by Amanda Scott
“I am sure that she is no one’s servant, Gram, although someone struck her recently. She has a bruise rising on her right cheek.”
After a thoughtful pause, Lady Meg said, “Describe this Molly to me.”
“When I turned her over to Emma, she looked like someone dragged backward through a bush, mayhap several bushes,” he replied frankly. “When I persuaded her to show herself, she wore only a ragged shift. Her hair was tangled, and she had scratches all over her from burrowing into and out of the shrubbery.”
“Hiding from whom? Might that still be Will Cockburn or Ringan Tuedy?”
“I suspect that it may be one or the other, even both. But I’m nearly certain she is wellborn, Gram. She speaks like a gently-bred lady.”
“Did she tell you anything about herself?”
“Only that she had fled her wedding night,” Wat replied.
While Molly waited for her bathwater in the pleasant bedchamber to which Emma had shown her, the younger girl bustled about preparing for her to bathe. Dragging a large tin tub from the corner where it apparently lived, Emma next fetched towels and soap from a nearby kist and set them on a stool beside the tub.
“There always be hot water on the hob, mistress,” she said with one of her cheery smiles as she shook out and refolded the larger of the two towels. Then, smoothing her apron over her green kirtle and pushing an errant reddish blonde curl back under her veil, she added, “Our lads willna tak’ long to fetch your water up here. I told one o’ them to bring ye food, too. I hope bread and cheese will be enough. The kitchen ha’ been closed yet a while.”
“Bread and cheese sounds delicious,” Molly said sincerely. “You seem gey cheerful and efficient, Emma, for someone I must be keeping up long past her usual hour for retiring. I am grateful to you, though.”
“Good sakes, this be nowt,” Emma said. “Me da serves Lady Meg and has done since ever she came to Rankilburn. It be her rule that visitors should aye be well served and want for nowt that we can provide.”
“That is kind and generous of her ladyship, but I expect you must be wondering how I came to be wearing his lordship’s cloak,” Molly said, certain that the maid would know it was his and not her own.
The comfort the cloak gave her had not lessened. Nor had the strong, albeit wholly unfamiliar, sense of security that the thick, fur-lined garment offered. It was huge on her but oh-so-warm and soft wherever it touched her skin. She could detect the rather spicy scent of Walter Scott when she inhaled. Nevertheless, she dreaded the fact that she would soon have to reveal how little she wore under it.
“ ’Tis nae business o’ mine, mistress,” Emma said lightly. “I did think your cloak looked much like his lordship’s and wondered if it were a new fashion to wear one’s cloaks so long. However, ye needna explain your doings t’ the likes o’ me.”
Turning away to fetch a screen that stood against the nearby wall, she moved it nearer the tub. As she did, footsteps sounded on the stairs beyond the door, followed by a double rap, heralding the arrival of Molly’s bathwater.
Two young men carried it in, in large buckets. They seemed to be as lacking in curiosity as Emma, and Molly decided that Scott’s Hall was far better managed than Henderland was. Since Walter Scott had been its lord for only a day or so, she imagined that the deft hand behind such management must have been his father’s… until she recalled Emma’s casual mention of Lady Meg’s rules.
“Is there not a Lady Scott, as well?” Molly asked Emma quietly while the men filled the tub. “Or is his late lordship’s wife called Lady Rankilburn?”
Emma shook her head. “She be Lady Scott, aye, but the poor soul suffers from ill health. See you, though, Lady Meg began running things here when she married his young lordship’s granddad. I reckon she’ll keep on running them till she dies unless his lordship marries someone wi’ a stronger will than hers.”
Emma’s grin revealed doubt that such a person existed.
Recalling how swiftly his lordship had excused himself after receiving his grandmother’s summons, Molly wondered if anyone dared to cross Lady Meg’s will. The woman sounded fierce.
“You say that your father serves Lady Meg?”
“Aye, because the auld laird, Sir Walter, set him to Lady Meg’s service the day they wed and said he was t’ serve her till she didna want him nae more. He was nobbut eleven then, so he did it and he still does. And happy he is about that, too.”
“Your mother must also live here, then, aye?”
Emma’s expression clouded. “Me mam died when I were ten. We still miss her summat fierce.”
“How old are you now?”
“Just on fifteen.”
“That must have been very hard,” Molly said sympathetically. “My mother died when I was a bairn, so I barely remember her, and my favorite grandame died when I was eight. She lived with us, and I do miss her. The other one lived longer, but in troth, the only thing I remember about her is that she always wore black gowns, had yellow teeth, and sat like a queen, as if she expected everyone to bow or curtsy to her. She certainly expected me to curtsy whenever I saw her.”
Emma smiled. “Me grannies was both tartars sometimes, too, but I loved them both. Granny Gledstanes died last year, but Granny Elliot lives on. Everyone likes her, although they take good care to step out o’ her path when she’s on a rant.”
The men, having finished filling the tub, left quietly and shut the door.
Molly stood where she was, yearning to get into the water and let it warm her but shy with the cheerful Emma, since she had never had a maid to aid her bathing.
His lordship’s fur-lined cloak still felt like a refuge, but her shift was damp beneath it and beginning to cloy.
Emma adjusted the screen to conceal the tub and its occupant from the doorway. Then, giving Molly a direct look, she said, “I’m t’ help ye as little or as much as ye like, mistress. I’ve put a wash-clout with them towels and some o’ Lady Meg’s own soap withal.”
“I’ll wash myself then,” Molly said. With a small sigh, she added, “I cannot use his lordship’s cloak as a robe, though, Emma. In fact, I ken fine that he’d like to have it back, and I’ve naught on underneath save a ragged shift.”
“Then I’ll fetch ye a warm robe and a pair o’ the lady Janet’s mules,” Emma said without a blink. “And dinna be thinking she’ll mind, for she won’t. She has the warmest heart o’ them all. Be there aught else that ye’ll need straightaway?”
“A comb and brush,” Molly said. “I’ll just twist my hair up in a knot to bathe, but I do want to brush the leaves and such out of it afterward.”
“I’ll see to it all straightaway,” Emma promised.
Blessing the girl’s amiable, incurious nature, Molly waited only to hear the door open and shut before testing the water with the toes of one foot. It was hotter than she had expected, but she knew it would cool fast. So, draping the cloak over the screen, she peeled off the ruined shift and lowered herself gratefully into the tub.
Her scrapes and scratches made the process a penance, but she knew that her injuries would heal faster when they were clean. Lady Meg’s soap smelled of spring flowers and she used it liberally, rediscovering the painful bruise on her cheek, where Tuedy had struck her, as she washed her face.
Soaking drowsily then, she let her thoughts drift again to her rescuer.
One new thing that she had noticed about him by the torchlight in the yard and in the great hall was that the new Lord of Rankilburn was handsomer than any man had a right to be. A head taller than she was, with chiseled features and hazel eyes, he possessed the strong, muscular shoulders and thighs of a swordsman and the otherwise lean and lanky body of one who spent many days on horseback.
She wondered if he always greeted unexpected events so calmly and how he was faring now with his fierce grandame.
Rarely was Wat able to stun his grandmother, so the astonished look on her face when he told her that Molly had fled her wedding night nearly br
ought a smile to his lips. Restraining himself, he waited politely for her response.
Her clear gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If I did not know you better, sir, I would suspect you of having a game with me. Are you actually telling me that the girl you found in the woods is a married woman?”
“Marriage is the only way I know to come by a wedding night,” Wat said. “Having not witnessed the ceremony for myself, though—”
“Mind your tongue, sir,” Lady Meg said.
He shook his head at her. “We must find out where she lives, Gram, and see that she gets safely home. My guess is that her new husband was rough with her and gave her a fright. But she belongs with him, nevertheless.”
“You must not send her anywhere until we learn more about her, sir. Where is she? I want to see her for myself.”
“At present, Emma is aiding her with a bath and providing food and clothing for her to wear. So, unless you mean to cross-question her in her tub—”
“You say she wore only a ragged shift?”
“Aye, or so she said. I did not peek when I gave her my cloak to wear.”
“Then she fled because of fear rather than anger. I’ll let her sleep tonight and see her in the morning. But we must give her sanctuary until we learn the truth.”
“Must we?” Wat asked. He kept his tone mild but held her gaze.
Her composure withstood his challenge, but he discerned a twinkle in her eyes when she said, “So you would remind me of my place, would you, my lord? Aye, well, you are right to do so. The burden of decision here in all things is now yours to bear. But I would ask you to think carefully about this matter. If young Molly is who I suspect she may be, I have some right to speak for her. Only some, though, because I made no attempt to speak up during these many years past.”
“I would attend closely to your counsel in any event, Gram,” he said. “But why do you think you have a particular right to speak for her?”
“Because someone must. You are wise beyond your years, sir, but you have yet to think this matter through. Consider only what we know to be true. First, men from Henderland were seeking her. Don’t bother to repeat that tale about a missing maidservant, because I refuse to believe that Will Cockburn would waste his time with such. He would wait for her return and then take a switch to her.”
“I have said that I don’t believe she is anyone’s servant,” Wat reminded her. “But I’ve never seen her before, so who do you think she may be?”
“Piers Cockburn of Henderland does have a daughter, you know,” Lady Meg said. “I am sure you will recall that fact, because if I am not mistaken, your father once suggested her to you as an acceptable wife. Her name is Margaret. Her grandmother, Marjory Cockburn, was a dear friend of mine in the days before our sons took different courses politically. If your Molly is Margaret Cockburn, then I am her godmother and she is my namesake.”
That would, Wat mused, explain why his father had suggested Lady Margaret Cockburn as a suitable wife.
“I do recall such a conversation, and Father did suggest such a marriage, but he did not press me to agree to it,” he said. “Nor did he mention that you were Lady Margaret’s godmother, Gram. You know as well as he did then that I was too busy training to win a knighthood to think seriously of marrying anyone.”
“I know that you thought you were,” she agreed with a smile. “I also know that you told him you would not marry anyone unless he commanded you to do so.” Her smile faded. “Have you not also considered, love, who her husband must be?”
He had not, but he did now. The most logical answer was plain.
“If she is who you think she is, he cannot be one of her three brothers, or Will’s man-at-arms,” he said grimly. “So her husband is most likely Ring Tuedy.”
“Sufficient cause for any lass to flee, I should think,” Lady Meg said tartly. “Whilst she stays here, I suggest that you let her go on being just Molly. It will be more comfortable for her so, and word of her presence here is less likely to spread.”
“God ha’ mercy, mistress, what dreadful mischief befell ye?”
Startled at the sound of Emma’s voice so nearby, Molly realized that she had sunk herself so deeply in thought that she had failed to hear the latch click open.
“I didna mean to give ye a fright,” Emma said. “And I ken fine that it be nae business of mine. But when I saw all them scratches…”
Pausing, she added more gently, “I saw earlier that ye’d bruised and scratched your face, so I did bring the balm that Lady Meg keeps in the pantry. It may at least keep ye from getting another scar. I dinna ken what all might be in it, but when I cut myself wi’ a knife, helping out in the kitchen, it healed gey quick.”
“I’d be grateful if you would hand me the towel now and then rub some of your balm on my scratches after I’m dry.”
“Aye, sure,” Emma said. “I’ve brung ye a kirtle and shift, as well as a warm robe and slippers from Lady Janet’s kists. I ken fine she’ll say I ought to ha’ brung ye her new kirtle, but I thought ye might be happier wi’ one o’ her older ones.”
“You were right,” Molly said with relief. “I’m most grateful to you for your thoughtfulness, Emma. I haven’t had a new kirtle for an eon, so a well-worn one will suit me better, and that soft pink color is one of my favorites.”
“I just thought how I’d feel, if it was me,” Emma said. “I told one o’ the lads t’ bring up a hot brick for ye wi’ your bread and cheese, too. He left them by the door, so I’ll just fetch them in and slip the brick into the bed whilst ye dry yourself.”
Handing Molly the towel, she disappeared around the screen again.
Molly dried herself quickly, listening as Emma moved back and forth in the bedchamber. The screen was too tall to see over, so she wrapped the towel around her for warmth and stepped around it.
Emma turned with a smile. “If ye’ll sit on yon stool, I can rub the salve over the scrapes on your back, and ye can tuck into the bread and cheese whilst I do. Then ye can put on that robe, and I’ll brush out your hair.”
Ten minutes later, Molly lay snugly in bed, and the maidservant had gone, leaving her to her whirling thoughts. Savoring the warmth that the hot, flannel-wrapped brick provided, she reminded herself that for the night, at least, she was as safe as she could be.
If another thought followed that one, she was unaware of it and slept peacefully and dreamlessly until Emma opened the curtains and shutters the next morning to reveal a sky of drifting dark clouds, threatening more rain to come.
“Herself did say she’d talk wi’ ye after ye’ve broken your fast,” Emma said.
Molly’s stomach clenched, making her hope she would be able to eat before she had to face his lordship’s grandmother. However, when she followed Emma down to the great hall, she saw that his lordship awaited her on the dais, alone.
Wat stared at the young woman approaching the dais with Emma, skirting the two trestles of men still breaking their fast, and could scarcely believe that she was the lost waif he had found the night before. The soft pink kirtle she wore made her skin look like alabaster, and she carried a familiar-looking pink and gray wool shawl that he recognized as Janet’s.
Her hair looked much lighter now than when it was damp. Then sunlight from a high window touched it, revealing streaks of gold. She had plaited it and twisted it at her nape, giving him a clear view of her well-scrubbed oval face. How had he failed to note that her lovely eyes were golden, the color of pine chips?
Her natural unplucked eyebrows and lashes were darker than her hair. The brows lay smoothly and nearly met above the bridge of her nose, a trait that he considered intriguing, even alluring. She would be a beauty when that bruise faded.
She eyed him with wary intensity, and he tried to imagine how it would feel to have run away from one’s sacred obligations and accepted shelter in a strange household.
Despite her wariness, her pace did not falter and she carried herself with the dignity he had noted the nigh
t before. Nevertheless, and although the thought irked him, he was as dutybound to see her returned to her husband as she was to return.
He understood his grandmother’s position. He could also sympathize with any woman married to Ring Tuedy. But none of that altered the fact that Molly was as much Tuedy’s possession now as any other chattels the man might own.
Having run from him, she’d likely face punishment on her return. But no woman could hope to humiliate her husband on their wedding night with impunity.
Lady Meg was a wise woman with more experience of such matters than he had. She was also competent, courageous, and as practical as he was. But he disliked pretense of any sort, and in this instance, he thought that his position was the more realistic one and more likely to avoid unnecessary risk.
To draw the ire of a temperamental man like Piers Cockburn and his even more pugnacious sons must always qualify as risky. If Molly was Piers’s daughter and Will’s and Ned’s sister as Lady Meg suspected, the Cockburns would take offense at any interference from Wat. So would Ring Tuedy, who belonged to one of the most ruthless families in the Borders. Moreover, Wat knew that such interference between a man and his wife was illegal and could land him in the suds with the Kirk, the King, and the Earl of Douglas, his own liege lord.
A wistfulness in Molly’s expression as she glanced around the hall banished all thought of those powerful entities, leaving Wat with a stronger reluctance than ever to force her return, whether the situation was her own fault or not.
As she stepped onto the dais, he stood to greet her.
When she paused to make him a polite curtsy, he moved toward her.
“Rise, mistress,” he said. “My grandmother will be down shortly, and she wants to talk with you. But you and I must talk more before then, I think.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said softly. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”
“Never mind that,” he said, urging her to a seat beside his own. “Sit down and let them serve you. Emma said that you ate only bread and cheese last night.”
