“Your heart is the doorway to your soul, my lovely. But always remember that your soul has the final say, not your heart. When your soul talks to you, you must listen.”
Raven laughed as she saw her grandmother's hare cautiously emerge from his hiding place. “Did you experience the vision too, Magick?” The furry creature hopped across the floor and sniffed at a black object lying on the flagstones. “It's a feather, a raven's feather! If it was only a vision, how did this get here?” Raven picked it up, then gazed at her grandmother for an explanation.
“The goddess left you a token, a talisman. Objects such as feathers, shells, or horns that come from living creatures have great energy and power within them.”
Raven laughed with delight. “I shall sleep with it beneath my pillow tonight, so my dreams will be filled with magic.”
It was a long time before sleep claimed Raven, because her mind played over and over the ritual she had performed with her grandmother. She relived every detail, every word, every image, trying to divine their symbolic meanings. She asked herself why on earth the vision of the dark Borderer had intruded when she was focusing her full attention upon Christopher Dacre. Raven felt extremely vexed that the bold devil had insinuated himself into her ritual. He seemed to represent a vague threat, and she vowed to banish him from her consciousness. Gradually she slipped into slumber, yet the images remained.
She was in a castle tower room with Christopher Dacre. She was wearing her brother's shirt. Dacre blew out the candles and took her in his arms. She pulled away, coyly, and relit the candles. “You go too fast, Christopher. We should not be alone together in a bedchamber.”
“How else can we get to know each other … intimately?” Once again he took her in his arms and looked down at her lips hungrily. Then he blew out the candles and claimed her mouth.
Raven did not resist the kiss, but surrendered her lips up to him, yielding to his masterful arms and mouth, determined to explore her sexuality. Suddenly the candles relit themselves, their flames elongating brightly, and she opened her eyes to look up into the warm, hazel-brown eyes of the Borderer who had called himself Kennedy. He was bare to the waist and she recoiled from his nakedness. “You! How dare you?”
“You enjoyed the kiss immensely, Raven. You cannot deny it!”
“It was Christopher Dacre's kiss I enjoyed, you arrogant swine!”
“You are dreaming, Raven.”
“I know I am dreaming, you devil!”
“Do you imagine I would allow Dacre to kiss you, fondle you?”
“Allow? YOU allow?” she demanded scornfully, masking her fear. “I am the one who will allow Chris Dacre to woo me. We are betrothed!”
“I am the one who will woo you, Raven, and if you resist, it will be a bloody rough wooing!” To prove his words, he snatched her into his arms and took total possession of her mouth and her senses. He lifted her and carried her to the bed. Though she struggled valiantly against him, it was in vain. “Cover yourself!” she demanded in outrage. He wore only a kilt and she knew that beneath it he wore nothing whatsoever. Unbelievably, she felt him unbutton her shirt and remove it. Then he pulled her down into his arms, cushioning her breasts upon his broad chest.
“There is something else I lust for, my proud beauty. I demand a forfeit.” He held her against him possessively and slid his hand up her skirt to caress her bare leg.
Desperately, Raven reached beneath the pillow and pulled out the black feather. She watched in amazement as the dark Borderer accepted it, and sagged with relief. Yet she sighed with longing as his image began to dissolve, then moved restlessly in her sleep. Her palm cupped her full breast where the hand of the Borderer had touched her so possessively only a moment before.
When Raven opened her eyes in the morning, the dream was still with her. She was incensed that the bold Borderer had invaded her dream. The thought of him touching her, being in the bed with her, provoked a feeling of fury inside her, even though she had only been dreaming. It seemed so real that she reached beneath her pillow for the raven's feather. When her hand felt nothing there, she lifted her pillow and saw that it was gone. She desperately searched the bed with trembling hands, but the black feather was nowhere in evidence. Raven pressed her lips together angrily and vowed that from now on she would sleep with her dagger beneath her pillow, rather than a useless feather that she had imagined had magic properties. Then she convinced herself that the feather had never even existed. She tossed her disheveled hair back over her shoulders defiantly and swore that the black feather had simply been a figment of her vivid imagination.
CHAPTER 7
Heath Kennedy dozed fitfully throughout the night. Though the sting from the gash in his shoulder kept him from sleep, the shallow wound did not worry him. He knew that once the bleeding stopped, it would heal well enough. At dawn he heard a rustle in the bushes and with great stealth crept to investigate. It was a fox drawn by the smell of the rancid mutton he had thrown into the trees. He unsheathed his knife and pounced, swiftly dispatching the carnivore that would be his food supply for the next two days. He decided to keep the fox pelt. It would produce a fine silver fur once it had been thoroughly cleaned and dried.
Heath built up the fire and spitted the carcass to roast, then he searched for some burdock leaves to cleanse his wound and ease the sting of the knife blade. He was aware of his prisoner's resentful eyes, and was cautious when he unbound the Borderer's hands so that the man could relieve himself. He secured him again, then moved his mares to a fresh grazing spot. When the meat was cooked, Heath doled out an oatcake to his prisoner, then cut a crisp, juicy piece from the animal's small haunch and sat down to enjoy it.
When his appetite was replete, he felt better physically; food always acted as a palliative, yet his mind was restless. Some instinct told him that he was a sitting duck waiting here for Mangey. The leader might not return alone; he could have other Armstrongs with him. Someone in Mangerton must have informed the Borderers of Heath's presence. The only way they had found him at the river was because they were searching for him.
Heath fed his mount, put the meat he had cooked into his saddlebag, then kicked earth over the fire. When his roan finished the oats, Heath saddled him, then he fastened his mares to a tether rope so that they would be easier to herd. Finally he undid the rope that secured his prisoner to the oak and fastened it to his roan's saddle. He would ride slowly to Bewcastle; his captive would walk ahead of him, where he could see him at all times. If his suspicions were right, and Dacre was the one who had offered money to have Ramsay Douglas murdered, Mangey had not gone north to Kelso's horse fair, he had gone south to Bewcastle.
Heath crossed the Border from Liddesdale into England and headed south. The light was fading from the sky by the time he arrived in the vicinity of Bewcastle. Though surrounded by trees and streams, the English fortress sat almost a mile from dense forest, and Heath made camp within the wooded haven. He watered his horses, then tethered them. He lit no fire, but ate cold meat, and gave some to his prisoner. As darkness descended, Heath decided to go on foot to inspect the fortress. After a moment's consideration he tore a strip from his linen shirt and gagged the stocky Borderer, choosing to take his bound captive with him rather than leave him behind.
Bewcastle's iron portcullis was guarded, so Heath avoided the main entrance, and with his drawn knife in one hand and the rope binding his prisoner in the other, he made his way with great stealth around the massive walls. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw two men outside the sally port gate in the rear wall of the castle.
The gagged man made a noise in his throat, and Heath threatened him to silence with his knife. Heath knew his prisoner had recognized his cohort who had fled before Heath's sword. The other man was none other than their leader, Mangey. The men were deep in conversation and though they were too far away for Heath to hear what was being said, it was apparent they were having an altercation.
Suddenly, Mangey slammed his fist into the
other Borderer's gut and the man went down. Only when Mangey bent to wipe his hand on the grass did Heath realize that Mangey's hand held a dagger. The victim drew his knees up into a ball, then his body went slack. Mangey spoke to someone inside the gate, and a man came out and they dragged the body inside by the heels. Once again, Heath's prisoner groaned deep in his throat, and Heath had to fight the urge to silence the swine permanently.
Heath withdrew to the forest in a murderous mood. Suddenly he heard the call of a nightjar, and shortly after he answered it, he watched Gavin Douglas and four mosstroopers pick their way through the trees where his mares were tethered.
“Don't get yer back up—Ram insisted we come.”
“Keep your distance, Gavin, I'm in a foul temper. I just missed catching the only man who can connect Dacre to the plot to dispose of Ramsay. The son of a bitch is safe inside Bewcastle.”
“What about him?” Gavin indicated his prisoner.
“A useless piece of offal who swears he knows nothing, but I'll keep him alive for the present. I haven't finished with him yet.” Heath added, “Christ, with Mangey safe inside Bewcastle, there's no chance of bringing Dacre to justice. I want to storm Bewcastle and make the son of a bitch pay!”
Gavin said, “I've no doubt at all that you'll find a way tae make Dacre pay. But I think it would be expedient tae take the mares you've recovered back tae Eskdale, rather than hang about here.”
Heath pulled his knife from its sheath and began to sharpen it. Hatred for the Dacres almost consumed him. Justice delayed was justice denied, yet he knew he would have to curb his impatience. “The rest of my breeding mares are likely inside Bewcastle, and Christopher Dacre still has my black stallion.”
Gavin Douglas knew better than to argue with him. Heath's pride, stubbornness, and tenacity prevented him from leaving without his property. With resignation, Gavin removed his saddle from his mount and directed the moss-troopers to bed down for the night.
Heath took meat from his saddlebag, sliced it with his knife, and offered it to the men. “It isn't hedgehog,” he assured them with dry humor.
“What the hell is it?” Gavin asked with a grimace.
“Fox,” Heath said solemnly.
The rising sun awakened Heath the next morning. Shortly he saw Christopher Dacre ride out alone under the portcullis of Bewcastle. The arrogant swine was astride Blackadder. Suddenly it came to Heath how he could make Dacre pay, and he smiled with savage anticipation. Sooner or later young Dacre would return, and when he did, Kennedy and Douglas would be waiting for him.
Raven Carleton was delighted when Christopher Dacre came calling. She had known he would come, though not quite this soon. She pretended to be completely surprised at his visit, although she was anything but. Raven had laid out a special riding habit to wear when he came. The slim black skirt was slit to the knee to show off her high calfskin boots, and the crimson velvet jacket was trimmed with black braid at throat and cuffs. The matching red velvet cap sported a black ostrich feather, and her black leather riding gloves were embroidered with crimson beads.
Raven introduced Lord Dacre's heir to her grandmother and could have hugged her when Dame Doris Heron poured them wine, then excused herself so that the couple could be alone.
“Your grandmother is a most discerning woman.”
Raven dimpled. “She discerns more than you ever dreamed, Christopher Dacre.”
“Ah, a magic woman, no doubt, who casts spells and brews potions in her stillroom.”
“You may laugh, sir, but have a care what you drink.”
Chris Dacre held up his wine cup, then deliberately drained it. “You have stolen my senses with your love potion.” He set the empty cup down and took Raven's hands in his. “Come to Bewcastle. I want you to be with me.”
“What a lovely invitation. I suppose I could come for an hour; 'tis only a three-mile ride,” she said lightly.
“I don't want you for an hour, Raven.”
“For how long do you want me?” she tempted.
“Forever.” Dacre's eyes were riveted upon her mouth.
Raven caught her breath. “You are a dreadful tease, Chris Dacre.”
“Nay, it is you who are teasing me, Raven. Come for a week, a month,” he begged.
“That is impossible!” She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a feminine gesture calculated to belie her words.
“It's not impossible, Raven. If you accept the invitation, I swear everything will be proper. If you'll come for a visit to Bewcastle, all the proprieties will be observed.”
“The proprieties would not be observed unless we were formally betrothed, Christopher.” She gave him a ravishing smile. “Let me go up and change and we can ride over to Bewcastle. But you must promise to have me back by nightfall.”
Upstairs, Raven's grandmother helped her change into the vivid riding habit. “Do you have your hag stone and your knife?”
“I do.” Raven hugged her grandmother. “I warrant Chris Dacre will find a way to persuade me to stay at Bewcastle.” Raven's eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don't worry if I don't return tonight. All my things are packed. If I do decide to stay, I shall send for my bags.”
“Goodbye, my lovely.” Dame Heron's voice held a wistful note. “Your life's adventure begins today. Do not forget to use your power, Raven.”
As she saw Christopher's reaction to her vivid riding outfit, Raven knew she had chosen well. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”
“It was worth the wait,” he assured her, his eyes lingering upon the swell of her breasts beneath the fitted crimson jacket.
As one of the young Heron boys brought Sully from the stables, Raven gave Chris a provocative sidelong glance from beneath long black lashes. “You don't mind if we take my pair of falcons on our ride, do you, Christopher? They are in need of exercise.” Raven knew that if she was to stay at Bewcastle for a week, she must take the valuable hunting birds with her.
“Are these peregrines yours?” Dacre asked with surprise.
“Yes, they are a lovely pair, but still very young.”
Dacre gazed at the male bird with covetous eyes. “Your father certainly indulges you.”
“Do I detect a note of disapproval in your voice?” Raven asked lightly, taking the raptors from their perches.
He quickly covered the censure his words had revealed. “Envy, perhaps. I would like to be the one to indulge you.”
They walked outside into the sunshine and Raven handed him the birds while she mounted Sully. Then she took them back until Dacre mounted his new black stallion. She offered him his choice of falcons, and he picked the male, as she had known he would. Raven smiled inwardly; Christopher Dacre was so predictable.
They rode about two miles in the direction of Bewcastle before they cast their hawks. As the birds soared miles above them, Chris Dacre dismounted and lifted Raven down beside him. His hands lingered at her waist and he drew her close for their first kiss. Raven momentarily closed her eyes, then quickly opened them again and looked up into his gray-green eyes, reassuring herself that the male she was kissing really was Christopher. Then she laughed at her own foolishness.
“Why do you laugh?” he asked huskily.
“Because I am happy.”
“Make me happy, Raven. Stay at Bewcastle with me,” he implored.
“I long to,” she said wistfully to raise his hopes, then purposely dashed them, “but I cannot.” She turned from him to remount Sully, but he stopped her.
“Raven, if you come, you may consider yourself betrothed.”
She caught her breath. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
He searched her face. “Since that's the only way I'll get you. I've quite made up my mind to have you.”
Raven knew Lord Dacre's heir was used to getting whatever he wanted. “How impetuous you are, Christopher. Now you will have to exercise patience while I make up my mind,” she teased. Sheba returned to her wrist without her prey, and Raven suspected the female falco
n had devoured it. She set the huntress on her saddlebow.
“Your falcon needs the firm hand of a master.”
Raven tossed her head. “I hope you are not implying that I too need a master. One of the incentives to marry is the freedom it would gain me.”
He reached out a finger to stroke Sheba's variegated cream and gray feathers. “Freedom isn't good for a woman, according to my father.” Christ, I'll enjoy taming her, more than the falcon!
Raven's eyes sparkled. “If I refused to marry you, would you carry me off as your father did your mother?”
“I thought you didn't want a master.”
Raven laughed. “I don't! Nevertheless, I think it the most romantic thing I've ever heard.”
“Here comes my falcon. Damn, he's flown into that treetop and won't come down.”
“Sultan is just not used to men. He'll come to me.” When Raven moved away from Chris Dacre, Sultan flew to her wrist and released the snipe he had caught. Raven handed the falcon to Dacre. “Would you like to try again?” Her invitation held a double meaning.
“Let's ride closer to Bewcastle; the game there is plentiful.”
Raven agreed, laughing. “You just want to be sure of your quarry. Lead the way!”
Dacre quickly secured Sultan to his saddlebow, mounted Blackadder, and rode heedlessly through the trees, leaving Raven far behind him. Suddenly he saw a horse and rider in his path—it was the dark Borderer he had tangled with at Carlisle Fair. He drew rein, scenting danger, and when he glanced about him, saw that he was surrounded. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want my horse.” The words were implacable.
The look and the voice of the Borderer held such a threat, fear slithered down Dacre's spine. He saw that they had Mangey Armstrong's brother, bound and gagged, and was careful that no recognition passed between them. Dacre suddenly set his spurs to the stallion's flanks and roweled hard in a desperate attempt to flee. Heath Kennedy was after him in a heartbeat, and the moss-troopers closed ranks to trap Dacre. Blackadder reared in terror, the blood on his flanks clearly visible against his glossy coat. Heath slipped from his roan and grasped the black stallion's bridle. Then he grabbed Dacre, pulled him from the saddle, and smashed his fist into his face. “You vicious whoreson, if I ever see you bloody another horse, I'll take a whip to you.”
The Border Hostage Page 8
