Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  Janet bit her lower lip to stop the words of agreement in her throat. How easy it was nearly to betray someone. Not that Hugh was wrong, for she knew that he was quite right. Elizabeth, even King James, would look for someone to blame, and they would not settle for the Bairns. They would seek a leader, and any suggestion that a woman had instigated the whole thing they would reject out of hand.

  Even without anyone to point a finger at Buccleuch, James and Elizabeth would assume that the powerful Border lord had led the rescuers, and no amount of denial would protect him if they decided to charge him with the raid. He had known that when he agreed to plan it, and he would accept the responsibility because he would know that he could have stopped them. Much as Janet might have liked to think that she could have rescued Quinton by herself, she knew she would not have tried. Without Buccleuch’s reluctant agreement, she would have accepted defeat.

  Hugh picked up his sword and turned to take his wet cloak and helmet from the henchman who held them.

  “Hugh.” His name leapt from her lips without thought.

  He looked, over his shoulder. “Aye, lass?”

  “I am glad that you were not hurt.”

  He turned to face her, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and moved nearer, his long cloak hanging heavily from his arm. Raindrops glistened in his beard. His expression softened. “I’m glad, too,” he said. Then, in a rush, putting a hand on her shoulder, he added, “Jannie, I’ve missed you. We’ve all missed you.”

  Hearing him call her by a name she had not heard since childhood brought tears to her eyes. She had not realized until that moment how much she had missed her own people, even this domineering brother of hers. It was unlikely that she would ever return to Brackengill to live, but she knew now that she did not want to go through life thinking of the people there as enemies.

  “I…I have missed you, too, Hugh, and everyone at Brackengill. H-how are Matty and Sheila, and the others? And how does Jock’s Meggie fare, and her bairns?” She did not want to tell him that she had spoken twice with Andrew, but she relaxed when he smiled.

  “Meggie is at Brackengill, and young Andrew and Peter are helping there in the stable. They like the horses and seem to deal well with them.”

  “And Nancy?”

  “Helps her mam. I missed the music, lass,” he added. “Everyone grew so dour, you wouldn’t know the place. At first, I just took Meggie and them off the farm because I wanted to keep Ned Rowan there and Meggie refused to marry with him. I was going to send her away, order her off to live with her kinfolk, but I knew that ragged lot of Grahams would set up a fearsome howl.”

  True enough, she thought, but how it must have angered him when Meggie refused to submit to his decree that she marry Ned Rowan. She said, “But why did you keep her at Brackengill?”

  Again the rueful twinkle danced in his eyes. “She can bake,” he said, “and she’s a practical lass when all is said and done. And, too, once she set up as cook, with her bairns running all about the place, some of the others agreed to come back.”

  “Thank you for being kind to them, Hugh.”

  He shrugged. “Will ye come home now and again to visit us?”

  “I shall have to ask Quinton about that,” she said.

  “Aye, I can see how you bow to his every wish and decree,” he said dryly.

  She smiled but said, “He is still my husband.”

  Hugh looked past her. “Aye, and if you have any respect for his temper, I’d advise you to get back on your horse, lass. He’s beginning to look darker than last night’s thunderclouds. Come to us when you can,” he added. “You’ll be welcome.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, smiling warmly at him.

  Turning on her heel with a lighter heart than she had felt in some time, she had walked several steps toward Quinton and Hob the Mouse before she realized that the rain had stopped and that Quinton was looking stormy. With a sigh, she quickened her pace. Clearly his victory over Hugh had not banished his anger with her. She would still have to answer for her disobedience, and at the moment he did not look as if he would be in any mood to be merciful.

  Janet paid little heed to their route until the clouds broke and the warming rays of the sun peeped through. Then, seeing that they had reached the confluence of the Esk and the Liddel, she realized that Quinton meant to make for Hermitage rather than riding through Teviotdale to Broadhaugh. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry that she would be present when Buccleuch learned that they had succeeded.

  Most of the Bairns and many of the men riding with Gaudilands and Todrigg turned off toward their own homes long before they reached Hermitage Water. Their party numbered less than a score when they arrived at the castle.

  When they entered the great hall, Buccleuch stood to greet them, clearly forgetting about his leg in his relief at seeing Quinton. Janet thought he looked much better, but he was plainly in no mood to hear her say so. He did not even look at her, nor mention her unfeminine attire.

  “Are you fit, then?” he demanded when Quinton approached him.

  “Aye, fit enough,” Quinton replied.

  “He fought with Hugh,” Janet said.

  “And beat him,” Quinton added.

  “Did you? Well done. This is going to cause a damnable fuss, you know.”

  “Aye, Elizabeth won’t like having her stronghold breached by fewer than a hundred men.”

  Buccleuch shrugged. “I’ll wager that Scrope’s account will number them at two or three thousand, if not more,” he said.

  Quietly, Janet said, “Hugh mentioned you, sir. He suspects that you were behind the whole thing. Will Scrope suspect the same?”

  “Doubtless he will, but it makes no difference. Whether I planned it or not, Elizabeth will blame me, and Jamie will, too. They are my Borderers, lass.”

  Catching Quinton’s eye, Janet said nothing more.

  The two men talked for a time about the raid, but neither asked her any questions. Nor did either of them order her to leave, so she sat quietly until Quinton said, “We’ll not stay, Wat. I want to get home to Broadhaugh.”

  Startled, she said, “You should rest! Should we not stay the night here at least, and return tomorrow?”

  “I want to sleep in my own bed,” Quinton said evenly. “I have thought of little else these past four weeks.”

  “You’ll be safe here,” she said.

  “I’ll be safe at home, too,” he said. “Are you ready, or should you visit the necessary before we leave?”

  Realizing that it would serve no purpose to argue with him, she prepared to leave. A number of his men were still in the castle, but if they were disappointed to be departing so soon, not one of them said so.

  Except for a few white puffball clouds scudding overhead, there was little to remind them of the great storm. The air warmed as they rode, and the miles to Broadhaugh passed swiftly, almost too swiftly to suit Janet. She knew very well that one reason Quinton was in such a hurry to return was that he wanted to deal with her privately. The closer they got to Broadhaugh, the more nervous she became.

  When the castle walls loomed into view, she glanced at him, but he did not look angry. His eyes were shining and his lips parted. He gazed at Broadhaugh, which, in the sunlight, looked like a golden crown on the craggy hilltop with the sparkling waters of the Teviot and Broadhaugh Water forming a rippling blue ribbon at the foot. Whatever Quinton had been thinking or feeling before, the only thing in his mind now was his homecoming. She felt herself relax.

  In the bailey, he dismissed his men, giving orders only to be certain that some would maintain a normal guard on the ramparts while others got needed rest.

  Janet spoke to one of the servants, ordering supper served as soon as the cook could manage to put together a decent meal for them. She turned back to find Quinton still talking with Wee Toad Bell and Hob the Mouse.

  “Would you two like to stay and dine with us?” she asked.

  Hob’s lips twi
tched, and she saw that he avoided looking at Quinton. Wee Toad was not so tactful. With a glance at Quinton, he said hastily, “I’d best be getting on home to my own lass, mistress. She’ll be fretting about me.”

  “Hob has to go, too,” Quinton said. “He needs a good sleep.”

  “Right…that’s right,” Hob said.

  She saw sympathy in his eyes.

  Instantly, she straightened, giving him look for look. “Thank you, Hob, for all your help. Our venture would never have succeeded without you. You, too, Wee Toad. My husband is fortunate to have such loyal henchmen.”

  Both men nodded gratefully. Then Hob said, “’Twas yourself wha’ did the thing, mistress. We’d none of us ha’ thought of taking Carlisle had ye no stirred us to do it. The master should be grateful to ha’ such a brave lass all his own. I’ll come in the morning for orders, sir,” he added. Tucking his steel bonnet under his arm, he bobbed his version of a bow and left, with Wee Toad Bell scurrying after him.

  Silence reigned for several moments before Quinton said provocatively, “I wish I could be certain that I am still the one who claims their loyalty.”

  “You know you are!”

  “Aye, perhaps. Have you concocted that tale for me yet?”

  “I have no need to concoct anything. You know perfectly well all that transpired. You talked the whole business over with Buccleuch, did you not?”

  “Aye, and he told me he had no notion that you meant to accompany the lads to Carlisle. If I were not a kind husband, I would let you answer to him for that.”

  “He told Hob to let me have my head,” she said, seeing no reason to tell him that Buccleuch had also said that he would leave it to her husband to deal with her later. “Moreover,” she added thoughtfully, “he did not seem angry.”

  “Nay then, he was furious,” Quinton said. “I know him better than you do.”

  That was true. Still, she did not think Buccleuch had been angry. “He’s got a fearsome temper when he’s angry,” she said.

  “Aye, it’s an inherited trait.”

  There seemed to be nothing beneficial to say to that. “We should go inside,” she said at last. “I told them to prepare your supper as quickly as they can.”

  “Good, I’m famished. But first I want to wash the stink of Carlisle off myself.”

  “Go on upstairs then. I’ll send men up with a tub, water, and some soap.”

  He smiled, but there was little humor in the smile. “I don’t need a tub, lass. The Teviot will serve me well enough. Why don’t you walk with me? If you’ve still got your wee dagger, you can cut me a good switch whilst I’m enjoying my bath.”

  Prickles stabbed at her spine, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that his words disturbed her in the least. Instead, calmly, she said, “Even in the Teviot, sir, you will want a bit of soap. And I’ll warrant you would like some clean clothes to put on after wearing those things all these weeks. They look and smell like something that should be buried.”

  He shrugged. “I hardly notice the smell anymore.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I will tell Tip to fetch clean clothing for you, and I will bring you soap. You go ahead down to the river. I’ll find you.”

  He gave her a stern look. “You had better. If I have to come and find you, you’ll be sorry to have put me to the trouble.”

  She looked right back. “I am not a coward, sir.”

  He smiled then, a real smile. “No, Jenny, you certainly are not. Go along now, and collect what you will, but bring it all down yourself. I’ll be in the river.”

  She went quickly and soon found Tip, telling him that his master required a change of clothing. “Warm things,” she added. “He’s like to be chilled after swimming in the river.”

  “It’s no so bad, mistress,” the man said as he gathered the required clothes. “It’s April now, the chill is off, and the sun is shining. Bairns ha’ been swimming a sennight or more now, and them that dinna swim still like splashing about. They’ll be in and out of the water near every day now till the snow flies again.”

  His words stirred an idea. Quickly snatching up the bundle he had prepared for her, she hurried back downstairs and out the postern gate, then down the hill toward the bend in the river, where Quinton had said he liked to bathe.

  He was in the river, splashing childishly in a deep pool.

  She waved. “I’ve brought soap. Do you want it?”

  “Aye, toss it here. Let me see if you’ve got a good arm for throwing.”

  She threw it, and he caught it easily. He ducked his head under and came up shaking it. Drops of water flew everywhere, glittering in the sunlight. He lathered his whole head, then moved to shallow water and stood up, a gleaming wet, muscular god. Janet stared, thinking how much she had missed him. He had lost weight, and his body was pale everywhere. Even his arms, which had been deeply browned from the sun, had faded almost to match the whitest parts of him.

  Remembering her plan, she wrenched her gaze from his still splendid body and soon spied the clothing he had shed in a pile near the riverbank. Shrubbery and May trees grew close to the river there, and she carefully tucked her bundle in the fork of one, where it would stay dry and out of sight. Then, strolling to the pile of cast-off clothing she began to gather it into another bundle, boots and all. Leaving only his sword and dagger, she turned away and walked back into the shrubbery to the thicket of trees. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was still scrubbing, clearly enjoying himself, glad to be clean again at last. Smiling, she stepped back into the shrubbery, out of his sight.

  Moving cautiously so that he could not tell from waving bushes exactly where she was, she moved upriver from him, listening, aware that he had already taken longer than expected to notice that she had gone. Clearly he felt safe from attack, even though they were out of sight of the castle ramparts. Had he been as alert as usual, he would have noted her movements the minute she turned away.

  Insight stirred, and she wondered if he purposely was ignoring her to attend to his own needs. He probably thought that she was worried about whether he really meant to beat her, wondering if he would really make her cut the very switch that he would use. Doubtless he intended to keep her guessing.

  By the time he shouted her name, she was far enough up the river to suit her purpose. Quickly she stripped off the male clothing she still wore and folded it in a neat pile on a warm rock, setting her boots and dagger beside it.

  “Jenny,” he roared, “answer me! Where the devil are my clothes?”

  Managing a smile, pretending that she was not frightened half out of her wits, she turned and stepped into the water, instantly realizing that Tip’s notion of warmth and her own were many, many degrees apart. But she was naked now, and if any of Quinton’s men heard him shouting, the two of them would soon have unwanted company. She had to hurry.

  Without sparing another thought for Quinton’s anger or the temperature of the water, she plunged in and came up sputtering. The icy water took her breath away, and she realized that its temperature might chill her plan before she could put it into action. She could not let that happen. Swimming toward the middle, she let the steady current carry her downriver. The current was not particularly swift, for just there the river flowed wide over shallow sandbars on both sides.

  She saw Quinton before he saw her. He stood near the riverbank in calf-deep water, hands on bare hips, glaring at the thicket of shrubbery as if his anger could force her to materialize out of thin air.

  She could see that the current quickened not far beyond him, for there were rocks on the Broadhaugh side, and water foamed around them. Thanks to Hugh’s teaching years before, she was a strong swimmer and she knew how to work with the current to keep from being swept away, but it would do her purpose no good to let the water sweep her too quickly past Quinton. If he had to chase her down the river, his anger would only increase.

  She whistled and had the satisfaction of seeing him start. He looked right and
left, then up the river, but his gaze passed over her because he was searching the banks of the Teviot. She whistled again.

  “What the devil?” His voice carried easily to her ears. “Jenny?”

  She waved.

  “What the devil!” He stepped impulsively toward her, and either slipped or stepped into a hole, for he stumbled into the water and came up gasping for air. He quickly found his feet again, however, and dove after her. When his hands closed around her ankles from beneath, she screeched and tried to kick free.

  He held her easily, and the next thing she knew, his hands were at her waist, and then he had turned, bringing one arm around her shoulders, so that her head rested against him. With a few strong strokes, he was in water shallow enough to stand again. His body measured itself against hers, and she leaned on him.

  “Are you all right?” he growled into her ear.

  “Aye, I’m fine.”

  “Where the devil are my clothes? For that matter, where the devil are yours?”

  His hand moved to one bare breast, and she gasped. “Yours are yonder on the bank where those trees are. Mine…” She chuckled. “Mine are up the river. I thought only of surprising you, not of how I would get back to them.”

  “Faith, lass, I ought to beat you here and now. Was there ever before such an impulsive and foolish wench, I wonder.”

  “We should be in the water or out of it, sir. Did you lose the soap?”

  “I did not. It is on that rock in plain sight. Do you want it?”

  “Aye, since I’m wet. Those clothes I borrowed are not much sweeter than yours are.”

  “Then you can leave them where they are.”

  “Quinton! Would you have me parade through the bailey in my skin?”

  “Don’t tempt me, Jenny. You deserve whatever I choose to do to you.” He moved to fetch the soap as he spoke, and she hunkered down in the water, since it felt warmer now to be in it and out of the breeze.

  She hoped he was teasing her. Surely he would not make her walk naked back to the castle. Looking back toward where she had left her clothing, she wondered if the current was gentle enough to let her swim against it.