Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  “What of you?” Sir Quinton said to Gibby, ignoring Lem’s indignation. “Have you got a sword? I’ll fight you both at once, if you like. I warn you, though, if you do not fight fair, my man will shoot you down where you stand.”

  “I do not want to fight you at all,” Gibby said, sounding close to tears.

  Choosing her words and accent with care, Janet said, “He did try to stop the other one, sir. I dinna think he would ha’ troubled me on his own.”

  Sir Quinton did not glance her way, but he said to Gibby, “Stand aside then, lad, but heed my warning. If you interfere, you’ll soon meet the devil in Hell.”

  Scrambling back out of the way, Gibby held his hands out at his sides as if to assure him that he carried no weapon. Janet also moved aside, not wanting to watch, yet terrified that somehow Lem would gain the upper hand and Sir Quinton might die. If that happened, it would be no one’s fault but her own, and she did not think that she could live with such knowledge about herself.

  Quinton raised his sword but made no attack, waiting for the other man to come to him. Lem, watching him, feinted slightly, but when Quinton did not leap to the bait, he lunged forward with more confidence, thrusting directly at his heart. Quinton parried the cut easily on the outside of his blade and returned a thrust to Lem’s face, holding short.

  Janet, who had often watched Hugh practice his swordsmanship, needed only a short time to recognize that her husband was by far the better swordsman, that he was merely toying with Lem. To behave so in such poor light when he might easily misjudge the other man’s movement seemed foolhardy. Also, she noted, he had failed to remove his cloak, which was another gesture of foolhardiness, since it could only encumber his movement. It was as if he mocked Lem. He seemed to encourage Lem’s thrusting and parrying, giving him a false sense of confidence.

  Lem threatened with a series of sham moves and false attacks, feints that Hugh called “fluttering,” but Sir Quinton parried each with a gentle twist of the wrist, deftly keeping his blade where he could deflect Lem’s point.

  Janet saw that Lem was tiring, that his footwork had grown less sure. He slipped, and Sir Quinton quickly pulled back his sword, waiting for him to recover.

  “Be damned to ye, Redcloak! Make an end of it.”

  “Did he hurt you, lass?” Sir Quinton asked matter-of-factly as he parried another thrust.

  “Only my pride,” she answered. “You arrived in time to prevent the rest.”

  “I do not need a female’s protection,” Lem snarled, leaping forward again, his sword aimed straight at Sir Quinton’s midsection. “By God, ’tis not me who will see the devil in Hell!”

  With another deft parry, Sir Quinton picked up the tempo, lunging forward, catching Lem’s blade and disengaging only to attack again. Leaping forward, he forced the other man back and back, then eased, letting Lem come to him again.

  When Lem did, cutting and thrusting more recklessly, Janet’s chest tightened. She could feel her heartbeat and hardly dared to breathe, for the two men looked like shades from Hades flitting about in the moonlight. The only sounds were their breathing, the faint noises of their feet on the ground, and the metallic clashing of the swords. Even the hushing sound of the burn had faded away. Sir Quinton’s cloak flapped around him, making him look like a giant black moth.

  “Yield,” he snapped suddenly, harshly. “I’ll grant your life if you’ll yield.”

  “Never! You shall yield to me, Rabbie Redcloak,” Lem cried. “They’ll sing ballads to me from this night on.” He leapt forward, sword flashing.

  Instead of parrying the straight thrust. Sir Quinton whipped out his left arm and caught the blade with his cloak, at the same time thrusting hard and true with his sword at full length, deeply piercing Lem’s exposed right armpit.

  With a gasp of dismay, the Englishman collapsed. Horrid sounds followed, and Janet turned away, feeling sick.

  A moment later, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. They turned her and she looked up into her husband’s grim face.

  “You killed him,” she said.

  “Did you think I would not?”

  “I did not know.”

  “He left me no choice, but I am sorry that you had to see it. Say no more now,” he added in a tone that brooked no argument. Then, turning away, he said to Gibby, “You, lad, tell me this. Do you want to claim his body and return it to his people, or shall we bury him here and leave a cairn to mark the spot?”

  “Would ye dispatch me an I say I want to take him back?”

  “Nay, then, I offered a free choice,” Sir Quinton said. “The lass said you tried to protect her, so you may choose to remain with the body or ride on with us.”

  “With ye? Ye’d take me wi’ ye?”

  “Aye, if you want to come. What is your name?”

  “They call me Gibby—Gibby Potts.”

  “A Redesdale man, then. I’ve a few Pottses amongst my followers.”

  “Aye, there be Pottses on both sides, I ken.”

  “Choose, then.”

  “I’ll stay wi’ Lem, an it’s all the same to ye, sir.”

  “Good lad. Shall we help you bury him, or will your people tend to him?”

  “We’ll do it, but I do think the better of ye that ye’d help me.”

  “We are not barbarians,” Sir Quinton said gruffly.

  New sounds in the night heralded the arrival of the rest of his men, and for a moment, Gibby looked terrified, but Sir Quinton reassured him with a gesture.

  Janet, seeing pale moonlight glint on metal and recognizing her dagger, swiftly took the opportunity to pick it up and put it back in her sheath.

  Ten minutes later, Tip had recovered his horse and Janet’s, and their party mounted and rode away, leaving Gibby in forlorn attendance on his dead comrade.

  Janet rode behind Sir Quinton and the man she learned was Curst Eckie, with Tip beside her. Hob the Mouse and others followed. Sir Quinton had not invited her to ride beside him, nor did she want to do so. She did not think that he would scold her in front of his men, but she could not be certain that he would not.

  That he was angry with her was plain. None of his men spoke to her either. At first she told herself that they rode quietly because they still risked meeting a patrol, but once they were safely back in Scotland, she knew that was not the case. They remained quiet because they did not want to risk angering either their leader or his lady.

  As they descended toward the Liddel, the ramparts of Hermitage loomed on the horizon like a great black shadow in the moonlight. She was surprised, though, after they crossed, when Sir Quinton drew rein before their party could stir interest from guards on the castle ramparts.

  Quietly he said to Curst Eckie, “You take some of these lads and help drive the livestock north along the water past Sandy Edge, till you reach Stirling Water. Follow that to Broadhaugh. Send the others home by the most expeditious route.”

  “Aye, master.”

  Hob the Mouse, riding just behind Janet and Tip, murmured, “Master, how many of us d’ye mean to keep with ye?”

  “Just you and three others, Hob. Choose men with fast ponies. I’m for home straightaway, and my own bed. Tip,” he added, “you’ll ride with Hob and the others. You and I will talk in the morning. My lass will ride with me now.”

  Janet half expected him to snatch her from her saddle to ride pillion with him, and braced herself to resist, but he did not even speak to her. When he gave spur to his pony and rode ahead, leaving her to decide for herself whether to obey his implicit command or stay with his men, his action caught her by surprise.

  Half tempted to linger behind, she decided that would only make him angrier and just delay the inevitable confrontation. Reminding herself that she was no coward, and pushing the contradicting memory of Lem and Gibby out of her mind, she rode after him, hoping her pony could see better than she could.

  Chapter 15

  “Who stood unmov’d at his approach

  His fury to
repel.”

  SIR QUINTON SLOWED WHEN they reached the woodland at the foot of Cauldcleuch Head, allowing her to catch up. Hob and the other three remained a discreet distance behind.

  Janet urged her mount nearer to Quinton’s but was glad to find that the track was too narrow there to let them ride abreast. It widened on the downward side of the pass, but she stayed where she was, waiting to see what he would do.

  He did not say a word to her, and they rode the entire ten miles from Hermitage to Broadhaugh in silence. When they entered the bailey, he dismounted and turned away, and for a moment she thought that he meant to leave her to face his men alone in her breeks and boots.

  He shouted, “Ferdie, come take the ponies in, will you?”

  “Aye, laird.” A groom came running from the stable, looking bright-eyed and alert, despite clearly having waited up for his master’s return.

  Sir Quinton looked at her. “Can you get down by yourself?”

  “Aye,” she said, suiting action to words but feeling the last of her courage desert her. When her feet hit the cobblestones, her knees nearly betrayed her. She straightened, hoping she had her clothing all in place and that nothing revealed her struggle with Gibby and Lem. Drawing Quinton’s cloak more closely around her, she turned to follow him, still avoiding his eye and those of the others.

  Apparently deciding that she would follow him, Sir Quinton turned and strode toward the main entrance.

  Hesitating long enough to decide that she would gain nothing by dawdling, Janet hurried after him, knowing that every man who saw her must be wondering at her odd appearance and at their master’s unusual behavior toward her.

  Inside, she followed him upstairs, past the great hall and the master’s hall.

  “Please, sir, where—?”

  “Not now,” he said curtly, silencing her again.

  When they reached his bedchamber, he pushed the door open, letting it bang back against the wall, then crossed to the far side of the room, where he stopped.

  She eyed him warily from the threshold, her tension increasing considerably when he did not turn at once to face her.

  The silence lengthened till she said, “Please, I know that you are angry—”

  He turned sharply then, saying, “Hold your tongue, and shut that door unless you want every man-jack in the place to hear what I am going to say to you.”

  Her throat threatened to close, making it difficult to breathe. She had never before seen such a look of fury on anyone’s face. His anger made Hugh’s on any occasion that she could call to mind pale by comparison. Her knees had felt weak before, but now they shook. Though her instinct was to flee, not only did she suspect that her legs would not support her but she knew that Quinton would easily catch her and that she would have succeeded only in angering him more.

  Gathering what courage she could, she shut the door, trying to do so with dignity to show that she would obey him but that she did not fear him. Although she felt warm and would have liked to take off the cloak, she did not think it wise to display her breeks again so soon. She forced herself to breathe deeply, hoping to calm her nerves so that she could hold her own in the confrontation ahead. He did not rush her, and for that she was grateful. By the time she turned from shutting the door to face him again, she felt more like her normal, competent self.

  One look into his blazing eyes, however, and her resolve evaporated. She opened her mouth to speak, but he kept her silent with a slight gesture.

  “Not one word,” he said grimly. “Stay right where you are, too. I have not dared to touch you, because I fear what I might do to you if I do. I am no bully, Jenny, but neither will I allow you to make me look like a fool or a felon. Tonight I killed a man out of nothing more than plain fury.”

  “I know that I should not have—”

  “No, you should not,” he snapped, “but you did, and the consequences may be much more than you bargained for. You did not spare a thought for consequence, though. That much is plain. You did not think about how your actions would affect others—not just me, but the men who rode with me. Supposing that instead of those two louts you met, you had met your brother with a hundred men? Do you think he would simply have sent you back to Broadhaugh?”

  “But I did think of Hugh. Not at once,” she amended hastily, “but later, when I nearly told those two that I was his sister. I realized before I spoke the words that they might turn me over to him and that he would be as likely to hold me for ransom as to return me to you.”

  “Much more likely, I’d say, but that is not all.” His tone was calmer now, as if he had regained some control over his temper, but he still sounded grim when he said, “Have you considered yet what will be the most likely consequence of my killing the scoundrel who tried to rape you?”

  She had not, but she did, and the possibilities chilled her. “Surely anyone would understand that you were protecting me,” she said.

  “Oh, aye, I’m sure of it,” he said, and she could not mistake the sarcasm in his tone. “I have only to explain to the wardens at Truce Day that two men attacked my wife on the English side of the line some moments after a Scottish raid on Kielbeck. I would, of course, explain that the raid had naught to do with it, that she merely tripped over two English watchers during an evening stroll—”

  “Quinton, stop! First of all, they tripped over me. I lay completely concealed from them, for I did not stir a step from where Tip left me. Had that lad, Gibby, not left his companion and come afoot—”

  “He was most likely looking for a place to relieve himself,” Quinton retorted. “What would you have done if, instead of stepping on you, he had pissed on you?”

  She winced, feeling flames leap to her cheeks.

  He said, “What you might have done then does not matter, nor would such a tale influence the wardens or a jury. No one would believe it.”

  “But your Bairns would back any tale you told!”

  “Would they? Perhaps they would if I were such a rogue as to ask that of them. Have you stopped to think how they would explain their presence on the English side of the line? Beyond that, have you stopped to think that perhaps Scrope and his jury would believe only that my men were supporting a tale made up to excuse cold-blooded murder?”

  “But—”

  “No, Jenny, don’t try to excuse your behavior. There is no excuse. You defied my orders, and I won’t tolerate that from anyone at Broadhaugh. I am master here, not you, and the sooner you learn that, the better it will be.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You deserve that I should put you across my knee and teach you to submit to my commands. I may yet do that, but I am too angry with you to chance it now when my inclination is to use my riding whip rather than the flat of my hand.”

  She shut her eyes to the image his words stirred. He had every right to punish her as he chose, but even Hugh had never taken a whip to her.

  “You will keep to your bedchamber until I am in a better frame of mind to deal with you,” he said. “If you are wise, you will exert yourself to please me for some days to come. Go up now, and do not come down again until I send for you.”

  Fearing that if she tried to speak, she would lose her temper and shout at him—at which point he would most likely make good his threat to whip her—she turned on her heel and left the room. She could not resist shutting the door with a bang, however, and by the time she reached her bedchamber, her fury had taken fire. He was wrong to be angry, and she had been right to go.

  Her instincts had not misled her. Had she not followed him, Lem and Gibby would have lain in wait for the Bairns. They could easily have summoned a larger patrol, and Quinton and the Bairns would have been captured. She knew it would be useless now to debate the point with him, though. Like Hugh, he would refuse to listen and would simply react, most likely with violence. She would not allow him to cow her, however, nor would she try to coax him into a better frame of mind. By morning she would be well away from Broadhaugh.r />
  Quin stood staring into the flames in the fireplace, fighting to control his anger and other, less familiar emotions that warred with it. He had hated sending her away. He had wanted to hold her. Just thinking of what she must have felt when the English lout ripped her shirt off made him feel sick. Even now, he wanted to go to her bedchamber, to hold her tight and make sure she really was all right.

  He could not do it, though. She had to learn to obey him. Anything else was too dangerous, and she seemed constitutionally incapable of understanding that. He admired her courage as much as he admired her beauty, but he did not admire her stubborn nature or her defiance. Clearly, she was too accustomed to getting her own way, to doing exactly as she pleased. She thought she had lived under Sir Hugh’s thumb, but Quin knew that it could have been no such thing. Had she lived so, she would never have dared to defy his orders and follow him from Broadhaugh as she had. She would have learned to show proper submission to masculine authority.

  Since Sir Hugh had failed, he would have to teach her himself, but at the moment he did not know how he would do so.

  He did not know what he was going to do about Tip either. The man had done all that anyone could have expected short of calling for others to help him lock their mistress in her bedchamber. Quin’s lips twitched at the thought, but he quickly grew sober again, knowing what he would have done to any man—even one of his own—who had dared to lay hands on his Jenny.

  The fact was that he did not think any of them would have dared. Tip would have been the most likely, and only to the extent that Quin believed the little man would have locked his mistress in her room could he have but thought of a way to do so without carrying her there. There was no such way, however, none that Tip could have achieved without Jenny’s cooperation.

  Tip expected a flogging, and for disobeying his master’s command to remain within the walls of Broadhaugh he deserved one. Certainly the other lads would expect him to suffer for helping Jenny in her mad venture. That argument no sooner occurred to Quin, however, than another voice piped up in the back of his mind, reminding him that Tip had fairly flown through the boggy darkness to find him. The little man had kept his head and had put aside any fear of consequence to himself to save Jenny. For that, he deserved a substantial reward.