by Susan King
And yet she was the same lass who had slammed the ball of a pistol butt against his head with the force of a cannon shot.
Rowan frowned. He had seen her somewhere else—but his mind was too fogged to sort out the vague memory.
He grimaced and touched his head. Her fingers pushed his away. "You'll make the wound bleed again," she said.
He accepted that, glancing around the room. Dark. Stone walls, a window slit, a single torch on the wall. Empty of furniture. Prison, again?
"Where am I?" he asked.
"Safe here until you're able to leave," she said.
He tried to sit up, but his body felt too heavy to move. He leaned back against her, dimly and pleasantly aware of soft slopes and firmness and comfort.
He swallowed, tasting thick dryness. "How long—"
"A little while." She frowned. "I am concerned about your head wound."
He waved a hand, dismissing that. "Where is this place?" he asked, and saw that while the curve of her cheek was blushing cream, she did not answer.
Slowly Rowan sat, then leaned against the cold wall. He felt swamped in pain and dizziness. The blood rushed in his head and his stomach lurched and he wanted to puke. The lass waited quietly—and divided into two hazy images that merged and split and blended again.
"Stay still," she said.
"You stay still," he replied, touching his aching brow and a cloth wrapped there. "I should not have taken off my helmet. That rain—was not loud enough to merit this," he muttered.
"Leave your head be, Rowan Scott." Her voice was calm, with a magical warmth in that cold, dismal room.
He squinted until both of her became one again. "How do you know my name?"
"The paper in your—"
"You took it?" He realized that his leather jack was gone, his doublet as well. The shirt he wore was not his, too small; he still had his damp breeches, but the woolen hose were not his either. His boots were gone too. "What the devil. Where did you find the paper?"
"In your boot."
"Ah." Good, he thought. The thieving wench had not found the other document that he carried. "Where is my gear?"
"Wet, and drying now."
"And my horse?" Valentine was a valuable animal and a worthy prize for any Border reiver. He might never see his horse again. The thought infuriated him.
"Stabled and fed," she replied. "You will have him back."
He did not trust that. "And my weapons?"
She smiled a little. "Would I leave them in your reach? Your dirk and sword, pistol and lance are safely put away."
"Pouch? And coin?"
"Safe as well."
In your pocket, he thought. He tried to absorb all this. Clearly the girl and her companion—he remembered two riders in the rain—had taken him for ransom, a money-making tactic common along the Border. He had been captured and imprisoned more than once, and ransomed in his youth. And he and his Scott kin had taken their share of prisoners, too, collecting coin or cattle in return for a bit of Blackdrummond hospitality.
"Which riding family are you?" he asked. He was puzzled, though, for the girl's speech was soft and precise, unlike the broad Border accent that was common here. Frowning, he struggled to make sense of his situation.
"My cousins are Kerrs." Her tone had a chill in it now.
"Godamercy," he muttered. The Kerrs here had feuded with the Blackdrummond Scotts for years. "So I am a hostage," he said. And physically incapable of doing much about it for the moment, he thought. "I assume you will ransom me."
"Ransom?" She frowned. "Not that."
Scowling against throbbing pain, Rowan tried to think. "What place is this?"
"An old tower," she said.
"Ah," he said. "Lincraig Castle?"
She did not answer, but looked away.
Lincraig, not far from Blackdrummond, belonged to his grandfather. Rowan had not been inside Lincraig for years, but he recognized it now. But why would Kerrs confine him on Scott property? If the lass found the letter in his boot—and if she could read it—then she knew that he was Blackdrummond.
He briefly considered what it would take to grab this Mairi Kerr, subdue her, and walk out. Even the thought exhausted him. He tilted his head back against the stone wall.
"Do not move. Your head is sore hurt."
He cocked a brow at her. "Aye, thanks to a wee lass with a great pistol. Why did you hit me?"
"You were attacking my friend."
"Ah." He pressed the bandage slightly and winced.
"Leave it be."
She stood then. She was not tall, though long-legged and slender beneath male clothing that was too large for her. The thick, tousled braid fell over her shoulder, sheened dark in the candlelight.
Her face was sweet, her eyes wide and honest. She puzzled him. He could not reconcile that delicate face with the vicious attack against him, and the theft of his gear.
"What riding family sends a lass to do their work?"
"No family sent me."
"You chased me like a highway thief. You gave me this head wound, and took everything but my breeks."
She opened her mouth to retort, but seemed to think better of it. "I will come back later, with food and drink," she said, and stepped toward the door.
Despite the pain when he moved, Rowan shot out a hand to grab at her ankle, yanking. She fell to her hands and knees with a smack and a grunt. He pulled her toward him best he could, though she seemed to be two girls, then one, and two again.
"Let go," she gasped. He did not.
"Tell me why you rode me down," he growled, keeping hold of her ankle in its leather boot. He did not want her to know that hanging onto her slender leg took all his strength.
She smacked at his arm, twisted, but he held firm.
"Who are you? Answer me true."
"My Border kinsmen will hang you if you harm me!"
"You are as much a Border lass as I am," he snapped, suddenly realizing why her voice was distinctive—he knew that accent. "Why does a Highland lass ride a Lowland road in the night, attacking a traveler for his coin and his horse!"
She stopped hitting him and stared. A strand of hair slipped across her eyes. She blew at it irritably.
"Horse? Highlander?" she asked almost innocently.
"You, my lass, are a Highlander," he said. "And a highway thief. You attacked me. Tell me why."
She twisted to pull away, but he tightened his grip. Kicked by her free foot, he blocked the blow; two, then four feet came at him, and he hit them all aside.
"Tell me!" he roared. He thought his skull would split.
She glared at him. "I am no thief."
"You broke my head, thief, but I will break your ankle like a dry twig or have the truth from you now. Who are you?"
"My cousins are Kerrs," she gasped out. "And my friends are Armstrongs. And you are a dead man for this deed."
"I ought to be a dead man for the head crack you gave me." He tugged on her leg. "Kerrs or Armstrongs, I suspect your first wee word was a Gaelic one. You speak Scots like a Highlander, soft, with a rhythm. You said your name was Mairi, in the Gaelic, not Mary, as in English."
She grunted to twist away, but he held fast and dragged her back toward him. She flipped to her belly.
"Let go," she said. "It hurts."
"Tell me your game," he demanded. She nodded.
He released her then, and she scrambled away to sit against the wall, rubbing her ankle, sending him acid little glances from beneath her slender brows.
"I should have tied your hands and feet," she muttered.
"No doubt." He leaned against stone and closed his eyes against seeing that beautiful, accusing, fetching face.
His head spun and he thought again he might vomit or black out. He sucked in cool air until the feeling passed.
She was silent, thank God, long enough for him to gain his senses again. He sent what he hoped was a steady gaze.
"Well?" he asked again. "Why did you ride in
to the bog?"
"I wanted something from you," she said.
"You have twenty pounds Scots silver, a sword with an Irish hilt, two wheel-lock pistols, a lance, a latchbow, and a good steel bonnet. And a Galloway horse as fine as any I will ever see again."
"You will have them all back again," she said.
"I had better," he grunted.
"I do not want your silver or your gear."
"Then what?" He hoped she would answer. He had no more strength to force her.
"I wanted—to know who you were," she said.
"Why?"
She looked away. The braid whipped over her shoulder, a streak of red fire and deep gloss. "I just needed to know."
"You have the writ. Now you know. So who ransoms me?" He narrowed his eyes. "Are you kin to Simon Kerr?" he asked then. "His daughter? Or his leman?"
She lifted her chin and radiated icy silence. He waited.
"Who is your own family, Mairi o' the Highlands?"
"Why did the king's council send you here?" she countered. "Are there other papers?"
"What interest do you have in that?"
"What orders did the council give you?"
"You have some quarrel with me, though I had none with you," he said. "Though I do now."
"We have more quarrel than you can guess," she said through tightened lips.
He wondered how long he could continue this polite conversation before he had to lean over and be sick.
"Answer me this at least. Why does a Highland lass ride a Border road like a thief?"
She stood and went to the door, yanking it open to step through. The door slammed. Rowan winced at the noise, and heard the sound of the door bar dropping into place.
He sighed and rested his head against the wall.
Soon he heard a muffled male voice. Though he could not hear the low words, he heard Mairi's irritable tone in reply.
One of her Kerr kinsmen, he thought. He could only wait now to see what would come next.
The door wrenched open, and two plaid blankets and a wrapped bundle tumbled in, falling open on the floor. A few oatcakes and a joint of roasted meat rolled out. A leather flask hit the floor too. Rowan stopped it deftly with his foot.
"My thanks," he drawled as the door slammed. The bar slid into place again. Footsteps stomped up the steps.
Though his head spun, Rowan smiled. Looking around the small chamber, his smile widened.
Lincraig Castle was no confinement for a Blackdrummond Scott. There were crannies and passages within the old ruin that he and his brother had discovered as lads. When his head ached less, he would explore the space until he found some way out.
He leaned back, wadded the cloak Mairi had left behind into a comfortable pillow, and drew up a plaid for warmth. His head throbbed and the room swayed as he reached for the flask.
When he pulled out the cloth-wrapped wooden plug, he discovered the flask was filled with hot broth. Skeptically, preferring stronger liquid, he sipped. Beef broth, hot and salty, slipped down his throat. He took more, and then settled back to rest. A nap would go far to heal his head.
He wondered if this Mairi o' the Highlands had met the phantoms who haunted Lincraig. Then a new thought occurred.
What did this Highland lass know about Spanish gold?
Chapter 6
"O gin ye winna pay me,
I sail here make a vow,
Before that ye come home again,
Ye sail ha 'e cause to rue. "
—"Lamkin"
Thunder rolled through her dream and became the steady pounding of hoofbeats. Waking quickly, Mairi sat up. Moonlight threaded into the room, illuminating the pallet bed where she slept in Iain's house. She heard her name, and turned to see Jennet's face at the top of the loft ladder.
"Reivers again!" Jennet whispered urgently. "Come down!" She glanced toward the door of the little house. Mairi heard the rumble of horses' hooves and the growl of men's voices in the yard outside, and the incessant barking of Iain's young hound.
Sliding out of bed, Mairi snatched her linen shift and dressed, grabbing a plaid shawl. She felt alert, calm. Numb.
In the weeks after Iain's arrest, she had withstood the dangers of reivers, and the risks of her own clandestine activities. Some inner, softer part of her had retreated.
She had hardened a bit, her passionate feelings and fears encased inside the boldness that had become her armor. The reivers outside had seen that in her. Rowan Scott had it too. None of them would see the softer Mairi. Not until Iain was safe, she vowed.
"We will face them," she told Jennet. "What of Robin?"
"Sleeping sound," Jennet said. "But he will wake soon. And the dog is useless, just happy to see visitors."
"What riding family is it?"
"Heckie Elliot and his brothers, wi' English outlaws."
"They've been here before," Mairi said. "We had best go out, or they'll break down the door." Jennet nodded and climbed quickly down the loft ladder.
Mairi wrapped the length of plaid over her shoulders and around her waist, over her linen shift. She had no time to properly dress in the woolen gown, with its fitted bodice and lacings, that hung on a wall peg. Shoving back her tousled hair, she went barefoot down the loft ladder.
Her foot, stretched out, was licked and she leaped down. "Stop that, Bluebell," she muttered, shoving the large, silver-haired wolfhound pup away. "When will you learn to respect proper danger? Stay!" She pushed the dog toward the cradle. "Guard Robin. You're good at that much. If a reiver were to reach for the bairn, you'd sever his hand. But when they ride into your own yard at night—" She gave the dog a look of disgust. All she received in return was a sloppy grin in the moonlight.
Bluebell padded to the hearth and lay down. As Mairi crossed the main room of the house, she remembered that such raids had terrified her years ago, when she and Iain, as young Highlanders in the Lowlands, had fostered with Hob Kerr and his family, the cousins of her father Duncan Macrae.
Sometimes, at first, she had lain awake, frightened that reivers would burn down the house and kill them all, just for cattle or the mere thrill of the raid. Now that she knew more about raiding and reivers, her fears had lessened.
The Borderlands had changed her indeed. She wondered, had she wed Johnny Kerr, if later in life she would have grown as dour and hard as some Border women, toughened by constant threat. Border life had not hardened her yet—not entirely. She longed to return to the Highlands, but she stayed for Iain, and his dear love Jennet.
Through the open door she saw the gleam and jostling shadows of several riders. She ran past the peat bricks glowing on the hearth, past the scrubbed oak table and the box bed that belonged to Iain and Jennet, past the little cradle with its bundled, sleeping babe, past the dog that guarded the wee one. Pausing in a spill of moonlight, she looked out at the yard.
The wind whipped around the silent riders and their restive horses. Pale light glimmered on steel helmets. Lances thrust upward like cruel thorns in the moonlit sky.
Mairi desperately hoped that their mission here tonight did not involve Devil's Christie. Earlier, the lad had gone back to the old ruin to guard the injured Blackdrummond.
Whatever brought the reivers here, she must be bold and steady. Striding out of the house, she approached them.
Jennet stood barefoot in a simple gown, gripping a shawl around her. She looked up at the men, thick reddish curls blowing back, pretty face moon-pale.
"What do you want here, Heckie Elliot?" Jennet asked.
"We were thinkin' you might be needing someone to herd your Highland cattle, Jennet Macrae," Heckie said, grinning. "Since your man has been in Simon Kerr's dungeon these long weeks. Or perhaps you'll need someone to plow your fallow field, eh?" Coarse sniggers rippled through the men who listened. Mairi sucked in her breath. Jennet raised her chin.
Heckie Elliot had come here before in the black of night to talk to Iain. His band of men were his kinsmen, some of them outlawed Bor
dermen, some even English outlaws, and all were known for swift, fierce night raids—and known to wickedly collect illegal fees to prevent those very raids.
Their mood this night was dangerous. Mairi could feel the tension crawl up the back of her neck, could sense their menace.
Let them steal what they would, she thought—so long as they rode away quick and left them whole. Two women had little defense against such men.
"Where is Devil's Christie?" one man, large and burly, asked. "He snaps like a yard-dog when we come here. Is he chained inside wi' your pup?" Someone laughed.
"My brother will be back soon, Clem Elliot," Jennet answered. "With my Armstrong kinsmen, so you'd best be gone from here."
Mairi watched Heckie while Jennet spoke the lie. Heckie and his brother Clem seemed to accept that, and Mairi felt relieved—they had not seen Christie or his prisoner. "Aye, Heckie Elliot," she said. "The Armstrongs will be here soon. There will be a blood feud if Jennet's kinsmen find you here."
"Eh," Heckie said, pouting like a great, ugly child. "We only came to help Mistress Jennet herd her husband's cattle and black-face sheep too."
"Herd them to our lands," Clem muttered, chuckling.
"You have no cause to be here. Go!" Mairi called out.
"We've cause to be where we care to be, Mairi Macrae," Heckie replied somberly.
"You break the king's peace by coming here. The warden will have arrest warrants made in all your names," Jennet said.
"Valentines!" Clem grinned. "We've had plenty o' those."
"We mean nae harm to you," Heckie said impatiently. "Iain Macrae would not grudge us a few sacks o' meal and some o' his beasts, since we watch o'er his household while he's gone." He smiled, a fleeting, dark slash in his whiskered face. "For a wee price in grain and hoof, we make you safe, lassies. The Borderlands can be an ill place in the night," he added.
"We will not pay such black meal to you," Jennet said defiantly. "'Tis criminal rent. We pay rightful rent to the Auld Laird at Blackdrummond Tower."
"Your husband struck a bargain wi' me afore he was taken by the warden," Heckie said.
"He never mention such to me," Jennet countered.
