“Not sweet enough for me to lick! Besides, Raven Carleton is English, while Beth Kennedy is Scottish.”
“Beth Kennedy is half English,” Lord Dacre pointed out.
“Which half?” Christopher drawled. “The top or the bottom? Father, you could have married Elizabeth Kennedy, but you didn't! You lost your heart to a raven-haired beauty and carried her off. You are the last person on earth to advise me to wed for money.”
“Christ almighty, Christopher, try to think with your brains instead of your prick. A wealthy wife's money will allow you to have as many exotic beauties as you want in your bed.”
“I want only one at a time, Father; I'm not greedy.” “I warrant you are, if you're anything like me.” Dacre's eyes narrowed. “Women are like horses, Christopher.” “Because we ride them?”
“Because you have to let them know who's master, and you always keep a spare one. All I ask is that you think about it carefully before you do anything rash.”
Raven felt someone playing footsies with her beneath the table and looked across at Christopher Dacre. He lowered one eyelid in a wink. “Do you have something in your eye?” she teased.
“Yes … you,” Christopher murmured, not caring that her brother could hear their byplay. He turned to Heron and said low, “I want to be alone with Raven at the fair tomorrow. Would you be a good fellow and escort Beth Kennedy and your sister Lark?”
Heron Carleton's gaze traveled down the table and came to rest on the fair-haired young lady who was his second cousin. Beth must have felt his eyes on her, for suddenly she looked at him from beneath her lashes and blushed. “What's it worth to you?”
Lowering his voice even further, Chris Dacre bargained, “I'll find us a couple of bedmates for later tonight.” When he saw Heron hesitate, he added an incentive. “Gypsy girls!”
“Done!” Heron offered his hand with heartfelt gratitude, and they shook on it.
Raven looked with curiosity from one to the other. “Did I hear you say ‘Gypsy girls’?”
“Costumes. We were discussing costumes for the masquerade,” Chris Dacre lied smoothly.
Heron quickly improvised, “Chris wagered me that none of the ladies would be daring enough to dress as a
Gypsy.”
Raven's wicked juices immediately began to bubble.
Heath Kennedy, on the second morning of Carlisle Fair, once again rode over the acres, checking every horse that was being offered for sale. He dismounted to examine some mares he wouldn't mind owning that would make excellent dams, but perversely he wanted to get his own animals back.
The day was warming up and Heath unfastened the neck of his leather jack, wondering if he was wasting his time in Carlisle. All of a sudden he spotted his stallion Blackadder. There was no mistaking the magnificent animal that had spent its life in the northern mountains guarding its herd of wild mares. Heath stopped dead in his tracks, legs spread wide, ready for a confrontation with whoever held his stallion's reins.
Heath observed the tall, blond male with the aquiline nose and expensive English clothes, almost feeling sorry for the poor fool. Then his eyes widened in disbelief as he saw that the son of a bitch was escorting Raven Carleton. When she saw him, Heath knew she was shocked by her swift intake of breath.
“What is it, Raven?” her escort inquired.
Raven blinked twice. “The roan,” she said quickly, “it is a beautiful riding horse.”
“Let me buy it for you.” Dacre's glance moved from the horse to the dark Borderer who owned it. “How much for the roan?”
“It's not for sale,” came the flat reply.
“Oh, come now, everyone has his price,” Dacre said with great condescension.
“Really? How much for the black?”
“Three hundred pounds.”
Dacre named the impossible price with such arrogance, Heath Kennedy wanted to slit his aristocratic English nose. Heath clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching for his knife. “Three hundred it is, if you'll throw in the woman.”
Raven gasped in outrage.
Dacre said, “You insolent swine, you need a damned good thrashing!” The stallion danced away at the angry tone, and Dacre suddenly found the black difficult to control.
“When you find someone up to the job, I'll be ready and waiting,” Heath taunted.
“Damn you both! I know a cockfight when I see one, and I have no stomach for them!” Raven's back, straight as a ramrod, showed her outrage as she walked off.
Dacre suddenly found the dark Borderer so threatening, he felt a prickle of fear at the back of his neck. He reached for the only thing that would shield him. “Obviously, you don't know my name. It is Dacre.”
Heath was stunned, though the expression on his face hid it well. Did Lord bloody Dacre order the murder of Ram Douglas? It was entirely possible. It was Thomas Dacre who had once arrested Ram and sent him to England to be hanged. Heath looked at Dacre's arrogant offspring with loathing, but he knew there was no way he could knife Dacre in the middle of Carlisle Fair and take back his property. “Obviously, you don't know my name,” he retorted. But you will before I'm done with you. His gaze swept over Dacre with contempt, then he turned his back and walked away, with a devil-may-care swagger that was deliberately provoking.
It wasn't long before Heath spotted Raven Carleton near the Gypsy caravans. He smiled knowingly. There wasn't a female breathing who could resist having her fortune told. He tethered his horse and watched. He wasn't the least surprised to see Old Meg beckon the girl and take her inside the wagon.
The Gypsy sat gazing into her crystal ball while holding out her palm. When the girl placed a silver sixpence in her hand, Meg asked abruptly, “Are you a witch?”
“No, of course not,” Raven replied honestly.
“I see a Celtic witch, a magic woman,” Meg insisted.
“Ah, that would be my grandmother.” Raven smiled. “She works spells and dispenses wisdom along with herbal remedies.”
“You smile, when you should take her seriously. She has the ancient gifts and knowledge; she is a Diviner. You should ask her what you wish to know.”
Raven shook her head. “She would bend me to her will.”
Meg's shrewd gaze lingered on the girl before her. “She will try, as will others, but it will not be a woman, it will be a man who bends you to his will.”
“A man? Can you tell me about my marriage?”
“Every female your age wants to know about marriage,” Meg said dryly as she looked into the crystal ball. “You will marry well into great wealth and a title. But the path will be circuitous.”
Lady Raven Dacre! The corners of Raven's mouth lifted in a smile. “I intend to lead him on a merry chase.”
“A chase indeed,” Meg replied, “but he will be the raptor; you the prey.”
“Oh, you speak of raptors and prey because I train hunting birds! You really do have the sight!”
Meg stared at her. “You too have the sight. You just do not use it. Ask your grandmother.”
“I shall! I intend to visit her soon.” On a sudden impulse, Raven said, “I want to buy a Gypsy dress, can you help me?”
Heath watched as Old Meg took Raven to another caravan. In less than five minutes they emerged with the dark beauty carrying a small paper parcel. When his grandmother entered her own wagon, Heath visited the other caravan. “What did the girl want?” he asked the young Gypsy woman.
“I sold her a Gypsy dress.” She opened her palm to show him the gold coin.
“You greedy jade!” Heath grinned. “A sovereign for one dress?”
She shrugged happily. “It was red. Red costs more!”
Heath was happy too, as he guessed that the Dacres must be hosting a masquerade ball at Carlisle Castle. All he needed was a costume and a mask! When he left the caravan, he searched for Raven. He saw her at a gaily colored booth, perusing its wares. Heath came up behind her silently. “You will meet a tall, dark, and handsome stranger who will ste
al your heart,” he murmured low.
Raven whirled around angrily. His mocking words told her he had seen her with the Gypsies. “Tall, dark, and ugly, you mean!”
He looked at the merchandise offered for sale and saw that they were silk stockings. “I suggest the black … very seductive.”
Raven turned her back upon him. “I will have a pair of the flesh-colored stockings, please.” She waited for his insolent comment, and when none came, she glanced up over her shoulder. With relief, she realized that he had departed, and turned back to the vendor. “I've changed my mind. I'll take a pair of black, please.”
As soon as dark descended, Heath made his way to Carlisle Castle. If his black stallion was grazing anywhere on the castle grounds, it would disappear tonight. He also reasoned that if Dacre was in possession of Blackadder, other animals from Douglas may have mysteriously found their way there. The broad meadow below Carlisle Castle was filled with horses. At first it seemed an impossible task to differentiate between a Douglas horse and any other, but Heath had worked with the animals for a month, and once he began to touch them, he recognized some of them. Moreover, the horses recognized him.
Heath, disappointed that his stallion was not grazing with the other horses, returned to the inn to concoct a plan. He already knew the ideal time would be the night of the ball, but he still had to decide how to get the herd back to Douglas, undetected.
Heath was not surprised to see Ramsay Douglas's two brothers, Gavin and Cameron, when he arrived back at the inn. Both captained Douglas vessels and had taken much-needed food supplies and fodder to Annan and its surrounding villages devastated by the recent raid, before anchoring in the River Eden at Carlisle. The minute Heath saw them, he knew they were the answer to his dilemma. He told them what he'd found at the castle and outlined his plan.
“Lord Dacre would never raid a Douglas holding. He's Head Warden, sworn tae uphold the law. Are ye sure they're Douglas horses?” Cameron asked.
“Do we care?” asked a grinning Gavin, ready to reive anything that belonged to the English.
“I'd never steal anything that didn't belong to me,” Heath swore solemnly, and watched the Douglas brothers fall off their stools laughing. “Tell your crew to get their carousing done tomorrow; they'll need to be sober the night after.”
“Then we'd best get started!” Gavin declared.
“Do you have a Douglas dress plaid I can borrow? I need a costume,” Heath explained.
“Yer never attending a bloody fancy-dress ball?” Cameron almost choked with mirth.
“We anchored next tae a Kennedy merchant ship. Ye'll likely run into yer father's wife at the party. Why don't ye wear a Kennedy plaid and shock the shit outa her ladyship?” Gavin said gleefully.
“I would never put Lady Elizabeth in the position of explaining one of Lord Kennedy's bastards,” Heath said gallantly. Though he meant it, the Douglas brothers thought him most droll.
On Friday, as promised, Lancelot Carleton arrived at Carlisle Castle. When he greeted his second cousin, Lady Elizabeth Kennedy, he found her in a rather petulant mood. “Your son, Heron, has been monopolizing my daughter. He has deliberately elbowed Christopher Dacre aside each and every time that young man has tried to pay attention to Beth.”
Lance Carleton tried not to laugh in Elizabeth's face. Young Dacre was the wrong sort of man to let anyone elbow him aside, and the only female to whom he was likely to pay attention was Raven. “Surely Rob will want a Scots noble for your daughter?”
“Over my dead body! Beth has too sweet and gentle a nature to be sacrificed to a coarse Scot. I have no intention of returning to Doon. Next week Beth and I plan to move into the old family home in the Rickergate, here in Carlisle.”
“Elizabeth, I cannot believe you would jeopardize your marriage to the Lord of Galloway. It is unthinkable.”
“It was unthinkable to have married him in the first place. Beth shall not be sacrificed as I was.”
Lance Carleton was shocked. His second cousin Elizabeth had somehow managed to snare one of the wealthiest lairds of Clan Kennedy, so blood-proud they claimed they were descended from the Kings of Carrick, and the foolish female was now risking it all by setting herself against Rob Kennedy. It was like pitting a flea against a wily red fox.
In the afternoon, when Thomas Dacre and Lancelot Carleton were drinking whisky, the subject of betrothals came up. Dacre seemed open enough to consider Raven Carleton and her dowry, but he would not agree to a firm commitment between her and his son, Christopher.
“Your relative Elizabeth Kennedy makes no secret of the fact that she seeks a match between Christopher and her Beth,” Dacre informed Carleton.
“Lizzie likely makes a secret of the fact that she has separated from Lord Kennedy, however.” Carleton did not need to point out that Kennedy controlled the purse strings of his family; Dacre's mind was seldom far from money matters.
“I see,” Thomas Dacre said thoughtfully. “Well, neither of us is in a hurry, Carleton. Next week, when we return to Bewcastle, I shall sound Christopher out about a future marriage with your lovely daughter Raven. In the meantime, the young people can enjoy getting to know each other better.”
Sir Lancelot knew his wife, Kate, was hoping against hope that a betrothal would be finalized, so that it could be announced at tonight's ball. He tried to cushion her disappointment. “Kate, it's better this way. Dacre and his son return to Bewcastle next week, so it will give Raven more time. I want her to be sure about her feelings before a commitment is made.”
“She is sure!”
“No, Kate, you are the one who is sure. You have made it clear you expect her to marry someone titled, and you have pushed her relentlessly toward Christopher Dacre.”
Kate Carleton laughed. “Lance, if you think Raven can be pushed toward anything, you are deluding yourself. Raven will always do exactly as she pleases.”
Before the Carleton ladies dressed for the ball, Kate sought out her daughters in the bedchamber they were sharing. “Your father is in negotiations with Lord Dacre for your betrothal, Raven. I have every reason to believe that we will hear wedding bells before the year is out.” Kate touched the material of a gold tissue cape Raven had laid out on the bed. “Very pretty. I've been thinking that it has been a long time since you have visited with your grandmother. You have neglected her shamefully.”
Raven's eyes widened. Her mother had been trying to wean her from her grandmother's influence for years. Then suddenly Raven realized her father hadn't been able to make Thomas Dacre commit to the betrothal yet, and that Christopher and his father were returning to Bewcastle. Raven hid a smile. Her mother was trying to manipulate her! “I shall do my duty and visit my grandmother next week. Would both of you like to come with me?”
An identical look of horror crossed her mother's face and her sister's at the same time. “You know we never saw eye to eye on anything in our lives! You are the one she loves, Raven.”
Raven heaved an inward sigh of relief. She would have a free hand in bringing Christopher Dacre to his knees with a proposal! Dressing for tonight's masquerade, however, presented more of a problem. She had to put on the red Gypsy dress, then cover it with the gold tissue cape that would disguise her as a goddess to her family. “Lark, why don't I help you with your costume? Then you can go along and help Mother while I dress.”
It took the better part of an hour to ready Lark for the ball. She had decided to be Princess Elizabeth of York, since she already owned a gown embroidered with white roses. It was her crown of silk roses that took up most of the time; it seemed to Raven that she would never succeed in anchoring it securely to her sister's fair tresses. Lark's eye mask was on the end of a wand, so she could wave it about; she looked more like a fairy princess than a real one.
“Lark, come along and help me with my Queen Guinevere costume. The steeple headdress needs more veiling attached, I believe,” Kate Carleton declared, “but I shall take your advice in the matter.”
CHAPTER 5
Heath Kennedy, garbed in a Douglas dress plaid, tore a strip from his old Douglas plaid, cut two eye slits in it, and fastened it across his eyes as a mask. The short kilt rode on his hipbones, exposing muscular thighs. He wore no shirt but instead draped the dark green and blue plaid across one broad, bare shoulder and tucked it into his belt along with his knife and his dirk.
Heath deliberately arrived late at the ball so that a good crowd would be gathered and he would not receive too close a scrutiny. He had reckoned without the young ladies, however. Word spread amongst them like wildfire that one of the handsome and powerful Douglas lairds was in attendance. They gathered in a group and followed him at a discreet distance, whispering and giggling.
Heath strode over to them and bowed before Beth Kennedy. “May I have this dance, mistress?” He saw the look of dismay on his half-sister's face, so before she could refuse, he swept her into a reel. “It's me, Heath,” he said low when they came together.
“Heath Kennedy, I cannot imagine your being invited here.”
He grinned. “I'll bet you are relieved I'm not a Douglas.”
“In truth, I am,” Beth admitted ingenuously. “I shall never know how my sister Valentina found the courage to marry Ramsay Douglas. He frightens me to death!”
“Valentina does have an overabundance of courage, and a good thing too. She's about to have twins.”
Beth went pale. “Oh dear, please tell her how sorry I am.”
The Border Hostage Page 5
