by Susan King
Mairi untied the thongs that attached a leather pouch to the man's belt. Opening the flap and shoving her hand inside, she rummaged around and pulled out a small circular black stone surrounded by a wooden frame. She frowned at it, tilting it, barely glancing into its polished surface before shoving it back into the bag. A moment later, she tossed the pouch away. It jingled as it fell.
"Only coins, and a little mirror," she muttered with disinterest, and began to pinch the hem of his cloak. "Naught is stitched inside here."
"Perhaps he lost his papers in the bog," Christie suggested. "Or he may have carried them in his saddle. I can check his mount when I go up."
"Be sure to lead his horse back with you, and tend to it in Jennet's barn. No one will find it there—unless the reivers come again. But the new lock on the stable should keep them out for a while." She frowned, turning her thoughts back to the messenger who lay so still beside her. "He must be carrying some papers. Your kinsmen sent word that he brought orders from the privy council. He would not lose those in a bog, or leave them in his saddle to be lost or stolen."
"My kinsmen warned me that this man is dangerous."
"Did they say who he is or why the council sent him?"
He shook his head. "All they said was, look well to the life of Jennet's husband and leave the council's messenger be."
"Do they know that we rode down the other messengers?"
"I do not think they do. Even if they did, they would not care. They consider Jennet's husband their own kin now. They meant to warn me that Iain would be in danger once the messenger reached the warden."
"They did not say his name?"
"Only that he is notorious, and no man to cross. They said I would know him soon enough. And they left me to pay the bill for their ale," he added in a low mutter.
Christie knelt to roll the man sideways, and Mairi tugged the stranger's cloak out from under him. The thick black wool was saturated and heavy. Feeling quickly for papers hidden in the lining, she found none.
"Well, your cousins were wrong," she said. "This one was easier to ride down than the others. He rode straight into the bog. And he is not dangerous now—he looks quite peaceful, sleeping there." She brushed at the mud caked on the side of his chin. His beard rasped beneath her fingers. She tilted her head. "He has a fine, handsome face beneath that dirt."
"Do not be swept away by a bonny face." Christie frowned as he looked at the stranger. "I swear I've seen him before. Well, whatever his name, he's a strong, tall man. We should tie his hands and feet before he wakes."
"We hardly need hurry, by the look of him. Now help me find that message." While Christie tugged at one of the man's long boots, Mairi patted at the man's sleeveless jack.
Made of dark leather stitched in a diamond pattern, the jack gained its thick armorlike protection from inner layers of quilted linen sewn around thin iron plates. Molded over his broad chest and tapering to his lean waist, the jack flared slightly over the man's loosely cut woolen breeches.
Mairi undid the numerous metal hooks that closed the stiff garment from his waist to his neck. She pulled the heavy vest open, revealing a brown doublet and linen shirt.
Resting a hand on his hip to balance herself, Mairi discovered that the full cut of his breeches was not from fashionable horsehair stuffing, but from gathered thick woolen cloth. She knew because his hipbone felt lean and hard beneath her palm.
Blushing, she moved her hand to lay it on his chest, where even through the doublet, the firm beat of his heart under her fingertips was full of vital strength, and vastly reassuring. She was guilty of highway robbery and abduction only. Not murder.
"There's naught here," she said, and unhooked the doublet.
"Nor here," Christie said, holding one long black boot upside down. Water dripped onto the stone floor.
"Ach," Mairi whispered. "Where have you put the order, messenger?" Pulling open the doublet, she tugged at his damp shirt and slid her hand inside the drawstring waistband of his breeches.
Warm, firm skin, tight over muscle and softened by thick hair, met her touch. His abdomen rose and fell beneath her hand. A curious tingling sensation swirled in her stomach. Mairi withdrew her fingers as suddenly as if she had been burned.
"He's a strong man," she said. "We'll need a stout rope."
"Aye," Christie grunted, yanking at the other boot. The messenger's dark head lolled with the motion.
"Go careful, Devil's Christie," she said. "He's injured." Shifting, she sat cross-legged and lifted the messenger's head into her lap. He was so still, his beard-shadowed cheeks pale, his black hair soft under her hands. "And he's chilled to the bone. We must get these wet things off and get him warmed. Go, hurry to Jennet's house."
"I will." Christie frowned, looking young in the flickering candlelight. "What if he dies, Mairi?"
"He'll do fine, but we must help him. If we'd left him in the bog, he'd have died and we'd be guilty of murder."
"Perhaps we should tell my kinsmen—"
"The Armstrongs would ransom him for certain."
Christie began to tug again on the boot, but stopped. "I heard that the March warden already told the council that Iain is a thief and a spy. He urged the English to take Iain to trial."
"I cannot understand why Simon Kerr does this to his own cousin!" Mairi smoothed the damp folds in the messenger's doublet. "Simon insists Iain is guilty. Perhaps 'tis because Iain rode with Alec Scott, and the Kerrs and Scotts have a long feud between them."
"Simon Kerr was in the inn the day I was there," Christie said. "He said King James will send a warrant o' execution for Iain. But he did not boast so loud when someone reminded him that he cannot find Alec Scott."
"Alec Scott knows the truth about the Spanish gold they say Iain carried." Mairi sighed. "Mercy of God, I hope the king does not approve Iain's execution."
"You've had nae word from your father?"
She shook her head. "This has been a year for storms, and the gales continue. My letter may take months to reach my father in Denmark. I paid well for the posting of it, but I heard that the ship has not even sailed yet because of the weather. Even when my father receives the letter, he will not be able to sail back here or send a reply in time to help us. His duty is to the king just now."
"King James's marriage negotiations will keep your parents in Denmark for a year, I'd wager," Christie said.
"At least that long. And my other brothers are all away and cannot help us either. We are alone in this, Christie."
"To do well by Iain," he reminded her.
Nodding, Mairi undid the clasp of her cloak and swept it over the still man whose head and shoulders were balanced in her lap. She so missed her parents and brothers, whose support would have been immediate had they known of Iain's predicament. Some design of fate had left her to take the task on herself—and she would not fail her twin brother.
She tucked the cloak around the messenger. Though damp with rain, the fur-lined inside would warm him. "We must get him dry or he'll be ill," she said. "And we must find that paper."
"Perhaps 'tis inside his shirt," Christie suggested.
Mairi slid her hand beneath the damp, bunched linen. Her burrowing fingers skimmed over thick, matted hair and warm skin, over the bud of his flat nipple and the hard curving cage of his ribs. His heartbeat was heavy and insistent beneath her palm.
Her fingers felt a piece of metal on a thong around his neck, and she pulled at it. Finding a small metal cylinder, she gently drew the thong from around his neck and handed it to Christie. "What is this?"
"A key for winding a wheel-lock pistol," he said, putting it inside the discarded leather pouch. "He has a fine set of pistols in his saddle. We are fortunate he did not use them on us."
Mairi slid Christie a scowl. Then, aware suddenly that she still rested a hand on the messenger's bare, warm chest, she blushed furiously and withdrew her hand.
As he pulled at the messenger's boot, Christie fell back with the effort
when it finally loosened, and shook it upside down. Only a little dribble of water came out. "Nae paper, Mairi," Christie said.
"I see. Well, take off his nether stockings. We need to get his feet dry."
Christie peeled off the woolen hose and gasped playfully, as if the odor was overwhelming. Mairi shook her head in wry amusement, but sat upright when a folded paper dropped to the floor. She snatched at it.
"The privy council's seal!" she said, waving the page.
"Read it!" Christie said.
The folded paper was sealed with glossy red wax. She peeled the edges apart with a flourish. "Did not even have to break the wax, the parchment is that wet. 'Tis written in Scots, not Latin. Good. But the ink is blurred," she added, frowning as she scanned the water-stained words.
"I wish I knew some ABCs," Christie muttered.
"I will teach you someday," she replied, studying the letter. "This says... he is Rowan Scott of Blackdrummond." She looked up in surprise.
"Blackdrummond!" Christie stared at her, then at the messenger. "I did think he looked familiar. But I have not seen him since I was a lad. The Black Laird, they call Rowan Scott."
"I have not heard the name. Is he kin to Alec Scott, and the Auld Laird o' Blackdrummond Tower?"
"He is Alec Scott's elder brother. And he is the laird."
She frowned. "But the Auld Laird holds Blackdrummond. Iain pays rent to him."
Christie shook his head. "Auld Jock Scott lives there, but the tower rightfully belongs to Rowan. This is Blackdrummond himself. The Black Laird has come home."
"You know him?"
"My father rode reiving wi' the Blackdrummond Scotts. The Black Laird was clever and bold, like his brother Alec, and their father before them, and the Auld Laird himself—Jock Scott is near a legend in the Middle March. The Blackdrummond Scotts are a fierce bunch o' rascals." A slow grin spread across Christie's face. "And there'll be many who will be glad to have Rowan Scott back. But Simon Kerr will not be among them." The mischievous grin widened.
"I've never heard of the Black Laird. But I know more than I want to know about the Scotts," she added.
"Och, not all the Scott kin are murderers," Christie said. "The Blackdrummond Scotts are heroes in this part of the Borders."
"Then why has he been gone?"
"Prison, so I heard."
"Then a Scott he surely is," Mairi drawled. "With some charm to him, since he's now carrying messages for the council." Mairi squinted at the paper, tilting it toward the feeble candlelight as she tried to decipher the blurred writing. "Listen—this says Rowan Scott has been appointed by the privy council to serve as deputy warden of the Middle March."
"He's the warden's own man?" Christie rolled his blue eyes. "My kinsmen will enjoy that! Does the writ mention Iain?"
"I do not see his name here. But I cannot read all of it for the wetness. Oh—it says 'messenger.'" She looked at Christie in alarm. "Do you think he's been sent to find the Lincraig highway raiders? The council must know by now that their messengers have had trouble along the Lincraig road. From us."
"When Blackdrummond wakes up, you and I will have a prison cell faster than you can say the moon is green cheese." He eyed the unconscious reiver critically. "A rope may do for now, but when he comes around—"
"He will have our necks when he finds out who we are," Mairi said. Christie nodded, his blue eyes wide. She folded the damp paper and tucked it inside her doublet. "Why would the king's council send a kinsman of Alec Scott to be a deputy here? I do not understand any of it."
"My kinsmen say the Scottish council is desperate for Border officers. There are so many feuds and ties of kinship and so much reiving done that the council cannot find many honest men, so they appoint whoever is willing to act as warden or deputy. I would not be a warden, myself. The pay is dreadful."
"And so are the risks. For now, we must keep this Rowan Scott here until he heals." She looked down at the handsome head resting in her lap. "Help me take his jack off. Easy, lad. Gentle now, watch his head." Carefully she and Christie removed the vest and the damp doublet and shirt beneath.
"Give us your own shirt, now, Devil's Christie," she said with a quick, sweet smile as she held out a hand.
"Ah, Mairi," Christie moaned.
"Would you have him die of the chill? I will not be accused of murder, even of a Scott."
Christie muttered but took off his doublet and shirt, tossing it to her. He dressed in the doublet, shoving back his long blond hair, which fell sleekly over his shoulders.
Mairi pulled the warm linen folds over Rowan Scott's head and lifted his heavy, limp arms into the sleeves. Then she tucked her cloak up to his chin.
"He will not have my breeks," Christie said.
"He will not," she agreed. "Give me your nether stockings."
With a low growl, Christie sat and pulled off his boots, threw his knitted hose at her, and yanked his boots back on.
"My thanks," she said, as she and Christie drew the body-warmed hose over Scott's bare feet. "Go, now, to Jennet's house, and bring back whatever she will spare."
Christie stood. "Perhaps I should stay here while you ride out. I can fight him off if he wakes."
"He will not be fighting anyone soon," she said. "Go charm your sister—or see her temper if she learns why we want the supplies. Tell her how beautiful her new son is."
"Easy task," Christie said, smiling. "He's a fine laddie. Jennet says he looks like me when I was wee."
"Hurry then. I'll be safe here. This one will dream for a while yet. We'll tie his hands and feet before he ever wakes."
Christie nodded and left, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps scrape up the steps and fade. After that she heard only the muffled, steady rainfall.
Mairi looked down at the man stretched out on the stone floor, his head and shoulders resting against her thigh. Leaning back and shifting her hips to get comfortable, she watched him in the flickering light of the candle flame.
His features were lean and well-balanced, a blend of strength and softness, the jaw and chin firmly angled, the nose bold, the brow high and smooth. A delicate curve to his upper lip lent a vulnerability to such masculine features. He had, in short, a strong, interesting beauty.
Mairi could imagine stubbornness, temper, pride, intelligence in his supposedly notorious character. But she could sense hurt in his features too. Kindness as well, somehow—or perhaps she imagined that. Wanted that to be there, in such a fine looking man. A pity that he was a Scott, after all, and a man who might be out to ruin Iain.
Scanning the long, firm length of his body, she recalled the strong athletic grace he had when he had swung his sword in the bog. If not for the mud and the rain, and the lucky, wild swing of her pistol, she and Christie would be dead now.
Instead, he lay like a babe in her arms. She touched his cool cheek, feeling the rasp of his beard.
He breathed out a low groan.
Startled, she gasped, then relaxed. She gently touched his head, his damp curls like soft threads of black silk.
A Scott, and yet, for all the ill feeling she could bestow on him and his scoundrel of a brother, she felt compassion stir through her. He was injured because of her.
Nor did he look like a notorious reiver. There was a resemblance to his brother Alec, who was a dark, slim, well-favored young man. But Rowan Scott, beneath the mud and the bruising, was more than that—he had the stunning, powerful beauty of a dark angel.
Notoriousness—harsh and rough, clever and heartless—was surely in him, but all she knew now was that she had to help him, or he might die.
She stroked his cool brow and realized he needed warmth against the shock of his injury. The stone chamber was chilly, but it was at least shelter.
Shivering, her back and shoulders cold against the stone wall, she ran her fingers through Scott's hair in a slow, peaceful motion, and she began to hum softly in Gaelic. The gentle, lilting tune was one her mother had often sung while Mair
i and her brothers had drifted off to sleep as children. She relaxed.
Suddenly the man lashed out his hand and gripped her arm.
Chapter 5
"O drowsy, drowsy as I was!
Dead sleep upon me fell;
The Queen of Fairies, she was there,
And took me to hersell. "
—"Tam Lin"
"Who are you?" Rowan asked. "Where am I?"
The woman did not answer, though her hand tensed on his head and she pulled against his grip. He tried to lift his head, but the agony that slammed through his skull decided him. Closing his eyes, he kept a taut grip on the slender wrist in his hand.
Then he looked at her again. Her face, blurred and shadowed, hovered above his. A candle flame sliced like a golden blade through the darkness. The brightness hurt his eyes.
The flame split into two wavering images. He glanced around, unable to focus at first. He felt a crushing ache in his skull—and a warm, comfortable cushion beneath his head.
The woman was one, then two, then one again, in his wretched vision. Sighing in exasperation and pain, he shut his eyes and let his hand slip from her arm.
"Rowan Scott." The whisper lured him back from the soporific fog that sucked at him. Again he looked at the vague blur of the woman. Now there was one of her—a pale face and a sweep of dark hair like braided silk.
He turned his head. Agony shot through his skull and then dulled to a fierce ache. The cushion beneath him, he realized, was her thigh. The heat felt soothing. Inhaling the sweet, earthy fragrances of woman and rain, and the sharpness of old, damp stone, he drifted in and out of a half-sleep.
"Rowan Scott," she said again. "How do you feel?"
He lifted a hand to his head. She pushed his fingers away from his brow, her touch cool.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Mairi." She pronounced it with a long, nasal "ah": Mah-re. The sound was breathy, velvety. Gaelic. Intrigued, he looked at her again.
An ethereal Madonna looked down at him, her oval face serene, softly blushed. Dark hair bronzed in the candlelight, eyes a tranquil gray, she was a restful sight for his bleary eyes.