The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  All resistance gone, Dallas hastened to catch up with Fraser. They completed the short walk in silence just as the rain let up. The house in Nairne’s Close was empty and Dallas was grateful that the others were out. She would not have wanted her sisters or Marthe to see her return in such a state of disarray and defeat.

  “Change your clothes first,” Fraser said as they came through the entry hall. “And tell me where you keep your medications.”

  “Top shelf, the pantry.” Dallas moved up the stairs woodenly, leaving a trail of wet footsteps behind her.

  Five minutes later she came into the kitchen wearing her drab but dry brown dress and with her damp hair pinned up on top of her head. Fraser had laid out an old remedy of Marthe’s for cuts and bruises, a rag soaked in hot water, and two tankards of ale. The only thing Dallas could think to ask was how Fraser knew which was the right medicine.

  “I take it your serving woman is a Highlander. I’d recognize this ancient balm any day.” Fraser grinned at Dallas as he took her by the arm and began wiping away the blood and jam. She remained quiet as he ministered to her and it was Fraser who broke the silence after he had finished his task and taken his first quaff of ale. “Well? Do you want to talk about your troubles or not?”

  Iain Fraser was the last person on earth in whom Dallas wanted to confide. But there he sat, at ease despite his wet clothes, the topaz ring catching the glow from the fireplace, the lean features displaying a kind of bemused compassion.

  “We’ve no money. Just a few pennies. I only sold one pie.”

  In spite of himself, Fraser burst out laughing. His reaction snapped Dallas out of her stupor. “You dare laugh at me! You, with your fancy court ladies and a house that must have cost a fortune and ... and a horse that gets more to eat than I do! Oh!” Dallas had to force herself to keep from hurling the ale tankard at Fraser.

  “Stay, stay, lassie,” he urged, composing his features into a more serious expression. “You’ve had hard times, I take it, since your sire died.”

  Dallas clutched the tankard between her hands and tried to becalm herself. Fraser might be the last person in the world with whom she wanted to discuss her troubles, but he also seemed to be the only one who cared to listen. “Aye, terrible hard times.” She related all her efforts to avert poverty while Fraser sat quietly, occasionally sipping at his ale tankard. “So there it is,” she summed up. “We’re going to have to sell this house and move into one of those horrid tenements in the Cowgate. I don’t see any other solution.”

  “Hmmmm.” Fraser ran a long finger across his upper lip. “Surely there’s another way. Why doesn’t one of you marry?”

  “Marry?” Dallas regarded him with wide brown eyes. “Marry?” she repeated stupidly, wondering why the idea had never occurred to her before. Not that she wished to wed—but Glennie had enjoyed her married life and Tarrill would have become William Ruthven’s bride without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Both your sisters are bonnie and you’re a comely little lass—at least you seem to be when you’re not being attacked or falling down or doing some of those other peculiar things for which you have such a propensity. If you and your sisters are willing, you should all find husbands in a trice.”

  Dallas lifted the ale tankard to her lips to help conceal the blush which she felt spreading across her face. Comely! How could he say that about her? Glennie was pretty, Tarrill was striking, but she, Dallas, had never held any illusions about her own appearance.

  As experienced as he was in the ways of women, Fraser seemed to read her thoughts. “You underestimate yourself, Dallas,” he said, and neither of them appeared to notice his use of her Christian name. “Your features may not be classic, in fact, I’ve hardly seen all of them until now when your hair is out of your face, but you definitely make an impression on a man.” He was measuring his words, sensing that ordinary compliments would go down ill with Dallas. He was also being totally candid. “Furthermore, I’d wager that if you ever smiled—really smiled—I’d be quite bedazzled. Why don’t you try it on me, Dallas?”

  But Dallas only glared at him. Fraser began to glare back. They sat thus for more than a minute, unblinking, obstinate and determined. And then Dallas broke out into laughter.

  “You see? I’m bewitched.” Fraser finished his ale and stood up. “Now it’s my turn to go home and dry out. But before I do,” he went on, reaching inside his leather jerkin, “let me advance you a little something on your future prosperity.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t accept it!” Dallas put her hands up to ward off his donation.

  Fraser waved a long forefinger at her. “Look at it this way, Dallas. Under ordinary circumstances I’d be trying to make love to you now.” He frowned, wondering if his speculations about Dallas were accurate. Experience or not, there was always a margin for error with women.

  For her part, Dallas was regarding him with wide-eyed horror. Surely he didn’t expect to buy her favors? “Tell me about your horse,” she said suddenly, in a frantic effort to divert him. “He’s magnificent, I noticed that today.”

  Fraser’s shoulders slumped in utter disbelief. “He’s a Spanish breed, I call him Barvas. Quite unlike the shaggy Highland ponies I rode as a boy.” The crooked grin spread across his lean face as he moved around the trestle table. “Jesu, I can’t believe you really want to talk about my horse!”

  “Oh, but I like horses! I like cats and some dogs and ....” Dallas’s voice trickled away as Fraser stood directly in front of her, his hands on his hips, one leg poised slightly in front of the other. She felt trapped; how on earth had she been stupid enough to let Fraser in the house when no one was at home?

  “And men?” Fraser’s grin stayed intact as he watched Dallas grow pale. “You don’t really know the answer to that, do you, Dallas? I’ll wager you don’t know enough about them to reply.”

  Dallas backed away and all but fell over her chair. “Fie, I’ve known men all my life! My father had dozens of pupils, colleagues, friends .... Why shouldn’t I know about men?”

  Fraser couldn’t resist laughing at her again, no matter how much fury it might evoke. “You haven’t the faintest notion what I mean. Or at least you won’t admit it.” He reached out with one long arm and grasped her by the back of the neck. Dallas lashed out at him with her hands but Fraser pulled her so close that her breasts were crushed against his leather vest.

  “You’re wet,” she gasped. “Your jerkin smells like sheep dip.”

  “So?” Fraser bent down, the hawklike nose brushing her cheek. “You smell like pork pie.”

  Dallas made another effort to pull away but Fraser’s arm held her tight. She put her head down but a firm hand raised her chin. “Iain,” she pleaded; desperation quavering in her voice, “please ....”

  “I’d like to please,” he murmured in that indolent tone, and then his mouth crushed hers and the muffled cry that escaped her lips parted them just enough to let Fraser’s tongue explore her own. Dallas knew she had to fight him; she knew, too, that she could not win. Struggling in his embrace, she tried to turn away, but Fraser forced Dallas’s head back so far she thought her neck would snap. She tried pounding on his back with her fists, but the leather jerkin protected him well. Indeed, though she felt one of his arms let go of her, he was strong enough to hold her fast with the other. Then Fraser released her mouth and began exploring the curve of her breasts with his free hand.

  “Oh, lassie, you are as pitiable as you are enticing,” he said into her hair. “Has no man ever tasted your bonnie delights?”

  “No!” Dallas cried in panic. She writhed in his grasp as the long, brown hand slowly roamed at will until his fingers pressed the nipple of her left breast. To her astonishment, Dallas felt her own body betray her; something bizarre was happening as her bosom seemed to take on a life of its own and thrust and harden at Fraser’s touch. She had to will herself to keep from collapsing against this outrageous assailant who was no better than the drunken louts from whom
he’d rescued her on Castle Hill.

  And then, to her utter amazement, he released her. Dallas lurched against the table, eyes slightly glazed, hair tumbling down over her shoulders. Fraser just stood there, shaking his head and chuckling as if to himself.

  “You not only don’t know men, Dallas, you don’t know yourself.” He glanced at his empty ale tankard. “Did I drain that? Aye, I did. Well,” he went on, brushing his dark hair back into place, “as I was about to say, as far as the loan is concerned, you have a choice—my money or my body? Which will it be?”

  “Your money,” Dallas gasped so swiftly that Fraser couldn’t help laughing again. But Dallas shook her head in fierce retraction. “Nay, neither! Not after what you’ve done! You’re a philandering blackguard as I suspected from the start!”

  “Probably,” he conceded with a grin. “But, lassie, be sensible. After all, that’s your byword, isn’t it? Come, Dallas, I can afford to be generous and you can’t afford to be proud.”

  Dallas glared at him and made an effort to repin her hair. “But you just tried to ravish me!”

  Fraser waved his hand at her. “Nonsense. If I’d actually tried, you’d be quite ravished already. Furthermore,” he added with the mockery dancing in his hazel eyes, “you’d be purring like a kitten.” He saw the fury renewing itself in her expression and put a finger over her lips to quell the inevitable denial. “Be your characteristically businesslike self for a moment. If not for you, then for Glennie and her bairns.”

  Dallas stared in open-mouthed awe as Fraser dumped a pile of coins on the table, ten, maybe twelve marks glinting in the firelight. She had to press her hands against the edge of the worn oak table to keep from touching the golden bounty.

  “I’m flummoxed,” Dallas said, finally turning her gaze from the money to Fraser. “I shouldn’t, but you’re right, the others have to eat. I’ll repay you in like coinage, with interest. But,” she added with solemn dignity, “you must know I would never sell myself to you or any man for money.”

  “Ah, but that’s exactly what you’re going to do if you plan to get a husband who’ll save you from poverty.”

  Dallas stamped her bare foot. “That’s different, wedlock is legal and sanctified. Besides, it won’t be me, it’ll be Glennie or Tarrill.”

  Fraser regarded her with exaggerated dubiousness. “We’ll see. My wager would be on you, under the circumstances. How’s your arm?”

  Dallas looked down at the bandage. “It’s much better.” It suddenly occurred to her that in their scuffling he had managed not to aggravate the scrape. Something akin to awe filled her expression as she looked up at him.

  As before, Fraser seemed to sense what she was thinking. “Then I’m not quite the plundering reiver you thought me to be?”

  The faintest hint of a smile played at her mouth. “You are ... different,” she allowed and wondered why she had a sudden urge to touch the hollow of his cheekbone.

  “You are different, too,” Fraser said with a smile untouched by mockery. “Take care, lassie, and spend your money wisely.”

  Dallas had to ask the question, though she doubted he would give her an answer. “Iain ... what did my father tell you before he died?”

  Fraser’s smile faded at once. “He told me who my father was. Though there is no proof.”

  “Who was your sire? How did my father know?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Fraser saw the vexation rekindle in her dark eyes and shook his head. “I’m not being obdurate, it’s better that you don’t know. But I’m eternally grateful for the knowledge.”

  “He told me everything!” Dallas realized she sounded like an overindulged child and bit her lip. “That is, I thought he did.”

  “You’re probably right—save in this one matter. On the other hand, I’ll wager there were things you never told him.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Such as how you feel about men—and how you felt about George Gordon in particular?”

  “Fie!” Dallas blazed at him. “Father didn’t need to hear such inanities! And however would you know about George Gordon anyway?”

  He shrugged in that manner which was becoming all too familiar to Dallas. “I saw you together the night the Queen arrived, though neither of you noticed me—then. You looked crushed, as if George had inflicted some nearmortal wound. Did he seduce you, Dallas?”

  “Oooooh ....” Dallas ran her hands through her hair and again it came tumbling down over her shoulders. “You see too much, you know too much! No! George never did any such thing!”

  Fraser’s mouth twisted wryly. “Oh. So that was the problem. Women are such touchy creatures—they’re outraged when a man tries—and infuriated when he doesn’t.”

  “That’s drivel! I would never have let him ....”

  But Fraser interrupted her denial. “Ah, hindsight! It’s a wonderful mode of self-deception.” He was grinning again and reached out to put a finger on her upturned nose. “But it isn’t compatible with someone who studies history as you do, lassie.”

  Dallas batted his hand away. “You speak out of turn! You know nothing about me!”

  “You just said I knew too much. That may be an exaggeration, but I do know enough. As for George, he isn’t a bad fellow—he’s just arrogant and self-centered, like most of the Gordons. But don’t judge all men by him. Now,” he said, with an indolent wave of his hand, “I must be off. I need a change of gear before I’m attacked by a ram in heat. Or a ewe, I suppose.”

  Dallas watched him leave the kitchen with mixed emotions. Her stomach was twisted like a tangled skein of yarn, her hands were unsteady as she ran her fingers over the golden coins on the table. The scrape on her arm scarcely hurt but her lips felt bruised. Involuntarily, she brushed her hands against her breasts. Her nipples were no longer taut, but her heart seemed to be thumping far too fast.

  “Oh, fie,” she breathed aloud and slumped into the chair. Iain Fraser was so accustomed to bedding any wench who came his way that he would have considered it ungallant not to at least try—or so Dallas told herself. But that hardly explained her own reaction. She should have fought more fiercely. On the other hand, she was worn out from her fruitless expedition in the High Street. Yet her honor had been at stake. Well, it was intact—and after all, she was too small to ward off a man as strong as Iain Fraser.

  The inner argument raged for at least ten minutes. Best to forget the episode, she finally told herself. Better yet to forget about Fraser’s bruising kisses and his hand on her breasts. Dallas felt her cheeks grow hot at the memory. She stood up resolutely and began filling Fraser’s empty ale mug with gold coins.

  After all, she now faced another problem: How could she explain to her sisters where the money had come from? Dallas poured herself another tankard of ale and sat drumming her slim fingers on the tabletop. She could tell them she’d sold all the pies and jam, of course. But that would only account for a few shillings at most. It would, however, stall them off for a few days, until she came up with a better explanation.

  Just as she was about to take the last drink of her ale Dallas heard the front door open. It was Glennie and Tarrill, accompanied by the boys. Dallas swiftly grasped Fraser’s tankard and held it close to her body.

  “Dallas!” Glennie called out. “You’re back already! Did you sell the pies and jam?”

  “Oh, aye, all of them.” Dallas forced a smile. “A brisk business, despite the rain.”

  “I feared you’d be caught in that,” Tarrill said, helping Glennie get the boys out of their damp clothes. “But I’m glad, Dallas, perhaps I can go out tomorrow with some more.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary—yet.” Dallas didn’t want either of her sisters to face the humiliation she had suffered. “Where have you all been?” she asked to change the subject.

  “We’ve been helping Mistress Drummond card wool in exchange for more firewood,” Glennie explained. She had her sons stripped down to their threadbare shirts and hose and had stationed them in fron
t of the fire. “Oh, Dallas, what happened to your arm?”

  Dallas had forgotten about the bandage. She glanced down at it and shrugged. “Just a scrape. Umm, I brushed up against a rough railing near Gosford’s Close.”

  Something in Dallas’s tone made Glennie suspicious. She also wondered why her sister continued to stand by the table, holding her ale tankard with such apparent effort. Then it occurred to Glennie that the bandage was on Dallas’s right arm and it had obviously been put on in a very neat manner. Untidy at best, Dallas could never have managed such a feat with her left hand.

  “Daniel, Jamie, you’re dried off. Run upstairs now.” Glennie gave each of the boys a pat as they scampered out of the kitchen, already arguing over which game they would play. “All right, Dallas,” Glennie said, seating herself on the opposite side of the table. “What’s happened and why is that tankard weighing you down?”

  Dallas stood for a moment without moving, then suddenly banged the tankard down on the table, making several of the coins flip out onto the floor. Tarrill gasped, amazed as much by the behavior of her two sisters as by the gold pieces which lay scattered around Dallas’s hem.

  “I couldn’t sell a rope to a drowning man,” Dallas admitted bitterly. “Oh, some blowzy goodwife deigned to buy a pie, but it was hopeless. Then I fell down, that’s how I hurt my arm. And Iain Fraser offered me this mound of money in exchange for my body. Now are you satisfied?” She glared at both Glennie and Tarrill, daring them to reprimand her. Both stared back, Glennie’s blue eyes incredulous, Tarrill’s black ones dumbfounded. Taking her advantage, Dallas hurtled on. “You’d rather sell the house and move into the Cowgate? You’d prefer politely starving to death? What about the boys?”

  “Dallas, I can’t believe my ears!” Glennie was flushed with shock. “You mean—you’re telling us you gave yourself to that wild Highlander in exchange for this?” She swept her hand across the table, indicating the gold-filled tankard.