Tamed by a Laird

by Amanda Scott

  “I think he is still watching me,” she said. “Or us.”

  “The devil he is!” He turned. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “I saw red-and-black stripes. He has a robe—”

  “Aye, and he was wearing it,” he said. “Mayhap I shall have to tell him the truth about you. But I dislike taking anyone here into our confidence, especially if there might any substance to these feelings of yours.”

  That he might confide in the Joculator reminded her of the fib she had told the man. That produced a stab of guilt and made her say hastily, “It may be better if I talk to him. I can tell him I saw him watching us and explain that singing love songs with me stirred you to think I might…” She looked down, uncertain just what she could say, then added impulsively, “I can just tell him it won’t happen again.”

  “Aye, that might be best,” he said. “And it won’t, lass. I’ll see to that.”

  She nodded, hoping the twinge of disappointment that stirred then did not reveal itself in her expression.

  “So, what were you doing out here for so long?” he asked, stern again.

  “I was learning to throw a dirk,” she said with a smile, patting the sheathed blade nestled on her hip between two folds of her skirt.

  Clapping a strong hand atop of hers, he said curtly, “Give it to me.”

  Stiffening, angry again, she said with ice in her voice, “Take your hand away, or by heaven I will do you an injury.”

  Already annoyed with himself for giving way to a foolish impulse and kissing her, Hugh realized he had taken a second misstep. But he had acted from pure instinct when she reached for the weapon.

  Certain that she had only meant to show him where she kept the dagger she had supposedly learned to throw, he relaxed his grip but did not let go of her hand.

  Gently, he said, “Just as it is unwise to hit someone larger and stronger who might well hit back, lass, it is unwise to issue threats you cannot carry out. Nay, you won’t catch me that way,” he added, turning slightly when she brought up a knee, so it struck his hard thigh rather than the target she had surely hoped to strike.

  “Let go of me,” she said, her tone still icy.

  “I want to see that knife. You may give it to me properly, or I will take it from you. I can promise you won’t like it if I have to do that.”

  “I could shout for the Joculator.”

  “Aye, you could,” he agreed, holding her gaze.

  With a sigh, she said, “Very well, but you may not keep it. It was a gift.”

  “From whom?” he demanded, hearing an unexpected note of jealousy in his tone and nearly wincing at the sound. Bad enough that he had betrayed Ella’s sweet memory by kissing Jenny. What he felt now was surely naught but the childish feeling many men felt at learning that someone for whom they bore responsibility had been doing something unbeknownst to them with another man.

  Jenny said calmly, “Wee Gilly gave it to me.”

  Mentally giving himself a shake, Hugh took his hand from hers and said, “I’m told that both he and Gawkus are highly skilled with knives, albeit not as skilled as the Joculator. Show me what Gilly taught you.”

  She took the knife carefully from its sheath and found its fulcrum. Then, taking a moment to seek her target, she said, “That tree with the boll on its trunk.”

  Bringing her arm back, she let fly… and missed the tree.

  Looking chagrined, she bit her lower lip but started toward the tree.

  Hugh stopped her. “I’ll fetch it,” he said. “Your aim was off and you need to step back a pace or it will strike hilt-first, but you throw better than I had expected.”

  “I hit my target several times when Gilly was with me,” she said.

  Without comment, he strode to the dagger, wiped the blade on his buckskins, and returned to her, hefting the weapon as he did. “You were holding the blade too tightly,” he said. “And you shifted your gaze to the knife as you let go.”

  “Gilly warned me to keep my eyes on my target, but I do tend to forget.”

  “Watch,” he said. Throwing, he buried the blade in the center of the boll.

  “I’ll get it,” she said. “It is only fair. You fetched mine.”

  He did not reply, but he watched with amusement as she tried first just to pull the blade free, then to wriggle it free. He had buried it deep.

  When she used both hands and put a foot against the tree trunk, he nearly laughed, but she managed at last to free the blade.

  “Throw again,” he said when she returned.

  She threw six more times and hit the tree three times.

  “Why do you want to learn such a skill?” he asked her.

  She glanced at him with a startled look in her eyes, much as her fawns might have looked earlier at the sound of his voice.

  Then she said, “I… I just like to learn things.” She looked away.

  Catching her chin between a forefinger and thumb, he made her look at him again. “Don’t try to lie to me. You haven’t the knack. Now, what made you think such a skill might serve you?”

  “I don’t know why you think you have any right to ask me such things.”

  “We have picked that bone clean. Answer me.”

  Having little choice, since he still held her chin, Jenny said, “I don’t know that I thought of such a skill serving me, exactly, but…” She still did not want to tell him about the men who had accosted her and Peg at Lochmaben, so she said, “I just thought I might feel safer if I kept a dirk by me, and learned how to use it.”

  “A false feeling at best,” he said grimly. “But you are equivocating if not lying to me again. If you want to keep that thing, you’d best tell me the truth.”

  Instead, she wondered if perhaps the Joculator had known she was lying when she told him that Hugo the troubadour fancied himself in love with her.

  “I can be a patient man,” he said. “But this is not one of those moments.”

  Damping dry lips with the tip of her tongue, she said, “I saw Gawkus throw one of his knives and pin a man’s sleeve to the wall. I thought such a skill might prove useful one day, that’s all.”

  “Just when and where did Gawkus perform this feat?”

  “It wasn’t a performance…” She caught herself, then gave it up. “Two men followed Peg and me upstairs to the garderobe at Lochmaben. They wanted us to go with them to another chamber. I said we had to sing, but they insisted that at least one of us had to comply. Gawkus and Gilly intervened, so it came to naught.”

  “I see.” His tone was grim. “Was one of the men who accosted you the man-at-arms in your dream?”

  Warily, she nodded. Standing as near him as she was, only too aware of his height and his strength, she feared the dirk would not aid her in defending herself against any man. Indeed, Gilly had said it would not, and she doubted that she could ever throw it at one. Not that it mattered, since Hugh would likely take it now.

  He was still frowning.

  She drew a breath, bracing herself for what he would say.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “You may keep the damned thing. But whilst you remain in this company, I want you to promise you will practice with it each day. I want to know when you do, and if Gilly cannot go with you, I will. It won’t hurt for word to spread through the camp that you have some skill with the thing.”

  “I’ll practice,” she said, trying to hide her surprise.

  “Aye, but attend to me now,” he said, catching her chin again to make her look at him. “If anyone does accost you again, use your voice, not your dagger. You would do better to unfasten that belt with the sheath and clout the scoundrel with it. Better yet, fling that knife as far from you as you can. Do not give anyone else a chance to take it from you. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye,” she said, feeling those little shivers dance up her spine again.

  “We’ll go back now,” he said and offered an arm.

  Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, she reflected that
although he took liberties with his presumed authority and otherwise, his presence was nonetheless comforting.

  “Have you seen the Joculator following you before?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she said. “He may not have been following us at all. Cath says he always sets his tent at a distance from the rest, so I warrant the man just likes his privacy. Shall we sing the same songs tonight as last night?”

  Discussing songs, they strolled amiably back to the encampment. There they found others preparing their midday meal and Jenny hurried to assist them.

  She looked back as she joined the women, and watched with mixed feelings as Hugh strode away. One minute she had wanted to slap the man and the next she had invited more kisses. What manner of behavior was that for a betrothed lady?

  Chapter 9

  Starving, and looking for Lucas Horne, Hugh found him setting up the trestle table where the minstrels would eat their dinner.

  The rest of the company found places wherever they might, but Hugh had already learned that the Joculator used mealtimes to discuss new ideas for their acts and preferred not to air these discussions before all and sundry. Hugh counted it as a compliment that the man included him in the group at the table.

  Lucas squared the planks on the trestles and nodded at Gerda, who stood by with a cloth, to fling it over the boards. As Lucas helped her straighten it, Hugh pulled up a bench, and Lucas said, “I’ll get t’ other one. Thank ye, lass,” he added. “We’ll finish up ’ere, and ye can tell ’em at the fire that we be ready to eat.”

  “Aye, sure, Lucas,” she said with a seductive smile. “I’m hoping ye dinna mean to spend the whole afternoon on chores and such.”

  “Happen I won’t,” he said. “Get along wi’ ye now.”

  She went, swinging her hips, and Lucas looked at Hugh. “None of your nash-gab now, sir,” he said. “She ’as a tongue hinged like a clapdish, as ye might say, so I were thinkin’ it wiser to let ’er talk than to send ’er away, mayhap to make up tales for other ears. Where ’ave ye been keepin’ yourself?”

  “Here and there,” Hugh said, helping him pull up the second bench. “Learn all you can from that lass, or from anyone else who likes to talk. Her ladyship thinks someone here may be brewing mischief against Archie the Grim.”

  “Be a dangerous business if that be so,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “They dinna call the man Grim for nowt.”

  “No, they don’t,” Hugh said. “He’s a bad man to cross, and would liefer hang an offender than discuss his errors with him. ’Tis how he conquered Galloway when none before him could do it, and how he holds the region now. Still, they do say his tournament will be a grand affair. Even his grace the King may attend.”

  “Old Bleary? I wish I may see it,” Lucas said scornfully. “I hear ’e scarcely gets out of bed on ’is own. And t’ furthest I’ve heard of ’im travelin’ be from Stirling to Edinburgh wi’ the court, or back again to Stirling.”

  “That’s true enough,” Hugh said. “But Archie’s tournament is to honor the third anniversary of the Steward’s taking the throne, as well as the completion of Threave Castle. So the rumors may be true. The King does like men to honor him.”

  “Aye, sure,” Lucas said. “We’ll see then. Did ye want me to do summat?”

  “Just to keep your eyes and ears well open. I should also warn you that the lass now carries a dagger.”

  “That Gerda lass?”

  “Ours,” Hugh said curtly.

  “What be ye about to allow that? A lass wi’ a dirk be more likely to cut herself than aught else.”

  “Wee Gilly has been teaching her to throw it,” Hugh said. “She has an eye but needs much more practice before she’ll hit anything with regularity. Still, it won’t hurt for some of the louts in this company to see her carrying it, and to hear that she knows how to use it.”

  “Happen she does, but she canna ken much about such.”

  “She has other protectors, though,” Hugh said. “I want her to carry it as much to encourage them to keep an eye on her as for any other reason.”

  “Then we’ll be bidin’ a wee while longer wi’ them ’ere,” Lucas said.

  “Aye, we will,” Hugh said. “At present, she is determined to stay with the minstrels, and I’m thinking we’d meet with stiff resistance if we tried to take her away against her will.”

  “ ’Ave ye no got another of your fine plans, then?”

  “Not a dependable one,” Hugh said. “I’ve a fancy to persuade the lass without making an enemy of her. We’ll soon be kin, after all.”

  “Aye, that would be why,” Lucas said sagely.

  As Jenny helped Peg pile bread in the baskets, she kept an eye on those around them, wondering if any of them was brewing mischief. She wondered, too, if Sir Hugh might be right and the minstrels sought nothing but a fine performance at Threave for the Lord of Galloway and perhaps the King.

  Something felt wrong about that, but she could not put her finger on what it was. She had repeated what she could remember to him, but the memory of her dream still seemed more ominous than her description of it to Hugh.

  One thing he had said did not feel wrong, and that was his suggestion that perhaps someone’s nearby conversation had got mixed into her dream. The words she recalled had seemed clear when she awoke, and despite what she had said about the nature of dreams, the words she remembered had not faded with time.

  Seeing Gawkus coming toward the table with Gilly, she smiled. She was sure that neither had been among the men walking about when she awoke. With tall, thin Gawkus looking all joints and bones like a stick puppet, and Gilly so small, she knew she would have recognized either of them, even in the dimly lit courtyard.

  The Joculator gestured to her then, motioning her toward the table, where the only obvious space left on either bench was between Sir Hugh and Gilly. The little man waved and patted the space.

  “Hugo said ye’ve been practicing,” he said as she lifted her skirt to step over the bench and sit down. “Three times out o’ six ye hit your target, he said.”

  “Aye, but I’d rather have hit it six times.”

  “Be patient, Jenny. Ye’ve a keener eye than most.”

  “Most women?”

  “Most anyone,’ he said with a chuckle.

  Gawkus leaned across the table. “Mind, ye’re no to start juggling wi’ that blade o’ yours, Jenny-lass. We canna stand the competition.”

  “Attend to me, all o’ ye,” the Joculator said from the head of the table. “We perform tonight in the market square. We expect a large crowd, and we want them to return often during the next sennight. Be ye all ready to give them a good show?”

  “Aye!” they cried as one.

  “Good, because I have a notion for our players. ’Tis long since we have performed ‘The Troubadour’s Wife,’ and I’m thinking the folks of Dumfries would enjoy it. We’ve done ‘The Wicked Brother’ so often of late that I fear the piece has grown stale. Moreover, it came to me that with our Hugo’s canny way of aping accents and the like, we might add summat new to the ‘Troubadour.’ What say ye?”

  The reply was one of general approval except, Jenny noted, for Hugo.

  “Faith, sir, I’m no actor,” he said.

  “Dinna be daft, lad. What d’ye think your mimicry be if not acting? Any troubadour can tell a tale or sing a song, and ye do both well. I warrant that with a mite o’ practice, ye’ll don the odder characters’ skins as if they were your own. Our Gerda ha’ played the wife many and many a time, so she can help ye get it right.”

  Plump Gerda beamed at Hugh, and when Jenny saw the sour expression on his face, she nearly burst out laughing. Leaning near him, she said demurely, “I warrant you will make her a fine husband, sir.”

  “Do you know this play?” he demanded.

  “Nay.” She turned to Gilly. “What is the play about?”

  “Och, ’tis a silly thing about a troubadour who courts all the ladies he meets, then marries one who likes him, only
to rue the day he wedded her. There be many characters but only four players. Gerda and Cath will play the ladies’ roles, and Hugo will play Gerda’s father and other parts I expect, as well as the Troubadour.”

  “Mercy, but it sounds complicated,” Jenny said, glancing again at Hugh.

  Gilly shrugged. “ ’Tis nobbut prick’s worth o’ foolishness,” he said. “But folks always laugh most heartily. We’re going to do ‘The Puppet’ one night, too, Gawkus and I, most likely on Friday. Ye’ll like that fine, I’m thinking.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said. “You two always make me laugh.”

  Hugh was more conscious of Jenny beside him than he’d have wanted to admit. As he glanced around the table and at others in the clearing, he saw several men eyeing her and felt a strong temptation to tell them all to look elsewhere.

  One in particular scarcely took his gaze off her.

  The man stiffened as if he felt Hugh’s steady gaze. Meeting it, he flushed and looked away. One down, Hugh thought, then laughed at his own foolishness.

  To be sure, it was his duty to protect her, but this… He scanned the others again, wondering if the lass was right to suspect trouble brewing. The likelihood was that she had made more of an innocent conversation than she should, seeking an excuse not to go home. He would indulge her another day or so, but then…

  As his thoughts drifted thus idly, he continued to look for men watching her too closely, until his gaze collided with the Joculator’s.

  The man seemed to be studying him, and Hugh thought about the play. He did not like the idea of taking on so singular a role. Playing troubadour in a company of real minstrels was strain enough. To play the double role of a troubadour playing a troubadour would border hazardously on the absurd.

  The Joculator summoned the players together directly after the meal and began to describe the play to them. It seemed that Hugo was to have no choice.