by Amanda Scott
Her distraction was fleeting, though, because Quinton Scott said gently, “I would remind you, mistress, that your brother engages in those same nefarious activities; even worse, he pretends to act for the English government when he does.”
“Hugh has authority to act for the government,” Janet said, raising her chin. “He is, I remind you, sir, deputy to our warden of the west march. When he acts in that capacity, he acts with all the authority of her majesty the Queen of England. You, however, possess no such authority. If King James backs your actions, I have not heard about it, nor has my brother.”
“Your brother is—”
“Enough, Quin,” Buccleuch snapped. “Cease your fratching! You’ve given Hugh Graham the right to claim that you abducted his sister. ’Tis yourself who handed our bitterest enemies the means to bring our clan to its knees. If you mean to mend matters, you’ll not do it by offending Mistress Graham or her pestiferous knave of a brother.”
“But if she will have none of me—”
“Then you’ll face the legal consequences of your escape and her abduction,” Buccleuch declared. “I do not care if you do it as Rabbie Redcloak or as Sir Quinton Scott of Broad—”
“Sir Quinton!” Janet exclaimed, more outraged than ever.
“Aye, he is,” Buccleuch said. “Jamie found himself in a good mood a few years back, at his queen’s coronation, and knighted the both of us.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Janet told Sir Quinton. “A man of high position to be playing such games—leading men into danger! It is one thing to do so in times of war, sir, but to do so now! I vow, I do not know what you deserve.”
“Your brother is also a knight, mistress, albeit an English one. Still, if he possesses any honor, he protects his own people, and that is all I do. I support men who have suffered deprivation at English hands. I help them regain what is rightfully theirs, and I support the efforts of broken men—those who can claim no support from their kinsmen—to present their cases before the wardens or to do what is necessary to keep their wives and bairns from starving.”
“You should trust the law to see to those things,” Janet said stubbornly. “You are no better than Hugh, sir. If men like you do not support the law—if indeed, you flout it outright—how can you expect lesser men to obey it?”
“Aye, now that’s an excellent question,” Buccleuch said virtuously.
“Perhaps it is,” Sir Quinton agreed, “but things being what they are, philosophical discussion gains us naught. We can scarcely resolve more abstract matters when our two sides cannot even agree on a site or date for a Truce Day.”
Buccleuch said testily, “We do not need to resolve the problems of Truce Day now. ’Tis of greater import to settle the business of this marriage, Quin, and that remains your concern. I have said all that I mean to say.”
Janet said, “You claim that my brother can force Sir Quinton to face legal consequences for abducting me, sir. Hugh might realize that Sir Quinton and Rabbie Redcloak are one and the same; however, I promise you that before I would allow him to demand his head, I would testify that Sir Quinton rescued me not only from Redcloak but from Hugh’s wrath, as well. Many would believe me, too.”
“Mayhap they would, mistress,” Buccleuch said, “but no one here will ask such a thing of you. Much as I deplore your brother’s interfering nature and his scurrilous intent to hang Quin without a proper trial, his present wrath is justified. You defied his authority, then compounded your sins by helping his prisoner escape. He or Scrope could order you hanged for march treason on that account alone. I doubt that either would, but I’ll not take the chance. The pair of you will marry, or I’ll withdraw my protection, and that’s my last word on the subject. You need not decide now. I’ll give you till we finish eating to make up your minds to it.”
Serving men arrived with their food, and they sat at a table near the fire. Janet found the meal more pleasant than she had expected. Jemmy Whiskers curled up next to her right foot, and conversation remained general. Buccleuch and Sir Quinton spoke of kinsmen and general family matters, frequently making her laugh at the tales they told about certain kinsmen. Her thoughts kept returning to the decision she was to make, though, and at last, unable to contain her curiosity, she said bluntly, “What will you do with me?”
Buccleuch regarded her with amusement. “That must depend upon what you decide to do, mistress.”
“It seems to me,” she said thoughtfully, “that even if I refuse to marry Sir Quinton, you are honor-bound to protect me, sir. He is your kinsman, and you are his headsman, are you not?”
“Aye, sure, ’tis true; I am.” He smiled. “Will you abide by my decisions?”
“I expect I shall have little choice about that.”
Sir Quinton chuckled. “She has taken your measure, Wat.”
“Aye, she has. An it please you, mistress, I’d send you to Branxholme—to my wife, Margaret—till we can safely return you to Brackengill or till you marry.”
Janet nodded. “I would agree to that, sir. Your wife is a Douglas, is she not?”
“Nay, ’tis my mother who is the Douglas,” Buccleuch said, adding, “She has lived in seclusion at her farm in Whitlaw since my stepfather, Bothwell, fled the country. My wife is also named Margaret, but she is a Kerr.” He smiled, adding, “It surprises me that you ken aught of my family’s origins, mistress.”
“My brother speaks of such matters,” she explained. “I have a retentive memory, and families interest me, but it is difficult to keep everyone sorted out when so many people bear the same names.”
“Aye, I’ve noted that myself,” Buccleuch said. “My Margaret is a fine lass, though, and she’ll enjoy your company whilst we unknot this tangle. Quin will take you to her, but first the pair of you must determine what course you mean to take.”
She nodded again, and when he addressed his next remark to Sir Quinton, she returned her attention to her supper.
The two men continued to converse desultorily. She enjoyed listening, wanting to learn more about them.
Sir Quinton’s deep voice seemed to reverberate in her mind whenever he spoke, and she remembered how it had stirred her when first she heard it in the dungeon. He was handsome and well connected. She could do worse in a husband.
Her brother would be furious with her no matter what she did. Despite any agreement Buccleuch might arrange, it would be long before Hugh would forgive her, if ever he did. And if the arrangement included her return to Brackengill, he would see to it that she suffered for her defiance. Nothing they made him promise would deter him; and marriage to the reiver certainly seemed preferable to that.
Marriage across the line would carry disadvantages even if Hugh and Scrope—and perhaps even Queen Elizabeth—were to permit it. The Grahams—the English ones, anyway—would view it as betrayal, and the Scottish Grahams would not be inclined to accept her as one of them. They were far more likely to cast her off, just as the English ones would. Would Scots in general accept her if she married Sir Quinton, she wondered, or would they shun her, too?
Only dimly aware of the men’s voices, she realized that although she had considered the possible consequences, she had given little thought to the marriage itself. What would Sir Quinton Scott be like as a husband? The thought instantly stirred those increasingly familiar sensations inside her.
Surreptitiously, trying to make it appear that she focused her attention on her plate, she watched him through her lashes while she used her knife to spear a chunk of salted beef. He was a handsome man, to be sure. His eyes fascinated her. They looked hazel now, not really gold, but whenever he turned toward the firelight, orange lights danced in them, giving him a devilish appearance. Nevertheless, he was a handsome man. She could see a family resemblance between the two, but Buccleuch was shorter and slighter, and carried less bulk through his shoulders.
Sir Quinton’s gaze shifted from Buccleuch to her, almost as if he had sensed her curiosity. Quickly she lowered her g
aze.
“Mistress, will you take some wine?” he asked quietly.
“Aye, sir, thank you,” she murmured.
He set a pewter goblet in front of her and filled it from a jug on the table, then turned back to his cousin.
Keeping her gaze fixed on the table, Janet continued to consider her options, but her mind seemed resistant to decision, resistant even to orderly thought. She was too much aware now of Sir Quinton’s deep, musical voice.
As Buccleuch scraped his chair back and got to his feet, she realized that he was speaking to her.
Looking up guiltily, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I was not attending.”
His whimsical smile lit his face. “I said, mistress, that perhaps I should leave the two of you to discuss what choice you will make. Shout down the stairs, Quin, when you want me. With the lass to look after, you’ll not make Branxholme by sundown even if you leave within the hour, but I’ll send some of my lads along to make sure the pair of you get there safely.”
Sir Quinton nodded, and a moment later Janet was alone with him.
She felt more vulnerable than she had felt since leaving Brackengill. She could not think of a single thing to say to him.
The silence lengthened while he poured himself more wine. He looked at her, still holding the jug. “A bit more perhaps?”
“No, thank you, sir. If I drink any more, I shall have difficulty sitting my horse without falling off. How far is it to Branxholme?”
“About nine miles, I reckon, if we could travel in a straight line. Since we cannot, it’s nearer being twelve or more. You must be well nigh exhausted, lass.”
“I am tired,” she admitted. Then, smiling, she said, “That is why I did not argue when Buccleuch said that I would likely slow you down.”
“Mayhap we would do better to remain here overnight.”
“I think that would be unwise,” she said.
“Aye, perhaps,” he said. “I am not one who makes a habit of considering proprieties, but I warrant your brother would never take you back if you’d spent a night at Hermitage without a proper hostess.”
“No, he would not.”
“If, on the other hand, you should decide to accept my offer of marriage, I would not care a damn if you stayed here overnight with us. Wat and I could sleep here, and you could have the bedchamber above. The door has a bar and bolts, so you’d be perfectly safe.”
“I do not want to marry you,” she said without thinking.
“Do you not? I own, I do not know how well I shall like marriage either. I’ve naught against you, lass, barring that sharp tongue of yours, but if I can persuade you to set a guard on it, we might scrape along together well enough.”
“Her majesty would never allow it,” Janet said.
He shook his head, but more as if he thought her naive than as if he agreed with her. “You do not give Buccleuch the credit he merits,” he said. “Recall that he said both Jamie and Elizabeth crave peace in the Borders. It is to their political advantage to settle things, and so far their demands have met with small result because Buccleuch has seen no reason to set their preferences above his own.”
Janet raised her chin. “You make it sound as if he has only to decide that there should be peace, and there will be peace. Surely, it is not so simple as that.”
“Is it not? You do not know him yet. Still, I do remember your saying that Sir Hugh is impressed that Buccleuch can act as warden of two marches and keeper of Liddesdale as well. Consider that before you dismiss his capabilities.”
“But how would our marriage help him achieve peace, assuming that he really does desire such an end?”
“Aye, well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?” Sir Quinton chuckled. “So far, I’ll admit, he hasn’t displayed much interest in peace. He believes that his people need purpose in their lives as much as they need to believe that the damned English cannot steal their cows and horses with impunity—meaning no offense to you, of course—so he indulges them. Indeed, he often leads them, although he tends to restrict his leadership to only the largest raids. When Buccleuch sends out a call to arms, he can raise three thousand men in a half-day’s time, so he does not lead the darting sorts of raids that Rabbie Redcloak leads.”
“Godamercy, so many?”
Sir Quinton shrugged. “I warrant he could get more if he wanted them. My point, however, is not that he will declare peace in the Borders as his part in any bargain for our marriage but that Elizabeth’s desire for peace will prevent her from demanding my head if I should express a wish to marry you.”
“I still do not care much for the notion,” Janet said. She carefully avoided looking at him, however, aware that each time she did she found herself more rather than less intrigued by the idea of marrying him.
“I warrant you could see that I did not like it much either,” he said. “I think I reacted out of sheer pique with Buccleuch for commanding it, though. I’ll have to marry one day, I expect. Indeed, my mother says that I ought to have married long since. I am in my twenty-sixth year, and she says that before someone kills me it would be prudent to get myself an heir. I’ve laughed at her before, but your brother did bring me face-to-face with the hereafter. I can understand why she frets.”
“What is she like, your mother?”
He shrugged. “Like any mother, I expect.”
“Well, I never knew mine,” Janet said, “so I do not know what most mothers are like.”
“Have you truly lived all these years with only that brother of yours to look after you?” He seemed rather shocked by the notion.
Janet smiled. “It was not so bad as that, sir.”
“Well, I would not wish my worst enemy into Sir Hugh Graham’s household. Indeed, I begin to think that you should marry me, lass. ’Tis a pity that we cannot have Buccleuch’s chaplain do the thing here at Hermitage tonight, in the chapel.”
“Has he got his own chapel, even here? Hugh has built much at Brackengill over the past years, but we still must go to the church in the village.”
“Hermitage has its own chapel and a graveyard, as well. I suppose we’re more likely to be married from Branxholme or Broadhaugh, though. You would prefer that, I warrant, to being married from a Border stronghold.”
“You make it sound as if we had agreed to marry, sir,” Janet said.
“Have we not?”
She thought for a long moment, then said quietly, “I will allow Buccleuch to present the notion to Hugh, but the decision must rest with him. I cannot defy him in such an important matter. If he orders me to return, I shall be obliged to do so.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “Shall we inform him of your decision?”
Janet nodded nervously, certain that the master of Hermitage would not agree to her stipulations; but again he surprised her, merely nodding and saying that he would see to the arrangements. His attitude was the same, she decided, as if she had submitted completely to his will. He saw them off shortly afterward, assuring them that he would have all in train for their wedding by the following week’s end.
Although they began the journey to Branxholme Castle an hour and a half before sunset, it grew dark long before they reached their destination. There was no track that Janet could discern, but the night was clear, and Sir Quinton assured her that he could find his way even in pitch-blackness. Since there was naught she could do but trust him, she was content to let her pony follow his. So tired was she by then that only the chill kept her sufficiently awake to stay on her saddle, and before they reached Branxholme, she was lying forward, bent over the little cat with her head resting on the pony’s neck. She had no awareness of riding into the courtyard, nor did she stir much when Sir Quinton lifted her down, carried her inside with Jemmy Whiskers cradled between them, and laid her down on a bed.
He had gone before she awoke the following morning, but she swiftly found a friend in Margaret Kerr Scott. Buccleuch’s wife, despite having been married nearly ten years and being the mother of
three energetic offspring, was not much older than Janet. She generously offered extra clothing and advice, and evidently placing great confidence in her husband’s ability to bring not just Sir Hugh Graham but also the Queen of England around his finger, she immediately began making preparations for a wedding to be held at Branxholme. To Janet’s gratification, Margaret was content to talk for hours about the family into which she had married.
“Buccleuch was nurtured amongst broils and feuds,” Margaret said later that first day while they sat in her little parlor for a brief respite after a whirlwind inventory of her wardrobe had produced several useful articles for Janet to wear.
“A volatile life is not unusual for any man raised in the Borders,” Janet said.
“Aye, perhaps, but he began taking part in the exploits for which his kinsmen are notorious at quite an early age. He had barely entered his ninth year when his father died, you see. He was the same age then as our Wattie be now.”
“Godamercy,” Janet said. “It is to be hoped that Buccleuch lives to a grand old age and does not leave his son to a similar fate.”
“We all hope for that,” Margaret said quietly, “but if Wattie reaches his majority before entering upon his inheritance, he will be the first of the Scotts to do so since 1470. That is why, soon after the wee laddie’s birth, Buccleuch decided that in the event of his own premature death, Quin should serve as guardian and hold the property in trust until Wattie reaches his majority.”
“Do you mean that Sir Quinton would control Buccleuch’s estates?”
“Aye, he would. Buccleuch’s father and Quin’s were brothers, so unless we have more sons, Quin will inherit anyway if Wattie predeceases Buccleuch.”
“I see,” Janet said, not sure that she truly did. Most men, with history to guide them, would hesitate to name as their heir’s guardian the person who would inherit in the event of the heir’s death. Buccleuch’s arrangement bore strong witness to his trust in his cousin.
Margaret smiled. “I can see that you wonder at the agreement, but Buccleuch believes it will serve his purpose admirably. He spent his childhood under the guardianship of tutors and curators appointed to him by the last will of his father, you see. James, Earl of Morton, served as his tutor and governor, along with the Earl of Angus, and under them stood other stern and powerful men. Owing to the state of the feudal holding of certain portions of the Buccleuch properties, there was a great deal of legal fuss and bother that finally required royal intervention.”
