Mistress Tanner?”
Lindsay curiously regarded the circular object in her palm, which Merry had assumed was her pennanular brooch. To her surprise she found she held the red-gold raven amulet of her Irish ancestors, which Kat had pressed her into taking before she departed Falcon’s Lair.
Merry had promised to wear it but had no intention of draping such a primitive, pagan object over her fine gowns, and she had thrust it rather unceremoniously into her jewelry box the moment the coach was underway. She would not hurt Kat’s feelings for the world, but the piece was simply too unusual for her tastes.
She opened her palm and Ranald Lindsay regarded the amulet with a slight frown, his gaze traveling from the fierce raven carved into the gold to her eyes.
“’Tis but an amusing family memento,” she said somewhat awkwardly, sensing his curiosity rising by the moment. She hastily closed her fist about the amulet, startled by a ripple of electricity that seemed to dart up her arm, similar to the crackling undercurrent of the air before a storm. She gave a nervous little laugh. “I daresay milord Wickham shall be forced to vastly improve upon my jewelry stocks when I arrive at Braidwood.”
“Indeed.” Ranald Lindsay’s voice was suddenly quiet, speculative. Merry sensed dark thoughts roiling in the man’s head, and wondered what cause she had given him to disapprove of her now. Ah, no matter. Soon enough she would be setting her dainty slipper on the charming garden paths of Whitehall again, planning a sweet rendezvous with some besotted young swain. One last innocent flirtation before she was Lady Wickham of Braidwood Manor.
She smiled to herself, for it was far too easy to envision the dashing Ranald Lindsay as her handsome suitor, and if he presumed to steal a kiss amidst the brilliant blossoms, why, she was not certain she would protest. Not at all.
Chapter Four
RAN GAZED DOWN INTO the upturned face of Meredith Tanner and felt his insides clench, as if someone had delivered a sudden blow to his middle. There was nothing but a soft admiring light in her gray-green eyes, while all he could think of was Wickham. The man’s name rang through his skull with the certainty of a pounding anvil. Blair’s beautiful face flashed before his mind’s eye, her sparkling blue eyes beckoning him with laughter, with love. Yet the last memory of the face he must carry forever in his heart was one of her still and pale, a marble figure sketched upon a cold stone bier.
The emotion sweeping over him was more than anger, less than rage. Rather he felt an icy determination that must make his gaze as keen as the predatory wolf’s, but Mistress Tanner seemed not to notice.
To his surprise, she reached out and laid a small hand lightly on his arm. Like his Blair, she was petite, but this was no sturdy Highland lass. Her skin was white as the linen shirt Ran wore, a delicate tracing of blue veins visible just below the surface. Hands that had never toiled a day in their life, a redhead’s porcelain complexion doubtless thus preserved by aid of costly potions and frivolous parasols.
Ran barely refrained from shaking off her refined touch, it disgusted him so. She was everything he despised, the purest representation of a lazy, worthless, pampered lot of Tudor lapdogs. The only ones who might compete for the title were the equally pathetic followers of the Stuarts.
He strove to maintain a neutral expression amid her tinkling laughter. Something about this woman aroused an emotion in him so dark and primitive he was afraid he might wrap his big hands around her neck and simply squeeze if he did not keep a tight rein on his actions at all times.
“La, milord, you are too quiet by half,” Meredith remarked as she peered up at him from those darkly fringed, gray-green eyes. Eyes like the watered silk she wore, changeable like a Highland loch, reflecting blue sky one moment, stormy clouds the next. “Although I am sorely
Lindsay curiously regarded the circular object in her palm, which Merry had assumed was her pennanular brooch. To her surprise she found she held the red-gold raven amulet of her Irish ancestors, which Kat had pressed her into taking before she departed Falcon’s Lair.
Merry had promised to wear it but had no intention of draping such a primitive, pagan object over her fine gowns, and she had thrust it rather unceremoniously into her jewelry box the moment the coach was underway. She would not hurt Kat’s feelings for the world, but the piece was simply too unusual for her tastes.
She opened her palm and Ranald Lindsay regarded the amulet with a slight frown, his gaze traveling from the fierce raven carved into the gold to her eyes.
“’Tis but an amusing family memento,” she said somewhat awkwardly, sensing his curiosity rising by the moment. She hastily closed her fist about the amulet, startled by a ripple of electricity that seemed to dart up her arm, similar to the crackling undercurrent of the air before a storm. She gave a nervous little laugh. “I daresay milord Wickham shall be forced to vastly improve upon my jewelry stocks when I arrive at Braidwood.”
“Indeed.” Ranald Lindsay’s voice was suddenly quiet, speculative. Merry sensed dark thoughts roiling in the man’s head, and wondered what cause she had given him to disapprove of her now. Ah, no matter. Soon enough she would be setting her dainty slipper on the charming garden paths of Whitehall again, planning a sweet rendezvous with some besotted young swain. One last innocent flirtation before she was Lady Wickham of Braidwood Manor.
She smiled to herself, for it was far too easy to envision the dashing Ranald Lindsay as her handsome suitor, and if he presumed to steal a kiss amidst the brilliant blossoms, why, she was not certain she would protest. Not at all.
Chapter Four
RAN GAZED DOWN INTO the upturned face of Meredith Tanner and felt his insides clench, as if someone had delivered a sudden blow to his middle. There was nothing but a soft admiring light in her gray-green eyes, while all he could think of was Wickham. The man’s name rang through his skull with the certainty of a pounding anvil. Blair’s beautiful face flashed before his mind’s eye, her sparkling blue eyes beckoning him with laughter, with love. Yet the last memory of the face he must carry forever in his heart was one of her still and pale, a marble figure sketched upon a cold stone bier.
The emotion sweeping over him was more than anger, less than rage. Rather he felt an icy determination that must make his gaze as keen as the predatory wolf’s, but Mistress Tanner seemed not to notice.
To his surprise, she reached out and laid a small hand lightly on his arm. Like his Blair, she was petite, but this was no sturdy Highland lass. Her skin was white as the linen shirt Ran wore, a delicate tracing of blue veins visible just below the surface. Hands that had never toiled a day in their life, a redhead’s porcelain complexion doubtless thus preserved by aid of costly potions and frivolous parasols.
Ran barely refrained from shaking off her refined touch, it disgusted him so. She was everything he despised, the purest representation of a lazy, worthless, pampered lot of Tudor lapdogs. The only ones who might compete for the title were the equally pathetic followers of the Stuarts.
He strove to maintain a neutral expression amid her tinkling laughter. Something about this woman aroused an emotion in him so dark and primitive he was afraid he might wrap his big hands around her neck and simply squeeze if he did not keep a tight rein on his actions at all times.
“La, milord, you are too quiet by half,” Meredith remarked as she peered up at him from those darkly fringed, gray-green eyes. Eyes like the watered silk she wore, changeable like a Highland loch, reflecting blue sky one moment, stormy clouds the next. “Although I am sorely
Similar Books
The Good Girl
Mary Kubica
The Recruiter (A Thriller)
Dani Amore
Bones in High Places
Suzette Hill
Remember Me: Oakville Series:Book Two
Kathy-Jo Reinhart
The Darkness of Wallis Simpson
Rose Tremain
Secrets of Bearhaven
K.E. Rocha
Elsewhere
Gabrielle Zevin
Burn What Will Burn
C. B. McKenzie
Triptych and Iphigenia
Edna O’Brien
