Snow Raven (16 page)

“There is nothing I can say.” Merry lifted her hands in a gesture of frustration.

“Say anything more, madame, and I’ll throttle you myself.” The Wolf’s voice was smooth as a blade, thrusting invisibly between her ribs. “You are my prisoner, not my guest. I’ll not forget it again. Neither shall you. From now on, you’ll take meals in your room. I wish to see and hear nothing of you, unless I request it. Is it understood?”

Merry looked at him. Her throat ached with all the unspoken words, apologies, excuses; they were not hers to make. He would not hear them anyway, coming from her. Wickham’s woman, he’d dubbed her. To Ranald Lindsay, she was the shrewd Court vixen who rucked up her skirts for any passing buck. She felt powerless against his rage; the legacy of hate his wife’s death had left was so daunting, how could she ever expect fair treatment or impartial regard in this man’s eyes?

Finally she broke the daunting silence. “I believe you said there was something you wanted to see me about.”

Ranald gazed at her incredulously. Merry held her breath, wondering what he’d seen, what sort of monster he made her out to be in his own mind.

“Aye.” He gave a low bark of laughter at the reminder. “I intend to send a missive to Wickham on the morrow. I will dictate it, you may soften it in your own sweet fashion to your fiancé. I presume you can cipher?”

“Of course.” While not many women of the time were well educated, Merry was proud of her neat hand.

He nodded curtly. “Wickham enjoys controlling others, making others dance like puppets on his strings. But this time he shall not have the satisfaction. This time, I am in control.”

Merry felt the ice of his words. What kind of hell had Sir Jasper supposedly put this man through? And why?

Ranald’s glittering eyes gave no answers. At this moment, she knew she could beg for answers and he would not give her the satisfaction of a response. With the posture of one who has been defeated and knows it, Merry quickly turned and left the hall, before she said something she would later regret.

Chapter Thirteen

MERRY GREETED THE NEW day considerably refreshed. She had slept long and hard, over twelve hours, and such a sweet, unbroken sleep was the greatest gift she had received since arriving at Auchmull.

Hertha met her with a breakfast tray in bed. “There’s stove tatties and porridge, and pirr ta whet yer appetite, lass.”

Merry gamely tackled the strange offerings, though with a marked reservation after the meal of the previous night. She discovered she didn’t mind the porridge, though it was somewhat bland, and the tatties were too salty by half. The drink, however, had a rich flavor with a sweet aftertaste that kept her returning for more. She remarked upon its appeal to Hertha.

“Aye, Lady Blair favored it also.” Hertha gave a sad, drawn-out sigh. “It seemed to quell the sickness, ’wi the bairn and all.”

“She was
enceinte
?”

“Aye, lass. We thought the poor thing too delicate to survive a hard travail wi’ a large bairn anyway, but ne’er found out. Such a weep and a wail as ye never heard, lass, as when Lady Blair and the Lindsay heir was lost. Nae that ’tis the only tragedy hereabouts. Nell Downie and her mon, Fergus, had been tryin’ to hae a bairn for years. She lost her little one last week, and Fergus died at Badanloch.” Hertha shook her head sorrowfully. “’Tis God’s will, I reckon.”

Merry suffered a pang, this time one of conscience. Ranald had lost not only his wife, but his child, too. Despite her anger and outrage at his actions, she could grasp his motivation. He blamed Wickham for all his misfortune, and, logical or not, he intended to see the revenge through.

She shivered. Caught in the middle as she was, she might very well be destroyed by either or both of two powerful men. Anything was a welcome distraction now.

“I’d like to meet this Nell,” she said impulsively. “Is’t possible?”

Hertha looked surprised. “Why, o’ course. She’ll be honored, that’s for sure.” She hesitated then, as if remembering Lord Ranald and his rules. But he had merely specified Mistress Tanner never leave Auchmull. As far as either of them knew, there was no law against socializing within the keep walls.

“Tell ye what,” she said to Merry. “After ye’ve finished yer breakfast here, I’ll take ye up to Nell’s room.”

“She lives here in the castle?”

“Aye, just for a while. What wi’ her losin’ the bairn, and the fearful winter coming on, Lord Ranald insisted she stay here until she’s well enough to return to her own cottage. Fergus rode wi’ Ran, ye ken, so he was nae always there to look after Nell. Though he was a good mon, was Fergus Downie.”

“Hertha,” she asked, “Has there been any word how Lady Scott fares?”

The maid nodded. “Word came from Goldielands late last night. The illness has subsided, and the physic is at her side. Time shall tell if her bairn survives.”

“I shall pray for her. Send a message, if Lord Lindsay would permit it.”

“He canna say na, lass.” Hertha smiled her crooked little smile. “Lady Scott is verra dear to all the Lindsays, and Brodie said she took a shine to ye whilst ye were there.”

“Aye, I liked her, too.”

After breakfast, Hertha kept her promise and took Merry to the south tower, where Nell Downie was recuperating from her own tragic misfortune. Having rather expected a huge, slovenly woman with pendulous breasts, Merry was admittedly startled by the petite, pixie-like lady whose pretty brown eyes affixed with some apprehension upon her unexpected visitors.

Nell looked about twenty, but then again, Merry was beginning not to judge age by appearance. Madame Downie was clearly surprised that an Englishwoman took such an interest in meeting her, and her greeting was hesitant but warm.

“’Tis an honor, miss,” Nell said in a soft voice. She was still abed, her glossy brown curls tumbling down around her shoulders. Though small-framed, she appeared sturdy and capable, and Merry unconsciously relaxed. She also sensed, somehow, that this young woman would be as fierce as a tiger where children were concerned.

Feeling a sudden tug on her own heartstrings, Merry said, “I’m sorry for your recent losses, Nell.”

The young woman’s eyes widened, and for a moment Merry thought she might cry, but then Nell gave a brave sniffle and choked out, “Yer so kind, miss. I canna hardly picture ye as a
Sassenach
lady.”

“Aye, our Nell here would nae believe me at first when I told her ye dinna sprout horns from yer flaming hair,” Hertha put in merrily.

Merry laughed. “Methinks Lord Lindsay might disagree with you there.” Hands on her hips, Merry gazed around the small chamber, cold and dismal as her own before she and Hertha had put it to rights. Already her mind tidied and swept and restored the room so the patient might rest more comfortably.

She had a sudden idea. She knew Hertha would cooperate, for the tiring woman had approved of her fastidious nature more than once. With a smile tugging at her lips, Merry vowed to enlist the aid of Hertha and the good women of Auchmull in rendering these ramshackle quarters more livable. It was unconscionable that a young woman suffering childbed trauma and an old woman with aching joints should be subjected to such a cold, cheerless place. Thus resolved, Merry began planning her first tasks as Auchmull’s makeshift chatelaine, for nothing buoyed her spirits more than assuming control of disaster and magically transforming chaos into order.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, RAN returned from riding over his demesne in a foul mood. The message had been delivered to Wickham as planned, but as yet no response issued from the great border peel. He had expected a cry of outrage, one he hoped to hear echoing across the Grampians for miles distant. Nothing.

He knew Sir Jasper for the calculating, cold-hearted bastard he was. But surely even a puffed-up
Sassenach
lordling would not be immune to a lady’s call of distress. Especially when she was his fiancée, chosen for her courtly connections and favor in the queen’s eye. To occupy himself while awaiting Wickham’s response, Ran rode out and checked on the welfare of his tenants and kinsmen, as he did each autumn after Mabon and the harvesting, assuring they had enough stores for the long winter ahead. Rain started during his last leg, an icy drizzle that quickly soaked his woolen breccan and turned to snow within the last mile. A wet snow he knew would not stick, but a daunting reminder of the hard dark days to come.

Responsibility weighed heavily upon Ran’s mind, a legacy from the last Earl of Crawford who had drummed the notion into his son’s head from birth. Ran had been carefully groomed for his role as clan chief, and personal preferences were inconsequential to his sire.

Normally he did not mind the duties associated with his lot in life; after all, it had led to his union with Blair, but in the past months Ran questioned his position. Over a hundred depended on him for food, shelter, and protection. Lindsays and all their related septs were fiercely loyal to the core, but Ran was starting to resent, however churlishly, their childlike devotion. He was a loner by nature, not a leader, though his reiving days were legendary, and word that The Wolf of Badanloch had joined the Scotts for a border foray brought a sparkle to his kinsmen’s eyes and much comment this day wherever he went.

Ran knew they prayed The Wolf had returned so all might be right with the world. In his heart, he knew it could never be. Nothing would be the same without Blair. His hands tightened in Uar’s coarse mane and he blinked back a mist of emotion, resolved not to succumb again. Sobs shook him for one dark night after she died, as if an angry god rattled him in a knotted fist, but since then he had turned grief into hard, cold resolve and nothing, nobody, would ford his defenses again. On this much, he was determined.

Riding through the wet snow, up the muddied path toward Auchmull, Ran gazed bleakly at his legacy and the keep he called home. Sweet Jesu, had ever a castle seemed so empty, devoid of light or warmth, Blair’s laughter forever gone, only the shuffle of feet and murmuring servants lending any sign of life. He had never thought he might despise Auchmull as he did his daunting childhood home, Edzell, but at this moment he desired nothing more than to wheel Uar about and disappear into the cloak of night.

He pressed on, however, meeting Brodie in the yard, who took charge of Uar at once and informed him of Gilbert and Hugo’s return. Ran nodded and swung down from his tired steed, groping for energy he did not find. He knew all that awaited was a cold hearth and an empty trencher, for he thought it nonsense a meal should await a man who came and went like the wind.

Wearily he trudged up the steps and into the hall, where he stopped short and blinked stray snowflakes from his lashes. Surely he was imagining things now. He heard a low murmur of voices coming from the great hall, a clink of glass and … laughter. A woman’s laughter. Not husky like Blair’s, but silvery, tinkling, like a fairy’s mischievous chuckle. He unfastened his soaked breccan and tossed it onto a wooden peg, beginning a slow burn even as the laughter subsided into a contented drone of conversation. He recognized Gilbert’s voice and frowned. Whatever was going on, Ran intended it would stop at once.

He burst into the hall without fanfare and the abrupt, guilty silence confirmed his suspicions. Gilbert was lounging upon the low couch before the hearth, which blazed as brightly as Ran’s temper. His little brother looked quite at ease, too, falling band undone and carelessly draped about his neck, dark hair mussed and violet-blue eyes glinting with high spirits. Ran’s narrowed gaze traveled down to Hugo, where the blond giant sprawled on the rug before the hearth, toasting his huge, dirty bare feet as casually as if he attended a country fair.

But it was Merry Tanner who captured the brunt of his attentions, draped as she was across a burgundy velvet chair, one leg slung in very unladylike posture across the arm of the chair, a golden slipper dangling from her toes. She was wearing some outrageous courtly frippery, a lavish gown of pale-gold silk trimmed with ivory lace and seed pearls, whose skirts were so voluminous she appeared to be a redheaded doll propped in the chair.

At Ran’s entrance her laughter trailed off, and she struggled to sit upright, but dissolved into soft gale of giggles when she was unable to effect a graceful recovery. Ran noted the nearly empty glass of claret clasped in her little hand, and his frowning gaze traveled from his prisoner back to Gilbert, then swiftly crossed the shockingly clean, orderly great hall.

“Ran. Welcome home!”

Ran ignored Gil’s cheerful greeting. “I presume your mission was accomplished to my satisfaction?” His deadly cold voice echoed in the hall as he looked at Gilbert. The young knave stopped grinning and sprang up like a puppet at his inquiry. He shifted nervously under Ran’s regard, but maintained his jaunty air.

“Aye, Mistress Tanner’s man will recover nicely. We saw him to an inn, left him in the care of a couple who promised to see him home. I left my own purse for their troubles.”

“’Twas the least you could do, I should think.” Ran offered no compliment when none was warranted. His gaze raked Gil up and down. “You do not appear much the worse for wear, despite your lengthy journey.”

“We’ve been back a whole day. You were out riding the hinterlands, Hertha said.” Gil sounded a trifle defensive, and Ran’s ire raised a notch further when he saw the boy sneak a glance at Merry, as if seeking her support or reassurance.

She had set the liquor aside and appeared considerably sobered, through her gray-green eyes were bright from spirits or with spirit and her overall air was defiant. She righted herself in the chair and smoothed her skirts, returning Ran’s cool regard. “Indeed. Welcome home, milord.”

“Home? Not as I recollect it.” Ran’s retort encompassed the merrily crackling hearth, the jewel-toned rugs he had not seen for months, which had been relegated to storage after Blair’s death. He felt as if an army of emotion invaded his home, the contented demeanor of the others only mocking his private despair. How dare any woman, and Wickham’s at that, assume proprietary rights over Auchmull, how brazen of the
Sassenach
wench to move items about and clean and rearrange to her heart’s content, as if she owned the place! Ran stared daggers at Merry, but she raised her chin a notch and their silent battle of wills raged beneath the already tense undercurrents in the hall.