Amanda Scott (9 page)

He was silent again, this time for so long that she wondered if he hoped to end their conversation.

“I’d prefer to talk about Fiona,” she said quietly.

“Surely, you must know that if I am officially deceased, all legal documents and contracts to which I am a named party have
become moot.”

“Not all of them, surely,” she said. “Your last will and testament, for example, would certainly not be moot.”

He chuckled again, and she found that the now familiar sound was not only strangely reassuring but warmed her, as well.

“If I had had the prescience to create such a document, I suppose you would be right.” he said. “Are you never at a loss for
an argument, my lady?”

“This matter is of grave importance to me,” she said.

“Is your cousin so desperately in need of a husband? I trust she has not gotten herself—”

“Do not say such a thing! Even if it were possible for her to get
herself
with child, as I suppose you were about to say, she has done no such thing.”

“I beg your pardon, but your insistence that I am the hope of her soul did prompt me to wonder.”

“It is not just a husband she requires. Indeed, she is to be married soon, as it is, and therein lies the problem. I thought
you must have heard as much.”

“No, how would I? Still, I cannot be amazed. If my father thought she would make a suitable bride for me, she must possess
many excellent qualities.”

“She is stunningly beautiful and a great heiress,” Anne said.

“Ah, then she need have only those two excellent qualities. I stand corrected. But if she already has a husband in the offing—”

“Do stop being so heartless. My aunt intends Fiona to marry your dreadful uncle, and we must not let that happen.”

“Now you do interest me,” he said with a definite edge to his tone.

“I thought I might,” she said bitterly.

“Is he truly dreadful?”

Surprised, she said, “Don’t you know him?”

“I have not laid eyes on him in six years, so I cannot claim to know him well, but I do know that I did not like him when
I was a lad.”

“Fiona is afraid of him.”

“You interest me more than ever now. Much as I disliked him personally, I would not have thought him the sort of ogre who
goes about frightening innocent maidens. How old is your cousin?”

“Don’t you know that either?”

“I have a lamentable memory at the best of times,” he said but then added on a note of obvious sincerity, “In truth, I paid
little heed to those papers my father sent me. If they bore any mention of her age…”

“She was only fifteen when my aunt agreed to that betrothal,” Anne said. “But although she is seventeen now, she seems younger
to most people.”

“Ah, now I see how it is. The lass is simple.”

“She is not!” But hearing the echo of her own words, she could not blame him for thinking so. Still, she wondered if he might
be purposely casting flies to see if she would leap to his baiting.

“Fiona is exceptionally biddable and a little shy,” she said. “My aunt wants her to marry your uncle, and therefore she will
do so if we cannot prevent it. She simply has not got it in her to defy Aunt Olivia.”

“No spirit, eh?”

Clearly, he was baiting her, but much as she would have liked to deny the accusation, honesty forbade it. Instead, she said,
“Fiona is a dear, loving girl. The man who weds her will delight in her if he is kind and does not frighten her.”

“Then we will simply tell my uncle that he must cherish the lass.”

“Unfortunately, Ashkirk—” She broke off, offering him a rueful smile. “Mercy, he’s not Ashkirk, is he? I usually call him
Eustace, which irritates Olivia, but I was trying to be respectful, because he is your uncle.”

“Oh, don’t be swayed by that. I told you, I never liked the fellow.”

“Well, I expect it is you who are Ashkirk now, in any event, but I cannot wrap my mind around calling you that when… ” She
hesitated, thinking it would be less than diplomatic to tell him that she had thought of the name with loathing from the moment
she had first met his uncle. “What should I call him?”

“I can think of several things,” he said, “but I don’t think I’d like hearing any of them from your lips. I don’t object to
your calling him Eustace, but you may more properly call him Sir Eustace Chisholm—if you admire propriety. He holds a knighthood
in his own right, although I’ve never understood why he should.”

“Well, he is perfectly well aware of my cousin’s fear of him,” Anne said. “Indeed, I’m afraid he cultivates and takes delight
in it.”

“I see. Clearly, you know him better than I do. What other pleasing attributes does he possess?”

“I don’t see them as pleasing or as attributes,” she said.

“I spoke in jest.”

She eyed him speculatively. “You did not sound as if you were jesting. There was a definite edge to your tone.”

“Perhaps, but I’ll wager you can tell me more about him.”

“Very well,” she said. “I dislike him, because he enjoys pinching young women’s cheeks and making ribald remarks calculated
to shock them, and because he is the sort of man who catches and kisses maidservants on the stairs.”

“Just how do you know that?”

“Because, to my misfortune, he kissed me, having mistaken me for my cousin’s maid when he called on her shortly after my arrival
at Mute Hill House.”

“I see.”

This time the grimness of his tone made her wish she could read his expression, but the deep dusk had darkened to moonless
night and the starlight was barely enough to give a faint indication of the track ahead.

She felt no concern that they might get lost, for they had covered more than half the remaining distance and would soon reach
the crest of a hill overlooking Ewesdale, from which they would be able to see the lights of Mute Hill House.

He did not speak again for some time, and she was content to remain silent, because the silence now was comfortable and gave
her a chance to consider her odd reaction to the man. For it was certainly odd that his presence gave her comfort when she
scarcely knew him and had little reason to think him wiser or more reassuring than the reiver she had seen when first they
met.

To be sure, he had a certain aura about him that instilled confidence. She had the distinct feeling that even if the English
army should descend upon them at that moment, Sir Christopher would rout them single-handedly, easily, and without a blink.
The notion was foolish, of course. Logic told her as much, but the confidence she felt remained undiminished.

She felt as if she knew him, not factually, as in the details of his life, for she knew next to none of those. But the essence
of him, his inner spirit, was another matter. The comfort she felt with him riding silently beside her was the comfort of
riding with an old and trusted friend. And regardless of his warning earlier, Anne trusted her instincts.

She had long realized that she possessed a gift in her ability to read people, to know good ones from bad, and the trustworthy
ones from the untrustworthy. Her mother had called it intuition. Her father had called it other things, particularly after
a ten-year-old Anne had told him that a man with whom he was about to enter a contract was a bad man. Armadale had punished
her for her impertinence and ignored her to his cost. After that, although he was as likely to tell her to mind her place
and to pretend to ignore her opinions, he took greater care and occasionally even sought out her estimation of people who
had approached him.

That experience and others like it assured her that she could trust Sir Christopher. Without a qualm, she dismissed his warning
that she should not.

“There, you see,” Catriona said, pleased with the progress of her plan. “She trusts him, although I cannot think why she should
when she does not know him.”

Fergus wriggled beside her in the thick mane of Anne’s mount, looking anything but pleased or comfortable. “He is a good man,
is he not?”

“Aye, but how would she know?”

“She has a gift, o’ course.”

“I have heard that some tribes bestow such gifts upon their charges,” she said, remembering that Claud had told her as much.

“I’m thinking ye’re no from around here,” he said grimly.

“Of course I am not,” Catriona replied. “Do I
look
as if I were from here?”

“Nay, for ye’re even more beautiful than the women o’ me own tribe, so I’m thinking ye must be a pixie from one o’ the hill
tribes. I ha’ never seen one afore, but I’m told they be the only lasses more beautiful than ours.”

“Well, I have not met anyone like you before either,” Catriona said.

“Aye, well, although we bestow gifts, we dinna do things like ye just did,” he said righteously. “Ye canna go about these
parts interfering in mortal business.”

“But we have a duty to look after them.”

“Aye, sure, but only in small ways,” he said. “Banishing nightmares when they threaten, soothing harsh feelings, easing worries,
and such like things.”

“But that cannot be all you do,” Catriona said. “Your aura seems so powerful, not like that of a brownie or a dobby with no
power to speak of. What fortunate tribe can boast of having you as its member?”

“I be an Ellyl,” he said, preening himself. “Me tribe’s called the Ellyllon.”

“I fear I have never heard of them,” she admitted. “What manner of folk are they exactly?”

“They be the Forgetful People is what they be,” Maggie Malloch snapped, materializing between them in a puff of mist.

“Maggie,” Fergus exclaimed. “What be ye a-doing here?”

“I ha’ business here,” she said. “If it concerns ye, Fergus Fishbait, I’m that sorry. Form yourself properly, so the wench
doesna take the notion that ye always go about half baked, or fear that ye’ll fade away altogether.”

Clearly startled, Fergus looked down at himself. “Och, I forgot!” he exclaimed. snapping into a solid form at once. “I were
that stunned by what ye were doing that I forgot tae finish producing m’self.”

“But how can you stop halfway?” Catriona asked.

“Never mind that,” Maggie said, giving her a stern look. “What did ye do tae stun the man so?”

Catriona smiled. “I merely arranged for my lad to meet the cousin of his betrothed. that’s all. With luck, and if Fergus Fishbait
can stop arguing with me at every turn and trying to prevent—”

“But we’re no tae interfere wi’ them,” he protested. “That be the rule!”

“Dinna heed him, lass,’ Maggie advised. “Likely, he’ll forget about it soon. Ye’ve heard o’ the Holy Grail?”

Catriona blinked at what seemed to be a non sequitur. “Aye,” she said doubtfully. “That is, I don’t remember what it was exactly,
but did it not go missing centuries ago?”

“It did, because it were in the charge o’ the Ellyllon,” Maggie said with a severe look at Fergus. “They were tae keep it
safe, and they swore they hid it in a perfect place. But when time came tae let the mortals find it again, the Ellyllon couldna
produce it, and so they ha’ been called the Forgetful People ever since. Ye’ll find their members everywhere, and sithee,
they canna help forgetting. It be their nature, just as it be your nature tae—”

“I dinna forget things,” Fergus interjected crossly.

“D’ye recall my Claud?” Maggie asked.

“Aye, o’ course, I do,” he said.

“Well, he’s gone missing, and we’ve got tae find him,” Maggie said. She glanced at Catriona. “The case be just as I expected,
lass.”

Catriona grimaced. “Jonah Bonewits cast him into the mor—”

“Aye,” Maggie said, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence and casting an oblique, warning look at Fergus. Then
she stared. “Here, Fergus, ye’re fading away nearly tae nowt,” she scolded. “Pull yourself together, ye foolish man.”

Clearly struggling to obey, he said, “Did the lass say Jonah
Bonewits
?”

“Aye, she did. What d’ye ken o’ Jonah?”

Fergus was trembling. “He doesna like me.”

“Jonah dislikes everyone,” Maggie said. “That be
his
nature.”

“Aye, but when he were last vexed wi’ me, he said I’d forget me head if it were no tied on, and he threatened tae prove it
did I vex him again,” Fergus said, nearly in tears. “If ye mean tae cross him, I dinna want tae be near ye.”

“Ye poor wee man,” Catriona said, patting his knee.

“Pish tush,” Maggie said. “Ye’ve nowt tae fear. I can manage our Jonah.”

T
ell me more about this wedding,” Sir Christopher said abruptly.

Anne smiled, certain he could see no more of her expression than she could see of his.

“Why does such a simple request amuse you, lass?”

Startled, she looked sharply at him. “Can you see my face?”

“I have excellent night vision,” he said. “My long vision is likewise very good. Why did you smile?”

Still surprised, because she could make out only the strong lines of his profile against the starlit heavens and nothing more,
she answered honestly, “I am just pleased that you are curious enough to want to know more.”

“My uncle has had me declared dead and has usurped my lands and titles. Now I leam that he intends to marry the woman to whom
I was betrothed. Surely, you will agree that I am entitled to a certain measure of curiosity.”

“To be fair, sir, he does believe that you are dead.”

“Does he?”

“Why, yes, of course. He must.” As she said the words, though, his question stirred thoughts deep in her mind. Could Eustace
know that his nephew was alive?

Sir Christopher did not speak. It was as if he knew that his curt question must stir her to think and was giving her time
to do so.

“Where were you,” she asked, “to make everyone think you had died?”

“Away.”

“It is over a year, sir, nearly eighteen months by your own count, since anyone in these parts had word from you. There were
rumors, too. My aunt does not speak of them, nor my cousin, but I did hear that… ” She paused, biting her lip.

“Go on. What did you hear?”