The Reiver

by Campbell, Glynnis

  “Right,” Rauf replied. “And I’ll stand watch o’er the herd tonight, in case the Moffat lads return for the lass.”

  “Good.” As Rauf headed outdoors, Macintosh nodded to the old woman. “Mabel?”

  “M’laird?”

  “Can ye see to the lads?”

  “O’ course. Are ye sure ye’re…” The woman glanced at Cristy, as if she suspected Cristy might have mischief in mind.

  Cristy did have mischief in mind. But she lowered her gaze and tried to appear suitably humbled.

  “I’ll be fine,” Macintosh assured her. “But be sure and close the lads’ chamber door.”

  “Kiss us, Da,” one of them said.

  “I’ll come and kiss ye when ye’re in your bed,” the laird said.

  For an instant, Cristy felt a pang in her heart. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed her goodnight.

  “Goodnight, bonnie lady,” the other lad called from the stairwell.

  Caught completely off-guard, Cristy mumbled back, “Goodnight.”

  Hand-in-hand with Mabel, the lads climbed the stairs, disappearing into the dark.

  And then there were just the two of them in the great hall.

  Now that she could get a good look at the laird, she realized how tall and formidable he was. He stood a full head above her, and his shoulders were nearly as wide as a doorway. It must have taken yards of linen to make a leine broad enough to span his chest.

  “Cristy, is it?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Ye can call me Brochan.”

  “Brochan.”

  “Aye.”

  He was still holding her hand. It felt very improper now. With the casual air of a courting gentleman, he escorted her across the hall, stopping in front of a great cupboard.

  “Listen, Cristy, I don’t want ye to fret.” He gave her hand what was probably supposed to be a comforting pat. “I truly mean ye no harm.”

  It took all of Cristy’s willpower to appear docile and obedient, resisting the urge to snatch back her hand.

  Until he opened the cupboard door and pulled out the shackles.

  Chapter 4

  Brochan hadn’t been fooled for a moment by the lass’s meek and mild behavior. She might appear to be tamed. But he’d seen the intrigue seething behind her innocent eyes.

  He’d raised twin sons, after all. He’d encountered every manipulation known to man.

  As predicted, once she saw the shackles, she began screaming in fury.

  But he was prepared for her resistance. And now that his sons were safely upstairs, behind a closed door, he could ignore her screams. While she tugged back frantically on her captured hand and batted at him with her free one, he simply bent down and slipped one of the shackles around her ankle.

  Then he lifted up the wee cursing lass, carried her to the hearth, and clapped the other shackle around the heavy iron fireplace crane.

  “I may be kindhearted,” he told her, “but I’m not a fool.”

  He gave the long, thick chain between the shackles a shake, testing its strength. Then he removed all the fireplace tools she might consider using as weapons.

  While she called him every foul name he’d ever heard, he returned to the cupboard for a chamber pot. From the oak chest against the wall, he pulled out several thick sheepskins.

  She was practically hoarse from screaming by the time he dumped her amenities beside her.

  “Now ye have a choice,” he said between her curses. “Ye can either stop your squallin’, or I can fetch a gag to stuff betwixt your teeth. So what’ll it be?”

  That stopped her cries. But her dark eyes contained such smoldering hatred that he almost felt singed by her glare. Her hands were curled into tight fists. Her jaw was clenched as tight as a cockle. And her whole body heaved with the passion of her anger.

  For a brief moment, he thought it was a shame she was so full of fury. She was actually quite a lovely lass. Her hair was as black as night, and the tendrils that had come loose from her long braid curled gracefully over her shoulders. Her eyes matched her woolen kirtle—a deep, rich brown, like the color of a brook trout in a shadowy loch. Her skin looked as smooth and sun-kissed as honey, and her lips were a soft, inviting pink.

  In the next moment, her dark bruise caught his eye, and he wondered what kind of heartless brute would clout such a bonnie lass across the face.

  Then he realized it was none of his affair. His hands were too full, raising his own lads, to be concerned with how the Moffats treated their cousin. Even if he did feel sorry for the lass.

  Nodding to approve her choice of silence, he returned to the cupboard for a sheet of vellum, ink, and a quill. Then he sat at the trestle table.

  “Your uncle’s name?” he asked, dipping the quill.

  She glared at him in silence. The lass was decidedly more stubborn than his sons.

  “Fine. Ye have another choice to make. Ye can either tell me, I’ll write the missive, and then I’ll leave ye in peace,” he said, “or I can stay here, waitin’, until ye feel the need to use the chamber pot. Maybe then ye’ll tell me.”

  She glowered at him in disgust. “Douglas,” she spat.

  He wrote. “To Laird…Douglas…Moffat.”

  While he finished penning his demand, Cristy arranged the sheepskins to her liking and flounced down upon them, deliberately facing away from him.

  He picked up the candle on the trestle table.

  “Goodnight, Cristy. I’ll send this out at dawn. If all goes well, Moffat will return my coos, and ye’ll be back home, safe and sound, by midday.”

  She didn’t answer him, but he doubted she was asleep. As vexed as she was, she’d probably toss and turn half the night before she finally drifted off.

  Carrying the candle, he started toward the stairs. He’d promised his sons a goodnight kiss. It was something the lads insisted upon. And he was glad to do it. One day, they’d grow too old for the ritual. And he’d miss it.

  As curious as it was, when he passed by the lass, he was tempted to stop and give her a kiss as well. She might be fierce and angry, but he sensed that beneath the surface, there was something vulnerable, some sad, neglected part of her that was starved for affection.

  Again, it was not his affair. He couldn’t save every small, suffering creature that crossed his path. He had too many other things to look after.

  Colin and Cambel were sleeping back-to-back in their big bed when he eased open their chamber door. It was still odd to him that strangers couldn’t tell the difference between the lads. To Brochan, they were as different as night and day.

  The stars shone through the narrow window. It was a balmy evening, so he left the shutters open and banked the coals of the fire.

  When he bent down to press his lips to Colin’s brow, he suddenly remembered the comet. He glanced out the window, but it wasn’t visible from here. He’d have to take the lads out to see it on the morrow.

  He leaned over farther to kiss Cambel’s brow. And it was then he recalled the tavern wench’s prophecy.

  She’d told him he could change his stars tonight. Was it just a coincidence that she’d chosen that word? Or was it possible she’d seen the comet as well?

  It was accepted knowledge that comets foretold change. Brochan didn’t really believe that. But it was admittedly eerie to have a tavern wench predict that his destiny would hang in the balance, this night of all nights, when a stranger had just entered his life.

  Cristy thumbed away the stupid tear trickling down her cheek and gazed into the blurry flames on the hearth. There was no use in weeping. There was naught she could do now to change what had happened. Or what was going to happen.

  Brochan Macintosh was going to get his cows back. What other choice did the Moffats have but to return them?

  Her uncle would be furious. Her cousins would be disappointed. She was dreading their banishment almost more than the beating Douglas Moffat would give her.

  After Macintosh
had headed upstairs, she’d tried to free herself. She’d struggled with the shackle until her already twisted ankle was scraped raw. But it was no use. She couldn’t escape.

  She supposed it could be worse. Macintosh could have run her through with a sword. He could have hanged her. He could have decided to keep her prisoner. At least he was willing to ransom her.

  And it wasn’t so terrible here. He’d given her sheepskins to lie on. They were softer and warmer than the scratchy wool coverlet she used at home. The fire was pleasant, though the summer air was mild enough not to need its warmth. And he’d left her a chamber pot.

  She rolled onto her back and peered around the great hall. It looked a bit unkempt. But he’d only lived here a short while. And it appeared his only servants were the pair he’d called Rauf and Mabel. With so few inhabitants, it was no wonder her cousins had been able to steal his cattle so easily.

  The Moffat clan had at least a dozen servants, and four alone were in charge of the cows—two lads to watch over them and two maids to milk them each day and night. How Macintosh managed to keep track of his herd, which was double the size of theirs, she didn’t know.

  Maybe his sons worked in the field. They were young, but they seemed clever enough to watch over cows.

  She’d never seen two lads who looked so alike, with matching russet hair and freckled noses. They must be twins. She’d never seen twins before. She wondered if Macintosh ever got them confused.

  One of the wee lads had said Cristy was bonnie.

  She smirked. Nobody ever said that about her. Her hair was too black. Her eyes were too fierce. Her skin was too dark. Obviously, the lad hadn’t seen many lasses.

  She wondered where the lads’ mother was. Since the old woman had put them to bed, maybe their mother was dead like hers.

  They were lucky at least to have a father—a father who kissed them goodnight and taught them not to curse and would brave the edge of a sword to protect them.

  She gazed into the slowly dying fire, watching the flames double and blur as moisture again filled her eyes.

  Despite the fact he’d lain awake half the night, Brochan rose at dawn, as he did every morn. And as usual, he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes while mentally reviewing what he needed to do for the day.

  First he’d wake Colin and Cambel and send them out to milk the cows. Mabel would be up already, baking oatcakes. Rauf was supposed to help him rebuild the stone wall around the garden this morn, and Mabel had promised to see what she could salvage of the overgrown herbs there. Brochan also had to tally the payments his uncle owed to the local vendors, for the old man had neglected to pay for some of the goods and services he’d received in the last year.

  Then there were the stores that needed to be tossed out—broken crockery, soured ale, mouse-riddled grain. Once that was done, he’d have to account for what remained and replace what was necessary to survive the winter. It was going to be a long day.

  Sitting up and swinging his feet over the edge of the pallet, he scratched at his stubbled jaw and blinked against the rising sun.

  All at once he remembered the lass.

  Damn. His well-ordered day was going to be even longer. Before he did anything else, he had to get his cows back and return Cristy Moffat.

  Fully alert now, he threw on his leine and trews and raked his hands back through his hair before descending the stairs.

  When he came into the great hall, what he saw at the hearth took his breath away. And then it took his heart away.

  Cristy Moffat—sprawled like a queen across a mountain of sheepskins, coverlets, and furs—was snoring blissfully away beside the fire. Tucked around her, fast asleep—one on the left, one on the right—were his sons.

  His chest tightened with fear, seeing Colin and Cambel so close to the woman who’d come at him with a sword last night.

  Then he looked at the tangle of coverlets and realized they belonged to his sons. They must have sneaked down sometime in the middle of the night. A thick knot lodged in his throat. The fact that the lads were curled up around the lass like orphan pups tugged painfully at his heart.

  He heard Mabel coming up the kitchen stairs behind him.

  She whispered, “Forgive me, m’laird. I didn’t have the heart to disturb them. But I don’t think she’d hurt the lads.”

  He nodded.

  Then she stepped beside him and cocked her head at the sight. “I fear the wee things miss havin’ a mother.”

  Brochan clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time Mabel had brought up the subject. She nagged him at every opportunity about getting a mother for the lads. She seemed to think Brochan could easily solve the problem by just snapping up some convenient wench to be a mother to his sons. It didn’t seem to occur to Mabel that the lass would also be his wife. And that Brochan would never find a wife to equal the one he’d had.

  He murmured through clenched teeth, “Don’t ye have breakfast to attend to?”

  Her cheer undiminished, she replied, “Aye, and I’ve made a hearty frumenty for our guest. The poor thing looks half-starved.”

  Brochan scowled at Mabel as she wheeled merrily and scurried back downstairs to the kitchens.

  Frumenty? The old woman never made frumenty for him.

  And guest? Cristy Moffat was definitely not a guest. She’d said it herself. She was a hostage. Brochan needed to get his cows back, and she was simply the means to achieve that.

  Still, as he leaned a shoulder against the wall and continued to watch the dozing threesome, he couldn’t help but smile when the delicate lass emitted a decidedly unladylike snort. Colin raised his sleepy head once to check on her and then shut his eyes and snuggled closer against her hip. Cambel turned over in his sleep and draped an arm over her thighs.

  Brochan felt the familiar burden of guilt settle onto his shoulders. Was Mabel right to nag him? Was he being cruel to his sons by not remarrying? Were they hungry for maternal affection?

  He perused the lovely lass. Could he be happy with someone like her?

  Of course, no one would ever compare to his dear departed wife. And certainly a lass who reived cattle was not the sort of woman a proper laird should wed.

  Contrary to what Mabel had said, the lass didn’t look half-starved. She had a gently rounded bosom and a small waist, and where she’d kicked off the covers, her dark chestnut skirts had slipped up to reveal long, graceful legs.

  Then his gaze lowered to the shackle he’d fastened around her ankle. He scowled, pushing off from the wall in concern. The skin around the iron ring was broken and bloody. She must have tried to squeeze out of it.

  He couldn’t understand why. After all, he’d assured her he didn’t intend to hurt her. He’d shown her kindness and mercy. He’d promised to return her as soon as he had his cattle. Why should she be so determined to escape?

  Then he remembered that someone had given her that black eye.

  While he was pondering all of that, she must have stirred. When he lifted his gaze again, she was staring at him. He wondered how long she’d been awake.

  Startled, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Did ye sleep well?”

  He could have cursed himself for asking such a thing. Of course, she hadn’t slept well. She was a hostage. She was lying on the floor of a stranger’s great hall. Her ankle was bloody. And she was serving as a pillow for two presumptuous five-year-olds.

  She must have agreed it was an inane question, because she didn’t reply. And when she rose up on her elbows and frowned down at Colin and Cambel, Brochan panicked for one brief instant as he realized she could easily wrap the shackle chain around one of the lads’ throats.

  But she didn’t seem vexed or violent. Instead, she appeared puzzled. And when she moved to sit up, the lads woke.

  Eager to defuse the volatile situation, Brochan motioned to his sons. “Wake up, lads. ’Tis past time to milk the coos.”

  Cambel apparently felt he had to explain the circumstances. “We were worried
about m’lady, Da.”

  “We didn’t want her to get cold,” Colin said, discreetly pulling Cristy’s skirts back down over her legs to protect her modesty.

  It took all Brochan’s willpower not to grin at his son’s gentlemanly gesture.

  Brochan cleared his throat. “I’m sure she appreciates your concern, lads. But I fear a couple o’ coos need some attention as well. Be off with ye. They’ll be lowin’ soon if ye don’t tend to them.”

  The lads jumped up and, without even fetching their boots, scrambled out the door.

  As they did, Mabel arrived with a steaming bowl of frumenty. “Ah, ye’re awake. Here, lass,” she said, passing by Brochan to deliver the breakfast. “This should warm your bones and put a wee bit o’ meat on ye.”

  Cristy licked her lips as she looked at the bowl. Maybe Mabel was right. Maybe the lass was half-starved.

  With a quiet word of thanks, Cristy dove into the bowl of oats, cream, berries, and spices as if it were the food of the gods.

  Mabel seemed pleased. “’Tis my own grandma’s recipe, passed down to me by my ma.” She confided with a wink, “The secret is a wee bit o’ honey.”

  As Mabel continued to expound on her grandmother’s formula to their guest—their hostage, he corrected—Brochan couldn’t help but wonder where his frumenty was.

  Then he realized he really didn’t have time for frumenty. He already had too much to do today, and this whole ransom situation had thrown an extra cog into his normally smooth-running mill.

  “Did Rauf give the missive to Brother William?” he asked Mabel.

  “Aye, m’laird. He said he saw neither hide nor hair o’ the Moffat lads last night. So he sent your letter on to the laird with the monk. I’ve put Rauf to bed now so he’ll be rested to help ye later today.”

  Brochan nodded tersely. He’d forgotten that after being on watch all night, his man would need to sleep. That meant Brochan’s work was going to take that much longer. He definitely didn’t have time to break his fast.

  “Hopefully Rauf will be up and around by the time the coos come home,” he said, thinking aloud. “I could definitely use an extra pair o’ hands today.”