by Amanda Scott
Every cell in Molly’s body froze where it was.
Ramper whined again but stayed obediently at Wat’s side. The shrubbery did not move, but he was sure she was there. Will Cockburn’s sleuthhounds, although as obedient as Ramper was, had quivered so much that if Will had been paying more heed to them and less to getting his own way, he would have noticed.
“Come on out, lass,” Wat said again. “No one here will harm you. I sent my lads back, so I’m the only one here.” When there was no response, he added, “I have small interest in runaway maidservants, but I do lack infinite patience.”
“I can’t come out,” she said, her voice no more than a hoarse squeak.
“Are you stuck in the shrubbery?”
“If you put it that way, I expect I am.”
Her gentle, even educated, manner of speaking stunned him briefly to silence. She spoke as the women in his family did, so she was no ordinary maidservant. That thought gave him pause to wonder what mischief the Fates might have wrought by casting her into his path as they had.
“You will have to explain your situation more clearly,” he said with a slight frown. “I do not know why it should matter how I put that question to you.”
“I am stuck because my appearance is not such that I can show myself.”
Was it his imagination or had she sounded on the brink of laughter?
“There is little moonlight here, as you have seen for yourself,” he said. “I doubt that I could see whatever you’d liefer not show me.”
“There is gey little to show, my lord.”
He could not mistake it this time, definitely a near gurgle of laughter. His patience fled. More sharply, he said, “I can see nowt in this situation for humor.”
“Nor do I, sir, I promise you. ’Tis not humor but hysteria, I fear.”
“Whatever it is, I have had a surfeit of it for one night. Come out at once.”
“I am nearly naked,” she said flatly.
He pressed his lips together, suppressing the sudden strong urge he felt to see her. Something in the way she’d said those four words challenged him to make her come out. Ruthlessly reminding himself that he was a gentleman and that it was likely that the spirit of his father, a gentleman in every sense of the word, was still watching him, Wat said, “I have my cloak, lass. If I hold it up between us and give my word as a Borderer not to peek, will you trust me and come out?”
Silence.
“ ’Tis a gey warm, fur-lined cloak,” he murmured, shaking off some dry leaves that it had picked up from the shrubbery. “It even boasts a hood.”
“I’ll trust you, sir. I have heard that your word is good. ’Tis just that I feel so… so…” The words floated softly, even wistfully, to him. Although she did not finish the sentence, he heard rustling in the shrubbery and knew that she was trying, awkwardly or otherwise, to wriggle her way out.
“Can you manage by yourself?” he asked as he held his cloak up high enough to block his view of the relevant shrubs. “Or should I try to help?”
“I’ll manage alone if it kills me,” she muttered grimly.
His lips curved, and he realized he was smiling. Until the Cockburns’ arrival, he had felt miserable, grief-stricken, even forlorn. He’d worried about whether he was ready to step into his father’s and grandfather’s shoes and assume all the burdens of their immediate family, Rankilburn, all of Clan Scott, Ettrick Forest, and numerous other Scott holdings. Sakes, his father had even been an assistant march warden, with duties of which Wat had only slight understanding.
Nevertheless, the lass’s grim fortitude had somehow banished his despair. Whoever and whatever she was, she was damnably intriguing.
A low cry from the shrubbery almost made him shift the cloak to see what had gone amiss.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Just another scratch,” she replied. “I’m nearly there.”
He steeled himself to be patient, expecting her to remind him of his promise not to look. His younger brother and sisters often plagued him with reminders after he’d promised them something.
But she did not.
Silence at last from the shrubbery told him that she had extricated herself, and he sensed it when she stood.
“I’m here, sir,” she said quietly as he felt her move against the cloak. “My shoulders are a bit lower down than that, though,” she added.
Gently, he draped the cloak over her shoulders, noting that she was more than a head shorter than he was. When she pulled the cloak close around her, he saw that she was slenderly curvaceous. He could also see that her long, dark hair was tangled and full of leaves. When she turned, he gasped at the scratches he saw, even by the pale moonlight, on what was otherwise a pretty but exceedingly dirty face. A thin scar of about two inches ran from the end of her right eyebrow into her hairline.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked, resisting an impulse to use his thumb and wipe away a bubble of blood from the deepest scratch on her cheek.
“I’m Molly, sir.”
“Molly what?”
“Molly is sufficient for now, I think,” she said. “It is kind of you to let me borrow your cloak,” she added quickly before he could reply. “Mayhap you know of a tenant or one of your servants who might lend me a cot or pallet for the night.”
“We won’t trouble anyone else,” he said. “I suspect that you are not the maidservant that Will Cockburn and those others were seeking.”
“What I am is cold and hungry, my lord. Those men and dogs frightened me, but I am as naught to them.”
“Nevertheless, you are running from something, lass. No self-respecting female would be flinging herself into rough shrubbery, half naked, without good cause. And prithee, do not spin me a wheen of blethers about your being other than self-respecting. I shan’t believe you.”
“The truth is that I am not feeling at all self-sufficient,” she said. “I simply acted when the opportunity arose, without thought. Consequently, the greatest and most fearful likelihood is that my so-impulsive act will prove futile.”
“Sakes, then why did you run away?”
Giving him a direct, even challenging look, she said with resolute calm, “I have asked myself that question more than once tonight, my lord. The answer is that my reasons are ones that you are likely to deem insufficient, even senseless.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Very well, I ran because it is or, more precisely, was my wedding night.”
Molly didn’t dare look at him, so certain was she that he would demand to know more. To her surprise, though, he put a gentle hand on her right shoulder and urged her forward as he said, “We’ll go this way. You will be warmer walking than standing here.”
“But you cannot mean to take me to Scott’s Hall,” she protested, as she huddled gratefully into the warmth of his cloak and tied its strings at her throat.
“Aye, sure, I will take you there. I cannot leave you out here wandering in the woods. For one thing, I’ll want my cloak back. ’Tis nearly new.”
“Well, if you want it—” She put a hand back to the bow she had tied.
“Don’t be daft,” he said more curtly. “You will wear it, and we will go to the Hall. You will be safe there, I promise. My mother and grandmother will see to that, not to mention my sisters and any number of maidservants.”
“In troth, sir, I do not fear you, and your offer of warmth is sorely tempting,” she said. “But much as I’d welcome your hospitality, I must not endanger you or your family. If you take me to the Hall, dire trouble may follow.”
“I won’t let any harm befall you,” he said. “As for trouble, we’ve met with such before and will doubtless do so again. The Hall is fortified and well guarded, so you should feel safe inside our wall.”
Although she kept silent to see if he would say more, he did not, and since she suspected that he would refuse to let her stay where she was, even had she been daft enough to want to, she walked with him in near
companionable silence until she realized, to her dismay, that his lack of curiosity nettled her.
Not that she wanted to explain anything to him. She did not want to talk about herself at all and ought simply to accept that he was offering a refuge.
At that thought, she felt suddenly weak-kneed. It was as if the knowledge that she was safe, if for only a short time, drained what energy she had had left.
When she swayed, a firm hand cupped her right elbow, steadying her.
“You have come a long way, I think, and you are barefoot,” he said. “We have some distance to go yet, so I’ll carry you if you like. You’re small enough that I could do so easily.”
Energy surged back, and she straightened, saying with forced calm that she hoped would seem to equal his own, “Thank you, sir, but I am accustomed to going without shoes in all weather. If I am tired, it is because of the late hour and the fact that I had nearly given up hope of finding shelter.”
“As you like,” he said amiably, adding in the same way, “Ramper, keep to the trail.” But he did not move his hand away from her elbow, and she was grateful for its presence there. She seemed to draw strength from him, and she could not recall the last time she had felt such a thing with any man.
The silence between them continued as they walked. When she realized that he would make no further attempt to question her, she relaxed and began to pay closer heed to their surroundings.
Moonlight glinted on mist-damp leaves, providing enough light for her to discern the path they followed. The older dog kept to it. The younger one wandered off now and again but returned at a quiet word from its master.
“Why do you call him Ramper?” she asked him. “He’s not an eel.”
“No, but he squirms like one and can get out of any place I put him.”
She glanced up at him, noting his firm, dark profile against the moonlight. He seemed completely at his ease, clearly trusting his dogs to warn of any danger.
Before long, torchlight ahead told her they were approaching Scott’s Hall. A few minutes thereafter, they crossed a wide clearing and the gate in the high wall swung wide at their approach.
Her companion bade the man on the gate a good evening but said no more.
“Should you not have warned them that those men might return?” she asked, keeping her voice low so that only he would hear her.
“Nay, for my lads have received their orders from Tam and will keep a close watch, as always. Moreover, those men will not return tonight.”
She was not as sure of that as he seemed to be, but she had seen enough to know that, try as they might, neither Will nor Tuedy would enter Scott’s Hall that night. Its high wall and iron-barred gates would keep them out.
Inside, torches in the cobblestone yard revealed that the Hall boasted three towers. Her escort guided her to the central one. It was doubtless the keep, because its door opened onto an entryway where an alert porter rose from his stool.
A stairway beyond him took them up a few steps to the great hall. Just inside, his lordship paused and turned to face her. Frowning a little, and without warning, he put a hand to her chin and tilted her face up.
Involuntarily, Molly flinched, but he held her chin firmly and seemed to examine her doubtless filthy face. He had looked at her earlier, but not like this.
He looked as if he would comment but released her instead when a young maidservant in a leaf-green kirtle, a white apron, and a white half-veil over curly reddish-blonde hair hurried toward them.
Molly fought to steady her senses.
“Good evening, Emma,” his lordship said. “This is Mistress Molly, who will be staying with us for a time. Prithee, show her to a guest chamber and order hot water for a bath. She has been walking in the forest and is well nigh freezing, so the first thing is to warm her. She is also likely hungry and will need clothes to wear in the morning. She seems to be about the same size as the lady Janet, so…”
“I’ll look after her, m’lord, aye,” the lass said, giving Molly a warm smile. “Meantime, sir, Herself wants a word wi’ ye. She said to bid ye come to her sitting room straightaway when ye came in.”
Molly stiffened, wondering if Herself was his mother or even his wife to have summoned him in such a way. But she managed to retain the little composure she had left, telling herself that it was foolish to think he might abandon her.
As if he could hear her thoughts, he said reassuringly, “Go with Emma, mistress. I’ll see you in the morning when you come down to break your fast. Emma will bring you down to the high table when you’re ready.”
Molly doubted that she would ever be “ready” for further conversation with the new Lord of Rankilburn. As she thanked him politely and bade him goodnight, she saw that his thoughtful frown had returned.
Chapter 2
Wat stood still, watching “Mistress Molly” walk away with young Emma Elliot. On Molly, his new cloak dusted the floor, and he realized that it had doubtless dragged along the forest floor, as well, and would need a good brushing. But his man, Emma’s brother Jed, would take care of that for him.
Nevertheless, and despite Molly’s bedraggled appearance, she carried herself with regal grace and revealed no outward sign of her difficult evening.
Her lack of proper clothing under the cloak would doubtless shock Emma, though. So would the bruise that was beginning to discolor her left cheek, and if Emma noticed the pale thin scar from their guest’s right eyebrow to just above her right ear, those details might shock her, too.
Recalling Molly’s wince, and her earlier dizziness, he knew she was still frightened. That increased his admiration for her fortitude and surface calm.
A smile touched his lips when it occurred to him that if he lingered much longer to watch her, he risked annoying his grandmother. Also, nearly a dozen men slept on pallets in the great hall. Most were warriors and thus light sleepers.
None would spread gossip abroad, but given cause to suspect that he’d taken an unusual interest in his new young charge, they might talk amongst themselves.
Therefore, collecting his wits, he strode back to the main stairway and up two levels to his grandmother’s sitting room. He was well aware that, having summoned him, she would not retire without seeing him.
Opening the door after a perfunctory rap, he found her alone in the room, sitting comfortably, albeit soberly, in a cushioned chair before a small fire in the hooded fireplace. She stared into the flames, the stitchery in her lap forgotten.
The lady Margaret Scott turned her head as he entered. Smiling the warm smile that was his alone, she said, “So you are back at last. I am told that intruders dared to disturb your solitude.”
Her voice was low and musical, her face and nose long and thin. Her mouth was so large and wide that before she married his grandfather, insolent wags had called her Muckle-Mouth Meg. However, her smiles, of every sort, were beautiful, and her figure was still graceful and slim. Her pale skin remained soft-looking with fewer lines than most women who boasted her nearly sixty years of age.
Her dark brown hair was graying, but she still wore it in the long, thick plait that she favored, draped now over her right shoulder. Her dark-lashed eyes were stone-gray, their irises black-rimmed, and their whites as clear as ever. Her head remained bare of veil or coif, and she had changed from the somber clothing she had worn to her son’s burial into her favorite soft, pale-green robe.
Gesturing toward a nearby back-stool as Wat pushed the door shut behind him, she said, “Sit now and tell me about your visitors.”
“Since Sym doubtless told you exactly what happened, Gram,” he replied, bending to kiss her cheek, “I hope you don’t expect me to describe it all again.”
“Do pull up that stool or a cushion and make yourself comfortable, love,” she said. “Sym did tell me such details as he saw and heard for himself, but…”
When she paused, Wat said, “If that is all he said, he must be failing sadly. Do you honestly expect me to believe he did not offe
r his own opinion of my visitors—aye, and of mine own actions and speech?”
“I would be wasting my breath if I said any such thing,” she replied. “Sym speaks as frankly now as he did when he was a bairn, and I still find his opinions educational and often as highly amusing as they were then. He has changed in other ways since then, to be sure, especially since his Nelly died.”
Wat knew Sym’s history, as did nearly every other inhabitant of Scott’s Hall. “I interrupted you, Gram,” he said, drawing the back-stool closer to her and turning it so he could straddle it. “You were saying…”
“… that although Sym described the men and their actions and said that you had named two of them—Will Cockburn of Henderland and Ringan Tuedy of Drumelzier—neither one is a man I’d expect to come here unannounced at such an hour. Not peacefully, at all events. Sym said that Will professed to be hunting a missing maidservant. He also said that, in his opinion, it was a wheen o’ blethers.”
“I agree with Sym. Did he linger long enough to note aught else of interest?”
She shook her head. “He said only that Will had brought sleuthhounds with him and how sternly you ordered the men and their dogs back to Henderland. He said you also told him and Tammy to return here whilst you stayed out in the forest.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “Sym did say that, at another time, he might have stuck close, because he thought you were up to something. But now that you’re the laird, he said, he thought he’d been wiser to obey you.”
“Much wiser,” Wat said, meeting her gaze.
“So what were you up to, love?”
“In short, madam, I found a young woman in the shrubbery.”
“Mercy, who is she?”
“She says her name is Molly,” he said, folding his arms over the top of the back-stool. “She did not provide a surname.”
“Would not or could not?”
“She said only that she thought Molly would suffice for now.”
Lady Meg frowned. “She sounds rather too sure of herself, then, to be Will Cockburn’s missing maidservant, if such a creature exists.”
