by Amanda Scott
Branxholme was beyond anything else in splendor, though. Experts had woven the arras cloths on the walls of its hall. The stone chambers and corridors were immaculate, their furnishings polished, their fireplaces swept daily. The food was so good that she had already requested several of Margaret’s recipes.
“How far is Broadhaugh from here?” she asked Sir Quinton.
He smiled, and again she noted the warmth of his smile—and an increasing hunger in his look, which suggested that rather than being a man who had been eating steadily for more than a quarter hour, he had not eaten in a sennight. “Not far,” he said, and his voice seemed deeper than ever.
His intense look shot tingling sensations through the core of her body. She felt warmer and wished that someone would open a door to let in cooler air. She swallowed carefully, hoping she looked merely interested in what he would say.
“Are you in such a hurry to get home, madam?”
“I…I just wondered how long it would take us to ride there.” She wished that he would look back at his food. The way he was gazing at her made her skin feel hot, as if she had a fever.
“There will be dancing first,” he said.
“Aye, Margaret told me. Shall we have to ride home in the dark?”
“So you are in a hurry,” he said with satisfaction.
“Nay, I would not be so impolite as to want to hurry from hosts who have been so kind to me, but I would like to see my new home in daylight,” she said.
“Then you shall,” he agreed. “We will depart as soon as we can do so without offending anyone. We’ll have to wait for the runners to return, though.”
“I should think that such a race over rough terrain would be dangerous for them after eating and drinking so much.”
“Aye, perhaps, but Border lads thrive on danger.”
She looked steadily at him then. “Do you thrive on danger, sir?”
“You must know that I do.”
“Well, I have thought about that, you know, and I’m afraid that it must stop.”
He blinked. “What do you mean, lass?”
“I generally mean exactly what I say, sir. Now that we are married, you must stop raiding my friends and kinsmen. They’d never forgive me if I let you steal their livestock or burn their houses. It simply must stop.”
Sir Quinton stared at her, apparently rendered speechless.
Determined to be sure that she had made her point, Janet said evenly, “I would like you to give me your word, sir—your word as a Borderer.”
“Now see here, Jenny lass—” He broke off when the tempo of the music abruptly increased, and it grew louder.
Buccleuch stood up, waving a goblet. “A toast to the bridal pair,” he shouted.
Roaring, the men leapt to their feet, raising their mugs and goblets high.
Perforce, Sir Quinton rose to reply with his own toast to the company. Next he toasted his bride.
A myriad of other toasts followed until Janet was certain that everyone in the hall must be tipsy. Then the music changed again, and her husband held out a hand to her. “We must lead the dancing, lass. We’ll finish our talk anon.”
His voice was stern and his demeanor no longer that of the merry reiver of legend. Suddenly she was not so certain that she wanted to cross swords with him.
Chapter 11
“High on a hill his castle stood,
With halls and tow’rs a height…”
OUTLINED AGAINST THE SETTING sun, Broadhaugh Tower’s crenellated battlements rose out of thick forestland near the village of Teviotdale, darkly crowning a craggy knoll atop a long, sloping ridge. Despite natural defenses provided by its setting, Janet thought the castle did not look particularly formidable.
She was riding for once like a proper lady on a sidesaddle borrowed from Margaret. Lined with sheepskin and possessing a high cantle, it was comfortable enough but not as stable as the Italian saddle Hugh had given her for her eighteenth birthday in the forlorn hope that she would put away her cross-saddle for good. She still wore her wedding dress beneath the warm cloak that she had worn from Brackengill. Both the cloak and her train draped over the pony’s haunches. Sir Quinton, riding beside her, also wore his wedding clothes beneath his thick cloak.
Behind them, a score of armed riders followed, but although their party had started out cheerfully with much laughter and ribaldry, they were mostly silent now except for the jingle of harness and the dull thudding of ponies’ hooves.
Janet had scarcely spoken to Sir Quinton since leaving Branxholme, for she was conscious of their escorts’ sharp ears. He had made no attempt to reawaken the conversation about his raiding, and both were tired after the long day. True to his word, he had brought her to Broadhaugh in time to see it by daylight, but the sun had already slipped below the horizon.
“It looks much smaller than Branxholme,” she said.
With a touch of amusement, Sir Quinton replied, “If Broadhaugh were larger than Branxholme, it would belong to Buccleuch instead of to me. Still, ’tis a proud house, lass, and one of the oldest in Scotland.”
“Margaret told me that once Queen Mary stayed here,” Janet said.
“Aye, she did. Before the middle of the thirteenth century Broadhaugh was a plain wooden pele tower overlooking vast stretches of Craik and Ettrick forests, but when the richer lords began changing to stone, our ancestor rebuilt Broadhaugh in the French fashion that was popular then. The original tower, the one nearest us on the crag, served as a royal hunting lodge for Alexander I.”
“When did the Queen of Scots stay here?”
“Thirty-one years ago, in the spring of 1565,” he said. “’Twas when she was involved with the fourth Earl of Bothwell. That old tower contains some of her embroidery,” he added. “I ken little about such things, but my mother always said that the queen produced fine work.”
“You have not said much about your mother before,” Janet said. “Margaret told me that your father is deceased, but she did not mention your mother. I assumed that both she and Buccleuch’s mother would be at our wedding, but neither was there. Are you at outs with her, sir?”
“Nay, but she lives with Lady Bothwell, and since, by royal command, the countess has lived in seclusion since Bothwell went into exile, my mother does not stir from her side. I visit them from time to time, but we are not close. I scarcely ever saw her when I was small. Do you enjoy needlework?” he asked abruptly.
“I enjoy fancy work when I can find time for it,” Janet said, adding frankly, “I have never thought my work above average, however. I did not have a mother to teach me as most young girls do, since mine died when I was quite small. Hugh likes my work, but I do not think him a judge of such things either.”
“Well, you needn’t fear that I shall be critical. You can have a free hand with the household, lass. I tidied up some in preparation of your coming, but Broadhaugh needs a woman’s touch.”
“Now I know why you did not fight harder to avoid marrying me,” she said, giving him a direct look from under her lashes. “You needed a housekeeper.”
He returned the look, and for a moment she thought that she had disconcerted him, but then he grinned. “Aye, that would be the reason,” he said.
Without thinking, she stuck out her tongue, then quickly faced forward, astonished at herself for having given in to such a childish impulse. Hearing him chuckle, she felt heat flood her cheeks and did not look at him again.
As they drew nearer the castle, she realized that although at first it had seemed to rise right out of the surrounding forest, anyone approaching had to cross either an expanse of barren land or the River Teviot. In the river’s present state of early-spring turbulence, it formed a formidable barrier, made even more so where it met a merry, tumbling burn at the foot of the castle’s craggy knoll.
“That’s Broadhaugh Water,” Sir Quinton said, raising his voice to be heard above the roiling water as he gestured toward the burn. “There’s a place on the Teviot not far above where
they meet that is fine for swimming when it’s warmer.”
“It is beautiful here,” Janet said. Although she was accustomed to the bleak vistas of Bewcastle Waste and the Cumberland fells, she loved the lush greenery that served as cushion and backdrop to the harsh stone walls of Broadhaugh.
They crossed a gray-stone arched bridge and followed a narrow dirt track up to the main gates, which swung open before they reached them. Inside the bailey, she noted at once that it was smaller than even Brackengill’s, but someone with an artist’s eye had laid its cobblestones in a patchwork of color that she found pleasing even in the gray light of dusk. She wished that Hugh might have seen it before his laborers had collected the stones for Brackengill’s bailey.
It appeared to her that many of Sir Quinton’s men must have left the festivities at Branxholme before she and their master had, for besides the dozen or so who stood lined up to greet them, shouts brought others running from the two towers and from several outbuildings, as well.
“There are so many,” she said. “I did not know anyone left before we did.”
“They did not go to Branxholme,” he replied. “Surely you do not think that I would leave Broadhaugh unguarded on a day when everyone in two countries knew that I would be away.”
“I did not think about that,” she admitted. “Do you really think anyone would have dared attack your home on our wedding day?”
“What better day, lass?” His smile was sardonic. “I’d do such a thing myself, did I want to teach someone a lesson and could be certain that he and most of his company would be from home.”
“Are you suggesting that Hugh would do such a dastardly thing?”
“I meant nothing so particular. I have learned to be prepared for the worst, that’s all. You will learn to do the same. The English have made it a practice over the past two hundred years to sweep into Scotland with armies of two to ten thousand for the sheer enjoyment of wreaking havoc. They loot and destroy for no purpose other than destruction, and have done so since the days of Edward I.”
“I thought Buccleuch said that Elizabeth and James want peace.”
“Oh, aye, so they say when it pleases them to say it. Nonetheless, the English manage to invent a reason for doing whatever they choose to do.”
“And the Scots do not?”
His grin flashed again as he said, “I see that being married to you is going to test my wits, lass, but we will not fratch on our wedding day. Welcome to your new home. As I said, I told the lads to tidy up, but I hold no great hope for the result. Neither they nor I are skilled in the art.”
“The bailey looks tidy. I see no horse droppings on the cobbles.”
“Nay, I’d not allow that. The outbuildings are clean, too. We do not live in squalor, lass. We just lack a female’s skill for creating a comfortable nest.”
He dismounted and reached for her. As his hands clasped her around the waist beneath her cloak, she slipped her feet from the stirrups and caught up skirts and train in her left hand so they would not remain hanging embarrassingly high over the horse when he lifted her down.
Sir Quinton’s strength was evident in the ease and gentleness with which he lifted her to the ground, and as she looked up to thank him, her gaze met his and her body warmed in response to the renewed hunger she saw in his eyes. She wished then that she had thought to ask Margaret to explain certain matters to her. Although the opportunity to do so had arisen more than once, she had resisted revealing her ignorance. Now, recognizing his lust, she wished that she had thrown pride to the wind and had begged Margaret to describe every detail of what lay ahead.
“Your gown is soft, lassie,” he said quietly without taking his hands from her waist. “My fingers delight in touching it.”
Feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied, and uncomfortably aware of the stares of his men, she wanted to pull away and run for the shelter of the castle. But she did not know where to go, and her feet did not seem to belong to her, in any case. The moment lengthened, and still she stared into his eyes. Her lips had parted, and she seemed to be breathing through her mouth, for her lips felt dry. She licked them and felt his hands tighten. Her right hand, still resting on his shoulder, slipped a little. The material of his cloak felt rough against her palm.
“’Tis chilly out here,” he said. “We’d best get you inside, lass, and warm you up.” Looking away, apparently unaware of how warm she felt already, he said to one of his followers, “Get the lads in and tell someone they’ll want food.”
“What o’ yourself, laird?”
He hesitated, then said, “Tell someone to send food and wine up to my chamber.”
Feeling as if the exchange had released her from a spell, Janet looked around, searching the teeming throng of men and horses to find the tall man who had carried her cat for her. Sir Quinton had insisted that she would be safer if she could keep her mind on her pony, and she had not argued. “Where is Jemmy Whiskers?”
“Yonder,” he said, gesturing. “Hob the Mouse has got him. He’ll carry him to the kitchen, and someone there will feed him.”
“I want him,” Janet said firmly. “He always stays with me.”
“Not tonight, lassie. I do not want to share you with your cat.”
“You need not share me, sir, but he does not know this place. If he cannot find me, he may try to return to Branxholme or even to Brackengill. He is accustomed to follow wherever I go.”
He looked annoyed, and for a moment she feared that he would forbid her to keep the cat with her. If he did, she would resist obeying, but she knew that his will would prevail. He was the master of Broadhaugh. She did not even have a servant of her own. Indeed, it began to look as if she were the only female there.
On the thought, she said, “Have you no maidservants?”
His eyebrows shot upward, and encountering a flinty look, she knew that he thought she was trying to divert him from the subject of her cat and decided that perhaps she was, at that. Then she saw him relax, and the moment passed.
He said, “It would not have been seemly to keep maids here before now, lass. No man wants his daughter serving in a castle full of men, particularly the sort of men who collect at Broadhaugh to follow me.”
“Well, I shall require maidservants, sir.”
“Aye, I know, and I’ve made arrangements for several to begin working tomorrow. You may choose one to serve as your personal maid. You won’t require one tonight, I promise you, and I’ll protect you from my men.”
She was not afraid of his men, but she began to wonder who would protect her from him.
“Let’s go in,” he said again, pressing a hand against her back to guide her.
She dug in her heels. “Jemmy Whiskers,” she said again. “I want him.”
He sighed. “Very well.” Then he shouted, “Hob, where the devil are you?”
“Here, laird,” a voice shouted back.
“Bring the damned cat. Her ladyship wants him.”
Her ladyship. Janet savored the words. No doubt others had called her so after the wedding or during the subsequent feasting and dancing, but she had gone through those festivities in a fog as dense as any blinding Border mist. In any case, she was certain that Sir Quinton had not called her so before.
The huge, shaggy-headed man so astonishingly called Hob the Mouse came quickly to hand her a closed wicker basket containing a loudly protesting Jemmy.
“He wants oot,” Hob said with a grin.
“I can hear that,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for taking such care of him. I am very grateful.”
“Nae need, m’lady,” he said, touching his cap. “He didna fratch wi’ me.”
She opened one side of the basket, stroked the little cat’s head, and murmured soothing words. At the sound of her voice, Jemmy settled down, and raising the basket close to her ear, she heard his rumbling purr.
A nudge from the hand touching her back recalled her to her duty, and she went with her husband up a flight of stone steps i
nto the castle, seeing at once that its layout was similar to Brackengill. The entry was not at ground level but at the floor above, and at one time, she knew, the stairs probably had been wood, so that during an attack the inhabitants could burn them to prevent the enemy’s entry.
The heavy wooden main door was ironbound, so that if an enemy tried to burn it, the iron strapping would keep them out. Instead of directly entering the stairwell, however, as one did at Brackengill, one entered Broadhaugh’s hall. Though not as large or grand as the hall at Branxholme, its appointments were nearly as modern and it was comfortably furnished with benches and tables. Its walls were bare above the wainscoting, but at some time, someone had expended effort on the place. Despite its masculine residents, it looked generally more civilized than Hermitage.
“I’ll take you over the place in the morning,” Sir Quinton said. “The lads will be wanting their supper now, though, so we’ll go on upstairs.”
“The kitchens are downstairs, I expect.”
“Aye, there is a kitchen and a bakehouse below the great hall, as well as a scullery and a few rooms that can serve as quarters for your maidservants when they come. We go this way,” he added, guiding her toward a circular stairway set into the back left corner of the hall. “I’ll carry that basket for you now,” he added. “You’ll fall if you try to manage it along with your skirts on the stairs.”
Without protest, she handed him the basket containing the cat.
As they made their way up the stairs, Janet saw that an arched window in the wall overlooked the hall below. One could easily see who was there without being seen in return. From there, the hall looked warmly inviting. A number of men had entered and were eagerly taking their places at a long table. Seeing servants already passing platters of food, she realized that she was hungry.
