by Susan King
"Here," she said stiffly, reaching into the hiding space and backhanding his woolen hose toward him. She followed with his bunched up linen shirt and his belt. His brown serge doublet was next. Gathering up his things, he set them aside.
He knelt so close beside her that she could feel the warmth of his body. Her bare toes brushed his boot-clad leg.
Drawing his heavy steel helmet out of its hiding place, Mairi sat back with it. Rowan reached forward, his hand mirrored in the glinting metal surface. His fingers slid over hers as he took the thing from her.
That warm contact startled her, distracted her. She bent hastily to grab the hilt of his sword. It was stuck somehow. She yanked, overbalancing herself.
Rowan caught her waist firmly, sending another shock through her. She felt touched by fire, but he was gentle as he set her aside.
"Let me," he said, and stretched his arm out to take hold of the sword. His shoulder bumped against her knee. She sat back, watching the strong play of his broad shoulders and long torso as he reached. His dark hair swung forward, and she remembered touching its smooth texture when he had lain injured in her lap.
An urge to touch him again moved through her. She reached out, heart fluttering, to rest her fingers on his shoulder as if to help him as he stretched for the sword.
Rowan grabbed the scabbard loop, caught on a nail, and pulled out the sword, shifting it toward her. She gripped the basket hilt and laid the weapon on the floor.
Next he brought out his dirk, sheathed in leather, and his small latchbow, and then rose to kneel beside her. "Where is the rest?"
"Here," Mairi said, pointing in the cranny in the other direction. She had to lean over his leg, her knee touching his and her upper body resting over his thigh as she reached.
When she felt the press of his hand at her waist, supporting her, Mairi nearly forgot what she looked for in the hiding space.
Flustered, she grasped the cool brass and wood handle of his gun. As she lifted the heavy wheel-lock pistol and straightened, the barrel swung toward him.
"Whoa!" He took the gun from her swiftly. "Where is the other pistol, and the key and shot?"
"Down here." Again she stretched over his leg, and again his hand steadied at her waist. His touch felt strong and good, nothing like the threat of a man who might destroy her.
When he moved his hand to her shoulder, she felt a cascade of pleasure along her spine. Heat blossomed in her cheeks.
She took hold of his other pistol and drew it out, and he grabbed it from her quickly. She picked up a small leather pouch and sat up. "This is yours as well. I found the pistol key on a string around your neck when you were injured. 'Tis in here," she said, handing him the bag.
"This is where I keep the powder and lead balls for the guns," he said. "Where is the larger pouch? What else do you have hidden away in there?"
She reached again, increasingly comfortable with his body pressed to hers and their voices low and intimate together.
"Here is your quiver," she said, pulling out the slender leather cylinder. Inside rattled a dozen iron-tipped arrows for the latchbow. He took it from her.
"My Jedburgh ax cannot be down there, too." He sounded amused.
"Here." She reached down and tugged. Rowan helped her pull out the seven-foot shaft, turning the wickedly curved point away as he laid it down.
"You have turned this attic into an armory."
"We hide our valuables from the reivers here." She sat back on her heels and shoved her hair back. "'Tis all here. Your saddle is in the byre. I'll help you carry the gear down." She shimmied backward, intending to stand.
"Hold." Rowan grabbed her wrist. "My leather pouch is missing yet—the larger one, with my coin. Where is it? And where is the council's letter?"
Wisps of dark hair slipped over her eyes. She tossed her head. "I thought your pouch was here with the rest."
"Did you?" His black brows drew together in a deep scowl.
She pulled her arm back, but he held it fast. "I did not steal your coin," she said.
"Or my written orders?" he asked softly. His fingers wrapped around her wrist like iron.
"I only wanted to look at the letter," she said.
"Give it me." Rowan brushed the hair away from her eyes. A thousand tiny shivers streamed over her head. He tilted her chin up with one finger. "Mairi, give it over."
His touch was steel wrapped in velvet, his voice quiet and stony. When he said her name, something fluttered inside her.
She sighed and reached her fingers into the neck of her shift beneath her gown, withdrawing a corner of the paper that she had earlier tucked into her bodice for safekeeping.
Rowan took the paper from her fingers. The edge tickled her breast, and a startling, deeply pleasant sensation swirled through her, hot and wonderful. She looked up at him.
Rowan flicked open the folded paper. She knew what he saw. Some of the lines were legible, but most had melted into a mess of blurred strokes where the ink had run.
"The page was spoiled in the rain," she said.
He tucked it inside his doublet. "Where is my coin pouch?"
"I might have dropped it at Lincraig."
" Best pray 'tis still there," he said grimly. He let go of her wrist and half stood, head bowed under the rooftree. Mairi crawled out of the corner and stood too, looking up at him.
At his keen glance, she felt herself flush again. She could not stop those heated blushes whenever he looked at her like that, as if he saw into the depths of her being, beneath the blood and skin to the marrow of her soul.
Though stern, his gaze was perceptive and intelligent, as if his thoughts spun quickly. She sensed no mean spirit there, nor criticism, just sharpness and frankness.
No matter what he thought of her, she wanted one question answered. "What do your orders say?" she asked bluntly.
He tilted one black brow. "I presumed you had read the letter yourself," he said curtly. "You can read?"
"Surely I can read," she snapped back. "The words were blurred on the wet page. We are not savages in the Highlands. My brothers and I all learned to read and write in English and Latin both."
"You have more than one brother?"
"Four," she answered. "And if they were here, or if my father were not in Denmark, then I would not need your help."
"Why is your father in Denmark?"
"He is a king's lawyer," she said. "My mother is with him."
"Ah," he said. "Ah."
"What does that mean?"
"That is why Simon Kerr needs a council warrant to proceed with the transfer of your brother. The son of a king's lawyer cannot be hanged or handed over without permission. Have you asked your father for help?"
"I wrote, but he will not have my letter so soon. With all the storms in the northern sea, the ships will not sail," she said impatiently. "Now if you please, tell me what the council said."
"You have a bold way, lass," he said, not unkindly. A shadow passed through his green eyes.
As clearly as if he had spoken, Mairi knew that Rowan was fully aware of the council's orders for her brother. She had ridden out in cold and rain and black of night, placing her life and Christie's in peril—and Rowan Scott already knew the information that she sought.
But he would not tell her. Iain's life hung in the balance between Rowan's will and her own.
"You know," she said. He quirked a brow in silence.
He turned away to pick up his sleeveless jack and shrugged into it. Then he retrieved his belt, attaching the looped ends of the sword scabbard and dirk sheath before buckling the whole around his hips. He tucked his helmet under his arm and lifted his pistols, shoving them into his belt, and hefting the latchbow in his hand.
Standing, head touching the beam, dressed in his armored jack and fitted with weapons, he filled the confining loft with a dominant presence that nearly stopped her breath.
"You know what the council has ordered for Iain," she said softly.
"Do I?" he asked, adju
sting his belt.
"Do you carry the orders for Iain's death? Do you have them on you now?" She dreaded the answer.
"Would I tell you if I did?" he murmured.
"I must know," she said, striving to keep calm.
"You ride out like a reiver in the night," he said, eyeing her steadily. "You assault a Border officer and beg to be taken as a pledge for your brother. Now you expect me to tell you confidential orders." He cocked a brow at her. "Apply for assignment as a warden, madam. Your talents are wasted swaddling bairnies." Sweeping his lance off the floor, he spun and strode toward the ladder.
Mairi snatched up his shirt, doublet, and hose, followed and began to climb down after him. Rowan leaped to the floor, jammed his helmet on his head, picked up his long boots, and crossed to the doorway. Reaching the foot of the ladder, Mairi glanced toward the cradle, saw that Robin slept peacefully, and ran toward the door.
Bluebell blocked the threshold amiably, wagging her short tail and panting. "Move, you daft hound," Rowan muttered. He patted her head and shoved past her to step outside. Mairi followed.
In the yard, Rowan untethered his horse, paused to gently push the attentive wolfhound away, and led the horse into the small barn attached to the house. When he led the bay out again, fully saddled, Mairi was waiting, her hand on Bluebell's head. She handed him the bundle of clothing.
Rowan took it. "Thank you for keeping Valentine."
"Valentine! 'Tis what the reivers call an arrest warrant."
"Exactly."
"Master Reiver," she murmured.
He glanced back at her. "I'll leave my dappled hobbie in your care. It belongs to Jock Scott."
"Christie will bring it back to you," she said stiffly.
He shook his head. "The reivers took your horses. Keep it for now. A loan."
"Will you ask redress of us if he is snatched in the night?"
"I will not. My word on it."
"I have had the word of Blackdrummond before. And your Scott kinsmen," she added.
He frowned at that, quick and wondering, as he shoved his lance through a saddle loop. "Whatever others may have done, Blackdrummond's word is good."
"Alec Scott rode out with my brother and now Iain is in a dungeon," she reminded him. "And my Kerr cousins have a blood feud with your Scott kinfolk."
"I am sorry for your trouble," he said, low and sincere. "But none of it changes my promise."
"Then promise to help my brother."
Without answer, he attached the latchbow and quiver to the saddle and tested the buckles again.
Mairi sighed. Despite his notorious reputation, she sensed fairness in him. She hoped he would help Iain, but he clearly had no interest in that.
She was reaping the harvest of her attack on him along the Lincraig road—now he thought her a schemer and would not trust her. And he suspected she had stolen his coin pouch, although she truly did not know where the thing was. Redeeming herself with him would be difficult if not impossible—he seemed a man who kept to his decisions. And no doubt kept what word he gave, she thought.
Mairi watched him shove his pistols into leather sheaths on either side of the saddle. He would leave soon, and she had no other hope of assistance. And something told her that only Rowan Scott could change what might happen.
She stepped forward as he adjusted the girth straps. He did not look at her, his fingers nimble and busy.
Mairi knew how his hands felt, warm and strong. Safe. She wanted him to listen to her, wanted his help.
"Rowan Scott—" She paused. "If you mean to deliver some message concerning my brother's fate, hold it back. Wait until your brother is found before you condemn mine."
Silently, he set his helmet on his head. The brim formed a cold, graceful frame around his handsome face. He was armed and jacked like the king's own arsenal, ready to join the warden. Whatever kindness she had glimpsed in him was lost now behind steel and leather and that hard frown.
"Rowan." Impulsively she grasped his arm. "Simon Kerr will convince you of Iain's guilt."
"I will decide that for myself," he said. "You, lass, should let the law tend to its own matters."
Fear and anger flared in her. She stomped her foot and swore in Gaelic. The bay horse whickered and stepped back.
"This is my matter!" she shouted. "Iain is my brother! Alec Scott put him into this bog! Can you not help your brother's friend, at least?"
"Do not ask me to help my brother or his cronies," he said coldly. "Have you considered that both our brothers may be guilty? Will you defend yours regardless of what he did?"
"I will, no matter what," she said fiercely. "And you?"
He huffed a mirthless chuckle, shook his head.
Mairi took his arms in her shaking hands. "I cannot believe ill of my own brother," she said.
"I see that," he said. "Do you believe the moon is made of green cheese, as well? I've heard it said so."
She ignored his sarcasm. "I am not fond of Scotts," she said crisply. "But as laird o' Blackdrummond, you have an obligation to seek justice for your tenant. How can you let Simon Kerr punish one of your farmers without looking into it yourself?"
"Simon Kerr represents King James's justice in the Borderlands. As do I now," he replied. "I have no assurance of your brother's innocence, or Alec's. Or yours," he added firmly. "But there is evidence enough of wrongdoing. For now, I will wait until I know more, but do not ask me to be trusting or naïve about it. Trust can get one into a bog of trouble." He glanced at her meaningfully.
"I give you my assurance," she said. "I place my life on it." Her hands still shook as she clutched at his sleeves.
He took her elbows. "You seem sincere, I give you that."
"Rowan." His name came so naturally to her now. "Hold back whatever the council told you. For now."
"What makes you think I know the council's opinion?"
"I know you do. I feel it somehow." She was increasingly convinced of that. "Please—I cannot say what I may do if you do not believe me, and help me." She blurted the last remark in a rush of desperate emotion, her voice trembling. His hands under her elbows seemed all that held her up.
"I am not inclined to trust you, lass," he murmured, "after that crackpate you gave me. But if you think to ride out again to find some justice for Iain, take heed. It could go badly for you."
"I would give my life for Iain."
"On the Lincraig road? That is foolish," he said brusquely.
"He is my twin."
He paused, watching her. "Ah. Then such fierce loyalty is understandable." He let go of her arms. "But you are warned."
"Warned?" She watched as he mounted the bay.
"If you ride out again, Mairi Macrae," he said, "I will take you down myself. I swear it."
"I must do what I must do," she answered.
"Then God keep you safe, madam." He snapped the reins, and the bay moved forward.
Bluebell ran after him for a short distance. But Mairi stood as if rooted in the yard, watching Rowan Scott. Sunlight glinted over his steel helmet and weapons, and his back and shoulders were proudly balanced. The Black Laird would never bend his will to hers.
Nor would she bend to his.
Chapter 11
He was a hedge about his friends,
A heckle to his foes, lady...
—"Rob Roy"
Rowan dismounted in the yard of Lincraig Castle and tethered Valentine. His boots crunched over crumbling stone as he walked toward the corner tower and descended the stairs.
A quick scan of the familiar cell in which he had spent three days showed him that his leather pouch was not there. Nor was it in the corridor, or anywhere else. If Mairi had indeed simply lost it, then it was not here.
Sighing in exasperation, he went up the stairs and crossed the yard. If he found the pouch accidentally dropped, he could believe Mairi's claim that she lost it. He wanted to believe her.
He thought of her anguish as she had pleaded with him not long ago.
He was tempted to help her. But he did not trust her.
He walked, searching over the stones and grasses and bracken that had overtaken the yard. The castle, once graceful, was wild and elemental, as if the Lincraig haunts had changed the place to suit their own needs. He moved on, nearing the roofless chapel.
Lincraig's chapel had been destroyed over forty years earlier by English soldiers when King Henry had ordered his army to ride ruthlessly through the Lowlands. The English attempt to force the Scots to agree to a betrothal between their infant queen, Mary Stewart, and King Henry's son Edward had failed. The arrangement, thankfully, would not be made.
But Lincraig, along with several other Scottish castles, had never been rebuilt after the damages. Jock Scott had put up another tower, Newhouse, and there he and Anna had raised their sons.
But on the night the Kerrs had killed Rowan's father and uncle, they had burned Newhouse Tower. And Jock and Anna had come to Blackdrummond Tower to live. Though he was glad to have them there, Rowan wished that he had the funds to rebuild Lincraig and Newhouse both, for Jock and Anna's sake.
Turning, he saw a dark shape near a pile of broken stones. His leather pouch was there, caught in some bracken. He picked it up and opened it, and quickly found nothing missing. Twenty Scots coins, some of his pay as a Border deputy, glinted inside. The black stone mirror in its broken gilt frame, which he had salvaged on the beach weeks ago, was wrapped in its linen covering. He had thought to give the thing to his grandmother.
He hefted the stone in his hand, tilting it, and frowned as he remembered the vision he had seen in the stone, that day at the inn. A woman's face, serene and ethereal, with a sheen of dark hair and soft gray eyes—
Jesu. His fingers tightened on the frame. Mairi's face. Now he knew why she looked so oddly familiar to him.
He peered into the mirror now, but saw only his own face reflected in the slick black surface. Nothing more. Turning the stone, he thought of the Scotsmen who had attacked him outside the inn, demanding a "raven's moon" from him.
He was certain, now, that they had wanted this strange wee mirror. The thing was dark as a raven, round and black as a new moon. Other than that, it seemed to hold no value and was not even a particularly good mirror.
