Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (2 page)

Deftly, Lady Murray used the point of her knife to spear a slice of meat from a platter and transfer it to her trencher. As she tore the meat apart delicately with two fingers, she said, “Do you mean to make me guess the leader’s name, sir?”

“Ye’d never do it, for it will astonish ye to learn that he is of gentle birth. I recognized him at once. So would ye have done, had ye seen him.”

She frowned. “I doubt I could know any man who steals cattle for a living.”

“Still, I must suppose ye’ve seen him, for he’s young Wat Scott, Buccleuch’s eldest son. Even if ye canna recall his face, ye’ll ken his family.”

“The Laird of Buccleuch? But he is a man of considerable wealth!”

“Aye, so we’ll see if his young Wattie dares to identify himself. Not that I care if he does or not. We caught them all red-handed, and I mean to hang every one of them. Fetch me more ale, lad,” he called to a passing gillie.

Lady Murray returned her attention to her food for some moments before she said musingly, “Does young Scott have a wife, sir?”

“None that I ken. Have ye interest in his ancestry, as well, madam?”

She persisted. “You also said that he is Buccleuch’s
eldest
son, and so he must therefore be his heir.”

“Aye, and what of it? Ye’ll no tell me I shouldna hang the thieving rascal!”

“I hope you know well enough by now that I would not put myself forward so improperly. It does occur to me, though, that when Providence offers up a single young man who will inherit vast properties, one should not rashly destroy the gift.”

“And how, prithee, is the man’s trying to make off with my herd an act of Providence?” Sir Iagan demanded. “If ye’re suggesting that I demand ransom—”

“Nay, for as you must have realized yourself—with Buccleuch being one of Douglas’s fiercest allies and Douglas organizing raids into England to judge their readiness for another invasion of Scotland—’twould take much too long to negotiate a ransom. It would also be too dangerous. Whatever you do, you must do quickly.”

He nodded, but Meg wondered if he had thought the matter through as swiftly and thoroughly as her mother had.

Lady Murray said matter-of-factly, “We have three daughters, sir. I need not remind you of your duty to find them all suitable husbands. And whilst you may easily find a husband for one, finding three will not be easy. Therefore, to hang such an excellent prospect . . .” She paused, meeting his gaze.

He glowered, saying in a near growl, “Ye believe that scoundrel would make one o’ them a suitable husband? Are ye daft, woman?”

“Nay, only practical. With two sons, as well, establishing all our offspring will require loosening your purse strings to a sad degree, I fear. But with an opportunity such as this, with care and your customary astuteness . . .”

“I’ve wealth enough,” he muttered when she paused. But Meg saw that her mother’s words had jolted him. Wealth or none, no man complained more often of penury than Sir Iagan Murray did.

“There is also the fact that England may soon reestablish control of this area as they have before,” Lady Murray went on. “You have taken care over the years to create powerful ties on both sides of the line, and your English ties, along with an air of compliance, did enable us to escape harm when they came here three years ago. But we can be sure that Douglas took note of your lack of involvement then, and—”

“Sakes, madam, I could scarcely take sides without offending one or another o’ those connections ye speak of.”

“I understand that,” she said. “But Douglas has proven himself as great a warrior for Scotland as my cousin Sir Harry Percy is for England. And Douglas is more powerful in Scotland than even the royal family is. So if he prevails in the coming conflict, our Simon’s service with the Earl of Fife, albeit an excellent connection for Simon, will do less to protect us here in the Borders than would a connection to Douglas himself. And I’m thinking, sir, that this incident may allow you to establish just such a connection, for not only is Buccleuch close to Douglas, but his wife
is
a Douglas, and therefore young Sir Walter is blood kin to the earl.”

“Your cousin Harry is not called Hotspur for nowt, madam,” Sir Iagan said testily. “His forces and those of the English king will prevail in the coming conflict, Douglas or no Douglas. Indeed, it surprises me that you should encourage kinship with yet another of the men you so often call ‘my heathenish Scots.’”

“Young Scott may be a heathen, but he is no coward,” Lady Murray said. “He has won his knighthood, I believe, and is properly Sir Walter Scott. If he is the young man I do recall, he is rather handsome, although too dark for my taste. He also has a stubborn, implacable look about him. Still, I warrant he would make a suitable enough husband for a sensible young woman like our Meg.”

Startled, Meg barely managed to remain silent, but she dared not speak lest her irritated father order her from the table. She certainly could not say that she had been thinking Sir Walter Scott sounded just like Sir Iagan and her brother Simon—temperamental, stubborn, and domineering.

But then, she mused, most men were temperamental and domineering. She had not met many yet, though, so she could still hope to meet one who was not.

“What do you think of your mother’s daft notion?” Sir Iagan asked her.

“I don’t think I’d like to marry a thief, sir.”

“There, you see, madam,” Sir Iagan snapped.

“Meg is a dutiful daughter,” Lady Murray said without so much as a glance at Meg. “She will do as you bid her.”

“Ye’re talking as if the lad would agree to the notion,” he said. “More likely, he’d refuse it outright.”

“Pressed to choose between a marriage and a coffin, I believe any sensible young man will choose marriage,” Lady Murray said. “However, I should like to see him before you either make him the offer or hang him.”

“I suppose next you will say you want your daughters to see this villain, too,” he retorted. His expression said he believed nothing of the sort, but it altered ludicrously when the wife of his bosom said that she did indeed want her daughters to see the reiver.

“It will be a valuable experience for them,” she said.

Meg had been as certain as her father was that her mother would decline having any such notion. Beginning to breathe normally again, she had reached for her goblet, but her ladyship’s reply diverted her attention just enough to make her knock it over, spewing ale across the table and drawing a curse from Sir Iagan.

As gillies leaped to clean up the mess, he said, “You’d have me admit such a scoundrel to my daughters’ presence? Faugh, I won’t permit it.”

“He may be a scoundrel, but he is nonetheless nobly born,” Lady Murray reminded him. “I shall excuse Rosalie, but there can be naught amiss in showing Meg and Amalie what happens even to powerful men who break the law.”

“Aye . . . well . . .”

“Moreover, if you should change your mind after considering my suggestion, there is surely no harm in letting them see the man one of them is to marry.”

Gruffly, he said, “I’ll permit it only because seeing him in his present state, if it accomplishes nowt else, should put this foolish notion of marrying him to one of them right out of your head.”

“Mayhap it will,” she replied equably.

With a brusque gesture to a hovering gillie, he snapped, “Have them fetch the reivers’ leader here to me. Tell them to bring him just as he is.”

Meg watched the gillie hurry from the hall, wishing with half her mind that she could snatch him back. With the other half, she wished she could fly beside him, unseen, and have a look at the prisoner before they haled him in before her.

Well aware that such powers were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals and that God could read her thoughts, she surreptitiously crossed herself.

When the cell door creaked open, even the faint light from the stairwell caused a glare that made Wat wince. Believing the guards had come for them, to hang them all straightaway, he was not surprised when the two who entered each grabbed an arm and hauled him upright.

“You’ll have to untie my feet, lads,” he said, stifling a groan. “Even so, I doubt I can walk, for I’ve scarcely any feeling left in them.”

The larger of the two said, “We weep for ye, reiver, but we dinna care an ye walk or no. Ye’ll come with us any road.”

“What of my men?”

“They’re to bide here a wee while longer.”

They had clearly meant to drag him. But after cursing at how heavy he was and noting irritably that the winding stone stairway was too narrow to accommodate all three of them abreast, they finally untied his feet.

“I dare ye to run,” the one who had spoken before said with a grim chuckle. “’Twould please me tae clout ye again.”

Wat did not reply. The circulation returning to his feet made him clench his teeth against the pain, to prevent any sound his captors might interpret as proof that he suffered. If they meant to hang him, so be it. He would not whimper.

His feet refused to cooperate with his brain, however. His ankles felt as weak as new-sprouted saplings, and he could not feel his toes. Pain from his feet and ankles radiated into his legs, and his knees felt no steadier than his ankles.

Although one guard pulled and the other pushed, it still took the combined efforts of both, and his own, to get him up the winding stone stairway and outside to the cobbled bailey. Wat turned his face to the sun, enjoying its warmth but keeping his eyes shut to let them accustom themselves to the harsh glare.

“Dinna dawdle, man,” the spokesman snapped. “The master awaits ye.”

“Let him wait,” Wat retorted. “He cannot hang me twice.”

In response, the two men hauled him forward, making him stumble along as best he could. In this fashion, they dragged him through a doorway, up another, broader stairway, and through an archway into Elishaw’s great hall. He could feel his toes by then, but the fiery pain of that gift was no comfort.

They shoved him forward with his hands still bound behind him. Although he struggled to remain upright, his feet and balance betrayed him, and he fell heavily to the stone floor. Only with effort did he manage not to strike his head.

“’Tis right and proper that ye should abase yourself, ye scurrilous rascal!”

Looking up, Wat saw a thickset man in plain leather breeks and a short black cloak looking down at him with arms akimbo. Having seen Sir Iagan Murray at horse races more than once, he had no trouble recognizing the man as his host.

Forcing himself awkwardly to sit, he said, “Hello, Murray, you damnable thief. If you mean to hang me, get on with it.”

“I do want to hang you,” Murray said.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage staring up at him as he was, Wat said tartly, “It was my right to regain my livestock and my dogs.”

“And to whom did ye declare that right, laddie?”

Glowering, Wat kept silent. He could gain nothing by admitting to the man who had stolen his beasts that more lawful routes did exist for recovering them.

“As I thought,” Murray said. “Ye and your lads are nowt but common felons, but I’ve the power of the pit and the gallows, just as your father does. Moreover, I’ve my own hanging tree outside in the bailey just waiting for ye.”

As Wat digested the fact that Murray had recognized him, he heard a lilting female voice, more English than Scot, say, “Forgive me, sir, but that impudent young man should not sit in my presence—or in yours, come to that.”

Murray grimaced, but the startled look he shot over his shoulder at the high table not only drew Wat’s gaze in that direction but also told him that his host had forgotten about the three ladies who sat there.

To the two men who had brought him in, Murray said, “Help him stand, lads. And stay by him, for I’ve summat more to say. Sithee, lad, though it goes right against the grain wi’ me, I have a proposition to make ye. If ye find it to your liking—which I doubt—ye might yet miss dangling from me tree.”

On his feet again, flanked by the two guards, Wat eyed Murray warily. “What is this proposition then, that you mislike it so?”

“Why, nobbut that ye’ll agree to take my eldest daughter there, the lady Margaret, for your wife.”

Certain that he must have misunderstood, Wat said, “Wife?”

“Aye, that’s it,” Murray said, nodding. “Stand up, lass,” he added with an encouraging gesture. “Let Sir Walter have a look at ye.”

Still stupefied, Wat gaped as one of the women got slowly to her feet.

His first impression was that her mouth was too big and her body too thin for his taste. Moreover, had he met her in the yard, he’d have taken her for a servant, because her clothing gave no indication of her father’s supposed wealth or rank.

She was not near enough to discern the color of her eyes, but he thought they looked ordinary. Her pale, rather long, narrow face was red with embarrassment, and thanks to her stiff coif and veil, he could not see a single strand of her hair.

Even so, her personal appearance had little to do with his outrage.

“You must be mad,” he said to Murray.

“D’ye mean to say ye’ve already got a wife?”

“I do not, although my father is negotiating a marriage for me with a cousin of the Earl of Douglas.”

“From what I hear o’ ye, they’ll no be surprised an ye pick your own wife. And ye’ll like my Meg better nor any Douglas wench,” Murray added confidently.

The thought flashed through Wat’s mind that his host could be right about the Douglas wench in question. He had known Fiona since they were children and found it impossible to imagine being married to her. But his wishes did not enter into it. Strengthening the alliance between their two families would serve both well.

Pushing these swift but irrelevant thoughts aside, he said, “I do have a habit of running contrary to plans that others make for me. But that would hardly be cause to let you choose my wife, Murray.”

“Aye, well, I was hoping ye’d say that, for if ye willna agree to marry the lass, I can hang ye straightaway.”

“Then do it,” Wat snapped. “I’ll not marry your daughter, whatever you may threaten. No Scott is afraid to die.”

“Amen, then,” Murray said, signing to the guards before adding, “My Meg, let me tell you, is worthy of a better man. Ye’ve offended her wi’ your ingratitude, and by heaven, ye offend me the more. Take him to the tree, lads.”