The Fraser Bride (3 page)

“Lachlan, you will attempt to find the warrior—” she began, but Roderic shook his head and she turned toward him. “Nay?”

“Send our Lachlan to find the man who may have wished the sainted Mary harm?” He shrugged, laughter in his eyes. “Methinks ‘twould be best if the warrior retains the ability to walk when he is brought to our fair keep.”

She nodded. “Lachlan,
you
will ride to Braeburn and inquire about the maid. Gilmour, you find the warrior. And Ramsay …” She turned toward him, her eyes slightly narrowed as she examined his face. “What of you, my son?”

He resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. It seemed like a lifetime that she stared at him, but finally she spoke.

“You will find the maid’s mount.”

“As you wish, Mother,” he said with some relief for her averted gaze.

She smiled. “Good. With God’s grace, by the morrow we will know the maid’s true identity.”

“She is no spy,” muttered Lachlan, eyeing Ramsay.

He shrugged. “A heretic, then. Or a murderess, or—”

“A heretic!” Lachlan rasped.

“A—” Gilmour began, but Flanna rose abruptly to her feet.

“Quiet!”

“A
murderess!”
Gilmour snorted.

Roderic rose beside his wife. “Lads,” he said, his voice deep. “Your lady mother called for silence. Surely you’ve no wish to upset her. She might … swoon.”

“Aye,” said Gilmour wryly “And I might suddenly burst into a hundred wee pieces, like a shattered mug, but I rather doubt it.”

“Are you saying your mother is less than the epitome of fragile femininity?” Roderic asked.

Silence spread over the room like spilled ink. The brothers glanced nervously at each other and away.

“Well, Father,” Gilmour said finally. “Malcolm of Ryland does still bear that scar.”

“Aye,” Lachlan added. “And I think mayhap Haydan the Hawk could have defended himself without Mother’s assistance.”

“Scars,” Roderic said, as if dismissing such an inconsequential topic. “How can you speak of scars in the presence of me fair bride? Look at her. Is she not as delicate as a spring blossom?”

Flanna lowered her eyes and lifted one hand delicately toward her bosom. A little eyelash batting and she would have fit into the queen’s entourage like a cog into its niche, but not a soul there seemed wont to mention the disparity between her reputation and her demeanor.

“No comments?” Roderic asked finally. “Very well, then. What have you learned here, lads?”

“Not to trust Mother’s innocent expressions?” Gilmour murmured. Lachlan grinned, then cleared his throat as he glanced away.

“What say you, Mour?” Roderic asked.

” ‘Tis naught.”

“I was quite certain you spoke, so tell us what sage wisdom you have learned from this day.”

Gilmour clasped his hands behind his back and spoke like a chastised lad. “Not to judge truth on mere appearances?”

“Well said.” Roderic grinned as he kissed his wife’s hand, then placed it upon his arm. “Try to remember that as you go forth.”

“Aye, Father,” Gilmour promised.

“I shall,” Lachlan agreed.

* * * * *

They failed.

Twenty-four hours later, Ramsay stood in the door-way of the infirmary and listened to his brothers with a mix of resignation and humor.

“Her eyes are sapphire,” Gilmour said.

“You do not know the color of her eyes,” Lachlan argued. “Just as you do not know her name.”

“Unless I am wrong. And I never am …” Gilmour smiled wistfully as he gently squeezed the hand of the woman who slept on the mattress between them. “Her eyes are as blue as the heavens from which she was sent to me.”

“To
you,”
Lachlan scoffed.

“Certainly to me. Who else …”

Ramsay let their words filter into nothingness as he watched the girl. By virtue of her silence alone, she seemed far more intelligent than his two rambling brothers.

Her face was nearly round, saved from being babyish by her pointy little chin. Against her ivory cheeks, her downy lashes seemed almost dark, though they were truly no darker than her hair, which was the rich hue of summer barley. It was as long as his arm and as luminous as the morning sun. ‘Twas little wonder, really, that his brothers were daft over her. It was a hard won lesson, to learn to separate a woman’s looks from her soul, and if one was to judge her by her face … well … the word “saint” did come to mind.

But strangely, it was her hands that fascinated him. They were so slim, so refined and pale and delicate. Placed together on the coverlet, they made it seem almost as if she were praying, and in a moment they twitched ever so slightly, as if moved by her own supplication.

Aye, she seemed angelic, perfect, a tiny slip of bliss sent to earth in the form of a woman. But he had known perfection before, had spent sleepless nights waiting to know it again—to hold her, to beg her for one more kiss, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing she was too pure, too good. Only to find …

“I’ll not have you saying that sort of thing about the lass,” Lachlan said. His voice was low, challenging. All humor had fled from his tone, but far be it from Gilmour to care about that note of warning.

“Just because she’s an angel doesn’t mean she does not possess the same desires and needs of other women. It doesn’t mean she will not want me,” Mour said, and caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “But you are right: an innocent should not hear such words. I must keep me thoughts to meself.”

“As well as your hands,” Lachlan said, and knocked the other’s arm aside. “Or I’ll see you tossed arse first from the infirmary.”

Gilmour laughed as if genuinely surprised. “Please tell me you do not think to have her for yourself, brother.”

Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “And why not?”

“Because you … well … you …” Gilmour flipped his hand up and down as if encompassing his brother’s entire being. “An angel does not belong with an ogre.”

“And neither does she belong with the devil.”

“Truly, Lachlan, she is much too refined to be had by the likes of you. Look at that angelic face,” Gilmour said, and once again stroked his fingers up her cheek. Look at that—”

But in that instant the angel awoke. Her eyes flew open. “Unhand me,” she growled.

“You’re awake!” Gilmour’s eyes widened.

“Praise be!”

She jerked her gaze to the right at the sound of Lachlan’s voice. “Touch me, either one of you, and I swear by the living God I’ll see you cut and quartered before the dawn.”

Anora remained very still. Where was she? Had the Munro caught her? Or—

The warrior! He had chased her and she’d run. Panicked. She knew better than that, better than to show fear.

“They
are
blue.”

She snapped her gaze to the man at her right. He was dark, broad, powerful. She’d learned long ago never to trust a powerful man.

“What?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Your eyes,” he said. “They are blue.”

“Mary?”

She swept her attention to her left. The man there was fair haired, winsome, ungodly handsome. She’d learned long ago never to trust a handsome man.

“What did you call me?” she asked.

“Mary. ‘Tis the name I gave you whilst you slept, for I imagine you look like the sainted mother of Christ.”

Flattery. She let herself relax a smidgen, but she couldn’t be careless, for oft those who spoke of saints were the antithesis of holiness themselves.

“You needn’t worry,” said the fair haired man, “for we will not harm you.”

“Nay,” agreed the other, his voice deep and earnest. “Indeed I will guard you with me very life.”

She carefully soothed her voice to one of schooled refinement. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“You have come to Dun Ard, the high fortress.” The fair haired man smiled easily. “We be the brothers MacGowan. I am called Gilmour, and yonder broad pillar is Lachlan.”

The MacGowans! Even in her home in the far north, she had heard of them.

“Lass?”

“Aye?” She stilled the rapid beat of her heart and raised her chin a notch.

“Your name … ‘tis not Mary by any wee chance, is it?”

Perhaps there was new hope here, for they were strong men with a powerful clan behind them. But her uncle had seemed a likely protector too, until he had heard her troubles. Then his charity had withered like a winter pear and his true nature showed through. She would not so easily share her troubles again. She would learn what these men could do for her and act accordingly. In this world of shadows and travails, the truth was highly overvalued, while a lie, often—

“Lass—”

“My apologies,” she murmured, knowing she had waited too long to answer and now had no more time to consider the matter. “Aye. I am Mary.”

“Nay.” ‘Twas the broader of the two who spoke. “It cannot be.”

“Indeed it is,” she said and tried a tremulous smile in the direction of the one called Gilmour. The effort made her head throb, but her course was set. “Tell me, my laird, how did you know? Could it be that you are not only bonny, but gifted also?”

“Gifted?” he asked, and leaning forward, reached for her hand.

Her stomach pitched, and she was tempted almost beyond control to pull out of his reach, but she forced herself to allow his touch.

He took her fingers gently in his hand and raised them to his lips.

“Nay, lass, I had no gift, not until you appeared like an angel—”

“Mary.”

The word came from the far end of the room. Anora lifted her gaze, realizing in that instant that she had been careless. Too careless. ‘Twas not just the two brothers who shared this space with her. There was another man, a dark haired fellow with deep set eyes and a solemn expression. Two small braids were pulled back from his well sculpted face, and his mouth, though generous, was set in a hard line.

She watched him approach her bed. He was neither as tall as the one brother nor as broad as the other, and yet he seemed bigger than both somehow, making them appear harmless by comparison.

“Your name is Mary?” he asked.

“Aye.” She held her breath. It was a foolish act. He was only a man, after all, but her hand was shaking in Gilmour’s palm so she pulled it swiftly to her side. ” Tis. And thine?”

“What an amazing coincidence,” he said. “That you should bear the very name me brother gave you. Where might you hail from, Mary?”

Her mind spun. She dared not reveal that she was from Evermyst. But where? Someplace far away. Far—she was running out of time. Too slow. Too—

“Lady—”

“Levenlair,” she said.

He canted his head at her. “Levenlair?”

She should have chosen another castle. One not so well renowned. A fictional one, mayhap, or—

“I’ve heard of such a place,” he continued, “though I know little of it. Far to the north, is it not?”

“Aye, ‘tis.” She fidgeted with the blanket for an instant, then forced her fingers to lie still. Only a foolish child would squirm under a man’s gaze and as a lass she’d learned the penalty for foolishness. Better to use her greatest defense against him. After all, arrogance was free. “Me father was laird of that fair castle.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye,” she said, and pursing her lips, gave a slight nod. “And what of you?” His hair was shoulder length and thick as a stallion’s mane. The color of a bay steed, it hung in glistening waves just past the shoulders of his simple saffron tunic. But ‘twere his eyes that held her attention. They were a piercing indefinable hue and as brooding as a king’s. “You must be a servant here. How fortunate, for I am quite parched. Fetch me a horn of something. Wine, preferably. Mulled, but not too hot.”

For a moment the room was silent, and then Gilmour laughed, but she dared not take her gaze from the other.

“Ahh, Mary,” Gilmour said, and nudging a stool forward with his foot, seated himself close by her side. “Awake for only a moment and already you can see a man’s true place in the world.”

She pulled her attention away with an effort and pinned it on the fair haired brother. “Your servant is woefully obstinate, I fear, for he is still here.”

“He is like that at times.”

“In truth, lass,” said the one called Lachlan, “Ramsay is not a servant, but the eldest of us five brothers and heir to Dun Ard.”

“Oh.” She fluttered her lashes downward lest they see the lie in her eyes. “My apologies, of course.”

“Nay,” said Lachlan. “Indeed, lass, ‘tis we who must apologize.”

“You?” she asked and raised her gaze to his. She did not like to be surprised, and yet she was.

“Aye,” he said, his expression as solemn as a stone. “For we failed to keep you safe.”

“But you did not even know I was here.”

“We should have.”

Now, here was an overdeveloped sense of duty. She liked that in a fellow, so long as he kept his distance. “Nay, good sir,” she said demurely. “You are very kind and very gallant, but ‘tis surely not your fault that I was attacked.”

“Attacked?” Lachlan’s tone was angry but his eldest brother’s was smooth, urging caution when he spoke.

“We saw no sign of an attack.”

She swept her gaze to his face, knowing her eyes would look as blue and innocent as a babe’s. “Surely you did not think I was traveling alone from my home in the north. I was with my entourage when we were set upon.”

“Entourage! Where—” Lachlan began, but Ramsay interrupted again.

“When was this?”

His demeanor was unruffled, his tone level, but his eyes … He knew something and was fishing to learn more, to catch her in a lie.

” ‘Twas some days ago,” she said. “North of—”

“The Munros.” Lachlan’s voice was low, and suddenly his dirk appeared in his hand. “Twas the Munros who set upon you, wasn’t it?”

Her heart jumped against her ribs. She should have seen this eventuality, should have known they would have heard of the Munros’ passage through their land. Should have guessed the conclusions they would draw.

“I …” She stared at him. “I do not know. I … am not from these parts.”

Lachlan shook his head and took a step nearer. “The Munros do not live hereabouts either. Surely—”

“You have not heard of them?” ‘Twas the suspicious brother who spoke, as if he were dissecting her every word. “How strange. They too are from the north. I thought every Scot knew of their doings. Most especially the daughter of the powerful laird of—”