were given that peace would reign until matters here were resolved.”
“Which apparently is moot at this point,” Ran replied.
“Indeed. There is nothing more to be said.” Sir Jasper swept up his high-crowned beaver hat from a nearby table and tugged it down over his brow.
Ranald shrugged. Merry sensed the concern written in his eyes was not for Sir Jasper or the notion of a lost truce, but for the injured man they had found aside.
“Duncan’s been stabbed,” he said grimly.
“Your stable master?” she exclaimed. “Why would anybody want to hurt him?”
Ranald shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But I intend to find out.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
He hesitated, studying her curiously. “Nell may appreciate an extra set of hands. Hertha is tending another lass whose time is upon her.”
“Here now, Lindsay,” Sir Jasper put in imperiously, “Mistress Tanner is not some drudge to be ordered about your household.”
“Nor am I some blowzy bawd to be mauled beneath the stairs!”
Merry’s furious retort rocked both men back on their heels. Glaring at her, Wickham said, “I regret discovering your conduct is as outrageous as the hue of your hair, m’dear. A pity, for I had assumed you a gently bred lady who would do the House of Wickham proud. When ’tis far more apparent you prefer the company of uncouth rogues to that of your own betrothed.”
She glared right back at Sir Jasper. Why had she not noticed before how pasty his skin was, how narrow his face. The miniature clearly flattered him. “When a Highlander is more chivalrous than an Englishman, Sweet Jesu save womankind.”
Without another word, she resumed her march for the door. She thought, though she could not swear, Ranald chuckled beneath his breath.
“Nell’s tending to Duncan now,” he called after her. “The men carried him upstairs.”
Merry nodded and hurried out. In Nell’s chamber, Lindsay clansmen had already lain the old man on the bed, and were huddled near the doorway, watching. Merry pushed through the knot of bodies, aware of a surly mutter when she did so.
“The Sassenach taupie will like as kill him,” one of them grunted. “Mind ye watch her, Nell.”
Nell Downie was dressed and standing in the center of the room. She appeared fully recovered from her own recent travail, and she turned on the men like a little hurricane.
“Shut yer maw, Will Campbell! Move back and gie me some air. There’s work to be done here, and I intend to see ’tis done.”
“I’m here to help.” Merry spoke firmly.
Nell faced her. To Merry’s surprise, the young woman’s dark eyes softened and she smiled. “Bless ye, milady. Do ye ken anything about nursing wounded men?”
Merry laughed. “More than I do about placating angry Scots.” She saw some of the men smile grudgingly, and the tension in the roo
m eased.
Nell nodded. “Dinna fret, milady. Ye’ll do fine. Now, let’s see about Duncan.”
Together the two women approached the bed, where the old man lay breathing shallowly. The wound in his chest seemed minor. Still Merry winced at the sight of it, the blood staining his leather jerkin. Nell didn’t seem to mind. She knelt right down on the soiled coverlet and examined the injury.
“’Tis deep, but clean,” she said with some satisfaction. “Looks like a single knife thrust to me. Milady, I’m going to gie ye some lamb’s wool to staunch the flow of blood. Can ye hold it fast while I make a poultice?”
Merry nodded. In truth, she’d no experience in tending patients of any sort, and had a deathly fear of illness herself. Whenever the ague or pox swept through Court, she was the first to escape to Ambergate, Uncle Kit’s country home. She felt woozy at the sight and coppery smell of blood. But when Nell handed her several thick pads of wool, she pressed firmly where she was told, and held the makeshift bandages in place until they were soaked clear through to her palms.
Nell ordered one of the men to help, and he rushed forward to hand more wool to Merry as she needed it. She worked methodically, trying to keep the pressure firm and steady, and though the blood seemed as if it would never stop, she was gradually aware that it was slowing. Poor Duncan had lost consciousness, although perhaps that was for the best.
A shadow fell over the bed while Merry was engrossed in her duties. She glanced up at Ranald, but for once was too intent on something else to pay him much heed.
“Here,” he said quietly. “Let me, lass.”
He nudged her out of the way, and Merry fell back, her arms bloodied up to the elbows. She watched as he continued applying pressure and changing the woolen bandages until Nell took over again, and though it had only been an hour or so, it had seemed like a lifetime to Merry. Exhausted, she slumped down in a chair while Ranald and Nell continued to work. The wound was clean, as Nell had observed, but Duncan was elderly, and had lost a great deal of blood.
Merry saw the old man’s lips turn blue just a moment before Nell spoke into the taut silence of the room.
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