Authors: Patricia McAllister
Nay, ’twould never do. Word of a red-haired woman with the Scottish laird would reach the queen’s ear eventually, and none of Merry’s charms would serve to soften Her Majesty’s opinion on the matter. She would be branded a strumpet, Lindsay’s whore. Merry shivered, for to lose reputation at Court was a fate worse than death.
Her worst fears materialized later in the afternoon, when they encountered another party headed south on the narrow country road. Ranald cursed and yanked at Uar’s reins the moment they heard the approaching hoof beats, but it was too late to avoid the passerby. Rather than plunge guiltily into the underbrush, he drew his mount up and they waited tensely as the other man slowed his galloping gray to a prancing halt.
“Hail and well met!”
The fair-haired rider wore a fine woolen cloak trimmed with fur, over a jerkin and doublet of watchet-green, embroidered with gold. Merry instantly recognized those colors and the soft cap he wore. A royal messenger! The worst possible soul she might encounter under the circumstances.
She had no notion if Lord Lindsay knew the occupation of the fellow or not, but she dug an elbow into his ribs just the same, silently warning him. She dared not speak for fear her refined speech would betray her, and she was not about to attempt mimicking a peasant’s accent.
She waited tensely while Ranald took stock of their situation, and when he spoke his utter calm amazed her. So did his sudden, rolling Scottish burr.
“Greetings, sir. We bid ye pleasant travels.”
The messenger nodded, touching the rim of his cap as his curious gaze flickered over them both. A red-haired woman, wrapped in tartan. A big, burly Scot riding double with her on a shaggy Highlands pony. What was more unremarkable? Nevertheless, he eyed the Scot’s scabbard and the healthy-sized sword inside it with respect.
“Aye, a good day for journeying. Is the road passable after the rains?”
“Och, if ye stay off the Cambrian branch, where the coaches caused such great ruts.” Merry suspected the real reason Ranald discouraged that road; her uncle’s wrecked coach lay in grim splendor amidst the greenery, and a royal messenger would recognize the crest on the door.
The other man nodded at Lindsay’s advice, but made no move to press on. He obviously was not in any hurry; doubtless returned from delivering a message or royal summons, and malingering on his way back. Merry shifted uneasily in the saddle when his gaze fell on the hem of her skirt, visible beneath the long tartan. She saw his eyes narrow, as he recognized the quality even through the mud stains.
Sensing the change in atmosphere, Ran spoke quickly “Och, mon, we must be pressing on … make the border before dark.”
The other man’s gaze had risen to study Merry’s features by then. “Aye,” he said, as if he aimed to memorize her face, just in case. Perhaps he did not recognize Merry, but Ran sensed his curiosity and suspicion mounting by the minute. His right hand slipped down to the hilt of his claymore, hidden behind the mound of Merry’s skirts, while the other still cradled her about the waist in intimate fashion. There was only one way he could think of for throwing the other man off guard, but it required the woman’s cooperation.
When the queen’s messenger made no move to press on, Ran moved his left hand and ran it lightly, caressingly, over Merry’s form through the layers of tartan and silk. She gasped, loud enough for the other man to hear and yet did not betray her identity with some foolish remark. She and Ran both knew she had too much at stake.
The other man’s eyebrow arched slightly, but as Ran hoped, a smirk curved his lips. The old image of the lusty Highlander groping a comely lass did help serve his cause. Now, if only he could make Merry squeal and squirm a bit …
“Canna blame a mon for wantin’ to hurry home wi’ his blushing bride,” Ran said, adding what he trusted came across as a suitably crude laugh. “Welsh mud dinna serve half so well as a pile of rushes in the stables. Aye, hinny?”
Ran pulled Merry back against him, wrapping his fingers in the flaming hair. He held her immobile while his lips crushed down on hers in a passable imitation of a rough, emphatic kiss. She was too shocked to struggle at first, and by the time she gathered her wits again, he had already released her to the coarse laughter of both men.
Merry’s gasp this time was laced with outrage, and Ran knew there would be hell to pay later. Still, he enjoyed a fleeting moment of the woman’s discomfiture, knowing she dared not react openly without betraying her identity. That did not stop the little witch from digging her sharp little elbow into his ribs again, more emphatically than called for. Ran grunted with surprise, his ringing laughter cut short by the lancing pain in his side.
The queen’s man chuckled, his suspicion abating. A wedding explained a fine gown on a mud-stained Highland lassie. He touched the brim of his cap and his heels to his horse at the same time.
“Travel swiftly,” he said, grinning at the flushed maiden as he passed. Maid no more, indeed, judging by her fine Highland blush. He envied the Scot his flame-haired prize, but not the trials he’d endure in taming her. One did not envy the doomed.
As the gray galloped off behind them, Merry twisted in the saddle and glared at Ran. “Cad! How dare you presume to manhandle me …”
“Would you have preferred the alternative?” Ran calmly rejoined. “The man was on the verge of challenging us. If I had been forced to defend us, the outcome would not have been pretty.”
She angrily tossed her burnished curls. “Whatever can you mean?”
“I was ready to cut him down.”
“A queen’s messenger! Are you mad?” Her voice echoed in the little clearing, but when she glanced into Ranald’s dark eyes she saw they were twinkling. “You … you are naught but a barbarian, sirrah,” she sputtered.
Ran grinned and touched his heels to Uar’s sides. “Aye, lass.” He would not presume to argue with a
Sassenach
wench whose farthingale was tied in a knot.
Chapter Seven
THE BORDER WAS THE daunting line drawn between English might and Scottish determination, and for centuries had seen all manner of bloodshed, strife, and treaties made and broken over tankards of heather ale. To cross in daylight was pure folly, unless one bore the protection of either Tudor or Stuart arms, and a brace of men besides. The border reivers were famous for their feistiness, and their genetic predisposition for a fight.
Merry knew much of this already from gossip at Court, yet she saw no alarm on Ranald’s face as they made for the border. Indeed, he appeared bored as they navigated small streams and hillocks. Conversation had dwindled to inane subjects a long time ago, and Merry had given up trying to pry the barest civility from the man. It was not that he was a dullard. On the contrary, she suspected he would keep her on her toes if a match of wit and wills ever came to pass. Alas, he did not seem so inclined.
For the longest time after his kiss, Merry’s lips throbbed with a cadence no less steady than the horse’s hooves. Such a brazen act was deserving of a slap, or perhaps a challenge to a duel. Certainly her father Slade would be outraged if he knew of Lindsay’s boldness. Her Irish mother was fiercer yet, but a secret romantic beneath her bluster. More than once she had hinted it would take a strong man to handle her flame-haired daughter. Merry suspected Bryony might approve of the laird of Lindsay, which made her all the more determined to detest him.
In the beginning, she had given Ranald the benefit of the doubt, supposing his little brother an imp and Ranald serving as Gilbert Lindsay’s long-suffering guardian. But that kiss … ohhh, that wicked, willful kiss! Merry seethed, remembering how he’d seized her hair by the nape of her neck to hold her fast, baring her vulnerable throat and shaming her before the queen’s messenger. Worse, she had not struggled overmuch, too shocked at first. By the time she’d gathered her wits, the Scot had already released her, his hearty laughter making her cheeks burn like Greek fire.
It was only for show, Ranald later implied … but was it? Merry simply could not fathom the necessity of such a thorough, punishing kiss. Yet she avoided the issue when she failed to acknowledge her body’s reaction. Her spine stiffened while her belly fluttered in anticipation, and a deep, sweet ache spread throughout her loins, culminating in a tingling she could not define.
Aye, she had played at love before, dallying with bold knaves in the queen’s gardens and sneaking kisses in the halls. But never had a man so affected her as Ranald Lindsay did, with a single burning glance from those dark, dark eyes. She knew those eyes scoured the surrounding countryside now, ever alert though his relaxed posture did not betray any undue concern.
Merry had just decided he was possessed of some magical cloak of invisibility when a fearsome shout rang over the hills.
“
Bellendaine! Bellendaine!
”
Echoing answers, the lusty cheers of a number of men. Merry panicked when she saw a dozen kilt-clad warriors riding down upon them. These men were fierce, armed with pikestaffs and short swords. She glanced back at Lindsay, expecting to see fear or concern sketched across his saturnine features at last, but to her surprise his lips parted not in shock but mirth.
The slow grin spreading across his face transformed the brooding laird into a winsome dark knight for a moment, and Merry felt the familiar coil of tension in her belly. La, but the Earl of Crawford was comely! She had never seen him truly smile until this moment, and it seemed the years fell away, and she glimpsed a darker version of the mischievous Gilbert.
The band of Scots circled their ponies about Uar, several shaking their fists in their air. Merry realized it was all for a show of bravado when Lindsay laughed outright, his deep chuckle quelling the would-be marauders and obviously disappointing their leader.
A big, freckle-faced man with a wild mane of red hair grinned rawly at them from the back of a shaggy piebald.
“Dinna fash yersel drawin’ a claymore, Lindsay,” he said, his burr so thick Merry could hardly follow it. She shook her head as if she might shake off the entire lot of brigands, and the fellow roared with laughter.
“Guid on ye, Ranald loon! Plucked a bonnie bizzam from the feckless
Sassenach
.”
Merry had no notion what a “bizzam” might be, but she suspected it was hardly a compliment. She scowled at the rude fellow with the braying manners and it only made him laugh harder. His big frame bent like a willow as gales of laughter shook him.
“Now, Gord, why ever would you assume the worst of me?” Ranald’s reply was laced with mirth as well, and his hand clamped Merry fast when she began fidgeting with agitation. She wanted to hurl some particularly colorful insults at the rough border reiver, yet she wasn’t entirely sure they were out of danger yet. Perhaps Ranald merely laughed along with the other man to preserve their lives.
“An’ the wud Wolf of Badanloch asks why.” The raw-boned border lord chuckled, his pale-blue gaze raking over Merry as if she was a particularly tasty morsel. “Walie! A sorry day indeed when a mon canna dub an old friend a proper Lord Rakeshanks.”
“Aye, well, that title ’tis surely reserved for Gordon Scott,” Ranald said with a twinkle in his tone that surprised Merry. He sounded … whimsical. One did not describe this man in such terms. She was surely mistaken.
She waited for Ranald to introduce her, and when none was forthcoming, she realized he intended to keep her identity a secret as he had with the messenger. She should have been relieved, but a tic of annoyance touched her instead. As if she had anything to be ashamed of!
It was a Lindsay who wrecked her uncle’s coach, and a Lindsay who swept her over the border to her betrothed without so much as a by-your-leave. Merry owed this bunch of Highland oafs nothing at all, except perhaps some small acknowledgment for the laird’s consideration. In turn she was asked to endure endless miles over rough terrain, the near-silent company of a sullen and moody companion, and now the lusty perusal of a border reiver. ’Twas not to be borne!
She raised her chin a notch and said calmly, “Greetings, Lord Scott. I am Mistress Meredith Tanner.”
Her precise, refined English clearly rocked the border lout back on his heels, or in this case, his saddle. He looked from her to Ranald, his gaze demanding further explanation. A certain wariness supplanted his mirth at her statement.
Ranald’s long fingers dug between her ribs. Merry flinched, realizing he was annoyed. He bade her be silent with his actions but she was tired of being mistaken for a trollop. She might be tousled and stained with mud, but she was still a lady beneath the grime. A virgin, for good measure.
“Mistress Tanner, eh?” Gordon Scott’s thick brogue added more than a touch of sarcasm, but Merry did not waver under his fierce stare. Just as quickly then he seemed to dismiss her, turning his broad grin on Lindsay instead.
“Been a hairst or two since ye visited Goldielands,” he drawled, wrapping one beefy fist around his leather pommel as he shifted his great bulk in place. “When was it last?”
“A year or so.” Something in Ranald’s manner did not encourage further pursuit of the topic, but The Scott seemed oblivious.
“A’maist forever,” he nodded, and for a moment the twinkle in his eyes dimmed. “Ochone! I heard about Blair—”
“Tell me of your kin,” Ranald interrupted, and to Merry’s surprise the topic of the mysterious Blair was neatly circumvented, while still she seethed at Lord Scott’s rudeness. “How many arrows in your quiver now, Gord?”
“Three and Fiona bairned again,” the big man said. He sounded proud, and for some reason Merry sensed a fleeting envy in Ranald. Nothing he said or did, just a woman’s intuition which told her he should have very much liked to be in Gordon Scott’s place at the moment.
“I take it your lady is well then?”
“Aye! Plump and feisty as a little cloker. Ye must come see! ’Tis but a hop to Goldielands as the bummie flies.”
Without waiting for their reply, Gordon Scott wheeled his sturdy mount around, and his men followed without demur. Merry looked back to Ranald, and saw mingled longing and regret sketched in those dark eyes.