Authors: Patricia McAllister
Ranald scowled down the length of the table at his English nemesis. In turn, Jasper noted with considerable irritation that the young earl had not so much as gained an ounce of fat over the past months. Nor had Lindsay wasted away from grief. The Wolf was still lean and strong and dangerous-looking, his darkness accentuated tonight by the stark black watch belted plaid he wore. Ranald’s dark eyes gleamed with a deadly light. Not without reason had Jasper insisted upon a food taster, though the memory of Lindsay’s mocking sneer at his request still burned in his gullet.
Jasper considered Ranald Lindsay little more than a glorified savage, a Highland rogue who plundered and pillaged from some archaic sense of tradition rather than any true need. Certainly the Earl of Crawford did not need to go reiving with lawless scoundrels, and though the laird’s illegal activities had stopped after the death of his wife, Jasper knew it would only be a matter of time before The Wolf hunted again beneath the moon.
He also knew Lindsay bore a personal grudge against him over Blair, as did half the Highlands. Jasper’s reputation as a hard taskmaster did not lend him popularity among the lower classes, and many enjoyed seeing The Wolf of Badanloch snapping at his heels. Jasper returned the favor by spurring on the story of the killings at Badanloch. Clearly it was a topic Lindsay wished to forget, and for that very reason he raised it now.
“You’ve heard of the legend of Badanloch, I presume?” Jasper inquired. “A most amusing bard passed by Braidwood on his way south, and regaled us there with the knotty tale.”
Ranald asked in a deceptively soft voice, “How much did you pay him, Wickham?”
Jasper frowned. He did not like the way this upstart laird kept turning the tables on him. With an airy shrug, he said, “Well, what’s one less Maclean anyhow? You’ve had that lot raking at your back for nigh two hundred years. Don’t tell me you’re sorry to hear of Suttie Maclean’s passing, either.”
“I never bore Blair’s father any ill will.”
Jasper shrugged. “’Tis odd, but Cullen Maclean does not seem to believe that.”
“I care not one bawbee what opinion Black Cullen holds of me.”
“Nor are you apparently swayed by the lovely little prize you have in your possession.”
Ranald stiffened slightly at the reference to Merry, but his expression remained shuttered. He clearly sensed Jasper was pressing the issue of Badanloch for a reason.
“There was a traitor,” Ranald said. “Someone intercepted my truce-bearing messenger. Fergus never reached Maclean’s camp. When he did not return, I assumed I had Suttie’s answer. Later Fergus’s body was found floating in the loch. Of course, you would know nothing of this, I presume.”
Jasper restrained his temper as he fumbled for the linen napkin in his lap. He pressed it hard against his mouth for a moment, leaving a stain from berries he had eaten.
“I have taken enough insult from you, Lindsay,” he said, hurling the napkin aside. “You must know I don’t meddle in common clan frays, being far more inclined to gentlemanly pursuits at Court.”
“Such as rape?”
Jasper stiffened and wouldn’t meet Ranald’s eye. Bastard! He knew the laird referred to a specific incident which had occurred at the Stuart Court two years ago. Jasper admitted he’d had a wee bit much to drink, and he’d roughly taken his pleasure with one of the castle wenches. How was he supposed to have known she was only twelve? The little bitch had been teasing him unmercifully.
The king hadn’t asked any explanation. He’d forced Jasper to give the girl a generous dower, then bundled her off to her relatives. There must not have been a child, for Jasper had heard not another word about it. He was sure Lindsay would be badgering him to support the little slut and her bastard otherwise. He felt the disgust emanating from Ranald’s eyes now like a killing frost.
“Come now, Lindsay, we are men of the world,” he finally said, stroking his beard reflectively. “Don’t begrudge me a little harmless pleasure.”
Ranald replied through gritted teeth. “You killed her, you
Sassenach
bastard,” he snarled. “Little Rosaleen Duncan died birthing you a son. Only I suppose you did not ever bother to find out.”
“A son, hmm?” Jasper was mildly interested. “You’re sure ’tis mine? She was a cheeky little thing, as I recall.”
“She was a virgin, damme you!”
Jasper stared at the younger man. By Jesu, Lindsay believed the words he spoke! He laughed. Aye, Lindsay must have been hot for the wench himself, and resentful he hadn’t gotten under her skirts first. Jasper was not about to accept blame for a slut’s behavior. He’d been dubbed as cunning as a fox and a slippery as an eel by one of his contemporaries at Court, and he was hardly going to sit back and let Lindsay spout moralistic slop at him.
Plastering a bland smile to his face to hide the devious workings within, he merely said, “You’ve always been chivalrous when it comes to the ladies, Lindsay.”
Ranald looked momentarily startled. Then he laughed, bitterly, as if remembering something himself.
Jasper sighed. “God’s bones, man! I’ll do my duty by the brat. Where is the newest Wickham?”
“Dead.” Ranald spoke flatly. His dark eyes scoured Jasper with withering contempt. “The bairn died, as well. Lady Deuchar saw to their burial at Edzell.”
Jasper felt a twinge of disappointment. “I wouldn’t have minded another son. I look after all my issue. Braidwood could use another Wickham or two, even born under the bar sinister.”
“You could have used a little restraint far more,” Ranald growled. He rose from the table, disgusted by Wickham’s presence and nonchalant attitude. He knew Sir Jasper ill-treated the serving women at his high seat at Braidwood, which made the fact of Blair’s death there all the more appalling.
Ranald remembered how he’d found little Rosaleen curled up in a ball in a corner of a room at Falklands Castle, bruised, her thin legs covered with blood. He had sent for Darra, and together they had bundled the poor child up and hurried her home to Edzell. Within a few months, the consequences of Wickham’s lust was obvious. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if she had died at Court, rather than in torturous childbirth later.
Ranald felt a quiver of white-hot emotion ripple through his frame, remembering how he had lost Blair, as well. He doubted he would ever know the full circumstances of his wife’s death at Braidwood, for Wickham was not forthcoming with details. The man seemed to enjoy taunting him with feigned ignorance and mock regrets. He could hurl himself across the table now, and crush Wickham’s scrawny neck in his hands, if he could find it under that ridiculous ruff he wore to his chin, but then he would never know what had happened to Blair. He burned to hear the details of her final moments, whether she had spoken of him, her last words, if any.
Wickham obviously knew this. His cocky demeanor spoke volumes. Both realized though Ran longed to slay him outright, he would have to answer to both the Stuart and Tudor monarchs. All the Lindsays stood to suffer if Ran’s rash temper overcame logic. Kidnapping the man’s fiancée was bad enough, outright murder might deprive Gilbert of the right to inherit should Ran swing for the crime.
Loathing curled Ran’s lip as he stared at the man now occupying the chair at the end of his dining hall. How he longed to turn the trestle table over, denying Wickham the meanest hospitality. Still, he was bitterly aware of the other’s very real power. Sir Jasper had the ear of the king, and he used his position ruthlessly. Ranald was surprised, however, when he heard King James and the court no longer visited Braidwood on their annual sojourn. Was their monarch finally beginning to get a true glimpse of the viper he so recklessly cradled to his own breast?
The matter was obviously on Wickham’s mind, too, for he suddenly frowned.
“Milord, pray let’s not be unreasonable,” he said cajolingly. “We both know you have something I want very much, and ’twould appear I also hold the key to some satisfaction on your part. We have but to agree on the niggling little details,
n’est-ce-pas
?”
Ran nodded curtly. “I agree. Keep to the business at hand. You wish Mistress Tanner safely returned, while I ask two things: return of my family lands, and answers.”
“Answers?” Sir Jasper sat back and steepled his thin, pale fingers under his chin, gazing at his adversary with that feigned innocence Ran found so infuriating.
“Aye. I want to know every last detail concerning Blair’s death.”
Wickham sighed heavily. “Milord, you have a mighty enough task ahead of you, if you are to reclaim the lands near Glenesk forfeited to the Macleans after Badanloch. Why torture yourself with visions of a woman you will never see again?”
Each word, cold and logical, was like a stabbing pain in Ran’s heart. Wickham dangled Blair’s last moments before him like a juicy haunch, watching The Wolf salivate, pacing back and forth with frustration. It was a game between them, Ran knew, an old game, but one that was beginning to wear dangerously thin.
“Let her go, Lindsay,” Wickham said, his voice gentle, and oh so reasonable. He leaned forward and folded his arms across the table, gazing at Ran pityingly. “Your dear lady wife is gone, to a better place. All that remains is you and me, and in her memory you owe peace a chance.”
“Do I?” Ran rose abruptly, kicking back his chair. He was pleased to see Wickham jump. He glared down the length of the table, wondering if Sir Jasper sensed how close he was to death at that very moment.
The other man regarded him warily, then rose to his feet. “I see there is nothing more to be gained by my presence here,” he said stiffly. “If we cannot come to terms, then I may as well depart now.”
Ran met his bluff coolly. “Aye, you might at that.”
* * *
WHILE THE TWO MEN squared off in Auchmull’s great hall, Merry took her meal in the privacy of her chamber. She was restless, nervous with anticipation. She finished her dinner, having not tasted a bite, and set the tray with the dishes aside to fitfully pace the room. She felt claustrophobic in the small stone chamber, and more than ever longed to fling open the window, if only to admit gusts of wind and sheeting snow. But the bolt had rusted shut on the lead pane, and after tugging at it uselessly for a while, Merry gave up and simply pressed her face to the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of any activity in the yard.
Auchmull was eerily quiet, for so many beneath the roof. Sir Jasper’s boisterous guardsmen had finally subsided to quietly drinking and gambling in the hall. Merry knew Cullen Maclean had not left yet, for the pass was temporarily blocked by snow. It might be days before it was clear again, since it was not true winter yet, though they all hoped for a gradual thaw. Hertha had explained a sudden thaw could raise the loch to a dangerous level, and cause flooding if the dirt levies broke.
Merry felt like beating her forehead against the glass. Would she never escape this place? The only thing she didn’t want to escape was the man. Ranald. She inhaled suddenly at the mere thought of him. Sweet Jesu, what a traitor she was, mooning over a man who was her intended’s worst enemy! She was a traitor to Sir Jasper, the queen, her own family and moral fabric. But having met Sir Jasper, feeling nothing but instant repulsion despite his fine attire and fussy manners, Merry realized her life had altered its course. She couldn’t change her feelings, nor stop the anticipation racing through her blood at the very thought of Ran.
Her hands tightened on the windowsill, and already she felt the invisible ominous weight of Wickham’s wedding ring on her finger. She longed to yank it off, even symbolically, and cast it into the loch. How long could she keep up this pretense of being a loyal betrothed? She felt nothing but revulsion for the man she had agreed to marry, and soon she would be forced to share a stranger’s bed. She shuddered, biting a knuckle to keep from crying aloud with pure frustration. Her feelings meant naught, since Ranald could never return them. All his love was reserved still for his dead wife.
Merry drew in a ragged breath when she saw a dark figure suddenly emerge from the stables and stumble through the snow, clutching something to his chest. Cullen? She squinted to make out any details, but all she could tell for sure was that it was a man. He fell to his knees in the snow, wobbling drunkenly. Merry assumed he was intoxicated until she saw the dark stain spreading between the fingers clutched to his chest. Blood!
She didn’t think. She turned and ran instead, unbolting and flinging open her chamber door, grateful Ranald didn’t lock her in at night like a disobedient child. She flew down the hall, hoping Ranald was still there even at this late hour. He was. He and Sir Jasper had finished their supper, and appeared to be warily enduring each other’s company over cups of hot mulled wine.
Merry rushed past a pair of startled men-at-arms, and into the hall before anyone could stop her. She halted at Ranald’s side.
“A man!” she gasped out, pointing toward the stables. “Out in the snow … he looks injured.”
Ranald brushed past her. Merry was suddenly aware of being left alone with Sir Jasper. He stared at her like a hungry dog. For dinner, he had donned an elaborately embroidered blue velvet jerkin, the laces of which fastened over a puce-green satin waistcoat. Yards of frilly white lace had been sewn up into a huge ruff that rose so high it appeared he had no neck. His fingers winked with costly jewels as he waved his hands about.
She herself was wearing a gown of soft blue silk, embroidered with silver thread, the low neckline shirred with delicate French lace. Auburn plaits were wound around her head now, secured with pearl pins and silk ribbons Hertha had filched from the former Lady Lindsay’s collection.
Sir Jasper smiled ingratiatingly. “Good evening, my dear.” He leered at her in the courtly fashion to which she was well accustomed, but it seemed vulgar when compared to Ranald’s frank, forthright appreciation of a woman’s form.
“I regret you were unable to join us for the repast. I do so love feasting upon a fine spread.”
His cool gaze raked over her, the simple words carrying a wealth of disgusting connotations. Merry shuddered and started to turn away, unable to think of even a civil response. Suddenly a hand closed about her arm. Long, thin fingers dug into her flesh.