Ramsay drank, his mind scurrying off in a thousand directions at once. “Some curses be more effective than others.”
“Aye.” Munro leaned close. “But I will not share me father’s fate. It has taken planning and time, but in the end, Evermyst’s old laird was willing to offer his. daughter for a few well placed favors.”
Ramsay’s stomach curdled. “He promised his own daughter to the one who had slaughtered his people?”
” ‘Twas not me who did the deed,” Munro said, scowling.
“And what of the curse?” Ramsay asked.
“As powerful as he is peaceable. As cunning as he is kind, as loving as he is loved.” He carved off a slice of cold roasted boar, then stabbed his knife into the table. It hummed like an arrow in the wood. ” ‘Tis the very picture of me.”
Ramsay watched the shivering hilt for a moment before raising his gaze to Munro’s face. “I am somewhat confused.”
“The curse!” Munro growled. “There will be death to any who master these halls unless he possesses the necessary qualities.”
“Power and cunning and—”
“Aye!”
“Ahh. And you possess those qualities.”
“That I do, laddie, or at least, ‘tis what I’ve made the lass believe. But mayhap the lass’s time with you has caused her to forget me fine attributes.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about on that account.”
“Do I not?” The giant’s eyes were narrowed again. “She is a spindly thing. Barely a mouthful, ‘tis true, but her eyes … well, some may think her bonny in a weakling sort of way. I wonder now, rogue, what of you?”
She’d lied to him since the first, threatened to have him emasculated and eviscerated, and endangered his life at every turn. “As I have said, you needn’t worry. Unless …” He paused as if just considering an unthought-of possibility. “Unless, mayhap, she does not
wish
to marry you.”
“Are you saying I am not everything a woman might want?” Munro growled, and thrust out his gargantuan chest.
“Women are strange, sometimes.”
Munro scowled, seeming to deflate somehow. “That they are, and I’ll admit I’ve not had much association with them, but I know none could wish for more than me.”
He was like a little boy in a huge man’s body. ” ‘Tis simply that I once heard that the lady of the Frasers could choose her own husband,” he said.
“What fool would grant a woman such a privilege?”
Could it be there was some truth to it? “I believe ‘twas the king himself.”
“It matters not,” Munro said, “for the lass has chosen me.”
“At her father’s insistence.”
“He knew what was good for her.”
“Or what was good for himself,” Ramsay guessed mildly. “What did you offer him, Munro?”
The huge man shifted uncomfortably on his wooden seat. Guilt? Ramsay wondered, but at that moment the Minotaur leaned forward with a snarl.
” ‘Tis I who’ll ask the questions here, and I will know, did you take her?”
“I beg—”
“You’ll beg for mercy if you’ve stolen her affections,” he growled. “Did you swive her or nay?”
Beneath the table, Ramsay’s hands formed into fists. He kept them still, though he could not manage the same with his voice. “You have the mind of a sewer rat, Munro.”
“Aye. And the strength of a bear,” he snarled, and with that statement a thousand emotions seemed to storm across his face. Guilt, regret, anger … “Did you lie with her or did you not?”
Guilt? Might it be that this hulking beast regretted his barbaric heritage and his own past actions? Why not probe a bit and see what happened? ” ‘Tis not a question a gentle man answers,” Ramsay said mildly.
Munro rose with a start, nearly overturning the table in his haste. “Nay?” he stormed. “Then I shall ask the maid. But I warn you—” He leaned down, his teeth gritted. “I am
not
a gentle man,” he said, and turned away.
Ramsay sat unmoving for a fraction of a second. “Munro.”
The huge man stopped and turned slowly. “You’ve something to say, laddie?”
Ramsay nodded to the nearby soldiers. “Not to them.”
The Minotaur paced slowly back, his head lowered into his neck, then he sat down, his mouth tilted down in the chaos of his beard. “Between us, then.”
Ramsay held his gaze. “She refused me.”
Munro’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You lie.”
“I do not.”
“You are the Rogue’s son.”
Christ. What kinds of daft idiocy did people believe about them? “Aye, I am that.”
“And yet she said nay?”
“She did.”
Munro glanced toward the stairs, his expression a mask of confusion, but in a moment he turned back to Ramsay with a scowl. “If you lie …” He shrugged. “I shall have to kill you.”
Ramsay raised his brows. “Have you forgot me reputation so soon, Munro?”
The Munro stared for a moment, and then he threw his head back and laughed before leaning close. “Your reputation as a lover holds little fear for me, MacGowan, and now I find even that—”
His statement was cut short by the sound of someone clearing her throat.
Munro swung his huge head to the rear, glaring as he did so, but in a second his expression changed. “Me lady! You’ve awakened.”
“Aye.” Anora’s narrow hands were clasped, her face as pale as winter, and it took all Ramsay’s control to keep from leaping to his feet to support her. “I … have something I must tell you, my laird.”
“Tell me?” Munro’s brows were scrunched like woolly caterpillars above his narrow eyes.
“Not now, lass,” hissed Meara, who stood beside her like a withered gnome.
“It cannot wait,” Anora argued, and lifted her chin.
“What cannot—” Munro began, but in that instant a whispered sigh issued over the hall on the wings of a wispy draft. “What the devil was that?”
Near the stairs, a fat friar crossed himself.
Anora winced. ” ‘Tis naught,” she said, but Meara scowled.
” ‘Tis Senga!” she whispered. “Your grandmother is restless. ‘Tis not the time for this, lass.”
” ‘Tis the only time.”
“She senses trouble.”
“Hush, Meara.”
“He who spills blood within these walls—” the old woman began.
“No blood will spill,” Anora murmured, but her knees buckled slightly before she stood upright again.
“Why would I spill blood?” Munro snarled.
A ghostly sigh washed through the hall again, bringing the last of the soldiers to his feet and causing the Munro to shift his eyes nervously from side to side.
“Have a care, Innes,” croaked the old woman, “or you shall surely die.”
“Meara!” Anora’s voice was strained. “This is difficult enough.”
“What is difficult?”
“My laird,” Anora said, and grasped the old woman’s sleeve for support. “Because of my respect for you, I must tell you the truth.”
Ramsay glared hard at her, trying to read her mind, but not for an instant did she turn her gaze on him.
“Tell me,” Munro said.
“I cannot marry you, my laird, for I cherish another.”
Not a whisper of noise sounded in the hall, and in that silence she turned her impossibly wide eyes to Ramsay.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I love him.”
Hell exploded.
Munro yanked his dirk from the wooden plank as he jerked to his feet. A table crashed to the floor. A dozen soldiers rushed forward.
Meara screamed, “No blood! No blood!”
“Lord have mercy,” the friar intoned.
Ramsay remained exactly where he was, his gaze pinned on Anora. She stared back in breathless silence.
“MacGowan!” Munro growled and, gripping Ramsay’s tunic in his oversized fist, pressed the tip of his dirk to his throat. “Is it true?” he snarled, but Ramsay never shifted his gaze from Anora.
Terror blended with guilt, swirling chaotically through her mind.
“Is it true?” Munro snarled.
“Would the lady lie?” Ramsay asked, and ever so slowly pulled his gaze from her face.
The Munro drew back. “I have never killed a MacGowan,” he intoned.
“How fortunate for you,” Ramsay said.
“Shed blood in this hall and bear the consequences,” Meara warned.
Munro tilted his large head in concession. “You will accompany me outside, MacGowan?”
“Nay!” Anora hissed. “You cannot kill him.”
The Munro turned slowly toward her. “I assure you, me lady, I can.”
“But you must
not.”
“On the contrary. I must.”
“Surely you would not …” She paused, floundering wildly. “Surely you would not be so cruel as to sacrifice my babe’s sire.”
Ramsay started. Munro paled.
“You carry his child?” he growled.
“Aye.” Her voice quivered.
“Then you shall surely die!” Munro jerked Ramsay toward him, but just then Meara stepped forward and smacked him with her staff.
“You are a liar, Munro!” she croaked.
The huge man turned to her with a snarl, his fist still twisted in Ramsay’s tunic.
“Aye. You are a liar,” she repeated, glaring up at him. “For you have proclaimed your love for the maid, yet you move to slay the one she adores.”
Munro scowled. His grip loosened.
” ‘Tis his right. Indeed, ‘tis his duty,” Ramsay said.
Anora gasped.
“As your betrothed,” he added, holding her gaze.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Aye,” Ramsay said, and rose slowly to his feet.
Munro dropped his fist from Ramsay’s tunic and stepped back one pace. “You
wish
to fight me, MacGowan?”
“Nay!” Anora gasped, and jerked forward. “He does not.”
“Be gone, lady!” Munro snarled.
“You cannot fight him, for he is my chosen one.”
“I am your chosen one.”
“I never said so.”
The Munro seemed even paler now, but he tightened his fist on his dirk. “Your sire did.”
” ‘Twas not his right to decide. ‘Twas mine, given to me by the king himself.”
“The king has troubles of his own, girl, and they do not include a disloyal maid on a crumbling piece of rock.”
Panic welled up like freezing waves, and Anora’s lungs felt crushed beneath the pressure. “And what of the MacGowans?” she asked. “Do you think they will sacrifice their first-born son so that you might have your revenge?”
“The lass is right,” Meara said over the friar’s droning prayers. “Think on it well, Innes. The MacGowans are as powerful as they are wealthy, and they do indeed have the ear of the king. What will they do when they hear that you have slaughtered their son?”
“Slaughter?” He shook his meaty head, grinning darkly. “I will give him a fair fight.”
Meara snorted. “What chance does he have against—”
“He is hurt!” Anora gasped.
“Hurt?” The big man narrowed his eyes. “Is this true, MacGowan?”
“I bound the wound myself,” Anora said. ” ‘Tis in his shoulder.”
Munro snarled and stepped forward, but Anora lunged between them.
“Would you have your own men think you a coward, Munro?”
His head was pushed down between his shoulders like a charging bull’s, but he was listening.
” ‘Tis what they will surely believe, and what of my own clansmen?” She swept a shaky hand sideways to include the onlookers. “What will they think when they learn that you could not challenge a MacGowan when he was hale?”
The hall went silent. Not a soul spoke for an aching eternity.
“I’ve no wish to battle a weakling,” Munro said. “When will you be prepared to fight me, MacGowan?”
Ramsay remained motionless. “I’ve got nothing planned for the morrow.”
Munro barked a laugh. “Spoken like a hero … or a fool. Tomorrow, then.”
“Nay!” Anora gasped.
“Use your time wisely, MacGowan,” Munro warned. “For just past dawn I will return to—”
A whisper crept through the hall like a chill and eerie wind. The place went silent.
Munro shifted his gaze from right to left.
“Senga is unhappy,” Meara whispered.
The Munro straightened. “Shade or no, I will meet you,” he said. Sheathing his dirk, he ordered his men from the hall.
When Anora glanced at Ramsay, she found that his gaze was pinned to her.
“You must not fight him,” she whispered.
He smiled, but there was no warmth, only a cold loathing. “But ‘tis me right and me duty to fight for you—and the babe.”
“Nay!” she gasped, but Ramsay ignored her as he turned away.
“I shall need a resting place,” he said.
She felt the blood drain from her face. “Don’t say that.”
“Did I say resting place?” he asked, and smiled grimly as he looked at her again. “I meant, I shall need a place to rest. The morrow may be a trying day.”
“Meara!” Anora begged. “Do something.
But the old woman’s gaze was locked on Ramsay’s.
“I can show you to a chamber, me laird.”
Ramsay followed her and Anora stumbled up after them, her heart beating frantically.
“Here you be, lad.” Meara swung open the arched door at the top of the stairs. “Is there anything you might be needing?”
“A eulogy?” he said, and stepped inside.
Meara stared at him and then laughed.
” ‘Tis not funny,” Anora murmured.
“Nay?” Ramsay shifted his gaze slowly to hers. “I would have thought you would be the most amused, lass. After all, ‘tis you who stand to gain the most.”
“You must not fight him,” she repeated.
“Think on it,
Notmary.
You cannot lose, for if I win! the bout, you are out from under the thumb of the Munro. And if I lose …” He shrugged. “As you said, me kinsmen will not take it kindly. They will come. All you need do is hold back the Munros for a fortnight, maybe less. When me father hears me fate …” He took one step toward her. “But I don’t have to explain it to you, do I, lass? For I am certain you thought this all out long ago, did you not?”
She tightened her grip on the door jamb.
“Tell me,” he said, never taking his gaze from her. “That morning we found you, were you truly unconscious, or did you plan even that?”
“I—”
“And the warrior,” he said. “Who was he? An accomplice?”
“You must leave this night,” she hissed.
“What I do not understand is this—why did you separate me from me brothers? Surely we would have been more powerful together. True, the three of us may have been killed, but I hardly think that would have concerned you.”