The Reiver

by Campbell, Glynnis

  Colin tugged on his leine. “Don’t ye want to know what story we chose?”

  “Aye,” he said. “What story?”

  They answered together. “The Mice in Council.”

  Brochan nodded his approval, but his mind was still on Cristy. He had to apologize to her. He should never have said such a hurtful thing. And somehow he had to convince her to stay. Most of all, he had to find a way to make her care for him the way he cared for her.

  But just then Mabel announced dinner. Soon he became distracted by salmon pottage and bannocks, the babbling of his lads, and the servants’ report of the day.

  Cristy sat quietly between the twins, stirring her pottage, as if naught was wrong.

  She wasn’t hungry. Indeed, she didn’t want to sit here at all. Part of her wanted to retreat somewhere to lick her wounds after Brochan’s cruel reminder that her uncle didn’t want her back. And part of her wanted to seize the stubborn laird by the front of his leine and demand that he admit to loving her.

  She didn’t dare do either. To leave would invite too many questions. Already, Mabel was eyeing her with suspicion because of her quiet mood. And Cristy didn’t wish to upset the twins. So she only picked at her bannock and stared at her pottage while dinner continued around her.

  “Da, can ye tell us the story now?” Cambel asked.

  “Aye, Da, tell us.” Colin tugged on Cristy’s sleeve, and she looked askance at him. “Have ye heard The Mice in Council before, m’lady?”

  She shook her head.

  Cambel told her, “’Tis all about bravery.”

  “Don’t spoil it, Cambel,” said Colin.

  “I won’t.”

  “Because ’twill ruin the surprise.”

  “I know.”

  “Hush, lads,” Mabel chided. “Let your da tell the tale.”

  Brochan took a drink of ale, then cleared his throat and began. “Once there was a great family o’ mice that lived in the shadow of a very wicked cat.”

  Cristy tore off a chunk of bannock and dipped it into her pottage. She could tell by Brochan’s voice that he wasn’t in a storytelling mood. No doubt the disgruntled laird was unaccustomed to having his wedding proposals refused.

  “Now this cat had a powerful cravin’ for mouse meat. It seemed that every time a mouse crept out of its wee home, she was ready to spring out and snap it up in her claws.”

  “Da,” Colin interjected, “do ye think we could get a cat?”

  “Colin, don’t interrupt,” Cambel chided.

  “I’m just wonderin’.”

  “A cat?” Brochan considered. “I suppose, as long as ye look after it and keep it out o’ the doocot.”

  Colin cheered.

  “Now where was I?” Brochan asked.

  Cambel said, “Snappin’ up mice in her claws.”

  “Aye. ’Twas so bad, all the mice were afraid to leave their homes. They decided to have a council…”

  “A mice council,” Colin gushed, as if the idea pleased him immensely. Cristy wondered if his opinion would change when his new cat started gifting him with dead mice.

  “In that mice council,” Brochan said, “they discussed the matter. One mouse suggested they kill the cat. But most o’ the mice disapproved o’ the idea. The cat, after all, couldn’t help her nature. Another mouse declared they should have watch-mice set up at points along the wall to report when the cat was on the prowl. But then the youngest mouse—”

  “Did the youngest mouse have a name?” Cambel wanted to know.

  “A name? I suppose so. What do ye think ’twas?”

  “Morris,” Cambel decided.

  “Right. His name was Morris the Mouse. So wee Morris stood up bravely before the others and said, ‘I have a plan.’ The older mice scoffed at him, for he was young and inexperienced in the ways o’ cats. But they let him speak anyway. He said, ‘Why don’t we hang a bell around the cat’s neck? That way, whene’er we hear the bell ringin’, we’ll know the cat is nigh.’”

  It actually was a good idea. In fact, if Colin got his cat, Cristy would have to give him a bell to put around its neck.

  Then she remembered…she might not be here when he got his cat.

  The thought saddened her. She truly wished to stay—to watch the lads grow up, to help take care of the tower house, to look after the hardworking laird of Macintosh. But Cristy had lived long enough with men who didn’t care for her. When she married, it would be to a man who loved her with all his heart.

  “At first,” Brochan continued with the story, “none o’ the mice said a thing. Then, one by one, they saw the genius o’ the idea and started exclaimin’, ‘’Tis brilliant! How clever! What a bright wee mouse that Morris is!’ But while they were clappin’ Morris on the back and tellin’ him how lucky they were to have him in the mice council, the oldest, wisest, most respected mouse arose. Now whenever he spoke, the others paid heed, and this is what he said. ‘This plan that Morris has is very good. But let me ask ye one question. Who is goin’ to hang the bell around the cat’s neck?’ The mice were struck silent. And as ye can well imagine, none o’ them wanted the task.”

  Cambel giggled.

  “The moral, Da, the moral!” cried Colin.

  Brochan obliged him. “’Tis far easier to say a thing should be done than to do it.”

  Colin nudged her. “’Tis a good moral, aye?”

  She nodded.

  Cambel added, “Da says ’tisn’t good enough to be a man o’ words. Ye must be a man o’ deeds.”

  “Speakin’ o’ deeds,” Brochan said, “ye lads haven’t milked the coos yet this eve.”

  “Come on, Colin,” Cambel said, jumping up from the table. “Let’s be men o’ deeds.”

  “Will ye come with us, m’lady?” Colin said. “We’ll show ye how we milk the coos.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she already knew how to milk cows. Then she reconsidered.

  There was one way she could find out if Brochan loved her. One thing that would prove beyond doubt that he wasn’t after a marriage of convenience. It would take great skill and great courage on her part, like belling a cat. But she had to try, because…sometimes it was necessary to be a woman of deeds.

  So she smiled and let the lads take her by the hand out of the hall. She pretended not to notice Brochan’s irritation with her for leaving before he had a chance to speak with her alone.

  After several minutes of letting the lads show her their milking skills, Cristy left them to their cows, making the excuse that she had to fetch her missing arisaid pin from the dovecot.

  Instead, with a backward glance, she stole quietly across the starlit slope, toward the burn that separated the Macintosh and Moffat properties.

  If she’d been aware that the lads had seen her leave and would follow her, she would never have gone. By the time she discovered them, she was past the burn, down the road, past the tavern, and deep into the fields of her uncle’s holding.

  By then it was too late.

  For the last mile, she’d had the queer sensation she was being watched. She’d quickly discarded the idea as nonsense. Nobody but her reiving cousins roamed the Moffat holding at this hour.

  But the feeling didn’t go away. When she heard distant footfalls behind her, she wheeled around, half expecting to see Archibald and the others.

  Instead, Cambel and Colin were thrashing through the weeds, trying to catch up with her.

  Her heart sank. What the devil were they doing? Why had they followed her?

  Before she could hold up a hand to stop him, Colin yelled out, “M’lady, wait for us!”

  Fearing discovery by her kin, she put a warning finger of silence to her lips and hurried to meet them.

  She crouched before them, whispering, “What are ye lads doin’?”

  “Where are ye goin’, m’lady?” Cambel whispered back.

  Colin’s face fell. “Were ye leavin’ us?”

  Her throat thickened at his sad expression. “Nay, I
was only…” How could she explain? “I’m just bein’ a woman o’ deeds.”

  “What deeds?” Cambel wanted to know.

  She rubbed a hand across her lips. What was she going to do with the lads? She’d come too far to turn back now. And if Brochan discovered his sons had gone missing, another quarter hour would make little difference in their return anyway.

  She was tempted to make them wait in the woods while she did what she’d come to do. She knew if they swore on their honor to stay where she put them, she could rely upon their word.

  But if any of her clan found them in the forest, they’d turn the lads in to Douglas. And Douglas wouldn’t hesitate to use the Macintosh lads the way Macintosh had used Cristy—as hostages.

  “What deed, m’lady?” Colin repeated.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “A deed that requires a special talent, which is why I’m so glad ye came.” She squeezed their shoulders. “I could use your help.”

  When Brochan walked into the byre, he expected to see the lads dawdling over the milking as they shared their skills with Cristy. Showing off was one thing, but they’d been out there for over an hour. It was past their bedtime, and he needed to find a moment alone with Cristy to see if he could repair the damage he’d done.

  What he did not expect to find were full, abandoned milk buckets.

  He frowned. Where had the wayward lads gone?

  His first thought was the comet. Maybe Cristy had taken them out to the field to get a better look at it.

  But he scoured the hillside, to no avail.

  Then he wondered if they’d gone to the dovecot. When he ducked inside, it was dark and empty.

  Exiting, he narrowed his eyes at the herd of cattle. Could they be out there with the cows?

  “Cambel!” he called out. “Colin!”

  There was no reply.

  A sickly fear prickled at the back of his neck.

  Where was Cristy?

  She’d been upset. Even at dinner, he could see she wasn’t eating. He’d said that stupid thing about her uncle not wanting her back. He couldn’t blame her for feeling hurt.

  Was she hurt enough to seek retribution?

  “Colin!” he shouted. “Cambel!”

  He told himself she wouldn’t do the lads any harm. They adored her, and she seemed to care for them.

  But then he remembered what else he’d said. He’d told Cristy that no child of his would be raised in her uncle’s household. He’d threatened to take her bairn away if she had one. And she’d been just as insistent that she wouldn’t let him.

  Was she upset enough to take his children?

  A twinge of alarm twisted his heart. If she wished to wound him, she’d pierced him in his softest spot. The lads were everything to him.

  He steeled his jaw. Normally, he was a peaceful man. But he’d once been a warrior. And when it came to his sons, he’d take on the entire Moffat clan for them.

  Unwilling to waste another moment, he strode with determined haste to the tower to fetch his blade.

  Once armed and ready, he stalked with purpose across his fields, past his cattle, and over the burn that divided the properties, his hand clenched around the hilt of his naked sword. Fear had no place in battle, so he pushed down the dread that threatened to unman him. As he covered the miles between the properties, passing the tavern and leaving the road to trespass onto Moffat land, he thought only of his sons and the brute into whose hands they’d been delivered.

  Indeed, so intent was he on mustering his courage that he didn’t even see the lads until he was almost upon them. When he finally spied them cresting a distant brae, coming his way, he was so filled with relief that at first he was blind to everything except Colin and Cambel.

  With renewed hope, he sheathed his sword and bounded toward them.

  Then he saw Cristy. And the cows.

  Slowing his step, he frowned. What the devil was she up to?

  While he watched them, he saw Cristy guiding the lads, keeping a careful pace behind them as they herded one, two, three, four, five cows.

  Chapter 11

  Cristy spied the approaching figure before the lads did. How had Brochan arrived so fast? She’d hoped to have his sons home before he realized they were missing. God’s eyes, he was probably furious. She only prayed he’d have enough sense not to bellow at her while they were still on Moffat land.

  “Keep the coos movin’, lads,” she murmured. “Don’t look now, but your Da is comin’ this way. We can’t let him scare the cattle.”

  Colin whimpered. “Och, nay.”

  “He’ll be so vexed with us,” Cambel said.

  “He’ll be vexed at me,” Cristy assured them.

  “But he’ll be glad to have the coos back, aye?” Colin asked hopefully.

  She wondered. Once Brochan had his five cows, he’d no longer have an excuse to keep her. So if he wanted her to stay—and she was almost certain he did—he’d have to give her a good reason. And it would have to be more convincing than needing a mother for his sons, help for his housekeeper, or a last name for her bastard.

  The closer Brochan got, the more furious he looked. When he finally drew close enough to keep pace with them, his expression was tense, and his words were clipped. “Are these my coos?”

  “Aye.”

  Cambel said, “M’lady is bringin’ them back for ye, Da.”

  “I don’t want them back,” he ground out.

  His words were meant for her, but the twins gasped in surprise.

  “That was the agreement,” she said. “Ye get your coos. I get my freedom.”

  “I won’t take them back,” he insisted.

  She frowned. “Ye have to take them back.”

  “I refuse.”

  “Ye can’t refuse.”

  “I do refuse.”

  The lads suddenly became far more interested in the argument taking place than guiding the cows. They halted, which made the cattle halt.

  Cristy stopped, crossing her arms in challenge. “So ye’d rather keep me hostage than get your coos back?”

  Brochan stopped, crossing his arms in defiance. “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  He glowered at her.

  “Ye’ve got your coos now and your sons,” she said. “Why will ye not take them and let me go? Ye were happy enough before. Why not put things back the way they were?”

  He averted his eyes and mumbled something under his breath.

  “What?” she asked. “I didn’t quite hear that.”

  His sons were staring at him, awaiting his reply. He scowled, squirming beneath their regard. Then he muttered something again.

  She furrowed her brows. “I still didn’t catch the words. Did ye, lads?”

  The twins shook their heads.

  “Perhaps ye could speak up a bit?” she suggested.

  Her words might sound sincere, but he could hardly miss the mischief sparking in her eyes.

  “Lucifer’s ballocks,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. Then he threw his arms wide and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Because I love ye, Cristy Moffat!”

  She had no time to enjoy his heartfelt declaration. An instant after he shouted, chaos erupted. The cows, startled by the loud noise, scattered. In an effort to protect the lads, she scooped Cambel into her arms while Brochan swept up Colin.

  They managed to keep the twins from harm until the cows had run off and they could put the lads down.

  But in the next moment, she heard faraway cries of alarm. Moffat’s watchmen had been alerted. They knew they were there.

  “Run!” she hissed.

  They wasted no time, bolting toward Macintosh land as fast as they could. They tore across the grasslands, leaped over rocks, and charged through clumps of heather. When the lads began to fall behind on the road that led past the tavern, Brochan picked them up and carried one on each shoulder. By the time they reached the burn, Cristy could make out a half dozen torchlights in the
distance, following them.

  They forded the burn and didn’t stop running until they were well across Brochan’s own border, halfway back to the tower.

  At last, too exhausted to continue, Cristy stopped, bending forward at the waist and bracing her hands on her knees. Her lungs burned, and she could hardly catch her breath. Brochan wheezed, his chest heaving as he set the lads back on their feet.

  Suddenly the situation struck her as uproariously funny. She couldn’t believe she’d gone to all the trouble to reive back his cows, only to have Brochan scatter them all with one outburst. She stifled a laugh.

  Brochan must have seen the humor as well, for he looked at her with a sheepish snicker.

  She began to giggle.

  He chuckled in answer.

  One laugh fueled the next. Soon they were overcome with laughter, collapsing onto the ground in uncontrollable hilarity.

  The lads frowned down at them.

  “What are ye laughin’ for?” Colin asked. “We lost the coos again.”

  “Aye, what’s so funny?” Cambel demanded.

  Neither Brochan nor she were in any shape to reply. They were laughing too hard. But apparently their humor was catching, because soon the twins joined in until they were helpless with giggles.

  When everyone finally sobered, breathless and weary, they made their way back to the tower house.

  “Da,” Cambel asked when they were almost to the motte, “did ye mean what ye said? Do ye love m’lady?”

  Cristy’s heart melted when Brochan looked at her and said, “Aye, I do.”

  “More than coos?” he asked.

  He grinned. “Aye, Colin, more than coos.”

  Cambel asked, “Does she love ye back?”

  “Ye’ll have to ask her that.”

  Cambel raised his brows to her. “Well?”

  “I do,” Cristy replied with a smile, adding, “more than coos.”

  “Are ye goin’ to stay with us then?” Cambel asked.

  “Are ye goin’ to be our Ma?” Colin added.

  From the corner of her eye, Cristy saw Brochan tense. And she realized why he’d had such a difficult time confessing his love. He may have lost his wife five years ago. But he was a man of loyalty and chivalry. No doubt it was difficult to let go of his vows, even those that no longer had meaning.