by Amanda Scott
Aware of Dickon’s calm voice as he chatted with Hugh Douglas, whom he clearly knew well, and with Robert Maxwell, whom he had just met, she felt safer than she had felt for two years. When Sir Hugh reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder sometime later, she smiled up at him.
He said, “I’m sorry you were unhappy, lassie. Had you let us know—”
“I… I couldn’t. They would not let me.”
“We can talk about all that later, Hugh, if you like,” Dickon said. “At present, though, I see that the carver is ready for us to take our places.”
Fiona looked at Dickon, wondering how much he would tell Hugh and the others, but as her gaze caught his, he said quietly, “You and I will talk first, lass. I’ll tell them nowt without your say-so. They thought that you had chosen Will over your family, because you knew they would object to him as your husband. But you should know, too, that it is lawfully almost impossible to interfere between a man and his wife. Had they done so, Will could have got a magistrate’s order to get you back.”
“I… I see,” she said, knowing then that she had brought about her own fate.
Kirkhill said no more but gently urged Fiona to her place beside his at the table. She sat between him and Mairi Dunwythie, who took precedence over Lady Easdale only because Mairi was Fiona’s sister. But Jenny sat next to Mairi with Phaeline on her left. Nan was at the end of the ladies’ row.
Sir Hugh was next to Kirkhill, but Kirkhill’s thoughts were on Fiona and all that she had told him that morning. A notion had struck him in the yard as the others were arriving, and he wanted to look into it, but he knew he would have to wait until their guests had departed.
When the ladies adjourned with Fiona to see her little son, Hugh said, “Archie expects trouble within a fortnight if not sooner, Dickon, but suggests that we move our men quietly. This place and Dunwythie Mains are good places to gather them, but you don’t have as much room here as Mairi and Rob do.”
“We’ve plenty of land,” Kirkhill said. “They can camp east of us in the hills and forest there. I’d liefer not advertise their presence, lest we still have English sympathizers at Spedlins. But if they come in quietly, few will heed them.”
“That would be the best solution for us, too,” Rob said. “We’ll have guests for Lammas, but we can put troops on land between Chapel Hill and Dryfe Water. No trails pass through there. Your minstrels, Hugh, will want to camp nearer the Hall.”
Kirkhill looked at Hugh. “Your minstrels?”
Hugh grinned. “Mine and Jenny’s, aye. I’ll tell you all about them one day, but it’s a long story and better suited to another time.”
Kirkhill nodded, and the discussion turned to tactics and strategy. Apparently, it was going to be a race to see if the Scottish Earl of March would arrive in Annandale with his army before the English Earl of Northumberland invaded the dale with his. Archie meant to defend it against either of them.
“But he’s praying the English will get here first,” Rob Maxwell said. “He’d rather hang Englishmen than Scots, but he means to govern all of Dumfriesshire as well as Galloway, and he won’t let either a Scot or an Englishman get in his way.”
“March is lawfully entitled to rents from Annandale,” Kirkhill said.
“Much Archie cares about that,” Hugh scoffed. “He doesn’t want March laying waste the whole dale, which is what will happen if March roars in with an army, determined to force the English out of Lochmaben.”
“Then Archie should get rid of them before March comes,” Kirkhill said.
“He won’t have enough time, which is why he wants to muster our men.”
Rob said, “Our task is to keep Northumberland out, whilst the Douglas keeps March fighting raiders east of here long enough for Archie to gather a force large enough to deter them both and rout the English from Lochmaben.”
Kirkhill nodded, hearing all they said and already planning how he might provide space for a significant portion of Archie’s army. But thoughts of Fiona and the mystery of Will Jardine’s disappearance kept intruding.
“He is beautiful,” Mairi cooed, looking down into her wee nephew’s face. “Oh, Fee, how proud you must be to have such a handsome son!”
“Who would not be?” Jenny demanded. “He’s going to be a handsome man.”
Fiona might happily have listened for hours as her sister and cousin exclaimed over David had her curiosity not awakened when Phaeline and Nan retired to the solar… to chat, Phaeline had said. But Fiona had seen Mairi talking with Phaeline just after the meal and suspected that her sister had purposefully arranged it so.
Signing to Flory to leave them, Fiona said, “What is it, Mairi? Why did you ask Mam to take Nan to the solar?”
Mairi looked up from the baby and said in her usual calm way, “I expect you know that people are talking about you, Fee, and about what happened to Will.”
“What they say happened,” Jenny interposed. “You and I both know, Mairi, that things are not always as people surmise them to be.” She turned to Fiona. “I, too, have heard the rumors and did not believe them for a minute. Nor have I let anyone prate such nonsense to me without telling them how foolish it is. Hugh does not believe the rumors either. But we could do naught for you before now, Fee. One cannot lawfully interfere between a man and his wife.”
“I know that now,” Fiona said. “Kirkhill explained it to me.”
Mairi said, “Rob and I heard the rumors before we reached Dumfries, and learned of Old Jardine’s death from Hugh at Thornhill. We had not planned to come on to the Hall until next week, but when we heard what people were saying, we put forward our journey. Sithee, Fee, one reason for making such a festival of Lammas this year was that I’d hoped to prevail upon you and Will to come. Last year, when we invited you, you did not even send to decline, so I wondered then if Will had forbidden you to leave just as he’d forbidden us to visit.” She sighed. “Mam always did believe that he’d abducted you.”
“He didn’t,” Fiona said. “I went willingly and even stayed willingly for a time. But he would not let me go home for Father’s burial. We were not married yet, and he was sure you’d keep me there. Had I known what the future held, I’d have fought harder to go. You do know he hoped to gain your lands through me.”
“I ken that fine,” Mairi said grimly. “He told me so himself.”
“Surely, you did not believe that I supported him in that!”
“Nay,” Mairi said. “Not for a minute. I suspected that he had kept you from attending Father’s burial. I could not imagine that you would stay away unless Will had commanded it. And Father suspected the Jardines of more than an elopement. He left Annan House to me because he did not want any Jardines living there.”
Fiona said, “What am I to do, Mairi? I am as bewildered by Will’s disappearance as anyone else, but I cannot prove that.”
Jenny said, “What about Kirkhill, Fee? Does he believe the rumors?”
Feeling heat in her cheeks, knowing that she was blushing at the very thought of Kirkhill, she said quietly, “Nay, he has never believed it. Indeed,” she added without thinking, “he believed in my innocence before I did.”
The two other women gaped at her. Jenny said, “Would you like to explain that statement, Fee? Surely, you knew that you were innocent.”
“Nay, I did not,” Fiona said. “I’d liefer not explain the whole to you now, but I will in time. Kirkhill has been all that is kind… mostly,” she added reminiscently.
“I am sure he has,” Jenny said. “Hugo has great respect for Kirkhill and says he is one of the finest warriors he knows.”
Fiona was aware that Mairi was watching her closely as Jenny spoke, so when Mairi stood abruptly and gently handed the baby to Jenny, Fiona braced herself for a sisterly scold. Instead, Mairi turned to the bed, picked up an odd-shaped bundle she had brought upstairs with her, and handed it to Fiona.
“Heaven knows if you will be able to make these things fit, because we guessed at nearly
every measurement, but you are much the same size that I remember, so mayhap they will. Flory can hem up the skirts easily enough.”
Fiona gaped. “Do you mean to say you’ve brought some of my own gowns?”
“Nay, I had two new skirts and bodices made up for you, and also brought a few accessories I thought you might like,” Mairi said. “It was Mam’s notion. When she told me that she had seen you, I asked if you needed anything, and she said she thought you had no clothes suitable for our festival. So I’ve got fabric, too, and I told Parland Dow when I last saw him that we’d need a seamstress at the Hall.”
“Kirkhill did send for a seamstress and fabrics,” Fiona told her. “But he says there is no gelt from the Jardines, so he was going to pay. I don’t—”
“I don’t think he should do that, either,” Mairi interjected crisply. “You are my sister, Fee. I will gladly provide anything you need.”
Fiona nodded gratefully, unable to speak.
Their guests departed late Saturday afternoon with reminders that everyone at Spedlins was expected to arrive at Dunwythie Hall by Thursday to settle in before the Lammas Day festivities on Saturday, and to stay as long afterward as they liked. Kirkhill stood by Fiona in the yard until the last rider disappeared. She said then that she was sure David was hungry and vanished into the tower.
Kirkhill watched her go, thinking she looked happier than he’d ever seen her.
Tony, on the other hand, wanted to talk. “Your sister is driving me mad, Dickon. One moment she is all smiles, the next she is telling me I’m a fool. And today, she hid in the solar with the lady Phaeline until it was time for them to leave. I know you said to stay away from her, but the lass comes here—twice now! And if she speaks to me, it is only to fratch.”
“Have you changed your mind about her then?”
“Nay, I’m still of the same mind. God spare me, but I’ve wanted her since I first laid eyes on her, and do what she will, I still want her. Moreover, you—”
“Tony, I won’t order her to marry you,” Kirkhill said. “Either you must let her think you’ve lost interest in her, to spark her interest, or you will have to do as Will Jardine did with the lady Fiona and elope with her. Be warned, though, that if you do the latter, I’ll likely strangle you with my own bare hands.”
“Aye, sure, now there’s a choice for a desperate man!”
“A devilish one,” Kirkhill agreed. “But you’ll have to forgive me. Take a few men and seek out some locations for campsites. If you begin now and continue tomorrow, you should know where to put everyone when the time comes. Meantime, you can ponder your problems. I want to talk to young Davy.”
He found Davy with Cerberus, handing the destrier an apple.
“Take care he doesn’t nip your hand off instead of taking that apple, lad.”
“Aye, sir, I will. He’s gey gentle for such a big ’un, I’m thinking.”
“He is when he’s of a mind to be gentle, but although he likes you, a warhorse is no lamb for petting. I’ve been wondering about something,” he added.
“Aye, laird? Ha’ I done summat I shouldna?”
“You have not. I think your father would be gey proud of you, lad. I was just wondering if you can recall exactly when it was that Jeb died.”
Davy frowned. “I dinna ken much about dates and such, laird. The days just go by and I do what I do. Then the next one comes wi’ the dawning.”
“Mayhap something else of note happened about the same time,” Kirkhill suggested quietly.
The frown vanished. “It did, aye! ’Twere when Master Will went a-missing.”
“Your father died that same day?”
“Well, as good as, I’m thinking. Master Will didna come to me da’s burying. I recall that right enough. He were there when me da got kicked though. Sithee, it were Master Will’s own horse as kicked him. He were always a troublesome brute wi’ nae manners, and me da were a-trying to pull a thorn from his hoof. Some said Master Will didna come to the burying ’cause he felt bad. Others said he didna care nowt about me da, only about the horse. But he did ought to ha’ been there, I think.”
“You’re right about that, lad. What time of day did Jeb’s accident occur?”
“’Twere no so long after supper, laird.”
“I see. Thank you, Davy. Mayhap you’d like to ride Cerberus one day.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like that gey fine, laird. Tomorrow?”
“We’ll see,” Kirkhill said. He knew that many would say he ought not to let such a lad near the great steed, but Kirkhill had ridden his own father’s destrier at much the same age, without permission. He recalled the day with great fondness, despite the inevitable consequences when his father learned what he had done.
More important, as far as he was concerned, the suggestion had—for a moment or two—banished the bleakness from the boy’s eyes. Kirkhill went out into the yard, where he found Joshua and told him that he had as good as promised Davy that he could ride the destrier the next day.
The glint of amusement in his man’s eyes as he nodded told Kirkhill that he was not the only one who remembered his youthful escapade.
As he returned to the tower, however, his mood darkened. Davy’s information reinforced his hunch, so he had little choice in what he had to do next.
Leaving Flory happily hemming one of the skirts that Mairi had brought, Fiona tucked the baby into his cradle and went to ask Tippy to help Flory. As she descended the service stairway toward the kitchen, she met Hod coming up.
Halting abruptly on the landing outside the inner chamber, she said, “What are you doing here? I thought you left nearly a fortnight ago.”
“I did, aye, but I’m gey pleased to see ye, mistress. I’ve had nae opportunity to apologize properly for letting me temper get the best o’ me that day.”
Striving to conceal her dismay at meeting him in the dimly lit service stairway, Fiona said, “Does Kirkhill know you are here?”
“I dinna ken, mistress.” His gaze shifted downward to a point somewhere near her waist. Then, glibly, he said, “I came to fetch summat I must ha’ mislaid afore I left and to warn ye that I’d heard the sheriff be a-coming from Dumfries to look into Master Will’s disappearance.”
“Why would you warn me about the sheriff?” she asked him. “You were the one who started those horrid rumors in the first place.”
“I ken fine that ye believe that, m’lady. But ye’re wrong about me. I feel bad about what happened and just want to make amends.”
She did not believe him. “Just what did you leave here?”
A muscle twitched high in his left cheek. Recognizing it as a sign of suppressed anger, she felt a responsive tremor in her stomach. But his tone remained even as he said, “’Twas nobbut a wee wooden box wha’ the old master gave me. I thought I’d put it in wi’ me clothes and such, but I were in such a hurry, see you, that I must ha’ left it in me room.”
“That is most unlikely,” she said. “Kirkhill’s man is in that room now.”
“Now?” The notion seemed to dismay him.
“Aye, sure, for where else would he sleep?”
“But I just saw him wi’ the laird out in the—”
He broke off, frowning, and Fiona said, “I meant only that he sleeps there now. But if you took note of his whereabouts, you must have wanted him out of—”
Tippy’s voice wafted up the stairs to her. “Mistress, the laird did say I—”
“Tippy, shout for the laird! Tell him I want him at once!”
Pushing roughly past her, Hod ran up the stairs.
Fearing for her son, Fiona fought to keep her balance and shouted at Tippy again to get the laird, and hurry. Then she snatched up her skirts and followed Hod.
After talking with Joshua, Kirkhill headed to the kitchen, where he found Jeb’s Jane and Tippy with the cook. To Tippy, he said, “Unless your mam needs you, lass, run up and ask the lady Fiona if there is aught you can do to help her or Flory with the n
ew clothes that Lady Dunwythie brought her.”
Tippy looked eagerly at Jane, who nodded.
When the lass had crossed the kitchen far enough not to overhear him, Kirkhill said, “Jane, I want to ask you a question about Jeb’s burial.”
The woman’s face clouded, but she said, “I thank ye, laird, for sending Tip away afore ye asked me. She’s missing her da summat fierce.”
“I ken fine that you all miss him,” he said quietly. “Davy told me that Will Jardine did not attend Jeb’s burial. I’d doubt that Old Jardine did, either.”
“Nay,” Jane said. “He were too sick, but I doubt he’d ha’ troubled hisself, any road. The only one o’ the family that did attend were her ladyship.”
“So she was there, was she?”
“Aye, sir, and Flory, too. They both came, though her ladyship looked as sick as the old master did, and Flory were more concerned wi’ her than wi’ the burial. Sakes, we all worried about her ladyship. She said she ha’ just strained a muscle or some such thing, but…” Jane pressed her lips together and did not go on.
Kirkhill nodded but said only, “When did you next see Will, then?”
“Never, sir. Nae one saw him that morning, and nae one has seen him since, but I tell ye true, sir. Nae matter what the old master said, or them rumormongers, either, her ladyship didna ha’ nowt to do wi’ his vanishing. She could scarcely get out o’ bed that morning, but she got herself out to that graveyard to pay her respects to my Jeb. And so I’ll tell that sheriff, too, if he comes here a-looking for her.”
“Good, Jane, you do that,” Kirkhill said. “Meantime—”
But just then Tippy shrieked, “Laird, laird, the lady Fiona says come quick!”
Rounding the curve before her landing, Fiona saw that the door to Flory’s room remained closed, just as she had left it, but the one to her own room stood wide. Flory was inside, standing with a half-hemmed skirt in her hands, staring toward the opposite corner of the room, at the door to the main stair landing.
“Flory, where did he go?”