Authors: Patricia McAllister
She went to him, and in a surprising gesture, stood up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “A truce then, milord, if you think we can begin again.”
He smiled. “Aye. At least one truce in my life would be very welcome.”
Merry laughed softly.
“By the by, lass, I already responded to the queen’s order. I informed both her and King James we would honor the royal command and wed by Martinmas.”
“What!” she exclaimed, taking a step backward. Her eyes were wide with shock.
“I knew, in the end, you had little choice. And in light of the events in the Rose Tower the other day …”
Merry flushed as deep a rose as Blair’s flowers, and he chuckled low. “Let me finish, Merry. I knew then the physical attraction was enough to sustain that portion of a marriage for us both. ’Tis important to have a meeting of the bodies as well as minds. To set your mind at ease, know any issue we have will be acknowledged and inherit accordingly.”
His sweeping gesture encompassed the keep. “Auchmull is but a portion of my inheritance, lass. I would as lief give it to Gilbert, and the greater Edzell to our firstborn lad. There is also Invermark, though it has weathered the feuds and fierce winters less successfully than the others. If there are no sons, any daughter of ours may hold title and lands by right of primogeniture. I would petition King James to honor her claim.”
“You would truly do that for her?” Merry whispered.
There was a long silence. “Nay. I would do it for Lady Lindsay.” When her wide-eyed gaze met his, Ran added quietly, “’Tis the least I can do after all that has happened. I cannot bear the thought of you hating me, Merry.”
His words shattered her last reserve. She opened her arms to him. Ran’s eyes burned into hers, fierce with longing, fiercer yet with pride. He didn’t move. She realized then he would not come to her. It was entirely up to her, this first move.
Merry stepped closer, raising her hand to tentatively touch his jaw. “Thank you,” she said again, softly.
With a single swift movement, Ran drew her into the circle of his arms. Merry laid her head against his chest, and he gently stroked her back with ever-widening circular motions, like ripples in a lake. She trembled as if she might cry. For she realized as he already knew, they might be lovers, but never in love.
“Why?” she whispered, mostly to herself.
“My heart was lost to Blair and I never found it again, lass. It does not mean we cannot live comfortably as man and wife, for already I bear affection for you. We can raise bairns, even, and be content … as happy as possible without the complications of love, which may in fact be preferable.”
She brushed her cheek against the soft wool as she tilted her head to look up at him. “Y’are certain this is what you wish to do? Wed an impertinent
Sassenach
wench?”
“Aye, lass. You? Can you endure the reputation of the murderous Wolf of Badanloch?”
She gave a shaky little laugh and removed herself from the circle of his arms. “Yea. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve little choice.”
Ran was silent a moment, searching her eyes as if he could possibly find answers there. Maybe he only wished he could. “Aye,” he said simply.
His gaze dropped to the gleaming red-gold amulet resting just below her ivory throat, and he traced the outline of the raven thoughtfully.
“D’you remember Mother MacDougall’s words at Goldielands?”
Merry frowned. “Not precisely. Something about a wolf’s den?”
“Aye. ‘
At Wolfen Den, if ye should be, A corby hert you there may see
.’
Hert
means heart. A corby is a raven, lass.”
Merry’s eyes widened.
“Beitris MacDougall is the seventh child of a seventh child. I never doubted she had the Sight, I simply did not care for the evidence of it or her timing. She foresaw the tragedy of Blair’s death and announced it at our wedding feast. This would seem a less ominous prediction. Except I cannot accept your heart, lass. Keep it safe, here …” His fingers trailed down, coming to rest upon the sweet curve of her upper bosom. “We will both be the better for it.”
“Will we?” she asked softly.
He had no answer for that. Neither did she.
Chapter Twenty-One
“YER ALL PACKED, LASS. Cleary carried out the last trunk a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Hertha.” Merry studied herself in the mirror. She looked unusually pale today, especially for a bride, though perhaps it was the stark unrelieved black of the combination of her mourning and traveling attire. She had donned four quilted petticoats under her wool gown, and sturdy leather half-boots. A Lindsay
feileadh mor
completed the ensemble. Her hair was neatly braided and tucked up under the hood of a fox-trimmed cloak. She wasn’t cold, though she was likely to be by the time they reached Edzell, where the ceremony would take place with the requisite witnesses in residence.
She turned from the mirror, and her gaze swept one last time over the chamber that had become a sort of haven for her. It looked bereft, without all her clothing strung across the bed and chairs. The cradle Ran had carved sat empty in the corner. She had discovered it beneath a quilt in the Rose Tower, and had it removed so he would not be reminded whenever he went there. A lump formed in her throat, looking at it. What dreams had died with the death of innocents, how raw the mighty Wolf’s emotions still after months had passed.
“I bundled Nellie up, every last inch,” Hertha put in, softly so as not to startle Merry. She seemed to sense her mistress was preoccupied. “She’s waitin’ in the wagon with the bairn.”
Merry nodded. Another tragedy, the loss of a young girl to childbed fever, had emptied another household but filled Nell’s arms. She was standing wet-nurse to the orphan and already cleaved fiercely to the tiny human being. Merry was only glad if something good could come of disaster, it was for someone deserving as Nell.
It had been suggested by Ran himself that Nell accompany Merry as her tiring woman for this journey. Hertha was getting too old to travel comfortably, especially in winter, and he thought Edzell would be a better place for the young woman and babe in the end. Nell would stay at Edzell in Lady Deuchar’s household until the child was weaned.
Merry let her gaze sweep over the room one more time, then turned to Hertha. “I’m ready.” The next time she entered Auchmull, it would be as Lady Lindsay.
In the inner ward, a wagon waited. It had stopped snowing, but it was a cold, gray, blustery day with a distinct bite to the wind. This time Merry would ride with Nell and her trunks in the wagon. Four horses had been hitched up to pull the heavy conveyance through the snow. She glanced about, but Ran was nowhere to be seen. It was Brodie who helped her up into the seat.
“There’s extra blankets ahind tha’ seat,” the red-haired squire told them. He moved away to see to his master’s horse as Hertha came forward to say good-bye.
To Merry’s surprise, there were tears in the woman’s eyes. “God bless ye, lass,” she said quietly, reaching up to squeeze Merry’s hand. “I’ll ne’er forget yer kindness ta me.”
“I’ll miss you, Hertha. Nobody else can do my hair the way you do.”
“Och, ’tis nothin’.” Hertha drew back her hand and openly wiped at her eyes. “Take good care of her, Nellie lass, or ye’ll answer to me.”
Nell Downie laughed. She was rosy-cheeked and her brown eyes sparkled. She was excited about the upcoming journey, since she’d never left the vicinity of Auchmull in her life.
“Dinna fret, Hertha. I intend to take verra good care of both these little ladies.” Nell juggled the baby wrapped securely in her arms. “Dinna ye ken I do hair, too?”
“Nae half so well as me,” Hertha shot back, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she stepped back. “Godspeed, lassies!”
“Good-bye, Hertha.” Merry forced herself to sound as cheerful as she could manage. If she didn’t smile, she was afraid she would burst into tears.
Merry spied Siany, Hertha’s granddaughter, standing a ways off in the distance. She, too, was watching the crowd of men and horses preparing to depart; an impressive, fully armed escort would ride alongside the wagon. The girl was not paying attention to Merry and her grandmother’s exchange, but peering at someone else across the yard, her mouth curved in that annoying little half-smile.
Merry turned slightly and glanced through the milling crowd. She was curious and somewhat disturbed by Siany’s behavior ever since she had arrived at Auchmull. She couldn’t make out the exact target of Siany’s interest, but she did narrow it down to one small group of men who had just come striding out of the keep. Among them were Cullen Maclean, Ran, Gilbert, and Hugo. When Merry looked again for the girl, she had vanished into the crowd.
She forgot about the odd incident as the men approached the wagon. She noted Ran’s brisk stride, his no-nonsense demeanor. He wore dark wool riding trews beneath his red-and-black breccan, and a leather doublet was visible through the open cloak. The Lindsay badge was nowhere to be seen. Merry wondered why. Then she glimpsed the gleaming broadsword strapped to his waist. Her indrawn breath caught Nell’s attention.
“’Tis a claymore,” Nell said, as if she read Merry’s mind, or more likely, the dismay in her expression. “The two-handed Highlander sword. The men even name their weapons, milady. Scathach belonged to Lord Ran’s grandsire, and was named for the legendary woman warrior who once ran a battle school on the Isle of Shadow.”
“I know about claymores. But why is he wearing it on his wedding day?”
Though he doubtless overheard the women’s anxious whispers, Ran didn’t stop to speak with Merry, but passed directly by the wagon to meet Brodie, who was holding his stallion’s reins. The animal’s coat glistened blood red under the stormy sky, and Merry shivered as Ran vaulted up into the saddle in one smooth movement. The sword clanked against his muscular thigh as he mounted Dearg. There was something ominous hovering in the air today. Even the horses were restive, and the men likewise.
Some of the clansmen appeared to be staying behind. Nell informed Merry in a low voice they would be in charge of Auchmull until Ran’s return. Though no trouble was expected during his absence, Ran was taking no chances with Wickham or war-mongering Macleans. Meanwhile, Cullen departed to his own mount, and the uneasy moment was relieved with a bit of humor when the gelding laid back its ears and bared impressive teeth. Cullen promptly cuffed the animal across the nose, drawing blood, and then hollered for Brodie to hold the animal fast while he swung up into the saddle.
“Please tell me he’s not going to Edzell, too,” Merry whispered to Nell.
“Nay. I hear he is headed back to Glenesk, but he’ll ride partway wi’ us to take advantage of Lord Ranald’s protection.” Nell made a wry face. “Black Cullen is nae one to look a gift horse in the mouth, ye ken.”
Merry chuckled at the familiar expression, especially as Cullen was now struggling to stay aboard the gelding, which was crow-hopping around the yard.
“Worthless spawn o’ a
Sassenach
nag!” Black Cullen shouted, and a moment later his tartan bonnet flew off, landing in the fresh mud resulting from melted snow. Nell clapped a hand to her mouth to stop the gales of giggles, and Merry stared in amazement at the spectacle. A ripple of low laughter went through the ranks of mounted men, even Ran, but when Cullen finally got control of his fractious steed and raised a mottled purple face to glare at the onlookers, a deathly silence fell over the yard.
Ran broke the spell by waving a hand to the guard in the gatehouse. The wooden barricade slowly rose, pulleys squealing noisily and straining to lift the gate and its heavy accumulation of half-melted snow.
Brodie returned to the wagon and took the reins in hand. It was a tight squeeze with three in the seat. Nell sat in the middle, discreetly nursing the baby beneath her cloak. Merry braced herself on a wooden post as the wagon suddenly lurched and moved forward. They made a wide arc in the yard, coming about in time to occupy the middle portion of the departing crowd. The vanguard, led by Ran and his men, had beaten down the snow enough to make it relatively easy going for the wagon. Once outside the walls, the front riders fanned out in a half-circle. Cullen rode behind, and Merry glanced over her shoulder when she felt the icy sensation of eyes boring into her back.
Cullen rode directly behind the wagon. He had crushed his soiled hat down low over his head, and glared at Merry from beneath the brim as if to blame her for the incident in the yard. She felt only a cool contempt for the man now. His failure to exhibit any true remorse over Duncan’s death, plus his deliberate attempt to cause mischief at Auchmull ever since he arrived, had not endeared him to her. She wondered if her marriage to Ran might not cool the relation between the two men even further.
Fortunately, they soon parted ways with Black Cullen. Once they were safely through the pass, he branched off in a westerly direction, while the other travelers continued southeast.
Journey by wagon was no less exhausting than a coach, Merry soon found. They bumped and jostled roughly over hidden obstacles in the snow; the wagon shuddered and squirreled in the slushy remnants of the storm. The four big-hearted horses strained in the harness, gamely stumbling through the mess, but even they were rapidly becoming exhausted. Merry herself was freezing.
Shortly after they left Auchmull, the gray sky had begun to churn and darken, but the storm did not hit until they were too far to turn around. A bitter wind sprang up from the east, snow flurries gusted around the weary travelers. Ice crystals blasted their eyes and cheeks. Merry huddled close to Nell, trying to share meager body warmth. At least the baby, christened Ashet after her deceased mother, was warm. She slumbered contentedly between the two women on the seat, wrapped in a profusion of warm blankets and both of their cloaks.
When Ran dropped back to check on their progress, Brodie shouted over the whistling wind, “We’ll hae to rest the horses soon, m’laird! They canna take it much longer, ridin’ into the storm.”
Ran nodded, and Merry saw his expression was set and grim beneath the shadows of the winging storm clouds. She marveled he seemed unaffected by the cold, for he rode without hat or hood, and his cloak flapped open against the wind, soon liberally dusted with snow like his hair.