Wild Hearts

by Virginia Henley

  Eyes gleaming in anticipation, Mrs. Graham clamped a hand to Tabby's forehead and exclaimed triumphantly, "Just as I thought. Fevered! You have clearly had too much attention and excitement today, and this is what comes of it. Come with me, girl. I have the cure for fever!" She dragged her from her bed, and once again that day, Tabby found herself in Mrs. Graham's sitting room. The older woman took a pair of scissors from her work basket and with relish began to shear the magnificent tresses from Tabby's scalp. "Drastic measures, my dear, but the fever is far too dangerous for us to take a chance," she explained with glittering, eyes. "It could spread to the other children."

  Tabby looked down in horror at the red curls, tied with pale green ribbons, scattered upon the floor. The pain was a thousand times worse than bruises.

  At Cockburn Castle, inside his own chamber, Paris was about to retire when he saw the signal fire from his window. A raid! By God, he had known that foreboding feeling meant there would be trouble before this night was done. These late summer nights, with their full moons, invited raids. The villages on Cockburn land looked to their laird at the castle for protection. The fields held crops ready to be harvested, the herds were full and fat after the summer months, and Cockburnspath was ripe for plucking. They were on good terms with all the neighboring clans, so he knew it could only be their enemies the Gordons. No one else would dare!

  Sword in hand, Paris shouted, "Troy, wake up man, a raid!" He ran to Alexander's chamber and found him reading his poems by candlelight. "Quick, lad, down to the armory and rouse the men. Tell Ian there's a raid." He looked from Alexander's window. "Christ, one of the villages is ablaze. Those bastards! Hurry, Alex." He didn't need to call The Mangler; the faithful beast was at his heels by the time he reached the stables. Men were running from all directions, but order was soon established out of chaos since each man knew exactly what he had to. do. They went after the raiders.

  Rogue's men retrieved one herd of cattle but were too late for another. A second village had been fired by the time the marauders had been chased off. Paris stopped to assess their losses. He saw that at least two of his men had been wounded, and shouted orders to get them back to the castle. He knew from experience that immediate attention to wounds saved lives, and his men were precious to him. He felt near disappointment that they had killed no Gordons, but The Mangler had badly mauled one man, and they had taken two other prisoners.

  Paris called to his captain, "Ian, take the men back to help the villagers."

  Ian called back to him, "Rogue— over here. I think Troy's been wounded badly!"

  "Duncan, help me with Troy," shouted Paris, not allowing himself to think the worst.

  Ian asked, "What will I do with the prisoners, milord?"

  Paris reflected for a moment, then he curbed his murderous thoughts. "Spare them," he finally snapped, "we can hold them for ransom."

  When they got back to the castle, Paris decided that one good thing about having a lot of women around, they came in damned handy for nursing. Damascus and Shannon stripped Troy gently and began to wash his wound. He had lost a fearful amount of blood from the hole in his side.

  Venetia asked Paris, "Was it the bloody Gordons?"

  "Aye." He nodded grimly as he sterilized his knife blade in the fire. "Get some whisky into him," he directed Venetia.

  "He's near unconscious," she offered.

  "He'll rise up quick enough when I put this to his wound," Paris assured her.

  "You should burn every damned crop in every village on Gordon land," shouted Alexandria, her freckles standing out sharply in her pale face.

  "Burn the bloody Gordons— to hell with their hayricks!" spat Shannon, tossing her hair back angrily.

  Paris gave her a look that made her shut her mouth. Paris clenched his jaw and set the blade to his brother's wound. Troy arched up and screamed wildly, then lapsed into unconsciousness. When Paris cauterized it a second time, a great spasm shook the wounded man as every muscle tautened but, thankfully, he did not scream again.

  Paris gazed down at his brother's colorless lips. "They will rue this night's work," he vowed.

  "Why do the Gordons plague us?" asked Alexandria.

  Shannon jerked her thumb. "That one upstairs started the bad blood between us."

  Paris muttered, "I should cut her in slices and send the bitch back."

  Shannon said, "They wouldn't have her!"

  Paris laughed bitterly. "Nay, the trouble began long before Anne came here. 'Tis John Gordon at the root of this. Him and his bloody father, the Earl of Huntly. Years back, when our father and Huntly were much about the King, James liked to balance the power between his Catholic and Protestant lords and enjoyed playing one off against the other. Huntly tried to implicate Angus in a plot of treason, and Father, being hot-spurred as he was, mounted a raid on their territory up north in the Highlands. Of course, Huntly's past it now, but John Gordon carries on the feud. His lands are far enough away, so he thinks he's safe and acts like the Cock o' the North, but by all that's sacred, I'll show him I'm Cock o' the Borders."

  Damascus lifted her chin and spoke dreamily: "They say Lord John Gordon is so handsome, women go down before him like ninepins."

  Paris closed his eyes and eased his dagger back into its sheath. Was that who Anne had lain with before him? he asked himself for the thousandth time. "If Troy is holding his own tomorrow, I'll ride up to Tantallon and ask Uncle Magnus to let his men join mine."

  "Any of the Borderers would join with you— Douglas or Bothwell," assured Shannon.

  "We will keep it in the family. With my uncle's moss-troopers added to mine, I'll teach them a lesson they will never forget. I want them to know it was Cockburn who did it, not Douglas or Bothwell."

  The Gordons's land holdings were vast, spreading out over hundreds of miles up through the Highlands. Some of their castles were thought to be impregnable because of their location in impassable mountain terrain. But Cockburn set about his task with such determined vengeance, he soon proved that even the most formidable strongholds could not withstand his wrath.

  He and his men took refuge in castles owned by other Protestant Border clans. They were continually on the move, edging ever northward, but always systematically, not missing one of the Gordon holdings.

  Rogue Cockburn preferred to attack the castle with its rich supply of food and fodder stored against the winter, rather than the surrounding villages. Stored grain and hay were burned to the ground. Herds were slaughtered to feed his sixty men, and horses were stolen and smuggled back to the Borders. They rode out only in the dead of night on their surefooted, deep-chested Border ponies. They had big saddles with pistols thrust into saddle holsters, and the mail-clad riders were equipped with very short spurs that would not prick their horses too deep. The raiders were enough to strike terror in the hearts of any foe unlucky enough to cross their path as they wreaked vengeance by burning and pillaging each of the Gordon holdings. It took a full eighteen months before he had covered every last one.

  CHAPTER 2

  At last the Cockburns were free to enjoy life again, without the constant threat of having to look over their shoulders for an enemy. Life settled back into its peaceful, normal routines. The Borders were dotted with spring lambs, then the sheep's winter coats were sheared and baled and stacked aboard a Cockburn vessel. At the end of May, Paris smuggled the wool across to Holland and returned with his hold filled with forbidden French brandy. The summer lay ahead with time for socializing and fun. The Borders would be peaceful now until the full autumn moon would see them out on their raids again.

  Damascus came into the huge family room, her cheeks flushed, partly from the exertion of rushing headlong up the castle staircase and partly from the exciting news she had to impart. "That was a messenger from Jean McDonald. They are giving a ball in Edinburgh, and we are all invited." She adored huge parties, secure in the knowledge she would be the prettiest girl present.

  "Oh, how lovely! Are they having it at the
ir town house in Edinburgh?" asked Venetia, tucking in a curl of her upswept hair; then, without waiting for an answer, she demanded of Paris, "Why can't we have a town house in Edinburgh?

  Shannon remarked sweetly, "Because that would make life too simple and easy for us. It would eliminate that health-giving ride of nearly thirty miles. It would allow us to entertain our friends without their having to come to the ends of civilization to see us." She stood with hands on hips in a way that seemed to emphasize her voluptuous breasts.

  "That invitation doesn't include me, I hope," said Alexandria, patiently daubing some white concoction on her freckles. The last year and a half hadn't changed her much, except perhaps she had grown a couple of inches taller.

  "Uncle Magnus keeps a town house, why can't we?" demanded Venetia.

  "For Christ's sake, Venetia, you're like a dog worrying a bone. Let be!" said Paris shortly.

  "But why can't we?" she insisted.

  Exasperated, Paris explained, "You have put your finger on the reason. Magnus goes to the expense of keeping a town house all year round. You are free to use it whenever you have invitations into Edinburgh. How many times in a whole summer does that add up to? Three? Four?"

  "Magnus only keeps it for the convenience of his whore," Shannon remarked in her blunt way.

  Paris turned on her. "He has lived with Margaret Sinclair fifteen years; when will you stop referring to her as a whore?"

  "When he puts a wedding ring on her finger," stated Venetia.

  "She could have rings on every finger and every toe, and she'd still be a whore," stated Shannon flatly.

  Alexandria said to her twin brother in a low voice, "I'll bet Paris uses Magnus's town house for whoring."

  Paris said in a voice that was quietly dangerous, "Repeat that, Alexandria."

  "I said that I absolutely refuse to go to the McDonald's tatty old ball!" she asserted stubbornly.

  The brothers and sisters exchanged unbelieving glances as they burst into uproarious laughter. Paris wiped a tear from his eye.. "By God, Alexandria, you are the best liar of the bunch."

  "An achievement worthy of a Cockburn." Alexander bowed in homage to his twin.

  As Paris looked about the room, he realized that Damascus, Shannon. and Venetia were anticipating the ball because they were ready for husbands. Alexandria, at fifteen, wasn't quite interested yet. He shook his head in disbelief. They'd grown into women while he'd been preoccupied with the bloody Gordons. "Damascus, who brought the invitation? Why didn't you bring him up for refreshments?" questioned Paris.

  "It was Jean's brother, young Scotty McDonald.

  Troy was pouring him some of your contraband brandy down in the barracks when I left."

  "Good God, the men will polish off the whole lot. You know they lave hollow legs with sponges in their boots! Half that brandy is promised in Edinburgh at five hundred percent profit!"

  The ball was an excuse to announce the betrothal of Jean McDonald, so it turned out. They had been friends with the McDonalds since childhood. When the Cockburn sisters learned of the approaching nuptials, they were green with envy. They liked to be first in everything, and a childhood friend snaring a husband before one of them was not something they had expected.

  Paris was annoyed that after he'd taken the trouble to escort his sisters to the damned ball in the first place, they sniped at him every time they passed him. He talked Douglas, the eldest McDonald brother, into escaping with him to famous Ainslee's Tavern on High Street. They went straight through to the private dining room in the rear, where Scotland's young nobility idled away its leisure hours. Cockburn wasn't at all surprised to see both Lord Lennox and Lord Logan with a great many of his other friends.

  "Rogue, over here, Your Lordship," shouted Logan, and made room for him at the table.

  Paris grinned "We escaped from an engagement party."

  "Ah, weddings are in the air this season," said Lord Lennox. "Is this the lucky bridegroom?"

  "No," said Douglas McDonald, "my sister, Marrying a Stewart."

  "I'm a Stewart!" exclaimed Lennox. "Cousin to the King and Bothwell. We will be related, then." He smiled.

  "Christ, we're all related— all descended from kings Although God knows that's no recommendation. I usually try to keep it quiet." Paris laughed.

  David Lennox was extremely tall and fair and looked every inch the-gentleman when compared with his friend Logan, whose looks and manners were more rugged and earthy. At the moment Logie had obviously made-enough inroads on a bottle of whisky to make him philosophize. "Did you ever notice how one wedding will start a chain reaction? Sort of spreads like a disease?"

  "Bloody fools," remarked Paris. "No woman is worth giving up your freedom for."

  "Oh, I don't know, Rogue. Take your sister Damascus— a more tempting morsel I never set eyes on," claimed David Lennox.

  "Is she the one with the beautiful big breasts?" Logan laughed.

  "No, that's my sister Shannon; you coarse lout. I'll thank you to keep your bloody mind off my sister's breasts," growled Paris, only half joking.

  "I'll bet she's rewarding in bed," Logan said. dreamily.

  The smile disappeared from Paris's face. "We don't discuss my sisters in a tavern, their merits in bed, or otherwise."

  Douglas McDonald asked quickly, "Have you seen anything of Mary Fleming lately?"

  Paris drawled, "All there is to see!" his good humor returning.

  "Speaking of weddings, have you heard old moneybags Abrahams, the goldsmith with that mansion on Princes Street, is to wed a week Saturday?" asked Lennox.

  "Maxwell Abrahams, the usurer?" asked Paris. "You must be mistaken— he's an old queer."

  "Used to buy the King's favorite boys when he was finished with them, didn't he?" Logan laughed.

  "Word of honor. The wedding's in the chapel at Holyrood Palace next Saturday. I have my invitation to the reception afterward," said Lennox, laughing. "The old bastard's had so much of my gold for mortgages that I might as well get a free feed off him."

  "I've never done business with him. Never had to, thank. God. Why is the old faggot marrying?" asked Paris, not really interested.

  "Ah, therein lies a tale." Lennox leered. "It seems there is a new cure being touted for the French pox— a virgin!"

  "A virgin?" asked McDonald curiously.

  "Guaranteed cure. They say virgin's blood will clear up the syphilis in a month. And the old swine's rotten with it."

  Logan laughed. "Where the hell did he find a virgin in Edinburgh?"

  "Apparently, when you are that rich, all things are possible. The young girl is supposed to be from a very fine family, but I heard a whisper he bought her out of an orphanage."

  The blood drained from Paris's face, and he went cold. He knew! He didn't know how, but surely as he was sitting at that table, he knew who the bride would be. "I'll accompany you to that wedding, Lennox," offered Paris, recovering himself quickly. "Might even bring one of my sisters." He winked.

  Rogue Cockburn's suspicions had been right on target. Maxwell Abrahams was one of the most corrupt men in Edinburgh, but it would have taken a most discerning-eye to know that by his appearance. He was a small man of perhaps fifty years. Two- things about him were actually most attractive. His voice was pleasant and low, lacking the harsh Scots accent, and his hands were beautiful and expressive, albeit too white and soft for a man's. He almost always wore black, which emphasized the paleness of his skin.

  He had summoned Mrs. Graham from the Edinburgh orphanage to his elegant home, as he did two or three times a year, so she could collect his charitable donation to the orphanage. What he always got in return for his one-hundred-pound donation was a boy of perhaps ten or twelve years.

  "My dear Mrs. Graham, I am delighted to see you again. Allow me to offer you a glass of sherry, or do you prefer malt whisky? Ah, yes, I thought you might." -

  Mrs, Graham noted his pallor and could plainly see the deterioration in the man. She kept her eyes lowered
because she knew he would be shrewd enough to read her thoughts.

  He sat down behind his desk and ran his beautiful hands over a small cash box. "My dear Mrs. Graham, this time I had something a little different in mind."

  She was instantly alert. This man was her only hope for a comfortable retirement. She sipped her whisky and waited for him to continue.

  "This time I have decided to take a girl instead." He smiled almost kindly. "She would have to be young, clean, biddable. Can you fill my order, Mrs. Graham?"

  She shook her head emphatically. "Impossible, sir." The moment he had asked for a female, a picture of beautiful Tabby Lamont sprang into her vision; but it was going to cost him more than a hundred pounds. "I do have one female in my care the right age, but she is such a beautiful young virgin, I am presently negotiating a bride price with a certain nobleman," she improvised quickly.

  "My dear Mrs. Graham, I will double whatever he offers."

  She shook her head firmly again, seemingly appalled at his suggestion. "I wouldn't dare, sir. If this girl were not decently married, there would be trouble from certain high places. We, of course, are not supposed to know their parentage, but in her case, I have my suspicions. No, sir, it will have to be marriage or nothing I'm afraid."

  "That is out of the question, Mrs. Graham." He smiled.

  She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Mr. Abrahams, I am taking a great liberty, I know, but if you would heed my humble advice, a wife could be a most desirable asset to you socially. It would put an end to undesirable gossip, and I might add, this particular bride would connect you with a powerful Earl of the Realm. But, I have said too much. Let us forget the whole business!'

  "My dear Mrs. Graham, I see no harm in taking a look at the young lady. Shall we say tomorrow at two? I'll drop by your worthy establishment:"

  Tabby knew something eventful would happen that day, when Mrs, Graham singled her out for attention. At dawn, instead of dragging out the large iron pots for the porridge making, she was told to bathe and wash her hair. Mrs. Graham gave her a pristine white smock, with lace collar and cuffs, to wear, and brushed the silken mass of auburn curls about her shoulders. Mrs. Graham knew better than most that innocence was erotic to men.