“Where is she? Where is the Moffat lass?”
Rauf looked befuddled. “I’ve only just awakened, m’laird. I thought she’d be ransomed by now. Do ye want me to look for her?”
Brochan was too troubled to answer. This was his fault. His lads were missing, and his hostage was gone. He should never have trusted the word of a reiver.
With his heart in his throat, he strode toward the door.
It swung open before he could reach it. In came Colin, Cambel, and the lass, their arms overloaded with great clumps of sweet-smelling green rushes.
Unable to see where she was going, Cristy barreled forward and collided with him, dropping rushes everywhere. She would have fallen backwards from the impact, but he reached out and seized her elbow to steady her.
“Da! Ye’re awake!” Colin called as he dropped his rushes.
Cambel dropped his as well. “M’lady took us to cut new rushes. See?”
It was then he noticed that Cristy was holding a scythe, the scythe he kept by the front door. He narrowed his gaze. Last night she would have tried to use the thing to cut him off at the knees.
But today when he looked at her, the smoldering hatred he’d seen in her face before was gone. Her dark eyes danced with delight. And her wide smile revealed beautiful white teeth. Colin was right. She was a bonnie lass.
Apparently, the bonnie lass had kept her word. She hadn’t kidnapped his sons after all.
“Well, Da?” Cambel asked. “Are ye goin’ to give m’lady a proper thank ye?”
He was standing close enough to her that he could see the pink kiss of the sun across the bridge of her nose and smell the fresh summer air on her loose hair. As his gaze fell to the gentle upward curve of her lips, he was sorely tempted to give her an improper thank you.
The thought was disturbing. In five years, he’d thought of no one in that way. He’d clung to the memory of his wife, remembering her touch, her embrace, her kiss. That he was daydreaming about kissing another woman troubled him.
So he set her at arm’s length and gave her a nod of gratitude. “Thank ye, m’lady.”
Rauf stepped forward then, clearing his throat. “If ye’re ready to take a look at that garden wall, m’laird…”
“Aye,” Brochan said, eager to evade temptation. “I can come back to the accounts later. I’ve got the wall halfway done, and I want to finish before dark.”
“Then when ’tis dark,” Colin told Rauf, “we’re all goin’ out to see the great comet.”
“Are we?” Rauf raised a brow at Brochan.
Brochan shrugged. “I promised the lads I’d take them out.”
“And m’lady is comin’ as well,” added Cambel.
Rauf’s brow lifted even higher.
“We’ll see, Cambel,” Brochan said. “Her laird is likely worried about her and will send for her soon.”
As it turned out, Moffat must not have been very worried about his neice after all. He sent neither the cows nor a message back with the monk. Brother William passed by on his way home, taking a moment to admire the newly repaired garden wall. But though he assured Brochan he’d delivered the missive into the laird’s hands himself, he reported that Moffat had simply scoffed and sent him on his way.
Brochan was glad Cristy wasn’t around to hear that. It would no doubt break her heart. But then he guessed that a man who considered it acceptable to strike a woman might also think it acceptable to torment her by delaying her ransom. And that thought made him feel ill.
So he penned another demand to send with the monk, this one a bit more threatening. For each day of delay, Brochan would add one cow to the price of Cristy’s return. Surely that would get Moffat’s attention.
Later, when Cristy asked if there was news from her uncle, he told her that Moffat was negotiating fiercely for her return, but that Brochan didn’t feel he was offering what she was worth.
She seemed mildly disappointed. No doubt she expected Moffat to return the cattle at once to ensure her safe return, not to negotiate for a lower price. But Brochan was glad he hadn’t told her the truth. It would have crushed her.
When it began to grow dark, Mabel announced that she and Cristy had a surprise for everyone. Brochan shook his head in amusement. He hadn’t seen the old woman so full of life in a long time. Apparently, she was intent on impressing their “guest.” He’d heard the busy clattering of pots and pans from upstairs when he sent the lads out for the late milking. Now, as he sat finishing up the accounts by candlelight, he smelled the savory aroma of something baking in the kitchens.
What the ladies had planned was dinner under the stars on the crest of the motte surrounding the tower house. From there, they could view the heavens in all their splendor, as well as keep an eye on the herd below.
Rauf spread a wool cloth on the grass for them to sit on. Of course, the lads had to squeeze in beside Cristy. Under the evening sky, they dined on flaky pork coffyns, oatcakes spread with soft ruayn cheese, and crispels with cloudberries. Mabel said that Cristy had found a dusty-shouldered bottle of Port in the corner of the buttery, so she poured everyone a cup, even giving the lads a few drops.
The sky darkened until the stars popped out, one by one. Then Brochan pointed out the comet near the horizon to the lads.
“See how it has a long tail streamin’ out behind it?”
“Why does it have a tail?” Cambel asked.
Colin asked, “Where is it goin’, Da?”
“Is it goin’ to crash into the earth?”
“Are the coos afraid of it?”
Brochan chuckled. “The coos don’t seem afraid of it. Do ye think they are?”
“Nay,” Colin decided.
Mabel added, “Some folks are afraid of it.”
“Why?” asked Cambel.
“They say such a star can bring bad weather or bad luck,” Mabel said.
“What do ye think, Da?” asked Colin.
Brochan frowned. “I don’t think a faraway star, way up in the sky, can do us any harm down here.”
“What about ye, m’lady?” Cambel asked. “Do ye think it brings bad luck?”
Brochan nearly spat out his oatcake. The star had certainly brought Cristy bad luck. If she hadn’t been staring at it, he wouldn’t have caught her so easily.
But Cristy sounded pensive. “I’m not sure.” And when she continued, her words echoed what the tavern wench had said. “I’ve heard the star has the power to change one’s fate. But I don’t know if ’tis good or bad.”
“I think ’tis good,” Cambel declared. “After all, the star brought ye to us, m’lady.”
Brochan saw him give her a squeeze of affection, and his heart pinched at the gesture.
“’Tis a very kind thing to say, Cambel,” she replied.
“I think so too,” Colin said, not wishing to be excluded.
She gave him a hug as well.
Brochan didn’t know what to say about that. He was fairly certain what had brought Cristy to them was not the star, but a cattle reiving gone awry.
Nevertheless, the night felt magical as they continued to watch the heavens and the unique star perched in the sky. Somewhere deep in his heart, Brochan made a wish—a secret wish on the star—that he could always feel this content.
Chapter 6
When Brochan rose the next morn, he was sure he’d find his sons tucked around the reiver lass again. He’d heard them last night when they thought he was asleep, stealing down the stairs and dragging their coverlets with them.
He should probably have stopped them. After all, it would serve no purpose to let them get close to her. It would only make it all that much harder for them when she left.
But he didn’t have the heart to call them back. And in truth, he envied their daring. He wished he could creep down and crawl under the furs with the lass.
Mentally chiding himself for such reprehensible thoughts, he continued down the steps. But when he entered the great hall, fragrant now with fresh, sweet rushes,
the coverlets were stacked neatly away, and the hearth was deserted.
Where were his sons? Where was his hostage?
Unwilling to resort to premature panic, Brochan descended to the kitchens to find Mabel.
“Good morn, m’laird,” she sang out.
“Where have the lads gone?”
“Och, they’ve taken Cristy out to milk the coos.”
He let out an invisible sigh of relief. Then he blinked. The lads rarely got up before dawn. Perhaps having a guest was giving them a sense of responsibility.
The scent of warm cinnamon was making his mouth water. He nodded to a tray full of freshly-made pastries. “What are these?”
“Almond frytours.”
He reached out to take one, and she gave his hand a smack. “They’re for supper, a special treat for Cristy.”
He scowled. “Ye’ve never made these for me.”
She told him matter-of-factly, “Well, honestly, m’laird, ye’ve never seemed to care if ye were eatin’ capercaillie or collops.”
He raised his brows. Was that true? He supposed he hadn’t expressed much interest lately in what he put in his mouth, as long as it filled his belly. Half the time he was too busy or tired to eat. The other half, he shoved down his food as fast as possible so he could get back to work.
He furrowed his forehead in disappointment.
“Och, here,” Mabel said, looking sorry for him. She handed him a couple of frytours and poured him a cup of watered ale. “I’ll make up another batch.”
He returned to the great hall to eat, mentally reviewing his tasks for the day. The frytours were delicious. Perhaps he should tell Mabel so. Perhaps then she’d make them more often.
Now that he’d figured out how much he owed to the various vendors, he had to count out the silver and send Rauf to deliver the payments. Mabel said she’d accompany Rauf so she could purchase food supplies. While she was away, Brochan planned to clear out the goods in the pantry that were beyond use. And with any luck, sometime today Moffat would arrive with the Macintosh cattle to exchange for his niece.
By the time he finished counting out the payments he owed and enclosing them in pouches with the receipts for Rauf, the sun was already streaming in to the hall. He wondered what was taking the lads so long. He could use their help today, sealing cracks in the dovecot. He’d promised Colin he could keep chickens, but first he had to make sure the dovecot was in good repair.
When he wandered outside, the cows had already been milked. The wooden buckets were brimming, and the pair of milk cows were ambling slowly back toward the rest of the cattle. But where were Colin and Cambel?
Shielding his eyes with his forearm, Brochan gazed down the slope.
In the midst of the herd, acting as if she was impervious to the great beasts, stood wee Cristy, as bold as a knight. She had Cambel and Colin with her.
Brochan’s heart staggered. His sons never visited the cattle without his supervision. It was too dangerous. Cows were unpredictable, and they spooked easily. Did the lass know that? Did she understand cattle at all?
Shite.
His first instinct was to yell at them to get away from the herd. But he knew that would be a mistake. Naught would set off a stampede like a sudden loud bellow. He rubbed an anxious hand across his chin.
Where was the bull? Thankfully, at the other end of the field, peacefully chewing his cud.
But there were still several protective cows with young to worry about.
Moving as swiftly as he dared, he slipped down the brae.
What the devil was the lass thinking? Why had she let the lads wander into the thick of the herd? What was she doing?
God’s eyes, he had neither the nerves nor the time for this.
Halfway down the slope, he slowed his pace. As he continued to watch, he realized what Cristy was up to as she held the lads’ hands to keep them close, moving purposefully between the cows, herding them, isolating one from the rest.
Bloody hell. The mischievous minx was teaching his sons how to reive cattle.
“That’s it,” Cristy murmured. “Go slow enough not to spook her. But not so slow that she thinks ye’re a wolf. Once she starts walkin’ in the direction ye want, move with her so she keeps goin’ forward, but keep your distance.”
The lads did just as they were told. She was impressed. They were learning fast. She hadn’t been much older than they were when she’d first learned to handle cattle.
They moved steadily alongside the cow until it was separated from the rest of the herd and walking at a good pace.
“Ye did it!” she quietly cheered. “If ye wanted, ye could walk her wherever ye liked now. She’s—”
“Psst!”
Cristy jumped. Brochan had startled her, coming up behind her that way. But she didn’t want to panic the cows, so she instructed the lads, “Just keep calm.”
“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Brochan’s voice was hushed, but she could feel the intensity of his anger in the bite of his words.
“Quiet, Da,” Cambel warned.
“We’re reivin’ Eufemie,” Colin whispered.
“I can see that,” Brochan muttered.
Cristy, recognizing the impatience in his tone, suggested, “Why don’t we put her back with the rest o’ the herd now, lads?”
“But I want to take her to your keep,” Cambel said.
Cristy arched a brow. “Now, Cambel, I told ye before—”
“Is that what ye intended?” Brochan said between clenched teeth. “Were ye goin’ to reive my coo and my sons?”
Her jaw dropped. She stopped in her tracks, halting the two lads and the cow. Then she craned her head toward him. “How could ye think that?”
The dark fire in his eyes told her exactly how he could think that. He saw her only as a cattle reiver, a lass who’d attacked him with a sword and might be a threat to his sons, a lass who someone had given a black eye, and who probably deserved it.
The hurt she felt was unexpected. Normally, her skin was as thick as chain mail. It had to be. If she showed a hint of weakness, her cousins would swoop down on her like a hawk on a mouse. But to her horror, the accusation and condemnation in Brochan’s gaze made her eyes well with moisture.
She tried to transform the hurt to anger, but her voice broke when she spoke. “I gave ye my word.”
“Your word? The word of a…” He left the sentence unfinished, apparently not wishing to berate her in front of his sons. Then he looked away. His mouth was working as if he battled with his emotions.
Cristy steeled her chin, trying to still its trembling. She’d been so happy a moment ago, carefree and content, holding hands with two endearing children, playing in the sunshine, teaching them a useful skill.
Now she was good-for-naught Cristy the reiver again.
Colin and Cambel peered up at her. Colin spoke. “Are ye all right, m’lady?”
Cristy choked back the pain. Somehow she managed to nod. At least someone believed her. At least someone thought she was worthy of trust.
“We’re all goin’ back to the byre,” Brochan proclaimed, his voice gruff. “There’s to be no more reivin’ o’ cattle today.”
“Och, Da,” Cambel complained. “M’lady said we’re good at it.”
Brochan made a strangling sound deep in his throat.
“And Eufemie doesn’t mind,” Colin said.
“No more reivin’,” Brochan insisted. “Ye lads know better.”
Colin sighed. “I’m sorry, Da.”
“I’m sorry, Da,” echoed Cambel.
No one spoke on the way. The lads were still holding her hands when they reached the byre. And by then, Cristy’s armor was back in place.
“Ye lads take the milk in to the house,” Brochan said. “I need to speak with Miss Moffat alone.”
Cristy’s breath caught. She didn’t want to let go of the lads. She knew once they were gone, Brochan would feel free to unleash his anger on her.
But if they di
sobeyed him, that anger might be unleashed on his sons.
Cristy could deal with a man’s rage. She’d had plenty of practice. But she feared the lads didn’t have such strong armor. So she gave them a forced smile of reassurance and reluctantly released them.
As soon as the twins were well on their way to the tower and out of hearing, Brochan turned on her. “What the devil were ye thinkin’, endangerin’ my sons like that?”
“They weren’t in any danger.”
“The hell they weren’t.” He started pacing. “There’s a bull out there and coos with young. Do ye know what they’d do if they felt threatened?”
“Aye, o’ course.”
“Aye? Then why would ye take my lads out there?”
“God’s bones! Do ye think I don’t know cattle? I’ve been around them my whole life. I know how to stay out o’ harm’s way.” Miffed, she added pointedly, “At least from coos.”
Brochan stopped in front of her, and for an instant, she cursed her own waspish tongue, wondering if he would clout her after all. He might have told his sons that it wasn’t right to hit a lady. But they weren’t here to see him now.
Besides, it was obvious he didn’t think she was a lady, not really.
He didn’t hit her, but he did curse. “Shite. Teachin’ my sons to be outlaws.”
She creased her brow. Was that what he thought? No wonder he was angry. “What? I wasn’t teachin’ them to be outlaws.”
“They were reivin’ a bloody coo.”
“’Twas their own bloody coo. They weren’t reivin’ her.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “’Twas Colin who put ye up to it, wasn’t it? He wanted to know how to reive cattle.”
Cristy stiffened. She wasn’t about to let sweet wee Colin take the blame for it, even if that had been the lad’s idea.
“’Twasn’t his fault. ’Twas my idea. And I wasn’t actually teachin’ him how to reive cattle, only how to herd them.” That much was true. Learning how to separate a single cow from the rest was a useful skill. “Don’t hurt the lad.”
“Hurt him?” He pulled away, aghast. “Ye think I would hurt Colin? My own flesh and blood?”
The Reiver Page 6
