Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02]

by Border Lass

  Raising his eyebrows, Sir Garth said, “I don’t advise smacking me, lass. I’ve a fearsome temper, and striking me is the surest way I know to stir it.”

  Chapter 3

  Still holding Lady Amalie’s arm, Garth read the indecision in her face. Her hand remained poised to strike, and she looked angry enough. But he was confident that she would not dare. The roses in her cheeks were splendidly afire, though.

  With a sigh, she lowered her hand.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  “Pray, release me, sir. People are staring.”

  “Aye, sure; they want to see what will happen if you’re daft enough to strike someone so much larger than you are,” he said. He knew he was baiting her and was not certain why. He still held her arm, loosely.

  She met his gaze, her beautiful, thickly lashed hazel eyes narrowing. He could still see green and gold flecks glittering in their irises.

  She said, “Surely, they are more curious about why you grabbed me as you did. Moreover, I just left my brother Simon. If he should see you . . .”

  “He’d be wiser to keep his distance, don’t you think?”

  Grimacing, she said nonetheless tartly, “I cannot say what he would do. But if you mean to stand here, holding on to me, you will draw notice from more than just my brothers or my father.”

  Realizing he might draw Fife’s attention, or that of other members of the royal family—the lass did serve a princess, after all—Garth released her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Why did you stop me?”

  He smiled, remembering. “You looked so angry and so heedless of your direction. I thought I should stop you before you crashed into someone.”

  Realizing he was giving away more about himself than he was learning about her, he paused, trying to think. But he wanted only to touch her again.

  “Why should you care what I look like or where I go?” she asked.

  He considered himself a plainspoken man. But such a direct question from a female he barely knew derailed his feeble attempt to arrange his thoughts. Several answers occurred to him but not one he could repeat to her.

  Feeling defensive, he said, “Why are you angry? It cannot be my fault, because you were set to strike anyone. Has someone said something he should not?”

  “I cannot imagine how that is any concern of yours,” she said. “But if you mean to continue this conversation, pray escort me to the princess as we talk. She will wonder what has become of me. And if I have gone the wrong way, ’tis because I can scarcely see the right one through all these people.”

  Able to see over the heads of most of the crowd, he saw that the princess had taken her seat. Her other ladies were receiving platters and baskets from gillies to present for her selection. Although Isabel looked well cared for, he understood that she or one of her attendants would soon wonder why the lady Amalie was not helping, and might well condemn her tardiness.

  “I’ll take you to her, my lady, but I would like an answer to my question. Who or what has upset you so?”

  Her chin came up, and she gazed steadily at him. “You seem to think it is your right to quiz me whenever you like, sir. But you wield no authority over me.”

  “Do I not? I would remind you that as the only person aware that you put yourself in grave danger today, I must have some right to—”

  “Are you daft?” she demanded. “Do you dare to speak of that here, or was that a threat to report it elsewhere? Recall that the explanation of your presence would defy credulity unless the man I heard is the same one I just saw talking to you.”

  He hesitated, because two men had spoken to him as he’d left Moot Hill. Deciding she was likely to have recognized only Fife, and glad she’d had the sense not to name him even if no one in the teeming crowd was paying them heed, he said, “He approached me to say he hopes to see me at Stirling soon because—”

  “So you are friends with him,” she said, frowning. “That is odd, I think, because my brother Simon serves him. And that man thinks well enough of Simon to entrust him with duties he does not entrust to others. How is it that, if you are that man’s friend, you dared to knock Simon down as you did at Dunfermline?”

  “Because I did not know Simon then,” Garth said hastily. Realizing how that must sound, he added, “Sakes, but I still don’t. Moreover, I doubt he’d recognize me even face to face. I struck him because he was annoying you and I don’t like men who bully women. If you recall, I grabbed him from behind, swung him around, and knocked him down before he could possibly have seen me.”

  “But if he should learn who you are . . .” She peeped up at him from under her heavy lashes.

  He said dryly, “Are you suggesting that you might tell him?”

  Indignation banished the hopeful look. “Nay, I would not! I’m glad you hit him. But others there may have told him.”

  “If he knew then, nowt came of it. And if he finds out, I doubt he’ll complain. I’m not Fife’s friend, lass, but that incident won’t add to Simon’s credit with him.”

  “I suppose not,” she said as they drew near the royal table. “I see the princess now, sir,” she added with greater dignity. “Thank you for seeing me safely back.”

  “It was a pleasure, my lady,” he replied on the same note. Less formally, he said, “Isabel stays for the Queen’s coronation, does she not?”

  “Of course, but we leave for Sweethope Hill House after the feasting.”

  “The Queen’s feast also takes place here in the park, I expect.”

  “It does, aye,” she said. “But if you mean to accost me again as you did just now, sir, I warn you I shall not leave Isabel’s side.”

  He swept his cap from his head and bowed. “That must be as you will it, my lady. But it is not wise to keep your friends always at a distance.”

  “Are you my friend, Sir Garth? I have learned that one should rarely trust what any man says.”

  Checking the anger that always ignited at hearing his integrity questioned, he held her somber gaze and said evenly, “You can trust my word—always.”

  Without looking away, she said, “In my experience, a man is most dangerous when he declares himself trustworthy. Good day to you, sir.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare after her. Only then did he realize that she still had not told him who or what had made her so angry.

  As Amalie rejoined the other women and performed her part in attending the princess, she hoped her feelings did not show in her face. But she feared they might.

  She knew people were watching. They were always watching her—Isabel’s other ladies, if no one else—to see if she shirked her duties or did anything wrong.

  Long since, she had discovered that such was the way of women in groups. Even so, the ladies who served Isabel were more agreeable than many serving other members of the extensive royal family.

  Isabel, generally sunny-tempered herself, detested discord and quickly stifled it when it occurred. But some of her ladies attacked subtly, and Amalie knew that Isabel’s sitting by her at the coronation would have upset at least one of them.

  Not only were the others all of higher rank than Amalie, but she was also the youngest. Also, Isabel had invited her to join her household out of friendship.

  The two had met during an attempted seizure of Hermitage Castle, a Border stronghold of the Earls of Douglas. Isabel’s husband James Douglas had been not only the second earl but also kin to the Scotts of Buccleuch, because Wat Scott’s mother was a Douglas. With that kinship and the few years separating them in age, Isabel and Amalie had soon become good friends.

  The princess tended to talk with her as she might talk with a trusted sister rather than as she did with others. She had frankly admitted that she rarely allowed herself such openness with her other ladies, fearing that one of them might betray a confidence if doing so could benefit the woman or her family.

  Amalie had taken that comment to heart, knowing that her own mother would wa
nt her to pass on any tidbits that could serve the Murrays. That Isabel trusted her despite also knowing Lady Murray just made her trust a more precious gift, and one Amalie would never betray.

  The princess had discussed many things with her, including her belief that her husband James had been murdered. At first Isabel had shared that opinion with all who would listen, but she had soon come to realize that few people agreed with her. Most dismissed what she said or even feared for her sanity.

  Amalie listened sympathetically and had trouble stifling anger when others spoke pityingly of Isabel and her “insistence on perpetrating such a falsehood.” But she understood other people’s need to remember James simply as a great hero.

  Neither she nor the princess had been at Otterburn, of course. Nor had she been with Isabel to receive the tragic news of James’s death. But she had heard how lovingly Isabel always spoke of him and could easily imagine how devastating the news had been for her and how much Isabel needed to know the truth.

  Grown men all over Scotland had wept, for James had been a popular leader as well as their finest warrior. Even his greatest English rival had called him a hero.

  Glancing at the princess, sitting now between the new Queen and another princess, Amalie saw that despite Isabel’s smiles and cheerful comments, in moments of repose, her continuing sorrow revealed itself.

  Isabel saw her and smiled, reminding her that it was not just sanctuary that the princess had offered her when she had needed it but also real friendship.

  Having acquired no facts of her own about James’s death, Amalie knew only what Isabel had told her and what little she had gleaned by listening when others spoke of the tragedy. But she knew the princess was not a fool or a madwoman.

  If Isabel said it was murder, she had good reason, just as she had reason to think the most likely one to have ordered . . .

  A chill shot through her before the thought completed itself: If Sir Garth Napier was right about who had been speaking in that room at Abbots’ House, that same person had just ordered another murder.

  She wished she could hear Fife’s voice again under like circumstances. The few sentences he had spoken on Moot Hill had just not been enough for her to be certain.

  Still, she ought to tell someone what she’d heard. But who would believe her, and how much about her own actions would she have to reveal before anyone would?

  Garth watched until she bent to speak with Isabel. Then, telling himself he had no good reason to go on watching her, and calling himself a fool for concerning himself with her at all, he decided to eat before keeping his appointment.

  He scanned the numerous trestle tables, letting his gaze rest briefly on that occupied by the Douglas lords before he located the table he sought. Moving then to one of the fires, he thanked those men who noted his knightly girdle, nodded respectfully, and stood aside for him. Accepting a trencher piled high with sliced beef, he found bread and a mug of ale, then made his way to the table in question.

  “Room for one more?” he asked the man at its head.

  Sir Walter Scott, Laird of Buccleuch, looked up with a grin and gestured to a space beside him on his bench. “Sit yourself down, cousin. I saw you waiting earlier to swear fealty to his grace and wondered where you’d got to since.”

  At twenty-six, Wat was two years older, and of a slimmer, lankier build. He also had hazel eyes rather than blue ones, but they shared a look of near kinsmen.

  To the other nobles gathered there, three or four of whom were with their lady wives, Buccleuch said, “Some of you may not know my cousin, Garth Napier, who won his spurs at Otterburn. He has been out of the country for some months, so you will forgive us if we speak privately for a short time.”

  “Where is your lady, Wat?” Garth asked as he swung a leg over the bench to take the proffered seat. “I have yet to meet her, after all.”

  “ ’Tis no one’s fault but your own that you have not,” Buccleuch said. “I married Meg before Otterburn, after all.”

  “Aye, sure, I heard about that,” Garth said, grinning but knowing better than to tease his cousin about certain amusing details of that marriage. “As you know, the wedding was over long before I learned of it. And soon afterward, we headed to Otterburn. Then, after James died and Archie became Earl of Douglas, he sent to ask me to serve him in Galloway, at Threave Castle. One does not refuse to serve the most powerful lord in the Borders at his family seat. Nor did I want to. Also, Fife had just declared himself, rather than Archie, Chief Warden of the Marches.”

  “Aye, sure,” Wat said. He did not comment on Fife, although Garth was sure he felt as bitter as most Borderers did about Fife’s assuming a title traditionally reserved to the Earls of Douglas. “Archie did you great honor, Gar.”

  “He did, so I was with him at Threave for nearly thirteen months, until Yuletide last year. But after young Archie married Carrick’s daughter, I followed Will Douglas of Nithsdale to Prussia. As Scotland was at peace with England by then, he had decided to search for adventure with the Teutonic Knights.”

  “I know that your father died whilst you were away,” Wat said. “I was sorry to hear of it. That his death came so suddenly must have hurt you sorely.”

  “You’d know. My lord uncle died just two months before I left with Will.”

  “Aye, but my father’s wounds from Otterburn never healed right and caused him much suffering. I own, it was a relief to us all when death took him at last.”

  “My father was hale and hearty when I left,” Garth said. “He was sick only a few days, though, and I did not learn about his death until we brought Will home.”

  “That was a dreadful thing,” Wat said. Glancing around and lowering his voice, he added, “Were you with him when they killed him?”

  “I came upon it afterward, too late to aid him,” Garth said.

  “He was dead then?”

  “It was horrible,” Garth said, choosing his words. Despite his complete trust in Buccleuch, he did not know some of the others near enough to overhear. “Telling Archie that we’d let his son die in a street brawl was worst of all.”

  Buccleuch frowned. “I’d not want to face Archie the Grim after such a tragedy, myself. Despite being born a bastard, Will grew to be one of Scotland’s finest warriors, married a princess, and was Archie’s favorite son. No one ever doubted Archie’s love for him, or ever will.”

  “Archie doesn’t blame me or Will’s other men,” Garth said. “He has treated me only with kindness, even to offering me leave to look after things at Westruther. I tell you that only because I’d intended to accept and then visit Scott’s Hall to meet your Meg and admire that wee son of yours. As it is, though, I’ve not even seen my sister, Joan. I’d hoped to see her and her husband here.”

  “They are here somewhere,” Wat said. “Crosier walked into the kirk with me. I’d expected them to sup with me, too, but they had already agreed to eat with his parents. I’m surprised you didn’t see him during the ceremonies.”

  “I didn’t go into the kirk,” Garth said, seeing no reason to mention that, thanks to his intriguing adventure before the coronation, he’d barely noticed the lairds.

  He was congratulating himself that Buccleuch apparently had not seen him escort the lady Amalie through the crowd when Buccleuch said, “I wondered why you took the lass to the door but did not take her in. Doubtless you will explain.”

  Garth had no doubt that his cousin’s well-known protective instincts would extend to his good-sister, so he said only, “She had got separated from the princess Isabel, but a knight—one of Isabel’s, I expect—was just inside, waiting for her.”

  “I see,” Buccleuch said, and Garth relaxed. Having no desire to stir his cousin’s notoriously uncertain temper, he was grateful when Wat went on to relay other, unrelated news about their family.

  Still, he would have to take care not to stir Wat’s curiosity by showing too much interest in the lady Amalie or Wat would demand to know his intentions toward her. To adm
it that he did not intend to marry for years yet would hardly be an acceptable response.

  The two men chatted about family and desultory matters until Garth, who had been keeping one eye on the Douglas table, saw that the people there were preparing to depart. Shortly thereafter, the man who had spoken to him on the hillside beckoned, and he excused himself to Buccleuch.

  From the table near the royal party where she had joined other attendants, Amalie watched Isabel, alert for the least sign that she needed anything.

  In the midst of her own family, Isabel was struggling to look cheerful. Despite her efforts, Amalie decided long before the royal family finished eating that its members had little if any liking for one another.

  She had never before seen so many of them together in one place. Anyone watching could see that Fife had nothing to say to any of the others.

  It was likewise plain that the King would rather have been anywhere else. He murmured occasionally to the Queen, who sat beside him, but otherwise he kept so still that Amalie wondered if he ate anything or was even aware of the boisterous crowd just a few yards away, celebrating his accession to the throne.

  He paid no heed to the clearing of a broad, grassy area in front of the royal table, or to the large fire laid in a rock ring there. Nor did any juggler, tumbler, bear-leader, or musician stir a blink of royal interest.

  The rest of the crowd, still happily gorging themselves, noisily cheered the entertainers’ antics and shouted suggestions to the musicians for tunes to play.

  Darkness was falling and men were lighting torches at the fire before Amalie finished her meal. With nothing to do for the princess, she watched the crowd in the increasing glow of firelight, seeking faces she recognized and one in particular.

  So intent was her search for that one person that, as the royal party readied itself to depart, Sir Iagan Murray approached unnoticed until he spoke her name.

  “Sir!” she exclaimed, getting quickly to her feet.

  “ ’Tis good to see ye, lass,” he said. “I trust I see ye well.”