“And if it rains?”
He scowled. ” ‘Twill keep me alert, lest we be discovered.” Sweet Almighty, what a marvelous martyr he had become.
She shifted her gaze toward the alcove then back to him. ” ‘Twould surely do you no good to be drenched again.”
But it would do him a world of good to hold her, for she looked so small and soft that his arms ached to—
Amazing. While Lorna had taught him much of pain, it seemed he had learned little of common sense.
“I remain here,” he said, thinking that martyrdom was surely much safer than idiocy.
She watched him for a long, silent moment, then said, “About the night at the inn, I—”
“Go to sleep, lass,” he said quietly.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he refused to allow it, interrupting once again.
“I am hoping to be canonized soon,” he assured her.
“After you die of the ague?”
“I do not think martyrs are allowed to die of something so mundane.”
She smiled a little, and he forced himself to keep breathing. ‘Twas only a smile, after all, the slightest tilt of the lips. “You will find shelter if the rain worsens?”
He stared at her for a moment, knowing he should say no. Agreeing to spend the night near her was foolishness, and standing here arguing with her, merely seeing her hair glimmer in the firelight, watching the flash of her eyes, was nearly his undoing. He pulled his gaze back toward the fire.
“MacGowan.” Her voice was very small. “I am sorry.”
When he glanced at her, he saw that her face looked so tragic and solemn and sweet that his heart wrenched at the sight of it.
“For …” She seemed to wrestle with herself for a moment, but finally she spoke again. “Your loss.”
“Loss?” he repeated and curled his hands into tense fists.
“For losing Lorna.”
“Oh. Aye.” He relaxed marginally. “Good night, lass,” he said, and fetching Gryfon, found him a sheltered spot where grass grew in abundance.
* * * * *
The night was endless. The wind moaned, rain drops slashed at unexpected intervals into his face, and beneath him the earth felt as hard and unforgiving as old sins.
Ramsay sat up with an irritated snarl and stared with longing at the hidden alcove. The wind cursed at him and spat wet leaves into his face.
Enough was enough, he thought, and jerked to his feet. So what if he was a fool? So what if he was weak where she was concerned? At this juncture he was surely too exhausted and too damned cantankerous to be aroused by her.
Besides, if he tried anything idiotic, she would most likely dismember him.
Scraping the branches aside, he crouched low and entered. It was smaller even than he had thought, but there was just enough space to crawl in behind her. Still, there was no place to put his arms—no place but around her.
“MacGowan?” Her voice was drowsy, but no note of panic evidenced the tone as he settled his arm cautiously across her waist.
“Aye.” His own voice was gruff, low, foolish. ” ‘Tis I. Go to sleep. You are safe.”
“I know,” she breathed and slipped back into her dreams.
* * * * *
When morning dawned, Ramsay awoke slowly. She lay against his body, her hair scattered like living gold across his arm, her buttocks pressed snugly against his erection.
He swore in silence and arose with a start.
“MacGowan?” She sat up just as quickly, her sleepy eyes wide. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay! Nay,” he said, smoothing his tone. “All is well.”
“It is time to leave?” she asked, and brushed a scattered lock from her face with the back of her hand.
Ramsay held his breath as he watched. He’d always had a weakness for women who brushed scattered locks from their faces with … oh, what the hell—she made him randy as a hound. “Aye. ‘Tis well past time to leave. I will fetch our mount,” he said.
In a hopeless attempt to save his failing peace of mind, Ramsay insisted she sit behind him today. It should have been safer than having her perching atop his manhood. Out of sight, out of mind, after all. But even after plaiting her hair into a long fat braid that morn, soft wisps of it were wont to flow against his neck, and now and again her breasts would bump against his back, joggling his mind and hardening his body. He gritted his teeth against the temptation and faced resolutely forward.
Beneath them the miles wore away, bearing them closer and closer to their destination, to the time when he would no longer be tormented by her nearness. ‘Twas surely a good thing, he told himself as they traversed a burn. Water splashed up around Gryfon’s high-stepping legs.
Then he heard Notmary gasp. “Nay!”
“What is it?”
“Go!” she said, and slipped sideways. He gripped her arm frantically.
“Mary!”
“Let me go!”
“Why?”
“You must—” she began hastily, but at that instant, the sound of hoofbeats reached his ears.
Jerking about, he faced uphill.
Mounted soldiers galloped down upon them. There were a dozen at least, and each one rode a white horse.
“Stay seated!” Ramsay jerked the dirk from his boot.
“Nay!” she gasped, and grabbed his hand. “Nay, Ramsay.”
Their eyes met. There he saw the lies laid bare like fallow ground, and when next he glanced up, the first of the warriors was already upon them, then off his horse and down on one knee, his head bowed in deference.
“Lady Anora,” he said, his voice filled with boundless gratitude. “You have returned.”
She pulled her gaze away from Ramsay. “Caird,” she said. “Why are you here?”
“Me lady.” He rose abruptly to his feet. “When your escort returned, saying you had been lost, our troops were sent far afield to search for you. Our laird has been horribly … worried.”
“Where is he?”
“He camps just outside of Evermyst.”
Ramsay sat very still, his gaze never leaving the girl’s pale face. “Your laird?” he asked.
She did not look at him, did not speak, and Ramsay shifted his gaze down to the warrior. “Tell me,” he said, “who is your laird?”
The warrior straightened with a scowl. “He is called Innes Munro,” he said, as if there should be none who was not aware. “The Munro of the Munros, and the lady’s betrothed.”
The world swirled dizzily around Anora. Banners waved, men yelled, horses galloped. Fears and dreams scattered and melded in her mind, making her want to scream, to escape, but they were already crossing the valley toward home, and with that simple, steady movement, her mind began to clear. MacGowan sat stiff and silent before her, but she dared not look at him. Indeed, she dare not think about him, for she had to concentrate, to consider what must be done.
She had not expected the Munro to send his troops so far afield; she’d thought she’d have more time. She had known, of course, that he would stake his claim, but she had hoped, had believed, that he would remain at Windemoor. That would have given her a chance to reach Evermyst unmolested, to steady her nerves, refine her plans. But now there was no time, for from the top of the next hillock she could see not only the high, crumbling turrets of Evermyst, but the brightly colored pavilions of Munro’s camp. Fear clawed at her belly.
Below her, horses whickered. Men pointed, and then a huge man ducked from the largest tent and approached with long-strided purpose.
Around them, their escorts grew silent as their leader drew closer. Tension cranked up like a loaded crossbow until he stood only inches away.
Anora lifted her chin, but let her eyes widen with fear.
His nod was curt, his voice as guttural as she remembered. “You had me worried.”
Her heart was beating overtime. “I have told you before, my laird, you needn’t concern yourself on my account.”
“Oh, but I must. ‘Tis me duty,” he countered, and stepping toward her, raised his arms. “Come down, now.”
She struggled with her fear, pushing it away like a threatening tide before sliding stiffly into his arms. He stood very close, too close, smothering her, but she stifled her fear and kept her movements slow as she pulled out of his arms.
He held her a second longer, then released all but one arm. ” ‘Tis good to have you home, lady. But I wonder …” His eyes were as small and sharp as a ferret’s. “Who is this fellow with you?”
She could not speak, could not bear to look at Ramsay, to see the condemnation in his eyes.
“The lady seems to have lost her tongue for a moment,” Munro said, shifting his gaze upward, “so I ask you, laddie, what be your name?”
There was a prolonged moment of silence, then, “I am called Ramsay. Of the MacGowans.”
“The MacGowans.” Anora felt the Munro stiffen, saw his giant hand settle with almost casual ease on the bone handled dirk at his side. “And what might you be doing this far north, MacGowan?”
It was difficult to breathe, more difficult still to raise her gaze to Ramsay’s impassive face.
“Last I heard, ‘twas not the Munros’ task to decide where a man travels.”
The Munro grinned, showing the gap where a molar was missing. “It could be you have heard wrong, lad. Why are you here?” he asked, and pulled his dirk from its sheath.
Fear exploded in Anora’s gut. “He saved me!” she blurted.
Munro turned slowly toward her, like a bear considering his next meal. “Saved you, lady?”
“Aye. Were it not for him, I might well have perished far from my homeland and … you … my laird.”
“Well, then, I owe him a great debt of gratitude. Come, MacGowan, you will be our guest this night,” said the Munro, and tightening his grip on Anora’s arm, turned to go.
“I fear I cannot.” Ramsay’s words were measured.
Munro turned slowly back, his entire body tense. “What is that you say, lad?”
” ‘Tis just this—lad,” he said evenly. “I must return home this night.”
“But I insist that you stay,” Munro said, and glanced almost casually at the guards who rode nearby. Immediately they tightened their circle around him. “To accept me gratitude.”
Ramsay glanced about him. The suggestion of a grim smile shadowed his face, and then he settled his hand on his sword. “As much as I would like to—”
“Please!” Anora rasped, then calmed her voice with a hard won effort and tried to smile. “Please stay, sir.”
He turned toward her, his expression flat, his eyes unreadable. Still she held his gaze.
“Please stay,” she repeated, and forced herself to relax. He would be safe; she would make certain of that. “I owe you much.”
“Aye,” the Munro agreed. “And the lady’s debts are me own. You must join us for a homecoming feast. Caird, have me mount brought up.”
“Aye, me laird.”
“And now, me dearest,” Munro said, turning to her again. “You must tell me why you escaped me men?”
“Escaped them!” She glanced fearfully up into his broad face. “Nay. ‘Twas simply that the mare you gave me became startled and fled into the woods. I could not stop her.”
He scowled. “She bolted?”
“Aye.”
“Caird,” he snarled, lifting his gaze from her face. “The mare has displeased me lady. Send a man to the south in search of her. When we find her …” He returned his attention to Anora, his scowl harder than ever as he nodded. “We shall feast on her carcass and you shall have the first morsel.”
“Nay!” Her heart jammed in her chest as words lodged in her throat. “Please. ‘Tis not necessary, my laird.”
He watched her closely. “The beast endangered you,” he rumbled.
“Aye. But … ‘twas my own fault. As you well know, I am not very strong, and when she took the bit in her teeth …”
“So you do not want her slaughtered?”
“Nay,” she murmured.
He nodded once. “You have bought the beast’s life for a while longer—but tell me, lass, why did you not return to the protection of me men?”
Anora lowered her face, her heart beating hard and fast against her ribs. ” ‘Tis embarrassed I am to tell you.”
“Embarrassed?” He narrowed his eyes and tightened his fist on his dirk again. “Was there one who compromised you?”
“Nay!” She quelled her nervousness, lest he sense it but mistake the reason. People had died for less. “Your men were naught but courteous.”
“Good.” He glowered at his men, then turned to mount the gigantic stallion just brought to him. From his steed’s great height he reached down for Anora’s hand.
She shook her head, trying to stand her ground, but she felt light-headed and nauseated. “If it pleases you, me laird, I will walk.”
For just a moment, his gaze swept to Ramsay.
“You rode on that wee horse. It would please me if you rode on mine,” he rumbled.
She acquiesced without a word, giving him her hand and settling stiffly in front of him.
“Come along, MacGowan,” Munro said. “Mayhap you can assist me lady with her story.”
The men around Ramsay urged him forward, and he came, riding alongside them.
“She was just about to tell me why she did not return to her escort.”
“I fear …” She wrapped her fingers in the stallion’s mane for strength and concentrated on the verdant country. There, atop a high, flat sided hill, perched Evermyst, fifty rods above the restless sea. Her home. Her sanctuary. She would
not
live in fear here. She would be safe again, as would her people. Of that, she would make certain. ‘Twas all that mattered.
“You fear what?” Munro rumbled.
It did not matter what the MacGowan thought. It did not matter how he felt or what he did, she reminded herself. All that mattered were her people, her home, her freedom.
“Lady,” Munro said.
Anora snapped her mind back to the matter at hand. “I became turned about in the woods. I tried to find my way back to the safety of your escort, but the mare had run long and hard, and I …” She let her voice drift away.
“You should have called out.”
“I did. I called and …” She swallowed hard. “Indeed, I fear ‘twas my own voice that brought the warrior upon me.”
“Warrior?”
His huge arm tightened like a vise about her waist. Fear rose in her throat. It took all her strength to keep from attempting to fight free.
“My laird,” she whispered, “I cannot breathe.”