The Fraser Bride Read Free Page B

been prone to sharp flashes of temper. He remained as he was, however, though his square hands ground to fists. “Your time at court has turned your brain soft. The lass could no more be a spy than I could be a … a … rotting parsnip.”
    “I’ve oft wondered about the similarities,” Gilmour murmured, straightening from the trunk.
    “And why not?” Ramsay asked, ignoring him. “With sentiment turning against the French every day, there may be any sort of trouble brewing against us. Remember, brothers, Norman blood does flow through our veins.”
    “She is no spy,” Lachlan said and Ramsay shrugged.
    “Then perhaps she’s—”
    “Hold!” Flanna’s voice rang against the stone wall, her eyes gleaming nearly as bright as her auburn hair in the light of the nearby candles. ” ‘Tis not our place to determine what she is just yet. Not until we learn
who
she is.”
    “She is no—” Lachlan began, but Flanna raised her hand for silence.
    “Gilmour, I’ve a mission for you. You will travel to Braeburn and ask if perchance they are missing one flaxen haired maid.”
    He nodded. “Aye, Mother, though I am loath to leave the fox to guard the hen house.”
    She stared at him quizzically for a moment, then turned to her husband. “He is your son,” she said, asking for an explanation.
    “Methinks he refers to Lachlan as the fox,” Roderic said.
    “Ahh.” She turned back toward her third born son with a raised brow. “Never have I heard my ancestral home called a hen house before, Mour. But rest assured, I’ve a task for your brother as well.
    “Lachlan, you will attempt to find the warrior—” she began, but Roderic shook his head and she turned toward him. “Nay?”
    “Send our Lachlan to find the man who may have wished the sainted Mary harm?” He shrugged, laughter in his eyes. “Methinks ‘twould be best if the warrior retains the ability to walk when he is brought to our fair keep.”
    She nodded. “Lachlan,
you
will ride to Braeburn and inquire about the maid. Gilmour, you find the warrior. And Ramsay …” She turned toward him, her eyes slightly narrowed as she examined his face. “What of you, my son?”
    He resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. It seemed like a lifetime that she stared at him, but finally she spoke.
    “You will find the maid’s mount.”
    “As you wish, Mother,” he said with some relief for her averted gaze.
    She smiled. “Good. With God’s grace, by the morrow we will know the maid’s true identity.”
    “She is no spy,” muttered Lachlan, eyeing Ramsay.
    He shrugged. “A heretic, then. Or a murderess, or—”
    “A heretic!” Lachlan rasped.
    “A—” Gilmour began, but Flanna rose abruptly to her feet.
    “Quiet!”
    “A
murderess!”
Gilmour snorted.
    Roderic rose beside his wife. “Lads,” he said, his voice deep. “Your lady mother called for silence. Surely you’ve no wish to upset her. She might … swoon.”
    “Aye,” said Gilmour wryly “And I might suddenly burst into a hundred wee pieces, like a shattered mug, but I rather doubt it.”
    “Are you saying your mother is less than the epitome of fragile femininity?” Roderic asked.
    Silence spread over the room like spilled ink. The brothers glanced nervously at each other and away.
    “Well, Father,” Gilmour said finally. “Malcolm of Ryland does still bear that scar.”
    “Aye,” Lachlan added. “And I think mayhap Haydan the Hawk could have defended himself without Mother’s assistance.”
    “Scars,” Roderic said, as if dismissing such an inconsequential topic. “How can you speak of scars in the presence of me fair bride? Look at her. Is she not as delicate as a spring blossom?”
    Flanna lowered her eyes and lifted one hand delicately toward her bosom. A little eyelash batting and she would have fit into the queen’s entourage like a cog into its niche, but not a soul there seemed wont to mention the disparity between her reputation and her demeanor.
    “No