Authors: Patricia McAllister
“All right, lad?”
The boy nodded shakily, dusting his cloak free of snow. “Thank ye, m’laird.”
Merry knew Brodie must be of considerably lower social status, hardly one of Lindsay’s Highland cousins. Yet Ranald treated the young man with the same concern one might expect from family. The morning sun cast relief onto Brodie’s freckled features and thatch of orange hair. The bright color was comical, contrasting her own deeper shade of auburn. She remembered Ranald teasing her about being related to the redheaded Scott clan, and frowned.
“Is your horse injured?” Ranald asked the youth.
Brodie quickly retrieved his dun mare, which had since clambered back to her feet and was limping a little. He knelt and examined the animal’s right foreleg with some expertise.
“Och, she’s twisted it, m’laird. ’Twouldn’t be wise to push her.”
Ranald nodded. “Ride double with me, then. Have Duncan take a look at her the moment we reach Auchmull.”
“Aye,” the boy said, already leading his dun over so she might be secured as Ladybird was. Then Ranald helped secure Brodie’s injured mare to his saddle. Before he remounted, however, Ranald knelt and studied some tracks in the snow, scattered hoof prints Merry had not noticed until she saw him tracing the outlines with his long index finger. For some reason, he looked up at her. Merry flushed at the faint, accusatory look in his eyes. Or was it only a trick of the sun?
Nobody spoke. The horses shifted restively. Saddle leather creaked, harness jingled. The wind sighed across the rugged landscape, rippling the dried stalks of heather, stirring up little flurries of snow that swirled around the horses’ legs. The end of Ranald’s tartan snapped in the breeze. Merry’s eyes remained locked with his as he slowly rose to his feet.
He made no move to brush off his breeches, but simply turned his back to her and vaulted smoothly up into the bay’s saddle, where Brodie settled behind him. Uar snorted and pranced at the return of his master’s hand. Ranald wheeled the horse about and set his heels firmly in place. The animal lapsed into a brisk pace, dragging the injured dun and Ladybird and her unwilling burden behind.
* * *
EVERY MUSCLE IN MERRY’S body screamed for reprieve by the time the riders forded the last creek and rode up a narrow ravine. The borderlands gradually gave way completely to a dense thicket of pine, mountain willow, and larch. They had been climbing in elevation for the final leg of the journey, and here and there early patches of snow testified to the Highland winter not so long away. Her fingers had nearly frozen as sunshine gave way to a cold Scottish drizzle. To her surprise, Ranald noted her predicament, and during one of their infrequent rests he rummaged in his saddlebags.
He tossed something at her. Startled, Merry caught the gloves and murmured a grudging thank-you as she pulled on the soft leather gloves. They were far too large, fashioned for Lindsay’s longer fingers, but the warmth they provided was nothing short of delicious against the damp chill. She was aware of the intimacy of wearing a man’s gloves. If Ranald was, he gave no indication. But it seemed he slowed the pace of their journey, perhaps in consideration of her weariness.
At last their destination loomed before her. The unwilling prisoner was too exhausted and saddle sore to fully appreciate the herd of red deer they startled as Uar cantered through the protected mountain pass, but Merry knew her first glimpse of Auchmull would be forever etched in her mind. She realized it the moment they broke free of the forest’s gloom and a piercingly blue sky bowled above them, the color of lapis lazuli and just as pure but for a single golden eagle tracing lazy spirals against the sun.
Uar quickened his pace, anticipating food and shelter, and Merry’s gaze fell upon the laird of Lindsay’s keep at last. Against a backdrop of wind-scoured cliffs and rugged, emerald-green hills, a dark stone castle rose amidst ruins of older buildings. Just beyond Auchmull, Merry glimpsed a river sparkling like a deep blue thread of sapphire under the sun. The waters of the Esk formed a natural barrier in the south and west, while the remaining sides were guarded by two towers bristling with arrow-slits and crenellations. In an oddly softening touch, violets speckled the grassy knoll.
Merry knew Ranald awaited her reaction, and she didn’t disappoint. “’Tis beautiful,” she said, albeit unwillingly, and though he said nothing in reply, she sensed he was pleased. Uar and the other horses shot forward in a sudden burst of speed, clattering noisily across a low stone bridge which marked the beginning of a narrow, winding trail up to Auchmull.
Merry was painfully conscious of her appearance after four days of hard travel, and sensed the perusal of Auchmull’s occupants as they wound up toward the laird’s home. Even after Lady Scott’s hospitality, and the brief respite, she was worn from the journey.
She supposed she should cast off her borrowed raiment and enter the keep with the remnants of her English dignity intact, but it was cold yet in the bracing breeze and the velvet cloak served as a shield from the cutting wind.
She did not know what to expect by way of hospitality, nor did she know if Ranald had other mischievous relatives tucked away in the heathered woods, would-be rogues like young Gilbert who would take great delight in humiliating her however they might. She looked upon this new prison with trepidation, for prison it was and she made no mistake about it.
The tense silence between her and Ranald only deepened during the last leg of their journey from Goldielands, for no longer was this a pleasant jaunt, nor would Auchmull serve as a place for simply restoring her appearance. She was, in fact, the captive of a man whose conscience seemed as thin as autumn sunshine.
After his venture south to retrieve his wayward kinsman, Merry was surprised Ranald had let Gilbert and Hugo proceed on their own, spiriting the injured Jem only heaven knew where. “The lads are in dire need of a lesson” was all he said in response to the question she posed. She was hardly surprised when, upon reaching Auchmull, the stable master who hurried to greet them reported the boys had not returned.
Noticing Merry, the middle-aged man doffed his cap and held it to his chest. His awkward greeting betrayed his curiosity, but Ranald did not satisfy the man’s questioning look.
“Aye, the lads will be along in a day or two, Duncan,” he said. He swung down from Uar and swept Merry after him before she could think of a protest. Angrily she shrugged off his touch, cheeks burning as she recalled the passionate kiss of the previous night. He but sought to punish her, mock her naďveté, yet she could not deny her body had responded. It was maddening, but this man appeared to wield some sort of magic over her she was powerless to fight.
Chapter Eleven
THERE WOULD BE NO extra amenities because of who she was, Merry soon learned. If anything, the stares marking her progress into the outer ward of Castle Auchmull were hostile, suspicious, and full of hatred. English were the enemy, plain and simple, be they man or woman. Merry heard several low hisses from the onlookers and was surprised when Ranald turned a sharp, censuring gaze on the guilty parties.
The moment was shattered when the stable master spoke again. “M’laird, ’tis glad I am that yer back. There’s been no end of trouble these past few days.”
Ranald looked sharply at the man. “What happened, Duncan?”
The stable master’s face was pinched with worry and outrage. “One of the horses is missin’. Starfire, it be. Young Dougal went to her stall to muck this mornin’, and she be good as gone. ’Twere no sign of her breakin’ free—”
Ranald swore under his breath as he turned and unceremoniously thrust Uar’s reins into Brodie’s hand.
“It must have been our uninvited guest again, Duncan. ’Twas apparently not enough that he tried to murder me in my sleep, but he must needs steal my best mare, too.” He shot Merry a sidelong glance, which she did not mistake for anything other than guilt by association.
He turned and motioned to another person across the courtyard. A pretty young girl with dangling flaxen braids, probably not more than fifteen or sixteen, came forward with obvious reluctance.
“Siany, show Mistress Tanner to the uninvited guest quarters.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The maidservant glanced curiously at Merry, then tucked her chin under and dashed across the yard. Merry had to hurry to keep up. She swallowed her indignation at the girl’s lack of manners, an obvious result of Lindsay’s own laxity as a master.
She was admittedly curious, however, about the innards of the castle. Her first discovery was that Auchmull had a wonderfully acoustic main hall; an infant’s screams echoed quite amazingly off the rafters from the depths of the servants’ wing. Along the hall, she saw more retainers peering out from various spots, most openmouthed with either outrage or shock. The girl Siany was clearly displeased to be the one assigned to serve an Englishwoman. She deliberately hurried up the first set of stone steps and through a long hall, ignoring Merry’s plea for mercy. Finally, after navigating an endless series of spiral steps and cold stone corridors, they arrived at a tiny chamber set well apart from the others. Merry realized with a pang of dismay and fury this was designed so on purpose. Here she was easily watched and yet also removed from the main activity of the household. Here she would be nothing less than Lindsay’s prisoner, in truth.
“Nay,” she stated flatly.
The maidservant paused in the act of opening the door. She regarded Merry with awe and no little outrage herself.
“Nay,” Merry repeated, “’twill not do at all. ’Tis much too drafty. I cannot endure the cold.”
Siany bit her lower lip, looking sulky. “I hae my orders, milady—”
“I realize that, but surely Lord Lindsay will understand when you explain the circumstances to him. I can wait here whilst you deliver the message. I’ve no desire to traipse up and down all those cursed stairs again.”
The girl just stared at Merry, wide-eyed. She had pretty eyes, robin’s-egg blue, with just a hint of green around the irises. Eyes Merry did not doubt she used to advantage whenever she wished to sway someone, particularly men.
“I … I dinna ken,” Siany stammered at last. “’Tis up to his lordship.”
“Precisely,” Merry coolly replied. “That is why I’m telling you to fetch Lord Lindsay up here; if nothing else, he should feel this drafty corner for himself.” She glanced into the room, wrinkling her nose. “When was the last time anyone cleaned in here? The thirteenth century, mayhap?”
Siany didn’t seem to notice the cobwebs draped from the rafters and billowing in the breeze, but Merry wasn’t about to subject herself to such an ill-kept prison. The chamber was mean, and consisted of nothing more than a sagging mattress in a wooden frame and a broken old table leaned up against one wall. It was an outrage, all right! If this was the way The Wolf of Badanloch treated his guests, then no wonder he had so many enemies.
“I see we’re getting nowhere fast,” Merry said briskly. “Please point out the way back downstairs.”
Siany hesitated, as if she might actually refuse, and then reluctantly led Merry back down the halls and stairs, this time at a much slower pace, as if terrified of facing Ranald Lindsay.
He can’t be such an ogre as all that, Merry thought, firmly setting her mind on accomplishing this one little goal. If she could get him to acknowledge her point about decent accommodations, then surely he would also consider being reasonable as well about keeping her here against her will. The matter of Wickham was obviously a sore one, but if they could just sit down like two civilized people, Merry was relatively sure he would be eventually swayed by her sincere speech. Of course, she’d have to avoid gazing into those dark eyes, or she knew she’d lose her nerve. There was something incredibly intense about the man’s eyes, and she’d once heard a saying that the eyes were the windows of the soul. That was certainly the case when it came to Ranald Lindsay.
“Good heavens,” Merry gasped when they finally reached the main hall again. “I was beginning to fear I’d died and walked clear up to heaven and back again.”
Siany looked stricken by the remark, but wisely said nothing. Disgruntled, Merry decided that, like their master, the servants at Auchmull had no sense of humor. She sighed and brushed at her skirts, gazing about the great hall with a coolly critical air. Goldielands had projected some warmth and charm, whereas this place had none. The hearth was cold and dirty, as if a fire had not been lit for months. She wrinkled her nose, surveying the sparse furnishings with dismay. She knew the Lindsays were not a poor clan, and indeed Sir David Lindsay of the Mount had been renowned for his generosity.
Merry sent Siany after Lord Lindsay. Getting a response from the earl was quite another thing. She was tapping her foot impatiently by the time Ranald finally appeared; he looked as irritated as she herself felt.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, milord,” she said with just the faintest trace of sarcasm.
Ranald in turn regarded her with no lost love. “I am given to understand there are some problems with your quarters, Mistress Tanner.”
They were back to icy formalities. Their previous exchanges might never have taken place. Just as well. She could not bring herself to call him by his Christian name, in light of what he had done.
“’Tis mildly put, milord. D’you honestly expect me to meekly assume residence in a filthy, rat-infested hole beneath some leaky rafters?”
The rats were a last-minute inspiration, Merry admitted, and she had no idea whether the rafters truly leaked or not, but it sounded so much better than just complaining about the filth.
After all, he could simply set Siany to cleaning the room or, heaven forbid, order Merry to do it herself.
Ranald did neither. He simply frowned.
Encouraged, Merry continued briskly. “I am uncommonly susceptible to cold, milord. An ill hostage is scarcely a boon, rather a burden. I know you would not want the death of an innocent on your conscience.” She added that for the benefit of the servants blatantly listening in on their conversation, and congratulated herself for winning the strike.