by Amanda Scott
Kit had waited only long enough to be sure no one was near enough to overhear them before he said grimly, “What the devil do you and Willie think you are doing, Tam? Someone is bound to know you cannot be Berridge of Midlothian.”
“How would they?” Tam asked reasonably. “As far as I know, nae one uses such a title.”
“Beaton, for one, will certainly know it’s false, don’t you think?”
“I canna imagine why he would. There be any number o’ titles hanging about, and some folks just style themselves as they please. Think o’ Beaton himself. First, he were plain Davy Beaton, then Father Davy when he decided he had tae be a priest, and now his eminence. I’m doing nowt but playing a wee charade.”
“A most dangerous charade.”
“Nay, lad. Tae my mind, there be nobles aplenty who never mention their minor titles. Who could remember them all, anyway? Sons take minor titles, too, sithee? Ha’ ye never been introduced tae some young sprig, styling himself Lord This or That wi’ a title that belongs tae his father?”
Kit nodded. “That’s a point, but though you seem able to affect the accents, how do you intend to play the part of a lord when you’ve never done it before?”
Tam chuckled. “Playing the part is easy. I had plenty of time tae study an excellent example of lordly behavior whilst we were aboard the Marion Ogilvy.”
“Not the captain, surely, for I can tell you—”
“Nay, lad. A gentleman, in his own way, the captain were, but obsequious to them he considered his betters. Knowing it would take someone more arrogant tae impress Toby and Eustace, I took that bastard Gibson for my model.”
Kit suppressed an urge to laugh. “Our villainous first mate!”
“Aye, for a more pompous sort I never hope tae meet. Pretending tae be Gibson wi’ a royal accent seemed just the course tae take wi’ Toby and your uncle. That lass, though, she’ll be another concern. I’ll ha’ tae watch m’self wi’ her.”
Kit did not have to ask which lass he meant. Fiona would not suspect a thing, but Anne was far more perceptive. He shook his head. “I do not know what you or Willie were thinking to get up these masquerades.”
“We’re guarding your back, lad. Willie winkled an invitation tae Hawks Rig out o’ that uncle o’ yours, did he not?”
“Eustace won him, dicing,” Kit reminded him.
“Aye, as Toby did,” Tam said. “Sithee, what they didna tell ye is that them dice they cast was Willie’s. Sly as a hill fox, that lad is, to fool your foumart uncle.”
“Aye, he is, though since Eustace is about all that’s left of my family, I suppose I should object to your calling him a weasel.”
“No gentleman steals from his kin.”
Kit agreed, so he changed the subject, saying mildly, “So then, you mean to impose on her ladyship’s hospitality, whilst Willie takes up residence at Hawks Rig. Is that your grand plan?”
“Aye, although we came by the notion separately. I began hearing tales o’ your uncle’s doings as soon as I left Dunsithe, and knew straightaway that ye’d welcome information if I could find a way to slip into the enemy’s camp.”
“But as Lord Berridge?”
“A more likely role for me than playing the jester,” Tam said with a rueful smile. “I dinna deny that if I had tae deal daily with a man o’ your uncle’s stamp, I’d soon be sped, for he’s as sharp as he can stare. But Toby Bell be nobbut a fat fool, so once I saw that Willie had hit on the very way to keep close to Eustace—”
“I was astonished to see him, I can tell you.”
Tam chuckled. “I believe ye, for I were, too. I found him in possession of the alehouse when I wandered in. Still, I dinna think Eustace would have thought tae take him tae Hawks Rig had Willie no managed tae slip the notion into Toby’s head at the start that the pair o’ them should cast dice for possession o’ him.”
“Faith, is that how he did it?”
“Aye, and fixed it so Toby won, which just made Eustace want Willie more. Your uncle is a covetous man, lad.”
“He is that,” Kit agreed. “I don’t like any of this. The more I see of him, the less I understand. First, he refused to recognize me. Yesterday, he said he looks forward to welcoming me at Hawks Rig, but when I suggested riding with him this morning, he said he had business to attend on the way and would look for me late this afternoon or evening, or even tomorrow, that I had no cause to hurry.”
“Your stopping his marriage dismayed the man,” Tam said. “I’d say he showed his true nature then. He doesna want ye here, and ’tis me own belief he did think ye were dead. ’Tis almost as if he had cause tae believe it.”
“He was certainly not happy to see me,” Kit agreed.
“Aye, well, he’s settled in comfortably at Hawks Rig, especially as he’s turned out your people and replaced them wi’ his own. He meant tae install Mistress Fiona there—aye, and her inheritance—so he canna be happy that ye upset all his plans. Whether or no he were dangerous afore, he will be now.”
“Her ladyship invited us both to visit as often as we like,” Kit said. “I had not intended to spend much time at Mute Hill before his eminence’s arrival—”
“If he arrives,” Tam interjected. “It’s occurred tae me that he can answer her ladyship’s question easily enough in a letter.”
“Aye,” Kit said. “Then what? Does she simply send word to Hawks Rig, commanding the chosen bridegroom to present himself forthwith?”
Tam shrugged, and Kit was no wiser an hour later when he took his leave of Lady Carmichael.
She fluttered her lashes at him as she bade him farewell, repeating her invitation to ride over as often as he liked until they learned what Beaton’s decision would be. “For I am certain, sir, that his eminence will agree that yours is the betrothal our dearest Fiona must honor,” she said. “It came first, after all, and thus must take precedence. You will see, for I know I am right.”
“We shall all see, madam,” he said, glancing at Anne.
She had been quiet at the noon meal and paid him little heed now except to nod when he included her in his farewells. Doubtless she’d be glad to see the back of him, he thought. He had not behaved well toward her, and that was plain fact. She had a knack for bringing out the worst in him, and he could not understand it. He wanted her, of all people, to think well of him, but even during their shooting lesson, with her maid present, it had taken every ounce of strength he had to keep his hands off her. He could not deny that she intrigued him far more than her cousin did, and under ordinary circumstances, he would have enjoyed a light flirtation with her that might well have led to something more, but she was right to keep him at arm’s length until they sorted out the betrothal nonsense, if they could sort it out. In any event, he was a villain to tease her. He just could not seem to help it.
He shook hands with Toby and with the false Berridge, and as he left the room, he heard the latter cheerfully accept Toby’s invitation to play Cent at the extravagant sum of sixpence a game.
Wondering how Tam expected to pay his debt if he lost, Kit mentally shook his head at the older man. He had said he had friends who helped him learn what was going on at Hawks Rig. Apparently, he also had friends with sufficient resources to lend him the fine clothing he wore, so perhaps their generosity would extend itself to financing his losses as Lord Berridge.
On the other hand, neither Kit nor Willie had ever learned why Tam had been sentenced to the Marion Ogilvy. The older man had had kept his counsel with regard to the details of his previous life.
In the stableyard, Kit found his horse saddled and waiting, so he mounted and rode outside the gates, feeling strangely bereft and hesitant about the course he had set for himself. He had grown accustomed to having companions when he rode, and he missed them. Riding to attend the wedding, he had had Willie with him and had been able to discuss his dilemma and what he might do about it. Now, however, even had Willie been with him, Kit knew he would have felt at least a little uneasy discussing
his continuing suspicions of and profound dislike for his uncle. Eustace was, after all, family, while Willie, however close a friend, was not.
He thought of Anne again then, and smiled. She had probably seen more of Eustace in past months than he ever had, and since she was clearly intelligent and sensible, she might well have provided some helpful insights into his character. It was a pity that he had not found an opportunity to discuss him further with her.
Now, however, he was alone, and the fact that Eustace had not wanted him to ride with his party was unsettling. Equally unsettling was the cold shoulder he had received from other members of the Chisholm family, although, to be sure, very few that he knew or even recognized had attended the wedding.
It occurred to him then that the other Chisholms scarcely knew him. His father had not been one who gathered family around him even on festive occasions, and he had not done so at all after Kit’s mother died when Kit was fifteen. Three years later, the old laird had sent him to the Highlands. And in truth, Kit admitted, he had done little himself to cultivate the acquaintance of his Border kinsmen.
That he would one day be Laird of Ashkirk and Torness had been but a fact of knowledge, nothing more. His father had shown small interest in training him to take his place, leaving him to learn about the power of his position and the proper way to wield it from his Highland relatives, particularly from Lord Chisholm of Dundreggan. The irony of that was that Chisholm had done nothing to train the son who would succeed him. Kit smiled. That was something he and Alex had in common, but their reasons were very different. Chisholm, with two other, far more redoubtable sons, had never expected Alex, the youngest, to become his heir. But the murders of those two elder sons had altered many lives.
Now, however, the sun was shining, birds sang, and a light breeze stirred the golden grass on the hillsides. The track was clearly marked, and Kit’s mood improved considerably as he rode into the steep hills beyond Ewes village. He was eager to see Hawks Rig again after his long absence, and the closer he drew, the more eager he became, but the wariness he felt grew by equal measures.
He thought it was odd that Eustace hadn’t made more of a push to be sure he was dead. Had he simply inquired at Torness, Kit’s steward would have warned him that Kit had only disappeared and that it was by no means certain he had died. But Eustace had assumed that Kit was dead and had taken control. Certainly, Kit could not trust him. Nor could he trust Cardinal Beaton, who seemed constantly to hover at the edges of his life, because Eustace was entirely too confident of Beaton.
Kit was not looking forward to the cardinal’s arrival in any case. He was as certain as he could be now that he did not want to marry Fiona Carmichael, but if Beaton declared that he must, he would have little choice. That Beaton might be in league with Eustace complicated things, but he could not imagine what Beaton might gain by standing with Eustace against him.
Despite his unhappy fifteen months Kit had spent as a prisoner aboard the cardinal’s ship, he knew of no particular reason that Beaton should even be aware of his existence, since the Sheriff of Inverness had instigated that particular arrangement. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he recalled that the sheriff had been eager to please Beaton, but since Kit could think of no reason that imprisoning him should do any such thing, that point seemed to lead nowhere.
Anne clearly had said nothing to Lady Carmichael about his time as a shipboard prisoner, because if she had, he was certain her ladyship would not have treated him so kindly, nor would she be so eager to effect his marriage to her daughter now if she knew he had once faced life servitude for murder.
That it might aid his case to tell her himself also occurred to him, but that seemed a scurvy thing to do. Moreover, the embarrassment to himself and everyone involved was too great a price to pay, and too, he had the unhappy feeling that his would-be future mother-in-law would not care a whisker for the charges if she could just marry her daughter to the Laird of Ashkirk.
Afternoon lengthened to dusk before Hawks Rig hove into sight on the high, rocky ridge from whence it drew its name. Beyond, to the north the castle looked down on the swiftly flowing Teviot. Here to the southeast, it overlooked the steep hills serving as the watershed for Ewesdale. The landscape was thus more rugged but familiar, and a short while later, he came to the steep track leading to the ridge.
The light had faded nearly to darkness; however, despite his long absence, he knew the track was unlikely to have changed, and although it wound among huge boulders, over and between running streams that fed Ewes Water, and alongside treacherous slides of scree, he remembered it well.
The castle had been visible from below, but once he started up the track, he soon lost sight of it. Not only was the light disappearing but rocky ledges jutted from the hillside above to obscure his view, and thickets of trees, now nearly denuded of leaves, made tall screens near the larger streams. Apart from the trees and a few patches of dry grass, the hillside was stark, barren, and lonely, making Kit feel as if he were the only human for miles, so when the shot rang out, it startled both him and his horse and thus nearly unseated him.
“Sakes,” Catriona exclaimed, flitting to a nearby boulder as echoes of the gunshot reverberated across the hill, “why does the great noddy not jump down and hide? He’ll be killed, and then where shall I be?”
Fergus was nowhere to be seen, but his voice followed her as he said, “I dinna want that any more than ye do, Catriona. ’Twould sorely disappoint me if he’s no at hand tae marry the lovely Fiona, but there now, he’s off his pony and behind one o’ them boulders. Did ye see where yon shot came from?”
“Above him on the hill,” she said as a second shot echoed over the hillside. “If we do not interfere, he may die! Oh, Fergus, what shall we do?”
“Nowt,” Fergus said, pointing. “Look yonder.”
“Where?” she demanded, reminding him that she could not see him.
A single hand appeared in the air, pointing. “There,” he said.
Flinging himself from his saddle, Kit grabbed his own pistol from its holster. He had also brought his longbow and sword, both of which he had carried with him from the Highlands, but since he was below the would-be assassin and unable to see him, he was at a distinct disadvantage for any bowshot he might attempt. And swordplay on such terrain would be foolhardy.
The pistol was a weapon for closer quarters, and the boulders would provide cover for him to make his way nearer whenever the shooter was distracted. The other weapon had sounded like a matchlock, which took time and care to reload.
As he moved cautiously from one boulder to the next, he heard shouting above him on the hill, then sounds of struggle and two more shots.
A short silence fell, followed by a familiar voice yelling, “Laird, ye can show yourself now. We ha’ the villain well in hand!”
Kit looked around the boulder and, even in the fading, dusky light, recognized Blind Sammy Crosier waving from a short distance up the hill. Leaving his horse where it stood, Kit scrambled up to meet him.
“What are you doing here, and who the devil was shooting at me?” he asked when he was near enough to make himself heard without shouting.
“I dinna ken the lout,” Sammy said, “but he’s yonder wi’ me lads.”
Following him, Kit found the others zealously tying up a man he had never seen before. “Who are you?” he demanded, standing over him with his hands on his hips. “Why did you shoot at me?”
The man, as rough looking as the reivers, gazed back at him sullenly.
“Likely he’ll be following your uncle’s orders,” Sammy said.
Kit frowned. “Why do you say so?”
“Because we watched him make his way tae this ambush o’ his,” Sammy said. “He came down the hill, laird, from Hawks Rig.”
“Then why the devil did you not stop him before he fired at me?”
“We were behind him,” Sammy said. “We couldna shoot, especially in this poor light, because dodging in and out amongs
t them rocks as he did, he were never in sight long enough tae take aim. If we’d shouted, he might ha’ got away. Would ye ha’ believed us if we’d told ye a man ye couldna see were trying tae murder ye?”
“I don’t know,” Kit said honestly, “but your way, I might have been dead.”
Sammy smiled, revealing broken, yellowing teeth. “Aye, I’ll grant ye that. Ye’re a good man, laird, and I’ll own that had he waited till ye were closer, we’d likely ha’ shouted. As tae what we be doing here, if ye’ll come awa’ over where the lout canna hear us, I’ll tell ye.”
Kit followed him to the bank of one of the little, trickling streams, where Sammy muttered, “It were our Willie, sir. He said ye’d be coming home today, and we should keep near the track and watch for ye. Did we see anything out o’ the ordinary, we was tae take steps, he said. Seemed tae me that a chap slithering down the hill wi’ a great matchlock gun under his arm counted as out o’ the ordinary.”
“I’d agree with that,” Kit said dryly.
“What’ll we do wi’ him?”
“Keep him,” Kit said. “I don’t want him; and, from the look of him, he’ll deny having anything to do with my uncle. And my uncle will certainly deny him.”
“Aye, but we’ve ways and all tae make him sing like a wee bird, if ye like. He’d ha’ killed ye wi’out a blink, I’m thinking.”
“Just keep him out of my way,” Kit said. “And if you’ve a pair of stout lads you can set to watch him, and your own horses nearby, I’d be grateful if you and the others would ride the rest of the way with me. ’Twould give me a proper tail when I reach Hawks Rig, and one I think I can trust.” He gave Sammy a direct look.
“Aye, ye can trust us, sir. We’re Willie’s lads, like always, and he did say we should look after ye now that ye’re one of us, and all.”
Kit frowned again. “Willie’s lads? I know that he rides with you, but—”
“Aye, that’s all I meant, sir. We stick together, sithee, one and all. ’Tis the reivers’ way, ye ken.”
Kit nodded. He had heard of the reivers’ way. Generally, each band came from a single clan or an alliance of clans, and where one member went, they all went. When one member lied, they all lied together, and swore they were elsewhere if anyone accused a single member or all of them of lifting a herd.
