Snow Raven (29 page)

“Home!” Ran called out to her, his handsome face splitting into a wide relaxed grin for the first time in Merry’s memory, and she echoed his enthusiasm by touching her crop to her mount’s flanks and racing him up the hill.

Mare and stallion thundered neck and neck across the low stone bridge and toward the great gate. Ran signaled the guards in the gatehouse and the barrier lifted even as the horses galloped up the incline. Merry slowed and held her mare back, not sure she had timed it right, but the gate had barely cleared when Ran raced on through, bent low over Dearg’s neck.

Laughing, he drew the steaming animal to a halt in the yard, and waited for Merry as the remainder of his staff came pouring from the keep, calling out their congratulations. Ran’s laughter died when he recognized the fat roan being tended by one of the stable hands, and he immediately demanded to know what Wickham was doing at Auchmull.

Those questioned exchanged uneasy glances. “We dinna ken, m’laird. He simply showed up.”

“Sir Jasper requested shelter from the storm and right of hospitality, sir. We could nae turn him away.”

Ran swore and swung down from his saddle just as Merry cantered into the yard on Orlaith, a name that meant “golden lady” in Gaelic. The fine animal was a wedding gift from Lord and Lady Deuchar, one even her horse-mad Uncle Kit would approve. Orlaith was a creamy golden mare with a dark mane and tail. The horse had a smooth gait and a soft mouth, and seemed to anticipate Merry’s every command.

“You should have waited for me!” she cried out in mock outrage, still laughing and winded from the hard run. But Ran did not smile back, and after one of the boys had helped her dismount, she hurried to her husband’s side.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wickham is back. You’ll stay safely out of sight until I’ve dealt with him.”

“I’m the Countess of Crawford now,” Merry reminded him. “My place is at your side. He can do nothing to hurt me.”

Ran gave her a fleeting smile before he turned and strode up the stairs to the keep. Waiting just long enough to assure the others arrived safely, and the animals were properly tended, Merry hurried up the steps after him and found Ran already confronting Wickham in the great hall.

Sir Jasper lifted a glass of claret in a mock salute to Merry. “My word, ’tis the beautiful English rose of Auchmull,” he exclaimed, ignoring Ran’s demand for answers and leering at Merry instead. “Did you keep her for your mistress after all, milord?”

“Not a mistress, but my wife,” Ran coldly responded, and he lent the words an emphasis even Wickham could not ignore.

Sir Jasper pursed his thin lips and looked Merry up and down, disparagingly. “You look tousled, madam,” he drawled. “’Twould appear association with ne’er-do-wells is wearing off.”

Revolted as ever by the sight of this fussy peer wearing pink satin breeches and a fashionably loud burgundy doublet, Merry let her icy silence speak for itself and went to join Ran on the other side of the room.

“What are you doing here, Wickham?” Ran demanded again. “’Twas agreed you would remove to Braidwood when we could not reach agreement on ransom.”

“Aye, true enough. And I see that little matter has been conveniently settled just in time to save your neck and the girl’s reputation.” Sir Jasper smirked. At Ran’s dark scowl, he added somewhat hastily, “Alack, I am not here to fence further words with you, milord. Nor debate pointless issues. Besides, intrigue has grown a trifle stale at Braidwood of late. Not to mention the wenches.” He sniggered, and Merry glanced at Ran just in time to see her husband’s eyes darken dangerously.

“You are not welcome here, Wickham,” he said flatly. “Count your blessings I am willing to let you leave unscathed, in light of recent events. Someone struck a foolish blow the other day, one which I fear they will pay for over a very long, arduous Highland winter.”

Sir Jasper nodded. “’Tis about that little matter I’ve come. I heard about the attack, and I assure you, I knew naught of any plans to waylay the wedding party en route to Edzell. I was most distressed to hear of it.”

“Aye, I am sure you were.”

If Sir Jasper detected the sarcasm, and only a deaf man would not, he did not respond to it. “Naturally, I realize this will only fuel suspicion and bad blood between the clans. Braidwood therefore is also threatened, however indirectly.”

Something short of a smile curled Ran’s lip. “So you have come to beg protection from The Wolf.”

“Not exactly, milord. My defenses are more than adequate to sustain the household through even a winter-long siege. Nay, I know of your enmity toward me, and respect it. Thus what I seek is opportunity to make amends.”

Merry glanced from Sir Jasper’s face to Ran’s set expression, and felt a shiver of dismay she could not explain. The Englishman’s insincerity seemed patently obvious to her, and she was certain Ran did not believe it, either, yet the uneasiness persisted.

“I must ask what the point is in continuing a feud over issues long dead and buried.”

“Dead and buried? Like my wife.”

Merry flinched. Ran did not even refer to Blair as his “former” or “first” wife. It was as if she, Merry, did not even exist for him. Mayhap she did not. Mayhap she never would.

Sir Jasper sighed with obvious exasperation. “There is nothing I can do, Lindsay, to bring Blair back for you. God’s bones, man, I would if I could. ’Twas the height of misfortune that the previous Lady Lindsay expired at Braidwood, an incidental point for which you seemed determined to blame me, yet there is naught I can do but protest my innocence. Again and again, and if I may dare remark upon it, ’tis growing quite tiresome at this juncture.”

“As is the sight of your face at Auchmull,” Ran said bluntly. “The audacity of the English never fails to amaze me. Not only do you boldly swagger into enemy terrain, but you avail yourself of a man’s finest claret without a simple by-your-leave. You must be very confident of the king’s affections, Wickham, else you are a madman in pink satin. I am not so certain which is the lesser of the two evils.”

Sir Jasper stared at his rugged Scots rival a moment, then shrugged. “I assume you have no intentions of meeting me halfway in a truce to benefit both sides.”

“I did not begin the war, Wickham. ’Twas lit the moment you sent word to me that my wife was dead. Blair ailed for hours, well over a day by a servant’s telling, before you bothered to summon aid. All I have ever asked of you is why. Why Blair was allowed to die under such ignoble circumstances in your household. What her last moments were like, other than a haze of pain and doubtless terror, coupled with the hurt that I was not there as I always vowed to be.”

Sir Jasper’s pale eyes narrowed. “You imply I would be so cruel as to let a lady die alone, much less the wife of a man, albeit a rival, I admire and respect. Would I risk all-out war over such an issue? I think not. Call me a madman if you like, but I am not the one who clings to memories as desperately as a drowning man might a passing gull, which just happens to be flitting above the water.”

Merry slipped away from Ran’s side, knowing he was not even aware of her presence anymore. She might as well be a piece of furniture in the room; indeed, a chair should receive more attention if it was one Saint Blair had sat in. She could not quell the rush of bitterness. She was Lady Lindsay now, and Ran had vowed to respect and honor and keep her safe, enough to satisfy most women, yet she wanted the one thing he could not offer her. Love.

Whatever love existed in the great Highland laird was gone, wasted upon the dusty bones of a woman who could hardly appreciate it now. Merry was ashamed of her own calloused reasoning, but it was true enough. Blair Lindsay would never again walk the halls of Auchmull, and for this Merry must suffer mayhap her entire married life, for wont of love.

She could not help but resent, nay loathe, the golden-haired woman whose portrait hung above the hearth, smiling benignly upon the proceedings today as if holding lofty court above mere mortals. How could one compete with a saint? Especially a saint who held Ranald Lindsay’s heart as firmly now as she had in life.

She blinked back tears of emotion, not the least of which was pure frustration. The beginning of their marriage, despite the odd circumstances of its coming about, had been encouraging enough. Their bridal night was a memory to make her both blush and smile. Yet someone like Wickham need only surface to remind Ran of what he had lost, and suddenly his whole life, his new wife, were inconsequential. Aye, she was bitter. How could she not be?

* * *

RAN DID NOT NOTICE Merry’s quiet departure for a time, intent as he was upon Wickham’s smug visage. The man seemed to take peculiar delight in baiting him, yet withholding the very details he so needed to have closure in the matter of Blair. The only reason Wickham dared such cockiness was he knew Ran would not risk forfeiture of more lands or Gil’s inheritance. The loss of Badanloch was blow enough, for the lands had been in the family for centuries, ever since Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk was hailed Champion of Scotland in 1390 for besting the English champion in an epic joust on London Bridge.

King Robert II, then failing in his favorite castle of Dundonald, west of Kilmarnock, had bestowed Badanloch upon this honorable Knight of the Thistle before he died. Sir David returned to a hero’s welcome and a generous portion of fine lands near the Dee. A later descendant, the fifth Earl of Crawford, another David Lindsay, was created Duke of Montrose in 1488. Such was the first instance of a dukedom being conferred on a Scotsman not of the Royal Family. The dukedom ended with his death in 1495, but the lands remained in Lindsay possession until the fateful day when Ran’s messenger did not return, and he had put six Macleans to the sword for theft, rape, and mayhem upon his lands.

Justice from The Wolf had been harsh but swift. Ran did not believe in torture. It brought no honor to a warrior’s hand or house. He did not execute the sentences himself, but in holding with tradition, the Lindsays’ hereditary doomster, in this case Will Durie, was summoned from Edzell to see to the grisly task. Not until Fergus failed to return did he realize he had been baited and trapped. Blair’s canny old father, Suttie Maclean, had been willing to sacrifice six of his own to obtain Badanloch. His outraged demand for reparation was already en route to the king before the bodies of his clansmen were cold.

King James, having wearied long ago of the petty feuds and squabbles among the Highlanders, sitting with empty coffers and fretting over his own overdue inheritance, was not kindly disposed toward The Wolf of Badanloch on that particular day. Without batting an eyelash, he gave over Badanloch to the Macleans to buy silence, for what once a king had given, another could take away. Since that dark day, Ran had been forced to endure the sight of Maclean green upon his lands, a bitter reminder of treachery and the oft dear price of honor.

Cullen had always claimed he knew nothing of his father’s deceit, but now it appeared the son had indeed not fallen far from the rotten tree his father had been. Before Badanloch, Ran had enjoyed a spirited rivalry with Blair’s brother, and more than once they had gone roaming and reiving together over the Border. In Scots tradition,
Sassenach
cattle were always fair game. So, too, were an enemy clan’s, though an uneasy truce held for a time between Lindsays and Macleans after the union of the two houses. He and Black Cullen had shared laughter, bannocks, and even a buxom tavern wench or two before he married Blair.

Thus came his first encounter with Wickham as well, through Blair’s family. The Macleans spoke of their English overlord with grudging respect, and Ran had been curious to meet the man who could hold such a rowdy clan in check. His title gave him access to Braidwood without invitation, and he used the excuse of a hunting excursion to visit whilst near the Border. Sir Jasper offered his hospitality with a certain wariness, understandable given Ran’s daunting reputation and rugged appearance.

They circled each other then much as now, like two male grouse with ruffs high and feathers pricked, taking measure of the other with a wary respect. Ran had since lost all respect for Wickham; the last of it trickled away when the weasel abandoned Merry to her fate, even though he could never have brought himself to hurt a woman, much less an innocent.

Now Wickham dared call him a drowning man, clinging to anything he could … well, mayhap it was not so inaccurate, for certainly he clung to Blair’s memory with the ferocity of one who has known true love and mourns its loss to his bones. But he would not be mocked for it. He scowled at Sir Jasper, arms folded across his chest, and was pleased to see the other man reconsider his tactics.

“I simply do not see the benefit in continuation of enmity among our households,” Sir Jasper said smoothly. “Although you did, in essence, whisk my betrothed from right beneath my nose, I suppose I bear you no grudge as you did the honorable thing and gave her your name in the end.”

Ran stared at the man incredulously, then laughed. “By Jesu, that is rich! You failed to provide Merry proper escort from England, and expressed not even the slightest relief she was not killed or captured by true highwaymen. Nor did you evidence genuine concern when you first came here, ostensibly to retrieve her from the clutches of a brutal Scot laird. Nay, Wickham, you were only too eager to wash your hands of a woman whose reputation might be called into question after association with the notorious Wolf of Badanloch.”

Sir Jasper sniffed. “You are sorely mistaken, but I cannot expect you to view me in a favorable light after all that has transpired.”

“That, Wickham, is the first sensible thing you have said since setting foot on Lindsay soil.”

The Englishman bristled, set down his claret and swept up his high-crowned beaver hat. “I had hoped with the turn of recent events, you might be more amenable to a truce as a gesture of goodwill, if nothing else. Especially in an attempt to avert further disaster in the wake of the attack on your traveling party. There is naught I can do but extend my hand and await your good humor.”