Moonlight Raider

by Amanda Scott

  Wat grimaced. “True, although his gallous sons were away at the time.”

  “Likely raiding,” Sym said, nodding.

  “Possibly,” Wat said. “At present, the Cockburns don’t concern me. You’ve been seeking word of Gilbert Rutherford’s whereabouts, I believe.”

  “Ye ken fine that I’ve been a-putting out word that ye mean to move beasts to Melrose. So far, I’ve learned nowt, as ye must likewise ken fine. Chance be, I’ll hear summat anon, but that canna be the advice ye seek now.”

  “Nay, although I do suspect that the Cockburns may be in league with Rutherford. The lady Molly says they are not, but…” He shrugged.

  “Them thatchgallows? Aye, sure, they could be. I’m thinking Will Cockburn would join wi’ the devil hisself to gain a farthing. And Ned will follow Will to hell or wherever he ends up. That Ned has nary a thought to call his own.”

  “What about Lady Molly, Sym? What think you of her?”

  Sym’s craggy features softened. “She’s a rose amongst thistles, that ’un, and ye ken that much, yourself, Master Wat. ’Tis writ all over ye when ye look at her.”

  Wat frowned. “I think you give your imagination too much rein, Sym.”

  “Aye, perhaps,” Sym said, his eyes atwinkle. “Or mayhap I put more faith in the auld laird’s ability to choose well for ye, and yours to choose for yourself.”

  “She is just a friend, Sym, and I do not want to see her hurt. I’m thinking the abbot was right, though. The only way to be sure she need never return to Tuedy is to find her a husband powerful enough to protect her from him.”

  “Aye, that be what I’d advise, too. I ha’ me doots there be anyone else wha’ could do that better than yourself, though. Be there aught else I can do for ye?”

  Wat glanced at the dais to see that the ladies, including Molly, were still at the table. “Nay, Sym. ’Tis clear that I must resolve this dilemma for myself.”

  Sitting between Janet and Bella, with Lady Rosalie at Janet’s right and Lady Meg and Lady Scott beyond Rosalie, Molly was still eating. She was also fighting a strong temptation to watch Wat and Sym, when Bella said abruptly into the silence, “Who is Gil Rutherford, Molly? Do you know?”

  “Gil?” Molly noted that Janet was deep in conversation with Lady Rosalie.

  “Gil Rutherford,” Bella repeated, evidently thinking that Molly had not heard his surname. “Our Bessie, who sees to Janet and me, said her father and her brother had been talking about such a man. But Bessie failed to hear much of interest, she said, because when they caught her listening, they got angry and sent her away.”

  Thinking that Bessie ought to have known better than to repeat such a thing to the child, Molly shook her head. “You should ask his lordship about that, Bella. Or perhaps you might ask Janet.”

  Bella grimaced. “I did ask Janet. She said that curiosity ill-becomes a bairn like me. But I want to know, Molly. Mayhap I will ask Wat.”

  Although Molly hoped, for Bessie’s sake and perhaps Bella’s as well, that Bella would think twice before asking her brother about Rutherford, she did not dwell on that hope. Her thoughts had stuck instead on the reiver’s name as Bella had said it. Although Gib and Gibbie were the usual nicknames for a man named Gilbert, some people might easily call such a man “Gil” or “Gilly.”

  It was true, she reflected, that she had never heard of Gilbert Rutherford or anyone called Wee Gilly until Wat had asked if she knew those names. But she did recall a discussion between Will and Ned a fortnight or so before, about someone called Gil—or perhaps Will had been talking to Tuedy. She couldn’t be sure.

  She might not have recalled the incident at all, had Bella not mentioned that Bessie’s father and brother were angry with her for overhearing them.

  Will had slapped Molly when he’d seen her in the doorway that night, and scolded her. He had said that she had no business lurking in corners, listening to men talk. She hadn’t been lurking, though. She had just been doing her chores.

  That hadn’t mattered to Will.

  Her memory of the incident failed to supply a picture of which men or how many had been with him at the time. Her focus then was on Will, although she could not be sure whether he or someone else had mentioned the name Gil first.

  Putting a hand to her cheek, she could almost feel Will’s heavy hand there instead, although the most recent bruise he’d given her was nearly gone.

  She wondered if the Gil mentioned then could have been Rutherford. Trying to remember more of the incident proved useless, so she decided that any attempt to explain it to Wat would only stir the coals of their recent argument.

  He would be certain that that Gil was Rutherford when he might have been someone else. She could prove nothing and knew no more than the name.

  It was a pity, though, that she could not somehow send for Thomas. She could tell him what she knew, and he could warn Will and Ned to stay away from the Gil that they knew lest he was the dangerous reiver.

  The more she thought about that, the more worried she became that she might again be ill-serving her host. But if Wat leaped to the wrong conclusion, she would have distorted the entire situation for him. Telling him would also stir more trouble between the Scotts and the Cockburns. She had caused enough already.

  She would bide her time, and likely Wat would capture the reiver.

  It occurred to her that she might be unable to avoid telling him if he pressed her again to talk about her brothers. She would certainly lose her temper if he insisted that she believe the worst of them. And he might well do both. Therefore, she decided, she would be wise to avoid all discussion with him for the nonce.

  Accordingly, noting that Wat had left the great hall with Sym or shortly afterward, she went with Janet and Bella to the bedchamber the two shared. The three of them talked long then about all manner of things, except Wat.

  Molly’s thoughts wandered back to him, though, when Bella said in her abrupt way, “Do you think Len Gray is in love with Auntie Rosalie?”

  “Mercy me, Bella, what a thing to say!” Janet exclaimed. “Even if we suspected such a thing, and I do not, it is most unbecoming of us to talk about Aunt Rosalie behind her back.”

  “Well, I did think of asking her, but I thought you’d liefer I ask you instead.”

  Molly choked on a bubble of laughter and clapped a hand over her mouth when Janet shot her an admonitory look. “I’m sorry,” Molly gurgled through her fingers, trying to stifle her mirth. “I can’t help it.” She paused, trying to regain her composure. “To… to imagine your lively aunt in love with that pompous stick…”

  “I never said that Auntie loved him,” Bella protested. “She couldn’t!”

  “That will do, the pair of you,” Janet said in a stern voice, albeit with dancing eyes. “We must talk about something else.”

  Bella looked at Molly, cocked her head, and parted her lips as if to ask another question.

  Certain that it would as awkward as the previous one, and one she would not want to answer, Molly said hastily, “Janet, do you have any dice?”

  “We do,” Janet said. “Bella likes to play for pebbles. Do you like to play?”

  “I haven’t diced for years,” Molly confessed. “But I did enjoy it when I was Bella’s age. My brothers were kinder then, at least when my grandame was near.”

  “Our brothers are both kind to us,” Bella said. “But we won’t ask Wat to dice with us, because he always wins.”

  “We’ll just stay here then, where he is unlikely to disturb us,” Molly said.

  Janet gave her a speculative look. Then, getting gracefully to her feet, she said, “I’ll fetch our dice and the pebbles. Oh, and, Molly, Gram reminded me that you need shoes. You should wear a pair to supper, I think.”

  Wat endured a veritable stream of second thoughts after leaving Sym. No matter how hard he tried to stem the flow, it persisted.

  Sym’s notion that he should marry Molly must, he knew, have originated with Lady Meg. Nevertheless
, Meg had already given him food for thought. Sym’s advice seemed only to underscore much of what he had thought, himself, except as to who should become Molly’s husband.

  He knew without false pride that, thanks to his father’s many kinsmen and allies, the Scotts were one of the most powerful clans in the Borders. He also knew that he was not his father, but as clan chief, he did intend to build on his father’s legacy, to acquire more land and, somehow, win a knighthood and provide as many well-trained men as possible to serve his liege lord and his grace the King.

  Hitherto, Wat had thought primarily of achieving those goals. Nevertheless, the fact remained that he did someday have to provide himself a wife. He was already years past the age that his father had been when he married.

  Perhaps marrying Molly was not a bad idea, he thought when he saw her at supper, still wearing the green dress… and shoes. She was beautiful, and she certainly attracted him. He could not see her without wanting to touch her, and his memory of the kiss they had shared was enough to stir his whole body to life.

  Also, he had promised to protect her, not just to find her a protector. If he persuaded someone else to marry her, would he not be pushing that responsibility onto another chap—shirking it, in fact?

  That stream of thoughts, for and against, continued throughout the evening but always came to the same end. He, a Borderer, had given his word.

  “That’s it, then,” he muttered as he prepared for bed at last.

  “What’s that, sir?” Jed asked, turning from the kist he had just closed.

  “Nowt,” Wat said. “Just nattering.”

  But it wasn’t “nowt.”

  He had deduced from Molly’s demeanor at supper that she was still out of charity with him. He hoped, though, that she would be calm again by morning. He would seek then to learn if she might willingly accept a husband.

  If so, he would offer to marry her.

  Molly awoke early and quickly donned her yellow kirtle. Sitting on a stool, she pulled on the knitted netherstocks that Janet had given her the previous evening and the rawhide boots and gloves she had borrowed to meet Lady Rosalie. Then, flinging Janet’s old cloak over her shoulders, she went quietly down to the kitchen.

  Avoiding comment or interference, she made her way through the bakehouse to the scullery door and out to the yard. The air was icy, the sky clear.

  If Sym’s snow had fallen overnight, no sign of it remained. The gray dawn light was turning golden.

  The high wall made it impossible to see more than a few treetops beyond it, and Molly knew that the men on the gates would not open them for her, so she contented herself with a brisk walk around the cobbled yard. The stones were dry, and her boots and gloves kept her feet and hands warm.

  Her breath produced clouds of steam. Only her nose was cold.

  The crisp, fresh air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and baking bread. Men busied themselves with chores around the yard, and she saw Tammy in the stable doorway. He stood with his back to her, but seeing him warned her that her time outside might be curtailed if he turned around.

  She did not want to go back inside yet. Although the high table would be ready for anyone wanting to break her fast, she was not as hungry for food as she was for fresh air and exercise. None of the other ladies of the Hall enjoyed the early-winter outdoors as much as she did.

  The changing seasons had always fascinated her, and she did not know Ettrick Forest or the Teviotdale countryside as well as she knew the areas around St. Mary’s Loch. She wanted to see all of it.

  Perhaps after Wat captured his reiver, he would take her and his sisters on more frequent rides. He had not invited them since Westruther had gone home.

  As quickly as she could go without drawing Tammy’s notice, she headed back to the scullery, remembering with a smile the night she and Wat had stolen apples from the pantry near the bake oven.

  The warm scent of baking bread stirred her taste buds to life.

  “I’ve some hot rolls, m’lady,” the baker said with a smile. “Would ye like one tae soothe yer hunger?”

  Eagerly agreeing, Molly watched him slice one and slather butter on it before handing it to her. Deciding that she need not go upstairs yet, she went warily back outside and saw Tammy disappear into the stable. The yard thus being safe again, she crossed it swiftly to find the milkmaid.

  Wat entered the great hall, certain that Molly would be there and might like to ride after breakfast. While they rode, he could learn if she was agreeable at least to the idea of marriage, if only as a way to protect herself.

  So set was he on his plan that her absence from the dais came as a shock. Everyone else, including his mother, was at the high table, eating.

  “Where is Molly?” he asked as he stepped onto the dais.

  Bella shrugged.

  Lady Meg said, “I expect she’s still abed, love.”

  “She is usually up early, Gram,” he protested. “Has no one seen her?”

  Learning that none of them had, he sent a lad to find Emma. She hurried in before Edwin brought his food but disclaimed knowledge of Molly’s whereabouts.

  “She dressed without me, this morning, m’lord,” Emma said. “I thought she must ha’ gone riding with ye.”

  Alarm stirred. Surely, his men would not let her ride out alone. Forgetting breakfast, he hurried downstairs to the yard, only to meet Sym on his way in.

  “One o’ the lads just came in, m’lord,” he said. “That Rutherford lout be heading west now, the lad said, mayhap toward Liddesdale.”

  “Good news, but I was looking for Molly,” Wat said. “Have you seen her?”

  “Nay,” Sym said, giving him a shrewd look. “She’ll no ha’ gotten outside the wall, so she must be inside somewheres. She does like to wander about, ye ken.”

  Wat knew that that was true enough. Relaxing, he said, “Where is the lad with news of Rutherford?”

  “Still a-talking to Tam and Geordie in the stable.”

  “Find Molly, Sym. I must talk with her before we leave.”

  “Aye, laird, I’ll find her.” Sym turned away.

  “And, Sym?”

  Sym turned back, eyebrows raised.

  “Send someone for Father Eamon. Tell him to come straightaway and to bring his missal and whatever else he might need to perform a wedding.”

  Sym grinned. “Aye, laird, I’ll see to that, and I’ll wish ye good fortune. I’m thinking ye may be holding your head in your lap, though, afore this day be done.”

  Having finished her roll and a mug of warm milk in the company of the cheerful milkmaid, Molly bade her good day and returned to the tower through the main entrance. Stepping into the great hall, she saw Lady Meg and Janet at the high table. Sym was with them, too, bending to talk with his mistress.

  As Molly approached the dais, he looked up and straightened.

  “His lordship be a-looking for ye, m’lady,” he said.

  “Was he? Where is he?”

  “In the stable, a-talking wi’ Tam and Geordie. Likely he’ll come in here when he’s done, though, and he’ll want to talk with ye then. If ye havena broken your fast, ye’d be wise to do it now.”

  “I’ve eaten, thank you,” Molly said, but Sym had shifted his gaze to some point beyond her.

  Turning, she saw that Wat had entered the hall and was striding toward her, looking grimly determined. The determination faded to wariness when his gaze collided with hers. Then his features hardened again.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said. “Privately.”

  Although she hoped that Lady Meg or Janet would object, neither one did.

  “Aye, sir,” Molly said with careful courtesy. Suddenly unable to look him in the eyes, she fixed her gaze on his chest instead. “Where do you suggest we go?”

  “To my father’s… that is, to my privy chamber upstairs.”

  Fearing that he might have learned that her brothers and perhaps even her father were in league with the reiver Rutherford, she could not swallo
w, let alone talk. Nor did she dare look up to try to read more in his expression. So, she stood frozen until he put a hand to her shoulder and urged her gently toward the stairway.

  Climbing the stairs ahead of him, she felt his gaze—all the way up.

  Chapter 15

  Wat followed Molly up the stairs, enjoying the sensuous way she moved. Some women trudged up stairs, putting one hand to the outer wall for support and using the other to lift their skirts. Some went briskly, clutching their skirts up before them in both hands. Molly held hers up with one hand and let the other move as it would, making her hips sway enticingly with each step.

  He had seen the way she’d avoided his gaze and wondered at it. The only times she had done that before were when he’d let her see that she had vexed him.

  He was not angry now. He felt only purposeful and determined to see her well protected before he left the Hall to capture Gilbert Rutherford.

  Because if anything went amiss with that…

  “It is that door on your right,” he said as she approached the landing.

  She hesitated in front of the door, so he moved up behind her and reached to open it. His chest brushed her shoulder as he did. He could smell the floral aroma of whatever it was that his sisters used to scent the clothes in their kists, as well as something else, rather enticing, that he thought might be Molly’s own scent.

  “Go in, lass,” he said. “Sit on one of the back-stools if you like.”

  “I’d liefer stand, sir, than have you loom over me,” she said. Turning toward him as he shut the door, she kept her eyes fixed again on his chest.

  “Then look at me,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. Gentling his tone, he added, “My face is up here. I don’t want to talk to the top of your head.”

  To his consternation, her gaze dropped lower, to his feet or her own.

  Putting three fingers under her chin, he forced her to look at him.

  “Am I such an ogre that you cannot have civil discourse with me?”