by Amanda Scott
“She can’t murder you,” he said. “Just bow your head and let the flood of her words flow over you. And don’t, for mercy’s sake, be impertinent to her.”
“I am never—” Encountering his direct, knowing gaze, she broke off with a rueful smile. “Well, hardly ever,” she amended.
“Tidy your hair before you go to her and put on a fresh apron,” he said. “And don’t look at me as if you’d like to slap me. ’Tis good advice I give you. I know, for I’ve faced such confrontations more than once myself.”
Lingering annoyance with him blunted her fear of what lay ahead, and the knowledge that he was right sent her in search of her comb and a fresh apron. Then, feeling as if she were armed for battle, she went to Lady Farnsworth’s solar, where she found not only her ladyship but also Drusilla and Jelyan.
The scene that followed might well have elicited impertinence had Patrick not warned her to avoid it, because Lady Farnsworth had learned not only that she had slipped outside the wall but also that she had not finished hemming the gown that Martha had told her to hem. Her ladyship, never at a loss for words, hurled past and present transgressions at her like darts at a target.
Elspeth bowed her head and tried to imagine the words as no more than harmless water, albeit the flood that Patrick had described. She tried to imagine him standing passive before such a tirade but could not. She had seen his eyes flash at much less and doubted that he would be so submissive.
“Have you naught to say for yourself, girl?”
Her attention thus sharply recalled, she said, “No, madam. I beg your pardon and will certainly finish hemming your gown straightaway.”
“Where did you go?” Drusilla demanded.
Elspeth glanced at her, surprised that she did not know. It occurred to her then that in all Lady Farnsworth had said, she had not mentioned the falconer. Was it possible that they did not know she had been with him?
“I walked in the woods,” she said.
“You should not do that,” Drusilla snapped. “Tell her she must not, mother.”
“She’ll have no time for such,” Lady Farnsworth said. “She’ll have time only for her chores. You will forgo supper to finish hemming that gown, Elspeth.”
“Aye, madam,” Elspeth said quietly.
Drusilla was not satisfied. “She should be punished more severely!”
“Hush,” Lady Farnsworth said. “Your voice is giving me a headache.”
Suppressing satisfaction that certainly bordered on the impertinence Patrick had warned her against, Elspeth bobbed a curtsy and made her escape.
Nell Percy’s mind was on escape, too, and she was taking care to keep out of her brother’s way while trying to learn all she could about what was happening. Thus, she was quietly sewing in a corner of the great hall while the men talked.
It was the sixth day, and not only had Angus’s men failed in the previous five to lay hands on the runaway spy, but Angus had received a message from King Henry, a complaint that Scotland’s James continued to defy him. Angus was to drop everything, his majesty said, and get word to loyal Douglas followers to meet the English army south of Berwick. Henry would grant the Scots safe passage.
Angus being Angus and having small regard for laws of any sort, he dismissed the King’s messenger with a curt reply and when his own men reported failure in the west march, gave it as his opinion that a six-day limit for catching spies was utterly unacceptable.
“Go back and tell them to search until they unearth that damned scoundrel,” he ordered the rider who had brought him the report.
Both his host and Lord Dacre objected at once.
“Don’t even contemplate such a thing,” Dacre begged. “If we overstep the bounds, those dreadful Scots will do the same and insist that they have every right to create riot and ruction wherever they choose.”
“They do as they choose anyway,” Angus snapped.
“Aye, perhaps, but if we break the laws by which we agree to abide, we sound like hypocrites when we insist that they abide by them,” Dacre pointed out.
Angus would have ignored Dacre, for whom he had small respect and who showed no interest in marrying his heir to Angus’s half sister, but when Renwick made the same argument, Angus subsided into smoldering, silent anger.
Nell observed these familiar symptoms warily. His mood would not improve when his men returned the next day empty-handed, as she was sure they would, because if they had not found Patrick yet, they would not find him. He was free, and freedom was a wonderful, albeit fragile condition. She had enjoyed a brief period of it herself two years ago, and she wanted to enjoy it again. To do so, she would have to escape as Patrick had, and before Angus could arrange a new marriage for her.
To that end, she went in search of Jane and found her in her own room, mending one of Nell’s smocks. She continued with the task even when Nell said briskly, “We must pack my things at once, Jane.”
“Indeed, mistress,” Jane said placidly. “I had not heard that his lordship meant to depart, but I know that a messenger came from York, so it is not…”
“He does not mean to leave,” Nell interjected, “although Henry did order him to do so. Still, he will go any day now, and we may not get another chance.”
Jane pursed her lips but did not speak.
“Freedom, Jane, just think of it! After Percy’s death, I learned that a widow has much more freedom than a female in any other position. I have money of my own and my jewelry, and although the Percys control my money, they will disburse it to me even if I reside in Scotland. There are laws, Jane, for widows.”
“Truly?”
“Aye, truly,” Nell said. “But only if I can prevent my horrid brother from marrying me off again. If he does, my new husband will control even my allowance from the Percy family.”
“Then I think we shall do better without a new husband,” Jane said.
Nell grinned. “Just so,” she said.
Elspeth finished the hemming and her evening chores and went to bed. She was fast asleep, dreaming she was rapidly approaching the castle on the mist-shrouded hill, when she was startled awake by a hand gripping her shoulder.
“Lass, wake up! Searchers have entered the castle.”
The room was pitch dark but the quiet voice was unmistakable.
“Patrick!”
“Aye,” he said. “One man stands outside the postern door at the end of the corridor, and several more are crawling around inside. I dare not go upstairs, I dare not go outside, and they’ll search every chamber. Can you hide me in here?”
Fear for him swept through her. “Where? I’ve only that small table and the chest I keep my clothes in, and you are too big to fit under the one or in the other.”
Male voices sounded in the corridor.
“Your bed,” he said tersely.
“There is no room! ’Tis just a straw pallet under a few sheepskins.”
“They won’t know what it usually looks like,” he said. “If I climb under the sheepskins and you lie atop me with your quilt over all, they will not see me.”
The thought of him in bed with her was disconcerting enough to silence her, but even as she began to get up, the voices stopped.
“Where is Zeus?” she asked.
“Cursing loudly on a makeshift perch in my chamber. I warrant they are with him now. They’ll not harm him, but if someone thinks to tell them I never leave him alone, they’ll grow more suspicious than ever when they cannot find me.”
She could hear the voices again.
“They’re coming, lass. Quickly now, get up!”
She was wearing only her smock, but she stilled her nerves, got up quickly, and helped him pull the heavy fleeces off the straw pallet beneath them. As he was drawing the first fleece over himself, she heard voices in the corridor.
“Hurry,” he said. “Throw the other ones on me and then lie down so it looks as if you are curled atop your pallet as usual. Spread the quilt over yourself.”
She
did as he told her, lying on her side as she normally did. She felt him shift beneath her, either trying to make himself more comfortable under her weight or because she had poked him with an elbow or a foot. It occurred to her that his booted feet might be hanging out at the end, but there was not enough light to see, and she dared not get up again to look anyway.
The voices were louder now, and the accompanying feminine shrieks told her that the searchers were in the cook’s chamber next door. She could hardly breathe, and she could feel herself trembling.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured. “Ha’ fortitude.”
“Quiet, they’ll hear you!”
The door flew open, banging back on its hinges, and the orange glow of torchlight touched her eyelids.
She stiffened, keeping her eyes shut.
“Faith, lads, look wha’ I ha’ found!” The voice was gravelly, its English accent that of a common henchman.
Hoping she looked as if they had wakened her from a deep sleep, she opened her eyes to find a man standing over her with a torch. As she took in his rough, soldierly appearance, two others crowded in behind him, filling her tiny chamber.
She swallowed, but even so, her voice sounded unnaturally high and tremulous as she said, “Wh-what do you want?”
“A good question, that,” the spokesman said, leering at her. He wore some sort of livery and carried a sheathed sword at his left side.
The thought of what that sword could do to Patrick made her shudder.
“You should not be here,” she said.
“Get up, lass. Let’s ha’ a look at ye.”
“She looks tae be right bonny,” one of the others said. “Better than them other two besoms. Pull off that coverlet, Forster, and let’s see does the rest o’ her look as bonny as the wee bit we can see.”
Realizing that if they pulled off the quilt, they might find Patrick, she gathered her dignity and said, “You need not snatch me from my bed like horrid ruffians. I will get up if I must. But who are you, and why are you here?”
“We be men o’ Midgeholme wi’ permission from Sir Hector Farnsworth tae search this tower from ramparts tae kitchens,” the one called Forster said.
“But what do you seek?” she said as she carefully sat up and swung her feet to the floor.
“I seek a damned treacherous villain,” Forster growled.
“Mercy! Who?”
On the pallet, even sitting on Patrick, she was low to the ground, but standing made her feel awkward and even more vulnerable. All three intruders stared openly at her breasts, barely concealed beneath her thin smock, but she could not stop them and it would at least divert their attention from the pallet.
Forster had not bothered to answer her last question. His gaze remained fixed on her breasts, and apparently the sight had enthralled his powers of articulation.
“Ye dinna speak like a serving wench, lass,” one of the others said.
Warily, she ignored him and continued to watch Forster.
He reached out an ungloved hand to touch her.
She stepped back, turning as she did so that her back would be to the rear wall and not the pallet.
“There is no one in here, as you can see,” she said, striving to sound calm.
“Dinna run from me, lass,” Forster said. “I willna harm ye. Ha’ ye heard aught o’ one Sir William Smythewick, a traitorous spy?”
“I know of no such person. Surely Sir Hector would be more likely than I to know such a man, although I do not think he would befriend a spy.”
“He claims no tae ken the wicked rogue.”
She heard more voices. Dear God, she thought, were there more of them?
Certain that Patrick would not remain hidden if the men truly threatened to harm her, and fearing for his safety more than for her own, she allowed her temper to show as she said, “Sir Hector has powerful friends, even in England, and he will take strong exception if you bully his maidservants.”
“Aye, he does ha’ friends,” Forster said. “Our master be one o’ them.”
“Then you should know that if you touch me, Sir Hector will be displeased.”
“Be ye his familiar, then—his particular wench?”
“I am not,” she snapped.
One of the other men grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “Ye’re insolent, lass. Dinna speak so tae your betters unless ye want tae feel a hand sharp across your mouth.”
Patrick had had to exert himself to that point to remain where he was, but hearing the threat he nearly threw the fleeces aside and leaped to his feet. Only the fact that the lass said nothing to further inflame the man’s temper stopped him—that and the fact that he, too, could hear voices approaching in the corridor.
He knew there must be more than three louts hunting for him, and although he would confidently pit his skills against three, he knew he could not hold out long against more. Such a brawl would only make matters worse. Had they simply walked into his chamber and arrested him, it would be different, but he would not allow the lass to suffer for protecting him, and the plain fact was that if they discovered that she had done so, her life would be worth no more than his.
“Easy,” he heard the one called Forster say, and he relaxed as the man added, “Doubtless she learned tae talk so pretty because she serves the ladies o’ the house. We dinna want trouble wi’ Farnsworth.”
“Aye, sure,” the other said, “but if ye dinna want a kiss, Forster, I’ll ha’ one afore we finish here, for I’ve no tasted a bonny lass in months.”
Hearing the lass squeal as if someone had hurt her, Patrick tensed.
“By God’s body, what goes on here?”
Hearing Sir Hector’s voice, Patrick grinned with relief. The lass was safe. Whether he was or not remained to be seen, but his sense of humor—never predictable—stirred at the thought of the scholarly Sir Hector facing down the surly, well-armed searchers who had invaded his home.
Forster said quickly, “We told ye, sir, we’d be a-searching o’ this whole place. The lass might well know summat about our missing man.”
“This lass knows naught that could help you,” Sir Hector said testily. “I allowed this search because of my respect for your master, Sir Ralph Renwick, but I have known this lass from her infancy, and she can have no knowledge of the knight you seek. Your behavior here tells me you lack ordinary decency, for even Border reivers rarely manhandle innocent women or children. Therefore, you and your men are no longer welcome at Farnsworth Tower. Begone at once!”
“My master willna be pleased tae hear that ye sent us away,” Forster declared belligerently. “Ye may claim his friendship now, but—”
“I have many friends on both sides of the line, as do most Border gentlemen,” Sir Hector snapped. “As to Sir Ralph, I know him through my close friendship with Lord Dacre. You may trust me when I say that one word to Dacre will undo any power you possess through Renwick. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, sir, but—”
“I’ll hear no ‘buts,’ ” Sir Hector said. “Consider, please, that you brought only twenty men with you and that all of them are inside my wall. My captain has roused more men-at-arms to support the ones you saw when I allowed you to enter. I am willing to let you go now in peace, but only if you go at once.”
“But I thought—”
“This conversation is over,” Sir Hector said. “Don’t be foolish, man,” he added warningly. “Keep your sword in its sheath unless you want me to introduce you to my gibbet.”
“Ye’re nae baron, man. Ye dinna ha’ the power o’ the pit and gallows.”
“I do have a gibbet, however. Mayhap you would like to see it?”
More footsteps, followed by sounds of a brief scuffle, told Patrick that Sir Hector had not come alone. But Forster made one last attempt.
“Me master were told ye would help,” the man snarled.
“I am a Borderer like you,” Sir Hector said gently. “First, I protect my own.”
Chapter 8
/> Elspeth stood silently, watching Sir Hector’s men take the searchers away.
“I apologize, lass,” Sir Hector said gently. “Had I known they meant to disturb you, I’d have sent some of my men with them.”
“They did not harm me,” she said quietly. “But thank you for intervening.”
“Aye,” he said. “I did swear to protect you, lassie. I always will, but you’d best get back to bed now.” Turning, he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Reminded that she was barefoot and scantily clad, she was grateful for the solid darkness as she turned toward her pallet.
“It is safe now,” she said. “They did not even ask about you.”
She heard rustling and then he stood in front of her. She could feel his presence, his size, and his strength. Her body tingled in response to the energy she felt from his, and when he touched her arm, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Instead of the gratitude she expected, however, his first words were harsh. “What were you thinking, to stand before them clad only in your smock?”
“It was all I had on,” she said. “Would you have had me take the quilt to wrap around me?”
“Aye, you should at least have taken that. Seeing you so lightly clad might well have stirred them to take even more liberties than they did.”
“Had I taken the quilt, ’tis most likely they would have discovered you,” she pointed out. “I should think you might forgo your incessant criticism for once and thank me for hiding you.”
It was not the first time she had made him feel like a scoundrel, but her rebuke bit deep this time. After a brief silence, he said, “You are right, mo chridhe. I should be flogged for putting you in such danger.”
The Gaelic endearment slipped out again, as it had more than once since he had met her. She never seemed to notice, however, and he was just as glad. Bad enough that he kept forgetting the damned accent. Trying to explain how a Border lad had come to speak the Gaelic would try even his fertile imagination.
Feeling her tremble, he said, “They are truly gone, lass. Art still afraid?”
