by Amanda Scott
“Mayhap I will,” she said mendaciously.
His eyes narrowed to slits, and he struggled to sit up. His face reddened with the effort, and he gasped for air. The dog turned its head briefly to watch him, then turned back toward Fiona, baring its teeth.
Fiona stayed where she was, watching the old man. She could do nothing to help him, nor—if experience was any guide—would he or the dog let her try. And she did not trust Old Jardine to keep his hands to himself or protect her from the dog if she did try to aid him.
His gasping grew worse, and he fell back hard against the pillows.
“Shall I call Hod?” she asked.
The gasping grew harsher, frighteningly so, as if he were trying to talk.
“I’ll get him,” she said, turning but keeping an ear cocked toward the dog.
As she reached the door, the old man said clearly, “Ye’d best have a care.”
She stopped with her hand on the latch but did not turn.
The harsh voice continued, still gasping but not so dreadfully. “Them rumors… will reach the sheriff’s ears. Nae one will stop him then… if he decides to flex his authority in Annandale… to hang a murderess!”
Having changed from his riding dress to fresh clothing, Kirkhill hurried down to join his mother, his sister, and their guests in the great hall for supper.
Annis, Lady Kirkhill, reed slender and with some forty-five years behind her, but still pretty in a pale yellow kirtle and a colorful wrap, her fading blond hair concealed beneath a white veil, had already taken her place beside his own when he strode across the hall to the dais. Sir James and Tony MacCairill were also there.
Kirkhill went to his mother at once and bent to kiss her cheek. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said with a warm smile. “I am a most undutiful son.”
“You will always have your joke, my dear Dickon,” she said, smiling back at him. “I know how busy you are. You have done naught to require my forgiveness.”
“You should give him a good scold nevertheless, Annis,” James Seyton said, breaking off his conversation with Tony MacCairill. “It would do him good.”
“Oh, no, James, how can you say so? Dickon is always so kind to me! By my troth, he has never given me cause to scold him.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Sir James said with a laugh. “Why, I can recall any number of pranks he pulled as a youngster. His father certainly had cause to scold—aye, and often to do more than scold, come to that.”
Lady Kirkhill beamed at her son. “I do not recall any such event, sir. Dickon has always been the best of sons.”
“Madam, enough,” Kirkhill said, chuckling. “We all know which of you is right and which of you has chosen to forget my many misdemeanors.” He glanced around the great hall. “Is Nan not here yet?”
“I am sure she will be here directly, my dearling,” Lady Kirkhill said hastily. “Doubtless, she lost track of the time.”
“Nay, I did not,” Nan said, sweeping toward the dais from the hall entryway. “Dickon sent me to change my dress—and after I had chosen it especially to sup with Tony, too,” she added with a roguish look at that gentleman and a more challenging one for her brother.
Lady Kirkhill nibbled her lower lip and glanced nervously at her son, but Kirkhill would not play the villain’s role that his sister so clearly intended for him.
“We are glad you have come, Nannie,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Do take your place, so we may eat. You cannot want our guests to starve.”
“Mercy, no,” she said. “Only look at Tony, practically at his last gasp.”
The stalwart MacCairill grinned at her.
“Surely, my dearling,” her mother said, shooting another wary look at Kirkhill, “you should address Sir Antony more properly.”
“Oh, he does not care,” Nan said, tossing her head. “Do you, Tony?”
“You may call me anything you like, my lady,” he said with a slight bow.
“Likely, I shall take base advantage of that offer,” she said with a twinkle. “I think of you as merely a second odious brother, after all.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me to the quick, lass.”
“Tony,” Kirkhill said evenly, “don’t encourage her. She must learn to behave more courteously before either of us takes her to Stirling or anywhere in company.”
“Faith, Dickon, you cannot mean for me to go to Stirling with Tony! Only think what a scandal that would cause—a young innocent girl traveling alone with a man of his scurrilous reputation, and to join the court!”
“Sit down, Nan,” Kirkhill said, giving her a look to warn her that he had had enough. “They are carving the meat.”
Returning his look speculatively, Nan put her chin in the air but obeyed him.
Kirkhill turned to his uncle. “I’d like a word with you after supper if you don’t mind, sir.”
James Seyton nodded amiably.
“Me, too?” Tony asked.
“You and I will talk later,” Kirkhill assured him grimly.
“I want to hear all about your trip to Spedlins Tower, Dickon,” Nan said as gillies scurried about, serving them, while others served in the lower hall. “Is our uncle as unpleasant a man as everyone says he is?”
“He is dying, so it will soon cease to matter what sort of man he is.”
“Pish tush,” Nan said. “Of course it matters. Men like Old Jardine influence everyone around them. Moreover, I have heard that Cousin Will Jardine is just such another, so things will remain as they are at Spedlins, will they not?”
“Will Jardine has been missing for more than a fortnight,” Kirkhill said. “No one seems to know what became of him, so Spedlins is in a muddle. Our uncle has asked me to sort things out after he dies, and to find out what happened to Will.”
Because his mother sat between him and Nan, he had been talking across her to his sister, but if Lady Kirkhill was paying heed to them, he saw no sign of it, although they discussed her brother and nephew.
Kirkhill realized again that, until the lady Fiona had drawn his attention to the possible reason for his mother’s lack of interest in her own family, he had not questioned it. Now he noticed that her right hand, on the table near his left one, clenched her eating knife so tightly that her knuckles had whitened.
His sister turned her attention to a platter of sliced roast beef that a gillie was holding for her inspection, so Kirkhill rested his hand atop his mother’s, leaned close, and murmured for her ears alone, “I tell you, madam, after seeing my uncle, it astonishes me anew that so gentle and kind a lady sprang from that nest. It proves yet again what extraordinary judgment my father showed in choosing his wife.”
Her hand lurched under his, releasing the knife it clenched. Then it turned over and gripped his tight. She looked at him silently, tears glistening in her eyes.
As he met that look, his thoughts shifted abruptly back to the lady Fiona.
Whatever else he did after Old Jardine’s death, he would do all he could to protect her against the old villain’s ridiculous accusations.
As he ate his supper, it occurred to him that if he left Tony behind in order to talk with his uncle James, Lady Kirkhill would be obliged to invite the young man to sit with her and Nan in her solar, which would only lead to more of his sister’s mischief. Accordingly, when they had finished the meal, he said, “You might as well come with us, Tony. You may possibly have an idea or two to aid me.”
“I am full of good ideas,” Tony said cheerfully.
“You are full of something, at all events,” Kirkhill replied.
They adjourned to the room at the back of the house that he used to deal with matters of business. Someone had lit a fire on the hearth there, and it was warm. A large table took pride of place, and Kirkhill drew up a back-stool to it, motioning the other two men to do likewise.
As they sat down, he said without preamble, “I want to find out all I can about Will Jardine, which means that I need to learn what the Jardines
have been up to these past few years. I’ve heard talk, of course, but I’m not interested in rumors or insinuations. I want to know the truth.”
“A tall order, lad,” Sir James said.
“Aye, well, you keep your ear to the ground, sir, so I’m hoping your men can help. I’m also going to need you here at Kirkhill for a time when Jardine dies. He has named me guardian of his unborn grandchild and trustee for the child’s mother as well as steward for his estates until the child reaches its twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Will Jardine eloped two years ago with the lady Fiona Dunwythie,” Sir James said. “But I’ve heard nowt of his having disappeared.”
Kirkhill explained what he knew, adding, “Annandale is rife with rumors about his disappearance. If they’ve not spread to Lothian, I count that to the good.”
“What sort of rumors?” Tony asked.
“Primarily, that the lady Fiona killed him. I am sure that cannot be true, though. Will is young and strong, and the lass is with child and near her time. She is also much smaller than Will is.”
“Aye, she would be,” Tony said. “Will prefers them small.”
Ignoring him because he did not want to dwell on the lady Fiona or Will, Kirkhill said, “I’ll search through everything at Spedlins when I take over there. I have a notion I won’t find many documents, because Old Jardine does not seem like a man who keeps good accounts. However, perhaps I’ve misjudged him.”
“I doubt it,” his uncle said. “That old man is a scoundrel, and his son is no better. I’d wager that much of what they have done does not bear accounting.”
“What do you want me to do, Dickon?” Tony asked.
“I want you to stay away from Nan until we get a few things sorted out,” Kirkhill said. “You are mistaken if you think constant attention will win her heart. She reminded me that I promised years ago that I would let her choose her husband, and she insists that she’ll have none of you. She said that you always want your own way and want only to ally yourself with our family, not with her.”
“Do you mean to say our negotiations are off?” Tony demanded indignantly.
“Not at all. But if you want her, my lad, you’d do better to keep your distance. Neglect her. If my sister believes she can wind you round her thumb, you will never win her. You’d be wiser to tell her you agree with me that she needs to grow up before she thinks of marrying, and then leave in the morning.” Turning to his uncle, he said, “As I mentioned before, sir, I’m hoping that you will return to keep an eye on things here when I am recalled to Spedlins. My lady mother will be more comfortable with you here, and you can also keep an eye on Nan.”
“Now hold on, lad,” Sir James said. “I’ve nae experience with misbehaving lassies. Mayhap you should take Nan with you when you return to Spedlins. Nae doots, she’d be good company for Will Jardine’s lady wife.”
Kirkhill rejected that suggestion. The last thing he wanted was to have to contend with two defiant young women while taking charge of the Jardine estates.
Fiona spent the next ten days, the last days of June, doing her best to keep out of Old Jardine’s way. She focused instead on finishing her preparations for her baby’s arrival and ignoring the recurrent but unpredictable pains in her back. A number of women on the estate, and even a few of the children, came in to help with cleaning, and several brought small gifts they had made for her child.
Jeb’s Jane, one of the women who helped in the kitchen, brought in a cradle that she said her husband had sanded, oiled, and polished for her ladyship’s baby.
“It belonged to Lady Jardine’s family, me lady,” Jane said. “My Jeb did say that Master Will thought it were foolish to furbish it up, but Jeb did it anyway and finished it last month just afore he died.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “He did say the wee heir to Spedlins ought to ha’ a bed o’ his own.”
“Thank you, Jane,” Fiona said solemnly. “It was a gey thoughtful thing for Jeb to do. I will think of him whenever I lay my bairn in this cradle.”
She supposed that Parland Dow had taken her message to Dunwythie Hall, but no message had come to Spedlins in return. So, either her mother had not cared enough to send one, or—and much more likely, Fiona was sure—Old Jardine’s men had not allowed anyone arriving from the Hall to deliver it to her.
In either case, Fiona was glad that she had sent her message. Doing so had given her a sense of victory, of outsmarting the fat old man in the inner chamber.
By the first day of July, a Wednesday, her back pains were occurring daily. Flory would rub her back, trying to ease them, but Fiona soon learned that until they eased of their own accord, there was little that anyone could do.
That Saturday, midafternoon, Hod burst into her chamber without knocking.
Whirling at the intrusion, she swiftly noted his pale face and shaking hands.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Is he dead?”
“Nay, but he wants ye, and ye’d best come quick,” Hod said. “He can scarcely breathe, and he’s been a-clutching at his chest. Says he’ll do for the nonce, but I’m thinking that he canna ha’ but a few hours left to him.”
“Then what does he want with me? He cannot want my comforting.”
“Nay, but he insists he must speak wi’ ye, to make things clear, he said.”
“He’s made things clear enough.”
“Aye, well, ye’ll come if I ha’ to carry ye,” he snapped.
She went without further objection.
Chapter 5
The mastiff growled as usual when Fiona entered. It lay beside the old man on the bed, showing its teeth, clearly on guard.
Old Jardine’s face was gray, but whether it was his skin or just the stubble of beard on his jowls she could not tell. His glower was as fierce as ever.
“Ye’ll ha’ to walk softly now,” he muttered, one hand on the dog, his voice so weak that she could barely hear him. But she would not move closer to the bed.
She did not understand what he’d meant. “Why must I walk softly?”
“Because God will see that ye’ll pay for what ye did to my Will,” he said, his voice sounding stronger. “And ye willna ken where or how. Mayhap ye think our Kirkhill will be kind, that he’ll look after ye as if ye were his own family. But he’ll do nae such thing. Soon or late, the fact that he inherits all o’ this if your bairn dies, or turns out to be a wee vixen like yourself, will be more than the man can stand.”
“Even my daughter would inherit,” she retorted, “just as my sister did.”
“Nay, for I told the man that I’d willed it so that only a male o’ Jardine blood shall get me lands. I’d be damned afore I let any woman run Applegarth.”
“I expect you told him that he will inherit if my child dies, too.”
“Aye, sure, because if Will be dead and the bairn likewise, Kirkhill is my heir. I warrant he already knew as much, for ye can be sure that me sister has long known it even if her son has not. Sithee, wealth be power, lass, and these lands be more than what most men own. Ye’ll see. He’ll prove to be a man like any other.”
“Kirkhill is not like you,” she said. “Nor like Will.”
“Well, ye’ll find out, won’t ye? Ye killed Will, but even so, I did tell Kirkhill that I didna mind a lad wi’ your blood inheriting Applegarth, because he’d ha’ me own blood in him, and Will’s, too. God will decide the matter, but it be on your head, too, to keep me grandson safe to claim his inheritance. Mayhap ye can do that. I warrant ye’ll want to, because ye’ll hope to control him. That be how women think. But Kirkhill will still take charge here, and I’m thinking ye’ll no like that.”
That was true enough, Fiona thought, whatever happened.
“I’ll haunt ye,” Old Jardine muttered.
“What?” She focused on him again.
“Are ye no listening, woman? I said, though ye’ll think me dead and buried in me grave, I’ll haunt ye, come what may, for doing away wi’ my Will.”
She was silent, aware that f
urther protest would be useless, especially as she could not be sure what had happened to Will.
An irksome memory stirred of someone in the past telling her about the extraordinary strength a mother could display if her child were in danger.
Jardine’s eyes had narrowed to slits, as if he hoped to read her thoughts. In his earlier agitation, his face had lost some of the gray. His breathing was shallow though, lacking the harsh sounds to which she had grown accustomed.
“Ha’ ye nae more to say for yourself?” he asked.
She said then, “You will not haunt me, and God will do naught for you, but He will protect my babe because a child is innocent.” Gently stroking her belly, she added, “This wee lad may be half Jardine, but he is also half Dunwythie with a good bit of Douglas as well. He will thus be strong, and I mean to see that he grows up to be good and kind, not cruel and deceitful like his father and you.”
“You watch that mouth o’ yours,” he growled. “If I ha’ to get up—”
The dog growled, baring teeth again, but it did not move away from Jardine.
“You don’t scare me anymore,” she said. “You’re just a sick old man.”
“How dare you!” he snapped, struggling in his fury to sit up, clutching the dog until it turned abruptly toward him. But although he fought so hard to raise himself up off his pillows that his face grew purple with the effort, he was too weak.
Fiona watched him, feeling no fear or sympathy, only curiosity about whether he would manage to sit up. He fell back instead, gasping again but with gasps much weaker than when she had last stood before him.
His mouth opened and closed like that of a landed fish, making her realize that he could not get air enough to speak. With an abrupt turn, she went to the door.
“I think he wants you now,” she said to Hod.
He pushed past her without a word, but she had not expected a reply.
Returning to her chamber, she found Flory at the window, closing a shutter.
“It be growing dark, me lady,” the maid said. “I’ve put out a fresh shift for ye.” She paused, looking closely at Fiona. “Ye look queer. Be summat amiss?”