The Raven's Moon

by Susan King

  "I paid the innkeeper for two beds for the night," Rowan said. "Go up and rest. I'll wait for Lang Will."

  "I'll stay. You brought me here to help with Jamie. And for no other reason," she added.

  "Go up. I'll wait and let you know when they arrive."

  "I'm not tired," she said stubbornly. Rowan sighed.

  When the table rocked slightly under her arm, she glanced up. At the other end of the trestle, four men were tossing dice, cheering and swearing raucously with each throw of the bone pieces. One tipped over a flagon of ale, and liquid ran along the board. Mairi lifted her arm and bumped against Rowan.

  "Spilled ale is good luck," he murmured, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. He rested his hand there for a moment. A delicious shiver ran through her and she closed her eyes, smiling softly.

  "Hey hey," a gruff voice said. "Nane o' that here, now."

  Startled, Mairi peered at a man across the table, a slightly built fellow in a dirty doublet. His grizzled face was framed by long silver hair that barely covered his scalp, and his toothless grin looked elfish and almost charming.

  "Nane o' that," he repeated. "Save it for later, I say. That is a lass, not a laddie?" He winked at Mairi.

  She sat up, dismayed to remember her lad's disguise.

  "She's bonny, hey?" the man asked, eyes twinkling.

  "Aye, bonny." Rowan touched her shoulder.

  "Ye two lovers best behave till the morrow," the man went on. Confused, Mairi noticed that his speech was slurred, and thought he was far drunk. "A bonny lass, but in laddie's gear. Ye had a long ride through the 'Batable Land, hey?"

  "Long enough," Rowan answered.

  "If ye meant to hide her from reivers, ye've found a passel o' them here." The man sat forward. "Is this yer handfasted lassie, then?"

  "My, ah, what?"

  "Och, aye, they're all here this night just like the two of you. Reivers and their handfasted lassies, here for All Hallows' E'en." He gestured at the men and women crowding the inn. "This night, games and tipping o' the ale cups, and the lassies reading omens in them eggs dropped into boiled water, over there." He nodded toward some girls gathered around a bowl on a far table. "On the morrow—" He grinned.

  "All Saints' Day," Rowan said. "What else?"

  "The wedding, ye loon! 'Tis why most of us are here. The grandest marrying ye'll e'er see. Though the lasses may be more eager than the lads, hey." He winked and lifted his cup in salute. "Here's tae us. Wha's like us?" He paused for the usual response.

  "Damned few, and they're a' dead." Rowan held up his own flagon. "Slainte."

  "Aye," the man said, and drank. Foaming ale ran down over his chin, and he wiped at it. "Och, this threepenny stuff is as thin as crone's milk. Cannot get proper drunk on it. I had some fine October ale after my supper, but the tun ran dry." He belched and held out his hand. "I'm Tammie the Priest. Tammie Armstrong."

  Mairi thought Priest an odd nickname for a reiver, but she had heard riding names far stranger. She nodded politely.

  Rowan took the proffered hand. "Rowan. And Mairi."

  "Rowan who?" Tammie snarled.

  "The Black Laird."

  "Go to! I've heard the name." He frowned in earnest concentration. "Be ye notorious?"

  "He be very notorious," Mairi said. She glanced at the young couples in the room, most of them laughing, teasing, or holding hands. "Which one is the bride?" she asked curiously.

  Tammie belched again. "Och, ye'd be a fine bride. Fine, bonny bride, and this Black Laird yer braw groom." He grinned again, leaned his arm on the table, and then nodded his head forward, eyes half closed.

  "Tammie, sir? Who's the bride?" Mairi repeated.

  "Yer bonny lassie is a bonny bride, hey, Black Laird?" Tammie raised his chin and suddenly began to sing in a rich, deep voice. Mairi blinked in astonishment. She looked at Rowan, who shrugged, shook his head.

  Tammie the Priest was well into a song about a lassie being wrapped in someone's plaidie and taken away to be wed, when one of the dice players at the other end of the table leaned over.

  "Hey! Tammie!" he yelled, and pushed at the old man's arm. "Find yer bed, y'auld fool." He turned to his companions. "He'll be in puir shape on the morrow, hey." They laughed.

  Tammie kept on singing, never losing the rhythm. The men chortled and went back to their gambling.

  "Ach," Mairi said softly. She reached over and touched Tammie's arm. "Tammie? Are you well? Can I help you?"

  Tammie smiled. "By sea and sky, she shall be mine," he sang, "the bonny lass amang the heather..."

  Rowan stood and walked around the table. "Come on, man. I'll help you to your bed. There you go, step this way."

  "Och, Rowan the Black Laird! I've seen ye afore, laddie. What's yer riding family?"

  "Scott."

  "Go to! Anither Scott!" He narrowed his eyes to peer at Rowan. "Ah! The Black Laird—ye're like him, that wild Alec. Ye're his brother!" He looked delighted.

  "Come ahead," Rowan said as he lifted Tammie's arm around his own shoulder.

  "Och, a fine lad, Wild Alec Scott. Havena seen him for a while—he's a broken man now, hey?"

  "So I hear." Rowan stepped forward with Tammie.

  "Och aye," Tammie said. "I'm a broken man too. The English warden's been on my tail a' this year. Bed's up the stairs, God thank ye." He turned his head. "Where's Rowan's lassie?"

  "She's here," Rowan said, gesturing for Mairi. She came around to help guide Tammie across the crowded room.

  "Bonny Mairi," Tammie crooned, grinning like a wizened elf. She helped him move forward.

  The innkeeper's wife, a wide, hefty woman, walked past them carrying a large jug full of foaming ale. Mairi heard Rowan ask her about Tammie's bed. The woman pointed up the stairs, said something and turned away to pour ale into a cup thrust into her path by one of the gamblers.

  Rowan scowled and Mairi wondered what the innkeeper's wife had that bothered him. With Tammie between them, they climbed several steep wooden steps to a narrow corridor with four doors. Rowan led them down the dark passage and shoved open the last door.

  Tammie leaned between them as they entered a small, dim chamber. A candle burned on a shelf, revealing two beds in the crowded space. One bed was empty, but a huge, bulky shadow shifted in the other. Snores resounded in the air.

  "The innkeeper's wife said to put Tammie in one of these beds and use the other for ourselves," Rowan said.

  Mairi blinked at him. "What?"

  "Both the sleeping places I paid for seem to be in this room. And that bed's full already."

  "That's my brother, Dickie the Mountain," Tammie said.

  Mairi did not doubt that riding name, judging by the huge shape under the bedcovers.

  "Where will you sleep, lass?" Rowan murmured. "With Tammie Armstrong—or me?"

  Mairi stared at him, speechless.

  "Och, do not fret y'selves," Tammie said. "I may be a broken man, but I'm a priest. And Dickie's a minister. Yer lassie's as safe here as in heaven."

  "She's safest wi' me," Rowan muttered.

  "Is there nowhere else for you and your brother to sleep?" Mairi asked Tammie. He shook his head.

  "Our bairn will be wi' us soon," Rowan said. "It is best for the lass to sleep here alone wi' the lad."

  "Eh?" Tammie said. "Yer bairnie? Is it so?"

  "Aye," Mairi said quickly. "He's a small lad. But loud."

  "Och, ye need a wedding quick, ye do," Tammie muttered. "Dickie, they need a wedding, man. Shove over, now." He stumbled and fell into the bed holding his snoring brother.

  "We'd best go down the stairs, I think," Rowan said.

  "That bed will be taken if ye leave it," Tammie muttered.

  Mairi sighed. "I'll wait here and save the bed." When Rowan began to protest, she held up a hand. "Tammie will not bother me. Come tell me when Lang Will arrives."

  Rowan sighed and began to unhook his jack. Mairi widened her eyes, thinking he meant to stay with her, a wild thought th
at appealed, thrilled her. "I'll leave this with you," he said, taking off the garment and dropping it on the bed. "I'll come up when Lang Will brings the child," he said.

  She nodded, embarrassed to have thought he would stay here. Of course he needed to watch for Lang Will.

  "Keep this for me, if you will. My dirk will be safe with you, will it not?" He smiled, a little wry lift of his lip.

  She took it and grimaced at him in the dark, then sat on the bed. Covered with a woolen blanket, the straw mattress barely gave beneath her. She slipped the dirk under the flat pillow.

  "I would not want to use a blade—" she began.

  "Then hit someone with it if need be," he said. "I'll be back soon." He paused to glance at her, hesitating. "Tammie and Dickie, if either of you move, you die. Understood?"

  Only deep snores answered him.

  "Go." Mairi gestured for him to leave, then removed her jack and lay on the unforgiving bed, settling back.

  * * *

  Winds howled, rain pattered the walls, and Dickie snored earnestly, Tammie joining him in a whining harmony that was driving Mairi mad.

  After a while she sat up and punched the lumpy feather pillow. When Tammie snorted loudly in his sleep, she threw the pillow at him. Miraculously, both men quieted.

  She snatched the pillow from the floor, pummeled it again, and shifted in the creaking bed, drawing up the blanket. Finally she sighed in frustration and sat up to lean against the wall.

  Rowan's jack lay beside her on the bed. The pocket flap caught her attention—a bundle of white cloth poked out. As she tucked it back, the cloth slid open, revealing a gilt frame.

  Intrigued, she withdrew the wrapping to find a dark stone with a mirrorlike polish, framed in gilded wood. She recalled seeing it once before, when she had searched through Rowan's pouch for the council's warrant. She wondered why he carried such an odd thing with him.

  As she tilted it, the slick black surface twinkled, and she glimpsed her reflected face in the curvature. Wide, silvery eyes stared back at her, surrounded by bedraggled hair.

  Then, as she watched, the dark surface clouded over, and another face appeared, so familiar that Mairi gasped.

  Iain. He looked haggard, one eye bruised and swollen, his lip cut. He looked out a window, and gray light overtook him like a fog. His face vanished as quickly as it had come.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she caught back a sob. She touched the cool stone, but saw only her own face, and the yellow candle flame behind her head.

  She had seen a vision of Iain in the stone—why? The polished black stone must be like a natural divining surface, like a bowl of water or a blazing hearth. Visions occurred in such ways for those with the Sight, she knew. But she had gazed many times into water and flames, and never had a vision.

  But tonight was All Hallows' Eve, when strange things might happen. The beings of the otherworld were said to ride through this world, and visions came more easily.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed the Sight would come again. But when she looked, she saw only her face, tear-filled eyes shining like crystals.

  Then her own image faded. A mist formed, swirling through the stone to become a pattern like rain falling at night. A vein of lightning, tiny and white, licked through the stone.

  A man appeared, dark-haired, etched in miniature. He rode a dark horse along the crest of a hill. When he turned, a new burst of lightning gave his features brilliant clarity.

  Rowan. Mairi gasped. And then he was gone, as if washed away by the rain. She gasped, gripping the frame with both hands, but saw only her face, frightened and pale.

  With trembling fingers, she rewrapped the mirror, thrust it inside the pouch, and crammed it under the pillow.

  She drew her knees up, thinking of that vivid image of Rowan in the storm. In the past several weeks, she had forgotten Iain's vision, the one that he had confessed, the one that troubled both of them. Now she remembered her brother's strange premonition from months ago: a man riding through a storm, a Borderman, desperate to find someone—Mairi, Iain had said. The man loved her profoundly, searched for her, but he brought danger.

  She had just seen the same vision. And she felt sure that Rowan Scott was the man Iain had seen, too.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking. Iain had said the man would search for her in a wild storm—just before Iain's own death.

  Rain and wind battered the walls of the inn, just as the truth hit her like a hammer. She tightened into herself, fearful. Rowan Scott must have already delivered the warrant that would seal Iain's death. He indeed brought danger.

  She cried then, until her throat hurt, until her head ached as much as her innermost heart. The pain felt like mourning, as if she had already lost Iain—and would lose Rowan, too.

  Then she felt a hand press her shoulder.

  "Mairi," Rowan said softly. "What is it?" He was there, though she had not heard him enter the room. He sat beside her, the bed creaking. "Mairi—did Tammie—"

  "Nay," she said quickly, wiping her eyes. "I'm fine."

  His palm traced over her back. "Tell me what 'tis."

  She tucked down into her folded arms.

  "Oh, lass," he murmured. His arms came around her, warm and strong, and she turned into his embrace. Weakened by crying, she leaned against his chest, where his doublet lay open over the soft folds of his shirt. She inhaled a blend of pine smoke, ale, the scent of Rowan's own skin. Yearning and sadness overtook her.

  "Hey, lass," he whispered. "Let me help."

  His words broke through to her. Let me help. She had wanted to hear just those words from him, but now it was too late. Fresh sobs spilled out of her.

  Rowan streamed his fingers through her disheveled hair, caressing, coaxing the sadness out of her and away. After a while she felt empty, peaceful, spent. He murmured something indistinct, his voice deep and patient, his touch comforting.

  "Mairi, how can I help?"

  "I asked f-for y-your help before," she managed. "B-but you would not give it me."

  "Mairi," he sighed.

  "I sh-should not have spoken to you again. Ever. I should have run from you."

  "Why?" he asked, the word a mere breath.

  "Be-because now I—" she stopped and shook her head. Because now I love you, she thought. Her own inner words struck her. She caught her breath with the realization. Because now I love you so, but you will destroy my brother.

  But she could not say that aloud. She caught back a sob.

  Rowan touched his lips to her temple, his beard prickly against her skin. He smoothed his hand over her back, and shivers cascaded through her. She looped her arms around his neck and held fast.

  "Tell me something, lass, if it will help," he murmured.

  She shook her head, though this was what she needed—Rowan's arms around her, Rowan's heart beating beside hers. Nothing more, in a perfect world, for there was a rightness to this that glowed deep within her.

  But this was no idyllic world. The black mirror had given her a warning that she would heed. She had reason to be wary of Rowan. Instead, in this moment, she melded to him, let the rhythm of his breath set the rhythm of hers.

  She pulled away, but he drew her back to settle her against him, her cheek over the steady thud of his heart. Exhausted, she rested there.

  "Mairi, if you are upset because I refused to help Iain—"

  "That, and you took me down," she said after a moment. "Like a criminal. And you brought Simon the warrant. Iain will die—" She swallowed back a fearful sob.

  "I did not mean to hurt you." He whispered in her ear. "I would never do that deliberately." His voice thrummed through her body.

  Her breath quickened. She craved his soothing touch, and wished she could let all the rest go. She did not want to feel sadness or think about visions and danger. She wanted only Rowan. "Hold me," she whispered. "Please."

  "Oh, God, Mairi," he breathed out. As she tilted her face
to look at him, he found her mouth with his own.

  As his lips touched hers, she felt as if she plummeted from a great height, as if he caught her safe. He kissed her, soothing and gentle, though her body quivered. She rounded her arms around his back and surrendered, just for now, just this moment.

  He cradled her cheeks in his hands and kissed her to breathlessness, his lips fitting sweetly to hers. Sheer, delicious joy flamed in her like a new candle as she arched her head back. His thumbs traced her throat, sending thrills of pleasure through her body.

  Heart pounding, she skimmed her fingers over his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard, the lean frame of his jaw, the warm carving of his ear. She felt the stiff buckram neck of his doublet and splayed her fingers over his strong throat, where the shirt folds parted, so that she touched warm, bare skin and sensed the pulsing of his heart.

  He breathed a muted groan and lifted his mouth from hers, tracing over her cheeks in small, exquisite kisses, soft as a butterfly on a flower. Mairi moaned and found his lips again.

  She opened her mouth to his, felt the soft tip of his tongue as it gentled against hers. A plunging heat spun in her as she pressed closer, a hand bracing on his chest, the other lifting to his hair, cool and thick as heavy silk under her fingers.

  He shifted her to the bed and stretched out beside her, and she turned, fitting her body to his, feeling his low, breathy groan against her lips. As he kissed her jaw, her arched throat, she sighed, streaming her fingers through his hair, arching against him, wanting, needing more.

  Now the fierceness of his kiss took her her breath away, and as his hand moved, palm resting on her breast, she drew in a quick inhale. His warm hand floated over the loose cloth of her shirt to trace down, alluring, over her abdomen, drawing out a fluttering, deepening ache within her.

  She sighed in his arms, seeking his lips again, warm and pliant and insistent over hers. His tracing hand circled her ribs under her breast and his long fingers slipped upward to knead one breast, then the other, exquisitely. Mairi pushed her hips instinctively against him and he braced her back with his other hand, holding her close so that she could feel his heated, pulsing hardness against her.