The Fraser Bride (12 page)

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, and found that despite her own nervous wonderings, his head was back, his eyes closed as he scrubbed his hair with the depleted sliver of soap.

He showed not the least bit of interest in her. Nay, ‘twas more than disinterest, she realized. He hated her. Her stomach flipped.

‘Twas fear that made her feel so strangely, she thought, but a tiny inkling in her mind wondered. True, she did not like him, yet he made her feel strangely unsteady.

But that was hardly a mystery: it had not been an easy week. Indeed, anyone might become unbalanced. It meant nothing. Nothing had changed. She would return to Evermyst, for she missed everything about it— the dizzying heights, the crumbling towers. But mostly she missed her people; Isobel’s soft spoken witticisms, Meara’s advice. Even the old women’s bickering arguments were missed.

She would return home and do what she must. After all, feelings mattered little to men. Only coupling … her thoughts crashed to a halt and her stomach fluttered.

Glancing once more in Ramsay’s direction, Anora whipped the gown over her head. Then, beneath the security of the floor-length linen, she unwrapped the towel and let it fall to the floor.

One more glance assured her that he still was not looking. She stepped out from the ring of towel, hung in on a nearby peg, and returned silently to the bed.

Nerves jumping, she wrung her hands and paced again, casting wary glances in his direction.

“Ague.”

She stopped mid-stride at the sound of his voice, but he had not even turned toward her. Instead, he scrubbed studiously at an underarm. The muscles in his chest danced with the movement. She tore her gaze from them and prepared to ask what he meant, but the truth dawned on her. His one mission in life was to be rid of her. If she became sick with the ague that goal might very well be delayed.

She crawled nervously into bed and dragged the blankets over her bent knees. Only minutes before, this very spot had seemed heavenly, but now the mattress felt lumpy, her nerves stretched tight. She sat very still, trying to breathe normally, but there was nothing to do, nowhere to look … except at him.

“Our meal should arrive soon.” He didn’t glance at her as he spoke. Neither did he wince as he scrubbed at his wound. “Try to sleep until then.”

While he was there? In her room, with his clothes lying in a sodden heap and his body bare—

“Will you cease staring at me!” he growled.

She turned jerkily away, but there was nothing else to see. “I …” She was out of her depth, shaky and uncertain “I am sorry.”

“You’re
what?”
The surprise in his voice was clear.

She tucked her knees closer to her chest and scowled at the window as the seconds ticked past. She plucked fretfully at a loose thread in the blanket, then flitted her gaze to his. “I am not without feelings.”

He snorted and rubbed absently at his broad chest. “Ahh,” he said. “I see. You jest.”

The room fell quiet, and in the silence she felt suddenly very alone and weary. She would give much for someone to trust, to share her troubles, to lighten her load. But she had no one. Only she could protect her people—kindly Helena, clumsy but ever loyal Duncan, even poor Deirdre’s fate was in her hands. She must be smart, careful. She would use what she could when she must, and waste nothing, especially this man’s strength, so long as she had access to it. Aye, she must play her part carefully, lest her people suffer for her failure.

“I can bandage that for you,” she said, her voice small and soft.

His glower was daunting. She shifted her gaze breathlessly away.

“Why?” he asked.

“I …” She pursed her lips and blinked at the blankets. “I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

He laughed. “Why do you offer, Notmary?”

“My name is not Notmary!” Anger mixed with a dozen unknown emotions.

“Could it be that you make the offer because you are attracted to me?” he asked.

Her breathing stopped, but she lifted her chin slowly. ” ‘Tis yet a far way to me homeland,” she said.

“Ahh, so you still need me.”

“You’d do me little good dead.”

He watched her for a moment, then chuckled. “Honesty. From you,” he said and grinned. ” ‘Tis almost worth the wounding.”

She knew she should be insulted. Should, in fact, argue, and yet she could not, for she was mesmerized. Why, she wasn’t certain. His teeth were imperfect, his dimples unbalanced. Yet she could not look away, could not draw her gaze from the tilted wonderment of his smile.

A new kind of fear curled in her stomach.

He sobered. “Me arm will be fine,” he assured her, his tone low. “You needn’t worry. I have no intention of dying. Not before I return you to Levenlair, at the least.”

“I …” She wrenched her gaze away. “My thanks.”

“I’m not planning to survive for your sake alone.” Even when he scowled, his eyes were hopelessly entrancing, deep and dark and filled with secrets he did not share.

She fidgeted and forced her gaze to the blankets. It was a strangely difficult task. “I will bind your wound.”

Silence. She glanced up, and he shrugged. Muscles, bare and shining wet, bulged and relaxed.

“As you will,” he said and placed his hands on the rim of the tub, but there he paused expectantly. She stared at him. “I am about to rise.”

“Oh!” she said and froze.

“I would suggest you turn away.”

“Oh,” she repeated and slipped a shaky palm over her eyes. She heard his splashing exit and kept her gaze carefully averted as he padded across the floor.

“Are you … covered?”

“Me plaid is drying,” he said.

Did that mean he planned to remain naked? Her heart rate bumped up a pace.

“But fear not. There are extra linens.”

She wished to come up with some rejoinder, but found that all words were stuck tight in her throat.

‘Twas then that the bed creaked. Yanking her hand from her eyes, Anora found herself staring point blank into his.

He shrugged, so close she could watch the languid progress of one tiny droplet as it made its way between the tightly packed mounds of his chest. “There is nowhere else to sit,” he said.

She struggled to breathe.

“Me laird?”

Anora jumped at the sound of the voice from the far side of the door.

“Aye?” He turned with a scowl, his lower body wrapped in a towel.

“Be you ready to sup?”

“Aye,” he said. “Come straightaway.”

The door creaked open. Two maids stood in the entryway. The nearer bobbed a curtsy. She was small and plump, with pink cheeks and a goodly mass of bosom straining to escape her bodice. “Cheers, me laird. Me lady.” She curtsied again. “Me name is Glenna. And this be Mary. Just new to the inn,” she said and nodded rather curtly toward the woman behind her. Mary was considerably taller, straight of back and solemn, with strong shoulders and an entrancing face. It was not beautiful, exactly, but fascinating enough to draw Anora’s attention from Ramsay for a moment.

“Mary,” he mused, glancing momentarily at Anora. “A much revered and oft used name.”

“Aye,” Anora said, feeling breathless as she glanced back at MacGowan.

He turned his attention slowly from her face. “What have you brought for us, then?” he asked.

Anora noticed that he made no attempt to hide the great length of his muscular thighs from the servants.

She also noticed that Glenna made no pretense of ignoring the display. ” ‘Tis Farley’s best for you, we’ve brought. Hot pigeon pie and sweet mead.”

“Me thanks,” he said and stood to receive the meal, but Glenna waved him back even as she advanced.

“Do not disturb yourself, Sir. You’ve had yourself a hard—oh!” she gasped and bobbled the pitcher in her hand.

Anora held her breath and followed the woman’s gaze.

“Your arm, me laird! ‘Tis wounded.”

He glanced toward it, then gave the maid an encouraging smile. ” ‘Tis good of you to notice, but not to worry, lass. ‘Tis not important.”

” ‘Tis,” she countered, and hurried breathlessly forward. “It must be seen to, and I’ve some skill at the healing arts.”

“You are kind,” he said. “But you need not—”

“But I must,” she argued, so near now that her bosom bobbled nearly under his very nose. His dark brows rose a fraction of an inch. “I must before—”

” Tis his wife’s task.” ‘Twas the tall maid who spoke. They turned in unison to stare at her.

“What?” Glenna asked coolly.

The woman scowled back, looking uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Anora held her breath.

“Surely ‘tis the lady’s right to see to her husband’s wounds.”

“Oh. Of course,” said Glenna. “I simply thought … that is to say … some women do not care to be bothered …” Her gaze skimmed his bare chest and lower. “I only mean … I am available … if the lady has no wish to see to your needs.”

Silence echoed in the room for a resounding second, then, “Your food,” said the tall maid, and striding forward, shoved a wooden trencher into Ramsay’s hands. Honey mead sloshed over the rim of the horn mug as the tray bumped aggressively into his chest. He steadied it absently and raised his gaze, but she was already backing away, wiping her palms hard against her drab skirt as she did so. “Give him the pitcher,” she ordered, her tone low, but the other maid just stared, seeming transfixed by a small droplet of ale that slid lazily between his pectorals.

“Now!” Mary ordered, and elbowed the other with some force.

“What? Oh!” said Glenna and jumped, red faced. “Your drink. Of course,” she said and thrust the clay vessel toward him. Bobbling the trencher, he took the mead while Glenna wrung her hands and managed to step back a pace. “Might there be anything else you need?”

“Nay.” His voice sounded somewhat confused. “I do not think—”

“A larger linen, mayhap?” Glenna’s gaze swept longingly downward.

He shifted his leg, managing to hide a few scant inches of bulging thigh from her view.

“More bread? A—”

“We must away,” Mary said.

“A change of garments!” Glenna gasped, seeing his wet plaid hanging nearby, but Mary was glowering now.

“Come along,” she said.

Glenna turned on her. “You’ll not be giving me orders your first day on the job,” she snarled, but continued to back from the room. “Please, me laird,” she said, sweet faced again, “if you be in need of anything, anything at all, you’ve but to—”

The door slammed on the last few words, and the room fell into silence.

Ramsay cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “That was … unusual.”

“Was it?” Anora asked, keeping her voice carefully cool.

He turned his eyes toward her and scowled. “You did not notice?”

“Notice what?”

“The maid, Mary. Did she not seem …” He shrugged, looking perplexed. “Familiar?”

Familiar? Nay. But there was something about her … something that she could not quite place.

“And the maid, Glenna.” He scowled. “Did she not seem somewhat …”

“Enamored?”

He stared at her, and then he grinned. It was just the slightest tilting of his lips, but her stomach tightened at the boyish expression. “I am flattered, lass, but I was about to say, confused.”

She felt her face warm beneath his perusal, but refused to lower her gaze. “Is there a difference?”

They sat immobile, watching each other from ridiculously close proximity for an endless moment. Then, “Eat,” he said, and twisting about, set the trencher on the bed between them.

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Reaching for the round loaf of bread, she wrested off a dark piece. Though overdone and somewhat stale, it tasted like heaven when she took a bite. He did the same, then drank a swig from the mug and handed it over.

The mead was gold and mellow, warming her immediately. She reached for the wooden ladle that rested on the trencher. The pie’s crust was bubbled and brown, and when she cut into it the scent of the filling wafted upward in a warm cloud that made her lightheaded with hunger. Scooping up a bit of the filling, she tasted the broth. It was rich and warm, a delicious meld of spices and meats.

” ‘Tis a strange opinion for one so young.”

She paused with her hand midway back to the pie.

He held the mug loosely in one hand, and she noticed how his fingers, though long and powerful, looked as sensitive as a scholar’s as they curved around the hollowed horn. “How is it that you know the correlation between being enamored and confused at such a tender age?”

Tension tightened her stomach, pushing hunger aside. ” ‘Tis not only the passing of time that teaches wisdom,” she said, and replaced the ladle on the trencher.

“What, then?”

“Are you not hungry?” she asked.

“Can I not be hungry and curious all at once?”

“Nay.” She said the word before she spoke, then scowled and took another hunk of bread, though her own hunger had dulled.

He shrugged, unconcerned. The room fell into silence as he ate. She tasted the pudding again, but it had lost its euphoric flavor, for her mind continued to turn like a burning spit.

“You did not disagree,” she said finally, and though she refused to turn toward him, she could feel his gaze on her, dark and moody.

Keep quiet, she told herself, and fiddled with the ladle as she struggled to obey her own commands, but it was no use. “So you think love is naught but foolishness?” she asked.

He lowered the mug and scowled. “I said nothing of love.”

“But ‘tis true,” she said, examining the pie. “You do not believe it exists.”

Not a sound echoed in the silence for a moment, but he spoke finally. “You have met the Flame and you have met the Rogue.”

She watched him. “Your parents.” Something akin to pain tightened around her heart. “They have love?”

He emptied the mug and refilled it from the pitcher. “She lives for him.” His tone was matter of fact, but his eyes … there was some emotion in his dark, soulful eyes that she could not quite name. “He would die for her.”

The words fell like dusk into the quiet of the room.

“Is that love, then?” Her voice was much quieter than she’d intended.

“Is that what you believe?” he asked, and their eyes met.