The Fraser Bride (8 page)

“When was this?” Lachlan asked.

“Some nights ago. I caught her—”

“You caught her?”

“What were you doing in her room?”

“What was she wearing?”

“What were
you
wearing?”

“If you touched her, I’ll break your head.”

This last statement was from Lachlan, of course.

Ramsay loosened his fists and exhaled between his teeth. ” ‘Tis a sad thing.”

“What is?”

“That me own brothers be daft as pigeons,” Ramsay said, and found, quite suddenly, that he rather favored the idea of a battle, for his muscles were as tight as wagon springs and his mind was boiling like soup stock.

“Daft, are we?” Gilmour asked.

“Aye, you are.”

“Because we are not so jaded as you? Because we believe the fairer sex is just that? Because we believe she is good and kind and true?”

“Just so,” Ramsay agreed.

“And what do you think she is, brother?”

If they wanted a fight, he would give it to them. Why the hell not? “She is, me wee, naive brothers, a liar.”

A growl issued from Lachlan’s lips.

“A liar?” Gilmour said. “Did you hear that, Lachlan?”

“Aye,” came the snarled response.

“And are we going to stand here and allow him to slander the lassie’s name so?”

“Nay, I am not. I fear I am forced to defend her honor.”

“You!”
Gilmour said, glancing at Lachlan. ” ‘Tis me own place to fight him.”

“Think again, brother.”

” ‘Tis my right. ‘Twas I who first knew her for what she was—a gentle lass of unequaled quality.”

” ‘Twas I who made it so that we were out and about at the outset.”

” ‘Twas I who—”

“I’m older,” Lachlan snarled, and raised his fists to punctuate the depth of his feelings.

“Well …” Gilmour shrugged. “You have me there. I cannot argue with God’s order of things.”

Lachlan stepped forward, and Ramsay saw the lightning quick flash of Gilmour’s grin in the moonlight.

“Damn!” Ramsay said and felt the anger rush from him like wind from a bellows. “You’re an arse, Gilmour.”

Mour almost contained his chuckle. “You’d best save your insults for Lachlan here, brother. He’s spoiling for a fight, you know.”

“Aye,” Ramsay said, “and while we’re beating each other senseless, you’ll be—” He paused. Within his chest, his heart stopped cold. “Where is she?”

“Who?” Gilmour asked.

“Mary!” Lachlan’s voice was low, his hand already on his sword.

Ramsay swore and spun into the darkness.

“Mary?”

“Mary!” Her name rang through the forest.

There was no answer. But somehow Ramsay knew there wouldn’t be. Knew it in his soul.

“I’ll check camp,” Gilmour said, and Ram sprinted into the woods. His heart thumped to life in his chest, kicking hard and fast against his ribs.

“Lass!” Lachlan called, thundering behind him.

A stream glittered in the moonlight. Faint tracks shone in the darkness. Ramsay skidded to a halt.

“Hoofprints!” Lachlan snarled, and fell to his knees. “The same as the warrior’s before.”

“And the lassie’s tracks. She mounted the steed here.”

“Can you follow in the dark?”

“Aye. That I can.” Lachlan’s answer was a growl. He was already trotting along the stream, half crouched like a predator on a scent.

“Go as far as you can. I’ll fetch our steeds,” Ramsay called as he raced back toward camp.

Swiftly, orders were given, horses saddled, and men armed. They were mounted in moments and riding hard through the woods toward the stream. They met Lachlan near a bend. In seconds he was astride, leaning low in the saddle and leading them pell-mell through the night. Mud flew from his horse’s hooves. In the darkness, the faces around Ramsay looked grim. Even Gilmour’s expression was dire, for there was no time to lose. It was obvious from the tracks that the horse they followed was running hard, even with a double load. Running hard and taking the shortest route.

Branches scraped leather and flesh, but that didn’t slow the riders’ pace. Even in the blackness, Lachlan could follow the trail. He had the uncanny instincts of a fox. They would catch up, Ramsay told himself. They would find her. Unless …

A thought stabbed through his consciousness. They’d been riding hard for some time, but still no sign of the horse. Was it outdistancing them? With a double load? How—

Ramsay hauled his mount in with a curse. Gryfon half reared, and Gilmour turned in the darkness.

“Ride!” Ramsay ordered. “I’ll catch up.”

But first he would check the tracks by the burn.

Maybe she
was
racing ahead of them with the mysterious warrior. But then again, maybe nothing was as it seemed.

The night flashed by in waves of terror and darkness. One moment Anora had been standing beside the burn, and the next she was grabbed from behind and forced onto a horse.

She strained away from the warrior who rode behind her, trying to see his face, but he gave her no quarter. Even if she could see beyond the darkness and his helmet, she was not allowed to turn.

“Stay!” he gritted, and tightened the arm banded around her waist. She froze, her heart striking hard against her ribs.

“Who are you?” Her voice quavered in the darkness, but there was no answer, only the slightest tilt of the arm across her body.

Beneath them, the midnight steed left the water and leapt, scrambling onto the shore before lurching toward the north at a hard gallop.

Anora hunched forward, snatching for a hank of mane, and the warrior’s grip shifted, tightening like death across her bosom. She gasped for breath and bravery, but terror lit anew in her soul. “Why do you do this? What do you want?” she whispered.

‘Twas forever before he growled a response. ” ‘Tis I who should ask that question.”

Her mind reeled. He acted as if she had wronged him in some way, but she did not know him. Did not recognize his voice, could not visualize his face, and yet when he spoke, there was something that welled up with the fear, something indefinable, just beyond the reach of her mind. She struggled to see past the barrier.

“So
now
you wish to know me?” he snarled. His breath felt hot against her neck. ” ‘Tis a bit late for that, me
lady.”

“Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever I wish.”

“Why?”

“Because I am strong and you are weak. “Tis the way of the world, is it not?”

Against the horse’s flying mane, Anora’s hand shook. Miles flew away beneath them. “Please.” She whispered the word into the oncoming wind. “Let me go.”

No response.

“Why are you doing this?”

The hard muscles of his legs tightened and against her chest his arm crushed her all the more. “Long has the sin gone unpunished.”

The sound of distant water splashed against the edge of her consciousness. Were the MacGowans coming for her? But no. Her captor was ungodly clever. He’d dragged her onto a horse only to dismount in the water moments later. In an instant the horse had disappeared alone, and they had scrambled upstream to another mount and ridden in the opposite direction. No one would find her …

From behind, the sound of a hoof on a rock made her catch her breath. She froze, waiting for the warrior to turn and listen, but he did not. Instead, she felt the cold metal of his nose guard bump her skull.

The truth struck her suddenly. His helmet muffled the sounds from behind. ‘Twas the helmet and perhaps his inexplicable hatred for her that kept him from hearing the noises that followed them.

Distract him, her mind screamed, but for a moment she could think of nothing. Nothing but the memory of rending fabric, of control being ripped from her by brutal force.

“Sin?” she rasped. “What sin?”

“Methinks you know.”

“Know what?”

“Why you must die,” he said. The horse lurched around a boulder and in that moment a branch struck her head with dizzying force.

She was thrust from the warrior’s grasp. He reached for her, but she kicked with all her might, thrusting her legs out in a desperate attempt to be free, and suddenly she was falling.

She hit the ground hard. Desperation kicked her to her feet and she fled, scampering like a wild hare through the underbrush.

She knew the instant he turned after her. She must find cover! Up ahead, thick woods loomed in a darker shade of black. Her lungs tore as she sprinted toward the forest. Her feet tangled in her skirt, but she managed to stay upright, to keep running. Behind her, heavy hooves thundered against the sod. She heard the horse’s snort of exertion, felt its hot breath. Too late, too late! She twisted about, trying to dart away, but in that instant a cry ripped through the darkness. Pivoting wildly, she prepared to meet death, but instead she saw another horse lunge into view.

The warrior turned his destrier to meet him. There was a moment of blinding silence and then his challenge roared through the darkness.

The two horses charged in pounding unison. Sparks flashed in the darkness. Steel crashed against steel. The warrior’s blade spun from his hand. He toppled sideways, struck the earth, rolled for an instant, then bounded to his feet.

The mounted man spun his steed toward the other and stopped, and for a moment his face shone in the fleeting moonlight.

“MacGowan.” The name left Anora’s parched lips like a prayer, but his attention never wavered from his enemy, for the warrior was backing toward his sword.

“Touch her and die.” Ramsay’s voice was low and steady, echoing in the dark stillness.

“She is mine, MacGowan,” rasped her captor. “You have no stake in this.”

“What is yours?” Ramsay’s bay pranced in place, the sound of his hoof falls solid in the stillness, the jingle of his bit as ghostly as a rattle of chains. “Who are you?”

Silence settled in like doom for an instant. “I am justice.”

Ramsay sat perfectly still atop his restive steed. “I have seen the face of justice. It has never before harmed an innocent.”

“Innocent!” the warrior snarled, and snatching his sword from the earth, he charged.

Slamming his heels into his steed, Ramsay joined the attack, but an instant before they met, the warrior dropped to the ground and rolled. Gryfon stumbled across his tucked body, and before he found his balance the warrior leapt up and swung.

Caught off balance and unawares, Ramsay ducked beneath the blow and so doing, tumbled from the saddle.

In an instant his horse was gone. There was nothing between the men now but three strides of darkness.

They circled each other in silence, arms stretched wide.

It was the warrior who struck first.

Ramsay parried. Sparks erupted in an arc of gold, then burned to blackness. Their breathing was harsh in the stillness.

“What has she done that you would wish her harm?” Ramsay asked.

” ‘Tis none of your concern, MacGowan,” said the warrior, and swung again.

Ramsay blocked the blow, advanced a pace, met the other’s answered steel and fell back, circling again.

“There you are wrong,” he said. “For me clan has vowed to keep her safe.”

“Then you have vowed foolishly.”

“Why?”

“No more words,” growled the other, and lunged forward.

Anora cowered in the darkness. Sparks flared in the ebony night and by the slanted moonlight she saw Ramsay fall to his knees.

“Nay!” she screamed.

His face jerked toward her, and amidst the upward thrust he’d planned, his hands faltered. The warrior swung.

She heard Ramsay’s hiss of pain, saw him stagger sideways, finally finding his balance.

She whimpered in fear.

The warrior turned toward her, and her mind spun. Who was he? What harm had she done him?

“Think back,” he snarled.

Behind him, Ramsay wrenched his sword from the ground.

The warrior glanced at MacGowan, then back at her.

Nay! Please!
her soul whispered, but her lips failed to move.

Still, the warrior turned as if she had spoken. Their gazes met. Recognition almost dawned, and then he shrieked. The sound echoed like the cry of a falcon, and suddenly his black steed thundered out of nowhere.

A lunge, and the warrior was aboard. She knew he would come for her, knew even before he spun his destrier in her direction. She stumbled, trying to escape, but he was already swooping down upon her, his cloak flying behind.

She felt the grip of his hand in her gown and twisted away. A roar bellowed from behind them and he jerked about. Something whistled in the air. For just an instant Anora saw a flash of steel in the darkness. It sang through the night like an angel of death. The warrior screamed as steel struck flesh and flashed past.

His body tilted. His sword clattered to the earth, and then, like a winged host of evil, he set his heels to his mount and was gone.

The world fell silent. Anora turned, then staggered toward Ramsay, drawn irrevocably across the uneven turf until they fell into each other’s arms.

“Mary.” He whispered her name. “Are you unhurt?”

” ‘Tis you. ‘Tis you,” she murmured, and touched his face, trying to believe that he was real, that all was well. “But …” Even in the moonlight, she could see the dark blood on his arm and recoiled in fear. “You are hurt.”

“Nay. ‘Tis naught.”

“You have been wounded,” she said, awe in her voice. “For me.”

“A scratch, nothing more,” he said, and smoothed her hair back from her face. She trembled beneath his touch.

“Why?” she whispered, struggling to understand. He ran his hand down the back of her neck, pulling her gently against his chest. “Why did you risk yourself?”

“You are well,” he murmured. His sword arm remained still as he stroked her hair with his other hand, and there, like the breath of a wind, she felt his fingers shiver.

“You tremble,” she whispered. “With pain?”

“Nay, lass. Do not fret.”

“Why do you tremble?”

“I feared …” His fingers tightened momentarily in her hair. “I feared I’d be too late.”

“You feared …” Against her breast, she could feel the solid beat of his heart. “For me?”