by Amanda Scott
Dickon’s way of making people sorry was unlike any she had known before, but in its own way, it was no less discomfiting.
“Will I go wi’ ye then, mistress?” Flory asked diffidently.
“Nay, you will not,” Fiona said more sharply than she had intended.
“But I ken fine that your mam would say ye should no be alone wi’ him!”
“Mayhap she would,” Fiona replied, reminding herself that she had sworn not to snap at people. “But I am mistress here, Flory, not my lady mother, and Kirkhill is responsible for us all, so there can be naught amiss in my being private with him from time to time, just as I was with my father or… or with Old Jardine.”
“Aye, but his lordship be neither your father nor your good-father.”
“Nay, he is not, for all that he sometimes acts as if he were.”
When she said no more than that, Flory gave her a speculative look before she said, “I’ll just go and order ye some water and a tub for a bath then. I warrant ye’ll want to wash your hair, too, will ye no?”
Fiona nearly told her that there would not be time for all that, but she knew that Flory and Dickon were likely both right in saying that Mairi’s party would not get off as soon as they’d hoped.
Therefore, she said only, “I’ll be as quick as I can, Flory.”
“Be the laird sorely vexed then?” Flory asked.
Fiona gave her a quelling look, but it failed, because Flory looked right back at her until she said, “He is not vexed, Flory. He is just curious about something, and in troth, I do not blame him. But I do not want to talk to him.”
“Aye, well, nae doots ye’ll feel better after ye do,” Flory said comfortably.
Fiona gave no response to that, but neither did she have any appetite left.
Rising from the table, feeling much as she had felt when facing a stern interview with her father, she left the dais and headed for the solar.
He had left the door open for her, and she could see him inside, kneeling by the hearth, stirring flames to life.
Just watching him, Fiona felt her mood lift.
Kirkhill sensed her approach before he heard her light footsteps. Giving a last poke to the fire, satisfied that it would burn well for a time, he straightened and turned to greet her.
She came in and reached to close the door.
“Leave it open, lass,” he said. “We’ll talk over here, and no one will hear us. I think this is where we should talk whenever we want to be private. Anyone seeing us together through an open doorway is less likely to think aught of it.”
“Before we say more, sir, I owe you an apology.”
“What for?”
“For entering your chamber last night without your permission.”
“Nay, then, you have no need to—”
“But I do,” she interjected firmly. “I would be furious if I’d walked into my bedchamber and found you snooping through my things.”
“So you are hiding things from me, are you?”
“Nay, I am not. I have naught worth hiding, and I’d liefer you not jest about this. It would anger me, and when you first came in I could see that it vexed you.”
“Aye, it did at first,” he admitted. “Then I saw that you’d been looking at the accounts, and my first thought was to wonder if you could read them.”
“Aye, sure, I can… well, most of them. I am not as good at keeping my household accounts as I ought to be. But that angered Will, so I did try to learn.”
“I will teach you anything you want to know,” he told her, itching again to have just five minutes with Will Jardine. “You were right to call me to account, though, just as I said you were. Even before you took me to task,” he added, “the fact that you were interested enough to be looking at them told me that I ought to have explained the situation clearly from the start.”
“Aye, but I should not have taken you to task as I did, either,” she said, gazing at a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder.
He put a finger under her chin and drew it back so that she had to look at him before he said, “You may always speak your mind to me, Fiona. We may fratch. In fact, I’m sure that we will fratch, many times. But you need never be afraid to say what you are thinking to me. I often speak bluntly, lass. I always have. It would be most unfair of me to deny you that same privilege.”
“But you said that I was being childish when I did speak my mind.”
“Aye, well, you did behave childishly, more than once,” he said.
With a wry grimace, she said, “I expect I did at that.”
“Sit down, lass,” he said, gesturing to a back-stool near the window embrasure. “Do you think you can tell me now about that dream of yours?”
“Perhaps, but may we not talk about some other things first?” she said as she obediently took the indicated seat.
“Do you have other things that you want to discuss with me?”
“Nay, but I thought you might… about the Jardines or Spedlins or…”
“Look here, Fiona, this is not going to get any easier if we keep talking around it or if you keep trying to change the subject. The only thing that will make it easier is getting it out of your head and into the open. So, now, what do you say?”
She stared out the window without speaking.
Impatience stirred, but he forced himself to wait.
At last, she looked at him and said, “I dreamed that I buried Will.”
Hearing herself say it aloud, Fiona cringed inside. But the words were out now, hanging in the air between them.
“Suppose you begin at the beginning,” he said. Pulling another back-stool out, he straddled it, facing her and resting his forearms atop its back. “What is the first thing about the dream that you remember?”
She stared at the point where his arms met the chair back, trying to remember the only part of the dream that had grown hazy in her memory. “I was on a hillside in a forest,” she said. That was right; she was sure. “I think it was daylight at first, because I remember wildflowers, colorful ones. It was pleasant there.”
She fell silent again, trying to remember what came next.
“Was Will there?” he asked quietly.
“Nay.” She glanced at him. “I remember that it was most agreeable. I would not have thought that, had Will been with me. There were birds, songbirds.”
“Then you were alone.”
Her memory cleared abruptly, flooding her cheeks with heat. “Someone else was there, but it was dark then and there was a moon, a full moon,” she said rapidly. “Then everything melted into something else, the way dreams do, and suddenly I was standing in pitch darkness, looking down. I’m quite sure I was alone then.”
“Who was with you before?”
“I… I’d rather not say.” She met his gaze, praying that he would ask her something, anything, else.
He held her gaze for a moment, frowning. Then, rather curtly, he said, “Are you sure that this other person had nowt to do with Will’s disappearance?”
She could answer that one honestly. “Aye, quite sure.”
“And he would have no reason to want Will out of the way?”
That question was another matter. She hesitated, but the answer was there nevertheless. “He may have had reason,” she said. “I cannot speak for another’s thoughts. But I am as sure as anyone could be that he did nowt to Will.”
He nodded. “What happened next?”
She heard the quaver in her voice as she described the sacklike burden she had pushed up hill and down, the vanishing moon, the darkness. She let it quaver, exerting herself to remember details that might help her decide if the dream had been a horrid memory turned into a dream or just a terrifying, pointless nightmare.
When she told him about the sudden pain she had felt where Will punched her and that she had remembered that he had, in the dream, Dickon just nodded.
But she saw his right hand clench.
He noted the direction of her gaze, too, beca
use he straightened his fingers as he said calmly, “Go on, lass. What happened next?”
Letting out breath she had not known she was holding, she said, “I seemed to know where I was going, that I had to go up the hill and then down. The sack was gey long and heavy, but I felt an urgency to hide it that did not go away until the thing fell into the hole.”
“What hole?”
“One that was just there in the ground, waiting for him,” she said.
“So it was Will in the sack,” he said, frowning again.
“Aye, though I did not know it until I looked down into the hole,” she said, shuddering. “The sack was gone then, and Will just lay there in the moonlight, grinning up at me. That’s why I woke up, screaming.”
“Sakes, lass, anyone would have screamed, seeing that. But you say that you knew where you were going. Where were you standing at the time?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just knew in the dream where to go, and when I got there, the hole was there, waiting.”
“Like a grave, then.”
“Aye. After we talked before, I thought that riding with Nan past the graveyard that day and then doing it again with you had put the idea in my head of me burying Will. But you’d said that bit about parts of a memory returning to someone who had forgotten much after a clout on the head. And I did get such a clout.”
“I can see how you might think as you did, aye, but your dream was nowt but a dream. You cannot have done all that by yourself. Will had to weigh at least twelve or thirteen stone. You don’t weigh more than eight.”
“I weighed more than that at the time,” she said, remembering.
“Carrying the bairn, aye, but that just proves my point, Fiona-love. I’d defy you to have picked up a sack of apples weighing a quarter of what Will weighed, as close as you were then to birthing your wee David.”
She stared at him, memory of the dream evaporating in the face of what he had just called her. He was frowning though, staring over his folded arms at the floor. She was as sure as she could be that he was unaware of the endearment.
Perhaps he often added “love” to women’s names, just as a sign of friendship. Some people were overly generous with such tender words.
He looked up then, and she felt sudden fire in her cheeks.
Kirkhill noticed her blushes but gave them little thought, knowing how hard it had been for her to confide in him. Hoping to reassure her, he said, “Look here, lass, I am not going to tell you that there is nowt of substance in such a dream, because neither of us can know that yet. But I am certain that you never did any such thing awake as you did in that dream. The notion is preposterous. You saw someone else bury Will, or otherwise cause him to vanish or die, or the whole thing is pure imagination, dreamed up because of all the rumors against you.”
He stood up and held out a hand to her.
Taking it, glad of its warmth, she said, “Are you sure? Might I not have helped someone else?”
“Is that what has been troubling you? If so, then prithee tell me who is so important to you that you would protect that person with every fiber of your being.”
“I don’t know anyone like that!” Her thoughts seemed to whirl. Letting go of his hand, she tried to think sensibly, saying, “Mayhap if Mairi had killed him, but she was not here. Nor was Mam, and until you… Sakes, I don’t know anyone else!”
“Then, you see, the whole thing is a tale that your imagination has spun, doubtless a result of making up stories to entertain the bairns. This one was not at all entertaining, however.”
“Nay, it was not. But you were right, sir… Richard.”
“How is that?”
“It has helped me to tell you about it.”
“Good,” he said, hoping he sounded casual but refraining from touching her again. He knew that if he did, he would grab her and hold her tight until all memory of the awful dream had faded from her memory.
Chapter 15
The party from Dunwythie Hall arrived little more than an hour before the midday meal. Besides their armed escort, it included the two baronesses, their husbands, the lady Phaeline, the lady Nan, and surprisingly, Sir James Seyton.
As that gentleman assisted Phaeline to dismount, he grinned at his nephew.
Both Kirkhill and Tony had met them in the courtyard, and Kirkhill, moving to help Nan dismount, had failed to notice his uncle until that moment.
Seeing him turn with a much warmer smile for Phaeline, Kirkhill began to wonder if Sir James had found a new interest there. As he pondered the thought, he found himself rudely thrust aside as Tony passed him to lift Nan from her saddle.
“I like that dress,” Kirkhill heard him say. “You should wear that soft pink color more often. It makes your eyes look even darker green.”
“Why, Tony, how sweet,” Nan said with a teasing grin. “You are learning courtesy, sir. But it is too late, for I have decided to wed another… or I would, were he not already married.”
“Now who the devil are you making sheep’s eyes at?” Tony demanded, looking around fiercely enough for Kirkhill to put a curbing hand on his shoulder.
“Peace, fool,” he muttered. “She is baiting you.”
“I ken that fine, but she refers to someone, Dickon. You know that she does.”
“Aye, and judging by her usual flirts, it is most likely Sir Hugh, who can deal with her silly infatuation much more easily than you or I could.”
“Hugh Douglas?”
“Aye, but dampen your anger, my lad. He is just steps away from you, helping his lady wife, and he would lay you on your back before you could put a finger to him. I’ve seen him do it, and you are no match for him. Moreover, no one would delight in the sight more than my mischievous sister would. So, peace now.”
“Aye, sure,” Tony said. “I’ve no wish to embarrass you or myself.”
“Good, now let’s herd these folks inside. They will want to tidy themselves before we dine. Davy, lad,” he called, seeing the boy run to help with the horses. “Go back inside and tell the lady Fiona that her guests have arrived.”
“Joshua already sent up to tell her, laird,” the boy said.
Kirkhill nodded, noting that the ladies had dismounted and were already moving toward the tower. He went to his uncle before Sir James could follow them and said, “What brings you back to this part of the dale so soon, sir?”
“Nowt to speak of, lad, but I did think I ought to see that your sister had been behaving herself. We’d not want her being a nuisance to so kind a hostess as the lady Phaeline. Moreover, her ladyship did invite me to stop by if I felt concern for our Nan’s well-being. One could not be concerned whilst Nan is in her care, but…”
Kirkhill raised his eyebrows. His usually unflappable uncle was babbling. Had Sir James really worried about Nan?
“How does my lady mother fare?” Kirkhill asked.
“In fine fettle,” Sir James said, grinning. “All is well, lad. Annis does not fret as much as one might expect when she’s alone, and I promised to return by week’s end. As for your lads, they await Archie’s call to battle, as do mine own at home.”
Kirkhill nodded. If his mother was content and the men ready, he would not protest their abandonment. His uncle had every right to an interest of his own.
Fiona hesitated at the hall entrance. She had had her bath before a cheery fire, had dried her hair, and had taken as much care as possible with her appearance. But lacking new gowns, she felt at a disadvantage when she saw how finely her sister, their wealthy cousin Jenny, and Nan were all dressed.
Not seeing her mother at first, Fiona looked closely at the group on the dais, then around the rest of the chamber. She found Phaeline near the great hall fireplace with Sir James, chatting and laughing with him as if she had known him for years.
Returning her attention to the dais, Fiona saw her sister looking right at her.
Mairi smiled, and Fiona’s anxiety vanished. Hurrying to greet her, she found herself enveloped in a war
m and hearty hug.
“You look wonderful, dearling,” Mairi said, her gray eyes twinkling as she released her. “Motherhood must agree with you. But where is my wee nephew?”
“Upstairs, sleeping,” Fiona said. “He sleeps hours and hours each day, but I’ll take you to meet him after we dine. Oh, Mairi, it is good to see you!”
“You, too,” Mairi said. “I hope you remember Robert Maxwell,” she added, drawing the tall, dark-haired, smiling gentleman nearer. “You met him only that once at the Hall, but we have now been married for two years. You will soon meet our wee Tammy, too. But now here are Jenny and Hugh wanting to greet you.”
Jenny Easdale, her soft, golden-brown hair confined in a simple net, hurried forward with a smile. Her stern-looking, dark-haired, hazel-eyed husband followed right behind her. But Hugh Douglas embraced Fiona, giving her a bearlike hug.
“I’m glad to see you looking well, little niece. We worried about you.”
Fiona looked him in the eye. “I wish that you had worried enough to come and take me away from here, sir.”
Mairi, overhearing, said calmly, “We did try to see you, Fee, but although Old Jardine did once admit us, he said that you and Will had gone riding and that you did not want to see us. Then he ordered us off his land. You had made it clear that you were strongly attracted to Will Jardine, so what were we to think other than that you had chosen to stay with him and did not want to see us?”
Fiona stifled a gasp. It had never occurred to her that they might think she would stay away so long of her own volition.
But just as she might have said something—most likely something she ought not to say—a large, warm hand touched her shoulder, and Kirkhill said, “People do tend to think the best of a situation until facts prove otherwise, my lady. Fiona-lass, you have not yet presented me to your sister or to her husband.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Fiona said, feeling calmer at once and perfectly able to perform the introductions graciously. As she introduced Dickon to Rob and Mairi, and learned that he had already met Jenny, she began to feel much more relaxed.
