Tempted by a Warrior

by Amanda Scott

  “I will call you Kirkhill,” she said firmly, but almost as if her thoughts had briefly flitted elsewhere. “I warrant it must be Lord Kirkhill, though,” she added.

  “More to the purpose, my mother has the misfortune to be that old scoundrel’s sister,” he said.

  “Good sakes, I did not know that Old Jardine had a sister!”

  “I think she’d liefer not be one,” he said with a wry smile. “But he did send word to me that he was dying and bade me hie myself to Spedlins Tower.”

  “Then I expect that I should go and tell him you are here and see if he will receive you,” she said. “I will get someone to take you to a more comfortable—”

  “Nay, my lady—Lady William, I should say—”

  “‘My lady’ is sufficient,” she said. “No one calls me Lady William.”

  “’Tis the usual way, so forgive me if I have irked you,” he said. “In any event, I did not come here to kick my heels whilst my crusty uncle takes his time to decide that he does indeed want to see me. You will take me to him. First, though, I want to hear about what happened to Will.”

  “So do we all,” she replied.

  “God’s troth, do you not know? Jardine’s messenger told me that my uncle was on his deathbed and that I was to be his heir, so I assumed Will must be dead. But as you have that said you are either the heir’s wife or his mother…” He paused.

  “Aye,” she said, touching her belly again. “I do not know which it is. See you, Will was here; then he was not. He has been gone for over a fortnight.”

  “Then I hope you will forgive my asking if you and he were legally married. I am sure that no one informed my mother of such a grand occasion, because she would certainly have told me.”

  “Aye, sure, we were legally married,” she said with a flash in her eyes and deep flush to her cheeks. “If my good-father did not tell his sister of our union, it was through no fault of mine.”

  “It would not have been your fault in any event,” he agreed.

  Looking away, she added, “He has plainly called you here to no benefit of your own, sir. Doubtless, you would be wise to turn round and go home.”

  He waited until she met his gaze again, this time with wariness in her eyes.

  “Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?” he asked.

  Fiona did not think that Kirkhill looked like a man who would go away just because she’d suggested that course. In truth, she was not sure what to make of him.

  He was taller and even more powerful looking than Will was, taller than she was by a head, and he looked as if he might be twice as broad across the shoulders. He had dressed for riding in leather breeks, boots, and a leather jack over a loose, snowy white shirt, similar to clothing that Will and many Border lords wore. But his features were more rugged than Will’s, so Kirkhill was not as handsome.

  He also lacked that air of menace that Will had worn so casually, but Will had not shown that side of himself to her at first either. There was something unnerving about Kirkhill, though, a sense of power, perhaps.

  Will had strutted about like a cock in its hen yard, chin jutting and with an expression that dared anyone to cross him. Looking at Kirkhill, she realized that Will’s posturing had missed the mark. His cousin did none of that, but no one could doubt his confidence in himself or his belief that he would get what he wanted.

  Despite his kinship with Will and a slight—albeit much neater—similarity of taste in attire, Kirkhill did not look at all like the dark Jardines. His curly hair was the color of dark honey, and his face showed darker stubble, as if no one had shaved him for a day or two. But he moved with feline grace, spoke well, and seemed perfectly at ease with himself. She envied him his air of certainty, recalling a time when she had enjoyed similar self-assurance.

  But to ask her if she was “truly married”! What a question! A true gentleman would not challenge a lady so—although, in truth, she had not met many gentlemen.

  The only ones that came to mind were her deceased father; her sister Mairi’s husband, Robert Maxwell; and her cousin Jenny’s husband, Sir Hugh Douglas. Sir Hugh was Fiona’s maternal uncle as well, although she barely knew him, and she had met Maxwell but once. If Jenny and Mairi had married them, they must be gentlemen, but she certainly did not count her cantankerous good-father as one, or her husband, if Will even counted still amongst the living.

  Gentleman or not, Kirkhill did not strike her as a patient man. And, if he was kin to Old Jardine and Will, she knew that she would be wise to do as he bade her.

  “Come this way, my lord,” she said quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.

  They passed through that vaulted chamber and up a wheel stairway to the main entryway and the great hall, crossing the west-to-east length of that hall to the inner chamber entrance near the north end of the dais.

  Fiona paused at the closed door, glancing at her unwanted companion. “His chamber is no pleasant place,” she told him. “He has a vicious, smelly mastiff with him nearly all the time, and my good-father will be in no pleasant humor, either.”

  “I’ll charm him into one,” he said, leaning past her to open the door and gesturing for her to precede him inside.

  Grimacing, she did. The room reeked as it always did of sickness, dog, and old man, the combination almost overpowering, and she wanted the business over quickly. The babe moved within her, pushing against the rib that still ached from twisting to see Kirkhill when he’d arrived.

  He showed no sign of minding the noisome air of Jardine’s bedchamber or the huge, deep-chested mastiff that surged to its feet, growling, when they entered.

  The inner chamber was the sort of large room wherein many a laird still held audiences, tended business, and slept with his wife if he had one. Old Jardine’s bed frame, large, elaborately carved, and draped with dark blue curtains tied back at its posts, stood at the center of the wall opposite the doorway, its foot end facing them.

  The fat old man was awake, propped on pillows, glowering at Fiona through piggy eyes. Hod, his personal servant, hovered at his side, holding out a cup to him.

  The mastiff growled again.

  “Quiet, Dobby! Hod, take that poison away!” Waving dog and manservant away, he returned his scowl to Fiona. “What d’ye want, lass? I told ye afore to rap on yon door and wait till Hod admits ye. Ye’re lucky the dog didna savage ye.”

  “That was my doing, Uncle,” Kirkhill said, urging Fiona farther into the room with a touch to her back but putting himself between her and the dog.

  Jardine exclaimed, “Richard! ’Tis yourself then? But so it must be, for ye’re the spit o’ your fiendish father, and forbye, ye’d be the only man to call me ‘Uncle.’”

  “I warrant I was no more than seven when last we met, for I’ve not been nigh the place since,” Kirkhill said. “And now, apparently, I’ve come on a fool’s errand.”

  “’Tis no foolish thing to answer the cry of a dying man,” Jardine muttered, his voice suddenly much weaker.

  Fiona nearly rolled her eyes. She did not believe the old man was any feebler than he had been the moment before.

  Evidently, Kirkhill agreed, because his voice took on an edge as he said, “But why did you declare yourself at the point of death and me your heir when you sent for me? Even if the first part should prove true, the second is patently false.”

  “D’ye think so? I’m thinking that only God kens if it be false.”

  Fiona gritted her teeth. She would have liked to remove herself from the old man’s presence, but curiosity and a suspicion that Old Jardine might have met his match in Kirkhill bade her stay as long as the two allowed it.

  Kirkhill said, “Your good-daughter is obviously with child, Uncle. And she assures me that she and Will were properly wed.”

  “Aye, ’tis true he did marry her, the young fool, thinking he could gain much thereby. He should ha’ had better ken o’ how matters stood.”

  “From your message, I thought he must be dead,�
� Kirkhill went on with a new note in his voice, a harder one that made Fiona look quickly at him and try to judge if a harsh temper was another trait he shared with his uncle and cousin.

  Not that she counted herself a good judge of men, for experience had proven she was not. But she had learned to recognize certain important things about them. So she studied Kirkhill carefully as he continued to gaze sternly at his uncle.

  Old Jardine continued to look at him as if he, too, were sizing Kirkhill up.

  The dog growled again, low in its throat.

  When the old man’s silence made it clear that he had forgotten the question or did not choose to reply, Kirkhill added softly, “Is Will dead, Uncle?”

  “He must be, aye.”

  “Even if he is, why did you say that I was to be your heir? I don’t like liars.” As soft as Kirkhill’s voice was now, it sent a chill right through Fiona.

  Old Jardine said in his usual curt way, “Nor do I tell lies. We’ve no seen my Will now for over a fortnight, so he must be dead. Nowt but a grave would keep that lad away this long without a word to me.”

  “The English have been restless for more than a month now, breaking our so-called ten-year truce by sending raiding parties across the line,” Kirkhill said. “Mayhap Will got himself killed or captured.”

  “Not captured. D’ye think he’d ha’ kept his name to himself? He’d ha’ said right off that he were my son, and I’d ha’ got a demand for his ransom. I’d ha’ paid it, too, for Will. He’s naebody’s prisoner,” Jardine added. “It has been too long.”

  “Even if he is dead, you’d still have an heir or an heiress, and soon, too, by the look of her,” Kirkhill said, gesturing toward Fiona.

  “Faugh,” Jardine snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see the bairn. Sithee, her mam lost more bairns than anyone else I’ve ever heard tell of.”

  “I won’t lose my child,” Fiona declared.

  “Aye, well, whether the bairn comes or no, Richard, I want ye to find out what became o’ my Will. I knew that if I told ye ye’d stand to inherit Applegarth, ye’d come here. And so ye did. The fact is, I’ve willed it so that if Will doesna come home, ye’re to look after the place when I die. Ye’ll do that right enough, I’m thinking, for a tithe from the rents.”

  “I will, aye,” Kirkhill said. “I’d do that for anyone, tithe or none.”

  “I’ve named ye lawful guardian for the bairn, too,” Jardine said with a darkling look at Fiona.

  Stiffening, she said, “My child will need no guardian but me.”

  “Even an I believed that, which I do not, ’tis my duty to name a suitable man to guard the bairn’s interest, aye—and yours, too, lass,” the old man said grimly.

  Wondering if that were true, she looked at Kirkhill.

  He met her questioning gaze with a stern look that somehow reassured her even as he gave a curt nod and said, “That is true, my lady. However, you should have someone whom you trust to look after your interest, a kinsman of your own.”

  “Should I?” Fiona said. “My father is dead, and my good-brother lives much of the year in Galloway. My uncle, Sir Hugh Douglas, lives nearer, in Nithsdale—”

  “They ha’ nowt to do wi’ her, and I dinna want any o’ them setting foot on my land,” Jardine snapped. “Get hence now, lass. I would talk wi’ Kirkhill alone.”

  Glancing again at Kirkhill and receiving another curt nod, Fiona obeyed.

  When the lady Fiona had gone, Kirkhill faced his uncle. “I expect you think I should just drop everything else I might be doing and stay here with you.”

  “Nay, I’m none so daft as that,” Old Jardine retorted. “Ye’ll ha’ your own business to attend afore ye can see to mine. Moreover, for a time yet, I’m still good to look after things here. I just wanted ye to know how ye stand. All of Applegarth will be yours if Will be dead and the bairn also dies. The estates will be yours to run in any event until the bairn turns five-and-twenty. I’d like a lad o’ Will’s to inherit them, but I’m none so sure I’d want one wi’ that vixen-lass as his mam. Still, he’d be the heir o’ me own blood and Will’s, and in the end, God will decide the matter.”

  “He will, aye,” Kirkhill agreed, not bothering to conceal his disgust.

  “Aye, sure, but I’ll be damned afore I’ll see any daughter o’ hers take Applegarth, so ye’ll see to it that that doesna happen,” Jardine said with a straight look. “I’ve willed it so that only a male wi’ Jardine blood shall get me lands, but others may try to deny my will. I want ye to see that they dinna succeed.”

  “If I did not know better, I might think you mean me to do away with the bairn if it’s born female, or even to do away with its mother beforehand,” Kirkhill said bluntly, noting that every sign of the old man’s weakness had vanished.

  “Aye, well, if I thought ye’d do it, we might make a bargain, for I’ve nae use for her,” Jardine retorted. “Our Fiona be too hot at hand for any man but Will, and she doesna take well to schooling. Doubtless, a daughter o’ hers would be the same. Moreover, I’ve a strong notion that if my Will’s dead, she killed him. Sithee, she were the last to see him alive, and he were gey displeased wi’ her, too.”

  Kirkhill, finding it hard to think of the spirited lass as a murderess, said only, “I’ll see what I can learn of Will’s whereabouts. I should perhaps seek out someone from the lady Fiona’s family, too, to look after her interests.”

  “Nay, for I’ve willed it so that ye’ll look after Applegarth and after her, too. Mayhap we’ll talk more anon, lad, but I’m dead tired now. Ye’ll stay the night.”

  Mayhap he would, Kirkhill decided. He had no interest in talking further with Old Jardine, but he did want to learn more about Will’s intriguing lady.

  To his surprise, she was waiting outside the door to Jardine’s chamber, on the great hall dais. “He thinks I killed his son,” she said without preamble.

  Knowing that the old man would have lost no time in expressing the suspicion he had already made clear to her, Fiona had blurted the statement, ignoring a pair of gillies hurrying onto the dais and away again with baskets and platters of food for the midday meal.

  Kirkhill heard her declaration with no apparent astonishment.

  “He did tell me as much,” he said quietly. “But unless Will was weaker than my uncle is now, I doubt that you could have overpowered him, my lady.”

  “That is kind of you,” she said. “I’m nearly sure I didn’t kill him.”

  His eyebrows arced upward, drawing her to note that they were darker than his hair and that his heavily lashed eyes were golden brown. “Nearly sure?” he said.

  With a shrug, she said glibly, “My good-father has accused me so often that I’ve almost come to believe him. The reason he sent for you is that he wants to learn the truth before he dies, so that he can hang the guilty person, whoever it is.”

  “I do understand his wanting that,” he said, nodding.

  “He will be gey pleased by your understanding, I’m sure. But mayhap, before you inform him of it, you should know one thing more.”

  Pausing, she added, “He also suspects you, my lord.”

  Kirkhill saw that she expected him to express astonishment that Old Jardine suspected him. In truth, though, he would feel little surprise to hear that his uncle suspected nearly everyone he saw of murdering Will. The old man was even more despicable than Lady Kirkhill had led him to expect, but his disgust stirred strongest when he recalled Jardine’s treatment of the lass watching him so intently now.

  To be sure, he had seen for himself that the lady Fiona was likely less than dutifully submissive to her good-father. Recalling the angry flash in her eyes earlier when he had asked her if she and Will had properly married, and her stiff resistance in the sickroom to accepting a guardian for her child, he suspected that she had a quick temper. But she had also revealed that odd wariness when he had refused rather curtly to let her leave him waiting while she warned Jardine of his arrival.

  Still, oth
er than her two brief protests, she had been quiet in the sickroom, so he doubted that she was the temperamental vixen Jardine had described and thought it far more likely that, if the two had a fractious relationship, his uncle was at fault.

  Kirkhill found it especially hard to imagine that she would behave insolently when Will Jardine was at hand. Not only had he heard as much about Will as he had about Old Jardine but he had also met Will—several times.

  Impatiently, she said, “Have I stunned you to silence, sir?”

  “Nay, I was just thinking about the last time I saw Will,” he said, recalling that his cousin had greeted him jovially with a plump, clearly willing, and experienced lass on each arm. “How long have you and Will been married?”

  She started to answer, for her mouth opened. Then she shut it tight and scowled at him before she said, “Do you ask such things of every lady you meet?”

  Irritation stirred in him again, although she had every right to object to his quizzing, especially with servants scurrying hither and yon. “Not every lady,” he said. “But I do know my cousin better than I know my uncle.”

  “Aye, sure, and Will is a man’s man, is he not? A scrapper, ready for any fight and never caring whose side he takes. A devil with the lassies, too, is he not? Doubtless you much admire him.”

  “Not much,” he replied. “I should think he’d make any woman the devil of a husband.” Noting that a number of people were eyeing them curiously, he touched her elbow, adding, “Shall we move away from this dais?”

  She let him guide her back toward the stairway, but he discerned new wariness beneath her casual demeanor as she said, “Doubtless my husband is no better or worse than any other man.”

  “Do you love him?” he asked, wondering what stirred him to such bluntness.

  Her eyes widened. “My good-father may have named you guardian to all his estates and to my child, sir, not to mention the possible murderer of his son. But none of that gives you the right to question me so presumptuously… not yet, at all events.”