Read Online Snow Raven by Patricia McAllister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia McAllister
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it without the faintest evidence of hesitation such as she’d displayed last night. She drank, while Ran watched the slim column of her throat. He wondered if any man had dared taste that rarefied ivory flesh before. He knew the queen demanded absolute loyalty from her ladies in waiting, with chastity as the ultimate end. He also knew of the Court’s reputation for corrupting innocents. Into which category did Merry Tanner fall?
There was an obvious coquetry in her manner of speech, laughter, even something so minute as a slanted glance from those gray-green eyes. She had been carefully coached, or else emerged, into a state of womanly graces, complete with the talent to pout, rail, or cry at the drop of a pin. Ran detested such artifices. False emotions were worse than the unholy rage that gripped him whenever he thought of his dead wife and child. At least his rage was honest. As keen and glittering as the blade he wished to drive through Wickham’s black heart.
At the moment, however. Merry did not appear either coy or simpering. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was bruised from exhaustion and her cheeks hollowed with shadow. When she finished drinking, he fetched a makeshift meal to break their fast, handing two barley bannocks to her without a word. She nibbled cautiously at the dry bread between sips of water while Ran tended to Uar.
Merry finished the humble meal, rose and drew Lindsay’s tartan closer about her shoulders, shivering in the humid morning air. A glance at her soiled skirts revealed they were damp as well, ruined beyond repair. How Jane would scold! Her tiring woman seemed to take personal pride in her lady’s wardrobe, and was quite a termagant whenever her authority in such matters was usurped.
Merry’s attentions moved from a quick study of the makeshift camp to Ranald Lindsay. His back faced her as he resaddled his mount. Even without his tartan, clad only in breeks and a bishop-sleeved white shirt, wavy dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders, he was ruggedly handsome. With a sudden burst of vanity, Merry wished she did not appear so rumpled and weary. She had never traveled well, even in the queen’s retinue with the utmost comfort of a luxurious coach and frequent breaks. Lindsay must suppose her as fragile as the wildflowers Uar demolished with one wide swath of his ugly head, as the horse greedily grazed a fresh patch of ground where his master led him.
It was too tempting to whimper about things he could not change, like the weather, but Merry vowed she would not give him the satisfaction of succumbing to female ploys. If she was to gain and keep the respect of such a stalwart man, she must call upon her own internal strength. Just as she was thus resolved, he turned suddenly and captured her in his dark gaze.
“Merry?”
Ranald extended a large hand with those artist’s fingers so she might mount Uar with his assistance. Merry felt the breath leave her in a silent rush, and without a word stepped forward and laid her smaller, paler hand in his. He glanced at the point where their flesh made contact as if he, too, was startled by an invisible tingle racing up his spine.
Soon she was safely settled in the saddle, her ruined skirts arranged as neatly as if she rode in a royal procession. Habit was a hard thing to break, though Merry sensed her riding companion’s mixed amusement and chagrin. Why bother to act a lady when one presently resembled a tumbled bawd?
“We shall cover ground more quickly, now the rain has fled.” Ranald’s remark did not require a response, but Merry offered one anyway.
“’Tis fortunate, too, for I confess I am weary of the journey already.”
“Or the company?”
She smiled at the touch of asperity in his tone. “Nay, Ranald, you have not given me any cause for grief. Indeed, but for the timeliness of your rescue, I daresay I might still be sprawled within that coach, while the gentle Welsh rain poured down upon me.”
He laughed, a
There was an obvious coquetry in her manner of speech, laughter, even something so minute as a slanted glance from those gray-green eyes. She had been carefully coached, or else emerged, into a state of womanly graces, complete with the talent to pout, rail, or cry at the drop of a pin. Ran detested such artifices. False emotions were worse than the unholy rage that gripped him whenever he thought of his dead wife and child. At least his rage was honest. As keen and glittering as the blade he wished to drive through Wickham’s black heart.
At the moment, however. Merry did not appear either coy or simpering. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was bruised from exhaustion and her cheeks hollowed with shadow. When she finished drinking, he fetched a makeshift meal to break their fast, handing two barley bannocks to her without a word. She nibbled cautiously at the dry bread between sips of water while Ran tended to Uar.
Merry finished the humble meal, rose and drew Lindsay’s tartan closer about her shoulders, shivering in the humid morning air. A glance at her soiled skirts revealed they were damp as well, ruined beyond repair. How Jane would scold! Her tiring woman seemed to take personal pride in her lady’s wardrobe, and was quite a termagant whenever her authority in such matters was usurped.
Merry’s attentions moved from a quick study of the makeshift camp to Ranald Lindsay. His back faced her as he resaddled his mount. Even without his tartan, clad only in breeks and a bishop-sleeved white shirt, wavy dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders, he was ruggedly handsome. With a sudden burst of vanity, Merry wished she did not appear so rumpled and weary. She had never traveled well, even in the queen’s retinue with the utmost comfort of a luxurious coach and frequent breaks. Lindsay must suppose her as fragile as the wildflowers Uar demolished with one wide swath of his ugly head, as the horse greedily grazed a fresh patch of ground where his master led him.
It was too tempting to whimper about things he could not change, like the weather, but Merry vowed she would not give him the satisfaction of succumbing to female ploys. If she was to gain and keep the respect of such a stalwart man, she must call upon her own internal strength. Just as she was thus resolved, he turned suddenly and captured her in his dark gaze.
“Merry?”
Ranald extended a large hand with those artist’s fingers so she might mount Uar with his assistance. Merry felt the breath leave her in a silent rush, and without a word stepped forward and laid her smaller, paler hand in his. He glanced at the point where their flesh made contact as if he, too, was startled by an invisible tingle racing up his spine.
Soon she was safely settled in the saddle, her ruined skirts arranged as neatly as if she rode in a royal procession. Habit was a hard thing to break, though Merry sensed her riding companion’s mixed amusement and chagrin. Why bother to act a lady when one presently resembled a tumbled bawd?
“We shall cover ground more quickly, now the rain has fled.” Ranald’s remark did not require a response, but Merry offered one anyway.
“’Tis fortunate, too, for I confess I am weary of the journey already.”
“Or the company?”
She smiled at the touch of asperity in his tone. “Nay, Ranald, you have not given me any cause for grief. Indeed, but for the timeliness of your rescue, I daresay I might still be sprawled within that coach, while the gentle Welsh rain poured down upon me.”
He laughed, a
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