The Fraser Bride (35 page)

“I’ll not be leaving, lass. On that you can depend.”

For a moment she feared that she, too, might faint, but she steadied her nerves and raised her chin. “Then you may die like the others.”

“I may indeed,” he said, and she forced herself to leave.

* * * * *

Ramsay spent most of that morning in bed, yet despite his lack of activity, the hours sped by, for his mind was spinning. That evening, in the great hall once again, he said little and observed much—how Helena poured the ale, how Meara watched everything, how Isobel kept her eyes averted, and how Anora, looking pale in her crimson gown, could almost hide the fear in her eyes, but not quite. When the meal was ended and the keep had been given time to settle into silence, he left the hall and strode down toward the kitchens.

Isobel should yet be there. Isobel with the narrow hands and bird quick glances.

“Ramsay.”

He turned with a start, and there, just rounding the corner from his right, was Anora. The crimson gown made her appear more fragile than ever and her wide eyes were bright with a terrible anxiety.

“I thought you had retired to your chambers,” he said.

She glanced sideways and wrung her slim hands together. “I’ve only a moment, but I must speak to you,” she said, for once not attempting to hide her fear.

Worry cut at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, and strode toward her. Her eyes widened still more and she stepped quickly back.

“I cannot speak here. There are ears everywhere. Meet me at Myst Vale—where you battled,” she whispered, and turned to leave.

“Anora.” He grabbed her arm. “What is amiss?”

They were inches apart, her eyes as wide as bluebells, her lips like scarlet bows, and already he felt himself pulled closer, longing with a terrible need to draw her close.

“Nay!” She pulled free and backed away. “I cannot. Meet me at the vale.”

“Why must—” he began, but she cut him off.

“If you love me, you will meet me, and you will tell no one,” she said, and fled.

* * * * *

“If you love me, you will meet me … If you love me you will meet me …”

Her words ran through Ramsay’s mind like a litany. It had not been a difficult task to escape the keep without being seen, though the precipitous descent from Myst had caused his thigh to throb as his scabbard pressed into it. Beyond the castle’s feeble lantern light, the night was quiet, the air cool. Mist curled like forgotten souls from the lowlands, and high above, tattered clouds whispered past a grinning moon.

“If you love me you will meet me.”
And so he came, for he could no longer deny the truth. It burned at his soul like a Candlemas flame, consuming him. Aye, God help him, he loved her.

He slipped across the open moor and into the trees beyond. Branches rustled, whispering secrets that made him turn and glance behind, but no one followed, so he hurried on, his mind churning.

The moon slid beneath a wisp of a cloud, and the midnight wind whispered his name. He turned back again. Nothing but darkness.

“So you have come.”

Ramsay jerked forward, and there, standing before him, was the Munro. The moon skidded clear of the clouds, shining its silver light on the giant’s broad scarred face.

Then the final puzzle pieces clicked together in Ramsay’s mind. He straightened, glad that he had come, happy to pay the consequences to know the truth. “So Isobel told you I would be here.”

Even in the darkness, the surprise was evident on the Minotaur’s face. “In truth the maid told another, someone she calls a friend, but my spies are many. So you knew the lass planned to betray you?”

Ramsay shrugged.

“I meself was surprised that she wanted you gone, for I thought surely all of Evermyst worshiped you as their champion. But it seems me lady’s maid thought you were putting her mistress in grave danger.”

“Did she say how?”

“How?” The Munro grinned as he pulled his sword from its sheath. “In truth, laddie, I care only that you are here.”

“So you have come to be rid of me.”

” ‘Twas the lassie’s wish, even if she planned for another to do the deed,” he said, and took a scant step forward. “And how can I resist? She loves her mistress so.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, “she does that. Like a sister. But I fear I’ve no wish to die this night, Munro.”

The grin broadened. ” ‘Tis damnably bad luck for you then, isn’t it, laddie,” Munro said, and lunged.

Ramsay danced backward, arms flung wide. “Mayhap we should discuss this first.”

“I do not hate you as I’d prefer, MacGowan, but we’ve nothing to talk about,” Munro said, and slashed again. Just as Ramsay leapt backward a second time, a woman shouted and a missile whizzed out of the darkness. The Munro stumbled back with a grunt.

“Run, MacGowan!” she yelled.

Munro’s men streamed out of the woods, but Ram-say was busy searching behind him. And then he saw her, her face pale in the moonlight as she stood amidst the ghostly trees.

“Anora!” he yelled, but just at that moment Gryfon raced up from behind him, and on his back was another lass. “Anora?” Ramsay gasped, gazing in confusion at the pale oval of her face. He glanced at her, then at the woman behind, terror alive in his mind. Which one was she? “Get back!” he yelled, desperate to save them both. He finally whipped his sword from its scabbard. “Back to the—”

Then Munro’s men fell upon him. He slashed at the closest two. They parried and fell back, but there were a dozen more, pressing up from behind. The closest raised his sword, but again something whirred out of the darkness, slamming him aside. Rocks! They were rocks, thrown from the woods like well placed arrows. But other warriors pressed past their fallen leader, and in that moment Gryfon leapt forward.

“Nay!” Ramsay yelled, but the rider pressed the bay onward, plowing into the nearest two soldiers. They stumbled aside. One stayed down, but the other rose, bringing his sword to bear. “Get back, lass!” Ramsay shrieked.

“Take her!” Munro roared, stumbling to his feet. “Take her unhurt.”

“To the castle!” Ramsay yelled as he parried, but the rider was already aiming Gryfon toward an advancing swordsman. The warrior went down, but another had come up beside them. “To your left! Your left!” he yelled, but even now Anora was being pulled from the bay’s back. Frantic, Ramsay slashed his blade in a hard arc. The closest man hissed in pain. The others retreated only slightly, but it was enough. MacGowan leapt into the opening and rammed his shoulder into Gryfon’s barrel.

The stallion stumbled sideways with a grunt. The man on the far side fell with a yell beneath his weight, but refused to let go. Anora was pulled sideways. Ramsay reached to grab her, but too late. She disappeared from view. Gryfon plowed ahead, and Ramsay leapt in, kicking the warrior’s sword arm. The soldier yelled as his blade flew into the darkness, and relaxed his grip on the captive’s arm.

Grasping Anora’s wrist, Ramsay yanked her to her feet. Then they were running, scrambling through the woods as he searched frantically for the other maid, but already they could hear the Munros crashing up from behind. Closer. Closer. Pivoting about, he pulled Anora behind him and raised his sword, arms outstretched.

The Munros streamed at them in a roaring mass. Ramsay struck, parried, and struck again. They fell back, just as a devil’s yell rang out. A flash of gold streaked out of the darkness as horses galloped toward them from the woods.

Ramsay’s heart sank. They were done. There was no hope.

But a rock flew, striking a rider, and the horseman jerked about, his face visible in the moonlight.

“Gilmour!” Hope flooded Ramsay as his clansmen charged from the darkness. With renewed strength he leapt toward the Munros, but in that instant another missile was loosed. It struck his skull with reverberating force and he dropped, falling quietly at Anora’s feet.

Ramsay groaned as he awoke. His head rang like an iron bell and his leg throbbed with pain that seemed to rumble its way through his entire being.

“You say he swoons often?” asked a familiar voice.

Ramsay cracked one lid open and got an eye full of Gilmour’s grinning face. Memories flooded back like a break-tide, and he sat up with a jolt. “Where’s Anora?”

“Ahh, so our long-lost brother joins us,” Gilmour said. “Welcome to the land of those who stay awake during a battle.”

“Where’s—”

“MacGowan.” She was there, unscathed, unbowed.

“Anora.” He whispered her name and she came into his arms. “I feared …” he began, but could find no words to complete the aching panic he had felt.

Nothing to explain the empty void he had faced at the thought of losing her. He slipped his hand onto her cheek and drank in the sight of her. “You are well?”

“Of course,” she said, but when she covered his hand with her own, her fingers trembled. “And you?”

“I am fine.”

“Not to worry, me lady,” Lachlan said. “I fear me wee brother has always been wont to swoon like a milk-fed babe. He’ll recover.”

If Anora heard him she showed no sign. She slid her fingers gently over the bump on Ramsay’s skull. “I am sorry.” Her face was pale. ” ‘Tis my own fault. Isobel only meant to save you from—”

“Your sister is a fine aim.”

“Sister! I have no sister,” she gasped, but for an instant her gaze darted toward the door.

“Aye, you do, lass,” he murmured, and followed her gaze. Isobel stood near Meara with her back to the wall. For the first time since his introduction to her, she was dressed in something other than faded, drooping gray. Indeed, the sapphire blue cape wrapped about her slim form and covering her head was just as bright as the colors always worn by her mistress. “Your twin, I believe.”

“Twins?” Lachlan said, and rubbed his arm as if nursing a bruise.

Anora shook her head. “We are not—”

“There is no need to lie,” Ramsay said. “The truth is out. “Anora’s lips moved in silent denial for a moment, then, “How did you know?”

“At first ‘twas simply her hands,” he said, and stroked Anora’s gently. “But then there were a dozen wee hints. Her lips were all but blue after she dove from me window into her beloved sea—a fact I failed to see in me drug-induced state. But me conversation with her, when she pretended to be you and sent me out to the vale—that was quite revealing. She called me Ramsay, which you have not to this day, and suggested that I might be in love with you. A dangerous lass, but quite astute. She is the one who pretends to be Senga, who made certain me mead was drugged, who visited me room in the wee hours of the morn, who rocked Mary’s cradle, and who dove from me window into the firth.”

“Is this true?” Anora asked, her gaze meeting her sister’s.

The girl frowned as she stepped forward. “I know naught of rocking a cradle, but as for drugging you …” She shook her head. ” ‘Twas clear Ailsa would keep your mug full of whatever fine herb I dropped in her pitcher.”

“Isobel!”

“I am sorry, sister.” The whisper was gone from Isobel’s voice, replaced by a demeanor as bold as her twin’s as she swept back her hood. Golden hair glistened in the candlelight. “I could not bear to lose you.”

“Lose me!”

“To MacGowan,” she said, and fixed him with her gem bright eyes for a moment.

“And so you would see him killed?” Anora asked. “Delivered to the Munro—”

“The Munro was not to have him,” Isobel said, drawing closer. “I have more than one friend who would be willing to see the MacGowan taken from Evermyst until you forgot him, until you remembered that we cannot let another in. Until you remembered our mother.”

“But with Ramsay gone, Munro would have only increased his efforts to have me!”

“But do you not see?” Isobel said, her tone softening. “The Munro would never have had you.”

“We cannot hold him outside these walls forever.”

“Maybe not outside the walls,” Isobel agreed. “But outside your heart?” She smiled. The expression was wistful, and Ramsay realized that until that instant he had seen nothing but trepidation on the girl’s elfin face. “For a few brief months, you shared your life with me. Indeed, you shared your very soul, for I felt as though we were one. But there is no place for me here now,” she said. “Truly though, mayhap ‘tis for the best. I tire of playing the soft maid.”

“Isobel—” Anora said, but her sister shook her head.

“Me apologies, MacGowan,” she said, though there was little remorse in her tone. “When I went to your chambers to test your loyalty and you turned aside me advances, I knew that you truly cared for me sister. Still, I convinced myself that your departure would be the best thing for her. I could not allow you to be killed, though. Not when me sister adores you as she does.”

“I do not …” Anora began.

“There’s little point in denying it,” Isobel said, her gaze still on Ramsay “Though I do not understand the attraction, she cherishes you.” She shrugged “I know, just as she knows the truth about me.”

“She knew in her heart that I was the one who wished you gone. She knew, yet because she cherishes me, she believed my lies to the contrary. You are blessed among men, MacGowan, for she adores you like none other.”

“Do you?” Ramsay asked Anora.

Their eyes met. “I—”

“Hold up!” Gilmour said. “I am utterly flummoxed. How could you not know they be sisters? You’ve been known to be daft, Ram, but surely none could be so simple as to miss the great beauty they share. Indeed,” he said and stepping toward Isobel, took her hand between his. “I am already light-headed from her charms.”

Isobel threw back her head and laughed. “Or mayhap ‘tis from the rock I hit you with,” she said, and pulled her hand from his. “Believe me, MacGowan number two, had I not wished you to know me true identity you would not have known.”

” ‘Twas you who threw the rock?” Gilmour asked.

“The lass is quite adept with a sling,” Lachlan rumbled.

“A maid must have some means of defense when she is born to poverty.”

Gilmour scowled, and Isobel smiled, enjoying his bemusement.

“I meself did not know I had a sister,” she said. “Not until some months ago when I tried to filch the very turnips the lady of Evermyst was attempting to purchase.”