Snow Raven (15 page)

“I doubt he wishes any dealings with me at all.”

Hertha nodded, but said soothingly, “I understand, lass. ’Tis hard sometimes to forget the past.”

Or face the future, Merry added silently. What man or devil would she confront in the dining hall tonight? How could she deflect Lindsay’s anger when she knew nothing of the story?

“God’s nightshirt!” Merry swore aloud. Hertha looked at her, startled.

Merry laughed when she realized what she’d blurted out in her frustration. “’Tis one of my mother’s favorite oaths,” she said.

Hertha looked delighted. “Why, yer halfway to a Highlander yerself now, lass.”

* * *

“DO YE LIKE IT, miss?”

“’Tis—different,” Merry said honestly, gazing at herself in the wavy pier glass as Hertha adjusted the pleats and folds of the plaid skirt. A long length of wool was thrown over her shoulder like a sash; Hertha called it a
feileadh mor
. The shirt beneath was a bright saffron. Merry had thought the color would clash with her vivid hair, but the silk was just the right shade of yellow to bring out deep golden highlights in her hair.

Hertha was right. When a kersey was added for full effect, she looked every inch a Highlander. The maidservant had found the gown, she said, in one of Auchmull’s guest chambers. The previous owner, who was doubtless a wealthy lass, Hertha explained, would surely not miss one gown among so many. Merry suspected the clothing must have belonged to Lady Blair, but was merely grateful she was clean again.

She could have wept with gratitude when Hertha had badgered a couple of sturdy boys into lugging in a wooden tub, and then helped Merry to wash her hair. It had proven no easy task, but at last the waist-length locks were dry and gleaming with rich highlights. Merry had declined Hertha’s offer to curl her hair, not sure what particular torture that might entail. She also thought Ranald might look more kindly on her if she looked young and innocent.

Merry took a deep, steadying breath as she turned away from the mirror. “Hertha, I’m beginning to fear this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Yer nae pleased wi’ the clothing?”

“Nay, ’tis just that—”

A scratching sound came at the chamber door. Hertha hurried to answer it, apparently having assumed the position as Merry’s tiring woman without any undue conversation between them. It was just as well, Merry decided, since she hadn’t the faintest notion of how to go about doing anything around here, and she felt helpless as a babe herself in the maid’s capable hands.

Hertha spoke softly with someone at the door and returned.

“Lord Ranald has requested yer presence at the high table, milady. We finished here nae a moment too soon.” The white-haired retainer looked pleased with her handiwork. “Och, ye look right bonny, ye do. He’ll nae recognize ye wi’out all the dust and grime.”

“I pray so,” Merry murmured, seized with a pure and utter panic.

Perhaps she could try to escape. Definitely out of the question. Merry realized, having eyed the surly Highlanders in the ward. She would have to stumble through this interrogation as best she could, and pretend she knew what Ranald was talking about—assuming, that is, he had anything to say to her other than making ugly accusations without any basis in truth.

Merry hadn’t known Blair Lindsay, so she couldn’t offer any comment upon the woman’s death. Neither could she feign total immunity to Ranald Lindsay. This was a nightmare of a situation, one that was giving her progressively worse nerves as the dinner hour drew nigh.

By then the sun had dropped from sight and the torches lining Auchmull’s halls cast smoky relief onto the winding halls and corridors Hertha led Merry through. The retainer quietly pointed out several places along the way—a library, chapel, and the huge pantry beyond the kitchens. Most of the bedchambers were on the second level and up, Hertha explained, including the women’s solar which had been used when Lady Blair had been alive.

Merry also learned from Hertha that Ranald’s parents had both died relatively young. There had been some sort of riding accident which had taken the fourth earl’s life, and Lady Lindsay had succumbed to a fever years before that. Besides Darra and Gilbert, there had also been a set of twins, boy and a girl, who had died of something Hertha called “white throat.” Ranald was heir to Edzell, Auchmull, and Invermark now, unless something happened to him and Gilbert both, and then their nearest male kin, Lady Deuchar’s sons, would inherit.

The worst fact was, Hertha explained, the Macleans were allied with Lord Deuchar. Which meant Ran still dealt with Blair’s family, who were quick and cruel to hold him responsible for her death. Hertha shuddered again at the mention of Black Cullen. Her voice dropped to a whisper that echoed eerily in the narrow hall.

“He’s a devil, that one, lass. Ye’ll see what I mean if ye ever lay eyes on Lady Blair’s brother. Different as night and day, those two, and they fight like hawk n’ hound, too. ’Tis said Black Cullen wants t’see the last Lindsay fall. That way he’ll hae a clear path to Auchmull, and Edzell, too. Beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”

Merry wasn’t listening anyway. They had reached the great hall that served as a combination drawing, dining, and breakfast room. From the peaked ceiling dangled an iron chandelier, ablaze with white candles. A long wooden table occupied the center of the hall, and was generously decked with a variety of colorful dishes. At the far end of the hall, a minstrel’s gallery jutted out above the shadowed recesses of the room, but it was empty. Only one man occupied the chamber, and he moved to smoothly intercept Merry as she entered.

The Wolf of Badanloch looked civilized this eve. His dark hair blended invisibly with the brown velvet doublet and breeches he wore, and the only mark of his Highland heritage was the silver badge Merry had seen before. This time, it was pinned in the center of a goffered frill. She caught a glimpse of a cream silk waistcoat beneath his unbuttoned coat, and soft ruffles fell over his hand as he extended it to her.

“Mistress Tanner.”

His tone brooked no disobedience, yet Merry could not have denied him had she wished to. Something inexplicable drew her to this man, her nemesis, and she moved forward with a rustle of skirts as Hertha discreetly withdrew from the room. Merry heard the soft thud of a door behind her. She was alone with The Wolf.

“You look much restored” was all Ranald said. He did not compliment her on her appearance, as Hertha had hoped.

Merry felt a small, annoying pang of disappointment. “What an interesting room,” she said instead, letting Ranald walk her as far as the table and then quickly freeing her hand from his. She had not missed the fact that her palms were moist and his were not. She wondered if he mocked her when he suddenly produced a lace-edged cloth from the pocket of his jerkin and handed it to her without a word. She twisted it nervously in her hands as she listened to him.

“Auchmull was originally built in the twelfth century, but not fortified until over a hundred years later, by means of the largest stone tower you saw outside. In my grandfather’s time, ’twas again rebuilt. You stand in the most recent addition, though of course it cannot compare to Whitehall or Richmond Palace.”

Merry thought she detected a note of bitterness in his voice. “It has great character,” she said, struggling to be polite. He flashed her a faint smile.

“I’m gratified you find it acceptable by Tudor standards. Shall we dine?”

Merry let the jibe pass and agreed that they should. She was relieved when they were seated at opposite ends of the table, and servants reappeared to serve the various dishes. Merry could not identify most of the food. She tried to surreptitiously sniff at each portion with the pretense of dropping the kerchief, but the ruse was spoiled when one of the servants quickly leaped forward to restore the kerchief to her lap. She smiled and nodded, though she was in actuality annoyed.

Merry was afraid of trying any strange dishes, in case she should become ill. She was used to depending on the queen’s taster and she knew only too well how Ranald felt about her. She was Wickham’s representative, for better or worse. She considered refusing to eat, but this would surely anger Ranald more. At Goldielands, she had only had a simple porridge to break her fast, and Hertha had filched her a couple of apples and a wedge of hard cheese from the kitchen earlier in the day. But this dish before her was positively swimming in creams and sauces, and her stomach roiled dangerously as she stared down at her plate.

“Mistress Tanner?” Coming from the other end of the table, Ranald’s voice had a distinct edge, though he managed to sound solicitous enough before the servants. “Is there something amiss?”

She shook her head and pushed at what appeared to be mutton with the single spoon she had been given. Aware he was watching her, she finally took a tiny, cautious bite. It wasn’t too bad, just very overcooked and salty. She smiled weakly down the table at her host.

“Delicious,” she mumbled.

“Do you think so? I’ve never particularly cared for haggis myself, but then I suppose
Sassenach
have a more refined palate from birth.”

“Haggis?”

“Sheep’s pluck: Cook mixes heart, liver and entrails with oatmeal and beef suet,” Ranald answered offhandedly as he helped himself to a crisp rack of beef from a silver platter held by a servant.

Merry gagged discreetly into the kerchief, and then quickly reached for a goblet of what she assumed was water. She was wrong. After gulping the vinegary drink halfway down, she found herself coughing and gasping for air.

Ranald was the first one to the rescue. He materialized behind Merry and slapped the flat of his palm hard between her shoulder blades. She wheezed and clutched the edge of the table to keep from ending up face-first in the haggis. Her back throbbed from the impact of his hand.

“Water,” she gasped.

A finger snap sent the servants running. One eventually returned with a pewter goblet. Ranald shoved it into Merry’s hand.

“Here. Drink this down and you’ll feel better.”

Merry did. The water was brackish and odd-tasting, but it obliterated the vinegary residue. She looked at Ranald accusingly.

“Blaand is an acquired taste,” he said, referring to the vinegary malt she had gulped unthinkingly.

“Like Scotland, apparently.”

He smiled faintly at her insult. “I’ve never known Highlanders to have a weak constitution, lass,” he said softly. Merry was aware of the fact the other servants had not returned; the last one had slipped discreetly away at his signal. Ranald remained behind her chair, resting his hands on the backrest, just inches away from her hair. She felt The Wolf’s warm breath on her neck.

“Aye, well, I much prefer England. Living at a civilized Court.”

Ranald chuckled. “Do you know, Merry,” he suddenly said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather, “I’ve never seen a woman with hair the exact color of yours. ’Tis like live flames. Fire plays in it … like so.”

She gasped softly. His use of her Christian name surprised her as much as the fingers running slowly, leisurely, through the silken strands, as if he were an appraiser admiring the reflection of candlelight on her gleaming auburn tresses. Then he bunched the soft hair in one hand and raised it above her head, pinning it in place as he bent to place a kiss on the exquisitely sensitive nape of her neck.

Merry’s eyes closed as she felt his lips trailing across her skin. He punctuated each tiny kiss with a word.

“Damme you, woman …”

She tingled all over, her own fingers clutching the table for support. Light and fleeting as butterfly wings, Ranald’s kisses intoxicated Merry like a heady wine. She could no more fight him than she could herself, and a small, choked sob escaped her own lips as he sensuously nuzzled her right ear.

“I wonder how a dark wolf and bright flame would dance together,” Ranald mused, and his grip in her hair tightened as if in unspoken threat. He was warning her not to answer, Merry knew, and she could do no more than shake her head, at which he abruptly released her and stepped back.

“Nay,” he growled under his breath. She rose from her chair, turned and saw Ranald raking a hand through his hair. His dark eyes flamed with rage, directed more at himself than her.

“I must seem nothing more than a coarse barbarian to you.” He gave a self-deprecating little laugh. “I can hardly compete with seasoned courtiers like Wickham, after all. You must forgive my lapse of sanity. ’Twill not happen again, I assure you.”

Merry’s heart was still pounding furiously. Stung by his words, she faced him. She wanted to give him the tongue-lashing he so deserved, and opened her mouth to do just that. She never had a chance.

“Spare me your pretty little speeches. Your mock outrage. Admit what I did was no bolder than the knaves who discreetly grab and paw you at Court.”

He was gazing contemptuously at her. Heat rushed to her cheeks. The worst thing was, it was true enough. He obviously did not believe she was a virgin, but rather one of the Court bawds who coyly solicited men for favors and rewarded them however she might.

“I am an engaged woman, sirrah,” she shakily replied. Anger heated her voice, made her quiver where she stood. “How dare you imply I lift my skirts for any cad!”

“Yours are not the eyes of a devoted fiancée. They gleam far too brightly after my attentions.”

Merry was livid. So furious her voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper. “How rich. My kidnapper sits in judgment of me! You don’t know me at all, sir. That much ’tis obvious.”

“Surely you cannot deny everyone ’tis shaped by their experiences. The sheltered yet tawdry life at Court you lead has made you what you are.”

“Aye, then mayhap your mistrusting, antagonistic nature is derived from the harshness of your surroundings, Lord Lindsay.” She glanced pointedly at the cold hearth, then back to him.

Ranald stiffened at her words. “You need not tell me my home is a travesty. I know it well enough. Wickham is a far better catch. I grant the enemy that much even now.” He was silent a moment, and she saw a pulse beating furiously in his neck. The silver badge flashed at his throat. Merry saw banked fires in his eyes. A cold fire … one of rage.