He said, “I apologize for that, Sibylla. I fight my own battles. If you did not come to tell me how you got out of the castle, what did you want to say to me?”
“I’m concerned for Kit,” she said.
“She seems content enough here,” he said.
“Aye, but she should not be, sir. She’s but a bairn away from her family for four days now. Yet she does not even talk of them. After you agreed to stop overnight at Akermoor, I invited her to go with us. I know I should have asked you first, but I thought she might see familiar countryside or kinsmen along the way. It seems odd, does it not, that no one has come looking for her or Dand?”
“It does,” he agreed. “I’ve had men out since we arrived. They have found no one missing a child, but I did warn them all to be cautious. I feared they might otherwise reveal to the men responsible for their near-drowning that both she and Dand survived. I want those villains for hanging,” he added grimly.
“Kit refused my invitation, though. She insists she wants to stay here.”
“Doubtless she is still afraid of the raiders.”
“So she says, but why should she be? She must know that you and your men—and I—will do all in our power to protect her and find her family.”
“Mayhap she does not want us to find them.” “Don’t be daft,” Sibylla said sharply.
When he stiffened, she grimaced and said, “I am sorry to speak so rudely. But I dislike leaving her here without knowing what frightens her so.”
He shook his head. “You have let your imagination run amok. I gave orders to my steward, the housekeeper, the cook—aye, and Tetsy—to keep a close watch over Kit and Dand, too. You can trust my people, even if you don’t trust me.”
“It isn’t that—”
“Whatever it is must keep,” he said curtly. “We should not stand talking like this with only my lads in here, so unless you mean to tell me how you got out of the castle, I’ll bid you goodnight. Speak to your father if you want to go to Edinburgh. I’ll take you if he approves. Rosalie will be delighted, and I’m sure my mother will be pleased to take you under her protection.”
She was not so sure of the last bit but nodded and thanked him. Although she was glad to have accomplished part of her plan to rejoin the princess, she was frustrated about Kit. She also felt oddly uneasy about her discovery of the tunnel.
What if he did not know it existed?
Such ignorance seemed unlikely for the master of Elishaw. So perhaps he just wanted her to confess what she had done so he could tell her again in that maddeningly righteous way he had—that all men had—how much at fault she had been.
In her experience, whatever a woman did or wanted to do, a man would nearly always say, “Don’t.” So far, though, she had held her own against him.
In fact, and despite her better judgment, she was beginning to find him intriguing. His confidence and the loyalty his people showed him made him more so, as did her increasing sense that he was physically as attracted to her as she was to him.
Nevertheless, his flaws were many. He consistently dismissed her thoughts and opinions, while certain other qualities—particularly his assumption that he was always right—annoyed her to exasperation.
Congratulating herself again on her good sense in refusing to marry him, she went to the solar where she found Lady Murray occupied with her needle, silks, and tambour frame. Rosalie, her ladyship said, had retired for the night.
Sibylla soon wished she had work of her own to occupy her hands. When she offered assistance, Lady Murray denied having anything “suitable” for her to do, so she exerted herself to be tactful and soon drew her hostess into deeper discussion.
Being truly interested in her comments about household management, Sibylla began to note an occasional smile as her ladyship became more informative.
They had chatted for nearly an hour when Simon entered and said with a chill in his voice, “Pray forgive us, Lady Sibylla. I want a private word with my mother.”
She could see that he had himself under rigid control. Even so, he looked more dangerous than usual. “I hope nothing awful has occurred,” she said.
“Nowt,” he replied. “I mean to leave tomorrow soon after we break our fast, though. I want to reach the Teviot by midday and Akermoor by midafternoon.”
“I can be ready whenever you like,” Sibylla said. “Your lady mother has kindly provided me with boots and a riding dress, for which I am most grateful.”
“I’d wager you are. They baked your dress overlong by the fire, I’m told.”
“They did, aye,” she agreed, turning to make her curtsy to his mother.
Simon opened the door for her, and as she passed him, her body seemed to tingle. She feared she was blushing. Trying to read his expression, she decided he was definitely angry. But she did not think his anger was with her.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said. He nodded, his thoughts as he shut the door visibly shifting back to the issue that had brought him to the solar.
Curiosity surged, making her wish with all her heart that she could put her ear to the door. But it was stout and heavy, and it opened off a passageway that servants used continually. She dared not linger near it.
Simon faced his mother, feet spread and hands behind him, as he strove to curb his impatient temper. Long experience warned him that losing it with her would gain him nothing. Moreover, he doubted that she bore the responsibility for his outrage if, indeed, she even knew about any tunnel.
“Madam, I’ve come to ask how it is that a fact regarding Elishaw, of which I had hitherto heard not one word, has come to my attention only this past hour.”
“Indeed, my dear?” She set her needlework aside and folded her hands.
“I had occasion this evening to ask Jed Hay if he knew a way by which someone other than a supernatural being might enter or leave this castle without passing through the gate, and—”
“Whatever can have prompted such a question?”
“You would doubtless call it masculine foolishness,” he replied glibly. “But imagine my surprise when Jed said he thought such a way might exist.”
“My dear Simon, do take a seat,” she begged. “I cannot continue to look up at you this way without crippling myself. As to Jed Hay, one can only infer that he spoke of the tunnel. One does understand your displeasure at his alluding to it in so offhand a way, though,” she added as he drew up a stool.
He sat without breaking his silence, knowing she would fill it.
Frowning, she said, “Although Jed is captain of our guard, he should not know about that tunnel. Your father and men he trusted dug it in utmost secrecy. Everyone else involved had died by the time he did, so one wonders how Jed learned of it.”
“He’d heard a rumor about it years ago from an uncle of his who worked here,” Simon said grimly. “What I want to know is why no one told me about it.”
“I thought your father did tell you.”
“If he had, madam, I would not be so angry now.”
She frowned. “I do remember we had an invigorating discussion about it just before you came of age. I said he should tell you, because it was your right to know. But he did not like doing so whilst you were so thick with the Earl of Fife.”
“Sakes, he wanted me to serve Fife.”
“Yes, and he hoped Fife would continue to respect Elishaw’s neutrality, but he never trusted him. And, although he respected your loyalty to the man, he did fear that if you knew about the tunnel and Fife decided to seize Elishaw for the Crown . . .” She spread her hands as if the rest went without saying.
“Did he also fear that you might tell the Percys?” he asked curtly.
She bristled. “Your father had no cause to distrust me, sir. I may have been born a Percy, but when I married him, I became a Murray. My children’s needs and those of this castle will always come first with me. Your father understood that.”
“But he did not trust me,” Simon said, trying to ignore the stab of pain a
nd bitter regret he felt. “Did he honestly think I might betray my own family, my own heritage? And if he did, madam, how did you come to forget that I knew nowt of it? I should think you’d remember any time he’d failed to follow your guidance.”
“Do not take that tone with me when you speak of your father, Simon,” she said severely. “I would have recalled such a time, but that was not one. He agreed to tell you, deciding as I had that it was your right to know and believing as I did that you would honor his trust. If he failed to confide in you, you must blame yourself.”
“Why should I?”
“I’d remind you that he saw little of you after you came of age until the affair at Hermitage Castle three years ago, after the Scottish victory at Otterburn. When he did see you at Hermitage, the circumstances were not such as to persuade him to trust you. I shall not recount for you what you and your brother did there—”
“You need not,” Simon replied, tightening the rein on his temper. “And I need not defend obeying my liege lord. Fife had reason to take Hermitage. It is Scotland’s greatest Border stronghold, and he believed James Douglas had grown too powerful. His rivalry with the Percys—our cousins, madam—was creating chaos in the Borders. Fife said James and Hotspur both needed taming.”
“James Douglas troubled no one after his death,” she said. “However, your father helped foil Fife’s attempt to seize Hermitage and opposed his notion last year of dowering Amalie with Elishaw land. Has it occurred to you, my dearling,” she added, “that of the three Murray men at Hermitage that day, two are dead?”
“Five Murrays were at Hermitage that day,” he said. “You cannot have forgotten that Meg and Amalie were there with Isabel.”
“I remember,” she said. “I would submit, though, that Meg’s marriage to Buccleuch protects her, thanks to his influence and powerful connections. Amalie, too, is safe now that she has married Westruther. However, when I think that Fife did try to force her marriage to that dreadful creature of his . . .” She shook her head.
Simon forbore to remind her that she and Sir Iagan had also tried to make Amalie marry Harald Boyd, or that Simon himself had played a role.
Meeting her gaze, he found it surprisingly sympathetic.
“I know your feelings have altered since then, dearling, as mine have,” she said. “So you must take especial care in Edinburgh. Men who arouse the Governor’s anger rarely live long afterward, and you must have vexed him sorely.”
“I can look after myself,” Simon said, ignoring a tingling along his spine as he said it. “At present, madam, I want only to know where that tunnel lies.”
“Why, it leads from the bakehouse storage alcove into the woods southeast of the castle,” she said. “One shifts one of the alcove wall hooks to unlatch the door.”
“Why from the bakehouse?” he asked. “I should have thought a tunnel from the dungeons would have been more sensible and easier to keep secret.”
“Also, more logical to find from inside,” she said. “Part of the kitchen is also underground and lies close to the curtain wall. Digging the tunnel there was easier.”
“Do my sisters know of it?”
“Mercy, no. We never had need to tell them. Indeed, I’ve not spared a thought for it myself in years. No one has, I expect.”
Simon did not tell her how mistaken she was. But he did wonder how—if Amalie could not have revealed it to her—the lady Sibylla had discovered such a close-kept secret within twenty-four hours of her arrival.
Perhaps Sibylla was a witch, he told himself as he bade his mother goodnight.
That thought amused him, but his amusement faded when he realized that with servants and men still up and about preparing for the next day’s journey, he could not go to the bakehouse chamber and search for the tunnel entrance at once. Nor, with Jack sleeping there, could he go down later in the night.
Such exploration would require forethought and so must await his return.
The next day’s journey to Akermoor proved pleasanter than Sibylla had anticipated. Having traveled with Lady Murray once before at a plodding pace made necessary by her ladyship’s apparently customary insistence on a horse litter, she had expected to endure the same slow pace to Akermoor.
However, her ladyship astonished everyone by electing to ride.
Sibylla had also expected Sir Malcolm to seize his first opportunity to speak his mind to her. But he, too, surprised her. The only pertinent comment he made was to say, as they rode side by side for a time, that he hoped she had fully recovered from the illness that had kept her at Sweethope Hill.
“Aye, sir, I’m rarely sick, as you know,” she replied. “In troth, I was the last to succumb to the illness that struck us, which is how Isabel came to leave me.”
“I feared your swim in the Tweed might have made you sick again,” he said. “But, barring that bruise on your head, ye’re looking gey hardy.”
“I am, sir,” she said. “Tell me more about Alice and this man she is to marry.”
He shot her a look from under his eyebrows that told her he was pleased with himself. “I warrant ye’ll recall young Colville of Cocklaw.”
“Aye, sure, I do,” she said, her heart sinking at the memory of her third rejected suitor. “But Thomas Colville is too old for Alice.”
“So I thought, although a man’s age has less to do with his fitness for marriage than his fortune does. However, Colville has a younger brother.”
“But Thomas is heir to Cocklaw.”
“Aye, sure, he is, and ’twas foolish of ye to reject your chance to be mistress there, just as ye were foolish to spurn Galston and his wealth. Thomas is to marry a great heiress now and will control her vast estates, but his brother inherits their mother’s property. ’Tis a tidy place, albeit not as large as what Thomas will have.”
“I hope the younger Colville is a better man than his brother, sir.”
“He’s a God-fearing man and has gelt, so he’ll do for Alice. In troth, ’tis more than I’d expected for her, with her share of what I’ll leave being gey smaller than yours if ye marry. And now that I’m seeing ye with young Murray again—”
“Do not let your thoughts turn in that direction, sir,” Sibylla begged. “He has not forgiven me for rejecting him. Nor is he likely to,” she added a little dismally. “Also, his lady mother knows naught of that day, so prithee . . .” She looked at him.
“I’ve told the lad I’ll say nowt, but I wish I’d made sure of that match,” Sir Malcolm said. “I’ll not be making such a mistake again. Nobbut what Alice will do as she’s bid. She’s agreed and the date for the wedding is set, so I’ll hear no sighs and such over yon plaguey lackwit that was cheeking up to her last year.”
When Sibylla inquired further about the lackwit, Sir Malcolm’s temper flared. “Ye’ll not be stirring talk of rebellion in your sister’s head, Sibylla, or by the Rood, I’ll lock ye in your bedchamber till after her wedding. D’ye hear me?”
“Aye, sir,” Sibylla said and tactfully changed the subject.
Simon glanced back several times at Sibylla and her father, riding just ahead of the servants and men-at-arms. He was curious about their conversation. Overall, he was bored, but his mother and Rosalie rode behind him, and he could not think of a tactful way to drop back to ride with Sibylla and Sir Malcolm.
Knowing he did not care a whit what Sir Malcolm might be saying, he saw it as an ironic turn of fate, shortly after they entered Teviotdale, when the older man urged his mount past Lady Murray and drew in beside him.
“I could see ye were aching for conversation, lad, and I’m not one for spending whole days with the ladies. If ye’ll permit me, I’ll ride with ye for a time.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Simon said. “I must thank you again for offering us your hospitality at Akermoor.”
“Faugh, I’m glad to have ye. In troth, I miss my son Hugh most when the emptiness of the place gets over me. Servants, even a daughter as loving and obedient as our Alice, cannot compen
sate a man for the loss of his only son.”
“Hugh died a hero,” Simon reminded him, trying to keep his own sense of loss at bay. “You must be proud of him.”
“Aye, sure, but I’d be that proud if he were still here,” Sir Malcolm said. “I did not ride with ye to talk of myself. I heard ye’ve fallen out with the Governor.”
“Our relationship remains cordial, sir. He recognizes my duty to my family, and to Elishaw, and knows I remain as loyal to the Crown as I’ve ever been.”
“Ye don’t want him as an enemy, lad.”
“I know that. But I am no danger to him.”
“D’ye mean to say then that the Murrays will nae longer maintain their so-determined neutrality, but will now favor only the Scots?”
Recalling that Sir Malcolm had accepted his offer for Sibylla because of the ready access he had to Fife, Simon said warily, “I foresee no trouble any time soon to test our neutrality. The truce with England has lasted more than two years now.”
“Such as it is,” Sir Malcolm said. “I ken fine that ye’re plagued with raiders in your part of the Borders, just as folks to the west have been. And whilst English raiders are crossing the line, we Scots will ever retaliate.”
“As will the English whenever our lads cross the line,” Simon said.
“Aye, but ’tis English reivers doing the crossing now.” “Have you proof of that, sir? I’d remind you, it would not be the first time minor incidents of reiving had been made to look more threatening than they are.”
“D’ye mean to suggest someone may be stirring trouble on purpose?”
“I don’t know,” Simon admitted. “I’d suggest only that the truce is as likely to succeed as to fail. Should it fail, I will decide my course.”
Sir Malcolm nodded, and they talked of other things until they reached the river Teviot north of Hawick and stopped for their midday meal.
Sibylla had been listening with amusement to Rosalie’s stream of questions about the royal court and her mother’s surprisingly patient answers.
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