Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2]

by Border Moonlight

  To Sibylla’s amazement, Lady Murray’s cheeks turned pink as she murmured, “You are kind to say so, my dearling.”

  Sibylla glanced at Simon.

  His gaze collided with hers as he said, “I would not call that a kindness, madam. You are too wise to cast yourself into a rain-swollen river. Nor should you attempt such a foolish thing, Rosalie. Certainly not until you learn to swim. I trust, Lady Sibylla,” he added, “that you will not encourage her to emulate your actions.”

  “I have no concern that she might, my lord,” Sibylla said. “Rosalie seems as sensible as her mother and is surely able enough to learn to swim if someone would exert himself to teach her . . . as my dear late brother, Hugh, taught me.”

  Still watching her as he moved to sit in the two-elbow chair at the end of the table, Simon said dryly, “I see that you are more your usual self today.”

  She smiled and took the stool Rosalie patted, so they faced Lady Murray with the lower hall behind them and Simon at the end on Rosalie’s right. Sibylla was glad they did not sit with the women all at Simon’s left, facing the hall. But she thought he might have preferred more formality just then.

  Conversation was desultory, with Simon polite but distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. His attitude gave Sibylla the urge to prick him with a pin to see how he would react. She had begun to realize that however angrily he had shouted at her in the kirk that drizzly long-ago day, he was no longer a man who so readily revealed his emotions.

  Lady Murray, too, remained distant and rather stately, but at least she took part civilly in the conversation. Simon spoke only when someone addressed him.

  Rosalie provided a stark contrast throughout with her cheerful, even merry attitude. When she demanded in an abrupt but teasing way to know if Simon had removed himself from them in spirit if not in body, his expression softened.

  “I’m still here, lassie.”

  “Aye, well, if I were to behave so, I warrant you’d have something to say.”

  “Rosalie, that will do,” Lady Murray said. “It is not your place to take your brother to task. Nor should you show him such disrespect.”

  “I noted no disrespect, madam,” Simon said gently. “She is right to remind me that I would reproach her for such behavior. Moreover, she will heed my rebukes more readily if I do not set her such a poor example.”

  Silence greeting these words, he added, “Do you want to swim, lassie?”

  She grinned. “I expect I could learn if you were to teach me—”

  “Mercy, dearling, do not suggest such a thing,” Lady Murray said. “Had one of your brothers or your father taught you when you were a bairn, such a skill might have benefited you. But now that you are turning into a young lady, Simon’s teaching you to swim might stir unpleasant talk.”

  Sibylla glanced at Simon and raised an eyebrow.

  “No,” he said firmly. “You are not to teach her, either. My mother is right. That, too, would stir talk, and once begun, who can say where it might lead?”

  “What you mean is that anyone teaching me would cause gossip,” Rosalie said. “But Sibylla says that without gossip, this world would be—”

  With a speaking look, Sibylla had silenced her.

  “Do finish telling us what she said,” Simon prompted gently.

  With an apologetic look at Sibylla, Rosalie said, “Just that without gossip, the world would be a tedious place, sir.”

  “Especially for women,” Sibylla murmured provocatively.

  “I will thank you not to put such notions in her head,” he retorted.

  “Will you?”

  His lips tightened again, and conscious of Lady Murray’s similar expression, Sibylla decided she had better exert herself to soothe her hostess.

  Accordingly, she smiled at her and said, “The sauce for this beef is excellent, madam. I have learned many things about herbs and spices at home and with Isabel, but I cannot tell what your people add to this to make it so delicious.”

  If Lady Murray did not melt at such praise, she did condescend to discuss several recipes with Sibylla. As their conversation progressed, she put Sibylla in mind of Lady Averil Anderson, the princess Isabel’s chief companion. Both were sensible, competent women who refused to suffer foolishness or flattery. But neither did they dismiss compliments sincerely offered.

  As they were all about to leave the table, Lady Murray said to Simon, “How does the lad fare, sir? Need I concern myself with his mending?”

  “He has caught a cold,” Simon said. “He told me he felt sick before he went into the river, but he’s worse now and still very weak. The lassie is well, though. I’ve put her in the kitchen to aid the cook.”

  He excused himself then, and the ladies adjourned to Lady Murray’s solar.

  At a loss for what to talk about that would not renew her ladyship’s hostility, Sibylla recalled Amalie’s saying that her mother admired Isabel. Seizing the first chance to mention Sweethope, she described some of her service there.

  Rosalie aided her efforts, asking impertinently at one point if Sibylla would not rather find a husband. That gave Sibylla the opportunity to say truthfully that she believed she was unsuited to marry.

  “Surely, that is for your father to decide,” Lady Murray said.

  “I’m sorry to admit, madam, that he has thrice tried to provide me with a husband. He is persuaded now, as I am, that I must remain unwed. He says I am not sufficiently biddable. In troth, though, none of them pleased me.”

  “Faith,” Rosalie exclaimed. “You sent away three suitors! I wish I might have just one! Who were they?”

  “Hush, my love,” Lady Murray said, relieving Sibylla of the need either to prevaricate or to admit that Simon had been one. “A polite person does not inquire into the intimate details of another person’s life.”

  “Well, I shan’t do anything so bird-witted. I want to marry!”

  “In time, you shall,” Lady Murray said.

  Later, after stopping to look in on the sleeping Dand and put a few drops of marjoram oil on his pillow, Sibylla explored the castle. She talked to the people she met and visited the kitchen, where she asked the cook if he had some dried catmint to steep as a drink for Dand to ease his breathing.

  Assured that he would see to the lad, she looked for Kit and found the little girl content—by daylight—to aid the cook and the cook’s helpers. The kitchen area was busy though, as was the bakehouse, providing no hope of exploring the alcove. Sibylla decided she would have to find another way to learn what lay beyond it.

  Tetsy’s reaction to her comment about a door had persuaded her that something of that sort existed, but Tetsy had said no more. Sibylla chatted with others but took pains to avoid stirring annoyance or curiosity. As a result, although she learned a few interesting things, not one had to do with the alcove.

  Reminded as she dressed for supper that Tetsy would keep Kit that night, leaving Sibylla alone after everyone else retired, Sibylla considered the alcove with fresh enthusiasm. Except for the taciturn Jack—who might well watch the dicing again—no one would be in the kitchen after the servants had finished cleaning it.

  The day had been warm for the latter part of April, and the lump on her forehead, although more colorful, had diminished in size. As she tidied her hair, she wondered if it was worth asking Simon again if he would let her bathe.

  Deciding she would do better to ignore him, she considered how she might satisfy her curiosity instead.

  As Sibylla joined Lady Murray and Rosalie in the hall a short time later, her ladyship surprised her, saying, “I’ve arranged for us to take supper in my solar.”

  Aware that she was disappointed not to sup with Simon, Sibylla decided she was taking too much pleasure in their verbal jousting. To continue might irritate his mother and lead others to wonder if a match were in the offing.

  Neither she nor Simon wanted to initiate such rumors. Supper might have taxed her ingenuity for conversation had she not learned of Lady Murra
y’s pride in her kinsmen. That subject served well until Rosalie asked her ladyship to tell them more about Cecil Percy’s sons.

  It would have been obvious then to a lesser intelligence than Sibylla’s that Lady Murray did not want Rosalie to marry anyone yet. She changed the subject and soon announced that it was time to retire.

  On the way to her bedchamber, Sibylla met Kit coming downstairs.

  “Where have you been, lassie?”

  “Talking wi’ Dand, but he fell asleep. So I went to see were ye back yet.”

  “Where is Tetsy?”

  “In the kitchen. She said I could visit Dand.”

  “You should go back to her and see if you can help,” Sibylla said.

  “She’ll be coming to ye anon. I’ll just wait wi’ ye.” Sibylla agreed but bade goodnight to both assistants an hour later, assuring them that she would sleep well. As soon as they had gone, she got up, lit a fresh candle to replace the stub Tetsy had left burning in the dish, and put her clothes back on.

  Carrying her useful clover poultice lest anyone ask why she was up, she went quietly down the service stairs to the kitchen.

  Through her conversations that day she had learned that maidservants who lived in the castle slept in tiny chambers under the ramparts. Most of the men slept in the great hall or on pallets outside in the bailey.

  As she passed the hall landing, she heard voices and a bark of laughter that told her the men were playing some game or other. Sending up a prayer that the baker’s lad was with them or otherwise engaged, she hurried on her way and soon saw that she had judged her timing well. The kitchen and bakehouse were empty.

  The baker’s fire burned almost as fiercely as it had after Jack had fueled it the night before, assuring her that wherever he had gone, he would not return for a while. Accordingly, she dipped a pewter mug into the kettle on the hob and took it into the smaller chamber. In the storage alcove, she hiked up her skirts, turned so she would not block the firelight, and squatted. Spilling water from the mug to the floor, she watched it flow under the wall.

  Her earlier explorations had revealed that the alcove wall was part of an eight-foot-thick exterior wall. Years before she had learned that some Border castles had siege tunnels and had even seen two of them. Holding her candle to the stones, she soon found the straight lines that might indicate the entrance to a passageway.

  Turning next to the hooks set into the wall with an apparently random hand—holding towels, oven rakes, utensils, rags for removing hot pans from the oven, and other baker’s paraphernalia—she tested each one to see if it would move.

  One did seem loose, but try as she might, she could not make it serve her purpose. Shifting her candle, she noticed an odd, shadowy crack in the masonry beside the hook just below it. Pushing it hard to that side, she felt a click. With slight pressure, the rock wall opened away from her into pitch-black space.

  Having seen a basket of tallow candles in the kitchen, she hurried to get some, hoping that four would be enough.

  Fearing she might lock herself out if she shut the door all the way from the other side, she took a sack of walnuts from its hook, stepped through the opening, and edged the door shut as far as it would go without latching. Then she wedged the sack against its base so it could not swing open of its own weight.

  Hoping Jack would not notice the wider crack and that she could come back the same way without disturbing him, she turned and followed the narrow tunnel.

  The floor was uneven and the silken shoes Rosalie had given her with the kirtle were thin. Also, the ceiling was low, stirring her dislike of confinement. But if she was right about the tunnel’s purpose, she had found an exit from the castle that would take her outside its walls with no one else the wiser.

  A short time later, she sensed a change in the atmosphere and the air smelled fresher. Soon afterward, she emerged into thick shrubbery.

  She was in the forest, well outside the castle clearing. The night air was still, and she heard water flowing nearby. Peering through leaves and past branches, she saw moonlight glinting on calm water. With more moon-beams piercing the dense canopy of trees overhead, she blew out her candle and decided to leave her extra ones at the opening.

  Easing her way to avoid scratches, she emerged from the worst of the thicket and turned to see torches burning on the distant ramparts behind her. Judging that she had come a quarter mile from the wall, she took care to leave no path through grass or shrubbery as she moved farther away from the opening.

  She knew enough to take note of a pair of boulders in direct line with the narrow body of water. Beyond it, a single tall tree completed the line.

  Certain she could find the opening again, she continued into the clearing.

  Minutes later, she stood by a long, oval pond doubtless fed by the burn she heard chuckling nearby. The pond was mirror still, reflecting the bright full moon in silvery patches wherever its beams touched the surface.

  Trees and shrubbery remained dense around the clearing. Despite the flickers of distant torchlight, she was sure no one at the castle could see her. Likewise, no one would look for her at that hour or in such a place.

  Smiling mischievously, she pulled off her shoes and dipped a bare toe into the water. It felt warm, but she knew that was because the air was colder.

  Nevertheless, grinning in anticipation of ridding herself of the last vestiges of the muddy Tweed, she stripped off her clothes.

  Chapter 6

  Simon, riding back to Elishaw after taking supper with a man near Hobkirk, was enjoying the stillness of the spring night and the glory of the full moon. Seeing torches ahead on the castle ramparts, he realized he was eager to get home.

  His horse was eager, too, and would have broken into a lope had he let it. Both he and the animal knew the way, but bright moonbeams piercing the forest canopy interfered with a man’s night vision and could make shadows ahead look like gaping holes in the track. So he curbed the animal’s impatience and his own.

  Drinking in the night air, he listened for night birds and other common sounds of the forest, as any wary lone rider should.

  The night was unnaturally silent.

  Feeling safe in his own territory, he had ridden to Hob-kirk without his usual tail of men. Continuing silence suggested that he might have made a mistake. Then moonlight through shrubbery ahead on his left revealed unusual movement.

  A narrow track just yards away, little more than a deer trail, led to a clearing that had been one of his favorite childhood haunts. However, poachers also favored the rill-fed pond there as an excellent source of trout and an inviting place for deer to drink, keeping them still long enough for a steady bowshot.

  Reining in his horse, Simon quietly dismounted and led it on to the narrower track. Looping its reins over a shrub, knowing the well-trained animal would stand patiently until he returned for it, he moved silently but swiftly along the narrow path until he saw that the intruder was no poacher.

  Seeing Sibylla stirred anger even sharper than poachers would have stirred.

  As he strode nearer, he was stunned to see that she stood barefoot on a granite slab at the edge of the pond, dipping one foot into the water.

  Wondering why she had not simply put in a hand to learn how cold it was, he watched in amazement approaching alarm as she straightened and untied the front lacing of the blue-green kirtle that hugged her shapely body so well.

  Numerous thoughts sped through his mind as he stood fascinated, watching her. How had she got past his guards? What had possessed her to leave the castle?

  Had the clout to her head affected her senses? Certainly she must be mad to strip off her kirtle as she was doing and endure the cold night air in only her shift?

  She caught hold of the shift and pulled it off over her head, dropping it atop the discarded kirtle at her feet.

  He could hardly breathe. The moon overhead painted her slender, curvaceous body alabaster white. The smooth surface of the pond reflected her figure as if it wer
e a moving statue. Doubtless, she would catch her death from such insanity.

  He ought to order her to put her clothes back on, scold her, and take her back to the castle. But he could not move. Nor, in truth, did he want to break the silence.

  He had seen when she was just fourteen that she was a beautiful woman. But he had never guessed how beautiful. Her profile was magnificent, her breasts high and perfectly sized to fit a man’s hands. Her waist looked small enough for his hands to encircle. But her hips swelled wide below it, womanly and enticing. His hands flexed, yearning to test the softness of her breasts and bottom cheeks.

  With his blood racing, his cock stirred, teasing him with the knowledge that she might have been his for three years and more by now to use as he pleased.

  His memory promptly presented him with the image from the altar in Selkirk and his determination never to forgive her. A voice in his head murmured that he could punish her as severely as he liked for the wantonness her actions displayed now, and no one would blame him. As his guest, she was his responsibility.

  Sakes, it was practically his duty to teach her the error of her ways!

  He took a step forward and saw that she was doing the same. To his shock, she waded into the water up to her hips before she stopped. He had expected a shriek or some other sign that the water was as icy cold as he knew it must be.

  Other than the water’s whispering as she moved, she had not made a sound.

  Recalling that the granite slab dropped off just ahead of her and that the water was much deeper there, he moved more quickly to the clearing.

  At its edge, he stopped with a gasp when she drew a deep breath, put her hands up, and plunged headfirst into the pond.

  In his experience, women did not put their heads under water by choice, even women who could swim. He half expected to have to rescue her again, but knowing that she could swim gave him pause.