The Fraser Bride (28 page)

“The MacGowan.”

“Oh.” Anora fiddled with the linen on her lap. Embroidery had always seemed a frivolous thing to her, but for years frivolity had been one of her masks, and now she found it helped her relax after scampering from the infirmary like a scared rabbit. It had been a long day, filled with grinding doubts and crumbling discipline. “So you think him bonny, do you?”

“Aye. Who would not?”

She shrugged, but the movement felt stiff. ‘Twas not like her to lie to Isobel. In fact, she didn’t know if it was possible, but the feelings inside her were so raw, so fresh and roiling and uncertain, that she dared not expose them to the light of scrutiny, lest her world crumble to ashes around her. A noise caught her attention. ‘Twas faint but disturbing, like the shadow of a scream.

“What was that?” Anora asked.

“I know not. Mayhap ‘twas Senga,” Isobel murmured. “Who would not think the MacGowan handsome?” she repeated.

Anora glanced up. “Mayhap someone who cannot trust men.”

” ‘Twas a long while ago, Anora.”

“But still fresh in my mind.” She stood abruptly to pace, her embroidery forgotten.

“Then you have no feelings for him?”

She should say no, yet she could not quite manage the words. “What if he learns the truth, Isobel? I cannot risk it.”

“Then what shall you do?”

“I need do nothing. He’ll be leaving soon.”

“Will he?” Isobel’s tone was uncertain.

“Of course. There is naught keeping him here.”

Anora waited for Isobel to respond, to argue, to say nay, there was every reason for MacGowan to stay, for ‘twas obvious he had lost his heart to the lady of the keep. But she said no such thing.

“You will not miss him?”

“Of course not. When he leaves, things will be as they were.”

“And the Munro?”

“He has been bested, weakened. Betweenst the two of us, we can be rid of him forever.”

Isobel grinned, that slight tilt of mischief that Anora had known since long before she’d met the girl. “The three of us,” Isobel corrected. “Betweenst the three of us we shall—”

“Me lady!” The words were accompanied by a loud rap at the door. “Me lady, a word, please.”

“Enter.”

Helena pressed the door open, her expression worried, her hands clasped. “Me lady, Deirdre has begun her travail.”

“Now?”

“Aye.”

“In the dungeon?”

She nodded. “Meara is with her, but I fear ‘tis not going well. She thinks the babe might be turned about.”

“Dear God! ‘Twas her scream I heard.”

“Aye.” Helena wrung her hands. “She is being difficult.”

“I’d best go to her.”

“Nay, me lady,” said the matron, and paused, her expression pained. ” ‘Tis you she curses.”

“Me?”

“For bringing the MacGowan amongst us.”

“She maintains her devotion for Munro?”

“Aye.”

“Is there truth in it?” Anora asked. “Is the babe his?”

Helena shook her head. “I do not know.”

” ‘Tis possible she does not, either,” Isobel said. “I have seen this sort of madness before.”

“I must go to her,” Anora said, and swept past Helena’s protests and down the stairs. Another scream sounded, filled with pain and rage and certain madness. In the great hall, folk were gathered in uneasy groups. Their voices were hushed, and as Anora passed by, she noticed more than one invoking the sign of the cross. Whispers of ghosts and devils sneaked about the room like an evil wind, but she continued on, hurrying down the spiraled stairs to the rocky room below.

As she reached the dungeon’s doorway another scream tore forth, echoing against the stone walls. Anora faltered, and Isobel, beside her now, wrapped her arm protectively about her waist.

“I cannot leave,” Anora said. ” ‘Tis my duty to care for her.”

“Then we shall see this through together,” Isobel whispered.

They entered the room side by side. Deirdre lay on her back on a lumpy cot. The smell of blood and sweat was nearly overwhelming.

Meara glanced up, her creased face bleak as she shook her head.

“What can I—”

A bellowing scream cut her words short as Deirdre shoved herself to her elbows.

” ‘Tis you!” The woman’s face was red, her eyes shot with blood.

“Deirdre.” Despite herself, Anora’s voice shook. “Lie back. Let us help you.”

Deirdre stared in bewilderment, and for a moment Anora hoped that the kindly maid of old had returned.

“Let us—” she began again, but in that instant Deirdre launched from the bed with a feral shriek of rage.

Anora stumbled back. Meara yelled an order, and from the far side of the dungeon, two men rushed forward to snatch her back.

“Help me?” Deirdre snarled. Veins throbbed in her neck and her hair was a mass of sweaty snarls. But ‘twas her eyes that held Anora captive. Insane, helpless, hateful. She laughed, throwing back her head, then cut the sound short. ” ‘Tis you who are killing me.

“Nay,” Anora gasped.

Deirdre struggled wildly, then stilled to glare. ” ‘Tis you who stole him from me,” she said.

“Who?” Anora asked, but Deirdre screamed again and doubled up, falling hard to her knees.

“Get her back on the bed,” Meara ordered.

The men lifted her away.

“You’d best go, me lady.” Meara’s voice was strained. “You’ll do no good here.”

Anora began to protest, but Meara shook her head and turned wearily away. There was naught to do but find her way back up the stairs with Isobel.

From the great hall she could hear the murmur of a hundred voices, but she could not go there. Not yet, so she escaped outside.

The sky was as black as tar, but the air felt cool against her face.

“I’d best hurry back to the kitchen,” Isobel said. “Stout Helena asked me to fetch the marjoram.”

Anora turned to her. “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

She shrugged. A whisper of a cry reached her ears and she shuddered. “For everything.”

Isobel smiled. “You imagine I would ever have learned to swim the firth or filch a purse if I had spent me days at court?”

A rustle of noise sounded from the darkness and a dark haired lad appeared, a basket dangling from his frail arm.

“Oh! Me lady,” he said. “I did not see you there.”

“Jamie,” Anora said, turning nervously. “How fares your mother?”

“She is well, me lady,” he said, and bobbing, ducked inside.

The night went silent.

“They fear me,” Anora whispered.

“Nay, they fear hunger,” Isobel said. “Naught else.”

“There is a ghost howling in their keep and a madwoman calling me a witch. You do not think they fear that?”

“Keep the hounds of hunger from their bellies and the fear of brigands from their gates, and they shall not care if you be witch or saint.”

“Isobel—”

” ‘Tis true,” she said. “You do not know the power of satiety until you feel the bite of hunger. Make Evermyst great, and they shall kiss your hem all the days of their pathetically easy lives.”

Another noise shuffled from the darkness.

Isobel glanced toward the source, immediately rounding her shoulders and dropping her face. “I go now, me lady,” she murmured. “Unless you have further need of me.”

“Nay, see to your tasks,” Anora said, and in a moment she was alone.

Make Evermyst great.
The words echoed in her mind, but how could she do that when her walls were crumbling, Munro controlled their borders, and—

A whispering shriek found her ears again, and she turned abruptly away, striding through the shadows. The kindly darkness swallowed her. Through the misty night, she could barely make out the mill, the cobbler’s shop, the herb garden.

From the kennel, a hound whimpered, and Anora turned toward it. Inside the low building, the dogs rose to meet her, and there, amidst the wagging acceptance of the hounds, she settled onto the straw.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when she awoke, but she felt a sudden jolt of panic. She should not have left the keep. She should have been there with her people, keeping vigil and praying.

Stumbling out of the kennel, Anora hurried across the bailey. When she entered the great hall she heard a moan issue from below and she faltered, wanting more than anything to rush back out into the darkness. But her people were here. She straightened her back and stepped toward the tables.

“Lady Anora.”

She turned with a start. “MacGowan!” He stood nearby, his face drawn but his back unbowed. “You should be abed.”

He didn’t acknowledge her order. “Where have you been?”

“I do not think—” she began, but the sound came again, so soft now that she had to strain to hear it.

“Drink.”

The noise continued on, a tortured whisper of sound.

“Drink, Notmary,” Ramsay said, and nudged her arm with his mug. “Unless ‘tis your wish to faint dead away before your clansmen’s eyes.”

She took the mug, and realized suddenly that she’d been holding her breath. The mead ran warm and soothing into her stomach.

“Come,” MacGowan said, and taking her arm, led her to a table.

“You’re limping,” she said, and felt strangely disembodied, as if she were not herself at all, but another.

“And you’re shaking. You should not have left.”

She turned toward him, anger brewing. “What should I have done? She does not want me with her.”

“You went below?”

” ‘Tis my responsibility to—”

He swore quietly, his fist whitening against the edge of the table. “She might have killed you. You should not have—”

“Who are you to tell me where to go and—”

“One of those who do not depend on you,” he said, his voice low. “Unlike these others here.” He turned abruptly away, his expression hard. “You have a duty to them.”

“And pray, MacGowan, what is that duty?”

“To stay alive.” His voice was nearly silent, and when he turned back to her, his eyes were as steady as stone. “Do you have some aversion to that, lass?”

Her world was crumbling, and she found, to her horror, that she wanted more than anything to fall into his arms. “Deirdre …” Her voice was a tortured rasp. “She blames me.”

“She is mad.”

“She is a Fraser.”

“And what of the others, Notmary? Are they not Frasers, too?”

“Aye.”

“Then stay alive for them. Be strong for them.”

She skimmed the crowd. “And what if I am not strong?” she whispered.

He almost smiled, and it seemed that he nearly reached out to touch her.

“You challenged the Munro, lass.”

“I am a fool.”

An expression of regret crossed his face, but in a moment it was gone. ” ‘Tis too late to change your course now. You have set yourself against the bull.”

“And for that me own people hate me.”

“Only if you are wrong. You cannot permit your own people to side with your enemy, ‘twill weaken your cause.”

A moan sounded again.

Anora shivered. “Deirdre has sided with them,” she whispered. “What would you do, MacGowan? Slit her throat afore she can damage another—”

A low wail echoed through the hall, ending on a quivering gasp.

A silent eternity passed, then footsteps sounded on the stairs. Anora turned, her breath held.

The two soldiers entered. Scratches ran the length of one’s cheek. “She is gone, me lady,” he said.

“The devil has her now,” someone murmured.

Anora’s head felt light. “And the babe?” she asked, just as Meara stepped into the hall.

In her arms she held a bundle of cloth, and from that cloth one tiny fist waved amidst a sporadic mewling.

The old woman’s eyes were as hard as chiseled brownstone. “I would know this!” Her ancient voice boomed above the baby’s lament. Every face turned to her, every breath stilled. “Who has fathered this child?”

A whisper of voices murmured amongst themselves.

“Speak!” she stormed.

“Mayhap ‘twas a Munro,” Malcolm said. “She was enamored with them.”

“She was
mad,”
Meara said.

“Or possessed. ‘Tis best she is gone.”

“And what of the babe?” Meara asked. No one answered. “Will her passing be a blessing, also?”

“Perhaps it will. Maybe she is the devil’s own.”

“Damn you, Malcolm,” Meara said. ” ‘Tis because of men like you I have seen babes lost before. ‘Twill not happen this time.” She turned, eyeing the throng before her. “If the father of this bairn stands amongst us, he will step forward now and claim his own.”

Not a soul spoke.

“Who?” Meara demanded.

” ‘Tis me.” The voice was not loud, and yet it resonated in the great hall like the toll of a heavy bell.

The room turned in breathless awe and watched as Ramsay MacGowan stepped forward.

“The child,” he said quietly, “is mine.”

Not a whisper of breath filled the hall. Every eye was trained on Ramsay but he kept his gaze on the bundle in Meara’s arms. Transfixed, he was. Mesmerized, for there, within those rags, lay his redemption.

“What say you, MacGowan?” The old woman’s head was tilted, as though she had misheard him.

“I said the child is mine.”

Murmuring started afresh, buzzing like hornets about the great, echoing hall, but he let them buzz, feeling no need to swat at their passing. “You’ve been here but a few days, MacGowan,” Meara said. “How can this be?”

Ramsay shrugged, and for the first time let himself consider the consequences of his actions. But he had no desire to turn back. Instead, he was pulled irresistibly toward that wee, small bundle until he stood directly before it.

For a moment he held Meara’s bead-bright gaze, and then he shifted his attention and breathlessly brushed the blanket aside.

The babe’s tiny head turned restlessly. Her skin was blotchy, as wrinkled as old parchment and as ugly as sin.

“Is she …” Ramsay paused and kept his words for Meara alone. “Is she deformed?”

“And what if she is, MacGowan?” asked the old woman. “Is she then yours no longer?”

For a moment he faltered. Surely he was a fool, insisted his better sense—but in that instant the babe opened her eyes. Blue as purest cobalt, they found his face with unerring, unblinking accuracy. The freed tiny fist curled tight around the edge of the blanket, but he noticed neither her unyielding grip nor her sudden stillness, for he was trapped in her gaze, captured by a thousand emotions that gripped his heart with deadly ferocity. “She is mine,” he breathed.