Merry started at Ran’s words, for she had some inkling how tortured he had been by the events of Badanloch, yet his harsh Highland nature surfaced when he was weary or exasperated. She longed to go to him now, slip a comforting arm around his waist and lean her head upon his chest, but Hugo’s presence and the uncertainty of Ran’s reaction kept her still. Instead, she tried to read the expression on Ran’s face. Resolve? Anger? He sensed her regard and met her gaze for moment, nodding slightly as if to reassure her he was all right.
“I’ll assemble a party of men to ride out at once,” he said to Hugo. “Any ideas where the rebels are hiding?”
“In the forest near Badanloch,” Hugo said, glancing from Ran, then with a belated nod at Merry. “Lord Deuchar is sending men from Edzell, too, and they should be here by nightfall.”
Ran nodded wearily. “We can ride out first thing in the morn, then. ’Tis too dangerous to blunder about in the dark, in the snow besides.” He rose from the desk, moved over and put an arm around Merry’s shoulders, gently squeezing. “I’m sorry, Merry. It appears Christmas revelries must wait. I must leave again for a time. God willing ’twill not take long to run these foolish renegades to ground.”
“I hope not,” Merry said, trying to ignore the sudden leap of her heart at his embrace, however distant and distracted, and the irrational pang of fear that he would not return.
* * *
EARLY CHRISTMAS EVE, HERTHA and her mistress watched the men ride out, Ran leading the party of Highlanders, while Gilbert Lindsay brought up the rear.
Merry fought the urge to run out into the courtyard, cling to Ran’s leg and plead with him not to go. She sensed terrible danger looming in the dark forests near Badanloch, even though she had never been there, and shivered even as the last horse trotted through the gate and was gone.
Hertha sought to comfort her. “They’ll be back by nightfall, milady.”
“I pray you are right, Hertha.” Merry smiled absently when the woman brought her a warm, richly embroidered shawl and draped it round her shoulders. “Thank you. I can’t seem to get warm today; ’tis like the winter has settled in my bones.”
Hertha nodded. She patted her mistress’s shoulder comfortingly and recited, “‘To talk o’ the weather’s the folly o’ men, For when rain’s on the hill, there’ll be sun in the glen.’”
Merry chuckled softly and snuggled into the shawl. “I am sure ’tis true enough, but only in fickle Scotland. So much snow already, whilst I doubt the first rime of frost has settled on Ambergate yet.” She grew wistful, thinking of her uncle’s charming estate outside London, where she had spent many an hour growing up. At this hour the family would likely be gathered round the table to break their Christmas fast: rusty-haired Uncle Kit, plain but radiant Aunt Isobel, and the two younger sons yet at home.
Sir Christopher Tanner had once spent most of his waking hours at Court, amusing the queen, but with the passage of years and the mellowing of “dear Bess,” as he called her among the family, Merry’s uncle now enjoyed a more leisurely pace. Besides, the earl of Essex, Robert Devereux, Cecil’s rival and a decided coxcomb, demanded the queen’s exclusive attentions more and more. He had recently been sent to Ireland to subdue the fierce earl of Tyrone, Hugh O’Neill, a relative not too far removed on Merry’s mother’s side. Merry knew her grandfather openly supported Tyrone, and her mother perhaps more discreetly but just as definitely. Tyrone’s revolt four years prior had inflicted a major blow on English forces.
The queen’s position in Ireland had long been tenuous. Not enough money was had to enforce complete subjugation, many of the English plantations had failed, riots and uprisings of the great Irish families threatened what little order yet remained. Consequently, Ireland, or any association with it, was a sore spot with Her Grace. Merry never sought to remind anyone of her heritage and had been left in peace for much of her service. Only the vainglorious Essex, prone to petty little cruelties as he was, remarked once when Merry entered a banqueting hall that he thought Irish lasses were supposed to be uncommonly fair, and he should throttle the little leprechaun who told him such lies.
The remark stung. Sensitive about her looks, Merry had nonetheless raised her chin and pretended she did not hear the nasty comment. Essex could be cattier than other women. He knew the Tanners stood in a favorable light with the queen and begrudged any others a moment of basking in royal approval.
Essex was half Elizabeth’s age but flattered the graying queen outrageously, dancing attendance upon her as if he was a besotted swain whose heart he wore on his sleeve. Elizabeth let him. Certainly she was shrewd enough to realize it was but a political gambit on Essex’s part, but she patted him fondly on the cheek and called him her “sweet liddes.” When she wearied of his pouts and tantrums, she sent him to Ireland to deal with the tiresome rebellion and allotted herself time to concentrate upon the more pressing matters of state. Financial strain upon the Crown, poor harvests, and a growing Puritan movement were beginning to take their toll on the aging queen. Meanwhile, the war with Spain dragged on, freshly fired by evidence they were financing Tyrone’s rebellion.
Such turmoil was the daily gist at Court, but Merry missed it. One never knew what to expect when caught up in the swirling maelstrom of ambition, spies, and political backstabbing. Very few moments were dull, though certainly they were trying. Once she had nearly lost her life when a French madman had sought revenge against her family. He seduced her with his charms and within weeks had a blade to her ribs, a moment Merry did not care to remember, for the sour taste of impending death was a taste one did not soon forget. She wondered what Ran would have done if she had been his wife then. Torn Adrien Lovelle limb from limb, or merely summoned the Lindsay doomster to execute the sentence of doom. Of a certainty, she knew he would not have stood idly by.
Christmas at Court and Ambergate. What a gay, festive time it would be. Merry contrasted Auchmull’s empty, gloomy halls and tried not to let her spirits sink. Instead, she roused the staff into helping her decorate with whatever she could find. The red watch Lindsay tartan made a seasonal wall hanging in a pinch. Merry considered her options, then took a deep breath and plunged on. The best display was above the great hearth. So be it. Soon the gathered, tucked, and beribboned tartan completely covered the space above the mantel, and Blair Lindsay’s portrait as well. Meanwhile, Merry had sent Siany and the other girls out to find a sprig or two of holly or juniper. They returned with rosy cheeks and aprons full of pine cones, laurel, and yew as well.
Earlier in the season, berries had been picked and preserved, and now the cranberries, crowberries, and red whortleberries were called upon to lend a festive touch to the scene. Some were strung with needle and thread, others crushed and cooked in pies and jellies. Merry sent some of the older boys out to hunt for a suitable Yule log, since apparently there was nothing left of the old one or the season had never been celebrated thusly at Auchmull. She was determined things would change. If nothing else, she would live up to her name and add a touch of mirth and drama to Lindsay legend.
Hertha remembered an old wassail recipe of mulled ale, curdled cream, roasted apples, eggs, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, and sugar. It was served in a huge silver bowl, bearing the Lindsay crest. Merry invited all the staff and those within reasonable distance to partake, and for a time the great hall rang with the laughter of children and the chatter of women left to tend their hearths while the men hunted down the Christmas reivers. For the first time since her arrival, Merry felt truly welcome. Her generosity and respect for the old traditions swung their opinions.
The children clamored for a manger scene of the Baby Jesus, and Merry agreed it was appropriate with the eve full upon them. So while the women hastily sewed cloth poppets, she sent Hertha to retrieve the carved cradle from her former room. Merry shared an adjoining bedchamber with Ran now, as befitted her station. Hertha expressed some reservation about using the cradle, but Merry saw no point to it gathering dust when it might be used i
n an appropriately touching scene of faith.
Garlands of ivy and winter moss soon covered the little cradle, and Merry added a gilt ribbon to the backboard. One of the little girls came shyly forward to place the cloth Baby Jesus there, and, with heads bowed, the new Lady Lindsay led those gathered in prayer. Auchmull had a small family chapel, but there had never been a resident priest and the great hall was necessary to accommodate everyone. With the great Yule log merrily blazing and the wassail toasts running round the room, the old keep took on a homey atmosphere. Merry only wished Ran might be present to witness the magical transformation of his home.
Soon the hour grew late, and most drifted off to their own hearths, however humble they might be by comparison. Merry dispensed four pennies Scots to each of the departing children, earning fierce hugs and sticky kisses, and smiles from their doting mothers. She took one more satisfied look around the softly glowing, colorful hall before she retired, and then Hertha accompanied her upstairs.
Before Hertha readied her mistress for bed, there came a loud pounding at the bedchamber door. Hertha jumped. She reached for the heavy iron ring that served as a doorknob, but before the woman’s hand could close home, the door flew back against the wall with a mighty crash. With a squeak, Hertha fled into the shadows as a familiar figure burst in on them.
Merry whirled around, surprised to see Ran. His face was mottled with anger and his dark hair disheveled from the wind. Her gaze took in his muddy boots and the limp gilt ribbon clutched in one hand. He had returned from an obviously trying excursion, and appeared ready to dish out a very unpleasant lesson in turn.
His voice was like a whip crack in the room. “Leave us, Hertha.”
Glancing worriedly at Merry, Hertha nodded and left the bedchamber, and Ran slammed it shut behind the woman with a negligent bang. A pulse visibly throbbed in his temple, just above his left eye. His lips compressed as he took in Merry’s wary posture.
“I take it the hunt was unsuccessful?”
“You assume correctly. The villains are canny. However, I would wager even they are not as cruel as some I might know.”
“Cruel?” Merry’s voice quavered as she glimpsed the pain behind the anger in his eyes. Sweet Jesu, what had she done?
“You know perfectly well what I mean, madam.” He crumpled the ribbon in his big fist, hurled it at her. It glanced off her skirts and she gazed at it helplessly a moment. “Don’t look so innocent, m’dear. Or is there ample reason to feign ignorance?”
“Please, do not do this,” Merry whispered, bending to pick up the crushed ribbon. No matter what she did, she could not smooth the tattered edges. The parallel struck her with the force of a slap. Never had she been more aware of her vulnerability as a woman. Ran was not unusually large for a man, but more than strong enough to beat her if he chose. She fought the urge to cringe, sensing somehow that would only provoke a worse scene.
“I can explain—” she began.
He interrupted her with a head shake. “It never occurred to me you would stoop to something like this,” he said, his glance falling on the ribbon clutched in her white fingers. Then his gaze rose to accusingly pin Merry’s. “Where the devil did you find that thing?” he asked bluntly.
She knew he meant the cradle. Stumbling over the words, she told him the truth and her reasoning behind its use. He clearly didn’t care to hear it. His fists clutched at his sides, his knuckles were white.
“And covering Blair’s portrait, as well? I suppose it amused you, to think of my pain? Some small recompense for what happened to you, no doubt.”
His hoarse remark startled her. Merry looked into those blazing dark eyes, saw the intense suffering written there. Her insides twisted, she felt sick.
“Nay, I never intended—” she stammered.
“Jesu, madam, what a cold-blooded Sassenach bitch you are! My first Christmas, without Blair … the bairn we would have had by now …” Furiously Ranald came at her in sudden long strides, driving Merry flush up against the wall. She was trapped. His hand flew up, and he encircled her throat with his long fingers.
“The way I feel right now, I could cheerfully strangle you,” he muttered, and she saw the suspicious glitter of tears in his eyes just before his mouth came down, hard, with perfect accuracy, against her lips. He never released his grip on her neck, even tightened it slightly when he felt her begin to struggle. Gasping for air, Merry opened her mouth against his and felt his tongue immediately thrust home, claiming a brash victory as it fenced her own aside.
Traitorous tingles raced up and down her body, and her hands clutched Ran’s damp breccan as he leaned fully into her, letting her feel the hard edge of his arousal even through the layers of her skirts. His other hand slowly slid down the curve of her right cheek, continuing on until she felt his warm fingers slipping into the low bodice of her gown.
With bold, unerring accuracy, he found a nipple and teased it to button hardness, absorbing Merry’s whimper with his fierce kiss, letting her feel the full measure of his passion and pain. Finally, he tore his mouth from hers and buried it against the hollow of her neck, painting her flesh with a feverish intensity which left her gasping for air. She feared she would die either way; if he dared continued, or if he dared stop.
Ran shuddered against her, his hand slipping from her throat. “Damme you, Merry. You’ve bewitched me,” he whispered raggedly, staring at her as if demanding an explanation.
“’Twasn’t intentional, I assure you.”
Ran ignored her shaky reply. “I’ve marked you,” he mused quietly, leaning back to study the marks left by his fingers. “Your skin is so damn fair.” Then he lowered his head and gently kissed the rosy imprints, one by one.
Merry gasped and arched, her head lolling back, cushioned by the velvety tapestry covering the stone wall.
“Nay,” she said, vainly pushing against his chest.
“Aye,” he countered fiercely. “Aye!”
In a sudden fury of agony, he tore at the fastenings of Merry’s gown, peeling back the burgundy velvet bodice to expose a richly patterned red silk lining, and the creamy expanse of her breasts. He shoved the wide sleeves halfway down her arms, effectively imprisoning her for further exquisite torture at his leisure. He captured a rosy nipple between his teeth. It puckered proudly, and Merry cried out softly as Ran’s mouth wrought forbidden pleasure from her body.
He nipped, then soothed the throbbing peak, tracing delicate spirals and fanciful designs with his tongue. A moment later, she felt him nuzzling her other breast, and his dark, silky hair tumbled over her skin as he worried the second nipple to a turgid, aching peak of passion. Then she felt his hand slip between her legs, pressing the velvet folds of her gown hard against her woman’s point.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he whispered in her ear, gently and harshly, all at the same time. Merry sobbed once, unable to deny it. She pushed up hard against his hand, a silent plea of sorts, and in that precise moment his hand yanked free. She bit back the urge to scream a furious denial. Ran, on the other hand, seemed to regain control quickly. She soon realized with a crushing blow, he had never lost it. He looked at her so closely she saw golden motes sparkling in his dark eyes.
“God’s teeth,” he said, stepping back to observe her flushed and trembling figure trapped against the wall. “You’re even willing to act like a court strumpet when you think it will avert the consequences of your actions.”
Merry yanked up the sleeves of her gown, trembling with anger and hurt. Her mind still whirled with the aftereffects of his angry lovemaking, and her fingers shook violently as she struggled to refasten the clasps. Impatiently Ran batted her hands aside and finished the job.
“Don’t spare a single tear on me, milady wife,” he said, glancing into her damp eyes. “’Twon’t work, and furthermore it lessens what little respect for you I have left. I will not deny my body wants you as much as ever, but ’twill be easily enough restrained. You made a conscious choice to disrespec
t Blair and our child, and now you’ll live up to the consequences, like it or nay.”
Flustered and feeling humiliated, Merry turned away to finish securing her bodice and smooth her skirts. She could feel Ran’s gaze boring into her back. She sought for the right words, but nothing came. When she finally worked up the courage to speak at all, it was just in time to hear his footsteps striding briskly from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“FEARFUL ANGRY HE WAS, lass. I canna ever recall seein’ Lord Ran like that before.”
Merry, curled up in a window seat with a copy of Sir David Lindsay’s The Dreme balanced across her knees, merely nodded at her maid’s words. Hertha had been babbling about the incident for most of the day. She was still too upset herself to either concentrate upon the poetic visions of Ran’s ancestor or continue any converse upon the matter of the man himself.
“’Tis sorry I am I didna stay, lass. Why, he looked somethin’ right fierce, he did, like one of the old Pict warriors! I was terrible a’feared for ye. What could I do?”
What, indeed? Merry wondered. Would anything have stopped Ran short of a claymore? She smiled at the thought, imagining the look on his face if she had whipped a wicked-looking blade from behind her skirts. That was what her feisty sister Kat surely would have done in similar straits. She could fence on a par with men, and Merry had always envied her twin such skill and cool aplomb.
Her smiled waned as she remembered Ran’s expression when he had glimpsed the cradle. He thought she deliberately sought to hurt him, and nothing she said would mend the chasm yawning between them now. Merry realized Hertha was watching her when the maid soberly remarked, “Ochone, lass, I do hate to see yer sweet spirits so low.”
“’Tis all right, Hertha,” Merry said wearily. “’Tis over now, and ’twould appear I’m none the worse for wear.”
Except inside, Merry added silently. She would never forget the terrifying, yet thrilling proximity of Ran as he’d leaned into her, pinning her between his hard body and an even harder wall. How had Blair truly felt about the dangerously handsome Wolf of Badanloch? Had she quivered and whimpered at his touch, like Merry did? Had her stomach clenched into hard little knots whenever she felt his lips playing over her skin, his calloused hands caressing her body?
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