by Amanda Scott
“Her ways?”
“Aye, sure, Jonah could ha’ put Claud anywhere.”
“I never thought of a woman,” Catriona said. “What if no one has changed?”
“Then we’ll try summat else, but we’ll no quit till we find him. And then Jonah Bonewits will rue the day he did this. On that, ye ha’ me promise.”
“Fergus was right about one thing, Maggie. Jonah is dangerous.”
“Aye, he is, but so am I. Now, follow that lad o’ yours. I want tae think.”
Catriona obeyed, but as she went, a tear spilled down her cheek. What if they never found Claud?
His body, or whatever was left of it, stirred abruptly as if Catriona had touched him, and something inside him strengthened at her touch. He had sensed her presence in the air for some time, but the sensation had been vague at best.
At the time of the incident, he had felt as if a bolt of burning fire surged through him only to be doused when he plunged into icy water. From there, water nymphs had transported him to a doorway filled with light. Passing through it, he had felt an extraordinary sensation, as if his spirit had died, taking all desire with it and leaving him exposed to what lay on the other side. He had heard that death meant losing one’s sense of self and one’s desire, primary traits that members of the Clan shared with the mortal world, and so he had believed that he was dying.
Apparently, that belief had been wrong.
Earlier, he had felt lonely, certain that Catriona had forgotten him and already had other affairs on her mind. In the dense gray light he had inhabited for what seemed eons, he had feared he would never again see her lovely face.
But suddenly, he had seen all three of them, and he could hear them, too, but he could not speak and obviously they could not see him.
Who was the scoundrel with Catriona, and why did she flutter her lashes at him? Never before had he felt such helpless frustration.
As Kit rode away from Mute Hill House, his usual sharp wits threatened to abandon him and he found himself shifting uncomfortably on his saddle. Half-formed thoughts collided with one another before any could fully form itself or make much sense. His lips burned, and for some distance, his body’s reaction to the woman he had just kissed made sitting difficult and his ride thus a penance.
He had never met a woman like Lady Anne Ellyson, but the same independence of mind and spirit that attracted him had stirred him to take liberties that no gentleman should take with a lady. On the other hand, had he not kissed her, he might well have shaken her for taking such dangerous risks with her life.
What if he had not been there when she chanced upon the reivers? The thought made him shudder. At the least, Sammy and his lot would have taken her horse and left her to walk the rest of the way in the treacherous darkness. At the worst… But he refused to entertain thoughts of the worst. Reivers were guilty of many things, but rarely did any of them harm innocent women or children.
Of course, any innocent, sensible young woman would have relinquished her mount to any band of reivers that demanded it, but he had no doubt that Lady Anne would have continued to raise a fuss had he not been there to intervene. What had her people been thinking to allow her so much freedom?
Other men than reivers stalked the Borders, after all, including English and Scottish soldiers and the vermin that skittered in their wake. Moreover, nothing that he had heard about Armadale led him to believe the earl would have approved of his daughter’s behavior or that he would have countenanced such goings-on whilst she lived beneath his roof. Clearly, Lady Carmichael, although born into the same family, was not cut from the same bolt as the earl.
The tip of a quarter moon peeked over the eastern horizon, spilling more light onto his path. Urging his horse to a trot, and satisfied that Willie’s beast would follow, Kit continued to try to impose order on his scattered thoughts.
His primary course remained the same, for it was more important than ever now to learn what his uncle was up to and to decide exactly what he himself must do to sort out his affairs and reclaim his rightful lands and titles. But he could no longer ignore his erstwhile betrothal while he looked into those things.
Certainly poor Fiona, in the belief that he was dead, was being led to the altar unwillingly and under false pretenses. Whatever else she might believe about Eustace Chisholm, both she and her mother clearly believed that by marrying him, Fiona would become Lady Chisholm and reign as mistress over the vast Chisholm estates. As for his greedy uncle, evidently the man was not satisfied to have usurped the estates and titles but was determined to carry off the heiress, too.
However, they were all acting without considering Lady Anne, and Kit had the feeling that left to her own devices, her ladyship might come up with a way to stop the wedding. Even as that thought formed, it stirred an appreciative smile, although he knew she had little chance of success on her own.
If she were to declare that he lived and should be the one to marry Mistress Carmichael, they would doubtless dismiss her assertions and clap her up securely for the duration of the ceremony. Then, even if he should step forward afterward to reclaim what was his, Eustace would already have his heiress bride. If one believed Lady Anne’s description of her cousin, as he did, Mistress Carmichael would not defy her mother’s wishes by taking a firm stand and refusing to marry.
Kit had meant it when he said that he would seek Anne out, and he meant to do so soon, because he looked forward to crossing verbal swords with her again. Her cousin, by comparison, sounded like a lass who would blush, bridle, and agree with whatever a man said, as so many innocent young women did. Commendable behavior, he supposed, but he suspected that such submissiveness would grow tiresome before long. In fact, the meek Fiona sounded like a dead bore.
Lady Anne, on the other hand, was a woman so cool that one longed to warm her up, so calm that one longed to agitate her. He had wondered if she ever lost her temper, and it had afforded him a certain satisfaction to learn that she did, although admittedly, the behavior that had provoked her was outrageous. Still, her shocked look after she slapped him assured him that the temperamental outburst was a rarity.
His body relaxed at last, and riding grew easier. He continued to think pleasantly about Lady Anne until it suddenly occurred to him that if he freed Fiona from his uncle, an unfortunate but natural outcome would result unless he could persuade them that her betrothal to Eustace had abrogated the one to him or that his supposed death had rendered it moot.
By the time he rejoined Willie, Sammy, and the others, he had decided that no matter what he might learn about Eustace from the reivers, he would attend the wedding. Few if any guests were likely to recognize him, and certainly, Eustace himself would not, for in the past six years, the Kit Chisholm that he had seen so infrequently had changed from a stripling to a man, adding height, girth, and muscle. His face had lost the soft curves of youth, and the past year and a half had added harshness to his features and a hard, sinewy strength to his body.
Lady Anne might recognize him, of course. Despite the dim, flickering torches in the yard, he knew she had studied his features carefully, as he had studied hers, and he did not want her to spoil his surprise at the wedding by blurting out the fact of his presence. She would be concerned with her cousin and would have little time to peer about at the guests, but even so, he would take care to avoid her until he decided exactly what, if anything, he meant to do.
If he let the wedding run its course, which he was still strongly inclined to do if only to eliminate what was presently only a minor problem, he could walk away unseen and without fear that Lady Anne might confront him and take him to task.
That thought, however, brought another smile. Perhaps he would let her catch a glimpse of him, after the ceremony.
Chapter 6
For several moments after Sir Christopher had ridden out of the yard and through the gateway, Anne stood where she was, still stunned by his kiss and her reaction to it, and trying both to understand what demon had pos
sessed her to make her slap him and to make sense of his parting words to her.
To think of him as a man knighted, undoubtedly for bravery, by the King was hard. To think of him as plain Kit Chisholm, Border reiver, was far easier. Not only did his behavior suit her notion of a reiver but also she knew that many bands of reivers on both sides of the line included men of even the highest stations.
Armadale had not approved of such unseemly behavior amongst his peers, but some of the greatest and most powerful names in the Borders—Scott of Buccleuch and Scott of Hardin, along with the heads of the Maxwell, Johnston, and Armstrong tribes—all were known frequently to lead their own reiver bands. It was said that when a Scott wife thought her stores had fallen to an unacceptable level, she uncovered a platter before her formidable husband, revealing a pair of spurs where the meat should be, thus suggesting that it was time for another raid. Indeed, the motto of the Scotts of Buccleuch was “let there be moonlight,” and other branches of their family and others boasted similar maxims.
She could not believe that she had struck Sir Christopher, great though the provocation had been. Her lips still burned, though, and she had to exert self-control to keep from rubbing the sensation away. But she knew that the stable lads were watching and knew, too, that their opinion of her behavior would doubtless reach Malcolm Vole’s ears before long and her aunt’s soon after that. Moreover, she had enjoyed that kiss and the astonishing sensations it had stirred within her. Not that she could admit that to anyone, she reminded herself firmly. Just thinking of what she had done by kissing the man who was still, despite his denials, betrothed to her cousin sent heat into her cheeks.
Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she lifted the front of her skirt enough to keep it from touching the ground and turned toward the house. As she had expected, several lads were watching. All but one looked hastily away, but that one stepped forward, saying diffidently, “Beg pardon, me lady, but I thought ye’d want tae ken that the gelding’s fetlock be scarcely swollen. Wi’ a day’s rest, he’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, Teddy,” she said with a rueful smile. “It was through my own carelessness that he stepped in a rabbit hole, so I am glad he is not badly hurt.”
“Aye, well, seein’ it were dark and all—”
“Not then,” Anne said. “It happened in broad daylight, I’m ashamed to say. I had walked a good way before Sir… before someone came along who was kind enough to help me.” Mentioning Sir Christopher’s name now, she realized, would only complicate matters more.
“A good thing he come along,” Teddy said. His curiosity was plain, but Anne was certain he would not so far forget his place as to demand her rescuer’s name. Peg Elliot would not be so reticent, however. Nor would Olivia. Before either event occurred, she would have to decide how much or how little to tell them.
As she walked around to the front of the house with her usual brisk stride, she briefly savored a mental image of herself walking into her aunt’s bower and announcing to Olivia and anyone with her that, contrary to what they believed, Sir Christopher Chisholm, true Laird of Ashkirk, was alive and eager to reclaim what was his. Such an announcement so near Fiona’s wedding day would eliminate any need to endure another scold, for in the uproar that followed, Olivia would certainly forget her irritation over Anne’s solitary excursion. Even the information that Sir Christopher was disturbingly handsome and admirably large and broad-shouldered would weigh little with her, although it might impress Fiona.
Anne wondered as she approached the entrance if Sir Christopher expected her to make such an announcement. He had not asked her to keep silent, but neither had he expressed anything resembling delight at learning that Fiona, although betrothed to his hateful uncle, had not yet married him.
Oil lamps on short posts lit the extensive garden paths, telling her that her aunt had entertained guests at supper, for they did not waste the oil when the family supped alone. Anne took note of the detail subconsciously, while her thoughts remained fixed upon her erstwhile protector.
She did not know much about Scottish law. Even so, it seemed odd to her that titles and estates, especially ones of so powerful an entity as the Laird of Ashkirk and Torness, should change hands so quickly without positive proof of Sir Christopher’s death—which Eustace Chisholm clearly had not been able to produce. How, she wondered as she entered the house, had he managed it?
Her eyes had scarcely adjusted to the brighter light when a familiar, high-pitched masculine voice said tartly, “One would think that before disappearing for hours without a trace, a well-bred young woman would take a moment to consider the upset such behavior was bound to cause those who care for her.”
Malcolm Vole stood with his arms crossed over his thin chest, glowering at her. Clearly, he had been on the lookout for her return and had exerted himself to be the first to greet her.
Anne returned his look as she calmly stripped off her gloves and said, “Is my aunt sitting in her bower, Malcolm?”
“Aye, and where else would she be, with supper over this half hour and more, and with Ashkirk kindly bearing her company. You should be—”
“Thank you, that will be all,” she said as if she had not realized he meant to say more. “I shall go to her at once.” She gave him a straight look, and although he met it, he made no further comment as he stepped aside to let her pass.
Conscious of his quick, mincing footsteps behind her, she paused when she reached Olivia’s bower and waited for him to open the door. Instead of holding it open for her, however, he slipped through ahead of her.
He did not so far forget himself that he let it close in her face, as she half expected, but said pompously as he held it for her, “Here is your errant niece, my lady, returned to us at last.”
Anne indulged in a brief fantasy of drawing a pistol from her cloak and shooting him. From that vision, it was a natural leap to wonder if Sir Christopher would actually teach her to shoot. Perhaps after he and Fiona were married…
Swiftly recalling her wandering wits, she said, “Good evening, Aunt Olivia. I apologize for missing supper.”
“Mercy, Anne, where have you been?” Olivia demanded querulously. “I have been so dreadfully worried that dear Ashkirk felt obliged to remain and take supper with us, which means that he must now spend the night.”
“That was thoughtful of him, madam, but you need not have concerned yourself. As you see, I have returned safely.”
Eustace, lounging in an armchair with his legs sprawled before him and a pot of ale on a small round table conveniently nearby, stared balefully at her, but when she gazed back, affecting mild surprise, he remembered his manners.
“Here, Malcolm,” he muttered as he got to his feet, “bring more ale, for I’m parched. That fish tonight was too salty. As for you, lass,” he added as Malcolm left, “you should know better than to distress your aunt so. You won’t mind my putting a word in, my dear Lady Carmichael. You may be sure that such behavior will cease forthwith after Fiona and I are married.”
“Do you intent to reside here at Mute Hill, sir?” Anne asked innocently.
“No, no, of course I don’t, but her ladyship knows she can call upon my services whenever she likes. She has allowed you—and doubtless Fiona, as well—entirely too much freedom.”
“Where is Fiona?” Anne asked, turning to her aunt.
“She went to bed right after supper,” Olivia said wearily. “She said she had a headache, but it was thoughtless of her to leave me to entertain Ashkirk by myself. Not that you present any difficulty, dear sir,” she added gracefully. “I am sure no one could ask for a more pleasant companion.”
“I am sorry if no one told you I had ridden to the Towers, madam,” Anne said. “Malcolm, Fiona, and my own Peg Elliot knew that I had.”
“Yes, yes, Fiona did say something,” Olivia said, “but I could not imagine you would do such a thing with Ashkirk still in the house, so I paid her no heed.”
“You would scarcely have expected me t
o entertain him by myself.”
“When one is a dependent in a kinsman’s household,” Eustace said as he sat down again, “one does not form an intent or act upon it without permission.”
Anne glanced at him, more strongly tempted than ever to tell him his nephew was alive and meant to reclaim what was rightfully his. Only the certainty that Sir Christopher would not thank her for forcing his hand prevented her from speaking.
Had anyone asked how she could be so sure of his thoughts on the subject, she could not have told them, but she was certain he would be annoyed if she revealed his intent before he was ready to do so himself. Indeed, the gleeful pleasure that she knew she would feel if she revealed all to Eustace right now was pleasure that Kit Chisholm had every right to enjoy for himself.
A lackey entered with a pitcher of ale, and silence reigned while he refilled Eustace’s mug, but when he had gone away again, Anne said, “Is there anything you would like me to do for you before I retire, Aunt Olivia?”
“No, no, my dear, but you mustn’t run away just yet. We don’t want the servants carrying tales about my sitting alone with Ashkirk,” she added archly.
“In truth, I was surprised to find only the two of you in here,” Anne said.
“I should have been more careful, I expect,” Olivia said, “but Moira has just gone to fetch a new canvas to stretch on my frame. Perhaps you will be so obliging as to help her sort my threads, although I warrant you must be starving.”
“If you will accept my advice, my lady,” Eustace put in with another, more challenging look at Anne, “you will send the lass to bed without her supper.”
Anne thought again of his nephew, and a smile touched her lips, but noting a flash of anger in Eustace’s eyes, she quickly lowered her gaze.
As she removed her cloak, tucked her gloves inside, and folded it over a stool, she said quietly to Olivia, “I did not intend to be so late, but my horse stepped in a rabbit hole and came up lame. I was forced to walk a good part of the way.”
