Tempted by a Warrior

by Amanda Scott

  “We rarely listen when people tell us we are behaving foolishly,” he said. “We never want to believe that it might be true.”

  She wondered what foolish things he had ever done. He did not seem like the sort of man who would ever behave foolishly. He always seemed to be in complete command of himself and of everyone around him.

  “When did you next see him?” he asked.

  She remembered that easily. “He followed us home to Annan House, where we lived most of the year then. We had just visited the Hall. Then Rob and Mairi… You must have heard about what happened with them. Everyone did.”

  “I heard something about his abducting her, aye. But at present, I am interested only in Will. Your father was not friendly with the Jardines.”

  “Nay, for they were Maxwell allies, and he did not like the Maxwells, either. Also, the Jardines feuded constantly with the Johnstones, who live just north of the Hall. That’s why we lived at Annan House, to avoid being always between them.”

  “I ken Lord Johnstone fine,” he said. “A crusty man, but a good one.”

  “I don’t know him,” Fiona said. “I thought it was romantic for Will to follow me home. He sent a message, asking me to slip out and meet him in the woods near Annan House. I did, and Mairi nearly caught us. That made it even more exciting,” she added, grimacing. “Sithee, I had never had an adventure all my own. My cousin Jenny seemed to have them all until then, so I thought that I should enjoy just one.”

  “But why did you run away with Will?”

  She shook her head. “Do you know, I can hardly remember what I was thinking. Looking back, I expect it was no more than an impulse, because Will made me feel special when no one else ever had. Before I met him, I was just the unnecessary daughter. My parents wanted a son, so I was a disappointment to them both. And Mairi was four years older, which is a great span when one is young.”

  “Aye, twice what it is between you and Nan.”

  She smiled. “Aye. Mairi was always kind but not interested in me or in things I liked to do. I was just someone she had to watch over, a nuisance who wanted to be with her all the time. Also, she was the one who would inherit our father’s estates and title. Will thought that was wrong. When I told him how it was, he said he was sure I would get land, too. I was supposed to inherit Annan House, because it was part of my mother’s tocher when she married. But Father was so angry when we eloped that he changed his will, so that house went to Mairi with everything else.”

  “I suspect that Will was unhappy about that,” Kirkhill said.

  “He was furious. He had not believed that I would get only Annan House. Then when I got nothing…” She shuddered, remembering. “He said it was all my fault, but he would fix it. He said he would get me my inheritance.”

  “And did he?”

  She shook her head, feeling fire in her cheeks.

  “What did he do?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He would not tell me, but I heard that he tried to capture Mairi. He… he told me that I would inherit everything if Mairi were dead.”

  “She has a son now who would inherit.”

  “Aye, but this was before she married Robert Maxwell. Will was furious when she did marry him. But his anger grew even stronger with me then,” she added. “I could do naught to please him. Everything was my fault.”

  “He must have been glad to learn that he was going to be a father.”

  “He paid little heed to my condition,” she said. “I warrant he would be pleased now to know that he has a son, but he had only one use for a woman then, and he did not like it when I began to increase. Old Jardine grew surly even with Will sometimes, too, and whenever he did, Will would visit his anger on me.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “I think so, aye. Will was a violent man and a powerful one.”

  “He said power lies more in one’s allies than in oneself, that the trick is to choose the right side to support. He thought we should be placating the English. In troth, so did I. Before I came to know Will, I thought it was foolish to fight, that if people would just talk to each other, they could resolve any problem.”

  “That tactic works only if both sides want to resolve the problem,” he said with a wry smile.

  “It certainly did not work with Will. But we all want peace, don’t we? We just want to grow our crops and know that our families are safe from attack.”

  “I’m afraid that, although many of the common folk—and doubtless most women and children—would prefer peace, men in power nearly always want more power, whatever it takes. It sounds to me as if Will was more interested in attaching himself to the most powerful side than he was in protecting his family or his land.”

  “He thought he could protect everything if he just sided with the right faction,” she said. “He also thought that the more wealth he could accumulate, the better. And he thought that if he could take control of Dunwythie Mains and add it to Applegarth, he would put himself in a strong bargaining position when he negotiated with the winning side, whoever won.”

  “I doubt he’d have found Archie sympathetic if he had sided with the English,” Kirkhill said. “Or the other way around, come to that. If Northumberland were to take Annandale, he’d be more likely to award land here to loyal Englishmen than to a Scot known for switching sides each time the wind shifts.”

  “Aye, perhaps, but Old Jardine believed the same as Will did. He said the English already had such a strong foothold at Lochmaben that taking Annandale would be easy for them when they got their forces together and stopped fighting the Earls of Douglas and March miles east of here.”

  “Then Old Jardine was a fool,” Kirkhill said roundly. “Northumberland would have exploited that foolishness, too. He would have promised the Jardines whatever they wanted, used up their men in the fighting, and then he would either have hanged them or taken their land with the rest of Annandale and left them to fend for themselves any way they could.”

  “Does any of this help you to know Will?” she asked after a brief silence.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I need to think about it all. But it is always better to know as much as you can. Information is often worth more than gelt.”

  “Do others in Annandale think as Will and his father did?”

  “That is a good question,” he said. “I know most of the barons hereabouts, of course, and I’d trust almost any one of them in a fight. Old Johnstone is as loyal a Scot as any who breathe, and your lord father enjoyed the same reputation. That your sister married a Maxwell must still trouble some folks.”

  “Mairi would not let a Maxwell sway her from her principles, sir. And if Robert Maxwell were untrustworthy, she would not have married him.”

  “Mayhap it was an arranged marriage, lass. She might also have been mistaken in him.”

  “Nay, because although Mairi is quieter than I am and does not show her feelings as easily as I do, she is strong, sir. Moreover, Will was a friend of Rob Maxwell’s, or thought he was. And Will told me that Mairi proposed to Rob.”

  Kirkhill looked at her in astonishment. “That sounds most unlikely,” he said. “Art sure, lass?”

  “Nay, of course I am not sure, but Will did say so,” she assured him. “Mayhap we should ask Mairi when she returns to the Hall.”

  “Aye, perhaps,” he said. “But for now, we should pick up our things and start back to the tower. If you will hold the basket for me, I’ll fold up the blanket.”

  She helped him and they were soon mounted and on their way. As they neared the base of the hill, they saw Joshua and Davy riding toward them.

  Visibly worried, Fiona said, “Why have they come, do you think? Could something be amiss at home? We’ve been gone longer than I’d expected.”

  “Nay, lass, Joshua is obeying my orders,” he said. “Few people can have seen us leave, but many will see us return, so I told him to follow us and wait nearby. If anyone asks questions, he will deal with them. As for yo
ung Davy, he has been aiding the men by cleaning their weapons and such, and Joshua has been teaching him to see to their horses. The lad is quick to learn, Joshua says.”

  “I hope you were not too stern with Davy over that confrontation with Hod,” she said. “I never thought to ask you what you’d said to him.”

  Color tinged her cheeks, and he knew that she was remembering what he had said to her about her part in the incident.

  “Davy knew that he was in the wrong,” Kirkhill said, trying to think how to explain the lad’s attitude to her. “He told me he got angry when Hod hurt Tippy, but sithee, I could tell him that that had angered me, too. I explained then that a man cannot let his temper rule his behavior. I also made it clear to him that Hod was the house steward, and that household servants must obey their steward, just as Davy must obey Joshua if he is working with Joshua, or me if I give him a command.”

  “I do not think Davy would disobey you, sir,” Fiona said.

  “Unlikely, I’ll agree,” he said with a smile. “The only ones who defy me are young women who should know better.”

  She dimpled, and he was glad that Joshua and Davy were near. Their presence stifled the strong desire he had to snatch her off her horse and carry her with him on Cerberus so that he might teach her that flashing her dimples at a man could lead to unexpected consequences.

  As it was, he glanced at her from time to time as they rode, trying to judge her mood. He thought she looked more relaxed and that it had helped her to talk about Will Jardine, especially to admit to him that Will had frightened her and hurt her physically. But it concerned him that she would still not talk about her dream.

  If the nightmare had frightened her only because it seemed terrifyingly real and she had feared that Will would hurt her again, surely—having at last found the courage to disclose his brutality—she ought to have found it easy enough to discuss her dream. That she had not, and was now casting Kirkhill a wary, speculative look, told him there was more to Will’s being in the dream than just his presence there.

  It also told him that she still did not trust him enough to reveal the details.

  Fiona was well aware of Dickon’s flickering glances, and she was sure she knew the reason for them. Images from her nightmare loomed large in her memory, so large that it would not have shocked her to hear that he could see them in her mind as well as she could. A part of her wanted to tell him about it, because she had found it surprisingly easy to tell him about Will once he’d got her started. But the nightmare was different. How could she be sure it was just a dream? What if it was a returning memory such as his friend had experienced after that battle?

  Dickon had not said that the soldier had had nightmares first, but he might have had some. Dickon might not even know about them.

  Joshua and Davy had fallen in behind them, as if they had been escorting them all day. Both rode without talking. She knew it was a habit with Davy to keep his thoughts to himself. The lad had done so even before his father’s death, but since then, he had rarely spoken unless someone addressed him directly.

  And Joshua, although always respectful, was a taciturn man by nature.

  Dickon, too, seemed lost in thought except for those fleeting glances. Not once did he point out vistas or draw her attention to a birdsong. Even so, his very presence was pleasant, companionable, and calming. She felt safer with him than she had felt with anyone for a long time. She knew that he was merely giving her time to think and hoping she would decide to confide in him. If she did not, she also knew that it would not be long before he demanded a full recounting of her dream.

  Therefore, when he arranged for private speech with her on their return by the simple expedient of dismounting and motioning away the gillie who would have helped her dismount, she was unsurprised.

  Lifting her off, Dickon held her with her toes barely touching the ground long enough to say quietly, “It does disappoint me that you cannot yet put your trust in me, lass. Sithee, truth is elusive. Until we can separate suspicions and fears from the facts, we’ll not learn what happened. I can be patient but not for long.”

  With that, he set her solidly on her feet and politely offered her his arm.

  She hesitated, feeling as if she had vexed him again and been rebuked. But when he said no more, she let him escort her inside. He excused himself then, saying that he had duties to see to before their midday meal.

  She found it easier to breathe when he had gone, and hurried upstairs to find Flory with wee David, changing him.

  Fiona tidied herself, dismissed Flory, and spent a pleasant half hour with her son until his eyelids drooped and he dozed. Then, she took him into Flory’s room, where she found Tippy patiently waiting on a cushion by the cradle.

  “He’s asleep,” Fiona murmured as she laid the baby in it. “If he wakens betimes, shout for someone to fetch me.”

  “I ken what to do, m’lady,” Tippy said with a smile that revealed two missing teeth.

  “I know you do, Tip. You’re a good watcher.”

  “Me and our Davy both be good watchers, m’lady. Me da told us we ha’ to watch over each other and them we do love. ’Tis wha’ good folks do, me da said.”

  “Your da was a good man,” Fiona said. “We all miss him.”

  Tippy said, “He has been dead more than six weeks now, Davy says. It seems a gey long while t’ me.”

  “It does to me, too,” Fiona said.

  Leaving the little girl to keep watch over David, she went down to the kitchen. It had been easy to take up the reins of the household again, easier than before Dickon had come, when Old Jardine or Will had criticized almost anything she did, or—even more often—had complained just to complain.

  The rest of the day passed without incident, but thoughts of Kirkhill continued to trouble her. Seeing Tippy in the kitchen with Jane just before supper, Fiona remembered the little girl’s confident words: “I ken what to do, m’lady.”

  Fiona knew what she ought to do, too. She just wished that she had the child’s cheerful confidence in doing it.

  “Mistress,” Jane said, approaching her diffidently.

  “What is it?” Fiona asked. “Is aught amiss?”

  “Only that one o’ the big pots as Cook uses has cracked, and he says it needs mending. Shall I send for a smith to see to it?”

  “Aye, sure,” Fiona said. “Send someone tomorrow and ask him to come straightaway. We don’t want the pot to split and spew its contents across the floor.”

  “I’ll see to it then, aye.”

  At suppertime, learning that Dickon and Tony had ridden out and not yet returned, Fiona ordered her meal served in the solar and, for once, rather enjoyed her solitude. It no longer felt as if she were an exile. Looking around her, she decided that the little room could become cozy with just a few new touches.

  Remembering that Kirkhill had recommended frugality but then had said that she must have a seamstress and a wardrobe suited to her station in life, she decided that he would understand that other new things were also necessary.

  Leaving the remains of her supper, feeling sure that Dickon must have returned, she went upstairs to look in on David and then back down to the hall.

  Dickon was not at the high table, and she did not want to draw undue notice to what would be a private conversation by entering the inner chamber from the dais, so she hurried back up to her own chamber and down the service stairs.

  Rapping softly on the service door to the inner chamber and receiving no reply, she rapped again more loudly.

  Still nothing.

  Turning with a sigh to go back upstairs, she hesitated.

  Curiosity urged her to have a look at Dickon’s sanctum. She had been inside the room only once since Old Jardine’s death, and that inauspicious occasion had not been one that tempted her to take much interest in her surroundings.

  Putting the memory aside, she returned to the door and knocked once more.

  Still hearing only silence within, she listene
d for noises on the service stairs but heard only more silence. Accordingly, and very carefully, she lifted the latch and eased the door open.

  Someone had lighted a fire not long before, because it crackled merrily. A branch of candles on the table by the door to the great hall was also alight, casting flickering light over some documents spread there.

  Stepping inside, keeping an ear cocked for the sound of approaching footsteps, she gazed around and saw that Dickon had evicted every remnant of Jardine’s ghost. She saw nothing of the old man in the chamber. Even the huge carved bed now stood in one corner, like a cupboard bed, with new silken bed curtains of a soft, mossy green. The washstand and candle-stand were also new.

  Taking in the changes, smelling the citrus scent of him mingled with the peaty aroma of the fire, she moved idly to the table and glanced curiously at the documents. Even to her less than practiced eye, it was clear that most of the amounts noted were expenditures. Only a few small sums looked like income.

  Deciding from his notations that she was looking at expenses for the stables and kitchen, she went on until she found what appeared to be accounts for the orchards and fields. They, too, appeared generally to be expenditures.

  The click of the latch startled her, and she whirled from the table to see Dickon entering with Tony at his heels.

  Kirkhill’s first reaction to seeing Fiona in his chamber was anger. Clearly, she was snooping and had no right to be there without his permission. Moreover, she had to have sneaked in from the service stairs, because had she entered from the great hall, he’d have seen her as he and Tony were hastily eating their late supper. If she had entered earlier from the hall, someone else would have seen her and wondered what she was doing there.

  Before he expressed his displeasure, however, he saw that the documents spread across the table had drawn her attention. He wondered if she could read.

  Most women could not, but she was smart and she was curious. Also, although their entrance had startled her, as she looked up, he had detected irritation in her expression, if not anger.