by Amanda Scott
“Sir Hugh Graham is my brother,” Janet said with dignity.
“You did not phrase that quite right, lass,” Redcloak chided. “You must learn to say that Sir Hugh Graham has the honor to be your brother.”
Buccleuch was staring at her in dismay. “Her brother! What madness is this, Quin? You’ve abducted a march warden’s sister!”
“A deputy march warden,” Redcloak said.
“Och, you fool! And him hot on your heels, no doubt.”
Redcloak shrugged. “I’ve seen no sign of pursuit, but I cannot deny that I half expected to find him here with you.”
“And what am I to tell him when he does come here? Have you thought of that, you pestiferous dolthead?”
“Aye, I have, and I decided that you can feign a great indignation—though you’ll doubtless find that difficult—and deny knowing anyone by the name of Rabbie Redcloak.”
“Aye, sure.” Buccleuch looked speculatively at Janet, and she realized that he was seriously considering the suggestion. “I do not suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you would support that declaration, would you, mistress?”
“I do not tell lies, sir,” she said flatly.
Redcloak’s eyebrows shot upward. “Never, lass?”
Feeling warmth flood her cheeks, Janet said to the master of Hermitage, “I will do naught a-purpose to bring disaster upon you or yours, sir. I cannot say that I have never told a falsehood, but neither can I pretend that I have ever lied to my brother when he has asked me a direct question. I do not believe I could do that.”
“I thank you for your honesty, mistress. Quin, by God, I should order you bound to the old oak and horsewhipped for this.”
A little to Janet’s surprise, the reiver abstained from making another light rejoinder. Into the silence that followed the grimly uttered threat, she said, “Why do you call him Quin, sir? Is his name not Rabbie, then?”
“He has many names, mistress,” Buccleuch said, casting another look of displeasure at the reiver.
“Including several that you bear,” the reiver said quietly.
“I’ll thank you to recall, however, that I am also your liege lord.”
“Aye, ’tis true, you are.” The reiver made a profound leg and extended his right hand. “Shall I pledge this hand again? I am sorry that I let them take me, but at the time I thought it the best thing to do. I continued to think that right up until Sir Hugh Graham informed me that he meant to hang me without the benefit of a trial.”
“The devil he did!” Buccleuch exclaimed. “I wondered why that dimwitted pudding Scrope failed to send word of your arrival at Carlisle.”
“The reason is that Sir Hugh cast me into his dungeon at Brackengill. At first, he said that he would let me rot there till Wednesday, but the lass informed me last night that this morning’s sunrise was to be my last.”
“Faith, but ’tis the Sabbath! Is that true, mistress?”
“To my shame, sir, it is,” Janet said. “My brother was angry with…with this man. I do not know what to call him,” she added in frustration.
“Do not trouble your head with trivialities,” Buccleuch recommended. “Call him ‘impudent knave’ and ‘varlet,’ as I do.”
“Mind your manners, Wat,” the reiver said. “If she believes you, Mistress Janet will think that she has risked her life to no good purpose. You will offend her sensibilities so—and mine, as well.”
“Risked her life! What’s this? I assumed you’d abducted her out of pique.”
His expression of astonishment was so ludicrous that Janet bit her lower lip to keep from smiling and quickly lowered her gaze to the rich Turkey carpet.
“She set me free,” the reiver said solemnly, “and if I do not mistake the matter, she thus committed march treason. Sir Hugh Graham might not wish her dead, but he will not thank her for her deeds. I could not leave her to face his fury.”
Buccleuch’s next words wiped the half smile from Janet’s lips.
“By God,” he declared, “there is nothing else for it then. You’ll just have to marry the wench.”
Chapter 8
“With him nae pleading might
prevail…”
JANET STARED AT BUCCLEUCH, wondering if he were daft.
Her tongue refused to move, and her body seemed to belong to someone else, for it did not feel as if it were connected to her. She did not want to speak as much as she wanted to scream that such a notion was madness. Her pulse was working overtime, however, for the sounds of its labor roared in her ears.
The colorfully rich trappings of the chamber seemed to spin around her as if she were in some strange dream and could not wake up because she could not stir a hand to pinch herself.
The reiver’s deep voice brought her back to the moment with a thump when he said casually, “I do not think that I am of a mind to marry just yet.”
Buccleuch snapped, “I don’t care a pin for the set of your mind, sir. Consider the consequences if you do not marry her.”
“Just think of the consequences if I do,” the reiver said, still in that maddeningly mild tone. “The penalty for marrying across the line is death, Wat, or had you forgotten that small detail?”
“I have not forgotten anything, but it will be far easier for me to arrange a marriage than to protect you against the consequences of this crazy abduction. Christ, Quin, but you’ve put me in the devil of a fix! I must think on this. Get hence now, the pair of you, and leave me to it.”
“And go where?” the reiver asked. “If I do not mistake the matter, you summoned me to Hermitage rather publicly, and Jess Armstrong has seen Mistress Graham in my company. I put no great faith in his discretion, so I think it likely that she will be safer under your protection than with me.”
“She cannot stay here,” Buccleuch retorted. “There are no other females on the premises, because Margaret and the bairns are at Branxholme. If you want to take Mistress Graham there—What the devil do you want?” This last question, although it had the effect of making Janet’s head spin again, was directed to a lackey who had entered the hall hastily and without ceremony.
“Beggin’ your pardon, laird,” the lad said, “but there be a gentleman below demanding speech wi’ ye. Calls hisself Sir Hugh Graham, he does.”
Gasping, Janet swayed, but a firm hand caught her elbow, and the reiver said calmly, “Steady, lass.”
Buccleuch made a sound that was so like a growl from one of her brother’s dogs that Janet held Jemmy closer and nearly glanced around the hall for one.
The ensuing silence was brief. Then the master of Hermitage said grimly to the lackey, “Go back down and invite Sir Hugh to join me here. See that any men he has with him get ale and bread in the great hall and that someone provides his horses with water and grain. I shall not invite him to take supper with me.”
“Aye, laird.” The lad turned to leave but halted at a murmured command from his master.
“No one below mentioned my guests, did they?”
“Nay, laird, they ken better nor that.”
“Excellent. See that they keep their tongues locked behind their teeth till Sir Hugh and his men have departed.” When the lackey had gone, Buccleuch said, “The pair of you can go upstairs to my private apartments till I get shut of the man. You’ve no cause to fear harm here, mistress. He brought you thus far in safety, and betwixt us we’ll see you safe out of this muddle.”
“Thank you, sir. I pray that you will not tell my brother you have seen me.”
“Have no fear o’ that. Go now, and quickly.”
To her surprise, the reiver said not a word but obeyed at once, urging her ahead of him into the stairwell. As she hurried to the next level, she kept expecting to hear him make one of his impudent remarks, but he did not.
The master’s chamber proved to be as comfortably appointed as the hall below it; however, the fireplace boasted a carved mantel and occupied the center of the long wall. Thick, heavily embroidered bed curtains bore the same h
unting and battle scenes that decorated the bedcover, and the carpet on the floor was another fine one. Other carpets covered several chests and coffers. Clearly, Buccleuch was a man of some wealth as well as great power.
“You need not move so far away,” the reiver said as she walked toward an arched window recess with stone benches lining its three walls.
“I want to look out, to see where we are within the castle. I lost my sense of direction on that circular stairway.”
“Well, do not show yourself in that window, lass. You never know who might be looking up here. It looks south over Hermitage Water and Liddesdale.”
She hesitated, then decided she should listen to him. If Hugh truly suspected that Buccleuch sheltered her, he might leave men outside the castle for the sole purpose of keeping watch to see if she appeared at a window.
Still carrying her cat, she went to stand by the fireplace instead. It was tall enough so that if she were of a mind to do so she could walk inside it without doing more than bending her head a little. Not that she harbored such a wish. Critically, she noted that the hearth had not been swept recently. Indeed, it looked to her as if it had not been cleaned in some weeks. New fires had been laid on the ashes of the old. At Brackengill, she would not allow such untidiness.
The reiver remained silent, and conscious as she was of his presence, she could think of nothing to say to him. To declare that Buccleuch must be mad to think he could arrange a marriage between them would be a waste of breath and, under the circumstances, to announce that she had no intention of marrying a reiver seemed overly blunt and ungrateful besides.
Gratitude was an odd emotion, she decided, and fleeting, as well. That she had not had to face Hugh at the height of his fury with her was a godsend, but the reiver had clearly thought no farther than that moment. What had he intended to do with her after he got her to Scotland? The obvious answer did not seem to apply. Although the Laird of Hermitage had accused him of abducting her, Buccleuch had seemed to feel more put upon than angry, and he had promised to see her safe. It clearly had not occurred to him that the reiver might already have ravished her.
“What will become of me?” she asked bluntly.
“You will not suffer for helping me, lass. I promise you, I will see to that.”
“You cannot think that I will marry you,” she protested. “Not only would it be a dreadfully unsuitable union, but you would hang for it.”
“Aye, perhaps.”
“I cannot imagine how even a man as powerful as Buccleuch thinks he can prevent it. Once Hugh demands his aid, he is duty-bound to arrest you and to see that you present yourself for trial at the next Truce Day. And although Hugh believes a jury might excuse you for your crimes, abducting me is clear cause for them to hang you even if I were to testify that I went with you willingly. If you force me to marry you, no man could speak for you, least of all Buccleuch.”
“Aye, I’m sure you have the right of it, lass, if that is what were to happen.”
“Then, what will become of me?” she repeated.
“I do not know, but you will be safe because I have promised it and because Buccleuch has promised it. If the worst happens and he decides that he must send you back to Brackengill, he will force Sir Hugh to promise you safety first. Mayhap he will insist upon keeping you under his protection until he can make him give that promise before witnesses at the next Truce Day. Indeed, that may be an excellent scheme,” he added with a twinkle. “With such an event pending, Scrope might actually agree to a suitable date and site before the turn of the century.”
“I do not think the problem lies with Lord Scrope,” Janet said gently.
“Do you not?”
“Nay, for all his faults, he is a man of honor.”
“He is no more honorable than his father was before him,” the reiver said flatly. “Scrope told some of his own men that he chooses to answer Buccleuch with delays, and so he does. It has become a pattern and practice for him.”
“My brother says the delays are Buccleuch’s doing. Hugh says Buccleuch snatches at any excuse to delay, that he blames the weather or some imagined breach of manners, or just declares that he does not like the suggested site. He said that of Sark, after all, and Sark has been an acceptable meeting site for years.”
“Aye, but just now it is too close to Carlisle for our liking. The site should be nearer to Hermitage, more central, so that neither warden has to travel much farther than the other.”
“That is just an excuse,” Janet said scornfully.
“It is a good reason,” he retorted. “Moreover, I do not believe that Buccleuch has ever blamed the weather. That is Scrope’s favorite excuse, though. He does not like rain, he says, because he cannot see what everyone is doing and someone might get up to mischief. He does not like snow because he gets too cold sitting at the grievance table and only a fool would try to move the proceedings indoors.”
“Those sound like excellent reasons to me.”
“Aye, well, them who get up to mischief do not need rain or snow to do it. And Scrope is the one who uses what Buccleuch calls beetle-witted legal niceties to avoid the meetings.”
“There are always more grievances against the Scots than against the English,” Janet said. “Why would Scrope delay?”
“Because he knows that half those English grievances come from men who should know better, men who have stolen from the Scots only to have the goods taken back. The Scots are not so quick to lay a grievance, because they know that chances are poor of getting their goods back in anything like a timely way—before their families starve to death, for example. Thus, they are more likely to take the matter into their own hands, to fetch their own goods back again.”
“They should leave it to the law to decide who is right,” Janet said.
“Aye, sure, but when the law is in the hands of men like Scrope, who delight in making a game of it, and who take wagers on the outcome, you cannot blame them too harshly, I think.”
“Cannot blame you is what you mean, is it not?”
“Aye, lass, that it is. I’ll not deny that I am one of them.”
Another silence fell, and Janet realized that he had neatly avoided speaking of the threatened marriage. Not that it was a real threat, of course. Buccleuch, even with all his power, could not force her to marry a man she did not want. Only her brother could do that.
The thought of marrying the reiver stirred memories of the way he had made her feel when he touched her, and that errant memory stirred those feelings again. Ruthlessly suppressing them, she told herself that it did not matter how he made her feel. Janet Graham could not marry a common thief, and that was all there was to it. Even Buccleuch would see that. He must see that.
A shutter rattled, and she realized that the wind outside had increased again. When it carried to her ears the sounds of men shouting to one another, a frisson of fear shot through her. What if Hugh attacked Hermitage?
Surely, he could not be so daft. Even she knew the castle was impregnable. She had heard of its strength long before she had laid eyes upon it. Now, having seen its thick walls and mentally counted its men-at-arms—and doubling that number to account for those she had not seen—she told herself that Hugh would never be such a fool. He did not possess guns large enough to make a dent in Buccleuch’s defenses, but she did not relax until the lackey who had brought them word of Hugh’s arrival entered the bedchamber to say, “Himself wants ye below.”
Half expecting to find her brother pacing the red-and-blue Turkey carpet in the master’s hall, Janet entered with trepidation, but the only man awaiting them was Buccleuch.
“You’re safe for now, mistress. He’s gone. I warrant he’ll return to England for the night, although doubtless he’ll take shelter across the line and return in the morning to renew his search. Apparently, he believes that a reiver named Rabbie Redcloak has abducted his sister and means to hold her for ransom. He demanded my cooperation in laying the said Redcloak by the heels, and since I
am honor-bound as warden to provide such cooperation, I sent ten of my men with him.”
Behind Janet, the reiver chuckled and said, “I warrant he well nigh choked on his thanks for your assistance.”
“He is a sad, ungrateful man, is Hugh Graham,” Buccleuch said with humor glinting in his hazel eyes. “He said that my men would serve better by simply fetching the damned reiver to him. He implied that they know exactly where to lay hands upon this Redcloak. He even insinuated that I spoke less than the truth when I said that I did not believe such a man existed in all of Liddesdale.”
“Surely he did not go so far as to call you a liar!” Janet exclaimed as she set Jemmy Whiskers down to explore.
“Nay, he knows better than to stir my temper here in my own den,” Buccleuch said with a wolfish smile. “He said that I am sadly misinformed, and suggested that if the man were not a resident of Liddesdale, he might still be known to me, since I am native to upper Teviotdale. I said that, as far as I knew, no such man lived in upper Teviotdale either. I thought he would take me through each dale, one after the other, but he abstained from that useless exercise.”
“He must be furious,” Janet said, repressing a shiver. “What said he of me?”
“He said naught that any might count against you, mistress, but I’ll wager he has a notion that you helped Quin escape. Still, he is a proud man, is Sir Hugh. He will not want others to know of it, and I think we can use his pride to our benefit.”
“How so, sir?”
“I’ve promised to send word of your plight out and about Liddesdale and the surrounding area. I told him that many people will help search for you.”
“Did he believe you?”
“It does not matter if he did,” Buccleuch said. “I mean shortly to invent a rescue for you.”
“Oh, sir, if you could do that, then I might truly return in safety. I doubt that Hugh would dare punish me too severely, for others would soon learn of it and would hold him accountable if they believed me the victim of an abduction.”
“Aye, lass, that would be a good thing, I agree; but there is a wee hindrance.”
