by Susan King
"Rowan," she murmured against his mouth. His name on her breath held an elemental, mysterious magic, some protective charm, like the story he had told her about the rowan branch. The power of his name tapped some inner core of passion and yearning, and she spread open for him, asking, pleading.
He answered with his lips, tracing along her throat, his tongue and breath warming and delicate, sending surges of pleasure through her. She arched, gasped on an intake of joy as his lips slipped and traced over her, then closed over her ruched nipple, gasped again when the feeling spiraled through her and touched off a blissful spark inside of her.
His mouth lifted from her breast, his fingers taking the place, swirling over that bud and its twin. As Mairi cried out he silenced her with his mouth, and his lips traced the swirl of her ear, his breath swelling like the echo of the sea.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed, caressed, explored him, and when he stretched on his back, she shifted over him, pressing close, sensing the steady thunder of his heart beneath her own. Leaning down, she let her hair brush over him like a curtain of silk. And she offered, eloquently, what she had, the air she breathed, her soul, if he wanted that—she sparked at his touch and flowed like flame, and as he lifted her, she settled over him, gently pushing down to sheathe him. His breath slipped into her mouth, sweet and hot, as he found and slid and thrust, and she felt her innermost core melt and run like poured honey. A shimmering power burst through her as her body merged with his. She felt rising and release, and gave up, in that moment, what she did not need—her loneliness—accepting what he gave, what they made, between them.
* * *
"I have never seen anything like it," Anna mused, turning the black stone in her hand. "This is what you were telling Jock and Sandie about last night?"
Rowan nodded. "The very thing."
Mairi listened, standing by the window in the great hall, seeing a remnant of blue sky showing through the clouds. A cool breeze tickled her cheek and she shivered, wrapping a shawl closer around her; Anna had loaned her the shawl and Grace had lent the gown of blue serge.
"Not much good as a mirror, is it, with the stone all dark like that," Anna said. "What could be the use of it?"
"'Tis a charm stone of some kind," Mairi said. "I saw my brother there, and—" She stopped.
"And you, lad?" Anna asked. "You saw something too?"
"I saw Mairi's face," he said softly, "before I met her."
Anna nodded slowly. "'Tis indeed a charm stone," she said. "What other value could it have? 'Tis not even a pretty thing."
"I wish I knew, Granna," Rowan said. He slid a folded page out of his doublet and handed it to Anna. "I know you do not read Spanish, but you have French and Latin. Perhaps you could make some sense of what is written here," he said.
Anna set the mirror on the table to take the pages from Rowan's hand. "This is a letter of some kind, but there is no name. Oh, here it says 'roses.' I'm sure of that. And this phrase here would be 'given to'—oh, these words are very close to French and Latin. I think it must say something like, 'many roses white and red are given—or will be given—to a most excellent and beautiful lady.' Does that make sense?"
"Roses?" Rowan looked dismayed. "Beautiful lady?"
"And here's luna—that has to be 'moon.' Is this a love letter?" Anna scrutinized the paper.
"Moon. It may be some kind of a code." Rowan shook his head, a frustrated gesture. "Even if it was translated, we would not understand it. 'Twould be of no use unless the code is clear."
"What will you do?" Anna asked.
"I do not know," Rowan said, frowning. "If the Spanish is written in code, it is truly meant for an agent."
Mairi turned away, watching sky and hills and sheep and two men on horseback, all tiny, meaningless figures while her thoughts tumbled. She had never told Rowan that she had found those papers in Iain's loft. And now she dreaded that Anna might find Iain's name among the foreign words. Doubt shook her.
After murmuring with Anna, Rowan came toward Mairi. "You must tell me where you got that letter. This did not come from a king's messenger. It is a secret correspondence, never meant to be seen by the crown."
"Believe what you will," she said stiffly. "Truce day is in two days. I will not give you any cause to suspect my brother—or your own—any further."
He sighed. "You did not take it from a messenger."
She looked down, shook her head.
"I promised to help Iain," he said. "But I cannot if you will not tell me what you know."
"I found them," she said woodenly. "I just found them."
He sighed heavily. "Why are you so afraid to tell me?"
"You are the warden's deputy."
"Did your brother give it to you?"
"I cannot tell you. The council wants you to prove his guilt. Simon wants to prove his guilt."
"I gave you my word that I would help you," he said.
"You also promised the council to find some spies. And you are not truly convinced Iain is innocent."
"I am trying to see it. God, I am trying," he said fiercely. "But you will protect him and will not believe me when I say that I am doing what I can to help."
She hunched her shoulders, turned away, his words hurting, the truth hurting more. Rowan turned and walked away.
She bowed her head. She was not afraid to trust Rowan. But she was not completely sure that Iain was innocent, and she was afraid to face that.
As she looked out the window, she suddenly noticed something and straightened. The two horsemen had ridden closer, and she recognized Jock and Sandie, riding toward Blackdrummond Tower.
Jock held a small bundle in his lap, a bundle with glossy black curls and small hands that lifted in excitement.
She turned. "Open the yett. Jamie's come home."
Anna gasped and tossed the letter aside as she ran toward the door.
Chapter 24
At Kershope-foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lily lee...
—"Hobie Noble"
Pale mist flowed soft in the early light as the horses moved through it. Mairi shivered, flexing her hands on the reins. She felt her twin's presence near—was sure of it.
The warden, his troopers, and the prisoner had not yet arrived at the truce meeting, but she had felt Iain's nearness for the last hour, as if he touched her shoulder or whispered in her ear. She closed her eyes and sent him caring, and hope.
Beside her, Rowan sat Valentine. They waited here, a short distance from the foot of the Kershope burn, since before dawn, having ridden from Blackdrummond in darkness. With the sunrise had come the white, obscuring mist.
She pulled her cloak close and adjusted the skirt of the blue serge gown. She had worn the borrowed gown, not wanting to look like a reiver or a highway thief this day, of all days.
Jock was mounted on a tall black stallion to her other side, and Sandie sat beside him. Behind them was Devil's Christie, along with others who had accompanied them to the truce meeting; Nebless Will Scott and his sons Richie and Andrew, and other Scotts and Armstrongs, all waited quietly in the mist.
More men gathered as the time passed, drifting over the large field near the Kershope burn, at the border between England and Scotland. She heard scraps of low conversation and the creaking of horse trappings through fog. Rowan and Jock murmured that over a hundred Scotsmen waited already, with many more to arrive by late morning.
"Simon comes, just there," Rowan said, his voice carrying quietly. Mairi looked around to see fifty or more riders crossed the flat moor through swirling white mist.
Simon Kerr led his troopers, a motley assortment of grim faces beneath brim helmets, wearing steel breastplates or leather jacks, and armed with swords, lances, pistols, and bows.
Mairi watched them advance through the fog. Simon rode between his land sergeant, John Hepburn, and a tall blond man. She narrowed her eyes, but could not see Iain, although she felt him so strongly now that her hands and knee
s trembled. Beneath her, Peg, usually placid, began to sidestep nervously.
Simon raised his hand and the troopers halted while the blond man rode forward and reined in his gray horse. "God's greeting, Blackdrummond," he said pleasantly, then touched his helmet brim. "Mairi Macrae—or is it Lady Scott now?" She blinked in surprise, for she had never met the man. "I'm Archibald Pringle, a deputy in the Middle March."
"Master Pringle," she murmured. He smiled, and his brown eyes looked kind.
"We've come, as I told Simon we would," Rowan said.
"The warden is eager to begin with the readings of the bills of complaint. He wishes to be rid of one prisoner in particular," Archie added.
"Aye. Where is Iain Macrae?" Rowan asked sharply.
Archie frowned and looked at Mairi. "You have not seen your brother since he was taken, I think," he said. "Follow me." He turned his horse.
Without hesitation, she spurred her horse across the field after Archie. Simon glared but said nothing as Archie led her behind a row of troopers.
Her brother sat a black hobbler between two mounted guards, his head bowed forward, hair lank and dirty, hanging down. His hands were tied in front of him, and had a brown cloak over his shoulders against the cold, over torn and dirty clothing. Mairi urged Peg forward, stretching out her hand.
"Iain," she said softly.
He looked up, gray eyes the color of the fog. His bruised jaw and the dark circles under his eyes made him appear dull-witted. But his eyes snapped with will and life. "Mairi!"
She rest her hand on his bound hands. Tears welled in her eyes and her throat tightened. She leaned to press her cheek to his whiskered jaw. "Ach, leth—"
"Leth," he whispered. Twin. Suddenly it meant more to her than she had ever known. She pulled back, keeping her hand over his cold fingers. "I hoped you would be here," he said in Gaelic. "But Archie said you are also charged with a crime."
"I am," she answered in Gaelic. "We both have trials."
"What is the complaint against you?"
She glanced around, but was sure that no one but Iain would understand her rapid Gaelic. "I knew that the king's council might send a warrant ordering your death. So I rode out, and took the papers and pouches from any king's messengers who rode past on the Lincraig road," she murmured.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You what!"
"The warrant got through anyway. I'm sorry, Iain—"
"Hush," he said softly. "You have only my thanks. Have you heard from our parents?"
She shook her head. "I sent a letter to them at the Danish court months ago, but nothing has come back as yet." She squeezed his hand. "We will come out of this safely, both of us. Wait and see."
He nodded, frowning. "Is Jennet with you?"
"Nay. But she's well, and your son is strong and handsome." Her lip trembled as she smiled. "Rowan Scott of Blackdrummond is here with me. We—we were just wed," she blurted. "It happened so fast. A surprise to... many."
"Fast or well thought out, I know you would only wed for love, girl. I have met this Blackdrummond. He is an honorable one." He looked at her keenly. "And you love him, I think?"
She looked down. "I... think so, aye. I am confused about so many things," she said softly. "Ach, Iain, I have believed all along in your innocence, but—"
"But there is so much against me," he finished for her. "Simon does not want to consider my story. He only wants to hand me over to the English warden and be done with it. He needs to capture a spy with the council on him over some things, and he thinks he's found a rascal in me, with no evidence to convince him otherwise."
"I found a letter," she said quickly. "In Spanish."
He glanced at her sharply. "Where is it now?"
"Rowan has it," she said.
He shook his head. "Mairi, that letter—"
"Hey, lass." A mounted trooper moved toward her and took hold of Peg's bridle. "The warden wants to see you. Come on."
Mairi grasped Iain's hand. "I will be there when they read the complaint against you," she said in Gaelic. He nodded, and she let go of his hand as her horse was led away.
Simon turned in his saddle to see Mairi approaching. "You are to stay under guard o' my troopers, since you're one o' the accused," he said, and motioned her guard to lead her horse away. Mairi opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she heard hoofbeats. She glanced over her shoulder to see Rowan rein in beside her.
"She stays wi' me," he said firmly.
"She's got a bill o' complaint against her," Simon snapped.
"On truce day, any accused man—or woman—is free to roam the truce field. When her hearing is called, she'll attend."
"That means Iain can walk freely here, too, so long as he stays on the field," Mairi said quickly.
Rowan nodded. "She's right, Simon. I'll take responsibility for him."
Simon's black-browed face went dark and dangerous. "As soon as the meeting commences, I'll see that she and her brother have their trials." A shout rose nearby, and Simon turned. "Ah, the English warden has arrived." He cantered across the field with several troopers.
"We'll see what plans the other warden has," Rowan murmured.
Sitting her horse alongside her husband, Mairi watched through a veil of rain and fog as Simon and his men rode the length of the field toward the waters of the Kershope burn, its flat banks edged with oak trees.
Beyond that wide water lay English soil, where two hundred riders and more gathered on the opposite side of the stream. As Simon approached, a few men broke away from the larger English group to approach the water's edge.
* * *
Clearly the English warden had other plans, Rowan thought later, walking Valentine and Peg together across the crowded field. Mairi and Iain would not be tried first, despite Simon's demands, but would wait their turns on a long list of offenders, English and Scottish both.
As he led the horses toward a roped field where several animals grazed on grass or nuzzled bales of hay, Rowan glanced over at the wide meadow, where hundreds of men roamed. The banners of England and Scotland both flapped on poles near tents set up for the March wardens and the hearings.
A good deal of bickering had already taken place between Simon Kerr and Henry Forster, the English warden, over jury selections and the schedule of complaints. Rowan, as a second deputy only, was glad to escape the discussions.
He knew the English warden too well. Sir Henry Forster had confined Rowan in his manor house for two years as a prisoner of rank. Just seeing the man's pasty face brought back memories he would rather forget. But he and Forster had a grudging respect for one another. He felt sure that Sir Henry would not cause him undue trouble; he also knew the man disliked Simon.
What had gladdened him, on this dreary and tense day, was seeing his friend Geordie Bell, Forster's deputy—they'd last met at the inn where Heckie had jumped him. Geordie had given him a quick grin and a handshake before being called to listen to the bills of complaint being read out.
Now, sniffing the savory woodsmoke as meat roasted over cooking fires, Rowan realized how hungry he was. Leaving the horses staked and grazing, he went to one side of the field where some enterprising merchants had set up cook shops and tables. Crowds waited to purchase food and ale, some of them eating at tables there, or walking further to watch a football match in progress further downfield.
Ordering an ale and a slab of juicy beef with crusty bread, Rowan sat to eat, glancing about for Mairi, who had gone off with Iain to stroll the grounds and find something to eat, and Rowan had discreetly given them some time alone to talk, promising to meet them at the cook shops. Earlier, at his insistence and with Archie Pringle's amiable cooperation, Iain had been unbound and given leave to walk the truce field with Mairi and Rowan, provided he stayed within sight.
He ate the meat quickly, hungrily, licking his fingers, and still had not spied his wife or her twin. Draining his ale cup, he set it aside and headed for the wardens' tent.
Someone
was reading one of the bills of complaint aloud as Rowan edged into the packed tent. Almost immediately he saw Mairi and Iain standing near the wardens' table, waiting their turn. Rowan had not heard their names called—the order must have been changed. He frowned.
Mairi glanced at him as he came near, her eyes wide and wary. He rested his hand on her shoulder and nodded to Iain.
Simon began to read a bill of complaint accusing the reiver who now stood before the table, in an open area scattered with straw. The man was unbound and fully armed, and his comrades stood nearby. Archie Pringle was taking notes, dipping a quill into an inkpot to scratch over a paper while Simon spoke.
"This complaint states that you, Richard Storey, an Englishman, rode onto the property of Mistress Beattie, a Scotswoman, in the middle o' the night," Simon said, his voice loud under the canvas tent top. "She claims you stole four milk cows and sixteen sheep. She claims you entered her house and took her pots and her children's coats and the covers off their beds. How do you answer?"
"I did that, aye," the reiver said. "But ask Mistress Beattie where her husband was that night."
"There is no complaint against Tom Beattie," Simon said.
"He was over in England, snatching my brother's cows that very night."
"Without a complaint, we know nothing of it. But you, Storey, are hereby ordered to pay Mistress Beattie an amount equal to three times the value o' her beasts and goods." Simon looked at the English warden. "Agreed, Sir Henry?"
"Agreed," Forster answered. Simon slammed the flat of his hand on the table in a final gesture. Archie made a note on a page and presented that to Richard Storey, who crammed it inside his jack and left the tent through an opening, where shafts of gray light spilled inside.
"Hector Elliot, Clemson Elliot, Martin Elliot, Thomas Storey called the Merchant," Simon read out. "Come forward and answer your accusers."
Rowan looked around, as did others. When no one came forward, Simon repeated the names, then sent a trooper to walk outside the tent to look for them.
"Nae here," the trooper said, returning. Murmurs drifted through the gathering inside the tent.
