by Amanda Scott
As he watched, the peak turned pure gold and re-formed itself into a chair or royal throne. A figure took shape on it then. It was not the square-built figure of his grace but someone more slender, more curvaceous, more graceful. Finally, obviously, it became a young female sitting there.
His lips burned with sudden memory. His body stirred below as if it remembered the young woman before he could make out her features.
He saw her hair first, in plaits, the way Bella wore hers. The sun’s last strong rays outlined the young woman’s plaits in gilt.
She beckoned to him.
Abruptly, without sensing movement, he stood before her.
The throne was no longer a throne but a two-elbow chair, just like his own at the high table, which still felt so alien, as if his lord father were not ready yet to relinquish it, despite being in his coffin and six feet underground.
Daringly—at least, it felt daring—he extended a hand to the lass. When she put her much smaller, much more fragile hand in his, he drew her to her feet.
Her eyes widened, their irises pure gold now, her pupils expanding until they narrowed the gold to just a rim for each enormous pupil. Her rosy lips parted.
He could bear it no longer. Sweeping her up into his arms, he strode forward. The chair vanished. Beyond it by a pace or two stood a curtained bed. Its curtains parted invitingly, and he was not a man to reject that welcome invitation.
Their clothing had apparently vanished with the chair or as they swiftly and magically made their way into the bed. He could feel her, warm in his arms and against his body, as hungry for him as he was for her. His lips found hers, and he knew instantly that he would recognize the taste of her in pure black darkness, anywhere, anytime.
She moaned softly, her tongue pressing against his lips, seeking entrance. As he willingly allowed it, his right hand stroked her silken body, moving lower and lower, to see if she would offer reciprocal submission below. Her skin grew hotter to his touch, and when he reached the soft curls at the juncture of her legs…”
… curtain rings rattling on their rod startled him awake in a dark room. The shadowy shape of his man loomed beside the bed, shoving the bed curtains aside.
“Jed! What the devil are you doing here at such an hour?” Wat demanded.
Stepping hastily back from the bed, Jed raised both hands. “I didna mean t’ startle ye, sir. But ye did tell me last night that I should wake ye early, so ye could ride to Henderland today. Be Lord Westruther a-riding wi’ ye?”
“Part of the way, along Ettrick Water,” Wat muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I’ll follow it to Tushielaw, then ride through Cross Cleuch to St. Mary’s Loch. He’ll follow Ettrick Water to the Tweed and Melrose, then home from there.”
Glancing toward the shuttered window, Wat noted a slight lessening of the darkness through cracks in the shutters, suggesting the incipient gray light of dawn. In the silence that had fallen, he heard a soft hushing sound outside.
“Is it raining?”
“So far, aye,” Jed said. “Me da says it will turn intae snow if it gets much colder. Ye’ll be wanting oilskins, heavy gloves, and your good cloak.”
“If it’s cold enough to snow, I’ll also want the red wool cap that the lady Janet knitted for me.”
Nodding, Jed moved to pour hot water into the basin and to fetch a fresh towel. He remained silent, a sign that he was still wary of his master’s mood.
But Wat was awake now, although remnants of his dream lingered. His skin tingled where he had felt the warmth of her body. His cock stood alert, too, until the chilly air struck it—when he shoved the covers back—and lowered it to half mast.
An hour later, having broken his fast and collected his tail of a dozen men-at-arms, and Westruther’s, the two set out in the continuing rain. They parted company when Wat and his men forded Ettrick Water to continue northwest to Henderland, and Westruther continued along Ettrick Water with his own men.
While Wat’s party stayed in the forest, the rain was just a nuisance dripping through the canopy. But when they emerged from Cross Cleuch into thinning trees above the narrow, southwest tip of St. Mary’s Loch, they felt the rain’s full force.
“Cockburn’s tower be yonder,” Geordie said, pointing across the loch.
“Still a mile or more to go then,” Wat said, peering through the rain.
“Aye,” Geordie said. “Tam did say that this loch be three miles long, southwest to northeast, but scarcely a half-mile across at its widest point.”
They entered denser woodland again as they descended into the vale and skirted the loch’s southern tip.
When they came to a narrow, bubbling, rain-dotted burn, Geordie said, “That will be Megget Water, Tam said. The tower lies ahead, up on the brae.”
The tower became visible as they forded the burn, and Wat saw that flatter ground lay below it near the confluence of the Megget Water with the loch. The tall keep was massive but offered little that he found of architectural interest. It was ominous looking, though, looming as it did through the icy rain.
As Wat peered at it, a snowflake drifted past his nose. He sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was to beg hospitality from Piers Cockburn.
“I didna think to ask Tam where they keep their stables,” Geordie said.
“I ken where they be, now that I see the place,” a man called Aggie’s Pete, with shaggy corn-colored hair, said from behind them. “I came here twice wi’ the auld laird,” he added. “There be a low building and a stockade farther up the cleuch for their beasts. They should ha’ room for ours, too, laird.”
Thanking him, Wat led the way to the tower. Before they reached it, two riders came toward them from behind it.
“Geordie, you and I will ride ahead and meet them,” Wat said, raising a hand to stop the others.
They met the two armed riders near the loch, and Wat told them who he was. “Is your laird at home to visitors?” he asked.
“Aye, m’lord, and pleased he’ll be tae see ye,” the spokesman said. “We were all shocked tae learn o’ Rankilburn’s death.”
“He is a great loss to us all,” Wat said.
Signaling his men to follow, Wat rode with Cockburn’s men up past the tower to a graveled yard. There he dismounted and said quietly, “Geordie, I’ll take Aggie’s Pete and Kip in with me. You stay with the others, and keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t trust the Cockburns at all.”
“Nae one does,” Geordie muttered. “Even the auld laird trod softly here, they say, man o’ peace though he was. I’ll learn what I can from them whilst I tend to the beasts.”
Wat nodded, knowing that Geordie had a knack for picking up odd bits of information. And, since they were still hunting for Rutherford…
He had no more time for thought then, because one of the two men who had met them was waving him toward the tower. Aggie’s Pete and a younger lad named Kip Graham followed Wat across the yard to the timber stairs leading to the main entry.
When their leader shoved the thick wooden door open to let them in, Wat noted the heavy iron yett against the torchlit wall, ready to swing into place and, if necessary, to bolt into the entry wall, further strengthening that thick door.
Glancing up, he half-expected to see a portcullis like the two at Hermitage Castle, ready to drop into place and trap an unwary visitor.
The ceiling revealed only bare stonework.
They went up six steps, through an archway, into the great hall. Even by torchlight, the lack of feminine influence was clear. Men’s gear lay everywhere. The only sign of tidiness was the stack of about a dozen pallets by the huge fireplace.
Six men squatted by the fire, rolling dice. Others played board or table games.
“Laird, ye’ve a visitor!” their escort bellowed in tones worthy of the royal chamberlain.
“If he’s friendly, dry him before the fire,” a male voice shouted from behind the privacy screen on the dais. “If he’s not, throw him back outside.”
&
nbsp; “It be the new Lord o’ Rankilburn,” the man-at-arms shouted back.
Piers Cockburn came around the screen. About fifty years old, he had a lined, leathery face, dark hair and eyebrows, and a rangy, loose-jointed frame. His midsection suggested more interest in eating than fighting. Peering down the length of the hall at his chief visitor, he displayed an air of dour inflexibility.
“If ye’re dry under them skins,” he growled, “I’ve whisky tae warm ye. Just leave your men by the fire and come up for a swig—or a guzzle, come tae that.”
Wat nodded, handed his oilskin and cloak to Kip, and muttered, “Keep these with you, and stay alert. They seem friendly, but we’ll take nowt for granted.”
At least, he thought as Kip and Pete moved to join the dicing men at the fire, no one had tried to take their weapons. He had his small sword and his dirk.
Striding to the dais, he stepped onto it and moved around the screen. The welcome aroma of roasting meat wafted from the archway at the end of the dais, so he was surprised that neither Will nor Ned Cockburn sat at the table. Judging by his rumbling stomach, it was about time for the midday meal.
Piers Cockburn sat alone with a jug and two mugs before him.
As Wat approached him to draw out a stool, Cockburn poured amber liquid into a mug, shoved it toward him, and lifted his own mug to his lips.
“I were sorry tae hear about your da, lad,” Cockburn said almost affably, setting his mug down with a clunk. “He were a good man. Weak-minded about summat and nowt but kind and peaceful withal. I’ve heard ye be of a different cut.”
“Thank you for receiving me, my lord,” Wat said politely. “I’m gey grateful for the whisky, too. The rain is turning to sleet with a few snowflakes added.”
“Ye’re welcome tae stay the night,” Cockburn said. “Me own lads be away the noo, but they’ll likely return on the morrow.”
“I thank you for the offer, sir, but I must return to the Hall,” Wat said. “As you may imagine, I have much to do and much to learn before I will be confident about acceding to my lord father’s place.”
“Then ye must ha’ had good reason for coming out in this weather.”
Having hoped to ease into the subject of Molly, Wat was nonetheless willing to take a straightforward course. Thinking swiftly, he said, “I met Will and Ned in the forest the night after my father’s death.”
“I did hear that, aye.”
“They were riding with Ring Tuedy,” Wat continued, aware of his host’s narrowing gaze. “Will said they sought a maidservant who had lost her way.”
“Did he now?”
“Aye, sir, so imagine my shock to discover that your daughter, the lady Margaret, had fled Henderland.”
“And how did ye come by such news?”
“You will be relieved to hear that she is safe at Scott’s Hall with my mother and my grandame,” Wat said. Sipping his whisky, he swallowed and added lightly, “My grandame, the lady Margaret Scott, was a close friend of your own mother, as you must know. Evidently, she is also Molly’s godmother and was glad to take her under her wing. She has invited Molly to stay with us as long as she likes.”
“I’m thinking that our Molly failed to tell ye a thing or two,” Cockburn said. “She’s married to Ring Tuedy, and he’s displeased that she’s run off. If ye’re wise, lad, ye’ll be bringing her back here straightaway. Ye’ll no want to be making an enemy o’ Tuedy. Nae sensible man wants that.”
“Molly has officially declared her marriage illegal,” Wat said mildly, as if such declarations were perfectly natural.
“Blethers! Me own priest performed that wedding.”
“But Father Jonathan admitted that Will gagged Molly and forced her to nod her head. That makes the marriage illegal under Scottish law and the Kirk’s laws, as well. Mayhap you were unaware that Will forced her.”
Cockburn bristled and looked as if he would fervently deny any lack of such knowledge. Instead, he hesitated, frowned, and said, “I might look further into that if me lass comes home and tells me all this herself.”
“Molly is afraid to come here. Her bruises and scars support that fear.”
Cockburn shrugged. “As I ken the matter, if a man takes a wife and doesna declare her unchaste, that marriage is legal however it happened. Me own opinion is that she belongs to Tuedy now. ’Tis likely that he’ll declare it perfectly legal.”
Wat took another sip of whisky and said, “I won’t stay to debate the matter, sir. I’d suggest instead that you talk with your priest. Perhaps you might also talk with the Abbot of Melrose before you make a song about this.”
“Be davers, what does that auld devil ha’ to do wi’ this?”
“You will have to ask his reverence,” Wat replied, setting down his mug. “I came here because I thought you would be worried about Molly. You were also my father’s friend. So both honor and duty demanded that I tell you she is safe.”
“I thank ye for that,” Cockburn said grimly. “I’ll tell ye another thing, too. Ye lack all o’ your father’s good sense if ye think ye can steal Tuedy’s wife from him. And that’s being kind, me lad. Fact is ye’re nobbut a wife-stealing dafty.”
“We’ll see,” Wat said quietly as he stood. “I will take my leave now, sir. I thank you again for the whisky and the warmth of your hall.”
“Sure ye willna stay the night?” Cockburn said, wolfishly baring his teeth.
That gloomy day passed slowly for Molly, although Janet and Bella had made good company throughout the morning. Now, the lady Rosalie was helping to pass the time during their midday meal by telling them about England and her deceased husband’s family.
Nevertheless, Molly’s imagination had played merry havoc with her nerves all morning. Her thoughts kept flying to Henderland.
What if Will and Wat had got into a fight? What if her father ordered Wat’s arrest and then wielded his power of the pit and gallows to do away with him? It would hardly be the first time that Cockburn hanged someone who had irked him.
And what on earth could Wat say to him that would not irk him?
To be sure, her father was usually of milder temperament than Will, and less likely to fly into the boughs over something another man said to him. Cockburn would more likely bide his time, although he might spend that time planning how to get even with that person later in some devious and unexpected way.
Will was more forthright and quicker with his fists or any other weapon that came to hand. And Ned, of course, would do whatever Will told him to do.
If Thomas was home, he would try to keep things calm. But Thomas was more often in Peebles now than at Henderland.
Knowing she would not rest until Wat was safely home again, she tried to persuade herself that she would fret over anyone confronting Cockburn in his lair. However, the truth was that the more she saw of Wat, the better she liked him.
As for the feelings he had stirred with his kiss… She paused, thinking. What if any man’s kiss could make her feel so?
A stupid question, that was. Will’s or Ned’s kisses, had they ever offered any, would likely repel her. As for Tuedy’s, the man himself repelled her.
When Tuedy touched her, she’d nearly lost whatever food she’d still had in her stomach and been grateful that she’d eaten nothing since breakfast. What he might have done had she vomited all over him did not bear imagining.
“Molly, are you going to answer me?” Bella demanded, breaking into her reverie. “Or are your thoughts so private that you do not want to tell us?”
“What?” Molly stared at the younger girl in guilty bewilderment. “I’m afraid I was lost in thought, Bella. Did you ask me a question?”
With a gurgling, merry laugh, Bella said, “Aye, sure, I asked what you were thinking about so hard that you did not even smile when Aunt Rosalie said how often she used to get scolded for asking too many questions.”
More bewildered than ever, Molly looked to Janet for help.
Janet shook her head. “Never mind,
Molly. Bella knows better than to ask others what they are thinking. Our thoughts, thank heaven, are private. I hope that this weather does not augur a long, cold winter, but Sym told Gram he thinks it will snow.” Brushing an errant wisp of fair hair off her cheek, she added, “Did Wat tell you how long he expects to be away?”
Molly shook her head. “He told me only that he was riding to Henderland.”
“Henderland?” Lady Rosalie raised her neatly plucked eyebrows. “Where is that, precisely? How far away?”
“About eight miles northwest of here,” Molly said when no one else spoke.
Rosalie sighed. “After living so many years in England, I’m finding naught about Scotland that looks familiar, except Elishaw, of course. But Simon is too bossy to stay with for long. I’ve decided henceforth to make a circuit of my visits.”
“A circuit?” Janet said, raising her eyebrows in much the way that Wat did.
“Yes, for during my lovely visit today with our Gledstanes cousins, I decided that I don’t want to live with anyone,” Rosalie said firmly. “Sithee, after two years of widowhood, I find I strongly dislike men who tell me what I must or must not do.”
Lady Meg chuckled. “As I recall, you had a strong aversion to such men in your childhood. But then you could nearly always wrap men round your thumb, dearling. Have you lost your magic?”
Rosalie, disclaiming any such loss, laughed merrily, and their conversation continued without Molly.
Agreeing wholeheartedly with Rosalie in her aversion to men who ordered women around, Molly had returned to her reverie.
Perhaps, she mused, that was why she liked Wat Scott. Although she had told him he was as domineering in his own way as her father and her brothers were in theirs, Wat listened when she spoke to him—even when he was angry with her.
When he had not returned by dusk, she began to fear the worst.
Chapter 13
