by Amanda Scott
“Few people, male or female, would know how to do that,” he said.
She gave him a look, wondering if he was patronizing her. She did not like men who treated her like a fool any more than the ones who treated her like a child.
“I did learn to fend for myself,” she said stiffly.
“I am sure that you did.”
He was a bit patronizing. On the other hand, he was listening to what she was saying, which was something of a novelty for her where men were concerned.
She swallowed lingering irritation and said, “Their women and children like me. So, for the most part, the men here behaved better until Will disappeared. But they pattern their behavior on that of their master. To them, even before, I was the young master’s wife, no more. Now I’m most likely the witch who killed him.”
“Surely, your parents—”
“My father is dead, as you know. You mentioned his death yourself.”
“I did, aye. But I was going to say that surely, at the time of your marriage, he made arrangements to ensure that the Jardines would treat you well.”
Her cheeks burned, and she looked away, unwilling to meet his steady gaze as she said, “My father died before my marriage, so he was not involved in it at all. In troth, I prefer not to talk about that time in my life. Why do you not tell me about your family? Recall that you promised not to quiz me whilst we ate.”
“I do recall, and I will tell you all about my family if you like,” he said. “However, I would like you to answer just one more question first.”
Reluctantly, she nodded.
“From what you’ve said, I’d guess that your father died about the same time you married,” he said, making her stomach clench so that the bairn within her moved sharply in protest. “Did Will Jardine have aught to do with his death?”
The question was not one she had expected. Will did bear some of the blame, but much as she would have liked to blame him for all of it, she could not.
“Will Jardine is guilty of many things, sir,” she said. “But not that. And, although I am nearly certain that I had naught to do with his death, I am responsible for my father’s. Now, if you will permit me, I shall bid you goodnight.”
As she moved to stand, Kirkhill put a hand on her forearm and said, “Nay, do not go. Turn as if you mean to speak to Flory—order some wine if my uncle keeps any in the house—or you will just draw more of the very attention you dislike.”
To his relief, she settled back onto her stool with a slight gesture of her free hand to the maidservant, who came swiftly to her in response.
“What will ye, m’lady?”
“Prithee, have one of the lads fetch us some claret,” Fiona said.
When Flory motioned one of the gillies over and relayed the message, Kirkhill took his hand from Fiona’s arm, confident that she would not run away.
When they had their wine, Kirkhill said quietly, “Rest easy, my lady. I don’t mean to quiz you about your supposed responsibility for your father’s death. Some other time we may discuss that. For now, I seek only to learn if these louts might accuse you of wanting vengeance because of aught that Will did. So, sip your wine and tell me where your mother resides.”
“I am not sure where she is,” Fiona said. “My family does not visit, nor have I seen any of them since my marriage. My good-brother and Hugh Douglas did come to Spedlins once, but Will and I had gone riding, so I did not see them. Old Jardine said he told them not to set foot on his land again, nor have they. My sister, Mairi, and her husband do stay at Dunwythie Hall at least part of each year, but they do not come here.”
He saw Flory open her mouth and shut it again.
“Flory, do you ken aught of Lady Dunwythie?”
“Our lady Mairi be Dunwythie o’ Dunwythie now,” Flory said. “A baroness in her own right, she be. So, see you, when one talks o’ Lady Dunwythie—”
“I do see, aye,” he said. “I was speaking of the lady Fiona’s mother.”
Flory glanced at Fiona, then back at him. “Folks hereabouts do call her the lady Phaeline, m’lord. I did hear two o’ the men say that she were at the Hall. But she doesna visit here. The old master willna let any o’ them do that.”
“Thank you, Flory,” Kirkhill said. “As soon we have had leisure to drink our wine, we will adjourn to another chamber, I think.”
“My lord,” Fiona said, “if you would talk more with me, pray do so here. The only other chamber where we might be private is the ladies’ solar, but it shares a wall with the inner chamber, so Jardine’s Hod would hear us there. Old Jardine would dislike any privy talk between us now, and you will soon be gone.”
He pondered those last words. Surely, she did not fear the old man in his present sickly state. But he could not cross-question her. He had already broken his promise not to quiz her further—more than once.
“We will stay here as long as you think we should,” he said. “Shall I tell you about my sisters? I am cursed with three of them.”
“Cursed?”
He had diverted her thoughts, just as he had hoped. And, as he described for her the burdens of two older and one much younger sister upon an only son, he saw her begin to relax and enjoy her wine.
“As you are Lord Kirkhill, your father must be dead, just as mine is,” she said when he paused. “Is your mother still living?”
“Aye.”
“Is she such a burden to you, also?” she asked with a smile.
“Do you think that I find all women burdensome?”
“Good sakes, how should I know? You will surely find me a nuisance, and doubtless, running the Applegarth estates and Spedlins Tower a nuisance as well. But you did not answer my question,” she added with a direct look.
“It would be most impertinent of me to declare my lady mother a burden,” he said with a virtuous air. Then, with a wry smile, he added, “Forbye, she is the most submissive of creatures, so one would have to be truly unkind to think her a nuisance.”
“Do you mean to say that she submits to your every whim and decree without ever a protest?”
“Aye, and submits to anyone else who voices a whim or decree,” he said. “She is quite the most obliging woman I know.”
“God-a-mercy!” Her gaze met his, doubtful at first and then with a most endearing twinkle. “Do you know,” she said confidingly, “I almost believe that you deserve such a mother. Does she never make a decision of her own?”
“Never,” he said, delighted that she had so quickly caught his meaning and wondering at himself for enjoying such delight at his mother’s expense.
“I have met women like that,” Fiona said. “Certain friends of my mother’s let others make every decision for them, rather than expressing their own preferences. However,” she added, “your mother grew up as Old Jardine’s sister, so one can at least sympathize with her and understand why she is as she is. Old Jardine disparages any decision that he does not make himself, and they say his father was the same. Imagine how horrid always to have lived with such men!”
“You have lived with such men for two years,” he said, realizing that he had never stopped to think about why his mother so adamantly refused to express her opinions. It had simply irritated him that she would never do so.
“I’ve lived here only two years,” Fiona said. “Just imagine, if you can, what I’d have been like after twenty or fifty years of living with the Jardines.” She shuddered and gave herself a shake, as if she, too, were thinking a thought that she had not considered before and was not sure she wanted to ponder any further now.
Deciding that a change of subject was in order, he described his home to her and then told her about his favorite uncle.
“Uncle James was a dashing knight in his youth and is still a great charmer, but he married young, lost his wife three years later, and has never remarried.”
“Oh, how sad,” Fiona said. “My cousin Jenny’s father could never face marrying again lest he lose the second wife, too. He was also gey
shy,” she added.
“Uncle James is not shy,” Kirkhill said with a smile. “Nor is he sunk in misery. He is always paying court to some wealthy noblewoman or other, but he says marriage would kill the fun of courting, so his affairs come to naught.”
“Aye, well, mayhap he will meet someone who will change his mind. Does he live at Kirkhill, too?”
“Nay, for he acquired land in eastern Lothian with his knighthood. He does visit us often, and he always has opinions to offer me.”
“I am sure he provides good advice.” She glanced around. “We have stayed long enough, I think. I will take my leave now with Flory, if you will permit me.”
She raised her eyebrows as if she were uncertain that he would permit it, but he could think of no good reason to keep her. Accordingly, he nodded, thinking he probably looked much as his father might have looked in such a situation.
The thought touched his sense of humor, and he knew he must have revealed as much, because she said sharply, “What is it? Why do you look at me so?”
“’Tis nowt, my lady. I was just feeling a bit paternal, and the realization that I have no cause to do so made me feel foolish.”
“Well, you do seem a trifle patronizing at times. In troth, if you treat your youngest sister as you tend to treat me, I feel for her most sincerely.”
“Nan is much younger than you are.”
“I thought you said she was fifteen!”
“Aye, and so she is,” he said.
“I am but seventeen, sir, hardly an ancient crone!”
“I expect that marriage matures a woman. My sister is still a maiden.”
“You are right to say that marriage ages one,” she said with a sigh as she rose to take her leave of him.
He stood, wanting to explain that he hadn’t meant any such thing. However, his sister was nothing like the lady Fiona. The two seemed decades apart to him.
Bidding Fiona goodnight, he watched until she stepped off the dais but knew better than to watch her all the way to the stair hall. He would have to start treating her as if he were her grandfather. Anything else would doubtless stir more rumors.
Nevertheless, he had begun to think that accepting Old Jardine’s charge was likely to prove more interesting than he had thought, and more of a trial as well.
For the rest of the day, she lingered in his thoughts, but he did not see her again. Nor did he see Jardine or learn much rambling about the yard and stables, other than that there had once been a gated barmkin wall around the tower, which had long since fallen to ruin. The lass even visited him in his dreams that night:
She was slender and laughing, joyous and warm, silky to his touch. Her extraordinary eyes twinkled with delight as her kirtle and shift changed to soft, warm skin beneath his exploring fingertips, inciting every sense to pure lust until the image of Will Jardine rose up, snarling louder than Old Jardine’s mastiff had.
Kirkhill’s eyes flew open to the reassuring sight of a crescent moon shining through a nearby open window. Lust still flamed through him, but the impropriety of such a dream in the face of his forthcoming duties soon dampened it.
The next morning, when he joined Joshua to take leave of Spedlins, the equerry said as they mounted, “’Tis glad I’ll be to see the last o’ this place.”
“Only for a time, though. Recall that we return when Old Jardine dies.”
“Aye, sure, but I did hear that if young Will be dead, ye’ll take charge o’ the place,” Joshua replied. “Ye’ll ha’ nae cause then to leave our usual tail at home.”
“I’ll bring them, never fear,” Kirkhill said. He had already decided that much, because only a fool would try to assume command at Spedlins—Old Jardine’s will or not—without numerous trusted men to support him. “What else did you learn?”
“Nowt o’ value,” Joshua said. “’Tis plain that the men here canna say what became o’ the young master. I heard only that he and his lady had been fratching. They went for a walk, still a-fratching, and nae one has seen young Will since.”
“Did no one search for him?”
“Aye, sure, but no till late the next day. See you, it were a habit wi’ the man to go off on his own when he were fashed like, so nae one took heed at first.”
“I see,” Kirkhill said, although he did not see anything useful or new in the information. Old Jardine had told him the lass was the last one to see Will.
“I wager we’ll be home afore midday if we set a good pace,” Joshua said a short time later.
“We won’t be going straight home,” Kirkhill said.
Joshua frowned. “Nay?”
“Nay, for I mean to stop on the way, at Dunwythie Hall.”
Chapter 3
Fiona slept late and, when Flory wakened her, she sent the maidservant to fetch a manchet loaf, some sliced lamb, and ale, so that she might break her fast in her chamber. Normally, she did so at the high table in the hall after most of the men had gone outside to take up their duties. But she did not want to take any chance of meeting Kirkhill again before he left. She could not have said why she wanted to avoid him. It just seemed wiser to do so.
She need not have worried, because Flory told her when she came back with the food that his lordship had departed for home an hour earlier.
“They did say that his man had the horses ready as soon as his lordship broke his fast,” Flory said. “His lordship took time only to bid the old master farewell, which the old master said was a stupid thing to wish a dying man.”
Possessing none of Kirkhill’s dislike for gossip, Fiona said, “Did his lordship have aught to say to that?”
Grinning, Flory said, “Hod said his lordship told the old master he might be wise to pray that he did fare well, going wherever he were a-going. Not that anyone doubts where he’ll end up,” Flory added. “Or where that Hod will, come to that.”
Fiona knew she ought to discourage such impertinent comments, but just the thought of finding Old Jardine in heaven if she were lucky enough to get there herself was daunting enough that she just nodded in agreement.
To her surprise, she missed Kirkhill’s company. Having been certain she would be grateful to see him leave and would pray that he’d never return, she realized that such was not the case, and for good reason.
The only thing that would prevent Kirkhill’s return was Will’s, and although she did not go so far as to hope that her husband was dead, the fact was that her marital happiness had not survived the first time Will had taken too much to drink.
Flory set the basket of bread and meat on the table near the window embrasure and said, “That Parland Dow do be in the stableyard now.”
“The knacker?”
“Aye, he told Jeb’s Wee Davy that he’d brung a nostrum for the old master, summat that might make him well again, Wee Davy did say.”
“Does the old master know that Parland Dow is here?”
“Nay, for after his lordship left, that Hod did say nae one should rap on the door again till midday, and that Dow did say he’d no go near Old Master’s snarling devil dog, any road. But I’m thinking that Hod may want to talk wi’ him hisself about yon nostrum, to be sure it be safe to give the master.”
“I think the only nostrum that would help him would be for Master Will to walk into his room, hale and hearty,” Fiona said. “Still, someone should talk to the knacker, so I will go to him, Flory. Prithee, cover that food. I shan’t be long.”
“Ye’ll never go down and talk to that man in the stableyard, m’lady! There be too much talk as it be. ’Twas ever Master Will or Old Master who talked wi’ him.”
Fiona drew herself up and gave Flory a look. “Master Will is away and I am mistress here, Flory, although few choose ever to remember that. In any event, I mean to talk to the knacker. I want to know about this nostrum of his.”
“Then I should go wi’—”
“Nay, you stay and tidy up in here. The knacker will not harm me. As for talk, people will talk no matter what I do.”
/> She did not mention that the knacker would also have news. It had frustrated her that Will never allowed her to sit at the high table when the man came to call on them. He had said it was not suitable, but she was as sure as she could be that Will wanted to keep her from hearing news from home. He had said he wanted to protect her from such upset as had ensued when she learned of her father’s death, and that it was his decision as her husband to tell her what she needed to know. With Will, it had been easier to submit than to risk angering him, but now…
Hurrying downstairs to the stableyard, she saw Parland Dow talking to Old Jardine’s land steward, Evart, doubtless to learn what chores they might have him to do. His skills were many and varied, from butchering cattle, sheep, and aged horses to tanning the hides afterward and fixing various things. But his greatest gift, they said, was his ability to glean and share information wherever he traveled.
She had seen him two or three times a year at Annan House, where her father and even her mother had welcomed him at high table to share news with them.
Dow smiled when he saw her and doffed his battered cap. He was a wiry man with muscular arms and stood just a few inches taller than she did.
“Good day to ye, m’lady,” he said, making her a sweeping bow. “How may I serve ye today?”
The steward said bluntly, “Old Master wouldna want ye out here like this, m’lady. I can see to this man.”
“I’m sure you can, Evart,” Fiona said. “But I want to know more about this nostrum that he has brought for the master. You may safely leave me with Parland Dow, for I have known him since my childhood. He will do me no harm.”
The steward hesitated. But she stared at him until he turned away, only to look back and say, “Nae one must disturb the master, Hod said, till midday.”
“I did hear that, aye,” Fiona said, adding pointedly, “thank you, Evart.”
