The Fraser Bride E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 449

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2001

Beschreibung

From the bestselling author of award-winning historical romance, Lois Greiman, a classic Scottish Highlander Romance "Adventure, love, and mystery blend beautifully in the pages of THE FRASER BRIDE. Lois Greiman has penned an engaging Highland tale of love, betrayal and trust. Sensual!" –Romantic Times Highland Rogues #1 1534, Scotland Returning to the Scottish Highlands, Ramsay MacGowan rides to confront the evil Clan Munro, who are rumored to be encroaching on MacGowan land. What he finds instead is an alluring, mysterious young lass! Ravishing Anora Fraser is fleeing an unknown attacker, and doesn't know who to trust, so she spins a story that convinces Ramsay to offer her protection. Although Ramsay is through with cunning women, and knows Anora hasn't told him the entire truth, he can't resist her sprit …or her beauty; As for Anora, how can she trust in the strong, resourceful Magowan, when her own heart betrays her!

Leseprobe

THE FRASER BRIDE

HIGHLAND ROGUES

BOOK ONE

LOIS GREIMAN

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Discover More By Lois Greiman

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About the Author

This e-book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Fraser Bride

Copyright © 2001 by Lois Greiman

Ebook ISBN: 9781625173652

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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PROLOGUE

The Prophecy

He who would take a Fraser bride, these few rules he must abide.

Peaceable yet powerful he must be, cunning but kind to me and thee.

The last rule, but not of less import, he'll be the loving and beloved sort.

If a Fraser bride he longs to take, he'll remember these rules for his life's sake.

For the swain who forgets the things I've said will find himself amongst the dead.

Meara of the Fold

CHAPTER1

Scotland

In the year of our Lord, 1534

"We are nearly there. There is no need to fret, Pearl," Anora whispered, and nudged the mare deeper into the woods.

In the late night gloaming, mist billowed up in dancing waves of ghostly silver. No sound broke the silence, naught but the soft hiss of dew slipping from bending bracken. High overhead, tattered clouds skittered past a bloated blood red moon, and from an unaccountable distance, an owl called, boding ill. But Anora of the Frasers had no time for age old superstitions. No time for fear.

"Only a moment ago I saw a tower just past the highest hill. We shall find help there; I am certain of it. Surely once the lord learns of the Munro's intentions, he shall champion our cause and—"

A scratch of noise sounded from behind. Anora jerked about in her high backed saddle, but nothing alarming met her gaze though she searched the gloom for some seconds.

"Truly, Pearl," she said, turning back, "you are such a nervous ninny sometimes. I told you, there is no one following us."

Beneath her, Pearl flicked an ivory ear at her mistress' trembling tone.

A rustle of noise sounded again, closer this time. Anora spun about, heart thumping in the tight confines of her chest. "Who comes?" she demanded, but her only answer was the whisper of alder leaves overhead.

Hard edged seconds ticked by before Anora turned forward and nudged Pearl again. "As I said, we are alone," she whispered, and shifted her eyes sideways, searching the darkened woods. "All alone. And therefore..." Off to the right, a chipmunk scolded and scampered up the skeletal remains of an ancient oak. Anora's stomach flipped and righted. "Safe," she finished, but just at that instant, a horse whickered.

Pearl stopped of her own accord, head turned, ears pricked forward, and every muscle taut.

"Who goes there?" Anora called.

For a moment nothing moved, and then, like a frightful dream, a charger stepped from the shadows. As dark as sin he was, and upon his back sat an armored warrior. Black chain mail covered the rider's chest and a dark helmet hid his face.

In the muffled silence, Anora could hear her own breath, harsh in the stillness.

"Who are you?"

The shadowy warrior said nothing. Instead, he reached down and with slow deliberation drew a sword from his scabbard. Muted moonlight caressed the curved edge of the blade, gleaming from point to hilt, and for a moment Anora remained frozen, mesmerized by the dancing light. Then the charger bent his great neck and pranced toward her with cadenced steps. The warrior raised his sword and with that movement the glimmering reflection on the blade turned from gold to blood red.

Jarred from her torpor, Anora rasped a prayer and clapped her heels against the mare's ivory barrel. Sensing peril, Pearl leapt into a gallop. Trees rushed past like ghostly sentries. They snatched at Anora, snagging her hair as she bent over her mount's straining neck. Was the warrior still there? Did he follow?

Curling her fingers into the mare's mane, she twisted about to peer into the darkness behind.

Nothing. They were safe, but...

No! There he was again, bounding around a copse of trees. Silver steam billowed from his charger's nostrils like smoke from a dragon's maw. Moonlight gleamed with wicked zeal along his unsheathed blade.

Terror ripped up Anora's spine. She twisted forward again, but just as she did, hands reached for her.

She screamed and jerked away. Pearl plunged at the pull of the reins, whipping her mistress sideways. The clawing hands retreated into nothing more than reaching branches, but Pearl's sharp movement had unbalanced her rider. Digging in with her knees, Anora grappled for control, and the panicked mare pivoted around another tree and leapt at the last instant to avoid a log.

For a moment Anora was suspended in nothingness. There was naught beneath her but air, and then she landed, crooked in the saddle but still astride. The reins had been yanked from her grasp, but her fingers tangled again in the mane and she held on for dearest life.

Where they headed she did not know, but they were racing downhill at a frenetic pace with branches whipping past her face and rocks tripping them at every turn.

A prayer burned through her soul, but there was no time to finish the frantic plea, for they were twisting again. Her knee struck a tree. She gasped in pain but held on, leaning back now against the speed of their descent, hoping only for continued survival as the world whipped past in a haze of fear and darkness.

Wind roared in her ears, rushing up from... no, not wind; water. They were nearly at the end of their descent. Once in the river, she would gain control, head upstream, lose her pursuer, and...

But in that instant of hope, Anora saw the log looming before her. Ordinarily it would have been no great feat to leap the thing, but the woods were dark, the mare panicked, and her take off late. Still, she soared valiantly. Anora's breath stopped, and for a moment it seemed as if time stood still. A dozen errant memories flitted through her mind like wind chased clouds: Evermyst's dizzying heights, Isobel's gentle laughter, Meara's gruff voice—and then suddenly the world jolted back into motion.

Pearl's cannons struck wood, and then they were falling. The earth spun toward them like a falling top. Anora heard her own rasp of fear, felt her head strike the earth, and then, like an odd, distorted dream, blackness settled over her.

Ramsay MacGowan was beginning to tire of his younger brothers' bickering.

"'Tis raining," Lachlan said glumly.

"And I suppose that, too, is me own fault?"

If Gilmour's mood was deteriorating with the weather, Ramsay could not tell it by his jovial tone. It was one of the things that annoyed him most about his younger brother. He was always happy.

"Aye, 'tis your fault," Lachlan grumbled, and hunched his brawny shoulders irritably against the rain. He was only slightly older than Gilmour, but their personalities could hardly have been more different. Lachlan's dour demeanor matched the weather, and suited Ramsay's own less than jovial mood quite nicely.

" Twas not my idea to chase after some mythical Munros," Gilmour argued. "As I recall, 'twas you, brother, who was so eager to find trouble where there was none."

"If Munros be creeping about MacGowan land, I want to know of it," Lachlan said.

"Yet we searched for a week and a day with naught but blisters on our arses to show for our troubles. Lucky for you I have friends at Beauly Manor."

"And had you not dallied so with—"

"Not again about the fair Agnes," Gilmour insisted. "Truly, brother, 'tis not me own fault that she prefers me over—"

"Prefers you!" Lachlan snarled, turning about to glare past his dripping tam. "She hardly prefers you. 'Tis simply that she could not be rid of you. 'Ahh, me Agnes...' " he crooned, reenacting last evening's performance, " 'your eyes are like the brightest star. Your—' "

"Eyes!" Ramsay snorted, and huddled deeper inside his woolen high collared cloak. The eldest of the trio, Ram knew better than to become involved in his brothers' foolish quarrels. But Gilmour had already turned his ungodly smile in his direction.

"What say you, Ram?"

"'Tis naught," Ramsay said. Rain dropped off the ends of his narrow braids, dripping onto his shoulders with drumming regularity.

"I thought you said 'eyes.' "

"Your hearing has long been suspect," Ramsay rumbled. Irritation trickled down his neck like the unceasing rain drops.

"Humph," Gilmour said. "Yet I was certain you spoke. Did you not hear him speak, Lachlan?"

"Indeed I did. He said 'eyes.' "

Gilmour nodded. "Just as I suspected. And did he say it with a certain... disdain?"

"Aye, he did," Lachlan agreed soberly.

"You ken why that is, do you not, brother?"

"I do. He is ruined."

Gilmour nodded. "Aye. Ruined. And you know why."

"I do indeed. 'Tis because of a certain maid."

"By the name of Lorna."

"She broke his heart, you ken." Lachlan sighed.

"There was a time she could do no wrong."

"'Tis true." Lachlan stared forward, gazing moodily into the oncoming rain. "I remember well when our worldly brother saw no shame in waxing eloquent on the beauty of a woman's eyes."

"A time when he could take pleasure in the company of a bonny lass."

"When he would not ridicule the innocent."

"When he—"

"Innocent, me arse!" Ramsay growled.

"What say you?" Gilmour asked, wide eyed. His head was bare to the driving rain, but he seemed unaffected.

"Do you impugn me Agnes' innocence?" Lachlan asked.

"Methinks he does," Gilmour stated. Though there was disbelief in his tone, there was a devilish sparkle in his eye. Even his damned golden haired horse looked happy.

"Shut up, the both of you," Ramsay said, looking straight between Gryfon's black tipped ears. They were unequal in length and pinned in perpetual vexation against his neck.

There was silence for an entire blessed heartbeat before Gilmour spoke again. "What does he know of innocence, since he has been so horridly burned by his own misjudgment of the fairer sex?"

"Me Agnes is innocent," Lachlan said.

"Certainly she is."

"Truly?" Ramsay said, speaking against his better judgment. "Then pray tell, where did she spend the night, Mour?"

Gilmour's lips twitched, but he spread his fingers across his chest in a display of abject innocence and said, "However would I know, brother? 'Twas you who was ogling her bosom."

"Ogling—" Lachlan began, outrage already building in his voice.

"Aye," Gilmour said, nodding emphatically so that water fell in fat droplets from his golden hair. "Though I meself cannot imagine how he could wrench his gaze from her bonny smile, her beautiful eyes, her innocent—"

"The lass," Ramsay said, careful to keep his tone flat, his expression impassive, "is about as innocent as me claymore."

Lachlan growled; Gilmour grinned.

"Why do you imagine she wore such a revealing gown? Might she have been too warm during these damp autumn days? Do you think, mayhap, that she did not realize her bosoms were tucked up under her chin like heaven in the flesh?" Ramsay glowered at his brothers. "Is that what you think, lads?"

"As for me, I barely noticed," Gilmour said, lifting an innocuous hand palm up. "But 'tis the fashion, I suppose. Nothing more."

"Tis seduction!" Ramsay stated. "Nothing less."

"Seduction!" Lachlan hissed.

"Are you about to let him defame your Agnes like—" Gilmour began, but in that instant something snagged Ramsay's attention. It was just a shadow amidst shadows, but with it came a prickle of unease.

"Quiet," he ordered softly, and the others immediately fell silent. "Do not turn yet, but I think we are not alone."

"Explain," Gilmour said, his voice as low as Ramsay's.

"Where?" Lachlan asked.

"To our left and a little ahead." Ramsay paused, not allowing Gryfon to turn his hirsute head and warn the rider that he had been spotted. "Do you see it?"

"Aye. A warrior," Lachlan replied. "Goodly sized. Black mail and ventail astride a dark horse. A stallion, I think. Mayhap a five year old—"

"Christ, man," Gilmour groaned. "We do not need to know the steed's name. Is he alone?"

There was a moment's delay, but not the slightest movement of Lachlan's head. "I see no others."

"Are you certain?"

For the first time in several hours, Lachlan grinned. "We'll know when we confront him."

"Confront him!" Gilmour scoffed. "You know what that means, don't you, Ram?"

"Aye," Ramsay said, and shifted his shoulders ever so slightly to feel the pleasant weight of his claymore against his back. "It means that our wee brother's spoiling for a fight."

"And you know how disagreeable he gets when he does not get his way," Gilmour said, still watching the road ahead.

"There is nothing worse than a disagreeable brother," Ramsay said, and with that, spun Gryfon toward the left. Had Lachlan not done the same they would have collided. Instead, they lunged in unison into the trees.

For one heart pounding instant the dark shadow stayed where it was, then it turned with the speed of light and leapt away. They charged after like hounds behind their prey, but in a matter of minutes they knew they had failed.

"Where the devil did he go?" Ramsay growled.

Lachlan glowered into the distance. "I do not care for this."

"I rather dislike it meself when people disappear into nothingness," Gilmour agreed, steadying his steed.

"If he wished us no harm, why did he not declare himself?" Lachlan wondered.

"Mayhap my reputation as a swordsman preceded me," Gilmour said.

"And mayhap he was following someone," Ramsay countered, and cued the bay to the left. Gryfon ground his teeth and irritably flicked his tail as he turned.

The other brothers urged their taller horses alongside. "Tracks," Gilmour said. "Two sets. Heading breakneck toward the burn."

"Aye, and the second is the warrior's."

"Are you certain?" Gilmour asked, but Lachlan didn't deign to answer. "So he was following someone. But was he friend or foe?"

"Foe," Ramsay answered, moving his green plaid aside to slip a short blade from inside his bull hide boot. "But he lost his quarry. Thus he returned to their tracks to find him."

Pulling his own blade from its sheath, Lachlan dismounted and turned to face downhill. "'Tis only right, then, that we find him first."

The rain made the trail difficult to follow, but the brothers were in their element. Lachlan crouched low over the uncertain trail while Ramsay rode to his left and Gilmour to his right. A MacGowan did not grow to manhood without learning to protect his own.

Never were their eyes still as they wended their way through the misty rain, only to turn back and try again and again.

A log lay across their trail. They skirted it, wary of everything, for the sound of the water below drowned all else. But soon they were at the bank of the burn, and there the hoofprints halted.

Gilmour glanced once more to his right, making certain no one watched them. "What now?"

"We guess which way. Right or left," Lachlan said, gazing over the rumbling water, but Ramsay was already turning his mount downstream.

"Left," he said. " 'Twas where the warrior came from."

"A good thought."

"Aye. He is estimably wise," Gilmour agreed. "What a pity Lorna ruined him so when—"

"Do not start up—" Ramsay began, but stopped in an instant, for he'd noticed green velvet just visible beneath a scattering of twigs and leaves.

"What is it?" Gilmour asked as Lachlan drew his dirk.

"The quarry," Ramsay said, nodding toward the figure nearly hidden between a fallen log and bending bracken. "It seems we have found him."

Spinning his mount about, Gilmour galloped toward the body. Lachlan followed, but Ramsay remained where he was, scanning the woods for any hidden danger. When none presented itself, he kneed his cantankerous steed back up the hill, stopping just as his brothers knelt before the fallen rider.

Silence filled the woods. Tension cranked his gut tight.

"Tell me," he said finally, unable to see for himself. "Is he dead?"

Lachlan was silent as he checked for a pulse, but finally his voice broke the quiet. "Nay. The lad yet lives. There's a bump on the back of his head, but no blood that I can see and—"

"The lad." Gilmour's tone was disbelieving as he gently turned the body over. "Bloody hell, brother, 'tis little wonder Agnes showed you no interest. You're slow as a skewered turnip."

"What's amiss?" Ramsay asked.

Gilmour glanced up at his elder brother with a grin. "Either I am mistaken, and I never am, or he is a she."

Ramsay was afoot in a second, beside his brothers in an instant.

"Nay. He's—" Lachlan argued and swiped aside the plaid tam that covered the victim's head. A tangle of flaxen curls tumbled across his brother's arm. "A lassie!" he hissed.

"Aye," Gilmour said and ran his fingers gently across a smudged cheekbone. "And as bonny as the sunrise."

"A lassie," Lachlan repeated.

"With a warrior on her trail," Gilmour said.

"The warrior!" Lachlan rose slowly to his feet, shoulders bunched forward like an angry bull. "He did this to her."

"But why?" Gilmour rose beside him to peer into the woods.

"And where is he now?"

"Gone. And we'd best be, too."

"Aye." Lachlan tightened his fists and gazed down at the unconscious form. "Fetch me mount, Mour, and hand her to me when I am astride."

"You?" Gilmour scoffed. "Were she a side of mutton, I would consider allowing you to take her home. But she's a lassie, and I am undoubtedly the man for the job."

"You jest," Lachlan said.

"You mistook her for a lad, brother."

"Which has naught to do with me ability to carry her."

"What if you mistake her for a stone or a twig or a... an apple core and discard her along the way?"

"You'll be keeping your wayward hands to yourself, Gilmour, or by the saints, I'll—"

"Sweet Almighty!" Ramsay said, and pushing his brothers impatiently aside, lifted the girl into his arms, and strode for his horse.

CHAPTER2

"The warrior, was he a Munro?" Flanna asked. The brothers were closeted in the solar with their parents, the notorious laird and lady of Dun Ard.

"I know not," Lachlan answered. "We gave chase without delay." Ramsay watched him pace across the woven carpet and onto rough timber. "But he eluded us."

"Eluded how?" 'Twas their father who spoke, christened Roderic but generally called the Rogue by those who knew him well.

Lachlan shrugged, giving a single lift to his heavy shoulders. He had inherited their grandfather's bulk, while Ramsay had inherited... what? His mother's cautious skepticism, perhaps. He glanced at her and almost smiled. She was known as the Flame of the MacGowans—and the only woman able to keep the Rogue on a leash.

"I know not," Lachlan was saying. "One moment he was there, and the next..." He blew out a sharp exhalation. "Gone."

"Gone?" said the laird and lady in unison.

"I know you think our Lachlan has lost his wits," Gilmour said, one hip cocked against a tall leather trunk. "And in the light of the news that he could not tell that yonder sleeping beauty was a lassie, well..." He shook his head, candlelight shining off his wheat toned hair. "I can understand your feelings, but truly the warrior did seem to vanish into—"

"Were it not for me, you would never have left Dun Ard at the outset and the lassie would still be lying out there alone and unsheltered," Lachlan said.

"And were it not for me, you would be calling her Angus and challenging her to a wrestling—"

"We'd best learn where she belongs soon,” Flanna interrupted. "Before 'tis too late."

The room went silent with her unsaid words.

"She'll come to," Lachlan said. "Surely she will."

"I pray you are right," Flanna said. "But until then, we would be well advised to inform her clansmen of her whereabouts."

"How do we find her kin?"

"Surely someone has missed her," Roderic said. "She is a bonny lass, and..." His words faded to a halt as he glanced toward the Flame. "So I am told."

His bride of near thirty years raised a single brow at him. "You have not noticed for yourself, then?"

"Of course not, me love," he said and grinned as he took her hand. "'Tis Gilmour who has brought me reports."

"I see. So you think her comely, Mour?" Flanna asked.

"Aye." His smile matched his father's almost to perfection. "But not half so bonny as you, Mother."

She chuckled, as though she'd heard a hundred such lies and was not inclined to believe a single one of them.

"But nearly as pretty as Gilmour," Lachlan said.

Flanna laughed aloud, and though Gilmour sent a scathing glare in his elder brother's direction, humor lit his eyes.

"And what of you, Ramsay?" Roderic asked. "You have been unusually quiet. Do you not find her comely?"

Ramsay shrugged. He would rather listen to the others banter than to join in himself. Since returning from Edinburgh some months ago, he found Dun Ard changed somehow... and yet he knew that it had not changed at all. It was only his perception that had been altered. His parents had always been devout and loyal leaders of the clan MacGowan. His brothers had always bickered. The Flame had always adored the Rogue and had that adoration returned a hundred fold, but perhaps Ramsay had not appreciated it before, had not realized how rare and precious a thing they shared. Not until Lorna, he thought, and turned his mind aside, careful to keep his expression impassive.

"I suspect she is bonny enough," he said.

"Bonny enough?" Lachlan snorted.

"She has the face of an angel," Gilmour argued. "Me Mary is the very embodiment of purity and grace, ‘tis simply that Ram—"

"Mary?" said three voices in unison.

Gilmour canted a grin at them. "The lass needs a name; I have come to call her Mary."

"Whyever—" Lachlan began, but Ramsay interrupted.

"As in the sainted mother of God," he said, and rose irritably to his feet.

The solar went silent.

"Something peeves you, Ramsay?" Flanna asked.

He shot her a glance. They had a connection, he and his mother, and he had no wish to lie to her. But if the truth be told, something did bother him, though he did not know exactly what it was.

"Nay, nothing peeves me, Mother," he said. "'Tis simply that..." He paced, following much the same course Lachlan had, past the rarely used gittern and lute. While the Flame of the MacGowans was adept with a bow and downright devilish with a dirk, she was unexceptional in the more ladylike arts. Mayhap that accounted for her lack of coquettish behavior. Ramsay had expected to find that same forthright quality in other women, and been disappointed.

"Simply what?" she asked now.

"We know nothing of the woman," he said. "True, she may be as saintly as me brothers suspect, but perhaps she is the opposite."

"You're daft!" said Lachlan.

"He is," Gilmour agreed casually. "He is daft."

"And what, pray tell, has made you decide that, brothers?" he asked, keeping his tone level. "The fact that I think a bonny face might hide an evil heart? What if she were old and crotchety with a wart on her nose and a balding pate? Then might she be evil?"

"Certainly," Gilmour said.

"Of course,” agreed Lachlan.

Ramsay glowered, though he tried not to. "Mother, talk to them."

But she was smiling and the Rogue was chuckling out loud.

"Me thinks 'tis a bit early to decide whether she be sinner or saint," Flanna said. "Mayhap we could wait until she awakens, at least. Don't you agree, me sons?"

"Aye," Lachlan said.

"I'm willing to wait forever for her to awaken, if need be," Gilmour replied.

"And you?" Flanna asked, looking at Ramsay.

Having shoved his emotions neatly back out of sight, he shrugged. "It matters little to me what her temperament proves to be. I only hope that she is not a spy."

"A spy!" For a moment he thought Lachlan might actually launch himself across the room at him. Lachlan, after all, had always been prone to sharp flashes of temper. He remained as he was, however, though his square hands ground to fists. "Your time at court has turned your brain soft. The lass could no more be a spy than I could be a... a... rotting parsnip."

"I've oft wondered about the similarities," Gilmour murmured, straightening from the trunk.

"And why not?" Ramsay asked, ignoring him. "With sentiment turning against the French every day, there may be any sort of trouble brewing against us. Remember, brothers, Norman blood does flow through our veins."

"She is no spy," Lachlan said and Ramsay shrugged.

"Then perhaps she's—"

"Hold!" Flanna's voice rang against the stone wall, her eyes gleaming nearly as bright as her auburn hair in the light of the nearby candles. "

"’Tis not our place to determine what she is just yet. Not until we learn who she is."

"She is no—" Lachlan began, but Flanna raised her hand for silence.

"Gilmour, I've a mission for you. You will travel to Braeburn and ask if perchance they are missing one flaxen haired maid."

He nodded. "Aye, Mother, though I am loath to leave the fox to guard the hen house."

She stared at him quizzically for a moment then turned to her husband. "He is your son," she said, asking for an explanation.

"Methinks he refers to Lachlan as the fox," Roderic said.

"Ahh." She turned back toward her third born son with a raised brow. "Never have I heard my ancestral home called a hen house before, Mour. But rest assured, I've a task for your brother as well.

"Lachlan, you will attempt to find the warrior—" she began, but Roderic shook his head and she turned toward him. "Nay?"

"Send our Lachlan to find the man who may have wished the sainted Mary harm?" He shrugged, laughter in his eyes. "Methinks 'twould be best if the warrior retains the ability to walk when he is brought to our fair keep."

She nodded. "Lachlan, you will ride to Braeburn and inquire about the maid. Gilmour, you find the warrior. And Ramsay..." She turned toward him, her eyes slightly narrowed as she examined his face. "What of you, my son?"

He resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. It seemed like a lifetime that she stared at him, but finally she spoke.

"You will find the maid's mount."

"As you wish, Mother," he said with some relief for her averted gaze.

She smiled. "Good. With God's grace, by the morrow we will know the maid's true identity."

"She is no spy," muttered Lachlan, eyeing Ramsay.

He shrugged. "A heretic, then. Or a murderess, or—"

"A heretic!" Lachlan rasped.

"A—" Gilmour began, but Flanna rose abruptly to her feet.

"Quiet!"

"A murderess.” Gilmour snorted.

Roderic rose beside his wife. "Lads," he said, his voice deep. "Your lady mother called for silence. Surely you've no wish to upset her. She might... swoon."

"Aye," said Gilmour wryly. "And I might suddenly burst into a hundred wee pieces, like a shattered mug, but I rather doubt it."

"Are you saying your mother is less than the epitome of fragile femininity?" Roderic asked.

Silence spread over the room like spilled ink. The brothers glanced nervously at each other and away.

"Well, Father," Gilmour said finally. "Malcolm of Ryland does still bear that scar."

"Aye," Lachlan added. "And I think mayhap Haydan the Hawk could have defended himself without Mother's assistance."

"Scars," Roderic said, as if dismissing such an inconsequential topic. "How can you speak of scars in the presence of me fair bride? Look at her. Is she not as delicate as a spring blossom?"

Flanna lowered her eyes and lifted one hand delicately toward her bosom. A little eyelash batting and she would have fit into the queen's entourage like a cog into its niche, but not a soul there seemed wont to mention the disparity between her reputation and her demeanor.

"No comments?" Roderic asked finally. "Very well, then. What have you learned here, lads?"

"Not to trust Mother's innocent expressions?" Gilmour murmured. Lachlan grinned then cleared his throat as he glanced away.

"What say you, Mour?" Roderic asked.

"‘Tis naught."

"I was quite certain you spoke, so tell us what sage wisdom you have learned from this day."

Gilmour clasped his hands behind his back and spoke like a chastised lad. "Not to judge truth on mere appearances?"

"Well said." Roderic grinned as he kissed his wife's hand then placed it upon his arm. "Try to remember that as you go forth."

"Aye, Father," Gilmour promised.

"I shall," Lachlan agreed.

They failed.

Twenty-four hours later, Ramsay stood in the doorway of the infirmary and listened to his brothers with a mix of resignation and humor.

"Her eyes are sapphire," Gilmour said.

"You do not know the color of her eyes," Lachlan argued. "Just as you do not know her name."

"Unless I am wrong. And I never am..." Gilmour smiled wistfully as he gently squeezed the hand of the woman who slept on the mattress between them. "Her eyes are as blue as the heavens from which she was sent to me."

"To you," Lachlan scoffed.

"Certainly to me. Who else..."

Ramsay let their words filter into nothingness as he watched the girl. By virtue of her silence alone, she seemed far more intelligent than his two rambling brothers.

Her face was nearly round, saved from being babyish by her pointy little chin. Against her ivory cheeks, her downy lashes seemed almost dark, though they were truly no darker than her hair, which was the rich hue of summer barley. It was as long as his arm and as luminous as the morning sun. 'Twas little wonder, really, that his brothers were daft over her. It was a hard won lesson, to learn to separate a woman's looks from her soul, and if one was to judge her by her face... well... the word "saint" did come to mind.

But strangely, it was her hands that fascinated him. They were so slim, so refined and pale and delicate. Placed together on the coverlet, they made it seem almost as if she were praying, and in a moment they twitched ever so slightly, as if moved by her own supplication.

Aye, she seemed angelic, perfect, a tiny slip of bliss sent to earth in the form of a woman. But he had known perfection before, had spent sleepless nights waiting to know it again—to hold her, to beg her for one more kiss, knowing he shouldn't, knowing she was too pure, too good. Only to find...

"I'll not have you saying that sort of thing about the lass," Lachlan said. His voice was low, challenging. All humor had fled from his tone, but far be it from Gilmour to care about that note of warning.

"Just because she's an angel doesn't mean she does not possess the same desires and needs of other women. It doesn't mean she will not want me," Mour said, and caressed her cheek with his knuckles. "But you are right: an innocent should not hear such words. I must keep me thoughts to meself."

"As well as your hands," Lachlan said, and knocked the other's arm aside. "Or I'll see you tossed arse first from the infirmary."

Gilmour laughed as if genuinely surprised. "Please tell me you do not think to have her for yourself, brother."

Lachlan's eyes narrowed. "And why not?"

"Because you... well... you..." Gilmour flipped his hand up and down as if encompassing his brother's entire being. "An angel does not belong with an ogre."

"And neither does she belong with the devil."

"Truly, Lachlan, she is much too refined to be had by the likes of you. Look at that angelic face," Gilmour said, and once again stroked his fingers up her cheek. "Look at that—"

But in that instant the angel awoke. Her eyes flew open. "Unhand me," she growled.

"You're awake!" Gilmour's eyes widened.

"Praise be!"

She jerked her gaze to the right at the sound of Lachlan's voice. "Touch me, either one of you, and I swear by the living God I'll see you cut and quartered before the dawn."

CHAPTER3

Anora remained very still. Where was she? Had the Munro caught her? Or—

The warrior! He had chased her and she'd run. Panicked. She knew better than that, better than to show fear.

"They are blue."

She snapped her gaze to the man at her right. He was dark, broad, powerful. She'd learned long ago never to trust a powerful man.

"What?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Your eyes," he said. "They are blue."

"Mary?"

She swept her attention to her left. The man there was fair haired, winsome, ungodly handsome. She'd learned long ago never to trust a handsome man.

"What did you call me?" she asked.

"Mary. 'Tis the name I gave you whilst you slept, for I imagine you look like the sainted mother of Christ."

Flattery. She let herself relax a smidgen, but she couldn't be careless, for oft those who spoke of saints were the antithesis of holiness themselves.

"You needn't worry," said the fair haired man, "for we will not harm you."

"Nay," agreed the other, his voice deep and earnest. "Indeed I will guard you with me very life."

She carefully soothed her voice to one of schooled refinement. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"You have come to Dun Ard, the high fortress." The fair haired man smiled easily. "We be the brothers MacGowan. I am called Gilmour, and yonder broad pillar is Lachlan."

The MacGowans! Even in her home in the far north, she had heard of them.

"Lass?"

"Aye?" She stilled the rapid beat of her heart and raised her chin a notch.

"Your name... 'tis not Mary by any wee chance, is it?"

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 Dim 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 the 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."