Authors: Patricia McAllister
“Aye, milord.”
So a peer had come to her rescue. How apt. She relaxed, until she realized this man knew these fiends. If he associated with such lowlifes himself, perhaps he was of equally notorious character.
She heard a sudden thump-thump, like a man stepping across the body of the upturned coach. Someone jiggled at the coach door directly above her, and she gasped. She prayed the lack of light might obscure her prone form, but she saw a hand reach through the window as the would-be intruder brushed the dangling curtains aside.
At the same moment, Merry’s groping fingers encountered a smooth, cool, round object. The brooch. She closed her hand around it just as the door creaked open, then was flung wide.
Light filtered down through the coach, pinning her as mercilessly as the pair of eyes she sensed above her.
“Ochone!”
The passionate exclamation surprised Merry. It was tinged with a Scottish burr, like the ones she had heard at Court.
But the surprised remark did not take her off guard as much as the large hand suddenly thrust down at her. “Are you all right, milady?”
Merry gazed up into a pair of dark eyes, the rich brown of newly turned earth and just as heady to her senses. Her throat felt suddenly tight as she looked at the man regarding her with equal scrutiny.
He was dark as the youth, and quite as handsome, though in a much more rugged way. There was nothing remotely effeminate about his aura, though she glimpsed one bare, bronzed knee braced against the coach where he knelt in his red and black watch kilt.
Somehow Merry could not detest him, though her rancor at these strangers was strong as ever. She looked at the proffered hand, wanting very much to scorn it, but she wanted out of the coach far more. She hesitated, then placed her free hand in his. The other palm still gripped the brooch, hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirts.
He evidenced considerable strength as he drew Merry up to her feet, kneeling still upon the upturned coach, and then before she could think to protest, he reached down, wrapped a strong hand about her small waist and easily lifted her the rest of the way.
Taken further off guard, Merry’s free arm flew around his neck for support. His cape was damp from rain beneath her fingertips, the aroma of wet wool mingling with the scent of leather, horseflesh, and the natural musk of a male. The gentlemen at Court preferred perfumes to nature’s own scents, and Merry was unused to such a heady mixture.
Still cradling her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a downy thistle, he jumped lightly down from the coach and lowered Merry to her feet.
“Thank you, milord,” she murmured, feeling at once both overwhelmingly grateful and oddly self-conscious. He was a big man, muscular yet lean, well over six feet and daunting even in a kilt. She doubted the bravest jester would risk a mock ballad about
this
Scot’s bonny knees!
He merely nodded at her thanks, attempting no pretense of a gallant bow. Merry wasn’t sure whether she should feel slighted when she saw his gaze had already dismissed her and returned to the dark-haired youth, who was posed very much as she had envisioned, though slumped dejectedly against a tree trunk rather than sitting on a stump.
“I am only glad yon rogue’s notion of a prank did not end in worse disaster.”
“Prank, sirrah?”
Merry could not keep a sharp note from entering her tone as she glanced at the boy the Scottish lord had referred to. In turn, the younger man looked back at her with very sober, violet-blue eyes which seemed to hold a silent plea. She sensed he had used such beautiful eyes to advantage before with women, and she flicked her skirts with irritation.
“Faith, I find the notion of such a prank to be no less than criminal, given the nature of its ending.” Merry nodded in the direction of the overturned coach, whose axle had clearly snapped in half. She could not quell a faint shudder at the sight of the horses lying tangled in their traces, one dead and two others twitching with various degrees of injury. The fourth had, miraculously, escaped both injury and harness and now grazed rather indolently alongside a rain-swollen creek.
“Horses can be replaced. I assure you the proper recompense shall be made.”
Merry’s resolve firmed at the Scotsman’s cool response. “What of Jem, my driver?”
“He is shaken, but unhurt. A sprained ankle, bruised ribs, and such. He was thrown clear before the coach left the road.”
Merry nodded, wondering why the man’s pleasant burr left her cold. Perhaps because there was no emotion behind the formal words, just a bare civility which left her feeling as if she had been assessed and found lacking in some way.
For some reason she felt a sudden wicked desire to throw him off guard.
“I must thank you for your timely rescue, sir. I am Mistress Meredith Tanner.”
She curtsied despite her disheveled appearance, and felt a twinge of triumph when his surprised if somewhat preoccupied gaze rested upon her once more.
“I am Ranald Lindsay.” The words were uttered reluctantly, as if he disliked sharing the briefest bit of detail about himself. As if to confirm her suspicions, he nodded promptly in the direction of the youth. “This would-be ruffian is my younger brother, Gilbert, and the other his companion, Hugo Sumner. The two who wisely fled I did not recognize.”
Merry did not follow the red herring. “Lord Lindsay?” she pressed him, and was certain she detected a flash of irritation in his eyes this time.
“Aye.”
Mentally Merry quickly reviewed what little she knew of the Lindsay clan. She knew they were Highlanders, a warlike race, and held the power of pit and gallows far removed from English influence. Indeed, far removed was this dark wolf from his Highland lair.
She wondered what lured a reluctant Scot into distant Welsh territory, and knew the answer when she glanced at the forlorn-looking Gilbert Lindsay. She mused upon the likelihood that she had already met Ranald Lindsay’s sire at Court; it seemed this noble stature and proud bearing were very familiar.
“Perhaps I have—”
“I doubt it.” He cut her off so abruptly, Merry was both stunned and insulted. Her temper flared as her little hand clutched tight the brooch, and she struggled to remain both civil and calm.
“Milord Lindsay,” she began again, but much more firmly, so he might realize she would not brook another interruption. “I was en route to Whitehall, where I serve the queen. This shocking occurrence has quite upset my plans. I was already in Her Grace’s disfavor for lingering err long at my sister’s home.”
“Then mayhap you should have hastened back to London sooner, Mistress Tanner.”
Merry could not restrain a gasp at his words. How dare this … this Highland oaf twist the circumstances to somehow blame her for the mishap!
“I will have you know, the queen shall hear of this outrage,” she said, not entirely bluffing but also looking to get a reaction of some sort from the steely, reserved man. “When Her Majesty considers your brother’s punishment, I pray she is more kindly disposed than I.”
She saw a flicker of something in the dark eyes. “I will deal with Gilbert, milady. Stay out of it.”
“Indeed and I will not, milord. How am I to be assured he shall receive any chastisement at all? You mistake my nature if you think I shall let matters slide and trust you to deal with the aftermath.”
This time, she did get a reaction. His jaw seemed to tighten and his dark eyes were hard as flint upon her flushed face. “I advise you not to pursue matters further, Mistress Tanner. Especially where my family is concerned.”
“I see. Then perhaps I should let you explain to my betrothed why I did not arrive as planned at Court, and you may deal with Sir Wickham’s ire yourself!”
Something shifted in those dark, dark eyes, something so fleeting Merry was certain she imagined it.
“Wickham … of the Carlisle Wickhams?”
Merry nodded curtly. If nothing else, perhaps this ill- tempered Scottish lout would be impressed by her betrothed’s status and humbly beg her apology. She almost snorted then. Nay, not this one. He enjoyed his lofty superiority far too much.
To her surprise, Ranald Lindsay smiled, a slow and rather impressive smile that made her heartbeat quicken despite her anger. Faith, Merry thought, but he was a toothsome fellow when he smiled, when those dark eyes betrayed something besides impatience or indifference. She had no reason to suspect his smile was anything other than a sudden change of heart toward her plight.
“Of course, you must allow me to personally escort you to Sir Wickham’s residence,” he informed her, and ignored the startled glance of Gilbert Lindsay who was listening but paces away.
“If you please, milord, I should prefer to return to Court and placate Her Grace first,” Merry said, though she was touched by his offer, grudging as it must be. Perhaps Ranald Lindsay was not such a coldly deliberate man as she had first assumed. To be certain, he could charm a lady when he wished, and she offered him a small smile by way of gratitude.
His gaze met hers, never wavering. Merry felt suddenly breathless, and raised her right hand to her throat without thinking.
“What have you there, Mistress Tanner?”
Lindsay curiously regarded the circular object in her palm, which Merry had assumed was her pennanular brooch. To her surprise she found she held the red-gold raven amulet of her Irish ancestors, which Kat had pressed her into taking before she departed Falcon’s Lair.
Merry had promised to wear it but had no intention of draping such a primitive, pagan object over her fine gowns, and she had thrust it rather unceremoniously into her jewelry box the moment the coach was underway. She would not hurt Kat’s feelings for the world, but the piece was simply too unusual for her tastes.
She opened her palm and Ranald Lindsay regarded the amulet with a slight frown, his gaze traveling from the fierce raven carved into the gold to her eyes.
“’Tis but an amusing family memento,” she said somewhat awkwardly, sensing his curiosity rising by the moment. She hastily closed her fist about the amulet, startled by a ripple of electricity that seemed to dart up her arm, similar to the crackling undercurrent of the air before a storm. She gave a nervous little laugh. “I daresay milord Wickham shall be forced to vastly improve upon my jewelry stocks when I arrive at Braidwood.”
“Indeed.” Ranald Lindsay’s voice was suddenly quiet, speculative. Merry sensed dark thoughts roiling in the man’s head, and wondered what cause she had given him to disapprove of her now. Ah, no matter. Soon enough she would be setting her dainty slipper on the charming garden paths of Whitehall again, planning a sweet rendezvous with some besotted young swain. One last innocent flirtation before she was Lady Wickham of Braidwood Manor.
She smiled to herself, for it was far too easy to envision the dashing Ranald Lindsay as her handsome suitor, and if he presumed to steal a kiss amidst the brilliant blossoms, why, she was not certain she would protest. Not at all.
Chapter Four
RAN GAZED DOWN INTO the upturned face of Meredith Tanner and felt his insides clench, as if someone had delivered a sudden blow to his middle. There was nothing but a soft admiring light in her gray-green eyes, while all he could think of was Wickham. The man’s name rang through his skull with the certainty of a pounding anvil. Blair’s beautiful face flashed before his mind’s eye, her sparkling blue eyes beckoning him with laughter, with love. Yet the last memory of the face he must carry forever in his heart was one of her still and pale, a marble figure sketched upon a cold stone bier.
The emotion sweeping over him was more than anger, less than rage. Rather he felt an icy determination that must make his gaze as keen as the predatory wolf’s, but Mistress Tanner seemed not to notice.
To his surprise, she reached out and laid a small hand lightly on his arm. Like his Blair, she was petite, but this was no sturdy Highland lass. Her skin was white as the linen shirt Ran wore, a delicate tracing of blue veins visible just below the surface. Hands that had never toiled a day in their life, a redhead’s porcelain complexion doubtless thus preserved by aid of costly potions and frivolous parasols.
Ran barely refrained from shaking off her refined touch, it disgusted him so. She was everything he despised, the purest representation of a lazy, worthless, pampered lot of Tudor lapdogs. The only ones who might compete for the title were the equally pathetic followers of the Stuarts.
He strove to maintain a neutral expression amid her tinkling laughter. Something about this woman aroused an emotion in him so dark and primitive he was afraid he might wrap his big hands around her neck and simply squeeze if he did not keep a tight rein on his actions at all times.
“La, milord, you are too quiet by half,” Meredith remarked as she peered up at him from those darkly fringed, gray-green eyes. Eyes like the watered silk she wore, changeable like a Highland loch, reflecting blue sky one moment, stormy clouds the next. “Although I am sorely pressed to reach Whitehall, I can see the humor in the situation.”
Ran forced a grudging smile to his lips. He felt like a hungry wolf trying to grin, expecting her certain and sudden fear. Her eyes gleamed with mirth and she seemed oblivious as ever to the dark undercurrents swirling beneath his surface. To distract them both, he returned his attentions to the amulet she gripped in her other hand.
“A most curious item you have there, Mistress Tanner,” he said.
She hesitated for some reason. “Aye, I suppose ’tis. A family heirloom, you might say.” She made no offer to display the objet d’art further, but rather closed her fingers about it as if trying to shield it from his gaze. “I fear my jewelry was scattered when the coach overturned.”
Her attempt at changing the subject was obvious, but Ran let it pass. He nodded and turned toward the wrecked vehicle, quickly surmising it was not worth the effort of trying to upright it again.
The coach was a casualty of Gil’s mischief, though fortunately nothing else was. Had Mistress Tanner or her driver been killed, the day would have ended very soberly indeed.