by Lois Greiman
Perhaps there was new hope here, for they were strong men with a powerful clan behind them. But her uncle had seemed a likely protector too, until he had heard her troubles. Then his charity had withered like a winter pear and his true nature showed through. She would not so easily share her troubles again. She would learn what these men could do for her and act accordingly. In this world of shadows and travails, the truth was highly overvalued, while a lie, often—
“Lass—”
“My apologies,” she murmured, knowing she had waited too long to answer and now had no more time to consider the matter. “Aye. I am Mary.”
“Nay.” ‘Twas the broader of the two who spoke. “It cannot be.”
“Indeed it is,” she said and tried a tremulous smile in the direction of the one called Gilmour. The effort made her head throb, but her course was set. “Tell me, my laird, how did you know? Could it be that you are not only bonny, but gifted also?”
“Gifted?” he asked, and leaning forward, reached for her hand.
Her stomach pitched, and she was tempted almost beyond control to pull out of his reach, but she forced herself to allow his touch.
He took her fingers gently in his hand and raised them to his lips.
“Nay, lass, I had no gift, not until you appeared like an angel—”
“Mary.”
The word came from the far end of the room. Anora lifted her gaze, realizing in that instant that she had been careless. Too careless. ‘Twas not just the two brothers who shared this space with her. There was another man, a dark haired fellow with deep set eyes and a solemn expression. Two small braids were pulled back from his well sculpted face, and his mouth, though generous, was set in a hard line.
She watched him approach her bed. He was neither as tall as the one brother nor as broad as the other, and yet he seemed bigger than both somehow, making them appear harmless by comparison.
“Your name is Mary?” he asked.
“Aye.” She held her breath. It was a foolish act. He was only a man, after all, but her hand was shaking in Gilmour’s palm so she pulled it swiftly to her side. ” Tis. And thine?”
“What an amazing coincidence,” he said. “That you should bear the very name me brother gave you. Where might you hail from, Mary?”
Her mind spun. She dared not reveal that she was from Evermyst. But where? Someplace far away. Far—she was running out of time. Too slow. Too—
“Lady—”
“Levenlair,” she said.
He canted his head at her. “Levenlair?”
She should have chosen another castle. One not so well renowned. A fictional one, mayhap, or—
“I’ve heard of such a place,” he continued, “though I know little of it. Far to the north, is it not?”
“Aye, ‘tis.” She fidgeted with the blanket for an instant, then forced her fingers to lie still. Only a foolish child would squirm under a man’s gaze and as a lass she’d learned the penalty for foolishness. Better to use her greatest defense against him. After all, arrogance was free. “Me father was laird of that fair castle.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye,” she said, and pursing her lips, gave a slight nod. “And what of you?” His hair was shoulder length and thick as a stallion’s mane. The color of a bay steed, it hung in glistening waves just past the shoulders of his simple saffron tunic. But ‘twere his eyes that held her attention. They were a piercing indefinable hue and as brooding as a king’s. “You must be a servant here. How fortunate, for I am quite parched. Fetch me a horn of something. Wine, preferably. Mulled, but not too hot.”
For a moment the room was silent, and then Gilmour laughed, but she dared not take her gaze from the other.
“Ahh, Mary,” Gilmour said, and nudging a stool forward with his foot, seated himself close by her side. “Awake for only a moment and already you can see a man’s true place in the world.”
She pulled her attention away with an effort and pinned it on the fair haired brother. “Your servant is woefully obstinate, I fear, for he is still here.”
“He is like that at times.”
“In truth, lass,” said the one called Lachlan, “Ramsay is not a servant, but the eldest of us five brothers and heir to Dun Ard.”
“Oh.” She fluttered her lashes downward lest they see the lie in her eyes. “My apologies, of course.”
“Nay,” said Lachlan. “Indeed, lass, ‘tis we who must apologize.”
“You?” she asked and raised her gaze to his. She did not like to be surprised, and yet she was.
“Aye,” he said, his expression as solemn as a stone. “For we failed to keep you safe.”
“But you did not even know I was here.”
“We should have.”
Now, here was an overdeveloped sense of duty. She liked that in a fellow, so long as he kept his distance. “Nay, good sir,” she said demurely. “You are very kind and very gallant, but ‘tis surely not your fault that I was attacked.”
“Attacked?” Lachlan’s tone was angry but his eldest brother’s was smooth, urging caution when he spoke.
“We saw no sign of an attack.”
She swept her gaze to his face, knowing her eyes would look as blue and innocent as a babe’s. “Surely you did not think I was traveling alone from my home in the north. I was with my entourage when we were set upon.”
“Entourage! Where—” Lachlan began, but Ramsay interrupted again.
“When was this?”
His demeanor was unruffled, his tone level, but his eyes … He knew something and was fishing to learn more, to catch her in a lie.
” ‘Twas some days ago,” she said. “North of—”
“The Munros.” Lachlan’s voice was low, and suddenly his dirk appeared in his hand. “Twas the Munros who set upon you, wasn’t it?”
Her heart jumped against her ribs. She should have seen this eventuality, should have known they would have heard of the Munros’ passage through their land. Should have guessed the conclusions they would draw.
“I …” She stared at him. “I do not know. I … am not from these parts.”
Lachlan shook his head and took a step nearer. “The Munros do not live hereabouts either. Surely—”
“You have not heard of them?” ‘Twas the suspicious brother who spoke, as if he were dissecting her every word. “How strange. They too are from the north. I thought every Scot knew of their doings. Most especially the daughter of the powerful laird of—”
She moaned. The sound creaked weakly from her lips. She fluttered her fingers to her brow and let her head fall back against the downy pillow.
“Mary!”
“Lass! Are you—”
“What be you lads doing in here?” rasped an old voice, and suddenly Gilmour was brushed aside and an old woman appeared. Gray eyes widened in surprise. “Lass, you’ve come to.”
Anora said nothing, but moaned again, working for the perfect amount of pathos.
“All right then, lads. What have you done to her?”
“I was but passing by when I saw the lass was alone,” Gilmour said, “and since you were absent, I thought it best to check in on her.”
“Check in on her, you say.” The woman tsked as she felt Anora’s brow. “Ach.” She smiled, making her face crinkle like old parchment as she touched the backs of her fingers to her patient’s cheek. “Poor wee lassie—having to wake up to the likes of these three rogues, eh?”
“I assure you, we did nothing to alarm her,” Lachlan said.
The old woman dropped her gaze to the dirk he held. “What, then, were you doing, lad? Teaching her the feminine art of battle?”
Gilmour laughed. ” ‘Tis true, me brothers are sadly inept with the fairer sex, Elspeth. But I did nothing to cause her the least bit of alarm. Indeed—”
“Nothing?” scoffed the old woman, and snatching his arm, steered him toward the door. “There hasn’t been a day since your birth that you haven’t caused a bit of alarm. And that goes for th
e both of you.” She grabbed Ramsay’s arm en route. “Now go, the lot of you, and don’t be bothering the lass again until I say she be ready for company.”
She closed the door firmly behind them. For a moment the room seemed enormously quiet, and then she chuckled.
“Ahh.” She tsked as she approached the bed. “Me apologies, lass. They must have given you a start.” Her fingers felt cool against Anora’s cheek as she swept back her hair. “But then again, there be nastier faces to wake up to. Truth be told, they set me own heart to fluttering, and me their nan since the day they were birthed. ‘Tis shameful, I know. But Lachlan’s brawn, and me Ramsay’s … ach, but I do go on, and here you be with an ache in your head pounding like a war drum.”
“How did you know?”
“About your head?” She chuckled as she turned away, and in a moment she was back, a steaming kettle in her hand. ” ‘Tis me job to know, lass, for I’ve been trained by the healer herself.”
“The healer?” Anora watched the gnarled hands pour water into a horn mug and then dip, quick and efficient, into a leather bag. In a moment she was mixing dried herbs into the brew. There was something soothing about the way she moved. Something that reminded her of Meara’s ways.
“The healer.” Elspeth said the words with reverence. “The Lady Forbes. The lads’ auntie, she be. Each one of them has been patched up by her ladyship herself. ‘Tis said there be magic in her hands. And mayhap there is, for not one of them …” She sighed dreamily. “Well, a lass could do worse than to be bound to any one of the three, hey? Their father has earned a dukedom, and their lady mother …” She paused, her eyes alight. ” ‘Twas she who brought me here many years since. She who drew her sword against …” She swallowed hard and frowned for a moment, but finally she went on. ” ‘Tis enough to say that the lads have their mother’s fire. Aye,” she said, nodding sagely. “Their mother’s fire and their father’s strength. ‘Tis nothing they cannot best if they put their backs to it.”
Anora glanced toward the door, her mind spinning.
“Here now, lass,” said Elspeth, pressing the horn to her lips. “Drink this down. ‘Twill set you to dreaming, it will. But you’ll feel the better for the rest.”
* * * * *
“So what be your name, me wee one? I’ve not seen you about Evermyst before. Mayhap you’ve been hiding from the spirit, too?”
The girl said nothing, for she could not. Indeed, her heart was beating too hard for her to speak.
“The quiet sort.” The Munro laughed, nearly blocking out the sound of the sea that she so loved. His beard was bushy, as red as rowan berries, and it set to quivering with his mirth. ” ‘Tis me favorite type of maid. Come hither, lass.”
She shook her head, setting her droopy coif to waggling as she backed a step away.
“Relax, lassie. Have you not heard? I’m to be the new laird of this keep soon. ‘Twould be wise of you to make friends whilst you can, eh? Before your mistress returns. Come hither.”
Her legs were shaking and her hands, pressed against her soiled gown, felt damp with fear. “Please, me laird,” she whispered, “me lady has been good to me and I’ve no wish to displease her.”
“Displease her?” He laughed again. “So you think your mistress will be unwilling to share me?”
“I … I only know that—” she began, but in that moment he leapt.
He was ungodly quick for a big man. She tried to twist away, tried to escape, but there was no hope. His hand closed like a giant claw around her arm and she was swung toward him.
“There now, no need for fear, lass. I only—” His words stopped, ending in a hiss of surprise as his eyes widened, then narrowed. “Who are you?”
Her muscles ached with tension, and her lungs cramped with fear.
“Who the devil are you?” Reaching up, he snatched the drooping coif from her head. Golden tresses fell unencumbered to her waist, and without the dowdy headdress every inch of her face was visible. “Witch!” he rasped and yanked his sword from its sheath.
* * * * *
“Nay!” Anora awoke with a gasp, one arm covering her face, but no blade descended to end her life. ‘Twas a dream. Just a—
But no. She knew better. ‘Twas a harbinger of things that might be.
She must return to Evermyst! Immediately.
The floor felt cold against her bare feet, but she barely noticed, for already she was running, racing through the doorway toward the stairs.
Her mind spun. She must find Pearl. Leave Dun Ard. Head north. There was no time to delay, no time to stop, and no time to avoid the man who loomed before her. She struck him full on and fell, tumbling backward. Her feet scrambled as she tried to regain her balance, to escape, but he was already reaching for her.
“Nay!” She tried to twist away, but he pulled her back.
“Relax, lassie,” he said, and she froze. The words of her dream quivered like a spent arrow through her mind. In the darkness she could not see her captor’s face, but she knew him.
“Munro,” she whispered.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Let me go!”
“And why should I?”
She was shaking, straining away from him. “Let me be. You are neither peaceable nor beloved,” she rambled wildly.
“What’s that?”
She froze at the sound of his voice, for it was not raspy and hoarse, but smooth and bonny and surprised.
“Who …” She tried to stop her shaking, to see through the gloom. “Who are you?”
Silence again, then, “I believe I asked that first.”
“I am …” She couldn’t remember her lies. They were becoming twisted in her mind, melded with her frantic dreams. Where was she? Who was she?
“Are you well, lass?”
“Aye, but I must—” She must what? Run into the night like a demented banshee? She realized suddenly that he was leading her away like a lambkin on a string, and yet she could not seem to resist. The blackness of the hall receded beneath a distant glimmer of light. They turned a corner and he glanced toward her. His eyes struck her, soulful and intense. His hair, tossed as if by restless sleep, shone like polished mahogany in the tallow light. He was not the Munro. He was Ramsay MacGowan, but he’d said the words spoken in her dream, and—
“Mary,” he murmured. His breath fanned her cheek. His chest was bare and dark. It was as broad as a boulder and sculpted with mounded muscle and tugging sinew. Against her arm, his hand felt as powerful and unyielding as the rough timbers beneath her feet.
Power. ‘Twas what she needed to win the day. ‘Twas what she craved, and ‘twas here, right before her, if she could but harness it. And why could she not? Aye, he had seemed distrustful and distant at their first meeting, but that was in the full light of day. All men changed with the coming of darkness. That she had learned long ago. With an effort, she stilled the tremor in her hands. All her life men had admired her, had praised her golden tresses, her soft skin, her feminine form. Those attributes had gained her little but hardship so far, so it was surely time to collect on them. She was hardly above using her physical features to gain her ends, and MacGowan was hardly above feeling the bite of desire. That was a potent force indeed, but she would not be the one to pay the price this time.
“Ramsay,” she whispered. ” ‘Tis you.”
“Aye,” he said. His tone was quiet, cautious. “But why are you here?”
“I …” she turned her eyes sideways, forcing herself to be calm, to remember her mission. “I had a dream,” she whispered, and moved marginally closer.
“A dream?”
“Aye.” Her voice was only a wisp of sound in her own ears. “Aye. ‘Twas most … most …” She broke off.
“Lass, you are shaking.” He leaned slightly closer. His breath smelled of sweet wine, and when he slipped his arm around her back, she was able by dint of sheer will to keep from drawing away. “But you needn’t worry,” he said, and stroked her hair lightly.
“Nay. Not whilst you are here,” she said, and forced her eyes to fall closed. ” ‘Twas you I dreamt of.”
The stroking stopped, but she refused to look up to determine his mood.
“Not the one who frightened you, I hope.”
“Nay.” She paused, holding her breath as if ashamed to say the next words. “The one who saved me.”
She heard him draw a deep breath and then his hand moved again, but slowly, as if he were thinking. “How clever of me,” he said.
“Aye,” she murmured, and grasping his arms in shaky fingers, pulled herself closer so that her nipples touched his chest through her borrowed night rail. They tightened on contact, sending a tingling warning through her system. But she had no time to decipher warnings. “Clever and brave and ultimately chivalrous.”
“You took quite a blow to your head, lass. Are you certain you are not mistaking me for someone else? One of me brothers, mayhap?”
She forced a tremulous smile. “Nay, my laird. I am a fine judge of men. You are not the ogre you pretend to be.”
In the darkness, she watched his brows rise toward the line of his hair. “I am ever so happy to hear it,” he said. “But now I wonder, if you judge me so kindly, why you were afraid just moments ago?”
“I thought you were …” A bearded face flashed through her mind. She jerked at the image, then realized the opportunity that came with the fear and pulled herself closer to Ramsay’s warm chest.
“What is it, lass?”
She loosened her grip and eased back a scant half an inch. ” ‘Tis naught,” she breathed. “Only the dream.”
His gaze never wavered from her face. “But in the dream I saved you, did I not?” he asked, and eased his arm down her back, circling her waist.
Panic rose in her throat. Too close, her mind screamed. But she must play the game. All she held dear depended on it. “Aye,” she said, and remained as she was, in the circle of his arm. “You did.”
“Then surely I deserve a kiss,” he murmured, and suddenly his lips were against hers.
Her heart slammed into her ribs and her hands shook, but she allowed a moment’s touch, just the slightest flash of flesh against flesh before she pushed him away. He retreated the slightest distance, but she dare not fight him, lest he guess her mood. Instead, she lowered her eyes and fought a silent battle with the terror.
