Free Snow Raven by Patricia McAllister

spontaneous and warm sound. It rumbled through his chest and hence Merry’s by proximity, as by necessity she was pressed back against him to make room for her voluminous skirts. She liked his laugh, when it was not tinged by ugly sarcasm or scorn. Was this Lindsay not so dour-natured, she could see him winning hands and hearts at Court.
    They rode for several hours, stopping only for brief rests and another barley bannock. At first it did not occur to Merry to wonder why Lindsay avoided the inns and villages scattered throughout the Welsh province, but when she spied a distant spiral of smoke and sighed longingly, it seemed he read her mind.
    “A fire and hot food must seem very tempting right now, I am sure.” He pronounced “very” more like “verra,” another unconscious reversion to his Scots heritage.
    “Oh, aye! You cannot imagine. I could soak for a week in a hot tub, and eat with both hands all the while.”
    Again a hint of humor in his chuckle, “If you ate so enthusiastically, you should never fit into such an elegant gown again.”
    “Formerly elegant.” Merry frowned, touching the soiled fabric.
    “Precisely the reason why I dare not expose you to public scrutiny, Merry. Certainly gossip travels quickly, even in these rural parts. Word would reach the queen of your being seen in such a state of disarray, riding double with a barbarian and disheveled in a most alarming manner.”
    “I had not thought of that. S’truth, Her Grace would be enraged.”
    Merry decided it was most considerate of Lindsay to protect her reputation, despite her niggling suspicion he gained great amusement from regarding her as some sort of dim-witted little prude. She shuddered at the mental image of her walking into an inn full of strangers on Lord Lindsay’s arm, her skirts torn and muddied, wearing the man’s tartan for warmth and modesty.
    Nay, ’twould never do. Word of a red-haired woman with the Scottish laird would reach the queen’s ear eventually, and none of Merry’s charms would serve to soften Her Majesty’s opinion on the matter. She would be branded a strumpet, Lindsay’s whore. Merry shivered, for to lose reputation at Court was a fate worse than death.
    Her worst fears materialized later in the afternoon, when they encountered another party headed south on the narrow country road. Ranald cursed and yanked at Uar’s reins the moment they heard the approaching hoof beats, but it was too late to avoid the passerby. Rather than plunge guiltily into the underbrush, he drew his mount up and they waited tensely as the other man slowed his galloping gray to a prancing halt.
    “Hail and well met!”
    The fair-haired rider wore a fine woolen cloak trimmed with fur, over a jerkin and doublet of watchet-green, embroidered with gold. Merry instantly recognized those colors and the soft cap he wore. A royal messenger! The worst possible soul she might encounter under the circumstances.
    She had no notion if Lord Lindsay knew the occupation of the fellow or not, but she dug an elbow into his ribs just the same, silently warning him. She dared not speak for fear her refined speech would betray her, and she was not about to attempt mimicking a peasant’s accent.
    She waited tensely while Ranald took stock of their situation, and when he spoke his utter calm amazed her. So did his sudden, rolling Scottish burr.
    “Greetings, sir. We bid ye pleasant travels.”
    The messenger nodded, touching the rim of his cap as his curious gaze flickered over them both. A red-haired woman, wrapped in tartan. A big, burly Scot riding double with her on a shaggy Highlands pony. What was more unremarkable? Nevertheless, he eyed the Scot’s scabbard and the healthy-sized sword inside it with respect.
    “Aye, a good day for journeying. Is the road passable after the rains?”
    “Och, if ye stay off the Cambrian branch, where the coaches caused such great ruts.” Merry suspected the real reason Ranald discouraged that road; her