Snow Raven (5 page)

Ran’s gaze drifted back to his little brother. Thus far Gil had escaped confrontation, though his posture clearly showed he anticipated the lecture to come. Hugo was still off tending the coachman, and Ran took the opportunity for a word aside with his sibling. In fact, he strode right over and stood before the youth until Gilbert could no longer stare at the ground, sky, or upended coach in an effort to avoid Ran’s piercing stare.

“Gil, what the hell provoked this rash act?” he demanded, keeping his voice low enough so Meredith Tanner could not overhear their exchange. He read defiance in the violet-blue eyes that finally met his and felt anger lick at him again. It was not the sort of icy anger he felt toward the woman and what she represented, but rather outrage tinged with uncertainty.

Ran was never certain how to handle Gilbert. His confidence was undermined by the fact his little brother was so vastly different in nature and outlook than himself. Gil delighted in mischief, in laughter, in life itself. Scolding did little good because he was oft shattered by the slightest criticism. His mischievous nature bore no trace of malice, and Ran was unused to understanding much of anything save vengeance or his own quiet despair.

Gil shrugged, though he was not foolish enough to push his big brother much further. “I just wanted to get out and see the world a bit.”

“A bit? Is that what you call up and disappearing in the middle of the night on a foolish lark to the godforsaken wilds of Wales.”

“Oh, Hugo and I didn’t come directly south,” Gilbert corrected him promptly. “We went roundabout, by way of Glasgow.”

Ran’s fists clenched at his sides, merely to prevent him from grabbing Gil and throttling him senseless. Which was worse, he wondered, a lad who lived in his head playing at the dangerous game of a dashing highwayman, or a feather-headed court bawd with neither the brains nor the simple instinct to realize she had contracted herself a matrimonial union with the deadliest snake this side of the border? He wasn’t entirely sure which one deserved the harsher lecture. In any case, lectures were Darra’s specialty, not his.

“However you came to be here, ’tis pointless,” Ran said abruptly. Gilbert looked subdued, or momentarily contrite; a glance aside at Meredith Tanner revealed her looking on, at an obvious loss but appearing no less determined to see justice done.

The proper thing to do, the chivalrous course of action, would be to escort Mistress Tanner to London posthaste, or see her safely settled in a nearby inn whilst he or Gilbert or Hugo rode ahead with a message to the queen. It was the ultimate irony, Ran mused, flicking an assessing gaze over the young woman’s proud posture, handling Sir Jasper’s betrothed with kid gloves whilst his own wife had been subject to such indignities. Sweet Jesu, he almost lost his fragile grip on sanity just thinking of it.

Blair’s sweet face flashed before his mind’s eye, her serenity mocking him. Or mayhap it was Mistress Tanner’s cool, rain-colored eyes that touched a nerve as she regarded him with obvious impatience.

“I see I have little choice except to trust these mischief makers will be dealt with eventually,” she said. “You should know, the coach is not mine nor Her Grace’s. It belongs to my uncle, who will surely demand some sort of reparation.”

“As I assured you is forthcoming,” Ran bit out, the curt edge to his voice causing an auburn eyebrow to arch on her heart-shaped face. He sensed Gilbert’s wince and added for his brother’s benefit, “Ahh, I wonder how many neighbor’s stables need mucking … and how many ’twill take to earn out such an elegant vehicle.”

“’Twas an accident!” Gil protested.

“Does that make the consequences any less?”

“Well, nobody was hurt, not really …” Gil cast an anxious glance in Jem’s direction, reassuring himself that the driver was up and about, leaning against his childhood companion Hugo in a semiconscious state.

The redhead gasped faintly. “Not hurt? Ohh, you wicked little knave—”

Ran’s hard look quelled her outburst. “I shall deal with this matter, Mistress Tanner. Perhaps you should glance through the coach and retrieve whatever valuables you wish to take along.”

Merry could hardly ignore the note of censure in Lindsay’s voice and she bristled. How dare he rebuke her, when it was his own scurvy relative who had caused her undue trauma. She tossed her head and turned away, biting back a retort she knew would only cause those dark eyes to harden further and his already chilly manner to turn to ice. Faith, she had no notion what she had done to cause him any distress, other than challenge his authority in matters of discipline when it was already quite clear he had no intention of dealing with the young ruffians beyond a token scolding.

She glanced at the amulet clutched in her hand, wondering again what had possessed Kat to press it upon her at the last moment, then she shrugged and slipped the cord over her head. A practical enough girl, she would not risk losing a family heirloom. She gathered up her rumpled skirts with some measure of dignity and returned to the coach, regarding the wreckage with a mixture of trepidation and determination. The thick, slippery mud sucked at her already ruined slippers as she delicately picked her way through the glop, and sensing several amused gazes on her rigid back, she kept her head high. She would not be humiliated by a lot of crude Scots.

Merry reminded herself of her royal connections as she leaned over the coach’s frame, silently seething at the predicament she was in. Not only would Her Majesty be furious, but Gilbert Lindsay’s antics had cost her the first acquaintance of her fiancé. The next time she saw Sir Jasper Wickham, it would be at the altar. By then it would be too late to beg off, should she find him displeasing. Not that she would, for she had seen his likeness rendered in several miniatures and paintings, and he was rumored to be as gallant as he was fair. Merry had agreed to the arranged match with only the faintest of concerns.

Her parents would never force her to wed anyone; her mother especially carried some quaint beliefs about love and destiny, but Merry had been more sensibly raised at Court and knew contracted marriages, made for practical and political reasons, were both a necessity and oft turned out quite well.

Upon her union with Wickham, her parent’s growing trading empire would be guaranteed a foothold in the border region, and yet another Tanner mark would be laid upon the land. Her little brothers and her own future sons would be assured of decent inheritances. Wickham himself gained a dowry that was quite considerable by now, no small boon given the amount of funds required to sustain a man at Court. Merry had heard he was as fond of little luxuries as she was, a man not averse to spending his last groat on an elegant, pinked and slashed suit or frivolous costume for a masquerade.

A glance back over her shoulder revealed the contrast between her noble fiancé and someone like Ranald Lindsay. Peer or not, the rugged Scot was hardly fit for Court, not because of his countrified wardrobe but rather his churlish manners. Lindsay was not the sort to make a gallant leg to any woman, much less whisper sweet compliments in her ear. Merry sensed any proposals of an intimate nature would be as blunt and curt as the man himself, and though she normally admired practicality, for some reason this realization irked her.

She was not used to any man dismissing her so lightly. Granted, she was not reckoned a beauty, but her charm and wit and position with the queen had always assured her a bevy of admirers. Lindsay seemed unimpressed by her status and thus far she had no opportunity to charm him—not that she wished to, Merry firmly assured herself. He was scarcely deserving of recognition, much less such an honor.

She sniffed and turned her attentions to gathering up what few items had been thrown free and she could reach. There were several small cases containing personal effects and precious jewelry she was determined to retrieve now, and she decided the men could handle the larger of her luggage. Fortunately she had traveled lightly for her impromptu trip to Wales, else the half-dozen suitcases should have easily multiplied thrice over.

Looking at Jem, she saw the driver was clearly in no condition to lift luggage or anything else. He leaned against the brawny Hugo, blinking as if still somewhat disoriented in the wake of their wild ride. Merry easily stepped into a role of control, the same she had adopted when organizing the household at Falcon’s Lair. Indeed, she felt most comfortable when delegating tasks to others.

She turned, skirts still held up out of the mud. She felt a perverse tingle of pleasure when she found Ranald Lindsay’s gaze on her again, though no smile softened the corners of his mouth. His dark eyes were inscrutable, as if he sought some explanation for her actions in her appearance. She nodded shortly in acknowledgment. “I will recover what I can, milord, but stronger shoulders will be needed for the baggage.”

“Aye.” He broke their matched gazes by glancing at his younger brother. “’Tis the first act of atonement you can make, Gilbert.”

The youth sighed but nodded with resignation. “Where shall we put the luggage? It cannot all fit on three horses.”

“If needs be, you can ferry it to Whitehall a piece at a time,” Merry put in a trifle sharply. She ignored Gilbert Lindsay’s pained look and tried not to decipher Ranald’s glance. “’Tis the least you can do to make amends, I vow.”

She tore her gaze from Ranald’s grim expression. Maybe it was best not to know what the brooding Scot thought. She picked a handful of small, scattered items out of the muck and slogged back to join the others. Already the sky had darkened again and the threat of more rain was imminent.

Ranald glanced at the roiling clouds above them. “’Twould appear nature would hasten our decision.”

“Decision?” Merry looked at him.

“Aye. Shelter is advisable, but the nearest town is some miles distant.”

“Mayhap someone could ride on for help, and have a coach sent back for the others?”

Ranald regarded Merry as if she was a feather-headed female, and she bristled under his faintly amused air. “By the time they returned, ’twould be long dark and travel all but impossible. I will take your suggestion under advisory, Mistress Tanner, but I believe the wisest course would be for all of us to forge on together.”

“To London, naturally.”

Ranald did not reply, but he had already turned back to Gilbert. “Hugo’s mount is already taxed to the limit with his bulk, so you shall ride double on Finegas with Mistress Tanner’s man.”

Merry was still chafing, annoyed, when Ranald turned and went to fetch the big brown gelding he had hobbled to a young oak. The animal was as shaggy as his master, its coat still coarse from the Highland winter, one of the sturdy ponies bred for a rugged environs without consideration for beauty. Merry wrinkled her nose; she was used to her uncle’s fine stables of horseflesh, and this beast was surely as ill-tempered as its owner. As if on cue, the gelding tossed his great ugly head, its eye rolling so the white showed, and she took a step backward as Ranald led it over before her.

“Mistress Tanner, I offer you the ease of the only conveyance available at present,” he said, and Merry frowned for she was certain she detected a mocking note in his smooth speech.

She eyed the beast rather warily. “I am not so certain ’tis the wisest course, milord.”

“Please.” His invitation was kindly enough, but his manner never softened. “I assure you, Uar has never bitten without provocation.”

Had another spoken those same words, Merry might have smiled, but she was unsure if Lindsay jested or not. “Methinks I would prefer to walk.”

His dark eyebrow arched, but without another word he walked past her, leading the horse, and paused beside the coach only long enough to retrieve something from the depths of the upturned passenger’s side. He turned and tossed something at her. Merry scarcely had time to react and the velvet cloak glanced off her skirts, but she snagged it at the last second before it ended up in the mud. She stared at him in silent outrage.

“I believe you may need it, Mistress Tanner. And soon.” Ranald nodded curtly at her before mounting his steed in one swift motion. He settled into place, his strong tanned legs lightly gripping the gelding’s sides, his posture as one born to the saddle. He tugged the hardy animal’s coarse mane, and it obeyed him on cue, wheeling in a half-circle and plodding off through the thick mud in the general direction of what passed for a road.

With shaking fingers, Merry tossed the cloak around her shoulders and drew the hood up over her head, already feeling the cooling gusts of the incoming storm fast on their heels. It started raining, fat drops glancing off the fine velvet. Mud was already oozing up around her fine slippers; she knew them to be ruined and decided in a fit of pique that Ranald Lindsay and his brat of a younger brother were wholly responsible. Never mind. She would be recompensed in the end, certainly, and if an apology must be won by the point of a blade, so be it.

With that comforting and rather delicious thought held firmly in place, she set off in the deep tracks left by Lindsay’s mount, determined one ill-bred Scot would never have opportunity to tell others
this
English rose was not made of the hardiest stock.

Chapter Five

BITTER WIND SLICED THROUGH Merry, tearing at her cloak and skirts. The storm rushed down upon the straggling travelers like a dark wraith, howling and plucking at what courage remained. She clutched her hood beneath her chin with frozen fingers, squinting through the downpour at the figures ahead.

Jem rode half slumped over Gilbert Lindsay’s gray mare, the younger man steadying him from behind. Though not seriously injured, the driver had obviously taken a beating during the accident. Merry’s gaze moved to Hugo, whose solid bulk dwarfed his little Highland pony, his legs nearly dragging the ground. Twice already Hugo had stopped his mount and gestured, pleading, for Merry to ride instead of him, but she set her jaw and shook her head.

Riding would merely give Ranald Lindsay something to jeer about later, and she sensed the brooding Highland laird would like nothing more than another reason to dislike her. Though she had yet to uncover the source of his antagonism, she sensed it as clearly as if he had called her a Tudor strumpet before the entire Court. One had only to feel those piercing dark eyes fix on their spine, to know how it felt to be disdained and despised.