by Ashe Barker
“It was not that. Nothing like that at all. You see, Archie had been taken by the English, and Robbie needed to get him out of the garrison where he was being held. A diversion was required to attract the attention of the guards. I thought, if I took off my clothes, there in the street, they would watch me and not notice Robbie and the men creeping behind them...”
She paused, dared a peep at the laird and Lady McGregor. Both appeared equally astonished.
“In the street?” Lady McGregor repeated. “You removed your clothes in the middle of the street? I imagine you drew something of a crowd.”
Jane nodded miserably. “Yes,” she whispered. “Quite a large crowd.”
“And, did it work? This diversion?” the laird wanted to know.
“It did, yes. Robbie was able to rescue Archie and the other prisoners. As soon as everyone was safe he threw a cloak over me and told me to run. So, I did. And I left my clothes behind, just as I said. So, you see, it was all perfectly innocent really.”
A few moments of utter silence passed, broken only when Robbie succeeded in prising her out of the chair. “We should go,” he muttered. “I can see that you an’ I have much to discuss.”
“Wait.” Blair McGregor held up his hand. “One moment, please.”
Robbie halted, turned to face his father. At his side, Jane prayed again for divine deliverance in the form of a thunderbolt, perhaps, which would helpfully obliterate her where she stood.
“I confess, lad, when ye told us all that ye meant tae wed wee Cecily’s nursemaid I wasnae sure of the wisdom o’ that plan, but I felt it only fair tae meet the lass for myself an’ see what she was made of. An’ as for you, lassie, I understand ye have your misgivings about the idea as well.”
“My lord, I never—”
Blair McGregor silenced Jane with just one raised finger. “Robbie. Your mother tells me that she has advised ye tae work on the lass, try tae convince Miss Bartle here that ye’re good enough for her. Well, from what I have seen an’ heard this night I think ye shall have your work cut out wi’ that, but I wish ye well wi’ the task since I doubt ye’ll find a finer woman tae have at your side.”
He got to his feet, assisted by his wife. Only now did Jane recall that the laird had been grievously wounded at the battle of Flodden just a couple of weeks earlier and was still recuperating. He held out his hand to her. Dumbly, Jane took it and shook.
Blair grinned at her, his ice-blue eyes twinkling in amusement. “I havenae been so richly entertained in more years than I can recall. Whatever ye might decide tae do about this boy o’ mine, lass, I sincerely hope ye will no’ begrudge an old man your company from time tae time. I believe we shall get on very well, you an’ I.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jane had to run to keep up with him, and was complaining bitterly of that fact, but Robbie did not shorten his stride. He firmed his grasp on her wrist and tugged her up the main stairs, then along the stone flagged corridor leading to his chamber on the second floor of the Mortain keep. He was not about to risk speaking to her, not yet. Apart from anything else, he had not the slightest notion what he might say.
Fury warred with relief.
What in earth had possessed the wench to be quite so forthright? And with his father, of all people? Throughout his entire life Robbie had known his father to be a fair man, but firm. He was not to be trifled with, yet Jane had regaled The McGregor with tales of stealing sovereigns and prancing about naked in the bustling streets of Stratford-upon-Avon. Incredibly, she seemed to have got away with it. Blair McGregor had been amused. He had seemed to genuinely like Jane and enjoyed her company.
God’s blood, how the fuck did she manage that?
His father usually took his time before warming to a new acquaintance, if he did at all. Jane had not exactly wound The McGregor around her little finger, but not far off.
And she had not even seemed to be trying. Her antics should have spelled disaster, but somehow she had charmed everyone and had even managed to get Blair McGregor’s blessing for their marriage.
It had never occurred to Robbie that his family might object; he knew them too well to think that. Even if they did not approve, he would marry as he saw fit. His father had, so had his brother. Robbie would not be the exception. When he told Jane that they would be wed, he meant it.
He would have his way, and she would do as she was told.
He reached the door to his chamber and hauled Jane within, pausing only long enough to slam the door behind him for the second time that day.
She rounded on him at once. “You bloody oaf! How dare you? Let me out.”
“Be silent,” he growled. “Just... be silent, will you?”
“I will not.” She made a dash for the door, but he caught her easily around the waist and, lifting her bodily, dumped her on the large bed.
Jane squirmed away from him and darted off the mattress on the far side, then repeated her mad rush for freedom.
Her second attempt was no more successful than the first. Robbie caught her again, and this time, while she wriggled and squirmed and called him several choice names that a young lady really should not be able to call to mind, he turned the key in the lock and pocketed it. Satisfied that, short of squeezing through the window and jumping into his brother’s moat, she was going nowhere, he released his grip on her.
Jane proceeded to grab a solid brass candlestick and brandished it before her. “Let me go or I shall brain you with this.”
She looked as though she meant it. Robbie approached with caution, darting first to his right, then his left, before he managed to catch hold of her wrist again and disarm her. This time, he spun her around and propelled her back onto the bed, face down. He managed to hold her there long enough to retrieve a kerchief from his pocket and used it to bind her wrists in front of her. At least now she could not spill his brains over his own rug or impale him on his own dagger.
“You bastard,” she spluttered, wrestling furiously with her bonds but unable to free herself. “Let me go.”
He rolled away, panting. “I think not, wench.”
“I told you before, my name is Jane, not ‘wench.’”
“Hellcat would be more like it,” he muttered.
“And you are a brute. A... a lackwit. I hate you...”
“I dinnae think ye do, though ye might be close by the time I have done wi’ ye.”
“What do you mean? It is me who is done with you!”
“Ye mistake my meanin’, lass. Ye will recall I promised ye a thrashing when it next proved convenient.”
“A thrashing? What madness are you spouting now? If anyone deserves a thrashing, it is you.”
He chuckled. “Well, ye may be o’ that mind, but ‘tis no’ the way it works. I command, an’ ye obey, or take the consequences.”
“I am not one of your men. I am not of your clan. You do not command me. I insist that you—”
“Enough, Jane. ‘Tis time ye listened, an’ ye will do so, even if I have tae gag ye tae get a word in.”
“You would not dare!”
He sighed and pushed himself off the mattress. It was time to dispel any remaining illusions regarding who was in charge here.
It took him just a moment or two to locate another pair of kerchiefs, but in that brief spell of time Jane had flung herself from the bed yet again and was kicking at the door as though she meant to bounce it from its hinges.
“Betsy will nae appreciate that, lass,” he warned. “I see I need tae ensure ye stay put.”
He picked her up for a third time and returned her to the bed, this time using a kerchief to fasten her bound wrists to one of the posts. At least now she would not be running about his chamber causing mayhem.
“It occurs tae me, lass, that ye may be somewhat intoxicated, which could account for your outburst an’ general belligerence. Drunkenness is no excuse, but I shall no’ punish ye until I am quite sure ye properly comprehend what is happening an’ why.”
; “Intoxicated? Do not be ridiculous. If I am angry, it is because you are behaving like a savage.”
Robbie shrugged. “Ye may be right, but I will still permit ye a wee while tae sober up before we proceed. I shall put a log or two on the fire tae ensure ye do no’ become chilled, and then I shall leave ye. I suggest ye get some sleep if ye can. If ye require the use of a chamber pot, ye should tell me before I go.”
“You cannot leave me here, like this.” She tugged at her bound wrists though her efforts were futile.
Robbie ignored her as he crouched before the fire and prodded the low flame into life, then set a large log on top of it. That should last a fair while. He straightened and regarded Jane from the foot of his bed.
“I shall go back down to the hall now an’ finish my meal. When I return, if ye’re asleep I shall nae disturb ye. Our reckonin’ can wait until morning. So, d’ye need that pot or no’?”
If a glare could kill, he would have dropped dead on the spot. “I need nothing from you, McGregor.”
“Just as ye wish.” He offered her a polite bow and slipped the key from his pocket. He unlocked the door, stepped out into the corridor, then closed it softly behind him. Robbie hoped he was doing the right thing as he turned the key in the lock from the outside, then sauntered along the corridor. He could still hear Jane’s shouts of outrage as he turned the corner and descended the stairs.
* * *
Robbie returned to his chamber perhaps an hour and a half later. There was silence along the corridor, which he took to be a good sign. He opened the door to his chamber and stuck his head inside.
Jane was just where he had left her, though she had lifted her feet up onto the mattress and now lay on her side facing away from the door. Her bound wrists were above her head, and she appeared to be breathing slowly and deeply. He moved silently around to check, and was satisfied that she was, indeed, fast asleep.
This rather served to confirm his suspicion that much of what had gone before had been the wine talking. He hoped she would not develop too much of a taste for it.
Robbie stood at the foot of the bed and debated with himself whether or not he should seek to remove her gown. He opted not to. It was best to let her sleep off the effects of overindulgence and he would surely disturb her if he attempted to undress her. He settled for removing her leather shoes, untying her bound wrists from the bedpost so that she could sleep in comfort, and easing the blanket out from underneath her body, then draping it over her to ward off the night-time chill. Those matters attended to, he then removed his own clothes, threw another log on the fire, and slid into the bed beside her.
Jane was still fast asleep when the first fingers of dawn reached around the shutters. As was his usual habit, Robbie woke at first light, to find Jane’s leg sprawling across both of his. Her face was buried in the pillow, her ebony hair strewn wildly across it and her bound hands tucked under her chin. He leaned up on one elbow to enjoy a sight he hoped would greet him every morning, if he could but convince her of the rightness of their union.
How was it that something could seem so obvious and clear to him, yet she utterly failed—or refused—to see it?
Ah, well, he had work to do. He accepted that much.
Robbie extricated himself from beneath Jane’s leg and rolled from the bed. He dropped to his haunches before the dying embers in the grate and prodded them back into life, then laid a new log on. He arranged a copper pot half full of fresh water close to the flames to warm the water for washing later. Robbie was accustomed to making do but had no quarrel with a spot of luxury when it was available. A warm wash on a cold morning was a treat he enjoyed, and he expected Jane would agree.
He was about to tug on his grey wool trousers but decided to opt for the kilt instead. He had missed the comfort of his traditional dress these past weeks in England. He draped the McGregor plaid about him, then opened the door to the corridor.
As he had hoped, a pair of maidservants were scurrying past about their early morning duties. He charged them with running down to the kitchens and returning with some bread, honey, and buttermilk.
He rather suspected that, when she woke up, Jane would not feel especially fresh and ready to face the day. He recalled well the feeling when he first imbibed too much ale and had to suffer the aftereffects the next morning. There were, of course, any number of remedies available, though none that, in his own experience, did much good at all.
Some swore by a mixture of raw eels and ground bitter almonds, but Robbie doubted he could lay his hands on the eels right now. Others recommended washing the testicles, or in the case of a woman, the breasts, in salt and vinegar. Robbie had once tried that cure himself. Whilst the experience had some merit, he recalled, he had found the smell unsettling and did not especially fancy it in this instance. Another treatment involved dousing oats in ice-cold spring water and gulping the lot down. Whilst Robbie knew from experience that the spring water alone was of proven efficacy in such matters, he considered it best applied directly to the face. Somehow, he could not imagine Jane thanking him for dumping a jug of freezing cold water over her head.
So, he would settle for dry bread to soak up the alcohol, buttermilk to calm her stomach, and hope for the best.
A groan from the bed heralded Jane’s awakening. Robbie padded over and sat on the edge of the mattress and waited for her eyelids to part.
They did. Jane let out another moan and rolled onto her back.
“Robbie...?” she began, then, “Oh, Lord, I feel sick.”
Half prepared for such an eventuality, Robbie was quick to grab the chamber pot from beside the bed and offered it to Jane just in time. She proceeded to deposit the contents of her stomach in the receptacle, then handed it back to him.
Robbie took the pot from her with a grimace and set it on the floor, close enough to be pressed back into service in a hurry if need be.
“Is... is there another chamber pot,” Jane whimpered. “I need...”
“I shall get you one.” He opened the door to find a maid on the other side, hand raised ready to knock. She bore a tray with the food and drink he had requested.
“Thank you.” Robbie took the tray and set it down on a side table. “Now, would you run and find me a pair of empty, clean chamber pots, please.”
“Chamber pots, sir?” the girl replied.
“Aye. Two of them. Quick as ye can, mind.”
She bobbed a curtsey and trotted off.
“Ugh, my mouth feels awful. I must have eaten something which did not agree with me.” Jane lay on her side, scowling at him. “I am so thirsty...”
Robbie was able to help with that, at least. He used a small tin cup to scoop some of the fresh, now slightly aired water from the copper pot and held it to her lips. “Sip some of this,” he advised.
Jane raised her hands to grip the cup, and only then realised that her wrists were bound.
She looked up at him, puzzlement giving way to anger. “You tied me up,” she accused.
He shrugged. “I felt it was wise. Ye did, after all, threaten tae split my skull open wi’ a brass candlestick.”
Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. “I did no such thing,” she protested. “I would never—”
“That candlestick, tae be exact,” Robbie clarified, pointing to the item in question that he had placed on the mantelpiece, safely out of her reach.
Her scowl grew suspicious now, as though she thought he was making it up. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldnae make a mistake about something like that. Tell me, Jane, what exactly d’ye remember from last night?”
“I...”
Their conversation was interrupted by another soft knock on the door.
“Ah, that will likely be your chamber pot.” Robbie picked up the soiled pot and went to open the door. He took the two pots from the wench outside and handed her the dirty one, requesting that she dispose of the contents. He thanked her and sent her on her way, then came back to stand beside the bed.
“Can ye manage this on your own?”
“Yes,” she snapped, swinging her legs out from beneath the blanket. The moment her feet hit the sheepskin rug beside the bed, she staggered and would have crumpled had he not grabbed her.
Jane swayed, her eyes closed, then seemed to regather her equilibrium. “You may let go of me now, if you please. And I would appreciate it if you would untie my hands, too.”
“Can I be assured that I need not fear a deadly assault with a candlestick? Or that you might seek to brain me with a chamber pot? Most particularly, a full one.”
She glowered at him. “You may be sure of that, Scot. I am not given to bouts of mindless violence.”
Robbie refrained from commenting, though that had not been his observation the previous night. He set both pots on the floor then untied the kerchief that bound her wrists. There was some redness, he noted, but nothing to suggest she had been in discomfort.
“I do not recall seeing you wear your tartan in quite than manner before,” Jane said, raking him with her gaze. “It is rather... fetching. But should your legs be quite so bare? Or your chest?”
“I shall wear stockings and boots when I leave this chamber, and perhaps a linen shirt if there is a chill in the air. Otherwise, this is how my usual attire is meant to look. I am glad ye like it, my wee Sassenach.”
“I beg your pardon. What did you call me?”
“Sassenach. ‘Tis a term we Scots use to describe someone from south o’ the border. ‘Tis not always a term of endearment, though I do not mean to cause offence. ‘Twas the name my father always used for my mother, so seemed suited for you.”
“Your mother? I...” She hesitated, clearly confused, then seemingly decided upon a change of subject. “I shall require privacy, Scot,” she announced, her chin tipped at a belligerent angle.
