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
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
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