by Amanda Scott
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “I’m a curious chap by nature, so you are not the first to accuse me of presumption. Pray, forgive the liberty.”
If anything, her beautiful eyes widened more, and for a moment, he thought she would not reply. Then she said, “I am unaccustomed to apologies, sir, if that was one. But neither am I accustomed to such questions from a stranger. I will accept your apology rather than delay you any longer, for I expect you will want to depart as soon as you have dined, and I shall not join you at table. With my good-father abed and no proper female companion, it would be improp—”
“I fear I must irk you again,” he interjected. “Old Jardine has bade me spend the night, and I have agreed. Moreover,” he added, watching for her reaction, “I see nowt amiss in our dining together at high table. We are kinsmen, after all, and if that old man is truly dying, I will soon be responsible for you and your child. Therefore, I would take this opportunity for us to know each other better.”
“To quiz me more, you mean.”
“I swear there will be no more quizzing. You may tell me as little or as much as you like, or you may quiz me as punishment for my presumptuous curiosity. I will answer any question that you want to ask me.”
With a sudden gleam in her eyes, she said, “Good. Did you murder Will?”
Fiona watched him narrowly as he said, “Nay, I did not.” Then with a slight smile, he added, “Did you?”
Hesitating for only a moment, she said firmly, “Of course not. How could I? You noted yourself how unlikely that is.” Then, lest he declare that he had changed his mind about that, she added quickly, “Why did you ask me how long Will and I had been married, let alone whether I loved him?”
“Because I wanted to know, of course. Why else would anyone ask?”
“But that is a decision, sir, not a reason. Why did you want to know?”
“Do you never ask a question just because you want to know the answer?”
“Aye, sure, I do. But I usually know why I want to know even if it is only to see if the answer is what I expect it to be. Moreover, one equivocates—as you are doing now—only when one does not want to explain one’s reason. I think you did have a reason. And you said that you would answer any question I asked you.”
“Aye, I did,” he said ruefully. “I wonder what demon caused me to make such a foolish promise.”
“So, now you would forswear yourself, would you?”
“I would not. If you must know, I saw Will twice this past year in such circumstances as would normally preclude a man’s having recently married.”
“You saw him with other women, in fact.”
“You are blunt, too. But, aye, that is so.”
She shrugged as she had before to show him that she did not care what he thought of her attitude. But she feared that the effort was less successful than before. She feared, too, that he had guessed she knew of Will’s unfaithfulness, and believed that it must upset her. She had known, because Will flaunted his infidelity, and in the past there had naturally been times of distress. Of late, though, Will’s wandering ways had provided relief to her, but she could hardly say so to his imposing cousin.
“We need not stand here in this archway like two posts,” Kirkhill said, putting a too familiar but comfortingly warm hand to her shoulder. “The midday meal was already in preparation when we left the kitchen, was it not?”
“Aye, the men will be in to eat shortly,” she said. “You will want to refresh yourself before then, so I will summon a lad to show you to—”
“I can look after myself, my lady. But you will dine with me.”
“You give orders very easily for one who is not yet master here,” she retorted. “Why should I obey you?”
“I am hoping that your curiosity will persuade you,” he said. “Sithee, I have taken your measure now, as I think you have taken mine. I have not taken back my promise, nor will I press you to reveal aught that you do not want to tell me.”
She peered into his eyes, trying to judge his sincerity. She could not do any such thing, of course, yet he did seem to meet and endure her steady gaze easily.
At last, wondering if she was making a grave mistake but as curious as he had hoped she was, if not more so, she said, “Very well then. I will dine with you.”
Chapter 2
Kirkhill believed in preparing himself for possible trouble, and he foresaw a spate of it ahead where her ladyship was concerned. If Old Jardine was right and Will was dead, she would not take kindly to his returning to run the Applegarth estates when the old man died.
From what he had seen so far of the lady Fiona, she would challenge his authority buckle and thong, especially where her child was concerned.
As a knight with years of experience in battle, despite the so-called truce that had been in effect between Scotland and England for the past eight years, Kirkhill had developed two basic rules for himself in preparing for battle: to learn as much as he could about his opponents and their surroundings, and to figure out the safest way to extricate himself and his men afterward.
He smiled now, trying to imagine the lady Fiona as one of those opponents.
She had gone to refresh herself before they dined, so he used the opportunity to make sure that his man, Joshua, had found suitable stabling for their horses, and to inform him that they would spend the night at Spedlins Tower.
He found Joshua brushing Cerberus, Kirkhill’s favorite, albeit rather aged, destrier. He did not normally ride Cerberus on such journeys. But, having no idea what sort of welcome he would get, and certain that Old Jardine would not welcome a tail of Seyton men-at-arms, let alone house or feed them, he had brought only the unimposing Joshua, who had long served as his equerry and squire, and Cerberus, who was still as good in a fight as nearly any man Kirkhill knew.
Joshua might easily have found another position as a knight’s equerry, but when Kirkhill had said he would welcome his continued service at home, Joshua had said amiably that such a post would suit him fine.
Now the wiry, bristle-haired Joshua eyed Kirkhill quizzically as Cerberus blew a welcoming snuffle and nosed him, seeking an apple.
Stroking the black beast’s soft nose as he gave it the apple he had taken from a basket in the hall, Kirkhill said, “I see that you found good stabling, Joshua.”
“Och, aye, ’tis well enough,” Joshua said. “Mind your hand, though. The lad be feeling a mite testy, and ye dinna want to lose it.”
“You know gey well that he has not nipped me since he was a colt,” Kirkhill said. “I’m guessing that you are the one who feels testy. What’s amiss?”
“Nowt. But ye dinna look like a man who’s had his midday meal and means to depart straightaway. Likely, that would explain why nae one here has suggested that I might take a bite or two… of food, see you.”
“Art saying that the people here lack a proper spirit of hospitality?”
Joshua, a man of few words, grimaced expressively.
“They are only now about to take their meal in the great hall,” Kirkhill said. “I came to tell you that Old Jardine has invited me to spend the night, and I mean to do so. You may come in with me now and eat your dinner with Jardine’s people, or I can have someone bring you something out here if that would suit you better.”
“Thank ye, sir, I’ll bide here. I dinna trust these louts around our Cerberus, or even me own lad. I’m thinking I’ll bed down here, too, as ye be meaning to stay.”
“Shall I taste your food before I let them bring it out to you, just to be sure they have not poisoned it?” Kirkhill asked with a teasing smile.
The only reply was another expressive grimace.
“Buck up,” he said. “We’ll leave in the morning when I’ve broken my fast.”
“That’ll suit me, aye.”
“Meantime, though, see if you can make a friend or two here, as we’ll likely return when Old Jardine dies. Try to hear what his people say about young Jardine, too. He’s been missing for ov
er a fortnight.”
“The young master, they call him,” Joshua said. “I doubt I’ll learn more than that, though. They dinna say nowt but rude comments about Sassenachs.”
“And both of us born and raised Annandale men,” Kirkhill said.
“Better nor most o’ them, I’d say.”
“I ken your ways fine, Joshua. By morning, I’ll expect you to know all about Will Jardine. But I agree that you should also keep an eye on our beasts. Sithee, Jardine men are better known for stealing good horses and kine than for aught else.”
“I’ll keep our lads safe, sir.”
“I know you will.” With that, Kirkhill returned to the house, wondering what Joshua would think when he learned of his master’s newest charge.
Fiona had hurried upstairs to her bedchamber, determined to find at least one gown that would not embarrass her to wear. Summoning her maidservant, she said, “Do my hair in a single plait, Flory, and twist it up in that beaded net with the plain white caul that I brought with me from Annan House. For once, I want to look like Lady Will Jardine. Will’s cousin, Lord Kirkhill, is dining with me at high table today, and I do not want him to treat me like a child.”
“Nay, then, if he’s a lord, he willna do that, m’lady,” the plump, rosy-cheeked Flory said reassuringly.
“Mayhap he will not, but I’ve not cared about how I have looked for months, especially since I got so fat with the bairn. Today, I want to look tidy, at least.”
“Ye’ll look gey fine, m’lady. That sky-blue kirtle we furbished up wi’ the lace from Master Will’s mam’s old gowns looks right nice on ye.”
“You must dine at high table with us, Flory.”
“I canna do that, m’lady. Old Master would learn of it straightaway, and it dinna bear thinking what he’d do to me, or tell that devil Hod to do.”
“Then you must serve me at table,” Fiona said. “Old Jardine will not mind that. He will just say that I am putting on airs, but I do not want to dine on the dais alone with his lordship. In troth, I doubt that Old Jardine would like that any better than he’d like you sitting with us, for all that he’s had any number of thieves and rascals sit at that table with him, not caring a whit that I was dining there, too.”
“He’d no like ye dining alone wi’ his lordship, nae matter what he does hisself,” Flory said. “Nor would Master Will like that neither.”
A shiver shot up Fiona’s spine at the thought of Will’s reaction just to her concern for her appearance while she prepared to dine with Kirkhill. But she quickly decided that, having failed to show himself in over a fortnight, Will was unlikely to arrive in time for the midday meal. She did wish that he would show up at some point, though, if only to prove that she had not killed him.
On the other hand, she would not grieve if he failed to return, especially if his absence was a natural result of his own customary behavior.
She would not say as much to Flory, though. The maidservant knew her better than anyone else at Spedlins and was the only person there that Fiona trusted. But some things one did not confide to any servant, no matter how close and trustworthy she might be.
Fiona was soon ready to go downstairs, and Flory declared herself ready after tucking a few straying blond curls under her cap, so they went down together.
Kirkhill, already at the high table, stood as they approached the dais.
Introducing Flory to him, Fiona added, “She has served my sister and me since our childhood, sir. She followed me from Annan House when I married.”
“Then I am gey pleased to meet you, Flory,” Kirkhill said. “Do you dine with your mistress and me?”
“Nay, sir, the old laird wouldna like that,” Flory said, blushing fiercely.
“She ought to stay on the dais with us, though, or people will talk,” Fiona said. “She can serve me. No one will object to that.”
“An excellent notion, my lady. Will you take your place now? Those at the lower tables were taking seats when I entered, so I assume that this must be a day when you dispense with the grace before meat at this meal.”
She said, “The Jardines dispense with it every day, sir. The men here would likely revolt if their meat were delayed just so that someone could speak words over it. They are not much interested in Holy Kirk or—” She broke off when a thought struck her. “Good sakes, though, with a name like Kirkhill, I expect you may be gey religious. If you are, then you must do as you please, of course.”
He smiled. “The barony’s name comes from the fact that my ancestors built their first house on a hill where a wee kirk had stood. That is to say, they thought the ruins looked like the remains of a kirk. Knowing these parts, though, it might as easily have been some pagan hill fort. Some of them did have chapels.”
“Aye, Dunwythie Hall has such a chapel hill,” she said. “The Hall is my father’s primary seat—that is, my sister’s primary seat,” she amended hastily.
“I know the Hall,” he said. “Dunwythie died some time ago, did he not?”
“Just two years ago,” she said quietly.
Silence fell between them as gillies began carving the meat and serving the food. Noting scarcely veiled looks from the men at the lower tables, and seeing two of the women and Jeb’s Wee Davy peeping through the service stair archway, Fiona felt more vulnerable than usual, sitting there with Kirkhill. She knew the men were muttering about her. Some did not even bother to lower their voices.
The silence at the high table grew heavy before Kirkhill said abruptly, “Do you not usually dine at this table, my lady?”
“I did before my husband vanished and Old Jardine got so sick,” she said. “Since then, I’ve taken my meals with Flory in the ladies’ solar. It lies on the other side of the north wall, to our right, as does the inner chamber. But one cannot enter the solar from here. It opens off the landing, where the porter can keep watch.”
Scarcely sparing more than a glance that way, he said, “But there are other women here, for I saw them. I saw the children who listened to your stories, too.”
“Aye, sure, servant women and their bairns,” she said. “But the few women who agree to serve inside stay in the kitchen with their bairns and do not eat with the men. The men prefer it that way, and so do the women, come to that.”
“I see. Then I expect you will continue that practice when I leave.”
“I’d have continued it today, had you not commanded otherwise.”
Silence overcame them again until he said, “A number of those men seem to be looking this way too often for civility. Some even seem to be discussing us.”
“Sakes, sir, you are not my good-father’s sole confidant. He has expressed his view of my husband’s disappearance to any who will listen to him. Doubtless, most of them believe that I murdered Will. If they are talking of aught else, it is to debate whether you might have done it instead, or have taken a hand to aid me.”
“I see.” A grim note touched his voice, making her look quickly at him.
Kirkhill was angrier with himself than with anyone else, because he knew he ought to have realized earlier that rumors would be flying and would be more prevalent at Applegarth than anywhere else. That he had not was no one’s fault but his. Distrusting Old Jardine’s idea of hospitality as he had, he had ridden Cerberus and brought only Joshua instead of his usual tail. But he had failed to learn all he could about Jardine’s estates and his people simply because the old man had invited him and Applegarth was not enemy territory—and also because of the fine line that existed between gleaning helpful information and encouraging gossip.
Kirkhill loathed gossip, and his people knew it. If he wanted to know what his neighbors were saying, he would ask. Otherwise, he did not want to hear it.
Moreover, because of his mother’s connection to the Jardines, his people at Kirkhill were less likely to gossip about what went on at Spedlins Tower than almost anywhere else. He had not even asked Joshua if he had heard news of the place before they’d traveled south. Nor wo
uld he have done so before he had visited Applegarth and gained an impression of the place for himself.
After hearing Jardine accuse the lady Fiona of Will’s murder, Kirkhill now realized, he had dismissed the notion as absurd. Had he considered the likely impact of Will’s continued absence and such an accusation on her ladyship, he would easily have deduced that she might be the subject of vicious gossip. The plain fact was that he had not thought beyond wanting to get better acquainted with her before he left, to show her that he was not an ogre who meant to disrupt her life.
The initial silence between them at the table had surprised him, because she had found it easy to talk with him earlier and to say whatever came into her head. Now, sitting beside him, she stared at her trencher except when sipping her ale or politely accepting or rejecting the dishes that Flory offered her.
“I owe you another apology,” he said quietly. “I did not expect your own household to treat you with such hostility.”
“I told you I ought not to dine with you. You should have listened to me.”
“I should have,” he agreed, meeting her gaze and this time enjoying the startled look in her eyes. Her face was not only beautiful but also expressive. He wondered how it would express itself in the throes of—Cutting off that thought, he said, “Would you be more comfortable if we left now?”
“Nay!” She looked even more startled, but the look quickly shifted to one of annoyance, perhaps even anger. “If we were to walk out so soon, it would only give people more reason to talk.”
“I will pay better heed to such things when I return, my lady,” he said. “I promise you that.”
Fiona did not bother trying to explain to him how little promises were worth to her, men’s promises in particular. She focused on the Jardine men’s behavior.
“Do you think I run from their scorn and mockery?” she demanded. “See you, only a few of them still treat me so. I was but fifteen when Will married me, and they had cause to scorn me then, for I was young and silly. I knew naught of running a household like this one, with a master like Old Jardine.”