The Fraser Bride (29 page)

Meara nodded, then straightened, to her meager height and glanced about the hall, her eyes snapping. “If any would challenge the MacGowan’s claim, speak now or forever be silent.”

Not a sound whispered through the room, as though none dared breathe until this crisis was past. The old woman nodded tightly. “Come along,” she said and ambled toward the stairs. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feeble weight, but no other sound followed their ascent. When they reached the chamber where Ramsay slept she turned, her wizened face somber as she faced him. “If you hope to win her heart with this, you are even more the fool than I first thought,” she said.

Ramsay pulled his gaze from the babe in her arms. “I am tired and I am wounded,” he said. “Speak plain or leave the bairn and go.”

The faintest grin lifted Meara’s rumpled face, but in an instant it was gone, replaced by her usual glower. “And if I leave the bairn and go, MacGowan, what then? You are poorly equipped to feed her.”

He returned her scowl. The babe was beginning to yowl. “Methinks you have little more to offer her, old woman.”

She actually laughed, then put the babe to her shoulder, rocking as she did so. “If I did not hate you I might be tempted to like you, MacGowan.”

He ignored her statement, grateful that the babe was already quieting. “She will need a nursemaid,” he said.

“You are wiser than I suspected,” said the old woman. “Do you happen to know of any who might be up for the task?”

“Surely there is someone who could nurse her here at—” he began, but the old woman was already interrupting.

“There are none. Seonag’s babe is the youngest, but not so wee as to still suckle.”

“Then beyond Evermyst. A crofter’s wife, or—”

“The Frasers have fallen on hard times, MacGowan. ‘Twill be no simple task for you to care for this small one.”

Worry and guilt gnawed at him.

“So what now? Shall I send the babe to the Munros?” she asked.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by reality, by duty, by the thought of binding himself to such a helpless life.

Meara nodded. “Mayhap ‘tis best,” she said, and stepped toward the door. “The Munros be superstitious and cruel, but—”

Ramsay caught her by the arm. “I have me faults, old woman,” he said. “But what I say I’ll do, I do.”

The ancient eyes flickered to his face. “Then the babe is yours,” she said, and handing him the bundle, grinned mischievously. “And mayhap something more.”

The baby wriggled like a puppy in his hands. He pulled it cautiously against his chest, and the tiny, scrunched face turned immediately, searching for sustenance.

“Why?” said a breathless voice.

He turned instantly toward the source, and there he found Anora, her hands clasped. He dragged his gaze back to the red face hidden within the gray blanket’s warmth. The scarlet mouth closed on the blanket, then bellowed in frustration.

“Might it be that you hope to avenge yourself on Deirdre in this way?” Anora asked.

Ramsay shifted the infant a bit farther up his chest.

“Is that it, MacGowan?” Anora asked. “Do you plan to watch the babe die and know that you have had your revenge for the humiliation caused by the mother?”

He jerked his gaze to her face, momentarily ignoring the fact that the child was attempting to nurse on his tunic. “Is that what you think of me?”

The baby mewled, but no other sound broke the silence. Anora shifted her attention to the wriggling bundle and back.

“I know not what to think,” she murmured. “Each time I believe I understand your motives, I find …” She paused. “Tell me why.”

For a moment he was tempted to do as she asked, but he had not trusted even his brothers with the truth. Surely he would not be so foolish as to start with her.

“She will need a nursemaid soon,” he said.

“There is none.”

The baby complained more insistently. Ramsay’s mind spun. “What of the goat herder?”

Anora scowled. “Not all things are as they seem.”

“What?”

“Ailsa only looks as though she is nursing.”

“I did not mean …” Ramsay shook his head, and realized Meara was long gone. “I wish to get milk from her beasts.”

“Will a babe drink goats’ milk?”

“We have little choice but to find out.” Stepping forward, he lifted the baby toward her.

She backed abruptly away. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to save the child’s life,” he said and pushed the bundle toward her again.

She retreated another several steps.

He scowled. “Are you afraid of her?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then take her.”

“I am lady of this keep. ‘Tis not my place to care for an infant.” She lifted her peaked chin, but glanced nervously toward the door as if longing to escape.

“You would rather appeal to this Ailsa?”

She winced. “I know little of bairns!”

Ramsay’s heart jerked, but he had no time to waste.

“Come, lass. ‘Twill do you no harm to care for the babe for a wee span of time. Indeed, ‘twill do you naught but good,” he said, and pressed the wriggling bundle into her arms.

She took it with breathless terror, holding it away from her body as if it were a serpent. The baby squawked and the fear on Anora’s face sharpened.

“Hold her close,” he said, and nudged the babe toward her bosom. “She, too, is afraid.”

For an instant he thought she might deny her own fear, but instead she nodded and straightened, bearing the babe to her shoulder.

The tender image seared its way into his heart, but he didn’t allow himself to move closer. ‘Twas far too dangerous, so he turned with careful discipline and left the chamber.

Outside, the air felt fresh and revitalizing. He drew it into his lungs, grateful for this time to think. By the time he reached his destination, his leg ached, but his mind felt clearer. His knock sounded against the cottage’s weathered door, and in a moment it opened.

The widow Ailsa stood in the doorway. Her dark hair was loosed and fell about her shoulders in waves, but it was her breasts that drew his attention. Pale and round as rising loaves of bread, they greeted him from above her bodice.

“Well!” Her voice sounded surprised but hardly displeased. “Me laird MacGowan.” She smiled and shifted her weight slightly, showing her incredible wares from a different angle. “You have finally come.”

“Aye,” he said, and resolutely kept his gaze from straying south. “But mayhap for a different purpose than you suppose.”

* * * * *

“MacGowan, I have—” Meara’s words stopped as she shuffled into Ramsay’s chamber. “Lass, what be you doing here?”

Anora held her breath for an instant. “MacGowan went to the cheese maker’s.”

“The … Ah!” Meara said and grinned. “To fetch milk.”

“So he said.”

“But you do not believe him.”

“He is a man.” Anora paced the floor again, the babe cuddled to her shoulder.

“Aye,” Meara said, watching her. “He is that, and the father of this child, I believe he said.”

Anora sent her a scowl. “I am no fool, Meara.”

“Then pray tell, why did he claim it?”

Anora tightened her grip on the tiny bundle. It felt heavy and limp and ultimately helpless against her bosom. “To win some hold on Evermyst.”

“You
are
a fool,” Meara said, and turned toward the door. “Tell the MacGowan there may yet be a nursemaid to be found. I have sent Cant to inquire about it.”

“Where do you go now?”

“To find a milk bladder.” She turned toward the door.

“Surely some other can do that so that you can care for this babe,” Anora said, but the old woman had already turned away and seemed suddenly quite deaf.

“Meara!” Anora called.

“What is it you want?”

“Send Helena up to care for the bairn.”

“Of course, me lady,” Meara agreed with all due subservience and creakily closed the door behind her.

The baby mewled. Anora paced again and again. Minutes slipped away beneath the tread of her slippers, and fatigue set in. Where was Helena? Against her shoulder, the baby was silent. Trying to see past the concealing blanket, Anora walked to the bed and leaned carefully over the mattress, but with the cessation of movement, the infant awoke with a jerk. Anora straightened, and paced again, back and forth, until the tiny thing was again a limp bundle against her chest.

Fatigue wore at her. Anora paced to the bed again, and this time she slipped onto the pallet herself, careful not to disturb the babe. Propping her back against a pillow, she lifted her legs onto the bed and waited breathlessly for the child to complain, but she did not awaken.

Anora closed her eyes. Against her breast, she could feel the steady beat of the tiny infant’s heart, and upon her neck, the babe’s soft exhalations brushed her skin like the fluttering beat of a butterfly’s wing. Silence settled softly in, and in that gentle frame of mind, Anora fell asleep.

* * * * *

Ramsay hurried back up the steps toward his chamber. His leg ached and his chest wound complained, but with surprisingly little verve. Inside his tunic, the bottle of milk felt warm and smooth against his skin. How he was going to feed it, he wasn’t sure. The door opened silently beneath his fingers. Mayhap he could soak a cloth with it and—

His thoughts stopped as abruptly as his feet, for there upon his bed was Anora. The babe slept against her soft bosom. Her lashes looked downy fine against her ivory skin, and in slumber, her face looked as young and vulnerable as a child’s. Gone was the harsh aloofness, replaced by naught but beauty and—

“MacGowan.”

Ramsay jerked at the hiss of Meara’s voice. She stood hunched nearly double behind him in the hallway, bent over a wooden cradle almost as large as herself.

“What are you doing?” he asked, hurrying toward her. “Did you carry that yourself?”

“Pipe down,” she ordered. Glancing through the doorway toward the bed, she straightened creakily and lowered her voice even more. “I commissioned the leather wright to craft a milk bladder. You’ll find it inside the cradle.” One more quick glance at the bed, then, “Good luck to—”

“Me laird!” The woman called Helena rushed around the corner, her expression worried. “I just heard of your sojourn to obtain milk. ‘Tis surely a kindly thing you have done. Still, ‘tis a woman’s task to care for—”

Upon the bed, Anora stirred.

Helena jerked her gaze in that direction and gasped. “What be me lady doing here?”

Meara scowled. “She appears to be sleeping.”

The younger woman mouthed something indiscernible and stared at Meara again. “Surely ‘tis not proper for her to—”

” ‘Tis none of your concern, Stout Helena. I’ve seen to the lassie’s care since the day she was birthed, and—”

“You! ‘Twas I who nursed her through her infancy.”

“And you’ve stuck your nose into her life ever since. But I’ve no time for your meddling now.”

“Meddling!” Helena gasped, puffing out her chest once more. “I only came to help me laird with the babe.”

“He doesn’t need your help.”

Ramsay scowled. “In truth, I could use—”

“Hush!” snapped Meara, and glanced darkly past him toward the bed. “Or you’ll wake the lass.”

Helena pursed her lips and crossed her arms against her immense bosom. “I know what you’re up to, Meara of the Fold, and—”

“And if you care for the lass, you’ll not interfere,” hissed the old woman.

Helena scowled, first at Meara, then at Anora. “If gossip starts, there’ll be no stopping—”

“Then it had best not start,” Meara said. “And if it does, I shall know who to blame.”

“I only came to assist with the babe’s—”

” ‘Tis the duty of the lady of the keep to care for the orphaned and unfortunate,” Meara said.

“Surely you would not deny me the right to—”

“Leave be!” Meara glared with such ferocious intensity that even Helena quailed as the old woman turned her toward the stairs, her voice lowered to a whisper. “If we are careful and wise, this keep may yet have more bairns than …” Her words faded away as they went down the stairs.

Ramsay closed the door with a bemused scowl, then heard the baby rousing.

Setting the bottle of milk on the floor, he approached the bed. The babe stirred restlessly in her cocoon. Reaching out, he drew her carefully from Anora’s arms, but the maid awoke.

Her eyes, sleepy for only a fraction of a moment, snapped open, and her gasp was hollow with fear as she scrambled up against the pillows. “Why are you here?”

Ramsay straightened slowly. ” ‘Tis the room I was given.”

She glanced about. “Oh. My apologies. I must have …” She licked her lips and watched him draw the baby to his chest. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Aye.” Something ached inside him. She feared him still. After all they had endured together. But nay they had not really been together. Since the first they had been apart, for she could not even trust him with her name.

She cleared her throat and pressed back a few gossamer strands of hair from her elfin face. “Ailsa gave you milk?”

“Aye.”

“In exchange for what?”

He glanced at her, wondering momentarily at her suspicious tone, but there were no clues to be found in her alabaster face. “We made a barter of sorts,” he said, and pulling his gaze from her, bent to remove the bladder from the cradle and put the baby in its place. She started whimpering immediately, waving her arms in protest and scrunching her reddening face.

Lifting the bottle of milk and the bladder, Ramsay turned to Anora. She hurried over and together they managed to pour the milk into the supple dispenser, but by then, the baby had set to howling.

Tension cranked up inside Ramsay as thoughts of his past failures gnawed at him. “I’ve not fed a bairn before,” he admitted, and bent to lift the babe from her bed. She turned her face immediately, searching for food, and Ramsay, stiff with fear, set the bladder to her lips. She brushed impatiently past it, still searching. He shifted his weight onto his hale leg and tried again.

Anora motioned toward the bed. “Sit. ‘Tis enough that you hold the child. I will manage the bladder.”

He considered refusing, but the babe was crying and his leg aching, and there was little room for pride.