Snow Raven (14 page)

“D’you intend,” he said, looking at her incredulously, “for me to be at your constant beck and call? Think you I have nothing better to do than listen to some
Sassenach
caterwauling from dusk till dawn?”

Merry stared at him, dumbstruck. She blinked once or twice and felt herself slowly turning scarlet with fury.

“I beg your pardon, sirrah. I did not ask to be brought here; nor do I recall asking any special favors from you. However, I will be treated like a human being. If you cannot find a decent room for me in this crumbling heap of yours, then kindly send someone to muck out a stall in the stables. At least ’twould be warm and dry; I fancy the horses are kept well enough here!”

To Merry’s further outrage, Ranald threw back his head and laughed. She watched the tanned column of his throat producing those low, ironic chuckles, and her hands clenched at her sides as she valiantly resisted the urge to hurl herself across the hall and throttle him. She quenched any further attraction to an obvious madman.

“That’s more like it,” he finally said when his laughter subsided. “Show the good folk of Auchmull just what spoiled little bitches you Tudor wenches truly are! Your superior airs have been the talk of this place since your arrival, m’dear; I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint. For a time, I was beginning to wonder if your spirit was possibly broken, for you were refreshingly silent on the last leg journey here.”

“You … you cur,” Merry gasped, every inch of her frame trembling with fury.

“Aye, we mustn’t forget your fiancé’s favorite word for Lindsays. Curs. Don’t look so surprised. Of course I know every vile name and oath your betrothed has hurled in my direction over the past years. I could hardly miss hearing details; Highlanders tend to be very clannish, you see.”

Merry flushed and clutched her skirts in her fists. “Faith, I can’t believe you’d treat a woman so abysmally. I thought Highlanders professed to uphold some sort of chivalry … or moral decency,” she added.

Ranald’s eyes darkened to the color of thunderclouds. “What would your kind know of morals?” he coldly inquired.

Angrily she tossed her head, and the hood of her cloak fell back. She caught him watching the fiery rippling of her hair as it tumbled down her back.

“I only asked for the barest consideration you’d give anyone, Lord Lindsay. I realize I am not welcome here; I understand you have no intention of listening to my side of the story concerning Sir Jasper Wickham. Regardless of your feelings toward my betrothed, I have done you and your kin no harm. I should not suffer the consequences of your ill temper. If you will not provide me decent quarters here, then pray release me altogether.” Genuine emotion thickened Merry’s voice as she spoke.

Something flickered in Ranald’s eyes. Not quite sympathy. Grudging admiration? Merry sensed some hidden emotion there. Yet his expression was, as always, impenetrable to her searching eyes, his heart immune to her pleas.

“Your point is well taken. In my haste to serve justice, perhaps another has been inadvertently crushed under my heel.”

Merry could have sworn The Wolf’s gaze softened ever so slightly as it traveled up her rigid form. Ranald took a deep breath and spoke so softly she had to strain to make out the words.

“I bear you no personal malice. Yet you have the misfortune of being Wickham’s woman, and I have a score of vengeance to settle with the
Sassenach
. The most I can offer is a chamber on the main floor, nearer the kitchens. ’Tis the warmest place in Auchmull. Aye, my ancestral seat is old and decrepit and I do not apologize for it. That’s the most I can do.”

Merry lowered her gaze and blinked fiercely once or twice. She would not cry. She must not let The Wolf win! Nevertheless, she felt a single tear fall and leave its warm track down her left cheek. She simply nodded, too choked up to speak.

Ranald sighed, seeming more irritated than moved by her tears. With a curt wave of his hand, a pair of servants suddenly emerged from the shadows.

“Hertha. Ready Mistress Tanner’s new quarters. Cleary, please assure the room is secure at all times.”

The two retainers, an elderly woman and young strapping man, each gave respective curtsies and bows.

“Aye, m’laird.”

Ranald then briskly disbursed the remainder of his staff to their various duties. As all the others moved off, he proffered Merry an eloquent if stiff little bow of his own.

“Mistress Tanner, I must request your presence this evening in the dining hall. There are some matters demanding my attention which require your cooperation. I trust you will not find them too taxing.”

Merry regarded him warily. Yet she knew she dared not refuse, for he held all the cards and they both knew it. She sought for any excuse to decline what would surely prove another unpleasant clash of wills.

“I fear I haven’t any other clothes,” she said at last. “Just this gown Fiona lent me, and ’tis soiled from travel now, too.”

“Your personal possessions should arrive in a few days, along with Gilbert and Hugo. Until then, I’ll set one of the maids to perusing the old wardrobes. Surely there is something suitable.”

“Thank you,” she murmured reluctantly.

He nodded and turned to go.

“Wait, please.” Merry noticed the way he stiffened warily at the mere sound of her voice. She spoke quietly in case anyone else was listening in. “I know how easy ’twould have been for you to humiliate me completely in front of your staff, milord. I’m sure in your eyes I deserve as much. Yet you didn’t. And … that is a sort of chivalry in itself, I suppose.”

“Do not presume to label my actions as anything other than what they are,” came The Wolf of Badanloch’s frigid reply. “Good day.”

Chapter Twelve

MERRY COULD NOT FIND fault with the next chamber summarily produced for her inspection. It was small, but more than adequate for one. The simple stone room had been enhanced by colorful wool tapestries on the walls, depicting various scenes of hunts and revelries. These not only added relief to her otherwise stark quarters, but helped to cut down on the drafts.

As Ranald had promised, it was far warmer there near the kitchens, and by the time afternoon fell, Merry had already made quite a cozy nest for herself. She was surprised and touched when the woman Hertha, the maidservant who had originally readied the room, also went to the trouble to secure a hand-carved rocking chair from some mysterious source. This was then generously padded with sheep’s wool, one of the main products of Highland farmers. This particular wool, Hertha informed Merry proudly, was the softest of the lot from Argyllshire.

“Ye remind me of m’middle daughter, Alyce, God rest her sweet soul,” Hertha said as she looked at Merry. “Och, I swear I can see yer like in her. All that lovely red hair.”

Merry was taken aback by the woman’s friendliness, after her previous encounter with the younger maid. It proved more puzzling when during their conversation when Hertha admitted to being Siany’s grandmother.

The woman, who looked to be about sixty, clucked her tongue and shook her head at the mention of the girl. Merry could see the strong resemblance when Hertha frowned.

“Oh, milady, ye canna imagine the trouble tha’ lass hae given me! Why, ever since Siany sprouted curves, all the Devil’s own handiwork has broken loose ’round here!”

Merry smiled. The trials and tribulations of young womanhood were not restricted to Court, after all.

“She’s popular with the boys, then?”

Hertha sighed with exasperation as she spread a heavy eiderdown quilt over the single bed frame where Merry would sleep.

“Aye. ’Tain’t jest that, milady. I canna understand why the wench has no notion of weddin’, proper-like. Says she dinna intend to marry, ever!” Hertha was obviously distraught by the possibility of her granddaughter never marrying. She lowered her voice as if confessing a particularly heinous secret. “Siany be almost sixteen, ye ken. What mon will hae an dried-up old apple like her in another year or two?”

Merry laughed. “Oh, Hertha, I am older still. And milord Wickham was willing to accept my hand.” She added carefully, “Mayhap your granddaughter just hasn’t met the right one yet. Maybe she’s waiting for love.”

Hertha snorted. “Love? What use is love, miss? Does it feed the wee ones when ’tis frightful cold outside, or bring in the kindling from yon wood? Nay. Like I tell the foolish wench, ye may as well wed wi’ a rich laddy as a poor.” Something in Hertha’s blue eyes sparkled with a memory then. Her work-roughened hands whitened as she smoothed the quilt down with firm, brisk strokes.

“Ochone, love.” She sniffed, shook her head as if predicting dire calamity. “Nothin’ good has ever come of that fancy notion, mark me words, milady.”

Merry smiled. “I think you and I shall get on grandly, Hertha. I, too, am of a much more practical bent.” Perching on the neatly made bed to rest, she gazed up at the maid and said, “But surely you’ve loved someone in your lifetime, Hertha. What of Siany’s grandfather?”

The woman looked startled. She glanced at Merry and then hastily lowered her eyes.

“Dinna ask me, miss,” she whispered, sounding stricken. “I be a foolish trull then, all of Siany’s age. I would nae listen to my folks, who ’trothed me to a right young farmer. I ran away, I did, and the rest ’twere dark history. Many’s the time I’ve wept, milady, thinkin’ of what I could hae had these two score and eight, a life o’ ease and luxury compared to the hovel I kept until Lady Lindsay took me in.”

Merry was not so much stunned by the story as she was the realization of Hertha’s true age. Only forty-eight! Yet she looked like she was Siany’s great-grandmother. The Highlands were not merciful on people, she realized. Most of the servants she had seen thus far looked crabbed and worn, particularly the women, yet the odds were that they were no older than Hertha. She shuddered, imagining herself resigned to such a dismal fate.

Never would she willingly exchange the bright gaiety of Court for the prison of dark stone she found herself in now. By fortune’s hand, Sir Jasper was wealthy. He would not subject his wife to the horrors of a crumbling keep, nor ban her from courtly merriment. She wondered then how much the servants at Auchmull knew of Ranald’s intentions. Very cautiously, she inquired:

“D’you know aught of my betrothed, Hertha?”

Again the retainer looked startled. Then she lowered her voice, her faded blue eyes wide with dismay, and whispered, “’Tis true, miss? Yer ’trothed wi’ Sir Wickham?”

“Aye. What have you heard, Hertha?”

“Nae more than most, miss. Least, I’m nae one for the gossip,” Hertha added defensively. “Tale is, ye’d agreed to wed wi’ the Englishman, but young Ran dinna intend allowing it.” Hertha glanced at Merry, as if measuring her reaction. “Och, caused quite a ruckus, miss, here at Auchmull, when ye arrived and the word spread like wildfire. That The Wolf of Badanloch seized Wickham’s lass raised both fears and cheers.”

Merry nodded. “Most sympathizing with Lindsay’s cause, I imagine.”

“Aye, miss. Fer we’ve all watched him wither away, in spirit, since Lady Blair’s death.” Hertha shook her head, clearly distraught but unable or unwilling to say more.

“Why does Lord Lindsay believe Sir Wickham is responsible for his wife’s death?” Merry gently prompted.

Hertha shook her head. “I was nae here myself when Lady Blair died, miss. I was visitin’m’ eldest daughter, Meg, who wed a fisherman o’er at Oban.”

“What happened?” Merry asked, still trying to comprehend what all this might mean and how it affected her own future. “To Blair, I mean.” She understood how grief might unhinge a mind. Her own sister, Kat, had suffered memory loss when her first husband died. No telling what such a shock had done to Lord Lindsay. No wonder he seemed so set upon vengeance, with a single-minded disregard for others.

Hertha sighed and shook her head. “I’m nae sure, lass. The details are slim at best. I only ken Lady Blair traveled to Braidwood, or was waylaid there by a storm. She sickened whilst under Wickham’s care, and he dinna send word to Auchmull. Nae until ’twas too late.”

“Aye, Lady Scott told me the same tale. Yet this is motive enough for such cold-blooded revenge on Lord Lindsay’s part?”

“’Tis more, I’ll warrant. The feud involves Blair’s family, the Luckless Macleans.”

“Why luckless, Hertha?”

“Because they lost their lands through dishonor. Their embittered chief sought alliance wi’ the
Sassenach
to regain what measure he might. Lie down ’wi dogs, get up ’wi fleas, miss. Ran canna e’er forgie them betraying their Highlander blood.

“M’own husband was a Maclean, lass, descended from a Macdonald vassal o’er on Mull.” Hertha explained how she had been married to the man for only ten years before his heart failed.

Hertha shuddered and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. “An’ that be the vagaries o’ love, lass. A starvin’ wider and three hungry bairns. Dinna hae to tell ye how I cringed whenever I looked at what one feckless night had wrought. Thank heavens for Lady Lindsay; she heard of m’plight and sent for me an’ the queans to come to Edzell. At last ’twas food on the table. We ne’er went hungry after that.”

“How did you come to be here at Auchmull?”

“Och, after her ladyship died, m’lasses were already wed. Alyce died in childbed five winters ago. I raised Siany as m’own, and we came to Auchmull. Lord Ranald was kind enough to take us under his wing as his mum had done. He’s a good master, is Ran. Treats us like kin, ne’er separates the families, like so many high n’ mighty lords these days.”

Hertha suddenly shivered. “Unlike Black Cullen, Lady Blair’s brother. That one bears the mark of the Devil, I vow.”

Merry was not interested in Blair’s family. She wanted to hear more about the woman herself.

“Tell me, Hertha, how was it with the feud and all that Lord Lindsay and Blair were … that is, ever became … er—”

“Handfasted, miss.” The retainer looked eager to be of help in the matter. “Two-and-twenty, Ran was then. Blair was ripe fer weddin’ as well, being just fifteen. The tale was, they met at the Highland Games. Ran could nae take his eyes off her, so the story goes. The Scottish champion Black Cullen was there to compete in the caber toss, and as fortune would hae it, the two men drew and came up against one another. Ran won and Cullen Maclean ne’er forgot, or forgave. Public humiliation, ye ken. But as for love ’wi Lady Blair, best ask the master himself. He can tell the story better, milady. That is, if he’s a mind to.”