by Amanda Scott
“Well, ye needna talk to me about it,” Flory said. “I ken all I need to ken. Ye did nowt to harm a hair on that man’s head, although God kens fine he’d ha’ deserved it if ye’d clouted him a good one afore he clouted ye.”
“I do wish I could recall how I got to bed,” Fiona admitted.
“Sakes, ye were out o’ your head! Where else would ye go?”
Fiona did not answer. The recurring dream she had suffered sporadically since that night had never proceeded beyond the moment of her unconsciousness. Never before had she considered that she might somehow, unknowingly, have got up after Will had knocked her down, and walked back inside to their bedchamber.
Kirkhill arrived home late that afternoon as clouds gathered in the western sky. He loved the approach to the house, the way the steep track emerged from woodland to reveal the sprawling edifice set in the high meadow amidst lush grass and wildflowers. Behind it, cliffs rose in the distance, over one of which the picturesque waterfall called Cat Linn tumbled all year long to feed a nearby burn.
The weather was clearly still trying to decide if the long winter had entirely relinquished its hold on the land to spring. By the time he and Joshua rode into the courtyard at Kirkhill House, gray clouds hid the sun and the air had turned decidedly chilly.
Nevertheless, his welcome was warmer than expected, for as he dismounted, two men emerged from the house to greet him. One was many years older than he, the other two years younger. Both were broad-shouldered and brawny.
Kirkhill was not noticeably delighted to see either one.
“What the devil are you doing here, Tony?” he demanded of the younger one, who was grinning at him. “And, you, Uncle James! Was I expecting you?”
“Nay, then, you ken fine that you were not,” Sir James Seyton declared jovially as he strode down the steps to shake hands. His fair hair showed touches of gray, but his powerful body was still that of a man ever ready for battle. “When young Tony here gave me the good news about his forthcoming betrothal to our Nan, I decided to ride here with him to help everyone celebrate in proper style.”
Kirkhill shot a menacing look at his hitherto longtime best friend, Sir Antony MacCairill, saying, “I fear that Tony presupposes a happy outcome, sir. We have barely begun to negotiate.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed MacCairill met his stern gaze blandly.
A fierce feminine voice from the shadows of the entryway behind MacCairill declared, “Your friend Tony hopes for an outcome that will never come to pass!”
Kirkhill’s youngest sister, the fifteen-year-old lady Anne Seyton, followed her declaration into the open. Arms akimbo, she glowered at Kirkhill.
Watching her, he said sourly, “I do not suppose it will do any good to point out that you ought not to be out here without our mother or your maidservant, Nan.”
“None at all,” the fair-haired, green-eyed damsel declared. “I am gey happy to see you, however, Dickon, because mayhap if you tell Tony I won’t have him, he will not inflict his presence on us overnight.”
Kirkhill, sighing deeply, almost missed hearing Joshua’s low-voiced, “Welcome home, sir.”
Chapter 4
Kirkhill House, having begun as a small dwelling, had grown over its two centuries to a sprawling, rather confusing tumble of rooms and vast chambers to which its various owners had added as it suited their whims and income.
Kirkhill’s family had descended from a good-brother of Robert the Bruce’s who ended unhappily on the gallows. Thus, they had long valued privacy, and their home in the secluded, burn-fed declivity in upper Annandale, near the line dividing it from Eskdale, had provided privacy, more often than not allowing them to avoid depredations of reivers and English raiders, and other military upheaval.
At present, however, his lordship felt overrun with unwanted visitors. Shepherding his sister, his uncle, and his erstwhile best friend inside to the great hall, the oldest and largest chamber in the house, he noted with pleased anticipation the wafting aroma of roasted meat that presaged their approaching supper hour.
He did not suppose, as Nan had, however, that he would rid himself of his visitors quickly. In truth, he was relieved to see his uncle.
Therefore, he suggested to the two gentlemen that they prepare themselves for supper and then join Lady Kirkhill, whom he assumed would by then be in her solar, awaiting the proper moment to take her place at the high table.
“Be a good chap, Uncle James, and first tell my lady mother that if I find time I shall see her before we sup. However, Joshua and I ate little more than bread and cheese for our midday meal, so I do not want to delay supper. Nan, I do want a word with you before I change my clothes,” he added sternly.
“Aye, sure,” his sister replied. “Shall we talk here?”
“We will not,” he said, putting a hand to her elbow. “I want to be more private than this with you.”
“Art furious that I was rude to Tony, Dickon?” she asked as she walked with him to the stairway. “Sithee, he deserves rudeness, declaring to Uncle James that we are to be married and bringing him here as he did. I don’t want Tony, Dickon, and I know you will not be so cruel as to force me to marry him.”
“I won’t force you to do what you don’t want to do, Nannie,” he said, using her childhood nickname. “But you are gey young, so neither will I let you spurn such an eligible offer without due consideration. Let us use Mam’s sitting room,” he said then, pushing open the door to the quiet chamber that his mother used only when she was ill and did not want to risk the narrow, twisting, stone stairway.
Nan passed him with a near flounce. “We can use any room you want,” she said. “But you will not persuade me, Dickon. Tony wants everything to be his own way and believes that he is all that is great and wise. Moreover, he wants me only because I’m your sister, and he thinks it will benefit him to link his family with ours.”
“Wherever did you get that notion?” Kirkhill demanded. “And where did you get that gown?” he added when she whirled grandly to face him and the silk scarf that she had carefully pinned across her bodice slipped aside to reveal a décolletage so low that her pert young breasts threatened to pop right out of it.
Looking down at herself, she wrinkled her nose. “Is it too low? Mam was afraid you might not like it, but I was sure that Tony would. I think it will do him good to see what he disdains to appreci—”
“That will do,” Kirkhill said quietly, but in a tone that made her eyes widen.
She swallowed visibly but knew him well enough to keep still.
“I can see that you did not expect me to return so soon, Nan,” he went on. “But openly teasing a man with your body is not behavior that I want to see in my sister or, indeed, in any woman bearing the Seyton name.”
“Then I shan’t do it again,” she said. “But neither will I marry him, Dickon. You must reconcile yourself to that, for it is plain fact. You told me long ago that I might choose where I wed, and our lady mother has said the same thing. I know that Tony is your friend and that you think he will suit me, but—”
“You will not find anyone more suitable unless you were thinking perhaps of the royal family, Nan. I hope you have not set your sights on one of our royal earls.”
Again, she wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be a dafty! They are horrid, all of them. But there are other men in Scotland, even men with Tony’s impressive lineage and ability to support me. I mean to be expensive, however, and he told me that his father still controls the MacCairill purse strings. So I would have to ask him—Tony, that is—before I could buy anything or order clothes made for me.”
“Just as you have to ask me now and as any wife has to ask her husband. Rarely do females control the gelt in their families, Nan.”
“Well, the man I wed must agree to give me a generous allowance to spend as I please,” she said. “Mam does not beg you for every penny she spends.”
“I will raise the matter with him whilst we negotiate the contract,” he said, knowing
it would serve no purpose to remind her that their mother never made any purchase without discussing it with all and sundry. “But I am going to continue those negotiations, Nan. Allying our two families will benefit all of us in the future. I will hear your complaints, and I will take each one up with Tony, but I’d need better reasons than I have yet heard from you before I would reject his suit.”
“No one ever listens to me, least of all you, Dickon,” she said. “But you told me yourself that no one can force a Scotswoman to marry against her will. So, do your worst. It will avail you naught and Tony less than naught!”
Kirkhill felt his temper rise as, with chin high, she swept past him out of the room. But she would fly into the boughs if he stopped her and doubtless would next treat him to a flood of tears. He was not in the mood.
Moreover, he knew that she would change her dress before rejoining the others. As a man who liked to pick his fights when and where he could, he was able to content himself with a small victory in this one.
The rest of Fiona’s day passed much as it had begun, in a vague fog of frustration. The days since Will’s disappearance had all passed in a similar manner, but she had not suffered such a sense of disorientation until now, after Kirkhill’s visit.
Before, she had just wondered where Will had gone and wished that someone would report something, anything, to explain his prolonged absence.
Underlying those feelings, however, was a sense of unease, even guilt.
Old Jardine’s continued assertions that Will’s absence was her fault had rung strangely true to her. But as Flory had pointed out more than once, one could not deduce much from that, because Fiona always felt guilty after she and Will argued, as if she ought to have done something differently, something to avoid the quarrel.
She remembered having once accused her older sister, Mairi, of feeling such guilt simply because Mairi preferred peace to conflict. Mairi felt guilty if anyone disagreed, as if she might have prevented the hostilities if only she had intervened in just the right way before they had begun. When Mairi did try to intervene, she got upset if her intervention failed.
Fiona had always deemed such quick assumption of responsibility for others’ actions to be a stupid way of managing one’s life… until she had married Will and learned that she was automatically responsible for any disagreement between them.
Mairi was like their father, who had been a man who preferred peace at almost any price. But Mairi—now Dunwythie of that Ilk rather than Mairi Maxwell of Dunwythie—had also managed to keep her own name and title just as their cousin Jenny Easdale had after marrying Sir Hugh, so perhaps Mairi had changed.
Fiona had certainly changed after her marriage. But she had never been like Mairi and never would be.
If Mairi were going downstairs in response to a curt summons from Old Jardine, as Fiona was now, Mairi would not be striving to appear calm and resolute. Mairi was calm by nature. She never lost her temper, never threw things, and never behaved in a manner other than that of a lady born. She had, after all, known from birth that if her father had no son, she would inherit his title and estates.
Fiona had always had a hot temper and had frequently given it free rein. Now, however, she quaked at the thought of facing Old Jardine for the second time in one day. She loathed and feared him even as he lay on what he had assured everyone was his deathbed, and she feared his enormous, fierce, badly trained dog even more. She had intended to go to bed right after supper, but Jardine’s summons had come before she had left her solitary table in the solar.
His man, Hod, stood waiting for her at the door to the inner chamber, watching insolently as she walked the length of the hall to the dais.
“Ye took your time about it, lass. The master doesna take kindly to waiting.”
“Then pray stand aside and let me in,” she replied, refusing to react to his disrespectful greeting. She was pleased that her voice was steady and did not reveal the sad state of her nerves. It was rare for Old Jardine to summon her like this unless he meant to wreak vengeance for something she had done or failed to do.
She could not imagine how she might have vexed him this time. But she forced herself to wait calmly until Hod pushed open the door for her and declared loudly, “Here she be, master—at last.”
With a wary eye on the dog sprawled across the foot of Jardine’s bed, Fiona moved to stand at the old man’s left. She thought he looked smaller than he had that morning, and frailer, as if he had lost a stone of his weight during the intervening hours. His face seemed thinner, too, his cheeks more hollowed.
“Dinna stand gaping at a man,” he said sourly. “D’ye no ha’ the good manners to say good evening? Stay, Dobby,” he added as the dog shifted itself to watch her.
“You sent for me,” Fiona said. “In this household, I have found it safer to hold my tongue in the presence of a Jardine until he bids me speak.”
“I had not noticed that, m’self, but if it be true, at least ye’ve learned summat here at Spedlins. Leave us, Hod.”
“Ye may need me, master.”
“Nay, then, I’ll do. Dobby will look after me, so go on now.”
Visibly reluctant, Hod left but sent Fiona a warning grimace as he did.
Fiona breathed easier when he was gone. Fixing her attention on Jardine, while trying to keep at least an eye and an ear on the dog, she waited.
“Ye’re gey meek of a sudden,” Jardine said.
“I’m curious to know why you sent for me.”
“Then ye havena heard aught, have ye?”
“I rarely do hear things,” she replied. “You and Will have seen to that.”
“Aye, well, we keep our family close, but ye canna trust folks to keep their tongues behind their teeth all the time. What did ye think o’ Kirkhill?”
Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she said, “Good sakes, sir, I scarcely know the man, certainly not well enough to venture an opinion of him.”
“Nay, now, dinna be telling me lies, lass. I ken fine that ye dined wi’ him at me own high table. Ye surely didna think nae one would tell me.”
“I knew that someone would, but he commanded me to eat with him,” she said. “To my mind, he is much like Will. He assumes that the world will bow to his commands, whatever they may be.”
Jardine frowned. “Now why would he be issuing such a command to ye?”
Not wanting to repeat what Kirkhill had said about seizing the opportunity to get acquainted with her, she said, “I am sure I do not know.”
“He canna ha’ been flirting with ye, as puffed up as ye are wi’ your bairn, and being his own cousin’s wife. Mayhap, he kens fine that my Will be dead, though. That would explain it. Still, Kirkhill’s given me his word that he’ll look after the place, and the bairn. And men do say that God’s cursed the man wi’ strong integrity. Nobbut what I take that to mean more than it would for any man. Every man gives his word easily enough and changes his mind just as easily when the circumstances change. I dinna ken one who can keep it longer nor that.”
“Many do, though,” Fiona said. “My father always kept his word, and I have heard it said that the Lord of Galloway always keeps his.”
“Aye, sure, when it be expedient, he does,” Old Jardine said with a knowing chortle. “Ye’d be wiser never to trust any man farther than ye can see him, lass. Only a fool trusts blindly.”
She had certainly learned that only a fool would trust Old Jardine or Will any farther than that, so she held her tongue, still wondering why he had summoned her. Surely, he did not care what she thought of Kirkhill.
“I expect ye ken that there ha’ been rumors about our Will and what became o’ him,” Jardine said, eyeing her narrowly.
“You told me yourself that there were,” she reminded him.
“A man doesna recall all he says to a female. But Hod tells me them rumors ha’ spread all up and down Annandale. He says many agree wi’ me that the likeliest person to ha’ done our Will in be his bonnie bride.”
“So you have said, many times,” she said. “Does it not occur to you that Hod himself is the man most likely to be spreading those rumors?”
“Aye, well, if he is, other men do believe him.”
“Men who do not know me,” Fiona pointed out, wondering how it was that she could remain calm in the face of such accusations. Was it possible that she had killed her husband? She had loved him once, or had thought that she did.
“We’ll ken more when they find Will,” Jardine said. “Nae one could believe that ye’d bested him in a fair fight, that’s sure. But if ye clouted him over the head with a club, or poisoned him…” He paused, eyeing her narrowly.
“Why do you look at me so?” she demanded, feeling her temper rise and not caring anymore if it did. “Do you think I’d tell you if I had killed him?”
“Nay, I do not, but I be a good judge o’ liars,” he said.
“I expect you are,” she said, looking right into his eyes.
“Watch that tongue o’ yours,” he warned.
“I doubt you’d beat me for agreeing with you, or order Hod to do it when he might endanger your grandson’s life,” she said.
“So ye think ye’re carrying a lad, do ye?” He actually looked pleased.
Fiona shrugged. “I am not a witch, so I cannot know. Will wanted a son, so he always talked as if only a son would do. I expect I’ve come to believe that, too.”
“If it do be a lad, ye’re to call him William,” Jardine said. “’Tis a grand notion, that, to call him after his da.”
Fiona remained silent.
“Promise me,” he said more fiercely.
“Nay, I won’t make such a promise,” she retorted. “If Will comes home, he’ll decide what name the child should have, just as he decides all else.”
“Aye, that be true enough. But if he doesna come home, ye’ll do it then.”
