Snow Raven (22 page)

Ross’s eyes widened, and then he gave a chortle of laughter. “Truly, you’re not an enemy to have, Ran. I hear rumor Wickham pushed the border with his betrothed, as well.”

“And has pink-cheek trophy to show for it,” Ranald said, though not without a faint chuckle. “I doubt he’ll try to fondle her again.”

“Is she truly as ornery as I hear tale?”

Ran’s smile broadened. “Och, even more so.”

“Then you’d best steal the bonny lass from Wickham while you can, Ran. She’d throw strong lads for the House of Lindsay.”

A tic of annoyance tugged Ran’s mouth into a scowl. Usually he appreciated Ross’s wicked sense of humor, but not today. “I’m not interested. Neither is she.”

“How do you know? Have you bothered to ask her?”

Ranald frowned and pivoted on his heel toward the keep, effectively ending their conversation. Kinross just grinned after his brother-in-law. He knew full well what was on Ran’s mind. The vibrant redhead obviously rattled The Wolf’s infamous icy control.

Chapter Eighteen

UNAWARE RANALD AND HIS men had returned, Merry continued her polite conversation with Lady Deuchar in Auchmull’s northern tower room. She and Ranald’s sister had hit it off at once; each quickly recognized a kindred spirit and a fellow source of fascinating courtly gossip. They had been chattering for the better part of an hour, and already Darra insisted they converse with Christian names, rather than titles. Merry did not demur. It had been so long since she had visited with another woman who had similar interests; her own twin, Kat, was as different from her as night from day.

Darra told her all the latest Stuart gossip. It seemed King James had recently published a treatise called “Basilikon Doron,” the follow-up to the year’s previous dry “Trew Law of Free Monarchies.” In this, he again expressed his opinion that rebellion against a king was unlawful and blasphemous. Darra’s eyes twinkled when she added his timing was poor as ever; the greater nobility were even less amused by James’s demand that guests at courtly receptions were asked to bring their own food. While he waited on his tentative inheritance, tied to Tudor court strings, James had lapsed into a sullen, wary, withdrawn monarch.

Queen Anne could, on occasion, be both bright and witty, but her Danish heritage made her an outsider and she had never been fully embraced by the Stuart assembly. Public approval, however, had bounded upward upon the birth of Prince Henry, now five, and the Court collectively held their breath awaiting the next heir apparent. Elizabeth Tudor was no longer young; a reign of over forty years was a rare thing. If James intended to hold on to the whole of Scotland and England in the wake of her encroaching death, he needed more sons, and quickly.

Yet the proposed union of the countries after years of strife was exciting. At best, Scotland and England had been cautious allies, and Merry warmed to the thought of being able to visit both courts without criticism. Now she had made the acquaintance of Lady Deuchar, who obviously held influence with the Stuarts, her position was all the more secure. The only detail marring the picture was Sir Jasper Wickham. Suddenly the thought of the cold, fishy-pale Englishman introducing her as his wife was not a pleasant one. Her heart beat much faster when she envisioned Ranald in his stead, imagined the envious stares and whispers of the other ladies as a rugged, brooding Scot clad in kilt and breccan escorted her before the throne.

She shivered and Darra paused and regarded her curiously. “Is something amiss, Merry?”

“Nay.” Merry took a sip of the mulled cider from the mug she cradled in her hands. “I was just wondering if the men had found the culprit yet.”

“I doubt they will. Duncan’s killer was long gone by the time they bothered to search.”

Merry nodded, troubled.

“’Tis late, m’dear,” Darra offered kindly, “and I have kept you up . You look weary, perhaps a good rest would restore your spirits.”

Merry shook her head and set the cider aside on a small table. “Faith, I can’t. I have to see Lord Lindsay. I have to tell him …” She hesitated. She didn’t know what she planned saying to Ranald. That she was sorry? That she felt bad because she hadn’t helped Duncan in time? Did he even want to see her face again? What if he blamed her for the old man’s death?

Darra sensed her upset. “There’s naught you can do tonight, Merry,” she said soothingly, “except get some rest. Poor Duncan is beyond help.”

“I know. But Ranald—Lord Lindsay—seemed so fond of him.”

“Oh, aye. As a lad, Ran nearly lived in the stables, learning about horses from the best. Duncan was like a father to Ran after Father’s death.” She sighed. “’Twill be too quiet around the stables now.”

“Who will take Duncan’s place?”

“Grady, perhaps, or if Brodie Scott stays on, I think he would be very good with the animals.”

Merry nodded agreement. “I met Lady Fiona at Goldielands. She mentioned you fondly.”

Darra laughed. “Aye, dear Fi … I still chuckle over our mischievous days, long past. I confess I miss her terribly. She was a feckless child, but everyone adored her. I was sorry to hear of her recent travail, though I received word she did not lose the babe.”

“I am glad.” Merry was silent a moment, running her fingers over the vivid plaid pattern of the blanket draped across her lap. Red and black, Lindsay colors. She wondered if she should feel like a traitor wearing it. She wondered, too, why she didn’t.

“Darra,” she asked softly, “who do you think killed Duncan? And why?”

Ran’s sister frowned. Even so, the dark-haired woman was attractive, her half-mourning a flattering hue of deepest plum, trimmed with black lace. Her cork-heeled shoes tapped an absent rhythm on the braided wool rug, her expression thoughtful.

“I’m not sure,” she said at last. “But whoever ’twas, I believe it to be a deliberately calculated strike at Ran. Or an attempt to provoke another flare-up like the incident at Badanloch.”

“Tell me more about that, please. I want to understand everything, but my head gets so muddled from trying to figure it all out. There appears to be bad blood between Macleans and Lindsays.”

“Aye. It goes way back, Merry, beyond Ran and Blair. Centuries ago, one of our ancestors, William de Lindsay, was Baron of Luffness and Laird of Crawford. His eye fell upon a likely lass, Caitlin Maclean, whom he resolved to make his own. She was betrothed to another …” It seemed Darra hesitated here a trifle awkwardly, or perhaps it was Merry’s own guilt that gave pause.

“Anyhow, the Gallant Laird, for that is what William was called, charmed Caitlin into betraying her family’s choice, and great with his child, she appeared at the wedding feast. Her family forced her to heel, William was killed, and the bad blood and lost love spawned from that dark day seem to have spiraled down through the years, Macleans and Lindsays have been dancing around one another, ever since.”

Darra sighed. “I do not need to tell you, perhaps, Ran’s choice of wife was unsettling to the lot of us, for not only was Blair a Maclean, the enemy, but I personally found her sly and deceitful.”

“Deceitful?”

Merry looked at Darra, surprised. She detected a crisp tone beneath the soft, refined speech of her Scottish contemporary.

“Lord Lindsay appears to hold her … above reproach.”

Darra nodded. “In Ran’s eyes, she was, and still is, above reproach, a flawless little angel.”

Merry nodded ruefully. “Aye, that much is obvious.” She clasped her hands before her, silent for a moment as she pondered the comparison. Nay, she would never be the sweet, circumspect, demure woman Ranald obviously preferred; after all, she was certain his beloved Blair would never have slapped Sir Jasper, but rather blushed and stammered in confusion, feigning ignorance about the man’s crude intentions. Yet Darra apparently did not see the same Blair as Lord Lindsay, and Merry found this most interesting.

“I confess I am most curious. In what way was Lady Lindsay deceitful, Darra?”

“I caught Blair lying several times to Ranald about seeing certain people who were accounted Lindsay enemies, most notably Cullen after the troubles at Badanloch.”

“But he is her brother. I do not find that unseemly.”

Darra nodded, her expression as inscrutable for a moment as Ran’s. “Perhaps. Yet when she wed my brother, she took the Lindsay title. She failed or perhaps did not wish to realize divided loyalties are dangerous … to us all.”

Merry looked at Darra, nodding thoughtfully in turn. “Troubled times, aye, and the wanton destruction that so oft accompanies it.”

She then indicated the tower room where they were sitting. “Lady Blair’s retreat?” Merry asked, though it was obvious enough from the fine tapestries and delicately woven shawl draped over the back of Darra’s chair.

Merry had not moved anything out of respect, and memory of Ranald’s reaction to her tidying the great hall still stung. He had reacted so harshly when she intended nothing more than a general restoration of order. And warmth. How cold the hall had been, how drafty the corners without even a blazing hearth to combat the encroaching winter.

“Aye, Ran had Rose Tower added as a wedding gift to Blair. Her favorite flowers were roses.”

“Mine as well.” Merry’s gaze swept over the small, yet cozy tower room with its muted feminine decoration and coloring, and she could not help but wish, for a moment, it was hers. She knew, instinctively, Sir Jasper would never build anything like this for his lady wife. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, a movement in the doorway caught her attention. She glanced over, eyes widening as Ran’s figure loomed there.

Darra heard her swift intake of breath and pivoted also in her chair, dark brows winging upward. “Ran. Did you find the criminal yet?”

He shook his head, gaze lingering on Merry as he advanced, with seeming hesitation, into the Rose Tower. Merry realized he had probably not been there for months, which explained the air of neglect and layers of dust coating everything when she first discovered the place in her restless roaming. A few hours of studious cleaning made it livable again, but she was glad now she had not moved anything. Ran seemed to be searching for something, and she assumed it must be another reason to find fault with her.

She swallowed when his dark gaze refocused on her. “There were no clues at all?”

“None. The culprit seems to have vanished into thin air. Which means, ’twas someone here … someone still here …”

“Aye, I tend to agree,” Darra said. “But don’t jump to conclusions, Ran. Right now, there is nothing to be done but try and divert further trouble. ’Twould not hurt if we address the issue of Gilbert as well.”

Ranald glanced at his sister with obvious exasperation. He looked weary and dispirited. “I am glad you and Ross came, but I don’t have time to deal with petty family matters at present. Gil acted very foolishly, aye, and I shall hold him fully accountable for his actions, once this matter with Wickham is settled.”

Darra looked pointedly at Merry, then back at Ran. “So you men would sentence an innocent to suffer whilst you feud over equally petty matters.”

“Petty!” he exploded. His eyes flashed with pure emotion, reminding Merry The Wolf was always there, lurking behind even a seemingly exhausted facade. The fangs were quickly bared when the issue of Wickham or his dead wife were raised. She wondered if this proud man could ever, would ever, trust or love again. His big frame even trembled as he faced down Lady Deuchar, reminding Merry even the greatest mountain might shake from a tiny earthquake.

“Need I remind you, Dar, Sir Jasper is responsible for Blair’s death? However indirectly, he contributed to it by failing to summon me or someone from Auchmull when she was ill.”

“Aye, but why ever was she at Braidwood in the first place?” Darra retorted, in what was obviously an old and familiar argument by now. “That has never been explained to my satisfaction, and you certainly cannot swallow that tale about her hunting for herbs and getting lost. I know you for a brighter man than that.”

Ranald glared at his sister. “The subject is closed. You are a meddler, Dar.”

Darra in turn regarded him with equal frustration. “And you are an infuriating, obstinate man with no regard for others.” She gestured at Merry, then rose and angrily gathered her skirts about her. “The fact you hold this young woman hostage tests even my filial affection for you, Ran. Do not sever the little good grace you still possess with me by ruining Gilbert’s future, too.”

Ranald stared at his sister in smoldering fury, and for a moment Merry wished she might sink into the cushions of the furniture and become invisible. She had never noticed how truly alarming a large, muscular male might appear in such small quarters. For a moment, the two Lindsays regarded each other with matched defiance, then the petite Darra tossed her head and made for the door, brushing past her much larger sibling without another word but with admirable aplomb.

After Lady Deuchar disappeared, Merry expected Ranald to turn his aggravation on her. Instead, he sighed, and raked a hand through his hair.

“Dar is right,” he said. “Whatever the outcome with Wickham, your reputation is quite likely ruined. I am sorry.”

“’Tis too late now, milord. Perhaps you should have considered that before you kidnapped me.”

“Aye.” He looked at her, as if wanting to say something more, and the strained silence beat at them both like the snow against the leaded panes.

After a moment he sighed again. “None wish more than me that Wickham had not forced my hand. This entire situation has left a bad taste in my mouth, lass, of that you may be sure.”

Merry smiled. “Lass. I will never forget the first time you called me that.”

“Oh, aye. Highly offended, you were.” Ranald chuckled at the memory, too. “A proper English lady cannot be accounted a mere lass, ’twould seem.”

“I am sure there are worse words, mayhap some quite apt for a woman who dares to defy her captor.” Her amused gaze met his, and they both smiled at each other.

“I cannot complain, Mistress Tanner. You have been an exemplary prisoner.”

“Why, thank you, milord,” she responded in kind, and rose from the chair to execute a mock curtsey. The tartan throw tumbled from her lap, and they both bent to retrieve it at the same time. Their gazes locked when their faces were but inches apart, and Merry trembled as The Wolf’s warm breath came upon her cheek.