by Amanda Scott
“’Tis two small lochs surrounded by a series of burns and rills that feed into them. All that water is what makes the castle impregnable.”
“The English don’t bother us much,” Fiona said. “I doubt that I’ve ever seen an Englishman at Applegarth, or at Annan House, come to that.”
“They are a nuisance, though,” he said. “But look to the northeast now. The highest hill you see in the distance is the southern boundary of Kirkhill. The hill where the ancient chapel perches lies about three miles north of that.”
Fiona’s stomach growled loudly.
Kirkhill chuckled. “I’ll wager you’d like to eat.”
His eyes twinkled and looked softly golden in the early morning light.
She found it impossible to resist smiling as she said, “Aye, I would.”
He unstrapped the basket and a blanket from his saddle. Setting the basket aside, he spread the blanket on the ground, where they could enjoy the western view.
Fiona picked up the basket and handed it to him. As he took it, she realized that, although she had been glad that he had not asked one of the gillies to ride with them, they ought perhaps to have brought someone for propriety’s sake.
It had seemed so natural to be riding alone with him and to stand at the brink of the hill and enjoy the view together. But now, about to share a blanket and food, she felt isolated, vulnerable, and as if she ought not to have come alone with him.
“We should have brought Joshua or Jeb’s Davy or someone else with us,” she said with a slight frown. “Mayhap we should go back.”
“Not till we’ve broken our fast,” he said as he set the basket on the blanket.
“But you should have told someone,” she said. “Why did you not?”
“Because I want to talk to you alone,” he said over his shoulder. “But first we should eat. I don’t want to fratch with you on an empty stomach.”
She stood stiffly, glowering at him until he straightened again and faced her.
“Come and sit down,” he said.
“Nay, I won’t. I ken fine what you want to discuss. But now you’ve spoiled this wonderful morning, and I don’t want to talk to you.”
She turned toward the horses, but his hand shot out to grip her arm. “We’re going to talk, lass. Do not forget that I’m responsible for you and your child.”
“For my child, aye, but you are only trustee for whatever Old Jardine left for my keep. If he left naught, as I do suspect, then you are likewise as naught to me.”
He held her gaze, and she knew she was trembling. “Are you sure about that?” he asked quietly.
She could not speak. The sudden, stupid urge to cry made her throat ache.
“Trustee or guardian, it is my duty to protect you both and keep you from harm, Fiona. Moreover, I know you well enough now to believe that no ordinary nightmare could terrify you into a fit of screaming. I want to know what did.”
“Let go of me. My dreams are none of your business.”
He released her, saying in the icy tone she hated, “You are being childish again, but it will do you no good this time, either. I mean to get the truth from you.”
“Well, I don’t mean to tell you.” She turned again, but he caught her again and forced her to face him, giving her a shake as he exclaimed, “By God—!”
Gasping, she tried to wrench herself free. “No! Let me go!”
Kirkhill felt her stiffen and saw the color drain from her face.
“What is it?” he exclaimed. “Surely, I did not hurt you with that little shake!”
She shook her head. But her body remained tense, and her gaze riveted on his face as if she would peer through it to his thoughts.
They stood like that long enough for him to have counted to ten, had he thought of counting. But his thoughts were racing, and amongst them flashed myriad details that he had seen or heard about her since his arrival at Spedlins.
He could no longer deny the most likely answer to the puzzle that was Fiona.
He had known that Will Jardine had kept his wife close, had known that neither he nor Old Jardine were men who would tolerate insolence from a woman, and he had suspected that Jardine had even ordered Hod to strike her when he could not. But Kirkhill had assumed that Fiona’s occasional wariness, even fear, of him stirred only because she did not yet know him well enough to trust him.
As the bits he knew all clicked into place, the truth made the breath stop in his throat. He carefully released her, but as he did, his hands clenched into fists.
When he could speak calmly, he said, “You are safe, Fiona. I won’t hurt you, but I’m beginning to think that you have had reason to fear any angry man, even me. You seemed to fear Old Jardine even whilst he lay on his deathbed. And I recall now that when we met, you moved as if you were in pain. I supposed then that your pregnancy had made you awkward, but that was not the case, was it?”
She kept still, eyeing him much as a frightened woodland creature might.
“Ah, lassie,” he said, drawing a long breath. “When you look at me like that, you make me feel like a scoundrel. But, truly, you are safe with me.”
“You would have beaten me for dumping my food onto your trencher,” she said. “Men are all the same.”
“Nay, we are not,” he said. “Putting a child or a stormy woman across one’s knee and awarding her backside a good smack or two is justice for misbehavior, not cruelty. I’d wager your father did it to you more than once, unless he was cut from the same bolt as Will and his father, and you feared him, too.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she shook her head.
Gently, he put his hands back on her shoulders and drew her close, looking into her eyes as he said, “I won’t ask you to trust me, Fiona-lass, although you can. I will just ask you to tell me some things, if you will. First, did you dream about Will?”
She nodded, still watching him.
“Thank you,” he said. “Here’s the next question. I’m right, am I not, in believing that he badly mistreated you?”
She shut her eyes.
“I have heard that you and he argued that night. Is that true?”
She nodded.
“Did he hurt you?”
She chewed her lower lip but said nothing.
“Tell me, lass. I must know all that you can recall if I am to protect you.”
For a long moment, he thought she would refuse. But, at last, staring at his chest, she muttered, “First he slapped me, at least twice. Then he drew back his fist to hit me in the belly. I turned, and he hit me in the side instead. The pain was fierce and sharp. It lasted for weeks, but my turning away made him angrier. He knocked me down, and I must have hit my head, because when I woke, I was alone in our bed and my head ached as much as my side did. I don’t know what became of Will.”
Kirkhill drew her closer until she rested a cheek against his chest. Her hair tickled him under his chin. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he murmured to the top of her head. “If Will Jardine is not dead, I’m gey likely to kill him myself.”
“I do truly think he must be dead,” she replied. “Naught else would keep him away now. Everyone for miles must know of Old Jardine’s death and the birth of Will’s son. He would come back if he could, to claim both David and Applegarth.”
Drawing her toward the blanket, he said, “Is that why the dream terrified you so, because you believed Will had come back?”
She shook her head. “Prithee, do not ask me about that awful dream, Dickon,” she pleaded. “I cannot talk about it. It was too real. I cannot tell anyone.”
“You can tell me anything without fear,” he said, relieved to hear her use his nickname, although he was sure she had done so without knowing it. “I’ll protect you, whatever the risk. When you are ready to trust me, I’ll listen, and I will help. Now, however, I do recall that we came here meaning to break our fast.”
Releasing her, he turned away to open the basket. As he did, a barely audible sob escaped her that nearly spun him back to he
r. But instinct warned him that she had tried hard to stifle the sob and just needed a moment to collect herself.
It was the first time that he could recall being truly thankful for three sisters.
Fiona had come nearer to flinging herself into Dickon’s arms than she had come with anyone since some childhood scrape or punishment had sent her into her father’s arms for consolation. Not that there was anything the least bit paternal about Dickon, for there wasn’t. But he did provide a sense of safety that she had not experienced since her childhood… and a sense of danger that she had never known and could not clearly define.
They ate silently, and then he moved to tend the horses.
She looked into the western distance, trying to focus on the forested ridge that divided Annandale from neighboring Nithsdale. But she was conscious of every move that Dickon made behind her, doing whatever it was that he was doing. His boots crunched twigs and leaves, and the great black destrier made a snuffling sound that indicated welcome, followed by the familiar equine crunch of an apple.
A moment later, the gelding made similar sounds.
Drawing a breath and letting it out, Fiona turned to find Dickon standing between the two horses, watching her. The look on his face sent a wave of heat through her, but it was not the familiar heat of embarrassment or shame. It was closer to what she had felt the night he had come to her bedchamber and they had agreed that she was not his sister.
She vaguely recalled a similar but lesser feeling when she had first met Will and had fallen for his flirtatious manner, handsome face, and powerful torso. Will had also stirred her sense of adventure, her love of mischief, and a certain daring that had made her feel all grown up at fifteen.
But this… with Dickon… seemed to flow from deep within her. Part of it was a sexual attraction similar to what she had felt for Will when he had made no secret of wanting her. But the semifamiliar sensation seemed now to rest on much more. She had never felt this before with anyone. It was as if she knew Sir Richard Seyton of Kirkhill through and through, knew him better than she knew herself.
Such a sensation had to be false, but even that thought did not disturb or weaken it. The moment seemed timeless, as if she might study it and consider it from every angle before she need move or speak.
Then he smiled the soft, encouraging smile that she had come to look for, and held out a hand to her.
She went to him and put her hand in his, looking up at him.
“Better now?” he said.
“I think so, aye. In troth, though, I thought I had got over being so unpredictably emotional.”
“I am not sure that females ever get over that,” he said with a tender smile and a squeeze of her hand. “I will admit, though, that I doubt if you ever threw yourself at any one of your kinsmen and beat on his chest to make your point.”
She looked up at him from under her lashes. “Does Nan do that?”
“She has done it only once with me, but I did see her try it on my uncle once, and he’s told me of other times. And she has done it to Tony at least once.”
“Why only once with you?”
“Because I have little tolerance for such behavior.”
“Good sakes, what did you do?”
“I smacked her backside and sent her to her bedchamber to contemplate her ills in solitude.”
She grimaced, and he knew she was remembering again how she had nearly suffered the same fate.
Recovering, she said, “Well, I have never beaten on any man’s chest. But, in troth, I do not know whom I might have treated so. My father would have reacted as you did. I have met my good-brother, Robert Maxwell, only once. I know my uncle, Sir Hugh Douglas of Thornhill, a little better—the one married to my cousin.”
“I know Hugh Douglas,” he said.
“Well, I cannot imagine pounding on him. In troth, I cannot imagine anyone doing so with impunity.”
“I find him amiable, but mayhap he’s a sterner gentleman with his family.”
“He is, aye,” Fiona said with feeling. “Sithee, he is my mother’s younger brother. She once said that when Hugh makes up his mind, he never changes it. I doubt he behaves so with Jenny, though,” she added thoughtfully.
“I doubt he does,” Kirkhill agreed, giving her hand another squeeze. “Would you like an apple, lass?”
His gaze met hers again, and she realized that the mood between them had altered, leaving her hungry for something other than food. She licked suddenly dry lips, unable to look away from him as he slowly leaned closer and kissed her.
The kiss was different this time, softer, tenderer. But her body reacted as it had before, with passionate yearning to be closer to him. She dared to slip her tongue between his lips and felt a surge of delight when he let her.
Then, with a low hum in his throat, he pulled her close again and kissed her more fervently. His hands moved caressingly over her back and sides, then to her buttocks to urge her closer yet. She felt him stir against her, and he made the humming sound again in his throat.
She slid her arms around his waist and hugged him, but his hands moved then to cup the sides of her head, as with a sigh he ended the kiss.
“Don’t look so sad, lass,” he said. “I promised to protect you, and that means protecting you from me, too. I do feel strongly about you, and you seem to have feelings for me. But we both need to be sure that our feelings are genuine. If they are, then it becomes more imperative than ever to know what happened to Will.”
“Just hold me,” she murmured. “I don’t want to think about Will Jardine!”
Putting his hands to her shoulders again, he said, “You will have to think about him, however, because you are going to tell me all about him.”
Chapter 13
Kirkhill saw the light go out of her eyes and wished he could say something that would bring it back. He would not force her to relive her nightmare, for heaven alone knew where that might lead. But if he was going to learn what happened to Will Jardine, he needed to know as much about the man’s habits as possible. So far, despite sending men to search all of Annandale for Will, he had learned nothing about where the man might have gone, or why.
Fiona stood silently before him, making no effort to step out of his grasp but making no effort to respond to his comment, either.
“Tell me about Will, lass. I know what I saw. What do you know of him?”
“Will was…” She paused to think, but when he raised his eyebrows in surprise, she said, “What is it?”
“Was?”
She gave him a look. “Do you want to know about him, or are you just seeking signs that I know he is dead?”
“I want to know,” he said. He was glad to hear her sound more like herself.
Fiona saw that his eyes looked greener now than golden, with calmness in them and a warmth of expression that she found reassuring.
“I swear to you,” he said, “I do not believe that you killed your husband or took any part in his death, if he is dead. Not only is it impossible to believe that you could overpower him, as I have said before, but I know you well enough now to be sure that you are incapable of having aught to do with killing any man. However, I do believe that things may have happened that you do not remember.”
“Do you mean that Will could have died whilst I was with him and that I might somehow know how it happened without knowing that I know?”
“Perhaps. It is possible.”
She shuddered, recalling her horrid dream. “But how could I not remember his dying—however it might have happened?” Let alone burying him myself whilst big with child, and in such a place that no one has ever found him?
“I have seen a strong man clouted on the head in the heat of battle, who went on to fight with great skill and bravery only to collapse from his wounds, senseless, at battle’s end, then awaken later with no memory of any battle taking place. I have heard similar tales from others, as well—more than one.”
“Such men have no memory of their actio
ns? None?”
“None,” he said firmly. “The chap I know did recover some of his memory in time, but he still has not recalled being hit or fighting afterward. He insists that the rest of us who were there are jesting when we describe his feats of bravery.”
“How does he think he came by his injuries?”
“At first, he said that he must have got drunk and been drawn into a brawl. He has no memory of fighting, although he recalls that we were preparing for a battle. He believes that he fell soon after it began and we are making up all the rest.”
“But you are not.”
“Fiona-lass, I saw him fight with my own eyes, for he saved my life that day, striking down a man who waved a Jedburgh axe at my head whilst I fought another with my sword. As it was, I suffered a deep cut on my left shoulder. It was whilst they stitched the cut together that I learned the benefit of squeezing someone’s hands, focusing on his face, and trying to breathe deep and evenly to ease pain.”
“I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’m no soldier,” she said. “I cannot speak for what soldiers might do in the heat of battle. Still, I do think that I would remember if I had killed my husband or seen him die.”
“Tell me about Will,” he said again. “I want to know as much about him as you do. It may help me learn what became of him.”
She nodded, then fell silent, thinking about Will, trying to decide how best to let Dickon see what Will was like. Deciding that all she could do was tell him how Will had seemed to her, she said, “He was funny and charming at first—flirtatious.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At the Hall. He had come with Robert Maxwell to see the place when the Sheriff of Dumfries was trying to collect Annandale’s rents and royal taxes. You will doubtless recall how hard the sheriff fought to extend his authority into Annandale.”
“I do, aye. And I know that Rob Maxwell is the sheriff’s younger brother, and husband now to your sister, Mairi. ’Tis an odd match, I thought, in view of your father’s strong opposition to the sheriff’s unsuccessful efforts.”
She nodded. “Mairi and I were together when we met them. Will flirted with me, and… and I flirted back. Mairi told me I was a fool. I… I should have listened.”
