The Border Lord and the Lady

by Bertrice Small

  “Does she like Fairlea enough to wed him?” Maggie asked, curious.

  “She likes him well enough, but finds him a bit overbearing. Still, she knows she must marry, and he is a most suitable candidate,” Orva replied.

  “The king hopes she will wed him, and then spy among the Gordons for him,” Lady Grey said quietly.

  “Then Jamie Stewart is doomed to disappointment,” Orva told her companion. “My mistress will be totally loyal to her husband. She would never tell tales. It is not in her nature. Now tell me, my lady, for we have spoken on everything else over the course of our journey, what is this wicked laddie who stole my mistress really like?”

  Maggie MacLeod smiled warmly. “Ian Douglas is a good man. His clanfolk love and respect him. He is brave in war, honest and generous of heart. He is known here in the borders as ‘the canny Douglas,’ for he is quite clever. And he will defend the woman he loves against all comers. Your mistress would not be unhappy with him.”

  “My mistress is probably still very angry at him,” Orva said. “She does like getting her own way, and being dragged off into the wilds of this land will not be pleasing to her, I can promise you. The man will need the patience of a saint to win her over.”

  “My husband tells me that as a lad Ian tamed a fox kit. He would sit for hours in the heather observing the wee creature. He let it come to him rather than forcing himself on the little fox. I think he has patience enough, Orva.”

  They entered the glen, the little wagon rumbling down the narrow path. Sir William now rode ahead so that his kinsman could be made aware he was about to have company. He wondered what Ian was going to say to him. He wondered what Lady Cicely would say about her situation. Ian would not be able to refuse them hospitality, and poor Lady Grey needed a warm fire and a soft bed. Had the king not ordered them to Glengorm first, Sir William would have taken the Greys home to Ben Duff. He wasn’t certain that Maggie MacLeod would be able to birth her husband’s heir in her own bed. Seeing the house ahead he spurred his horse to hurry. The rain was beginning to fall.

  Chapter 7

  The house that Sir William’s party would shortly enter was hardly the house that Ian Douglas had brought Cicely to nine days prior. As she sat by the fire in the hall that night digesting everything he had said to her, Cicely found his gentle words had done nothing to soften her anger. And then Bethia came stumbling down the stone stairs into the hall covered with soot and coughing heavily.

  “The chimney in the lady’s chamber will not draw, my lord,” she told the laird. “It looks as if some bird or beastie has made its nest there.”

  “I am not surprised, given the condition of this hall,” Cicely said dryly. “I suspect your stables are cleaner. It is obvious you have no control over your household.”

  Ian Douglas gritted his teeth. She was right, of course, but there hadn’t been a woman managing his house since his grandmother had died when he was ten years old. Mab was really too old now, and Bethia lazy, but who would replace them? “You can sleep in my chamber, ladyfaire,” he said.

  “I will not!” she replied angrily. “How dare you even suggest such a thing? Will you destroy my reputation entirely, my lord?”

  “I’ll sleep in the hall,” he told her. “You’re my guest.”

  “Nay, I will sleep in the hall,” Cicely said. “And I will remain in this hall until I am rescued from your clutches, my lord!”

  “It should be a few days before anyone figures out what has happened to you, and we’ve already traveled several days,” the laird said to her. “There’ll be no fighting over you, ladyfaire. They will come to parley with me. And until we have come to know each other better I will not be of any mind to negotiate. I want nothing of you but your time, Cicely Bowen. If after we have come to know each other you decide I am not the man for you, I will reluctantly release you. I have never had to force a woman to my will, ladyfaire. I do not intend starting now. And to show you I am a man of my word who will accept your decisions, you may sleep in the hall tonight, if that is your preference.”

  “You are used to getting your way with women, aren’t you, my lord?” Cicely said.

  He gave her a slow, wicked smile. “Aye,” he drawled. “I am.”

  “You will not get your way with me,” she told him. Mother of God, he was the most irritating man she had ever met! But in a few days they would come for her, and she would tell him that if he were the last man on the face of the earth, she would sooner die a maiden than marry him. But in the meantime she would occupy her time in seeing that his hall was cleaned properly. She could not bear idle time on her hands.

  “Come to the table, my lord.” Bethia had shuffled back into the hall with another old lady. “Mab has done her best but ’twas short notice,” she complained.

  “Your lord sent ahead to you this morning,” Cicely said sharply. “You had plenty of time to prepare a decent meal for him.” Cicely seated herself at the high board next to the laird. “Where is a man to serve?” she demanded to know.

  “Can you not help yourselves?” Bethia asked. “There is not so much upon the table that you need to be aided.”

  Cicely looked at the table. There was a small, cold joint of some animal, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese. She shook her head despairingly. “I will serve you, my lord,” she told him, reaching for the bread. When she began to slice it she discovered it was stale and crumbled beneath the knife. The cheese on closer inspection showed a spot of white mold, and the joint had the distinct unpleasant odor of rot about it. “This will not do,” Cicely said angrily, standing up and shoving the food from the high board. The dish holding the joint shattered noisily upon the stone floor of the hall.

  “Then you’ll go hungry!” Bethia said, equally angry.

  “There is no fresh bread baked? No cheese without mold?” Cicely demanded. The dogs in the hall had come to sniff at the joint on the floor. “Look, even the dogs refuse that piece of meat!” Cicely said, pointing as the three hounds walked away from it. She turned to the laird. “There is no excuse for this, my lord! None!”

  “I agree,” he said quietly. “Now, what will you do about it, ladyfaire?”

  Cicely’s first instinct was to tell him that he was the master in this place, but instead she stepped down from the high board. Her gaze went past Bethia to Mab. “Take me to the kitchens, woman. What is your name?”

  “Mab, my lady,” came the reply. “If you will follow me, please.” She led the younger woman from the hall and down a flight of stone steps.

  The kitchen was of a goodly size. There was a large oak table opposite a big hearth where a fire was burning. A large pot hung over the fire. A delicious fragrance was coming from it.

  Cicely looked in and saw a potage with vegetables and chunks of meat bubbling away. “Have you any trenchers, Mab?” she asked.

  Mab shook her head in the negative. “With no one here I do not bake daily,” she said apologetically. “But I have wooden bowls to put the stew into, my lady.”

  “Why did you not serve it?” Cicely wanted to know. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Bethia said bread, a joint, and cheese would do,” Mab replied.

  “A hot meal after a long ride would have been preferable,” Cicely noted. “Is there any other cheese?”

  “I have a small wheel in the pantry,” Mab answered. “Shall I bring it with the stew, my lady?” And she curtsied.

  Cicely smiled slightly, and nodded. Then she turned to Bethia. “Clean up the mess you caused to be made before the high board,” she said. Then she walked back upstairs to rejoin the laird. Oh, yes, there was much to be done here to put everything right. Bethia would have to go, and new servants brought in to serve the laird.

  “Haughty bitch!” Bethia said angrily.

  “You had best watch your tongue,” Mab warned. “This is the girl he has talked about for weeks. He means to wed her, and she will be mistress here.”

  “She says she won’t have him,” Bethia said sm
ugly.

  Mab laughed. “Ha! More fool you if you believe that,” she said. “The laird means to make her his wife, and believe me, in the end he will, Bethia. Do not make an enemy of she who will soon be our mistress.”

  “I’ll not serve the English bitch,” Bethia said angrily.

  “Then you’ll end up back in the village, and your husband—who prefers you here so he can live in peace with his old mother—will beat you for losing your place,” Mab told the angry woman. “Frankly I’ll be happy to see the back of you, Bethia Douglas.”

  “The laird needs me,” Bethia said. “Who else can care for his house?”

  “The laird needs a wife more than he needs you,” Mab said with a toothless grin. “He’ll win over the lass of his heart. I’ll wager you’ll be back with your man in a day or two.” She cackled as she filled two wooden bowls with stew, took the small wheel of cheese from the pantry, and ascended the stairs back to the hall.

  The laird thanked her as she set the bowls neatly before him and his guest. His eyebrow rose just slightly as she put the cheese upon the cutting board and curtsied. “Forgive me, my lord, for not serving you the potage, but Bethia said the other was good enough.”

  Ian Douglas dipped his spoon into the bowl and brought it to his lips. Swallowing it down, he smiled broadly. “You may be an old hag, Mab, but by the rood no one can cook as well as you can. ’Tis delicious!”

  “Indeed it is,” Cicely agreed. “Thank you, Mab. I hope you will always be here to cook for your master. But from now on you must live by your own rule. No one should tell you how to cook or what to serve but the laird. ’Tis your kitchen, after all.”

  “And I give you free rein for now to do as you please,” the laird told the woman.

  “Thank you, my lord!” Mab bobbed another curtsy. Then she said, “Would it be possible for me to have some help in my kitchen, my lord? I have been alone for months now, and I am, as you have observed, not as young as I once was.”

  “Find those who would suit, and bring them to Lady Cicely for her approval,” the laird replied.

  “My lord!” Cicely gave him a stern look, but the laird shrugged it off.

  “Finding the right servants is a woman’s task, ladyfaire. Please do this for me,” he said in an almost pleading tone.

  “Oh, very well, my lord,” she finally agreed. “Having seen the disgraceful state of this house I cannot help but want to put it to rights. And you have asked me nicely. It is a challenge, and I do love a good challenge,” Cicely told him.

  “As do I,” he replied meaningfully with a wicked grin in her direction.

  Mab chuckled softly at their sparring. Aye, this lass was the right one for the laird despite being born on the other side of the border. She wouldn’t crumble beneath his hand. She knew how to fight and defend herself. “I’ll bring some folk in on the morrow for your approval, my lady,” Mab said to Cicely.

  “What is this?” Bethia demanded to know as she returned to the hall.

  “My lady is to bring new servants into the house,” Ian Douglas said to Bethia. “As you cannot get along with her you will return home tomorrow to your husband.”

  “My lord, I have served you faithfully!” Bethia cried.

  “Your service was barely passable for a man alone,” the laird told her, “but I was too lazy to correct you or make a change. Housewifery is not a man’s task. You will have been paid at Michaelmas past for a year’s service, and you may keep that coin, though you have rendered barely two months of that service.”

  Bethia threw aside the broom she had brought into the hall and stormed from their presence, muttering curses beneath her breath as she went.

  They would pay! Oh, yes, they would pay. Brought to Glengorm as a captive, she had accepted her lot, married a Douglas, and been faithful. Did it really matter that she stole a wee bit here and there from her master to earn extra coin? All servants stole. Didn’t he have more than one man needed? Those in the village were quick enough to purchase her goods. Yet despite her good service, she had been tossed into the road like so much refuse. She would find a way to repay the Douglas laird in kind if it took her years!

  Mab picked up the broom and swept the remains of the meat platter, the rancid joint, the crumbling bread, and the moldy cheese into a pile. “I’ll be back with a bucket to pick it up,” she told them, and hurried from the hall on suddenly spry legs.

  “You’ve made an ally,” Ian Douglas said quietly.

  “She’s old yet hardworking and loyal,” Cicely replied. “But Bethia is a bully. I am glad you sent her away. She would continue to cause trouble. Now let us eat before this potage grows any colder, my lord.”

  After the meal the laird attempted to convince Cicely to take his chamber for her own until the chimney serving his mother’s rooms was cleaned and the chamber freshened, but she refused him.

  “Tell me about your mother,” she said, engaging him in conversation.

  “I don’t remember her,” he said. “She died when I was barely a year, birthing my brother, Fergus. She was a Stewart. Our father died two years later. He was an honorable man, I am told. They were good but unremarkable people. Our grandfather Douglas was still alive, however, and Grandmam too. They raised us. I’m named for him. He taught us how to fight, how to drink, and how to wench. Our grandmam taught us manners. I am called the canny Douglas, for I am a careful and thoughtful man, but he was called the wenching Douglas.” The laird chuckled. “And the women loved him for it, even Grandmam. No man alive could make a woman feel more beautiful or desirable than my grandfather. You’ll hear the tale eventually, but he died in the bed of one of our village women. He brought her to total ecstasy, roared with his own pleasure, and then fell over dead. I do not think he ever thought about dying, but I suspect he appreciated the way in which he did.”

  “Your grandfather sounds like a wicked man, and you obviously take after him,” Cicely said. Her cheeks were pink with his story of the wenching Douglas. What kind of man—or woman, for that matter—enjoyed coupling? Coupling was for the sole purpose of procreation. Certainly people didn’t enjoy it.

  “You’re blushing,” the laird noted.

  “Your tale is indelicate. I am not some tavern wench you need to impress,” Cicely said in a tight little voice.

  He looked closely at her, and then he laughed softly. “Didn’t anyone tell you, ladyfaire, that coupling is pleasing?”

  Cicely’s blush deepened. How had he known what she was thinking? “My lord, our Holy Mother Church teaches that there is but one reason for coupling.”

  “And whom will you believe, ladyfaire? A man who has coupled with many women, or a dried-up old husk of a priest whose cock is but a conduit for peeing?”

  “You speak blasphemy, my lord!” She stepped down from the high board and made her way across the hall towards the hearth.

  He caught up with her in a single moment, spinning her about to face him. “There is no blasphemy in passion. Your friend the queen would tell you that if you asked her.” Wrapping an arm about her, he pulled her to him. The knuckles of his other hand gently grazed down her soft cheek as he momentarily lost himself in her blue-green eyes.

  Holy Mother! Cicely thought as she realized how hard the body pressed against hers was. And it felt so right, yet how could it be? This brazen laird had no right to handle her in such a way! But while her heart was beating fiercely, she realized that he excited her, and part of her wondered how far he would go. If the truth be told, Andrew Gordon had never excited her like this. But it was wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! “Unhand me, my lord!” Cicely said in what she hoped was a stern tone.

  His arm dropped from her waist, but before she could move his two hands captured her small face between them. His mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her fiercely. The full, soft lips beneath his yielded reluctantly, but they yielded. Finally lifting his head, he stared down into her face. “Was that blasphemous, ladyfaire?” he asked softly. Then, turning away from her, he walk
ed from the hall, leaving her alone.

  For a long moment Cicely stood rooted to the spot where she was standing. Then, stumbling to the fireplace, she sank down into a chair. What was the matter with her? She should have slapped his arrogant face for daring to kiss her. She was practically promised to another man. But was she? Did she really want to wed Andrew Gordon? The king wanted her to wed him, although Cicely knew he would not force her to it. And she was not so much of a fool that she didn’t realize the king would want her to spy on the Gordons to make certain they remained loyal. But if she married into Clan Gordon, she would be loyal to her husband’s family—unless they attempted to betray James Stewart—but she could not report their daily activities, or whom their guests were. And was Andrew Gordon really the man for her?

  Oh, yes, he was handsome enough. He could speak French with her, and he wrote passable poetry he liked to recite. But he was also a little haughty, and had been dismissive of her attempts to speak with him on more serious matters. Sometimes Andrew gave her the impression that he was doing her a great favor by considering her for his wife. And he had already attempted to exert control of her by pressing her into this marriage, which was why she had hesitated. He did kiss nicely, however, and while his first kisses had been delightful, for she had never been kissed before, they had not thrilled her from her head to her toes the way that Ian Douglas’s kisses had.

  But the laird of Glengorm was a barbarian! He had kidnapped her from Perth. Made her ride at breakneck speed for almost three days, trussed up much of the way like a doe ready for butchering. He had made her sleep on the cold ground, and starved her. Had they not reached this house she was certain she would have had chilblains on her hands in another day. His servants were slovenly. His home filthy. And she was tired and cold. Cicely began to cry softly. Never in her life had she been treated so ill.

  And what was the cause of all her misery? Men! Andrew Gordon, who behaved as if she were his possession, chasing away any others who would pay her court. And Ian Douglas, who snatched her from Mistress Marjory’s shop, and had already commenced his rough wooing of her with his heated kisses. Well! She wouldn’t have either of them! Cicely wasn’t even certain now that she wanted a husband. But she knew she wasn’t about to give herself to the Church either. So a husband she would have to have, sooner or later.