Wild Hearts

by Virginia Henley

  The entrance hall was bare and dismal. The air seemed dank, as though the windows had been sealed shut forever. A middle-aged woman appeared instantly. She was dressed in black from head to foot, her only adornment a bunch of keys dangling from her waist in chatelaine fashion. One look into her eyes told Paris she was neither kind nor motherly.

  "How do you do, madam. Allow me to introduce myself."

  "I know who you are, milord." She bent her head in acknowledgment, but not her knee. "I am Mrs. Graham." Silently she thought, Rogue Cockburn! Everyone in Edinburgh has seen you swaggering up the High Street.

  "Mrs. Graham, I should like to have a look around your orphanage and perhaps have a word with one or two of the children," he explained politely.

  "Certainly, milord," she said without batting an eye. "Next Friday at two, I would be pleased to give you a tour and present some of my pupils to you." Silently, she thought, Whoremonger! I bet there's more than one of your by-blows inside these walls.

  "Today would be more convenient, Mrs. Graham." He smiled slightly, masking his annoyance.

  She frowned, and her lips pursed as if she had been sucking persimmons. "That would be impossible, milord."

  His eyebrows rose. "Impossible," he said quietly, silkily. "That word is not in my vocabulary, Mrs. Graham." His eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Determined not to be overruled by him, she patronized him. "Let me be blunt with you, milord. Visitors disturb the children when they disrupt their lessons. We need time to prepare them for such an intrusion."

  The silky tone left his voice and was immediately replaced with a harsh, knife-edged sound. "Let me be blunt with you, Mrs. Graham. Fetch the Lamont child now, or the money stops!"

  Her nostrils pinched together with the distaste she felt at doing his bidding, but nonetheless, she turned and left without a word, her black skirts rustling their protest with each forced step.

  Rogue Cockburn, not known for his patience, paced about the hall. Actually, he had been amused at the woman's temerity in trying to thwart him. He'd had too much experience with women— by now he was thoroughly familiar with every wile and device that had ever been dreamed of to manipulate a man. Mrs. Graham didn't stand a chance.

  Mrs. Graham returned with a young girl who stepped back in fear the moment she laid eyes on the tall man. Paris's eyes missed nothing as he keenly examined the maid before him. He saw little of her face because she hung her head, but he saw that her wrists and ankles were delicately boned, since they were uncovered by the ugly smock that did not fit her. His eyes traveled up to her bodice, and though the loose smock did nothing to enhance them, he saw that her breasts were developed and thrust up through the thin material. "Don't run away, my dear, tell me your name," he invited, and his features softened.

  Tabby had been terrified from the moment Mrs. Graham had singled her out for attention. When she had been commanded to go with the woman, fear had almost paralyzed her legs. She had been brought to this room where she caught a fleeting glimpse of an enormous man with a forbidding face. When he spoke to her, she shrank from him.

  Mrs. Graham answered for her: "Her name is Tabby Lamont."

  "How old are you, Tabby?" he asked.

  She hung her head and tried to dig a hole in the floor with her toe.

  Mrs. Graham said, "She is fourteen, almost fifteen, milord."

  He said, not unkindly, "Is she simple?"

  With that, Tabby quickly lifted her head and shot him a look of pure hatred, which he observed with some amusement. He noted with satisfaction that if he angered her, he would get a reaction. It would have taken a blind man not to have noticed the budding beauty of her face. It was heart-shaped with a small retrousse nose and wildly pink lips. The lovely mop of auburn curls he remembered had been dragged back and tortured into such tight plaits, it pulled the skin around-her eyes. This emphasized high, slanting cheekbones.

  After Tabby shot him the defiant look, she quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. Her anger had dissolved back into fear the moment she dared to look at him. He was an authority figure, and authority was always associated with cruelty in Tabby's mind.

  Lord Cockburn turned to Mrs. Graham quickly. "This won't do, madam. Show us to a more amenable room with a fire and somewhere to sit."

  "We can use my sitting room," said Mrs. Graham, leading the way reluctantly.

  He nodded. "This will do nicely. You may leave now." It was not a request, it was a command. He noticed cynically how comfortable and warm the room was compared to the rest of the building. It had a fireplace with a brass kettle hung on the hob. The stone floor boasted a thick-piled carpet, and the windows were covered with velvet drapes to keep the drafts at bay. He wondered how much of the orphanage's budget went toward Mrs. Graham's creature comforts. He was silent until she went through the door and shut it with a bang, which made Tabby jump with fright.

  "Are you afraid of her?" he asked flatly.

  Tabby trembled at the thought of being alone with him. She hesitated, her mind confused with the emotions raging within.

  "I can see that you are afraid of her," he decided, sweeping her with a glance from head to toe, with glittering green eyes.

  She nodded.

  "Why?" he demanded harshly.

  She hesitated. She tried to answer him, but the words would not come. Slowly, she pulled back the neck of her gown and showed him the purple bruises of a beating.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly. She nodded.

  "Why?" he demanded, his voice getting louder.

  "You are a man," she whispered.

  "Bloody hell!" he exploded. "That says it all, doesn't it?"

  She cowered.

  "Don't do that. Raise your eyes and stop whispering. Don't you realize, if you make a doormat of yourself, the world will wipe its feet on you?" he shouted. He watched her closely as she raised her head. When she lifted her lashes, her eyes were pooled with tears in a mute plea that he not hurt her. When she looked him full in the face, he was startled to find her eyes the color of amethysts.

  "That's better," he approved, smiling to try to lessen her fear. "Salt tears never grew a rose! I have four sisters between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, and although they cannot do whatever they like, they most certainly can say whatever they like.. We do still have freedom of speech in Scotland, you know. Now I give you permission to say anything you please in this room without fearing any consequences whatever."

  Tabby's eyes widened in disbelief at his words. She saw his rich garments and jewels and wondered who he possibly could be. "Who are you?" she whispered in awe. Her voice had a husky, whispery quality that tingled along his nerves. He hoped it was always like this, and not just when she tried to swallow tears.

  "I am Laird of the Clan Cockburn, Master of the Castle of Cockburnspath, Warden of the Eastern Marches, and heir to the Earldom of Ormistan and his castle of Tantallon"— he bowed gracefully —"my friends call me Rogue."

  "God, that's a right awful mouthful!"

  His eyebrows went up. "Give a female an inch and she'll take a mile, every damned time."

  A wild hope lifted her heart, and the words were out before she could stop them. "Are you my father?" she blurted.

  "Cheeky devil"— he laughed—"I'm only about ten years older than you are!" He was secretly dismayed that she thought him old, until he saw the light leave her eyes and she seemed quite hopeless.

  "I'm sorry," he said quickly, his brows drawing together. "I do see how you would probably daydream about a father showing up one day and taking you away from this place." Silence stretched between them as they assessed each other. She wondered idly who he was if he wasn't her father, and why he was here. She raised hesitant eyes to his. "Why do they call you Rogue?" she asked curiously. The large emerald in his ear fascinated her.

  "Probably because I'm a thorough scoundrel who drinks, curses, lies, cheats, steals and even . ."

  "Murders?" she whispered fearfully.

  "I was
going to use the word kill. A Borderer never murders in cold blood."

  She shrank from him. "What do you want of me?" she breathed.

  He thought, Christ, she's timorous as a mouse. He wished he could reach out and lift the fear from her. If he could wipe out the unpleasant experiences that had brought about this condition, he would do so. His mind contrasted her with his sisters. If she had been indulged and spoiled a little, as they had, would she now be a delightfully saucy piece of baggage? He tried to draw her out and said, not unkindly, "Please sit down and make yourself comfortable by the fire. I only want to know what sort of a life you have here. What you learn, what you do for fun, that sort of thing."

  "Fun?" she asked.

  "Games— what games do you play?" he prompted.

  "We don't play games, milord."

  "No toys? Not even the younger children?"

  "No, milord." She thought him the strangest man with the oddest questions.

  "Dancing, then. Do you learn country dances?"

  "Dancing is forbidden."

  "Then singing—what songs do you learn?"

  "Music is forbidden, milord. I am often chastised when I forget and sing to myself."

  The picture that was emerging was so bleak, he could scarcely credit it. How had this delicate flower endured such an existence? "Outings. On Sundays do you go up on the moors?"

  She shook her head. "Sunday is for the cleansing of the soul."

  "A joyless existence! Do you do nothing for pleasure?" he demanded harshly.

  "Life is not for pleasure, milord. 'Tis for duty and obedience," she told him seriously, repeating by rote what she had learned by heart.

  He said low, "You don't believe that, do you, Tabby? Meekness doesn't sit well with you. Tell me, child, what do you recall of the world before you came to this place?"

  "Not much. I remember my mother. Pretty, gentle, she always smelled nice and sang little songs to me. Also, I don't know if I dreamed it, or if there are such things. I played in a field of flowers and a beautiful thing with many colors flew and fluttered about. A wild little creature called papillon. If they ever let me out of here, I shall fling myself from flower to flower," she admitted breathlessly, emerging from her cocoon.

  "Papillon is French for butterfly. There are such things, I assure you." As he listened to her words, his heart went out to her. He felt guilty that he had not thought of her in ten years, and knew a need to make up for it in some way. She was so like his sisters, he suspected she was a Cockburn. If he could unravel the mystery for her, he would do so. He smiled and said, "'Tis tradition for a Borderer never to visit a lady without bringing her a present."

  "Did you bring me something?" she asked breathlessly, raising unbelieving eyes to his.

  "I did. I want to see you smile when I give it to you." He reached into his doublet pocket and brought forth the pale green ribbons he had bought for Damascus.

  Her eyes widened in wonder, and she smiled happily as her fingers closed over their satin smoothness. Her gaze met his and held for what seemed long, endless moments. It was as if the satin ribbons were a pledge of friendship, of help, of hope to one who had become almost hopeless.

  As he looked at the delicate beauty of the girl, he felt an overwhelming desire to protect her from the world's harsh realities. Each heartbeat told him a bond was being forged between them that might be everlasting.

  "I have pretty hair when it's down," she assured him.

  "My own color," he said, quickly running his hand through his thick curls.

  She remembered the gesture immediately. "I remember you now," she accused. "You took me from my mother and brought me to this place. I hate you! I've always hated you!"

  Somehow, he could not endure the thought that she hated him. He could not leave her with the mistaken impression that he was the author of her misfortune, and suddenly, Paris Cockburn, who never explained himself, was pleading for her understanding. "I was only a boy. I remember your mother was dying and begged my father to take you to a place where you would be looked after. I cannot question him further; he, too, is dead." She looked devastated. He said quickly, "I'll try to find out more for you, but I can't promise. What I can promise is no more beatings for you, and perhaps an outing or two. Before Mrs. Graham comes back, I'll bid you good-bye... nay, rather... I'll bid you au revoir. Until we meet again." He opened the door and called for Mrs. Graham. She appeared in a suspiciously short time. His cold voice grated out, "I've decided to double my donations, but there are strings attached, Mrs. Graham."

  A definite flicker of interest could be detected in her eyes of agate.

  "Never beat this child again. If you do, I shan't just stop the money, you understand, but will pay you back in kind, Mrs. Graham." He threatened so quietly, a chill ran up her spine. "Also, I think the children would benefit from outings each Sunday. We Live in a beautiful country, Mrs. Graham. It would be more healthful than purging them of the Devil."

  "Whatever you say, milord." She nodded her agreement but thought to herself, Before the day is out I'm going to make her pay, lord high and mighty.

  Paris met his men at the tavern on High Street as prearranged, but he could not shake off a feeling of unease. True, the situation he had just come from was enough to depress the most lighthearted soul, but when the feeling of foreboding did not lift after his second whisky, he called up his men. "Come, lads, I think we'd best make tracks for home. Saddle up while I change and get my gear abovestairs."

  Cockburnspath was thirty miles from Edinburgh, a four-hour ride through the Border country, the most beautiful place on earth. The first five miles to Musselburgh led them past houses and small farms, but between that town and home lay the wild Lammermuir Hills, which changed color with the seasons. At the moment they were purple with wild bell heather, but in another month they would begin to turn russet from dried bracken. The landscape was dotted with lakes and thick stands of fir trees. They followed no roads but cut across country, through rivers and bogs, and with each mile they drank in the smell of the sea, so near. They covered the distance in three hours, arriving at dusk. The tiny villages that belonged to Cockburnspath were prosperous. Milky herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, grazed the gentle slopes that led up to the castle. Paris's apprehension had increased with every mile. When he arrived at the castle, he found his sisters and the servants at their wits' end.

  "She's been at it for twelve hours without let-up, Paris," Shannon informed him as she covered her ears to keep out the animal-like wail coming from the top of the White Tower.

  Paris let out a sigh of relief. If the only trouble awaiting him was Anne, then God be praised. His mood lightened considerably as he assured the household he would put everything to rights. He took a large box of confections from his saddlebag and ascended to the upper tower.

  "Poor Anne," said Damascus, "I hope she's all right."

  "The bitch ought to take one of her fits and choke to death," declared Shannon in her blunt way.

  "Well, she does make enough racket to raise the damned rent," quipped Alexander.

  "Don't worry, Paris knows how to handle his wife," assured Alexandria.

  "At arm's length, I should think," muttered her twin.

  As soon as Paris opened the chamber door, Anne stopped the caterwaul. Her nurse, Mrs. Sinclair; quickly took the opportunity to slip away for a short respite, casting a quick apologetic look at the master. Anne sat in the large bed; propped by satin pillows. Her perfumed shoulders and small, high breasts were displayed exquisitely by the lacy nightgown. Her silvery blond hair fanned out across her pillows. As she reached eagerly for the box Paris had brought her, he decided that she was utterly beautiful. He studied her dispassionately for a moment and thought for the thousandth time he had been cursed with a monster for wife.

  Tabby spent the rest of the day in a state of wonder. Her life, ordinarily so bleak and uneventful, only punctuated by the cruelty of Mrs. Graham, had, suddenly changed. She had immediately hidden the l
ovely ribbons down her stocking, away from Mrs. Graham's prying eyes, and every once in a while she peeked to make sure she really had them. She lived only for the moment when the day would end and she could seek privacy, let down her hair and adorn herself with their silken brightness. Time positively dragged, and she was acutely aware of the thin-lipped Mrs. Graham's beady eyes upon her through most of the afternoon. Tabby was wise enough to know there was a reckoning coming, so she tread warily for the rest of the day.

  Usually, the evening chores were divided up. Either she had to scour the pots and pans or put the younger children to bed. When Mrs. Graham informed her that tonight she would have to do both, Tabby assumed the woman had vented her spleen, and she relaxed her guard. After she had emptied the last bucket of dirty dishwater down the street's gutter, she escaped to her own little cubicle in the dormitory. She quickly unplaited her hair, and as it escaped its confines, it took on a life of its own, wildly curling and cascading as if it gloried to be free at last. She fastened the pale green satin ribbons on either side and twirled about until she was dizzy. She sank down upon the hard little cot and thought about Lord Cockburn. If only he had been her father, how wonderful it would be. Perhaps he would come again. Perhaps he would help her find her father. He was rich— that much was obvious— and in his home there would probably be enough food so that one never had to go hungry. She pictured herself eating beside a roaring fire. The daydream went on and on, with Cockburn as savior. Suddenly, she shivered and crept beneath the cover. She fell asleep, quite happy to contemplate what the future might hold for her. She began to dream, but the dream soon changed into a nightmare, and before she could help it, she had cried out in her sleep.

  Then the thing she most dreaded happened. Mrs. Graham came to see what the trouble was. Icy fingers gripped Tabby's heart, and she gabbled, "I'm sorry, ma'am. 'Twas only a dream, ma'am. I won't cry out again, ma'am." But it was all to no avail.