The Border Hostage (6 page)

Raven knew a double entendre when she heard one. “Behave yourself, and I may let you take me to the fair tomorrow.” She allowed him the privilege of lifting her into the saddle.

“I have to return to Bewcastle next week. If you visited your grandmother, I could continue your lessons.”

The corners of Raven's mouth lifted. “Irresistible as that sounds, sir, it is out of the question.” Her smile widened. Christopher Dacre had flown to the lure faster than his falcon!

A
t Carlisle Castle that evening, Raven Carleton's glance traveled down the long dining table. Lord Thomas Dacre sat at the head of the table with Lady Elizabeth Kennedy and her daughter, Beth, on his right. Though Raven was too far away to hear their conversation, she observed Dacre's cordial manner to Elizabeth Kennedy and watched that lady simper and bask in his attention. Raven's eyes flicked over Beth Kennedy, dismissing her as a sweet little nonentity. She would have been astounded had she known the fierce arguments the young girl had precipitated.

Lady Kennedy and Beth had traveled from Castle Doon at the Scottish port of Ayr to Carlisle aboard a Kennedy merchant vessel. Ever since the Scottish defeat at Flodden, Elizabeth Kennedy had made no secret of the fact that she wanted an English husband for her daughter Beth. The face of Rob Kennedy, Lord of Galloway, had turned a congested purple when his wife had received the Dacres' invitation and uttered the blasphemous words
“Christopher Dacre would be a perfect match for our daughter Beth.”

“God's passion, woman, nothin' good ever came up from England!”

Kennedy's imposing bulk and his loud, grating voice usually intimidated his wife, but that day she was foolish enough to protest indignantly, “Rob, I am English.”

“I'm relieved ye take my point, Lizzie! The bloody English have attacked my vessels, stolen my precious wool, killed my king along wi' my youngest son and a hundred other Kennedys at Flodden, and yet my wife has the gall tae suggest a match between my wee lass an' the son of the bastard who is now Head Warden of the English Marches.”

It was too painful for Elizabeth to speak of the loss of her son Davey. She blamed her husband for allowing such a young boy to go to war. “You know very well that Thomas Dacre was a good friend of my family in Carlisle.”

Rob Kennedy's face turned a deeper shade of purple when he heard his usually docile wife answer him back. “Too bad ye didn't
wed
Thomas bloody Dacre, an' save me from a life of purgatory, listenin' tae yer whining an' yer tears!”

“You have run roughshod over me for years, Rob Kennedy, and I have always been a dutiful and complacent wife to you. But when it comes to the happiness of my precious daughter, I intend to stand up to you. You are nothing but a coarse bully. Perhaps I shall stay in Carlisle permanently!”

“Is that a threat or a bloody promise?” Rob roared. “Ye're no' the only one who can make threats, Lizzie. If Beth gets no dowry, ye'll see how fast Thomas bloody Dacre betroths his heir tae her!”

The altercation between Thomas Dacre and his heir, Christopher, had been a little less fierce. Dacre knew his son was willful as himself and that bullying tactics would not work. “The Kennedy girl's father is rich as Croesus, and her mother is an old friend of the family.”

“But the girl herself has the looks and personality of an oatcake. I prefer a little gilt on my gingerbread, Father,” Chris Dacre argued.

“I'm not blind, Chris. I am well aware of Raven Carleton's beauty and her tempting pair of titties, but Beth Kennedy's dowry will provide a thick layer of honey to sweeten the plain oatcake.”

“Not sweet enough for me to lick! Besides, Raven Carleton is English, while Beth Kennedy is Scottish.”

“Beth Kennedy is half English,” Lord Dacre pointed out.

“Which half?” Christopher drawled. “The top or the bottom? Father, you could have married Elizabeth Kennedy, but you didn't! You lost your heart to a raven-haired beauty and carried her off. You are the last person on earth to advise me to wed for money.”

“Christ almighty, Christopher, try to think with your brains instead of your prick. A wealthy wife's money will allow you to have as many exotic beauties as you want in your bed.”

“I want only one at a time, Father; I'm not greedy.” “I warrant you are, if you're anything like me.” Dacre's eyes narrowed. “Women are like horses, Christopher.” “Because we ride them?”

“Because you have to let them know who's master, and you always keep a spare one. All I ask is that you think about it carefully before you do anything rash.”

Raven felt someone playing footsies with her beneath the table and looked across at Christopher Dacre. He lowered one eyelid in a wink. “Do you have something in your eye?” she teased.

“Yes … you,” Christopher murmured, not caring that her brother could hear their byplay. He turned to Heron and said low, “I want to be alone with Raven at the fair tomorrow. Would you be a good fellow and escort Beth Kennedy and your sister Lark?”

Heron Carleton's gaze traveled down the table and
came to rest on the fair-haired young lady who was his second cousin. Beth must have felt his eyes on her, for suddenly she looked at him from beneath her lashes and blushed. “What's it worth to you?”

Lowering his voice even further, Chris Dacre bargained, “I'll find us a couple of bedmates for later tonight.” When he saw Heron hesitate, he added an incentive. “Gypsy girls!”

“Done!” Heron offered his hand with heartfelt gratitude, and they shook on it.

Raven looked with curiosity from one to the other. “Did I hear you say ‘Gypsy girls’?”

“Costumes. We were discussing costumes for the masquerade,” Chris Dacre lied smoothly.

Heron quickly improvised, “Chris wagered me that none of the ladies would be daring enough to dress as a

Gypsy.”

Raven's wicked juices immediately began to bubble.

Heath Kennedy, on the second morning of Carlisle Fair, once again rode over the acres, checking every horse that was being offered for sale. He dismounted to examine some mares he wouldn't mind owning that would make excellent dams, but perversely he wanted to get his own animals back.

The day was warming up and Heath unfastened the neck of his leather jack, wondering if he was wasting his time in Carlisle. All of a sudden he spotted his stallion Blackadder. There was no mistaking the magnificent animal that had spent its life in the northern mountains guarding its herd of wild mares. Heath stopped dead in his tracks, legs spread wide, ready for a confrontation with whoever held his stallion's reins.

Heath observed the tall, blond male with the aquiline nose and expensive English clothes, almost feeling sorry for the poor fool. Then his eyes widened in disbelief as he
saw that the son of a bitch was escorting Raven Carleton. When she saw him, Heath knew she was shocked by her swift intake of breath.

“What is it, Raven?” her escort inquired.

Raven blinked twice. “The roan,” she said quickly, “it is a beautiful riding horse.”

“Let me buy it for you.” Dacre's glance moved from the horse to the dark Borderer who owned it. “How much for the roan?”

“It's not for sale,” came the flat reply.

“Oh, come now, everyone has his price,” Dacre said with great condescension.

“Really? How much for the black?”

“Three hundred pounds.”

Dacre named the impossible price with such arrogance, Heath Kennedy wanted to slit his aristocratic English nose. Heath clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching for his knife. “Three hundred it is, if you'll throw in the woman.”

Raven gasped in outrage.

Dacre said, “You insolent swine, you need a damned good thrashing!” The stallion danced away at the angry tone, and Dacre suddenly found the black difficult to control.

“When you find someone up to the job, I'll be ready and waiting,” Heath taunted.

“Damn you both! I know a cockfight when I see one, and I have no stomach for them!” Raven's back, straight as a ramrod, showed her outrage as she walked off.

Dacre suddenly found the dark Borderer so threatening, he felt a prickle of fear at the back of his neck. He reached for the only thing that would shield him. “Obviously, you don't know my name. It is
Dacre.”

Heath was stunned, though the expression on his face hid it well.
Did Lord bloody Dacre order the murder of Ram Douglas?
It was entirely possible. It was Thomas Dacre who had once arrested Ram and sent him to England to be
hanged. Heath looked at Dacre's arrogant offspring with loathing, but he knew there was no way he could knife Dacre in the middle of Carlisle Fair and take back his property. “Obviously, you don't know
my
name,” he retorted.
But you will before I'm done with you.
His gaze swept over Dacre with contempt, then he turned his back and walked away, with a devil-may-care swagger that was deliberately provoking.

It wasn't long before Heath spotted Raven Carleton near the Gypsy caravans. He smiled knowingly. There wasn't a female breathing who could resist having her fortune told. He tethered his horse and watched. He wasn't the least surprised to see Old Meg beckon the girl and take her inside the wagon.

The Gypsy sat gazing into her crystal ball while holding out her palm. When the girl placed a silver sixpence in her hand, Meg asked abruptly, “Are you a witch?”

“No, of course not,” Raven replied honestly.

“I see a Celtic witch, a magic woman,” Meg insisted.

“Ah, that would be my grandmother.” Raven smiled. “She works spells and dispenses wisdom along with herbal remedies.”

“You smile, when you should take her seriously. She has the ancient gifts and knowledge; she is a Diviner. You should ask
her
what you wish to know.”

Raven shook her head. “She would bend me to her will.”

Meg's shrewd gaze lingered on the girl before her. “She will try, as will others, but it will not be a woman, it will be a man who bends you to his will.”

“A man? Can you tell me about my marriage?”

“Every female your age wants to know about marriage,” Meg said dryly as she looked into the crystal ball. “You will marry well into great wealth and a title. But the path will be circuitous.”

Lady Raven Dacre!
The corners of Raven's mouth lifted in a smile. “I intend to lead him on a merry chase.”

“A chase indeed,” Meg replied, “but he will be the raptor; you the prey.”

“Oh, you speak of raptors and prey because I train hunting birds! You really do have the sight!”

Meg stared at her. “You too have the sight. You just do not use it. Ask your grandmother.”

“I shall! I intend to visit her soon.” On a sudden impulse, Raven said, “I want to buy a Gypsy dress, can you help me?”

Heath watched as Old Meg took Raven to another caravan. In less than five minutes they emerged with the dark beauty carrying a small paper parcel. When his grandmother entered her own wagon, Heath visited the other caravan. “What did the girl want?” he asked the young Gypsy woman.

“I sold her a Gypsy dress.” She opened her palm to show him the gold coin.

“You greedy jade!” Heath grinned. “A sovereign for one dress?”

She shrugged happily. “It was red. Red costs more!”

Heath was happy too, as he guessed that the Dacres must be hosting a masquerade ball at Carlisle Castle. All he needed was a costume and a mask! When he left the caravan, he searched for Raven. He saw her at a gaily colored booth, perusing its wares. Heath came up behind her silently. “You will meet a tall, dark, and handsome stranger who will steal your heart,” he murmured low.

Raven whirled around angrily. His mocking words told her he had seen her with the Gypsies. “Tall, dark, and ugly, you mean!”

He looked at the merchandise offered for sale and saw that they were silk stockings. “I suggest the black … very seductive.”

Raven turned her back upon him. “I will have a pair of the flesh-colored stockings, please.” She waited for his insolent comment, and when none came, she glanced up over her shoulder. With relief, she realized that he had
departed, and turned back to the vendor. “I've changed my mind. I'll take a pair of black, please.”

As soon as dark descended, Heath made his way to Carlisle Castle. If his black stallion was grazing anywhere on the castle grounds, it would disappear tonight. He also reasoned that if Dacre was in possession of Blackadder, other animals from Douglas may have mysteriously found their way there. The broad meadow below Carlisle Castle was filled with horses. At first it seemed an impossible task to differentiate between a Douglas horse and any other, but Heath had worked with the animals for a month, and once he began to touch them, he recognized some of them. Moreover, the horses recognized him.

Heath, disappointed that his stallion was not grazing with the other horses, returned to the inn to concoct a plan. He already knew the ideal time would be the night of the ball, but he still had to decide how to get the herd back to Douglas, undetected.

Heath was not surprised to see Ramsay Douglas's two brothers, Gavin and Cameron, when he arrived back at the inn. Both captained Douglas vessels and had taken much-needed food supplies and fodder to Annan and its surrounding villages devastated by the recent raid, before anchoring in the River Eden at Carlisle. The minute Heath saw them, he knew they were the answer to his dilemma. He told them what he'd found at the castle and outlined his plan.

“Lord Dacre would never raid a Douglas holding. He's Head Warden, sworn tae uphold the law. Are ye sure they're Douglas horses?” Cameron asked.

“Do we care?” asked a grinning Gavin, ready to reive anything that belonged to the English.

“I'd never steal anything that didn't belong to me,” Heath swore solemnly, and watched the Douglas brothers fall off their stools laughing. “Tell your crew to get their
carousing done tomorrow; they'll need to be sober the night after.”

“Then we'd best get started!” Gavin declared.

“Do you have a Douglas dress plaid I can borrow? I need a costume,” Heath explained.

“Yer never attending a bloody fancy-dress ball?” Cameron almost choked with mirth.