by Amanda Scott
He was silent for a long moment before he said quietly, “I have a notion that I’d risk offending you if I expressed my sympathy as strongly as I’m feeling it, lass. Likewise, instinct warns me that I’d be wiser not to say that I think you must be a remarkable young woman.”
The warmth in his voice nearly undid her, and she drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the tears pricking her eyes. Exhaling slowly, she said with commendable calm, “Thank you for your sympathy, sir, but many hereabouts lost their families just as I did, either to the fever or to Henry’s soldiers. Our king and queen lost their precious sons to the fever, too, before it swept its way south. So although my losses affected me sorely, I cope by trying to make myself useful to others.”
“Good lass,” he said. “I collect that Henry of England is becoming a damnable nuisance in these parts.”
“Aye,” she said, accepting the change of subject gratefully, “although it has been peaceable enough in this area for these past few months at least.”
He nodded and turned his attention to the track ahead.
The horse she rode had excellent manners, and she easily guided it toward the ford in the brook, glad that she would not have to get her feet wet. The night was turning chilly.
Chisholm led her lame horse, and as they forded the brook, he watched to be sure the animal’s bad leg would cause it no problems on the slippery stones. Then, safely on the opposite bank, he turned toward her and said, “Are you sure you know the track well enough to follow it by starlight?”
“Aye, and you will not have difficulty finding your way back, either,” she said. “It is the only real track betwixt here and Mute Hill.”
He was silent again for a few moments before he said, “Does no one hold you to account, mistress?”
“I cannot imagine how that can concern you, sir,” she said, raising her chin.
“Suppose I should prove to be even less of a gentleman than your brief acquaintance with me has already suggested?”
A shiver raced up her spine at his grim tone, but she suppressed it, saying in her usual calm way, “I am an excellent judge of character, Sir Christopher. I believe I can trust you to see me safely home.”
“You can trust me,” he agreed, “but you are a fool to trust your instincts in such a case, lass, and if you were my daughter or sister—”
“Have you got a daughter or sister?” she asked curiously.
“No, but that is not the point.”
“That is precisely my point,” she said. “You have no authority to scold me, sir, and none to force me to your will. We should do far better, I think, to discuss a matter of greater importance that does concern you.”
“What matter is that?”
“Why, my cousin, of course. Since you are betrothed to her—”
“The devil I am!”
Anne swiftly crossed herself. “There is no need to swear. Surely, you must know that you are betrothed to Fiona Carmichael. Indeed, I am sure that you do, because I saw how you reacted when I first spoke my aunt’s name.”
“It is true that I was apparently betrothed to Mistress Carmichael at one time,” he said. “My astonishment is due to the fact that you seem able still to consider her betrothed to a man that everyone hereabouts believes is dead.”
“But you were betrothed,” Anne insisted.
“My father certainly wrote to inform me of some such arrangement,” he said. “But that was over eighteen months ago, and I never replied to his letter, so how anyone can have thought—”
“But what kind of son fails to reply to such a letter?”
“You should not interrupt me,” he said. “Surely, your parents taught you better manners than that.”
“They did,” she admitted, “but I grow impatient when I want to know something and the other party persists in…”
“In what?”
His tone seemed ominous, but she replied calmly, “Well, in truth, I was going to say ‘prevaricating,’ but I have no evidence that you are doing that, so perhaps I should say when the other party appears to be avoiding a direct answer. If your father informed you of your betrothal…” She paused tactfully.
“If you must know, he commanded me to return so that the matter could be formally completed, or to understand that he would attend to the details by proxy.”
“You did not come home, however.”
“No, because circumstances intervened that were beyond my control. I have been unable to return until now.”
“Nonetheless, the arrangement between your father and my aunt was a legal one, was it not?”
“One must suppose so, although I was scarcely a minor at the time. Nor did I ever sign anything.”
“Still, your father, as head of your family, had full authority to act as proxy, I should think. My aunt and my cousin certainly believe the betrothal was legal.”
“You appear to be well versed in the matter,” he said.
She did not miss the undertone of sarcasm but said tartly nonetheless, “Do you think women cannot understand complex matters, sir?”
“I never said that. I warrant you must be of greater age than I first judged you, however.”
“I am nearly nineteen,” she said. “My birthday is two days after Christmas.”
“Then I wonder that you are not yet married with a family of your own,” he said. “You certainly seem eligible enough, and despite your tartness when you misunderstood me, you do not seem to possess a shrewish disposition.”
“I apologize if my tone seemed disrespectful,” she said sincerely. “I cannot think what made me speak as sharply as I did. As to my single state, my father was indulgent enough to allow me to reject suitors that presented themselves if they did not appeal to me. None did.”
“Indulgent, indeed,” he agreed. “I wish that my father had been so indulgent. Still, I reckon your suitors were numerous. Are you so particular?”
She nibbled her lower lip, hesitant to say the words that sprang to her tongue, but when he waited patiently, she decided to risk it. “In truth, sir, I do not want a husband who would marry me solely for my family name and connections. I’d prefer one who would value my opinions, but although I have heard that such men exist, I have never met one.” She did not mention that, deep in her heart, she harbored a wish to meet one who would give his life, if necessary, for love of her. Such wishes, she knew, were merely self indulgent and unworthy of her.
He was silent again, this time for so long that she wondered if he hoped to end their conversation.
“I’d prefer to talk about Fiona,” she said quietly.
“Surely, you must know that if I am officially deceased, all legal documents and contracts to which I am a named party have become moot.”
“Not all of them, surely,” she said. “Your last will and testament, for example, would certainly not be moot.”
He chuckled again, and she found that the now familiar sound was not only strangely reassuring but warmed her, as well.
“If I had had the prescience to create such a document, I suppose you would be right,” he said. “Are you never at a loss for an argument, my lady?”
“This matter is of grave importance to me,” she said.
“Is your cousin so desperately in need of a husband? I trust she has not gotten herself—”
“Do not say such a thing! Even if it were possible for her to get herself with child, as I suppose you were about to say, she has done no such thing.”
“I beg your pardon, but your insistence that I am the hope of her soul did prompt me to wonder.”
“It is not just a husband she requires. Indeed, she is to be married soon, as it is, and therein lies the problem. I thought you must have heard as much.”
“No, how would I? Still, I cannot be amazed. If my father thought she would make a suitable bride for me, she must possess many excellent qualities.”
“She is stunningly beautiful and a great heiress,” Anne said.
“Ah, then she need have o
nly those two excellent qualities. I stand corrected. But if she already has a husband in the offing—”
“Do stop being so heartless. My aunt intends Fiona to marry your dreadful uncle, and we must not let that happen.”
“Now you do interest me,” he said with a definite edge to his tone.
“I thought I might,” she said bitterly.
“Is he truly dreadful?”
Surprised, she said, “Don’t you know him?”
“I have not laid eyes on him in six years, so I cannot claim to know him well, but I do know that I did not like him when I was a lad.”
“Fiona is afraid of him.”
“You interest me more than ever now. Much as I disliked him personally, I would not have thought him the sort of ogre who goes about frightening innocent maidens. How old is your cousin?”
“Don’t you know that either?”
“I have a lamentable memory at the best of times,” he said but then added on a note of obvious sincerity, “In truth, I paid little heed to those papers my father sent me. If they bore any mention of her age…”
“She was only fifteen when my aunt agreed to that betrothal,” Anne said. “But although she is seventeen now, she seems younger to most people.”
“Ah, now I see how it is. The lass is simple.”
“She is not!” But hearing the echo of her own words, she could not blame him for thinking so. Still, she wondered if he might be purposely casting flies to see if she would leap to his baiting.
“Fiona is exceptionally biddable and a little shy,” she said. “My aunt wants her to marry your uncle, and therefore she will do so if we cannot prevent it. She simply has not got it in her to defy Aunt Olivia.”
“No spirit, eh?”
Clearly, he was baiting her, but much as she would have liked to deny the accusation, honesty forbade it. Instead, she said, “Fiona is a dear, loving girl. The man who weds her will delight in her if he is kind and does not frighten her.”
“Then we will simply tell my uncle that he must cherish the lass.”
“Unfortunately, Ashkirk—” She broke off, offering him a rueful smile. “Mercy, he’s not Ashkirk, is he? I usually call him Eustace, which irritates Olivia, but I was trying to be respectful, because he is your uncle.”
“Oh, don’t be swayed by that. I told you, I never liked the fellow.”
“Well, I expect it is you who are Ashkirk now, in any event, but I cannot wrap my mind around calling you that when…” She hesitated, thinking it would be less than diplomatic to tell him that she had thought of the name with loathing from the moment she had first met his uncle. “What should I call him?”
“I can think of several things,” he said, “but I don’t think I’d like hearing any of them from your lips. I don’t object to your calling him Eustace, but you may more properly call him Sir Eustace Chisholm—if you admire propriety. He holds a knighthood in his own right, although I’ve never understood why he should.”
“Well, he is perfectly well aware of my cousin’s fear of him,” Anne said. “Indeed, I’m afraid he cultivates and takes delight in it.”
“I see. Clearly, you know him better than I do. What other pleasing attributes does he possess?”
“I don’t see them as pleasing or as attributes,” she said.
“I spoke in jest.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You did not sound as if you were jesting. There was a definite edge to your tone.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll wager you can tell me more about him.”
“Very well,” she said. “I dislike him, because he enjoys pinching young women’s cheeks and making ribald remarks calculated to shock them, and because he is the sort of man who catches and kisses maidservants on the stairs.”
“Just how do you know that?”
“Because, to my misfortune, he kissed me, having mistaken me for my cousin’s maid when he called on her shortly after my arrival at Mute Hill House.”
“I see.”
This time the grimness of his tone made her wish she could read his expression, but the deep dusk had darkened to moonless night and the starlight was barely enough to give a faint indication of the track ahead.
She felt no concern that they might get lost, for they had covered more than half the remaining distance and would soon reach the crest of a hill overlooking Ewesdale, from which they would be able to see the lights of Mute Hill House.
He did not speak again for some time, and she was content to remain silent, because the silence now was comfortable and gave her a chance to consider her odd reaction to the man. For it was certainly odd that his presence gave her comfort when she scarcely knew him and had little reason to think him wiser or more reassuring than the reiver she had seen when first they met.
To be sure, he had a certain aura about him that instilled confidence. She had the distinct feeling that even if the English army should descend upon them at that moment, Sir Christopher would rout them single-handedly, easily, and without a blink. The notion was foolish, of course. Logic told her as much, but the confidence she felt remained undiminished.
She felt as if she knew him, not factually, as in the details of his life, for she knew next to none of those. But the essence of him, his inner spirit, was another matter. The comfort she felt with him riding silently beside her was the comfort of riding with an old and trusted friend. And regardless of his warning earlier, Anne trusted her instincts.
She had long realized that she possessed a gift in her ability to read people, to know good ones from bad, and the trustworthy ones from the untrustworthy. Her mother had called it intuition. Her father had called it other things, particularly after a ten-year-old Anne had told him that a man with whom he was about to enter a contract was a bad man. Armadale had punished her for her impertinence and ignored her to his cost. After that, although he was as likely to tell her to mind her place and to pretend to ignore her opinions, he took greater care and occasionally even sought out her estimation of people who had approached him.
That experience and others like it assured her that she could trust Sir Christopher. Without a qualm, she dismissed his warning that she should not.
“There, you see,” Catriona said, pleased with the progress of her plan. “She trusts him, although I cannot think why she should when she does not know him.”
Fergus wriggled beside her in the thick mane of Anne’s mount, looking anything but pleased or comfortable. “He is a good man, is he not?”
“Aye, but how would she know?”
“She has a gift, o’ course.”
“I have heard that some tribes bestow such gifts upon their charges,” she said, remembering that Claud had told her as much.
“I’m thinking ye’re no from around here,” he said grimly.
“Of course I am not,” Catriona replied. “Do I look as if I were from here?”
“Nay, for ye’re even more beautiful than the women o’ me own tribe, so I’m thinking ye must be a pixie from one o’ the hill tribes. I ha’ never seen one afore, but I’m told they be the only lasses more beautiful than ours.”
“Well, I have not met anyone like you before either,” Catriona said.
“Aye, well, although we bestow gifts, we dinna do things like ye just did,” he said righteously. “Ye canna go about these parts interfering in mortal business.”
“But we have a duty to look after them.”
“Aye, sure, but only in small ways,” he said. “Banishing nightmares when they threaten, soothing harsh feelings, easing worries, and such like things.”
“But that cannot be all you do,” Catriona said. “Your aura seems so powerful, not like that of a brownie or a dobby with no power to speak of. What fortunate tribe can boast of having you as its member?”
“I be an Ellyl,” he said, preening himself. “Me tribe’s called the Ellyllon.”
“I fear I have never heard of them,” she admitted. “What manner of folk are they exactly?”
“They
be the Forgetful People is what they be,” Maggie Malloch snapped, materializing between them in a puff of mist.
“Maggie,” Fergus exclaimed. “What be ye a-doing here?”
“I ha’ business here,” she said. “If it concerns ye, Fergus Fishbait, I’m that sorry. Form yourself properly, so the wench doesna take the notion that ye always go about half baked, or fear that ye’ll fade away altogether.”
Clearly startled, Fergus looked down at himself. “Och, I forgot!” he exclaimed, snapping into a solid form at once. “I were that stunned by what ye were doing that I forgot tae finish producing m’self.”
“But how can you stop halfway?” Catriona asked.
“Never mind that,” Maggie said, giving her a stern look. “What did ye do tae stun the man so?”
Catriona smiled. “I merely arranged for my lad to meet the cousin of his betrothed, that’s all. With luck, and if Fergus Fishbait can stop arguing with me at every turn and trying to prevent—”
“But we’re no tae interfere wi’ them,” he protested. “That be the rule!”
“Dinna heed him, lass,” Maggie advised. “Likely, he’ll forget about it soon. Ye’ve heard o’ the Holy Grail?”
Catriona blinked at what seemed to be a non sequitur. “Aye,” she said doubtfully. “That is, I don’t remember what it was exactly, but did it not go missing centuries ago?”
“It did, because it were in the charge o’ the Ellyllon,” Maggie said with a severe look at Fergus. “They were tae keep it safe, and they swore they hid it in a perfect place. But when time came tae let the mortals find it again, the Ellyllon couldna produce it, and so they ha’ been called the Forgetful People ever since. Ye’ll find their members everywhere, and sithee, they canna help forgetting. It be their nature, just as it be your nature tae—”
“I dinna forget things,” Fergus interjected crossly.
“D’ye recall my Claud?” Maggie asked.
“Aye, o’ course, I do,” he said.
“Well, he’s gone missing, and we’ve got tae find him,” Maggie said. She glanced at Catriona. “The case be just as I expected, lass.”
Catriona grimaced. “Jonah Bonewits cast him into the mor—”
