by Amanda Scott
“Prithee, sit with us, Mairi,” Fiona said when they had exchanged greetings. “Mam says I must keep to this stitchery until we dine. Do you not have stitching that you could do?”
“I do,” Mairi said. But just saying the words struck a chord of rebellion. The last thing she wanted to do was to sit with her tambour frame, stitching and talking of nothing. The day before, she had so nearly enjoyed a walk outside the wall, and she ached for such freedom now.
Managing a rueful smile, she added, “I will do as you wish after we dine, Fee. But I do have some tasks I must see to first. I just wondered where you had gone. As you are busy, I’ll leave you for now and attend to my duties.”
Before it could occur to either Fiona or Phaeline to ask what duties she had that were so demanding, Mairi fled upstairs.
In the chamber she shared with Fiona, she donned a pair of stout boots and a cloak to protect her from the chill that still lingered in the air even on the sunniest days, and tucked her hair up into a cap under her veil. Then, slipping an empty cloth pouch under the metal-linked girdle she wore around her hips over a faded old kirtle, she hurried back downstairs. Taking a manchet from the basket of a gillie hurrying to set the high table, she grabbed a hunk of cheese from another gillie’s platter.
Stowing the food in her pouch as she hastily crossed the hall—lest Phaeline or Fiona emerge unexpectedly from the solar—she hurried downstairs and out into the courtyard. Only then did she realize that her stepmother would surely insist that she ought, for propriety’s sake, to take a maidservant along.
“Faugh,” she muttered, using her father’s favorite expletive. “I’d wager Jenny does not take a maidservant when she visits her fields. No more shall I.”
At the gate, if the guard looked surprised to see her, alone or otherwise, he made no objection when she told him to open up. And no one else tried to stop her.
Outside the gate, feeling a heady sense of release, she inhaled deeply of the crisp, salty air. A chilly wind blew, so she set off briskly down the hill toward the nearest field, noting as she did that the relatively calm waters of the Firth indicated that the incoming tide had ended its fierce morning surge and begun to turn. Tides always rushed into the Firth with roiling enthusiasm and ebbed more lethargically.
Two small boats were passing on the river below, clearly making for Annan harbor. Approaching the mouth of the river was another, larger craft, mayhap a small galley, perhaps bringing someone from the western part of the dale, or farther west, to do business in the harbor or in town.
The new crop already looked like rows of short grass, for barley grew fast. Men had been hoeing weeds and loosening dirt to discourage their rapid return.
Mairi went only a little farther before she realized somewhat to her dismay that the men were preparing to go up for their midday meal.
Having sought only to escape, she had given no thought to what excuse she might offer, should anyone ask why she had left the house. She knew she had little reason now to stay outside the gate and none that would satisfy her stepmother.
And Phaeline would certainly demand to know where she had gone.
The sensible thing to do, which she would have insisted they do had Fiona been with her, was to go back and dine with her stepmother and sister in the hall.
Fiona had been right about one thing. There would be no meat.
Recalling the bread and cheese in the pouch under her cloak, Mairi smiled, reminded herself that she had resolved to find ways to ease the tedium, and walked on down toward the woods between the fields and the river. Phaeline would scold, but Mairi had decided to enjoy her brief freedom come what might.
She and Fiona had often walked along the riverbank together in springtime, and the weather had been fine for days. So, were it not for Phaeline’s concern for their safety outside the walls, they would have walked there nearly every day.
Instead, except for airing their bedding on the grassy hillside, and the day before when Fiona had rebelled enough to sneak out with their maid, Phaeline had kept them cooped up inside the gateway if not inside the house.
When Lord Dunwythie got back, he would likely say the threat no longer existed, or at least had eased, and they would enjoy more freedom.
Meantime, Mairi meant to enjoy her stolen hour.
She would walk no farther than the edge of the woods, though. From the top of the wall, the guardsmen would still see her there. And as long as she remained within sight of the guards, she was sure she would be safe.
Accordingly, she strolled to the edge of the woods and along their perimeter for a time before turning back. Then, reluctant to return yet to the house, she sought a warm, sunny place to enjoy her bread and cheese.
The workmen had paid no heed to her, and she soon saw the last one vanish over the brow of the hill. A sunny boulder ahead beckoned to her, and as she approached it, she heard a muffled shout of, “Weigh ’nuff!”
Pausing, she realized the river had quieted, telling her the tide was indeed on the turn. The lapping, wind-churned water, even muted as it was by the woodland, was not silent, though. She heard sounds of wood against wood and knew that a boat, doubtless the wee galley, had entered the river.
But “weigh enough”? Was that not the command to stop rowing?
Curious, and trusting the woods to conceal her, she stepped into them and followed what appeared to be a deer trail heading toward the water’s edge.
Planted as a break against strong winds from the Firth, the densely growing trees and the shrubbery beneath them were well leafed. Mairi picked her way carefully, glad that her cloak was dark green and thus unlikely to draw anyone’s attention as she moved through the trees.
She soon found a place where, by leaning and ducking slightly, she could see between two stout trunks to the water, which reached about fifteen feet higher on the slope now than it did at low tide. Moving closer to the two trees, taking good care to move slowly and quietly enough to avoid drawing notice, she crept up behind the one with the wider trunk and peeked around it.
A small eight-oared galley had beached on the strip of muddy hillside that showed below the high-water mark in all but spring tides. She heard a man shout, “Tether us to yon scrub, lads, or the first good wave’ll sweep us off betimes!”
Tempted to tell them they were beaching on private land and ought to row upriver to Annan harbor, she decided against it. But, knowing she must go back and warn the guards about such visitors, she wondered if she could get a clearer view of them first. She had not seen any identifying banner or counted the men.
As she eased carefully back and away from the tree, she abruptly came face to face with Robert Maxwell.
He looked as stunned as she was, but he recovered more swiftly. Quick as light, he caught her up in his arms and carried her through the woods to the galley.
The next thing she knew she was aboard it, wrapped in her own cloak, with a horrid cloth tied tight across her mouth, furious, outraged, and helpless.
The other men, although wide-eyed, lifted not one finger to aid her.
Her captor cast a musty blanket of some sort over her, and minutes later, the men had launched the boat and were rowing hard for Solway Firth.
Chapter 6
I’m sorry for this, lass,” Rob muttered to his captive as he straightened the blanket that covered her and shouted for his crew to launch the galley and get them away as fast as possible.
The tide was already on the turn, so their timing had been well-nigh perfect. They had traveled most of the way on the swift incoming tide from the Irish Sea, gaining another boost from a brisk southwest wind. Conditions had been ideal for traveling east but risky, too. Such speed—as much as eight to ten miles per hour on a flooding tide into the ever-narrowing Firth—could also prove treacherous.
At Kirkcudbright Bay, tides were nearly normal, each cycle taking a little over six hours. But the farther into the Firth the flood tides pushed, the swifter they moved. From low to high tide at Annan could ta
ke just under four hours on a spring tide, while its ebb could take as long as nine and a half hours.
Traveling outward on the ebb was always slower and would be more so with wind from the southwest, but almost any wind could prove useful in sparing his oarsmen and would aid them when time came to enter Kirkcudbright Bay.
He had meant only to learn the lay of the land at Annan House. First he had intended just to see how well guarded the place was from a river approach. He would then have anchored in Annan harbor and explored more from there.
Depending on what he learned, he would either have returned to Galloway to reconsider his plans or stayed in the area until opportunity arose—or he had created one—to put his plan into action. Instead, the lass had stepped into his path, and he had seized the moment—and her ladyship as well.
He waited only until they were out of sight from Annan House, before stooping to free her. The big square sail was up, blowing full above them as he loosened her gag. Removing it, he expected a flood of reproaches, even tears.
But after an initial, unmistakable flash of fury, she remained stonily silent.
Deciding she must be too terrified to speak, he began to untie the rope he had wrapped around her over her cloak.
Quietly, he said, “You’ve nowt to fear, my lady. I mean you no harm.”
She said nothing, merely shifting to let him deal with the rope more easily.
When he had finished, he said gently, “Take my hand, lass. I’ll steady you whilst you stand. Then you may take a seat on that wee bench by the stem locker.”
She let him help her stand but warily, and again he could sense her anger. Being a man who vented his anger whenever it stirred, Rob looked on her continued silence as proof that he had terrified her. That would not do.
“By my troth, Lady Mairi, no one will harm you,” he said. “Your predicament is a matter of politics only—of necessity, in fact—to avoid much bloodshed.”
“Indeed, sir?” she said tartly. “One hesitates to question such noble intent, but does your helmsman mean to smash us all on those rocks straight ahead?”
“Nay, they are but tacking against the wind,” he said, relieved to learn that it was not him she feared. “Often, to move forward,” he added pointedly, “one must take what seems a strange course. As you will see, though, we are about to turn.”
Mairi had realized as much as soon as she had spoken, because one of the crew moved then to reset the angle at which the big sail caught the wind. The helmsman shifted the steerboard then, to take a course very near the wind and no longer heading toward shore.
Maxwell, apparently realizing that she did not want to talk to him, slipped off his heavy leather jack and rolled it up. “Here, lass,” he said. “Put this behind you so you don’t bruise yourself against the wood.”
Accepting it with a nod and exerting herself not to reveal that she found the leather disturbingly warm from his body, she adjusted it to cushion herself. Then she turned so she could watch the water and the shoreline that they followed west.
He had clearly thought she feared him, but she did not. Perhaps she ought to, she mused. But for now, she was grateful to feel only anger.
She had occasionally been out in a small boat during neap tides, when the rise and fall of the water level was minimal. Also, she and Fiona had ridden ponies across the open, muddy sands east of the Annan during low tide, when all twenty miles of the Firth from its head almost to the outflow of the river Nith looked more like a boggy desert—with two narrow rivers through it—than a vital waterway. The Firth was thus deceptive, and one dared never underestimate its dangers.
Only neap tides came in and went out courteously.
She had heard tales of raiding parties into England mistiming a ride across the sands and hearing what seemed a distant roar. Men had looked toward it only to see the incoming tide nearly upon them in a six-foot wall of water.
The nearby coast sloped gently to the water as it did near Annan House. The rhythmically undulating water of the turning tide was brown and silt-ridden.
Comfortably warm in her heavy cloak, lulled by the sounds of the wind in the sail and an occasional rhythmic thumping of oars, she drowsed.
When she opened her eyes, the sun was halfway to the western horizon and Caerlaverock Castle was coming into view, with the mouth of the river Nith beyond it. Apparently they had to head right into the wind now to follow the coast.
The sail was down, and the oarsmen were rowing hard.
She recognized the great ruin of Caerlaverock easily, because the previous year she and Fiona had traveled with their father and Phaeline to Threave, the Lord of Galloway’s great stronghold on an islet in the river Dee. Galloway lay much farther west, making her wonder just how far the little galley would take her.
She stole a glance at her captor, who stood amidships, eyeing the sky and casting glances coastward, mayhap judging the depth of the ebbing tide.
He truly was a fine figure of a man, she thought, for an unprincipled villain.
Wondering if he was daft or just much more dangerous than he had seemed at Dunwythie Mains, she wondered, too, what he would do with her.
His apparent comparison of her abduction to the way his helmsman steered his boat had made little sense, as little as his suggestion that by abducting her—capturing her, he had said—he could save untold numbers of lives.
Such a claim was absurd. It was also infuriating.
How outraged she had been when he had scooped her up so effortlessly, ignoring her struggles and useless cries, and carried her to his boat. She was still furious, come to that. But she had concealed her fury just as she had whenever such strong emotion had stirred for almost as long as she could remember.
Venting her emotions had rarely won anything but punishment and censure for unladylike behavior. So she had learned to control her outbursts.
By heaven’s grace, she would continue to keep her temper until she could better judge her situation and the man who had stolen her. By then, she hoped she could devise an argument that would persuade him to take her home.
Whatever else he might do, she would not, under any circumstance, let him provoke her into losing control of herself.
Rob sensed her anger again. It radiated from her in waves even when she did not look at him. But he began to wonder if her continued silence might be due only to the presence of his men. He hoped that was all it was and that she would express herself more easily when they reached Trailinghail.
It had occurred to him only after he had captured her that he had terrified her. At the time, he had merely seized his opportunity without sparing a thought for her feelings. Hardly an excuse, but he had done it and could not undo it now.
Having become certain after talking with Parland Dow that disaster must result if Dunwythie’s recalcitrance spurred Alex to invade Annandale, Rob had decided to see to the matter himself, not only to prove that he could influence Dunwythie but also, and more important, to avoid an outright clan war that could affect any number of clans both great and small.
Believing that Alex would pursue no violent course during the holy season of Lent, Rob had set himself to work out the details of his plan with care.
Alex clearly believed that Dunwythie’s stubbornness was ill-willed, that he was simply defying the sheriff’s rightful authority. But Dunwythie just as clearly believed that he was adhering to legal, time-honored tradition.
Lady Kelso had reinforced much of what Alex had said to Rob, primarily with regard to one’s duty to one’s clan but also regarding his habit of retreating to Trailinghail whenever Alex infuriated him.
Rob had never thought of his visits that way. He had loved the tower since first visiting his grandparents there. That it had provided a summertime escape from Alex’s stern guardianship was true, so he could see how Alex might perceive those visits as he did. However, Rob had given no thought to living there permanently.
His tenants’ delight over the improvements he had made did ma
ke it clear that they hoped he might make his home there. He would certainly not mind staying longer than usual. And with a hostage to look after, he would have good reason.
Other details had brought form to his plan. The unusual frequency with which thoughts of the lady Mairi had leaped to mind had led the way.
She’d had a strong impact on him from the moment he’d met her. Having no sisters and little memory of his parents, he had no idea how most men felt about their daughters. But he knew how he would feel about one such as she was. Surely, her father, having known the lass from birth, would value her even more. Would Dunwythie not therefore do whatever he must to ensure her safe return?
Sakes, Rob told himself, looking at her, any man would!
Aware that his brother’s patience with Dunwythie, never long, had neared its end, Rob had decided he would have to settle the matter before Easter.
Having nearly six weeks until then, he had not meant to act so precipitously.
Impulse had occasionally led to his undoing in the past, and he had promised himself each time that he’d take greater care in future. But it was useless to make that vow now. The deed was done, and the tide was ebbing.
By now, the water was so low in the upper Firth that even if he’d wanted to take her back, they would run aground long before reaching Annan. But he did not want to take her back, for a multitude of reasons having naught to do with the tides.
Chief among them was that if he could get Dunwythie to submit, Clan Maxwell would gain considerable power, increase their wealth, and everyone would avoid war. Also, surely, the administration of the dales would be fairer for everyone under one sheriff, and local government would run smoothly.
There were risks, though, not least of which was the Lord of Galloway. The best course with Archie, Rob had decided, was to see that Dunwythie submitted and brought the other lairds into line quickly and without raising a dust.
As to Dunwythie, Rob’s objective was to persuade the man without drawing suspicion to himself. But he had not yet decided just how to approach Dunwythie when the time came.
