“Stop playin' aboot—get 'im in the bloody water.” The leader was losing all patience. It took three of them to haul Heath Kennedy into the river, but still they couldn't hold him down long enough to drown him. “Help us, fer Christ's sake!” they admonished their companions.
Heath wrapped his iron-hard thighs about one of the men and dragged him beneath the water. Then he wrapped his legs about the swine's throat and clung to him doggedly. If they were going to drown him, he vowed to take one of them with him. In the end it took four of them to hold him down while their hulking leader stomped brutally on the captive's back with the heel of his boot, then sat on him until the thrashing quietened. Even then Heath Kennedy did not release the man he held underwater.
Gradually, Heath's strength ebbed away into the flowing river. He held his breath until he felt his lungs would burst. Slowly a feeling of euphoria stole over him and he began to relive events from his childhood. He saw his beautiful Gypsy mother, Lily Rose, and recognized her instantly, even though she had died giving birth to him. Although it was the middle of the night, he was suddenly enveloped in a brilliant white light and he experienced a feeling of joy. So this is Death, then, he thought with wonder, and then there was nothing.
When the five Borderers finally released their victim, his body rose to the surface. Another body bobbed up beside him, and the two floaters were taken by the current. The murderers splashed after them and hauled them up onto the riverbank. The leader removed the thong from Heath Kennedy's bound wrists, then turned him face up with his boot. He shook his head in disbelief, “Christ, they said Black Ram Douglas was tougher than boiled owl an' they were bloody well right.” He cast a baleful glance over the other drowned body and cursed, “Another firkin' corpse tae carry home.”
Raven Carleton entered the stables silently in the predawn darkness, yet the hunting birds in the mews above immediately sensed her presence and set up their raucous welcome.
“Peste,” she muttered, trying her best to ignore them as she stroked the nose of her pony, Sully, and led him from the stable without a saddle. She felt a stab of guilt as she pictured the hawks moving restlessly on their perches, some wearing their little hoods. Raven, however, resolutely cast away the guilt, knowing she must ride away her feelings of resentment that had banished sleep, before she attended her birds. Training raptors required patience, coupled with an inner calm, and Raven hoped that a ride along the shore at sunrise would restore her tranquility.
Because Raven preferred the freedom of comfortable clothes for riding, she wore a divided skirt, topped by a loose shirt that belonged to her brother. The moment she mounted her sturdy Border pony he began to run. Sully needed little guidance to the River Eden, which emptied into Solway Firth. Raven never tired of riding along the shore of the Solway, for it divided England from Scotland and offered magnificent open vistas of the sea and the purple mountains beyond. When the constraints of Rockcliffe Manor and the strictures of her parents closed in to make her feel trapped, Raven's need for freedom was almost always restored by a gallop along the seacoast.
It had been the usual bone of contention that precipitated the argument between Raven and her mother. Breeding hunting birds, in Katherine Carleton's opinion, was downright unladylike. “In fact, it borders on scandalous!” she had told Raven last night.
“Then what would you like me to breed?” Raven challenged.
“That is precisely the problem—a lady should not be involved in breeding anything whatsoever.”
“Then how did you manage to have three children, Mother?” Raven asked with wide-eyed innocence.
“That is enough, young lady. Lancelot! Can you not hear the defiance and mockery in your daughter's voice? Mark my words, she will end up a spinster if she persists in her odd behavior.”
“But my brother Heron breeds hunting dogs, and you never find fault with him,” Raven pointed out.
“We have been over this a thousand times, Raven. If you had been born a male, you could breed whatever you wished.”
A passel of bastards? Raven thought wickedly. “My gender should have nothing to do with it. If I did it badly, I could understand your objection, but I do it well.”
“In theory, she is right, Katherine,” Lance Carleton remarked.
“Lancelot, how can you continually undermine me? Raven should not be spending her days in Rockcliffe Marsh, flying those wretched hawks; she should be polishing her social skills and learning how to run a household. Why, she is like some wild creature!”
Sir Lance Carleton winked at his daughter. “In theory, she is right, Raven. Your mother wants me to clip your wings. When you go to Carlisle and visit the Dacres, you will have to pretend to be a lady, at least until we get you safely betrothed.”
“Christopher Dacre likes me the way I am!” Raven declared.
I'll just bet he does, thought Carleton as he observed his beautiful, black-haired daughter.
“We do not want him to like you, we want him to marry you. No gentleman wants a wife with a sharp tongue and a defiant, willful nature. If you do not change your ways— and your attitude—your sister Lark will make a good marriage long before you do.”
“I love Lark; don't pit us against each other.”
“What a wicked accusation. Seek your room!”
As dawn turned the sky to pale gold, Raven felt her spirits begin to lift. She breathed in the salt tang as if it were the elixir of life, as Sully's galloping hooves dug into the sandy shale along the shore. The pique she felt toward her mother melted away, and the corners of her generous mouth lifted. Raven knew she was willful, with a temper of fire, and admitted that her mother only wanted what was best for her. Her mother had been plain Kate Heron until she made a good marriage and became the wife of Sir Lancelot Carleton, the constable of Carlisle Castle. The Herons were an English Border clan, and it had been nothing short of a miracle to Kate when she had snared an English gentleman in the matrimonial trap. Now Katherine expected both of her daughters to “marry up” and elevate their social status, as she had done. She never tired of warning her girls about Borderers. “Look at my brother and male cousins, uncouth uncivilized louts the lot of them! All Borderers are alike: dark, dominant, overbold, swaggering swine, and a danger to every female they encounter!”
Raven knew her mother would be ecstatic if a marriage could be arranged with Christopher Dacre, son and heir of Lord Thomas Dacre, Head Border Warden of the English Marches. Christopher had been educated in London and had come north less than a year ago to fight with his regiment at Flodden, where the uncivilized Scots had been brought to their knees once and for all.
Raven smiled her secret smile. The union did not displease her; moreover, she would be in Carlisle next week as a guest of the Dacres. She lifted her head and exulted in the feel of the wind whipping her hair about her shoulders and her skirt about her bare legs. Anticipation bubbled up inside her—she would lead Chris Dacre on a merry chase!
CHAPTER 2
Heath Kennedy opened his eyes and saw the stars above him fading with the dawn. So, I am not dead after all, he thought, only half dead by the feel of it! He lay still, drawing power and warmth from the earth into his hard, well-muscled body, and willed himself to stop shivering. Earth healing was an old Celtic belief. He moved his long, powerful legs apart and stretched out his arms with the palms flat on the ground so that his body formed a pentagram, or five-pointed star. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to merge with the earth's energy. He sensed its pulsations and matched his breathing to the rhythm of nature. Slowly he became one with the earth and rocks upon which he lay, taking the power of nature into his own body and absorbing the beat of life.
Heath did not know how long he lay there, but gradually he felt the pulse strengthen until he could actually hear it pounding. He opened his eyes and rolled over onto his stomach as he suddenly realized that it was hoofbeats he could hear!
Heath Kennedy caught his breath as he saw a girl riding like the wind
along the shore. As he focused his whole attention upon her, the aches and pains of his body diminished. The girl's beautiful black hair streamed out behind her like a proud banner, and it was obvious that she had a free spirit and loved nature as much as he did. She rode bareback and seemed not to know, or care, that her skirt had ridden up to expose her long, bare legs. He took her for a Gypsy girl, yet he was sure he did not know her. Such a female would be unforgettable.
Heath got to his knees, then slowly, without taking his eyes from the rider, he stood up. He knew she saw him, for she suddenly tossed her head and urged her mount to a reckless speed. Her black Border pony was surefooted and bred for stamina, yet the wild gallop to the far end of the beach showed a wanton desire to display her riding skill. The female hardly slowed as she pivoted her pony and rode directly toward him at full gallop.
Heath, who had no intention of moving from her path, planted his feet firmly and laughed at her folly. “Where is the rest of the band camped?” he called.
At the last minute she drew rein and slid down from the pony's back. “What band?” she demanded in a challenging voice.
“The Gypsies. You are a Gypsy, are you not?”
Raven stopped dead, four feet away from him. The features of her beautiful face were frozen in outrage. “A Gypsy?” she repeated in disbelief. “You ignorant swine, I have never been so offended in my life! How dare you offer me such insult?” Raven was stunned that the dark Borderer had mistaken her for a ragtag Gypsy. Her contemptuous glance ran over his bare chest and shoulders with their powerful muscles and corded tendons. He was probably looking for a quick tumble. “I am a lady! My father is Sir Lancelot Carleton. We own Rockcliffe Marsh, upon which you, sir, are trespassing!”
Now that Heath saw her close up, he could see that she was no Gypsy. Her skin was like roses and cream rather than dusky, and her eyes were a startling lavender-blue. He also could see her aura, which was a matching shade of lavender against her black hair. “An English lady.” He gave her a mocking bow and winced inwardly at the pain it caused him. “That is too bad.”
Raven's chin went up immediately and her temper flared. “Why so?” she challenged.
“Gypsy girls have fire in their blood—English ladies have ice.”
She dug her fists into her hips. “Well, there is no mistaking what you are: an insolent Borderer, most likely a Scot to boot!” Raven was amazed at her own temerity. An aura of danger surrounded the dark man before her, and he exuded a sense of threat.
Her words did not offend him, rather they flattered him. Heath Kennedy was indeed first and foremost a Borderer and a Scot. When she looked at him as if he were the scum of the earth, he smiled inwardly, wondering what she would think if she knew he had a little Gypsy blood mixed in there too.
Raven swallowed her fear of the dark and dangerous man who stood before her and said with bravado, “You had better be off before my brother sets his dogs on you and my father arrests you for trespass!”
Heath smiled wryly. He knew Lance Carleton had once been constable of Carlisle Castle, but thought his years must sit heavily upon him now that he was lame and had been put out to pasture, so to speak. For his service to the Crown, however, he had been appointed an official who sat in judgment at the Border Wardens' Courts, which were held four times a year. “If Sir Lancelot saw you showing off your bare legs so shamefully, he would tan your arse, I warrant.”
Raven could not prevent the blush that rose to her cheeks, because there was truth in his words. This, of course, made her so angry she did not trust herself to retort. Instead she shot him a look of scorn, turned her back upon him, and remounted her pony.
The blush told him that she was an innocent lass, despite her haughty pride. He felt an instant attraction toward the spirited beauty, in spite of her disdain. Heath allowed her to ride a short distance away from him before he put two fingers to his lips and whistled. Her pony stopped in his tracks, turned, and trotted back toward Heath.
“Sully! Whoa! Whoa, boy! Sully, stop!” Raven cried.
Sully did stop, but not until he stood in front of Heath Kennedy. The bare-chested Borderer reached out a hand and scratched the pony's nose, and Sully moved forward to nudge him.
“What in hell's name are you doing?” Raven demanded furiously, suddenly realizing the danger was real.
Heath's fingers took hold of Sully's bridle. “My dearest lady, I find myself in dire straits this morning. I am in need of a mount, and like an angel of mercy you have delivered one into my hands. I pledge to return him at my first convenient opportunity.”
Raven laughed in his face. “Give you Sully? You must be mad!”
Heath nodded his head. “A mad Borderer, and a Scot to boot! Allow me to help you dismount.”
For the first time Raven's eyes revealed that fear mingled with her fury. She kicked out at him, but he deftly caught her ankle and pulled her from the pony's back. He let go of the reins, and Sully stood obedient to his signal as Heath took Raven firmly by the shoulders and looked down at her. “There is something else that I lust for, my proud beauty.” His fingers deftly unbuttoned her shirt.
Raven's eyes widened in shock. “You would ravish me?”
“Another time, perhaps, my lady. Today I only desire the shirt off your back.”
Raven's mouth fell open as he plucked the shirt from her, leaving her clad in only her feminine undergarment. She began to pant with rage. “You filthy Scots bastard, stealing horses is a hanging offense, and you will swing, so help me God!”
Heath mounted Sully. “I will not cavil at ‘bastard,’ but I do object to the word ‘filthy.’ I bathed in the River Eden last night. I bid you adieu, until we meet again.”
Though Heath Kennedy would have liked to ride straight back to Eskdale Castle and his sister Tina, he realized one man would be of little aid. Instead, he must find Ram Douglas and tell him what had happened. Ramsay was the Warden of the West Scottish March, with a force of fifty moss-troopers to do his bidding, and at the moment they were patrolling the county of Dumfrieshire. Heath crossed the border and headed west, thankful that his worst injury was no more than a cracked rib. He patted the neck of the sturdy animal he rode, gritting his teeth against the jarring pain, but adding it to the score he would settle with the evil son of a bitch behind the plot to kill Ram Douglas.
The memory of the dark beauty with the fiery temper was far more pleasant to think about. Heath understood that all young creatures had a need to be wild and free. Most respectable young women had it stifled out of them by the time they left childhood, but a few, like his sister Valentina, remained free spirits all their lives. Tina was the only one in the family with whom Heath had ever felt close. He was a by-blow of Rob Kennedy, Lord of Galloway, and his father's legitimate family considered him an outcast, all except Tina. She had married powerful Lord Ramsay Douglas, and as a result, he and Ram had become fast friends.
Heath thought of them now and marveled at what a perfect match they were for each other. Though Tina and Ram had started out as enemies, they had fallen so deeply in love, they were mated for life, and Black Ram Douglas worshipped the ground Tina walked on. They were about to have their first child, and Heath envied them, longing for a family of his own. Then he laughed at his own folly. Before he could have a family, he needed a wife. Heath had no trouble attracting females, but a wife was another matter entirely. Gypsy girls were amoral and did not interest him beyond sex, and any self-respecting young woman, be she English or Scot, would never marry a landless bastard, especially one with Gypsy blood.
Heath rode only a dozen miles before he found Douglas and his men at Annan. The smell of wood smoke was thick in the air, and he could see that the town had been burned. The Douglas men had put out the fires and were now busy tending burns.
“Whoreson English!” Ram cursed. “We got here too late tae catch them. They set fire tae a dozen small villages as well as Annan.” Ram took a good look at Heath and demanded, “What's amiss? Something has happe
ned tae Tina!”
“When I left, Tina was all right,” Heath assured him quickly, then went on to tell Ramsay how the raiders had dragged him from Eskdale Castle, thinking he was Lord Douglas.
“Whoreson English!” Ram repeated. “Greedy fer ransom.”
“They did not want ransom, they wanted you dead! And I'm not convinced they were English; I have a suspicion they were Scots!”
Ram's heavy black brows drew down in a frown. King James had outlawed clan feuds and put an end to them by bonds of blood and marriage. Cattle were still lifted, but Scots no longer killed each other. “Nay, man, yer wrong! Douglas power is a threat tae the English throne. We need tae get word tae Archie Douglas tae watch his back. The new Earl of Angus will be the next target. By now they may have sniffed out the secret that he intends tae wed our late king's widow, Margaret Tudor.” Marriage with James IV's widow would make Archibald Douglas the ruling Regent of Scotland, because King James V was a two-year-old infant.
“I'll need a fresh mount,” Heath said. “I don't want to harm this Border pony.”
“That's not all ye need by the look of ye.” Ram examined Heath, saw the bruised ribs, and used the linen shirt Heath had worn to bind him tightly. Ram gave him a horse and a leather jack, then called his men together. “We are for Eskdale, lads; we've done all we can here.”
As the riders crossed from Annandale into Eskdale, Heath said ruefully, “The filthy swine stole all the horses, except for Tina's Indigo. I had her safe in the pasture by the river.”
Ram nodded knowingly. “No cattle or sheep; the beasts would slow them down too much, and the horses have more value.”
“I intend to get them back,” Heath said implacably.
Ram's pewter gaze flicked over him. “They will be miles across the Border by now.”
“Maybe,” Heath conceded, “but maybe not. They looked like Scots Borderers to me.”
Ram shook his head. “Borderers all look alike and sound alike. At the Border Wardens' Court meetings, the only way ye can distinguish English Borderers from Scots is by their clan badges.”
The Border Hostage Page 2