by King, Susan
He helped her to free him, then slid his leg over her, laid his lips over hers, pausing, though it cost him will and strength to do so. "We are not wed," he murmured. "You know that."
"We were, once," she said against his mouth, her breath ragged. "I am sorry that I undid that. We'll wed again."
He groaned, low. "How?" he breathed. "When?"
"Now," she whispered. "Here."
And she pulled him closer, spread and opened and surged upward as he glided toward her. A pause only, while his heart thudded. But he knew, utterly, that what existed between them was unlike anything he had known before. Faith and love were strong and pure, here and now. The walls that he had constructed around himself vanished in that instant.
She made an impatient sound, drew on him. Gentle and slow, she took him into her, catching her breath as she surged past the brink. He slid into the lush welcome she offered. Something unexpectedly poignant, something whole and complete, seemed to surround him. He closed his eyes, sank into her.
She made an exquisite sound of surrender, of triumph. He echoed, raw and ecstatic, savored, thrusted, and felt her tremble around him. The lightning took him over, and he knew it flashed through her. He knew then, somehow had always known, that she was the bright, elusive mirror of his soul, rediscovered.
He sighed, and heard the rain again, heard the thunder. He felt her shift beneath him, separate. He kissed her, made a vow to himself that this would never be undone between them.
A little rest, he thought, just for a bit, would help them both. He nestled with her, pulled the coverlet over them, and felt sleep overtake him. It lured her too, for she went still and peaceful in his arms with scarcely a word.
* * *
"Oh, God," he said, a little while later. Dim light, cool, moist air, the trill of a lark, poured through the small window. The light streamed silvery over Tamsin's sleeping face. "Oh, God. How long have I been here?" He sat up, shoved back his hair, yanked on his shirt, his breeches, his stocks.
"Will?" Tamsin sat up. He glanced at her sleepy eyes, tousled hair, naked body, sheened and lovely. He leaned over and kissed her, tender and quick, and she reached for him.
"I must go," he murmured. "Where are my boots—ah, still in the dungeon." He shoved his hair back, which fell insistently over his eyes. "I meant to talk to Musgrave and ride out. Damn," he swore, and stood to tighten his waist string, tuck in his shirt. "I need to hurry. God," he said, "dinna do that. You'll stop my heart."
She stood, slim and perfect, and let her shirt fall over her like a cloud, silhouetted by the window. "I'm coming too," she said. "Wait until I dress."
"Stand there like that, and we'll go nowhere but back to the bed," he growled, his voice hoarse with sleep. She smiled and came forward into his arms. "You'll stay away while I talk to Musgrave," he said firmly. "Come down and say farewell to me shortly. And if Archie has food about, can you find me some? My thanks. Sweet heaven, you are a bonny creature." He kissed her mouth, kissed her hand, gave her a little shove toward the bed. Ignoring the protest she began, he pulled the door open.
He ran down the turnpike steps in stockinged feet, while the castle slept around him. He passed the great hall, empty but for a gray, tranquil light, and headed down another set of stairs into the bowels of the tower, where the dungeon lay like a dark, sprawling beast.
* * *
"Wake up," he said, prodding Musgrave with his booted foot. William stood back, watched Musgrave rouse, grunt, shift on the straw floor of the small, dark cell. "Wake up!" He fisted his hands at his waist, legs widespread. Booted and in his leather doublet, wearing his sword and dagger, he was prepared to ride out as soon as he found out whatever he could. Just outside the open door, Rabbie Armstrong stood, bleary with a few hours of sleep, holding a torch and William's steel helmet.
Musgrave sat and leaned against the wall, his belly huge, his shoulders bowed, framing the width of his chins. The chain linking his manacled wrists clanked as he wiped the back of his hand over his eyes and looked up.
"Eh," he said. "Did they let you go, then? What are you doing here, dressed to ride out?"
"I'm free," William said. "Tell me what the hell you've done, Jasper. I need to know."
"Confessed, did you? Damned Scots," he grumbled. "And if I confess, think you the regent will let me go? I misdoubt it. Oh, but they let their own damned Scotsman go."
"Confess," William said. "Admit what you've done, and tell the details. They'll let you go back to England. I'll put my word on it."
Musgrave slid him a piggish, disbelieving look. "Did you tell them you're a loyal Scotsman, after all? Typical rogue, turning tail for the other side when it's convenient."
"Who did you bribe, and where have they gone?" William demanded. He stood firm, laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger.
Musgrave stared up at him, and something dawned in his eyes. "Damn you," he said. He heaved himself to his feet with a long grunt, wavered there. "You've sided with the regent! King Henry will be furious to learn of this disloyalty after your promise to me! What did they pay you? We'll double it! We need a man inside the court! Name your price, and ride to England to claim the coin for the deeds we want done!"
William strode forward and grabbed Musgrave's wrists, shoving them upward, causing the chain to choke him, pin his bulk against the wall. "I side with no one," William said, "but the little queen of Scotland."
"Fool! Back a warrior, not a nursling!" Musgrave rasped. "Join those who have already ridden to claim the little prize for Henry. If I were you," he said, "I'd turn in Archie Armstrong and his damned gypsy chit. I told their names to the regent myself last night. Do the same. They'll be taken down, soon, for their disloyalty. If I have to die, Archie will go down too."
"If you tell me what I want to know, and tell me quick," William growled, "you willna die. You'll be taken back to England."
"On whose authority do you say that?" Musgrave asked.
"My own," William said through his teeth. He shoved again, holding Musgrave's hands apart, so the chain was taut. Musgrave sputtered, colored, flexed his heavy hands. "You once stood by and let a rope be put around a woman's neck. Feel that hell for yourself, now," William said, and held the chain tight.
Musgrave gasped, writhed, flailed with clumsy feet. William avoided him without even looking down. "You think naught of taking a bairn from her mother's arms," he said, glaring at Musgrave, rage boiling. "My queen is but a helpless nursling, aye. And my sword arm is hers. Do you hear me?"
Musgrave nodded, rolling his eyes. "You betrayed me," he rasped. "You're naught but a spy!"
"Tell me," William rumbled, and held fast. "Tell me who you sent, and when, and what they mean to do! Or I swear to you, this chain will free you from this life."
"Arthur found them!" Musgrave gasped out. "Arthur found them, gypsies who read his fortune and were traveling north. Lolly Fall, he said the name was. A tawny and his brood. I sent my own men, paid well. They've gone to Linlithgow."
"Why? To what purpose?" William said, teeth clenched.
"The—the tawnies will dance and juggle, and my men will snatch the babe. 'Twill be blamed on the gypsies when 'tis done. No one will notice my men—dressed in gypsy garb—and the clamor will be to hang the wandering vagabonds when 'tis discovered."
"And the wee queen will be away to England," William said.
"Aye. Safe, she'll be. Not harmed." Musgrave stared at William, face purpling, hands clenching at air.
"Why did you want gypsies and Borderers from Archie Armstrong?"
"King Henry wants a list of anyone willing to take coin for loyalty," Musgrave said. "He needs men to support his army when he invades Scotland. Soon."
"I thought as much. And gypsies?"
"My own plan, that," Musgrave said. "Gypsies, to steal the little queen. And if they will not do it, fine. Gypsies to take the blame. Paid cheap, and hanged. No loss."
"Bastard," William bit out, leaning into the chain.
"Let me
go," he begged. "God, let me go. I am a loyal man. I act for my king—you act for your queen. We are alike, you and I. Loyal to our own. Gave my oath to Henry—let me go—"
"I should let you choke on your own sins," William growled. He let go of the man's wrists, stepping back so quickly that Musgrave lost the precarious balance of a great body on small feet, and fell, heavily, to his knees.
"You said they'd let me go," Musgrave gasped. "Tell the Regent. You have sway with him—"
"You'll be taken back to England. You have my word on it." William turned and strode to the door, fury fueling his breath.
"One thing, Scott. You are too late," Musgrave said. "Too late to stop them! Henry will have what he most wants—the reins of Scotland in his hands!"
William said nothing. He yanked the door wide, stepped through. Rabbie glanced at him with wary eyes, locked the door, and followed William up the turning steps into the gray light of dawn.
William strode up the stairs with rage and purpose in every slam of his foot, jaw set, lips tight. At the top of the steps, on the wide landing outside the great hall, he saw Tamsin and Archie waiting. She was dressed in a simple brown kirtle and low boots, her face somber, hair loose and wild and dark. Her eyes, like green glass, were windows to her fright as she turned to him.
"William..." she said. He glanced at her, silent and grim, and turned to Archie. Rabbie went past them, muttering that he would ready William's horse, and left through the outer door.
"He's sent his own men, and hired gypsies, to go to Linlithgow to steal the queen," William said. "I must go."
"Gypsies!" Tamsin stepped forward. "What gypsies?"
"Lolly Fall," William said, and shrugged.
"Faw? I have an aunt, Nona Faw—" She frowned.
"I dinna know who 'tis. But they've gone already, he says." He pulled leather gauntlets out of his belt, yanked them onto his hands, and lifted his helmet to settle it on his head. "I can stop them, if I can get to the palace before they do."
"Through the hills there is a quick way north. Ride like the very de'il," Archie said. "I'll explain the way. I'll stay here and guard my prisoner. Take Rabbie and some o' the rest, stout Armstrongs at yer back."
"No time to summon anyone," William said. "And you need Rabbie, your regent, here, to talk to Musgrave. I gave him my word he'd be taken back to England."
Archie lifted a brow. "Did ye, now?" He shrugged. "But ye didna say when, nor where, hey?"
"Nay," William said. "But soon, I'd think. I'll tell the regent—the real one. Musgrave will be seen to, at the gates of his own castle. Better than on your own soil."
"Hey, laddie," Archie said, smiling slowly. "Ye forget ye're in Half Merton Tower. I can move Musgrave to Scotland or to England just by shifting him right or left in that dungeon doon there." His smile spread to a grin.
William laughed reluctantly. "You auld scoundrel."
"If you tell Jasper, he'll know he's at Merton," Tamsin said. She handed William a hunk of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth, and he took it from her with a nod. "You dinna want him to know that."
"Oh, I'll let him go, when I please," Archie said. "Wi' my list clutched in his hand."
"The list of Bordermen?" William headed toward the outer door, where stairs led down to the courtyard. Tamsin and Archie went with him.
"Aye, a list o' Bordermen who have sworn to me they'll never support King Henry," Archie said. "'Twas the only list I could gather. Think Musgrave will pay for that, hey?"
"He just might have to," William replied. The courtyard was rain-washed and cool in the soft light, and he strode fast toward the stable, where Rabbie was saddling the bay.
"Will, I'll come too," Tamsin said. "Wait for me." She stepped toward the stable.
He grabbed her arm. "Nay. Stay here." She shook her head, tried to pull away. He was loath to let her go, and circled his gloved hand around her arm, gazing down at her. "Farewell," he said. "I'll be back in a day or so. I promise."
"I'll go with you. You need me."
"Aye, I need you. I'll admit that to all and sundry," he said in a wry tone. "But I want you to stay here."
"I willna stay here, and do stitchery for you, and mend your stocks," she said. "And I canna cook, nor do my hair up!"
"I would never ask any of that from you," he murmured. "Just stay here for the nonce, and out of trouble."
"But I can speak Romany, and reason with gypsies, and I can ride as quick as you can."
"Aye, she can do that," Archie said, nodding.
William shot him a glance. "She's your daughter, man. Keep her here and out of danger, for love of God."
Archie watched them, arms crossed, a little smile on his face. "I canna tell her what to do," he said. "I did hope ye might try to tame her, though. Ye're just the bonny rogue I've been searching after. Ye do mean to wed her proper, hey!"
"Aye, I'll wed her proper, any way she likes," William said, giving her a steady gaze. "But I willna cross her. Unless there's danger involved. As now," he added through his teeth. Tamsin scowled up at him. "She has a good arm for a jug. I'll keep out the way."
"Aye, that's the thing to do," Archie said, smile in place. "Her mother had a good arm for a jug too. Threw a few at me, over the little time we were wed." He scratched his head. "Ye learn to catch—or to duck," he mused. "And I didna mind wedding her again, each time." He grinned at William.
Tamsin jerked her arm free and glared up at them. "This is not a jest, either of you! I can help you, Will. I can turn the Romany away from this scheme faster than you can. And I can find them, if you canna. Let me try. Please. Or I'll follow you," she added, folding her arms.
"She'll do that," Archie said.
"Lolly Fall," she said simply. "'Tis Lallo and Faw. If my grandfather is involved, he's got a scheme. I must go."
William finally nodded. "Aye, then, you must. But hurry. We dinna have much time for you to ready yourself—"
"Done." Rabbie stepped forward with the bay and Tamsin's dappled gray, both saddled. "I knew our lass wouldna stay here while her laddie went off to the gypsies. Tamsin, there's packed food and a plaid for ye, do ye need it."
Tamsin smiled at Rabbie, gave her father a quick embrace, and ran to the gray. She stepped her booted foot into the stirrup and vaulted up, settling her skirts around her legs.
William nodded to Archie, and mounted the bay beside her.
Archie stepped between their horses, spreading his arms to grab both bridles, looking from his daughter to William. "Through the hills, northeast. Tamsin knows the way. Will Scott," he said. "Keep my lass safe."
"I'll do that, Archie," he said, gathering the reins.
"Aye, I knew that ye would. I knew it, years back, when ye were but a bit lad, and she a bairn in her granddame's arms."
William stopped, looked down. "Years back?"
"After Tamsin was born, and ye but barely out o' yer skirts, I first thought to match ye," he said. "I had a bonny daughter, yer father had a braw lad. Allan liked the plan. When Tamsin was six, we decided to fix the agreement to wed ye when ye were grown. We meant to put it down in ink. But... Allan died soon after. The day I fetched Tamsin from her gypsy kin was the day they took him down, and took ye away from Rookhope."
William felt chills along his spine. He glanced at Tamsin, whose eyes were wide, filled with her own wonder. He could see that she had not known it either.
"That day, Archie..." he said quietly. "That day, I saw you and Tamsin, sitting on a hill. You waved at me, both of you. I never forgot. Ever." He fought the constriction in his throat. "I always felt that I... that I owed you for that good farewell."
"You owe us naught for that," Archie said. "'Twas all we could do then, watch ye go. I would have snatched ye back from them, if I could have. We lost ye too, that day."
William nodded, swallowed, touched deep in his heart by Archie's love and respect for him.
Archie beamed, looking from one to the other. "Now I see ye together, as I always knew ye sho
uld be. Like a twinned pair, ye seemed when ye were wee, alike in looks, in temper, in yer way o' seeing the world. Fate took ye away from us, lad, and the loss o' yer father saddened me greatly. Still does. But fate was kind to us, see, and brought back the bonny rogue meant for my lass. Tamsin, I told ye this was my dream, to see ye wi' him."
She smiled. "Then fate has finished its task for us."
"Nae till that bonny wee queen is made safe," Archie said. He stepped back, letting the bridles go. "I'll wager only you two can see that task done. Fate knows that, see. Perhaps 'tis why ye've been brought together, to save that wee bit lassie that our country needs and loves, hey. But you, Will Scott..." He looked at William, frowning. "See you keep my lass from harm."
"I will see to it. Come ahead," William told Tamsin. He gathered his reins and turned his horse, and heard her close behind him as they thundered through the gate.
Chapter 28
"On we lap and awa we rade
Till we cam to yon bonny ha'
Where the roof was o' the beaten gould
And the floor was o' the cristal a'."
—"The Wee Wee Man"
They rode fast and hard, with short breaks to breathe the horses and to make quick meals from the food Rabbie had included. The morning mists faded, and the sky shifted from cloudy to blue and back again throughout the day. The hills were thick with heather and green, the lochs and rivers were bright, and Tamsin longed to slow down and admire the beauty of the views. But she and William swiftly passed through, turning what should have been a leisurely two-day journey into one long, demanding day.
She saw no hint of Romany presence, no distant camps on the hillsides or in woodland groves, no patrin signs scratched in the roads as they galloped past. She wondered if they were indeed too late. The Romany hired by Arthur Musgrave might have arrived at Linlithgow already.
The little queen might be endangered even now, she thought, or stolen outright. She understood fully William's need to press on, and did not complain.