by Amanda Scott
Hearing the barmkin gate shut behind them made Mairi smile, and the ride was all her host had promised and more. The gillie kept his distance, the sun shone, the wind had dropped to a whisper, and the air was crisp without being icy.
Spring seemed to have settled in to stay.
They rode toward the Firth, and westward along its coast. Waves crashed below, and she was glad the trail lay a safe distance from the cliff edge.
Maxwell could tell a good story. Although Mairi knew that Archie the Grim had imposed peace on Galloway after many others had tried and failed to tame the place, she had not realized what a feat it was until Rob—as she had begun to think of him, albeit without yet saying the name— described the wild, aggressive, lawless Celtic tribes that Archie had successfully tamed.
“I do understand their resistance to the Scottish laws imposed on them when their ways had served so well for centuries,” she said at one point with a smile.
He chuckled, but to her relief, he did not take the remark as an invitation to discuss her father’s views or the sheriff’s.
After their ride, however, hemming skirts and gowns with Annie that afternoon seemed especially tedious, although they had only a few more yet to do.
The laird had provided her with nearly any article of clothing a woman might need. But when Mairi learned they had belonged to Lady Kelso, she was shocked.
She said so at once, only to have Annie, who had told her, inform her that the furniture in the chamber had also belonged to Lady Kelso or to her husband.
“I expect the laird did inherit everything here when he inherited the land,” Annie said comfortably. “So it can make nae difference an ye make use o’ them.”
Mairi felt as if she were stealing her ladyship’s clothes, and said as much indignantly to Rob the next morning as they rode into Borgue forest with a gillie trailing well behind them again.
“How did you dare give her things to me?” Mairi demanded.
He shrugged. “If you knew how many garments the woman has, you would not let it fidget you,” he said. “She travels with a string of sumpters, carrying not just piles of her clothing but her own sheets and favorite furnishings, as if she fears that her host may lack some item she thinks she cannot do without.”
“Even so—”
“You may believe me when I tell you she will not recall what she left here, lass. Nor will she care. You clearly do not follow fashions as carefully as she does or you would know that all of those items are at least four or five years out of date. You must have noticed that they have scarcely been worn.”
“My stepmother would notice such things, I expect,” Mairi said. “I care less about the look of a gown than how it feels. I am forever putting a foot wrong with fashions and must depend on Phaeline to guide me. My sister Fiona would wear sackcloth, though, if she knew it was what fashionable women were wearing.”
“Do you like the clothes you found here?”
“I do, aye. The fabrics are lovely. One wants to hold the velvets against one’s skin. And I stroke them so often that I think Tiggie grows jealous.”
“Sakes, he should be grateful that you let him spend so much time with you! Are you sure he is not a nuisance?”
“Nay, of course he is not,” she said. “Even Gibby is coming to like him. He has twice called Tiggie a braw laddie since he jumped to that windowsill.”
He fell silent, and Mairi glanced at him, noting a slight frown. Had she not known better, she might have thought he was a trifle jealous of the kitten. But such a thought was absurd. Grown men did not envy cats.
Clouds had gathered in the west, so Rob decided to cut their ride short, declaring that he had much to do that he would not get done if it rained.
They rode home without speaking again, but the silence was comfortable. Indeed, Mairi could not remember anyone she had known with whom she could converse as easily and comfortably as she did with Robert Maxwell.
The next morning, they rode along the bay cliffs toward Senwick, but they did not go into the village. Nor did they visit Borgue village, a couple of miles west, but Mairi did not care where they went. She enjoyed their rides.
On the other hand, she was just as much the laird’s prisoner as when she had arrived. His people treated her with respect, but all knew she was not to leave until he said so. And all, including Annie, seemed to see naught amiss in his keeping her.
When she told Annie that she was there against her will, Annie said simply, “Och, well, I ha’ nae doots the laird has good reason, m’lady. By the bye, me mam sent a bag o’ quilt pieces wi’ me today. She ha’ be feeling low, and as them pieces be meant to become a quilt for your bed, she thought we might like to stitch them together when we’ve finished your hemming.”
Mairi agreed with a sigh, deciding she must be growing reconciled to her captivity and to the extraordinary loyalty that Rob’s people showed him as well.
Occasionally he gave her a look she could not decipher but that touched every part of her in unfamiliar but extraordinary ways. Whenever it happened, he would say something to break the spell and take an abrupt departure soon afterward.
On the following Monday, as he was lifting her down from her horse after their ride, he said with a laugh, “You should always wear pink, lass. I vow, though, you already fill my mind so that—” He broke off, his gaze still locked with hers, and the twinkle in his eyes faded. Then, abruptly saying he had things to do, he escorted her silently up to her door and strode off to look for Fin Walters.
Entering her chamber alone, Mairi found it empty and recalled that she had given Annie leave to help her mother at home that morning.
Annie soon arrived, though, with Mairi’s midday meal and news that the laird had a visitor. “’Tis the knacker, Parland Dow,” she added. “Fin sent me up straightaway, and he says I’m no to talk to the man. D’ye ken the knacker, m’lady?”
“Aye, sure,” Mairi said, her thoughts suddenly racing. “He goes everywhere, for he has many skills and helps the landowners, doing their butchering and such.”
She was surprised that Dow roamed as far as Trailinghail but decided that if he served the Maxwells in Dumfries and could find work in Kirkcudbright, it was not strange at all. Moreover, if he was going back to Annan House, he could tell her father where she was, and warn Dunwythie not to begin a clan war to fetch her.
Chapter 10
As it had been only ten days since he had seen the knacker, Rob wondered if Dow had been back to Annandale yet or was stopping back by to tell him of something he’d seen that Lady Kelso might like, before returning to Dumfries. Receiving him in the hall, and seeing him big with news, Rob felt his hopes rise.
“I am gey glad to see you again,” he said, shaking the knacker’s hand. “Fin Walters assures me we have more work for you if you’re looking for some.”
“Aye, sir, Fin did tell me ye’d ha’ more lambs for slaughter when I were here afore,” Dow replied. “But I’ll own I didna think I’d return so quick. See you, I went to Castle Moss in Annandale after I’d finished at Kirkcudbright. And there I heard such news o’ Dunwythie that I could scarce credit it.”
“Indeed?” Rob said, lifting an eyebrow.
“I did, aye, and as I kent fine that ye’d had business wi’ his lordship none so long ago, and I never want to bring ye news that might prove wrong a day later, I betook m’self to Annan House as fast as I could go.”
“What news was this?”
“’Tis a dreadful thing. His daughter the lady Mairi has vanished and nae one kens what became o’ her. His lordship be beside himself.”
“Aye, he must be,” Rob said sincerely.
“See you, he’d gone north in the dale. So he didna learn o’ the lass’s disappearance till three days after the event.”
“How long ago was this then?”
Counting on his fingers, Dow said, “I make it about a sennight that she’s been gone, laird. I came straight here when I heard, it being gey strange that we’d talked
o’ the lass such a short time afore. Her da asked did I ken aught o’ her, but I couldna help him, for I’d heard nowt but that she had vanished. That were nae help to the man, but I said if I learned aught I’d tell him straightaway.”
“I’m sure you will,” Rob said, hoping he could trust his people as much as he thought he could. “Did you learn more, then, during your trip back here?”
“Aye, sure, but nowt o’ the lady Mairi,” Dow said.
“We are about to dine, as you see. You can tell me all you think I’d enjoy hearing whilst we take our meal together.”
Accepting the invitation, Dow regaled him with information, mostly gossip, much of which was amusing. Then he said, “Bless me if I didna forget, though! Ye’d be friendly wi’ young Will Jardine, aye? Old Jardine o’ Applegarth’s son?”
“I am,” Rob said, wondering what mischief Will had got into now.
Dow chuckled. “Seems he has set his heart on the lady Fiona, Will has.”
“Fiona Dunwythie?”
“Aye, the same. At least, that be what folks be a-saying, ’cause his lordship caught him sniffing round her young ladyship near Annan House. After ringing a rare peal over the lad, his lordship ordered him to stay off his land entirely.”
“I don’t blame him,” Rob said. “I’d not want a daughter of mine to catch Will’s eye, either.”
They continued chatting until they had finished their meal. Then Rob turned the knacker over to Fin Walters, knowing Fin had a list of tasks for him.
Knowing, too, that Fin was unlikely to say aught to the knacker save what was necessary to set him to his duties, Rob returned to his chamber to think.
Little thought was necessary, however, to persuade him that Dunwythie was in just the frame of mind he had been expecting, and that Will Jardine’s mischief had likely put the poor man in an even better mood to do as Rob wanted.
He might even offer to talk to Will, say that he’d heard of the lad’s mischief with the lady Fiona and knew that such an alliance would be unwelcome. Sakes, but Old Jardine would have the hide off Will if he learned he was sniffing after a lass with few prospects. Jardine wanted his heir to gain a wife with a healthy tocher.
If he rode to Applegarth, he’d be away at least two and a half days. As the moon was nearly full, a spring tide was due, so he could get to Annan in less than four hours. He was unlikely to get home on the same day again, though, even if he talked only with Dunwythie.
He had about decided that he could not leave at all until Parland Dow had gone when he remembered that Dow would sleep at Fin’s cottage. With luck, he could count on Fin Walters to handle Dow so the knacker never knew his host had left Trailinghail. In fact, if all went as Rob hoped, no one would know he was gone save Fin Walters and his boatmen.
Then he realized that Mairi would have to know of his absence, because she would miss him and likely set Annie to asking others where he was. That meant Annie should know, too. He’d warn Fin to talk to her.
With a sigh, Mairi set aside the piecework she had been stitching and wondered what hour it was. The afternoon had passed slowly, and the overcast sky threatened rain. A glance at Annie told her the other young woman was also thinking of something other than her stitching.
“Is aught amiss?” Mairi asked her.
Annie’s head jerked up as if her mind had been miles away. “Och, it be only that me mam were sick this morning. But she’s a strong woman, so I warrant she’s herself again by now.” She smiled. “’Tis just she’s rarely ever sick. Says she has nae time to be ailing, what wi’ me and me brothers to look after, and me da.”
“If she is still sick tomorrow, you should stay with her,” Mairi said. “Gibby can attend to my simple needs for a day, or even two if necessary. The laird also sees to my comfort.”
“Aye, ’tis true, that is,” Annie said with a smile. “He’s a kind man, is the laird. Still, it isna right ye should be here without another woman, m’lady. Me mam says, by rights, he should be hiring maidservants, now he’s got a kinswoman wi’ him here. ’Tisna right, she says, that ye keep to your room as much as ye do.”
Tempted to remind Annie that she was not a kinswoman, Mairi held her tongue. If Rob’s people had decided that she was respectable, now was hardly the time to quibble about it. As it was, Annie and every other person who depended on him at Trailinghail believed he could do no wrong.
So Mairi said with a slight shrug, “I do not mind solitude, Annie. In troth, at home I am busy from the time I get up in the morning until I go to bed at night. This makes for a nice change, although it can grow tedious sometimes.”
Sakes, she thought, much as she liked Annie, being in the chamber always grew tedious, with her or without her.
The truth was she could talk freely only with the laird himself. Even trying to persuade anyone else there to aid her would be foolhardy. Knowing how his people felt about Rob, how could she trust a promise any one of them made to her?
“Well,” Annie said, “I do thank ye, m’lady. If me mam still be ailing, I’ll likely bide wi’ her the morning at least, as I did today. Then, if she be better in the day, I’ll come to ye. Otherwise, I’ll come to you Thursday. I ha’ nae doots the laird will ride wi’ ye again in the morning, any road.”
“I expect so,” Mairi said, although with Parland Dow there she doubted it.
Annie left earlier than usual that afternoon at Mairi’s urging. When the maidservant apologized, Mairi said, “I see naught amiss in a daughter seeing to her mother’s well-being, Annie. It is right for you to do that.”
Even so, the next hour crept so slowly that when the door opened and Rob stood at the threshold, eyeing her speculatively, she cast aside her work and rose to her feet with relief. “I let Annie go early,” she said. “And I stupidly neglected to remind her to have someone bring up my supper.”
“I’ll have Gib bring it or I’ll bring it up myself,” he said, crossing the threshold and leaving the door open as he moved nearer. “I just came to tell you that I’ll be away tomorrow and mayhap a day or two after that.”
Disappointment stirred, then dismay. “May I ask where you are going?”
“You may,” he said with a smile. “The knacker Parland Dow arrived today.”
“Annie told me, aye,” she said. “He visits us, too. Had he news of Annan?”
“He did. I think your ordeal here may be nearing its end, lass.”
Seeing no point in fighting a position from which she had been unable to move him since the beginning of her captivity, Mairi felt only despair.
When she did not reply, he said, “Come now, I expected the news that you will soon go home again to cheer you, lass.”
“You ken fine that I do not believe that is going to happen,” she said more fiercely than she had intended. But having begun, she went on, “I know my father well, sir. And do not call me ‘lass’!”
He touched her cheek, and his touch stirred the usual warmth through her, despite her annoyance. It did not alter her certainty that Dunwythie would act as he always did when challenged, however.
Gently, Rob said, “You may know him, Mairi, but I know a few things, too. And when a father has such a daughter as you, believe me when I say that if he loses her, he will swim the sea or move a mountain to bring her home again. My only regret in this is that I enjoy your company. That is one more detail I did not anticipate. By my troth, though, I will miss you when you go home.”
Trying to swallow the ache that crept into her throat at his words, she could not reply. To care about one’s captor was the act of a fool, and she was no fool.
Every woman knew that most men behaved differently with women than they did with men. In her time at Trailinghail, thanks to Gib and Annie, she had heard more than one tale of the laird’s short temper, his proven skill with a sword, and his occasional ruthlessness.
That she had seen little of such traits meant nothing. His certainty that Dunwythie would do as he had predicted was bound to increase the fury Rob wo
uld surely feel when he learned the truth. Then what would he do?
Would he return chastened, ready to take her home simply because, having failed in his undertaking, returning her would be the right thing to do?
Her inner self sneered at the thought while she fought to retain a calm expression. It was far more likely that he, like so many other men with volatile tempers, would vent his on the person nearest at hand. She did not fear him, but the fact was that no one else was going to help her. She would have to help herself.
He was looking at her now much too shrewdly.
“When will you leave?” she asked, only too aware that he often read her expression even when she was sure she had it under control.
“If that sky sheds its cloudy blanket soon, as it looks like it may, I mean to leave whilst the early tide is stemming up,” he said, still eyeing her narrowly. “If all goes well and nowt delays me, mayhap I will return tomorrow night on the ebb.”
A flickering frown as he added the last part made her say, “Do you anticipate a delay?” Then, more sharply, “Surely, he will give you your answer quickly. I shouldn’t think it would take him five minutes to refuse you, although it may take much longer for him to tell you what he thinks of your reprehensible demands.”
“Less of that, if you please,” he said curtly. “I believe I know more than you do about men, just as I am sure that you know more about how women think than I do. As to what might delay me, I was just wondering if I should tell you.”
“Good sakes, why should you not?”
“Because the news may distress you,” he said just as bluntly. “However, as you will soon be home again and able to add your mite to any discussions that may ensue there, I expect I should tell you. Sithee, Parland Dow also told me of a row between your father and Will Jardine.”
“At Annan House?”
“Aye, sure. Dow said he went to Annan House, so one must suppose the land your father ordered Will to keep off was the Annan property. I expect his lordship meant every Dunwythie estate, though, come to that.”
