Flanna raised her brows. Roderic rose beside her. “The
two
of them?”
“Together?”
” ‘Twould mayhap be more than the lass had bargained for,” Flanna opined.
“That I doubt,” Ramsay said, his tone as dry as his soul.
“What say you?” His parents turned in unison toward him.
He could feel the girl’s gaze shift in his direction as well, but he kept his attention focused on his parents. “I am certain the lass will be safe with me brothers to protect her.”
“Aye.” Flanna held him in her gaze for a moment longer before turning to their guest. ” ‘Tis decided, then,” she said finally. “Preparations for the journey will begin immediately. You shall return to Levenlair with Lachlan and Gilmour, as well as a serving maid and additional guards.”
“You are too kind,” Mary murmured, curtsying as she did so and ignoring the rumbling disagreement that had already begun between her two escorts.
“Nay,” Roderic said. “We only wish to keep you safe until you reach your home.”
Aye, Ramsay thought, watching her from beneath lowered brows. But who would keep them safe from her?
“And what of Bully?” Anora asked.
“What’s that?” Gilmour turned toward her.
They would be leaving in the morning, but he had arrived at her door some minutes before, asking if she would like a stroll in the gardens. She had accepted with ladylike grace. It had not been a difficult task to divert his attention past the sun washed arbors to the greens beyond. There, not fifty rods from Dun Ard’s drawbridge, a host of men trained for battle. Ten score, perhaps more, but the vast number did nothing to throw them into chaos. They trained in perfect precision, well armed, well organized, well mounted, with a broad and impressive captain at their helm. She had noticed him before, had even inquired about him, for a well trained army was one of the things Evermyst needed most. True, her warriors’ armor needed mending, their claymores sharpening, and their bows re-stringing, but first and foremost, they needed the kind of confidence and skill that could be taught only by a leader such as Dun Ard’s broad captain of the guard.
“Bully,” she said, glancing away from the captain and up through her lashes. “Will he be accompanying us?”
“Bull—oh,” Gilmour said and laughed. “You mean Bullock.”
She joined in the laughter, making the sound as light as feather down and carefully self effacing. “Bullock,” she said, and glanced once more toward the hillside. The man was as broad as a destrier and as commanding as a king. He would be a good fellow to lead her own frayed troops, but if she was not mistaken, he would not easily be swayed by her careful charm or her simpering silliness. Perhaps she would be better off with a man less experienced but more easily manipulated. She glanced up through her lashes again at Gilmour’s handsome face. “I am such a ninny sometimes,” she said. “Will he be accompanying us on the morrow?”
“Nay,” Gilmour said. “In truth, he rarely strays far from Mother’s side.”
“Oh?”
“It seems he feels he failed her in the past and has determined never to do so again.”
Loyalty? She forced herself not to scowl as she mulled this over. How was it that a woman obtained such a quality from a man? Could it be that this Bullock was infatuated with Lady MacGowan? Might the two of them be sharing some torrid affair that Roderic merely tolerated? But no. Though the lady of Dun Ard most surely held power in her hand, it did not seem to lessen her laird’s strength. There was something between them. Affection, yes. But more a balance of sorts, a trust. Or was it all a facade, a mask they wore as easily as Anora wore her own?
“And the others?” she asked. It was an impressive battalion. The light of the setting sun shone like burnished gold off the tips of their lances, attesting to the workmanship of their forgers, the quality of their steel. “How many will be accompanying us?”
“A dozen. Mayhap a few more.”
“A
dozen?”
Her mind raced and her memories soared.
“Lass.” He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You needn’t worry.”
A dozen against scores of her enemies. But perhaps it would be enough to secure her and hers against the evils of ignorance and aggression. After all, the MacGowans’ swords looked to be made of Spanish steel. Their leather crested arrows were cast from two types of bows—mechanical crossbows for power, yew longbows for speed. And their horses! Though they were as large as any native stock, they possessed a certain flair, a sort of high-stepping elegance. How had they obtained such marvelous beasts? Had they crossed the typical war horse with barb blood, or—
“You will be safe,” Gilmour said. “This I promise.”
“Of course.” She lowered her eyes. “I know naught of war or defenses.” Or at least she wouldn’t if circumstances had not forced her to learn, but with the MacGowans on her side she might yet win the day. After all, they were respected, feared …
“Lass, you’re pale as a ghost.”
“Nay! No ghost!” she gasped.
“What?” He started back slightly, looking startled.
“I mean, I suppose I am nervous, ‘tis all—after …” She paused, honing her stricken expression.
“Dear lass.” Drawing her hand into his palm, Gilmour covered it with his other. “You mustn’t dwell on the past. Please. You are safe now. This I promise for—”
“I will not fail you again.”
Anora turned with a start to find Lachlan beside her.
“Brother,” Gilmour said, sounding less than thrilled with his company. “I thought you were training with the others.”
“And I thought you were overseeing the packing.”
Gilmour grinned and lifted a casual shoulder. “The lass was fretting about our journey. I felt it me duty to console her.”
“Kind of you. But you needn’t bother yourself further, for I am here now.”
” ‘Tis ever so thoughtful of you—” Gilmour began, then lifted his gaze abruptly from his brother to the distant field and grimaced. “Bugger it! Will Jamie never learn to block an overhand blow?”
Lachlan turned rapidly toward the green. “By the saints, he parries like a limp chicken.”
“Aye, ‘tis a mockery of the MacGowan name. Would that someone could teach him the proper method.”
For a moment Anora thought Lachlan might march straight away to the training field, for she saw the muscles in his broad neck tighten as if he already held a sword. But he remained as he was, a slight scowl stamped upon his face as he eyed his younger brother. “Aye, someone should teach him, indeed. What a pity you’re not up to the job, Mour.”
“Umm,” Gilmour said.
“What is wrong with the way he parries?” Anora asked, gazing toward the battle field.
“He is off balance,” Lachlan said. “If he is to stand strong beneath the blow, he must spread his legs thusly and—”
“I doubt the lady is interested in learning how to battle, Lachlan,” Gilmour said.
“Nay,” she said, and forced a laugh. “I know nothing of the art of defense, of course, but if you say he is inept … that is to say, mayhap he would be better suited for staying here whilst we journey—” Her breath stopped abruptly and she turned as a shimmer of white snagged her attention.
“Pearl,” she gasped. The mare stepped up beside her. Her foretop, snarled with autumn brambles, fell across her fine dark eyes as her unruly mane brushed Anora’s arm. Without another thought, Anora grasped the bridle in her hand and lifted her gaze to the man on the horse nearby.
Ramsay MacGowan stared down at her from a scarred and restive stallion.
“I found this mare in the woods,” he said. His expression was unreadable, his eyes as steady as a falcon’s. “Might she be yours?”
Anora smoothed her hand down the mare’s finely arched neck, A scratch marred the pearly hide of her shoulder, but beyond that she seemed unscathed, and suddenly Anora wanted to cry. But tears were a luxury afforded only by the wealthy and the daft.
“Aye,” she said and pursed her lips. “Aye, she is. My thanks for her safe return.”
He stared at her hand, and she stopped its movement, curling her fingers subconsciously against Pearl’s warm hide.
“I suppose we can hardly let you walk all the way to your father’s keep … Mary of Levenlair.”
He said the name oddly, as if he did not quite associate it with her, but she forced herself to remain calm. It mattered naught what he thought, for the other two brothers were more than willing to believe.
“A fine steed she be,” Lachlan said.
“Aye, she is that,” Ramsay agreed, and shifted against the high cantle of his saddle. “Finely made, yet tougher than she first appears.”
“She’s had a hard time of it, I suppose, unaccustomed to fending for herself,” Lachlan said.
Aye, it was clear that Pearl had had a difficult time. Her saddle and pad were missing. She had lost some two stone, and her ivory tail, long as a spinster’s broom, was knotted with a dozen prickly burrs.
“Aye,” Ramsay agreed. “Despite the Munros’ bloody nature, ‘tis said they treat their mounts well.”
Anora stopped her hand in mid air, realizing that she had been petting the mare again. Surely ‘twas not a thing a regal lady would do, yet it seemed better to continue than to stare up at him like a cornered hare. She forced her fingers to stroke the mare’s rabbit-soft hide.
“The Munros!” Gilmour said. “What the devil do you speak of, Ram? The mare is the lassies’.”
“Aye,” Ramsay said. “I see that.”
She refused to look at him, but kept her hand moving in a slow rhythmic motion.
“What do the Munros have to do with the mare?” Lachlan asked, but when Ramsay said nothing, Anora spoke.
“Your brother thinks I am somehow in league with a clan called the Munros.”
“You jest,” Lachlan said.
“It happened when he was a wee thing,” Gilmour explained, and shook his head as if deeply troubled. ” ‘Twas the tumble from the rowan tree when he was but two and ten. His mind has not been right since.”
She forced a laugh and hoped to God it did not sound like the bray of a nervous ass. “What a pity.”
“Aye, ‘tis,” Gilmour agreed. “He was of quite average intelligence before the fall.”
Even without looking, Anora knew that the eldest brother cocked his head in concession to the ribbing. “So the mare is not of Munro stock, Mary of Levenlair?” he asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” she said, and looked up at him. She had meant to glance and look away, but suddenly she could not. His sleeves were rolled up above broad wrists and one brawny arm rested almost casually atop the other on the pommel, yet despite his studied nonchalance, there was tension in him. She could tell by the way the tendons were pulled taut in his wide boned wrists, how his mouth, full as a lad’s, remained immobile above his hard cut jaw. “But whyever would you think so?” With brutal discipline, she forced her mind back to her subterfuge. She must not falter, not now.
“The Munros ride white steeds,” he said. “Did you not know?”
“Nay,” she said. “And do they favor green bonnets to match their bonny eyes?”
Lachlan chuckled. Gilmour laughed out loud, but Ramsay’s gaze never wavered. “My mistake. You could not have obtained a Munro steed. Not when you do not even know who they are. Is that not so … Mary of Levenlair?”
” ‘Tis so,” she said, and though her knees felt weak and her hands unsteady, her voice sounded blessedly strong.
Ramsay’s gaze sprinted from her eyes to her hands, and then, like a scheming devil, one corner of his sensuous mouth quirked upward.
“I leave you to her, then,” he said, and releasing his grip, let the reins slip into her hand as he turned his steed away. “There’s no need for your thanks.”
* * * * *
Perhaps ‘twas true. Perhaps the mare was not a Munro mount. After all, that mercenary clan did not own every white steed in Scotland. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence that the Munros had been seen riding through MacGowan land, that the lass had been threatened and wounded, that the girl rode a white steed, that she had whispered the name in her abject fear, that—
Sweet Almighty! Ramsay paced the length of his chambers again—the chambers he shared with his brothers.
Where were they? It was well past nightfall and they would depart from Dun Ard early the next morn. Still, they had not found their beds, which led Ramsay to one logical conclusion: they were with the girl.
He paced again.
Aye, they were with her—flattering her, flirting with her, mooning over her. Even now she was probably glancing up through her lashes and laughing in that way she had. Girlish, yet not quite so. Watching them with sky blue eyes that were worldly wise yet strangely innocent. Touching their arms with bold familiarity while her fingers seemed to tremble at such nearness.
Who was she? What was she really? A child, or a wanton? And why was she here? The story she told was not the true story. At least, not the story she told with her baby soft lips. But what of the story she told with her hands? He had watched them, how they trembled, how they gripped, how they stroked.
If she was the pampered lass of Levenlair, why were there calluses on her petal white hands? If she was the cherished daughter of a wealthy laird, why did she stroke her lost mare as if the steed were her last friend upon earth? When she’d awakened from unconsciousness her words had been harsh enough to peel the hide off a wild warthog, yet his smitten brothers had acted as if her every utterance was the sweetest nectar.
What was it about her that turned their minds to goose down? True, Gilmour had forever been distracted by anything female, but generally Lachlan could keep his wits about him.
What magic did the lass possess that turned their heads? She was not even particularly comely. Ramsay scowled as he paced.
Mayhap he was being less than entirely honest. After all, her skin was like purest cream, and her hair like spun gold. Her eyes were as blue as the heavens and as wide as a child’s, but there was nothing childish about her form. No, there she was all but a dream, crafted like a small, luscious goddess, with breasts that …
He swore in silence and cleared his head. He wasn’t pacing the floor to think about her breasts. There was nothing special about breasts: half the population of Scotland had them, and hers were undoubtedly much like any others. He was pacing the floor because he had to decide why he would be accompanying her tomorrow.