by Susan King
A fair distance away yet, a man rode a bay horse at a slow, steady canter. Tall and wide-shouldered beneath his soaked hood and cloak, the rider sat straight, his head bowed only slightly.
Watching the manner in which he rode his horse through the rain, Mairi sensed the messenger's weariness as well as his determination. Despite sheeting rain and failing light, he had not taken shelter for the night. She knew, suddenly, that this messenger would not give up.
Neither would she.
"Aye, here he comes," she said. "Alone and wet to the skin. He rides as slow and careful as an old woman." She gathered the reins. "The ghosts of Lincraig Castle will have his papers from him quicklike, and say—Boo! And he'll ride off in fright like the others. He doesna look dangerous to me."
"More than you know," Christie muttered.
"If you do not want to do this, I will take him down myself," she said, more boldly than she felt. Urging Peg forward a little, she watched through rain and murk as the messenger rode steadily closer along the narrow ribbon of highway.
A sudden chill went through her. The foreboding that she had felt earlier returned tenfold. Destiny, she thought suddenly. Destiny and purpose rode with this man. She shivered, but the chill was not from cold.
Perhaps this man is the one. But she shook her head as soon as the thought came. He could not be the man Iain had predicted would ride through storm and danger to find her, only her. This messenger rode toward the March warden's tower, as he had been ordered. He did not know that she and Christie waited on the crest of the hill.
She shivered again. Chill and fatigue, she told herself, from being out in the cold and the wet too long. Dismissing the rest of her thoughts as folly and nonsense, she drew a breath and watched the approaching rider.
She did not care if the man was dangerous, as Christie had warned, or as slow-witted as the other messengers. Mairi only wanted to know if he carried a warrant that could harm Iain. He must not be allowed to give it to the warden.
Her heart beat rapidly, and her hands flexed and tightened on the reins. A sensation spooled down her back, a lightning surge that tingled and spread through her body. The rain beat all around her and the wind tore at her cloak, but Mairi did not take her gaze from the man who rode relentlessly closer.
* * *
Rowan sneezed. Hurtling through wind, rain, and increasing darkness, he muttered a curse as he shifted the reins and bent his head inside his hood. Sharp, slanting raindrops beat over his shoulders as he rode toward Blackdrummond Tower.
Rain drenched his cloak and hair and ran in miserably cold rivulets down his cheeks into his stubbled beard. His leather jack and the rest of his clothing were nearly soaked in places, and his feet squished uncomfortably inside his long boots.
Earlier, he had removed his helmet because the pattering rain against its steel surface and brim had produced a maddening, tedious noise. Pulling at the hood of his sodden woolen cloak, he peered through twilight and dense rain.
The earthen roadway had turned to muck, and the grassy fields to mire. Murky light made the twisting route even more hazardous. As the road slanted upward, Rowan slowed the horse to a walk, not wanting the bay to break a leg, or to plunge over the side of a steep hill.
He was familiar with the slopes and curves of these hills and moors, for he had ridden this way many times in weather as fierce as this. But he had not been through here for years. At this slow pace, he doubted he would make it home before complete darkness swallowed up every detail of the landscape.
He swore, and then, because it felt good, swore again, crude and loud. That vented some of his frustration at being delayed, but did not relieve the wet, the chill, or the fatigue.
At least the weather would be sufficient insurance against reivers along the road, he thought. On bonny moonlit nights, clandestine traffic often crisscrossed these moors—stealthy riders, both Scottish and English, and their stolen cattle and sheep. He had ridden on many such raids himself, as had generations of Blackdrummond Scotts. But he had no desire to meet a group of reivers out here alone, on a slippery road.
On a dry night, with men at his back, he would relish such an encounter. The letter tucked inside his boot to keep it safe from road thieves—hopefully the ink had not blurred into an indecipherable mess—guaranteed that he would ride here both in moonlight and daylight, as deputy warden in the Middle March.
He knew this wide expanse of territory well, and knew most of the lairds, tenant farmers, and herdsmen who inhabited it. A good proportion of them were Border reivers as well: cattle and sheep thieves, many of them honest men, some of them scoundrels, rogues, and rascals. He had been raised in their midst.
Rowan considered, as he traveled along the muddy road, the unknown Scotsmen who had forged a spy link with the Spanish crown. Borderers tended to be fiercely loyal to kin and companion, and less so to their sovereign. The greater rascals among such a lot might be tempted by the glitter of Spanish gold. He intended to find them if they were hiding in this area.
He had accepted the council's assignment with one private reservation. Until he had spoken with Geordie Bell, he had been unwilling to pursue his own brother, not out of loyalty, but out of a desire never to see Alec again. When he had heard about the English accusations, he had realized that he would have to find Alec in order to save his own life.
Simon Kerr, the March warden, had sent word to the council that he fully intended to find Alec Scott, who had fled into the hills the night his comrade had been arrested. Kerr stated that Alec and his friend had carried Spanish gold from England into Scotland. The warden had requested that the council allow him to give his prisoner into English custody for trial and punishment.
The Scottish council had been aware that Rowan's younger brother was suspected in the matter when they had appointed Rowan to the task of finding the spies. Most Scottish Border officers were related to reivers, or were reivers themselves. King James and his advisers believed that such men could best discipline the wild Borderers. Despite the thievery, feuds, and favoritism that continued among many of the officers, the plan was moderately successful.
Smiling grimly as he rode through the soaking rain, Rowan decided that the post suited him well after all. The notorious Black Laird of Blackdrummond was now deputy to a Kerr. He enjoyed that irony, especially where it concerned a Kerr; that family had feuded with the Scotts for generations.
Rowan halted his horse to scan the dreary rain-soaked blur of rounded hills and low, gloomy clouds. In the distance, he recognized the ancient ruin of Lincraig Castle, a pile of broken stone and cobwebbed passages that had been built by an ancestor of his own branch of the Scotts.
Blackdrummond Tower lay fewer than two miles north, past the broad hill that stretched beyond the old ruin. Darkness would arrive before he did, but he would be home soon.
The bay horse whickered softly and pricked his black-tipped ears forward, clearly uneasy.
"What is it, Valentine?" Rowan asked. "Do you sense the ghosts in that old keep? Settle, lad. They will not harm us." The horse stepped restively to the side. Rowan stilled him and sneezed again, a loud, ripping snort that startled his horse. Patting the bay's neck reassuringly, he urged him forward, but the stallion shifted sideways and whickered.
"Ho, Valentine," Rowan said softly. "Phantoms, hey? I doubt you'll see any reivers in this rain." But he felt a prickling sense at the back of his neck, as if someone watched him. Narrowing his eyes, he turned slowly.
Silhouetted on a hill not far from Lincraig, a single horseman sat stone still. Rowan could make out a windblown black cloak and hood and a black horse, but rain and distance obscured other detail. He saw no glint of helmet, breastplate, or lance. After a moment, he glimpsed another rider behind the first.
Through misty sheets of rain, the horsemen cantered down the slope and headed across the moor. Snapping the reins, Rowan leaned forward. Valentine obliged him with a galloping stride.
Wind tore the hood from his head as Rowan
looked around, half expecting to see riders converging from other directions, an old reiver's trick. But no one else was there.
Border reivers would not bother with a lone horseman on a highway unless they hunted a specific man for a blood feud. And most of the reivers he had ever known would have stayed home on such a wet evening. Even those who might hunt members of the Scott family.
Despite the increasing rain, he urged Valentine to a faster pace, wary of the slippery road. The deep thunder of the bay's hoofbeats mingled with the steady beat of the rain. Rowan risked another backward glance.
The huge black, with its mysterious rider, had reached the highway and now galloped after Rowan in rapid, pounding pursuit, ahead of his companion. Rowan glimpsed a face, pale and ghostly, swathed in a black hood before he turned to guide Valentine.
Scraps of tales from his childhood tumbled through his mind—phantom riders in the dead of night, ghosts eight feet tall, specters who waylaid travelers. One man, a tale went, had been frightened to death when a ghostly Scott had loomed up along the Lincraig road a long time ago.
Rowan wondered briefly if the haunts of Lincraig rode behind him. But since his ancestors had not found cause to harass him before this, he doubted that they would begin now.
This rider was only a flesh and blood highway robber, one foolish enough to ride out in a heavy storm to steal a purse. Border reivers would not stoop to such demeaning activity. He doubted that even a ghost would bother with the trouble of it.
He looked back again. The rider came on, never faltering, never slowing, his black cloak filling out eerily behind him. Rowan noticed that the second rider, another dark blur of speed, followed steadily.
Leaning low, his senses alert to the dangers behind him as well as in front of him, Rowan let the bay gallop at a reckless pace. The road sloped down, dipping left. Valentine hurtled ahead, veering with the incline, through the steady downpour.
In the next instant, Rowan saw that the nearby bog had spread, filling the dip in the road. He pulled on the reins, but could not prevent the horse from sinking to its knees in the deep muck. As Valentine stumbled further and lowered his head, Rowan was thrown loose. He landed on his side in ooze, like a sausage flung into porridge, and rose sputtering to his feet.
Spinning in the cloying stuff to grab the reins, he guided the struggling, whinnying stallion to stand. As Rowan stepped back onto a patch of solid ground, he heard the snort of another horse close behind him.
Dropping the reins, he grasped his sword hilt and began to draw the blade, turning as if in the slow grip of a nightmare. The black-cloaked rider loomed just behind him, his companion, a blond fellow, nearby. Rowan raised his sword.
The blond man's horse surged forward. Rowan saw the sudden gleam of a blade in his hand as the man angled an ax-headed lance at him. Reaching up as he swung his own sword, an awkward position, Rowan managed to knock the long staff aside briefly.
As he drew back to thrust, he shifted his weight. The earth sucked at his heels, and the bog gave way. He stumbled, taking a precious second to glance down and regain his stance.
From the edge of his vision, he saw the lance arc again. He lifted his sword blade and swiped upward. Then the first rider, who had been circling Rowan and the blond horseman, yanked a pistol out of a saddle loop.
Rowan stepped sideways in the slippery muck, twisting to avoid the wicked point of the blond man's staff. When Rowan turned, the other rider advanced, leaned forward, and swung his arm.
The pistol butt slammed into Rowan's brow, wrenching his head sharply backward. Flashing brightness exploded into searing pain. The bog seemed to whirl around him, and the strength drained from his upheld arm. His knees slumped under him.
As he went down, the highway rider bent over the saddle. A gloved hand stretched outward. The wide hood slipped back.
Glancing up into the rider's face, Rowan felt an odd sense of surprise as he fell. Time and urgency disappeared, and he became suspended in the wonder and awe that filled him.
She had a tranquil, innocent beauty.
And as the light faded curiously around him, he tried to remember where he had seen her before.
Chapter 4
"Ye are the sleepiest young man," she said,
"That ever my twa een did see;
Ye've lain a' nicht into my arms,
I'm sure it is a shame to be!"
—"Clerk Saunders"
"Oof." Mairi said. "Ach. He's heavier than he looks. Here, Christie, take his legs. We got him this far. We can surely get him down the steps." She slipped her arms under the unconscious man's armpits and lifted. His dark, wet head lolled on her shoulder. Behind her, the wind shoved at her back as she stood at the top of an exposed staircase.
The tower walls in this corner of Lincraig Castle were collapsed and broken beyond repair, but the steps leading down into the dungeon were still sound. While Christie took hold of the man's legs, she listened to the heavy rhythms of the rain that pounded on the fallen stones in the courtyard, and on the earth and grass between. A lonely, deserted sound. Yet she had never felt any fear of this place.
As Christie angled toward the stairs, Mairi glanced once more at the man's face. His eyes were closed, lashes black against ghastly pale cheeks. But the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassured her that he was breathing still.
The messenger's total collapse, just after she had hit him with her brother's pistol, had frightened her deeply. She had jumped down from her horse to step into the bog after him, lifting his head out of the muck and slapping his cold, muddied cheeks anxiously. The messenger had not even groaned.
Christie backed down the stairs, while Mairi followed with the heavy burden of the head and torso. They maneuvered slowly down the cracked stone steps to a corridor at the lowest landing. Two stout doors were tucked at the end of the small, dark space.
Together they shifted and bumped their way through the narrow corridor, and entered one of the dark cells.
Mairi grunted as she eased the man's head onto the bare stone floor. "Like carrying a side of beef," she muttered.
Christie chuckled. "He will need some beef and broth," he said, "and warm blankets as well. I'll ride back to Jennet's house to fetch them."
"Aye. And bandages and healing ointments too. But before you go, help me with him, please. We'll need a light," Mairi said. Murmuring agreement, Christie rummaged in the folds of his cloak and withdrew a candle stub and a bit of flint. Once the candle flamed, he dripped wax on the floor and set it there.
"Borrowed a dozen o' these from an English household a few weeks back," he said with a sly grin. "Good rolled beeswax, they are, and English make."
"Borrowed?" She laughed. "You and your Armstrong kinsmen reived them in the dark o' the night."
"My sister was muckle glad to have them. I'll bring another for us here when I come back wi' the food and such."
Mairi nodded, and reached out to brush back the damp waves of black hair that fell over the unconscious messenger's high, cool brow. "He's chilled, and this wound on his brow looks poorly." Blood seeped from the cut, staining her fingertips. "May I have your dirk, please?"
Christie handed her the thin blade. She cut a long strip of linen from the tail of the shirt she wore, which belonged to Iain. She wore, too, Iain's quilted black doublet, his best breeches and cloak, and a pair of high boots that their parents had sent Iain from Denmark. Though too large for her, the garments, which her brother had previously worn to kirk meetings and funerals, had been useful for riding the highway at night.
She held the folded piece of linen to the man's injured brow and pressed down to discourage the bleeding. Lifting one of his eyelids, she saw no response in the shadowed, gray-green iris. Beneath her hand, his cheek was lean and cool, and his stubbled black beard felt harsh. But his breath stirred soft and warm over her fingers.
"I wonder if we will even be able to lock him in here," Christie said, looking around. "I doubt the door will hold. This place is crumb
ling apart."
"'Twill hold," she said. She wrapped another torn strip of linen around his head to hold the folded cloth in place, and tied it securely. "I checked the lock myself not long ago. And there's a strong door bar."
"Ah. You'll keep this man for ransom, then," Christie said.
She looked at him in surprise. "Ransom? I will not do that."
"But ransoming is the custom o' the Borderlands, Mairi. What d'you guess his kin will pay for him?" Christie looked speculatively at the messenger.
"I am a Macrae of the Highlands. I will not ask coin for a man's life. When he is recovered, we'll let him go."
"Let him go? You will not need to. By the look o' him, we will not be able to keep him here. He's a braw, tall man. As soon as he can move, I trow he'll twist that latch and pull the door loose, and come after you and me both. If you mean to keep him here, then we should at least chain him, and enjoy a ransom fee for our trouble."
She shot him a disgusted look. "We do not even know who he is. Are you foolish enough to ransom the king's council for their messenger? We'll keep him here for now, and let him go when we judge it safe. Lincraig may be falling to pieces, but this dungeon is still stout enough for a prisoner. And secret. 'Tis said no one has been here for forty or fifty years."
"But for phantoms." Christie glanced around anxiously.
"That threat keeps others away. I've seen naught here. And haunts would not frighten me nearly as much as reivers and wardens would."
"I should not leave you here alone. This man is a real enough threat. Your brother would want me to protect you."
Mairi smiled. "And you've done that well. But you go on to Jennet's house. I'll be safe here. This one will sleep a long while." She gently touched the man's forehead, avoiding the swollen purple bruise above his left eyebrow. "And pray that he does wake, or we'll be guilty of murder. But before you go, Christie, help me search for his papers." He nodded and leaned forward to undo the clasp of the messenger's wet cloak.