The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  His touch was warm and gentle. Tamsin snatched her fingers away as if his had been flame. At the same time, she dropped her left hand out of sight.

  "My hand is fine," she said stiffly.

  William unwrapped the bandage, revealing the swollen, split lump on Archie's brow. He sopped at the blood with the bandage. "We'll need another cloth."

  "My shirt's hem will do." With her right hand, Tamsin began to unfasten the hooks that closed her leather doublet.

  "Let me help," William said, touching her wrist. She batted his hand away. "Your other hand is obviously hurt—"

  "'Tis fine," she snapped. William raised a brow and turned back to press the wet cloth to Archie's wound.

  Tamsin resumed her task. One by one, the hooks flew free as she worked them, fast and capable, accustomed to using one hand. Her doublet fell open, and she pulled at the tucked hem of her linen shirt. "Use your dirk to cut a strip," she told him.

  He did, tearing a long piece which he wrapped and secured the strip around Archie's head. Tamsin removed her leather doublet and handed that to William, who shoved the garment under Archie's head for a cushion.

  "He should be fine," William said, as Archie began to snore. "Just make certain that he sleeps sound and isna faint. Poke him now and again to awaken him."

  She nodded, knowing that her father could slip into unconsciousness with such a head wound. Shivering, she tucked her arms around herself. "I'll stay awake the night."

  William knelt beside her. "Listen to me," he said. "I do not agree with imprisoning women. But this is Musgrave's house, and all I can do is make sure that blankets and food are given to both of you. Now let me see your injured hand."

  "I am not hurt." She tucked her gloved hand under her arm.

  "You lack the use of it," he said. "Was it hurt in the raid?"

  "Nay," she said. She was not about to show him, or anyone, her small, misshapen hand.

  "As you wish," he said. "I might do the same myself."

  She did not reply, rubbing her arms in the chill.

  "You're cold," he observed calmly.

  She glanced down. Through her pale linen shirt, she could see—as he must have—her globed breasts and taut nipples. She crossed her arms there and gave him a sour glance.

  William loosened the pewter buttons that fastened his brown woolen doublet, drew it off, and held it out. "Take this."

  She hesitated, then slipped her arms into the sleeves. The garment was still warm from his body. He lifted the doublet over her shoulders and fastened the button on the high neck, then proceeded to the next one, and the next.

  She let him work his way down. Buttons were more difficult to manage than hooks and loops. She stayed silent, watching him as he worked.

  He was pleasant to gaze upon, his shoulders wide and his neck strong, revealed by his loosely shaped shirt. The torchlight highlighted the clean structure of his face and his glossy, thick hair. Kneeling face-to-face, she was aware of his warm, comfortable smell: smoke, maleness, and something spicy-sweet, like cinnamon.

  As his fingers worked the buttons, she felt like a bit of iron drawn to a lodestone. He had shown kindness toward her and her father, but she needed to remain wary. He was a guest in Musgrave's castle and a comrade in some English scheme.

  "Why do you support Musgrave's plan?" she asked.

  "Should I not?" He pulled the placket close over her breasts as he fastened the buttons. Subtle sensations went through her as his hands moved down. Just the warm woolen doublet, she told herself.

  "I have heard stories of your father," she said, though her breath was curiously affected by his moving hands. "I have heard ballads about his deeds—the Rogue o' Rookhope."

  "Aye," he said gruffly, concentrating on a button.

  "Allan Scott was a bold reiver, they say. Yet no matter what trouble he stirred, he never took from Scots, only English."

  "I know my father's history. What is your point?"

  "I wonder how the son of such a man can take up with the English in some black scheme."

  "Since neither of us knows the full scheme, we cannot judge if it be black or white."

  "Jasper Musgrave would do naught but wickedness. What did you agree to?"

  "That," he said, sliding his hands downward, "is none of your concern." He drew the doublet together over the juncture of her thighs. The bloom of feeling in her lower body was so strong and immediate that she nearly leaped back.

  "It is my concern," she insisted, "if it affects Da and me."

  "It affects neither of you if you heed me and get away from here quick as you can." He got to his feet, looking down at her like some mythic warrior, hands resting on his hips, shirt loose over his chest, legs widespread and powerful in long, gleaming leather boots and black breeches.

  "Musgrave has full right to arrest you and Archie," he said. "The Scottish council would not protest if he executed you both. The lives of a petty reiver and a gypsy are minor to some."

  "'Twould be more honorable to hang," she snapped, "than to side with you and Musgrave."

  "Perhaps so. But you have little choice."

  "You had a choice!"

  "I did," he murmured. "I did indeed." He held out a hand to her, palm outspread, to help her stand.

  She looked at his wide palm and touched a fingertip to the long line that sloped across its center. "Your hand says you have a keen mind." She peered closer in the low light. "These lines say you are strong in many ways—in will, in heart, in body. So I why do you take up with a naughty man like Jasper Musgrave?"

  He closed his hand. "What nonsense is this, Gypsy?" he asked softly. "I gave you no leave, nor coin, to read my fortune in my hand."

  "Consider it payment for your good advice."

  He huffed. "See that you take that good advice on the morrow." Then he turned and left the dungeon.

  Her father snored and the guards murmured in the corridor outside. Tamsin sighed and leaned her head against the wall. She closed her eyes, but could not still her thoughts and emotions.

  William Scott lingered in her thoughts—his face, his voice, his touch, and his kindness, all of it stayed with her, especially the moment when he had sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists. The cut on her wrist was small, but its importance was great.

  William Scott—Rookhope—had touched his skin to hers, mingled his blood with hers, though inadvertently. He had not know what he had done, but she knew. The Romany custom of sharing cuts and crossing blood, shared with a vow, made a marriage. She had witnessed the ceremony many times in the gypsy camps. Archie had married her mother that way, she knew.

  But to have it happen spontaneously was puzzling. She did not know what it meant. Her father and her grandparents, had they witnessed the incident, would regard it as significant, a marriage made by the hand of fate. A special union.

  Even if a marriage bond had been made between her and William Scott, she must keep her silence. Yet it was ironic—she never thought to marry. Her father and her grandfather had searched for a husband for her among Scotsmen and Romany. But one man after another had refused to marry a girl with such a flaw—that hand could taint the lineage, they thought.

  At first she had felt the humiliation keenly. But as the refusals continued, she concluded that she did not want to wed. No man would accept her and love her for what she was, and she would not marry a man who had to be bribed or forced into it.

  Had Archie ever approached William Scott, he would have reacted like the others. So if Scott knew that part of a Gypsy wedding ceremony had just taken place, decided by fate, he might be horrified.

  She closed her eyes against tears and told herself that the moment was unimportant, an accident, nothing more. Her father would treasure a union between his daughter and the son of his comrade. But this accidental marriage could never be real.

  Besides, she would never let her father, or William Scott, learn that the marriage ritual had taken place.

  Chapter 3

 
"To seik het water beneath cauld ice, Surely it is a greit folie—I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me!"

  —"Johnie Armstrang"

  The ropes that bound her wrists were uncomfortably tight. Tamsin bit back a wince and shifted her shoulders where she leaned, seated, against the cold stone wall. Two guards had come into the cell that morning with more bread and ale, having brought food and blankets late last night. They had tied her hands and her father's again before leaving.

  Now she flexed the left, still encased in its glove, and glanced at her father. He sat beside her, his eyes closed, but she knew he rested rather than slept. Shadows filled the cell, though daylight leaked through a high window slit. Torches flickered on the wall beyond the slatted iron door, and she heard the guards talking quietly.

  Archie had roused earlier to eat some bread and sip the ale. His forehead was bruised and his movements were slow, although he spoke with spirit and made light of his injury. Tamsin was certain that the blow to his head, from the flat of a sword at the time of their capture, had drained his strength more than he would admit.

  Surely fate had ridden with them, she thought, shivering. She felt as if a shift had occurred in the fabric of her life, as if a wind moved past, heavy with storm and promise. Somehow she felt as if she might never be the same after this. She could only hope that whatever destiny awaited her, and her father, was not the most final of fates. William Scott had been correct in saying that Jasper Musgrave could exercise his power as a deputy warden. Tamsin was not prepared for death. Nor, she suspected, was Archie.

  "Da," she said, looking at him. "You're tired. Rest on my shoulder. Here." She sidled next to him.

  "Go on, ye wee bit, ye canna hold me up," he grumbled affectionately. "Ye fret like an auld woman. I'm fine."

  "Your forehead is purple. You look like you fought with Auld Nick himself, and lost."

  "Tch! Insults! Would I lose a fight w' the de'il? And I am a bonny-looking man. Well," he said, flashing a weak grin, "but for that young Rookhope, hey."

  "Oh," she said. "He isna so bonny."

  "He's much like his da, tall and dark as a raven, but with his mother's blue eyes. A man pretty enough to make a lassie's heart go all soft-like." He smiled. "Hey? What think ye?"

  She made a face. "I think you've heard too many ballads."

  "Och, ye must like him some, hey?" She heard a hopeful note in his voice and knew she must convince him otherwise.

  "Scott of Rookhope wouldna suit me," she said, a little flippantly. "Besides, he's a friend to Musgrave. And likely wed. Did you even consider that? Your constant search for a husband for me—and thus a reiving comrade for you—is tiresome. You ask near everyone we meet. I wonder that you didna ask Musgrave if he needed a wife!"

  "Hey, I have my limits, lass," he muttered. "I did wonder about his son Arthur, but they say he's newly betrothed." He smiled mischievously, and she knew he teased her. He would never want a Musgrave for a good-son.

  "I dinna want a husband," she whispered fiercely, hearing the guards outside the door. "None want me—why should I want one of them? You've offered me to so many by now—"

  "But twelve or so," he said. "I've hardly begun."

  "Hardly begun!" An indignant squeak. "You've been searching for years, and each man has turned down the offer! Oh, some would like to bed a gypsy fast enough, but none will wed one, particularly one marked by evil at her birth!"

  "Tamsin," he said, sighing. "I wed a gypsy lass, and was happy with her, though 'twas brief. 'Tis sad, what some think about ye. Ye're a bonny lass, and we'll find ye a man."

  "Nay! 'Tis done! I willna wed any man who needs bribing or begging. Besides," she added, "we may well hang here."

  "I wouldna like to see ye hanged a maiden."

  "Oh, Da," she said in dismay. "What does it matter?"

  "Ah, but to see young Will Scott o' Rookhope again," he went on, as if he had not heard her. "'Twas nearly worth being caught!" He slid her a glance. She made sure to scowl at him.

  "And just what do you think Rookhope is doing here?" she asked crisply. "No holy day visit, I assure you! And dinna dare to ask him if he wants a wife," she added hastily. "We are in muckle trouble, Da. Think of that, and naught else."

  "I do think of it. If my life is forfeit, then I want someone to look after ye, and after Merton Rigg, when I'm gone."

  "If we live through this, then I will take care of Merton Rigg. And I will take care of you and Uncle Cuthbert. Just give up your notion that some man will take me for a wife."

  "There was a lad for ye, once," her father muttered.

  "What did you say?" She peered at him.

  He stirred. "I'll see what I can do, is all. I'll see."

  "Oh, aye. The executioner will put the rope on you, and you'll ask if he's wed, and would he take a one-handed gypsy."

  "I might do that," he said, and winked at her, though it made him wince. "Tamsin, listen to me. What I want for ye is this—a man who doesna care about yer small hand, or the hue o' yer skin, but who warms yer heart and ye his, like a hearthfire." He grinned. "And he must be as fine a rascal as yer own father."

  "Da," she said, touched deeply. "Thank you. But there's no rascal like you." She gave him a fond smile. "I wonder—perhaps we can get out of this after all, by agreeing to Musgrave, as Rookhope says we must."

  Archie grunted. "I'd rather hang. I'll be dead by down of sun, and pray yer pardon."

  "You will be safe." Tamsin touched his wrist, bound like hers. He opened that hand. "The line of your life is long and deep." She hoped to reassure him, and herself.

  "Och, 'Gyptian tricks again? Ye spend too much time wi' yer gypsy granddame. I let ye travel wi' the gypsies, and ye learned some wicked heathen ways." His tone teased her again.

  "'Tis hardly wicked to read a life story in the lines in a hand, if God put the story there Himself. The Romany know how to read the lines, is all," she said.

  "Many pay good silver to have their palms read. Though I never saw much use in it, myself—or wickedness, to be true. But I will say, yer gypsy kin taught ye a knack wi' the picture cards. Hah, and no one can beat ye at card games. A good skill, that one." He smiled.

  She tapped his hand with her fingertip. "You will outlive us all. You're too stubborn—and too lucky—to go so soon."

  "Eh, my luck willna last forever." He sighed. "Tamsin, if I'm truly about to die, ye must know this," he said solemnly. "My dearest dream is that ye should wed Rookhope's son. I have wanted that since ye were born and he but a wee bit lad. Allan wanted it too."

  She had never heard this before, and she wondered if his head injury, and their dilemma, made him sentimental toward his beloved friend's son. "Da," she said gently, "dreams are fine at night, but they come to naught in the day. Let this one go."

  "Dreams can come to much, if ye never give them up," he said. "'This is my fond dream, which I've kept close for years. I never thought 'twould be possible, but now the lad is back from the royal court. So if they hang me this day, you must remember what I said, and go to Rookhope to tell him what I wished."

  She bowed her head. Guilt slipped through her, for she knew that she could never tell her father about the accidental bond of blood between her and William Scott. Archie would put far too much value on it. She stayed silent, uncertain how to reply.

  "Seems to me," Archie said, "that Will Scott is just the sort o' rogue ye want, lass. A fine rogue, with a good heart. He did help us last night."

  "But I dinna really know him," she said. "Nor do you."

  "He's Allan Scott's lad," Archie said stoutly. "He's another Rogue o' Rookhope."

  "But the son isna like his father. You told me that William Scott was taken hostage as a lad and raised at the royal court."

  "I know he had a gentile confinement, educated beside King James himself, sharing his tutors, learning foreign languages, letters, books, and such. And I know he was a friend and an advisor to King James too. A fine lad, that W
ill Scott. He didna return to Rookhope until last year, I heard."

  "He isna the Border rogue you wish him to be. He's a man of the court, and a friend to the English. I know you were a loyal friend to Allan Scott, and he to you, but that may blind you to the truth of his son. We dinna know him. He might indeed be treacherous, Da."

  Archie sat in silence. Then he grunted. "He might be a foul rascal, true. But then again, he might be a bonny scoundrel like Allan. We dinna know yet. Do ye look at his palm, and ye can tell if he be a bad or a good rogue."

  "Palmistry isna for spying on a man's character," she said. She could hardly tell her father that she had already seen William Scott's palm briefly, and that the qualities she saw there only affirmed what her father saw in the man.

  "I dinna need to see his hand," Archie said. "I know he's a braw man, and a trusty one. Rogue's Will, we called him, though he was but a scrap o' a lad and the shadow o' his father." He smiled a little to himself, as if lost in memories.

  Tamsin sighed in exasperation. "He is in agreement with Musgrave on some secret matter!" She glanced toward the door as a guard walked past, and lowered her voice. "I told you what he said to me. Accept whatever Musgrave offers you, no matter what, or we will both be hanged."

  "See, Rookhope tried to help us. He's a good rogue."

  "He wants us to side with the English!" she insisted.

  "Hey, guard!" Archie called. The guard reappeared and looked at them. "Tell me. Is Rookhope wedded?"

  Tamsin sighed and shook her head in frustration.

  "What? Wed?" The guard frowned. "Nay, I dinna think so."

  "Hah!" Archie looked at Tamsin triumphantly.

  "Promise me you will say naught to him about a wife!" she said. "Da, you must promise me!"

  Archie mumbled reluctant agreement and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Later, Tamsin and her father followed the guards out of the dungeon and up a narrow winding stairway. Archie stumbled, alarming Tamsin, but he recovered his balance. They emerged into a dim corridor, walking along until the guards stopped at an arched oaken door.