The Captive Heart (12 page)

He turned as a weak voice said, “Where am I?”

Pouring some of the hot liquid from the kettle into a little tin cup, he put an arm about the girl, helping her into a sitting position, and put the cup to her lips. “Drink some of this, mistress, but take a care. ’Tis hot,” he advised her.

Alix sipped, coughed, but sipped again. Then, pushing the cup away, she repeated her query. “Where am I?”

“Yer on the lands of the Laird of Dunglais,” Robbie answered her. “My name is Robbie, and I’m one of the laird’s herders. My da and I found you out on the moors huddled between the cattle. They saved yer life, they did, mistress.”

Alix took the cup from him more to warm her hands than to drink the harsh brew he had given her. Aye. She had thought she was going to die when she had fallen between those two great beasts. Yet they were warm, and she fell asleep thinking about her mama and her papa. The Laird of Dunglais. Then she was in Scotland. Alix sneezed.

“Take more of the whiskey and water, mistress,” Robbie said.

“I’m so tired,” Alix told him, but she sipped until the cup was empty. Then, falling back against his supporting arm, she closed her eyes.

The young herder slid his arm from beneath her, and going to the fire, added more wood. Then he stood by the hearth, waiting for his father to come and tell him what to do next. After some time had passed, the older man entered the shelter, shaking the snow off of him, going to the fire to warm his hands.

“How is she?”

“I gave her warmed whiskey and water, Da, and she fell back to sleep,” Robbie replied.

“Who is she? Did she tell ye her name?” the chief herder wanted to know.

The younger man shook his head. “I dinna ask, and she dinna say.” “I’ve got the cattle outside.” He looked over at Alix. “The lassie looks like she’ll sleep for several hours. There’s plenty of wood, and I’ll leave one of the dogs with her. But we’ve got to get the cattle home, and the laird should be told about the lass. He’ll know what to do. She isn’t strong enough to come with us, and you canna carry her all the way to Dunglais Keep. Leave yer oatcakes and some whiskey. If she awakens she’ll know we haven’t deserted her, especially if the dog is here. Shep, stay!” he commanded the younger border collie. Then he left the small shelter.

Robbie followed his father’s instructions, pulling the stool near to the cot, leaving two oatcakes and his flask. The girl was sleeping heavily, and as his father had said, probably would for many hours. She was very pretty, he thought. Then he hurried to join his father, and together the two men drove the herd of shaggy Highland cattle the several miles through the still-falling snow into the safety of their winter pasturage.

While his son secured the beasts, Jock went to find his master, who was seated in the hall of his keep breaking his fast. His small daughter was with him, and the laird was smiling. Jock could not recall having seen his master smile in years. He made his way through the hall, stopping to stand before the high board and patiently waiting for Malcolm Scott to recognize him.

“Did you bring the cattle in safely, Jock?” the laird said in his deep, rough voice.

“Aye, all are accounted for, my lord,” the herdsman replied.

“Good,” the laird responded, turning his attention to his little daughter again.

“My lord, there was something out on the moor that you should know of,” Jock began, and when the laird looked up, his dark gray eyes focusing directly on the herdsman, he continued. “We found a lass, my lord.”

“You found a lass? Where? Out in this storm?” the laird asked sharply.

“I cannot say for certain, my lord, but it would appear that the lass was traveling alone on foot and was caught unawares by the storm even as we were. She was clever enough to secrete herself between two of the cattle. It kept her from freezing to death. Robbie and the dogs found her when we went to fetch the cattle home.”

“Where is she now?” the laird wanted to know.

“Robbie carried her to the pasture shelter where he and I had spent the night. He heated some whiskey and water and gave it to her. She fell back asleep, but after a night in the open she is, I suspect, very ill. We built up the fire, left food and water, and one of the dogs with her. We had no means to transport her, my lord, being on foot ourselves.”

“Who is she? Did she tell you her name?” the laird asked sharply.

The herdsman shook his head. “Nay, my lord. The poor lass was barely conscious at all. If my son and I might take the cart and fetch her to the keep.”

“
Here?
Why not your cottage, where your wife can nurse the wench?” the laird said. “She’s probably some tinker’s lass who got lost or separated from her people.”

“Nay, my lord, I believe her to be a lady,” Jock quickly responded.

“Why would you think a lady would be traveling alone and on foot across the moors?” the laird wanted to know.

“Her clothing, my lord. ’Twas not poor stuff. Her cloak is an excellent heavy wool, its hood edged in fur, its closure polished silver. She had good leather gloves upon her hands. I will wager they are lined in fur. I caught a glimpse of her gown beneath her cloak. Jersey of the best quality, and she carried a fine leather pouch strapped about her. She is not tinker’s brat, or servant. She is a lady, my lord, and must come to the keep.”

“Fiona, my angel, go and find your nurse,” the laird instructed his little daughter. He kissed her cheek, and with a smile at him the little girl ran off. The laird turned back to Jock. “We’ll ride out,” he said, and then he called out that he wanted two horses saddled immediately. Standing up, he came down from the high board and, with Jock following in his wake, he hurried to the stables.

Malcolm Scott was a big, tall man with coal-black hair and eyes the color of a stormy gray sky that looked out from beneath a tangle of dark, heavy eyebrows. His thick wavy hair, which was longer than fashion dictated, was held back by a strip of leather and gave the appearance of being undisciplined. But the look in his eye bespoke a stern, strong man not easily moved. Everything about him appeared long. His straight nose. His thin mouth. The shape of his face with an oddly neat, squared chin that had the faint imprint of a dimple in its center.

As they entered the courtyard of the keep, a stableman ran forward with two horses. The laird mounted the large dappled-gray stallion while Jock clambered aboard a roan gelding. They clattered out and across the moor, heading toward the summer pastures and the pastures’ small shelter. By horseback the distance was traveled more quickly, and they soon had the little structure in sight. No sooner had they dismounted than the dog inside began to bark.

“Hush, Shep!” the herdsman said as they entered. He was relieved to see that the fire in the tiny hearth was still burning. The oatcakes and the flask lay as they had been left. And the girl was still half conscious, half sleeping.

Malcolm Scott strode over to where Alix lay curled tightly up. He took her gently by a shoulder and rolled her onto her back. “She’s flushed,” he said, and put his hand upon her smooth forehead. “And feverish. We had best get her back to the keep.” The herdsman was right. The lass was no tinker’s get, cottager’s wench, or servant girl. The high, smooth forehead, the dainty straight nose, the rosebud of a mouth, told him whoever she was she was not lowborn. “I’ll carry her outside and take her up with me on my horse,” the laird said to Jock. “You get the fire out and secure the shelter.”

“Aye, my lord,” Jock responded.

Malcolm Scott picked up the girl. Her head fell back from her hood against his arm, revealing a tangled mass of honey-colored curls. She was really quite lovely, he thought, but then the beautiful ones were always troublesome. Whoever she was, he would wager she was running away, but from whom? A husband? A father? He’d see she was made well again, and then he’d send her back from wherever she had come. Outside he handed the girl back to Jock briefly as he mounted his stallion, reaching back to take her up into his arms. She murmured softly as her cheek pressed against his leather jerkin, snuggling against him in a manner that made him oddly uncomfortable. He wasn’t her savior, but she would soon know that. Urging his horse forward, he rode off towards the keep while behind him Jock closed up the shelter, then followed his master.

Alix finally awoke to find herself in a large bed. The sheet smelled of lavender. The coverlet was down, and she was not flea-bit. Opening her eyes fully, she saw a small hearth directly across from the bed blazing merrily. Next to the fireplace was a chair in which a woman dozed. “Can you tell me where I am?” she called out.

The woman woke immediately. She arose and came over to stand by the side of the bed. “Ahh, lassie, you’re finally awake,” she said in a soft voice. She was small and plump. Her hair was snow white yet her youthful round face held snapping blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and a broad mouth that now smiled at Alix. “I’m Mistress Fenella, the laird’s housekeeper. Yer at Dunglais Keep.”

“How long have I been here?” Alix asked softly.

“Ah, lassie, ’tis six days now since you were found out on the moor. Yer a very fortunate lass too that Jock and his lad found you. You might not have awakened at all if they hadn’t. ’Twas canny of you to put yourself between the cattle for warmth.” She turned. “I’m going to go fetch the laird now. He’ll want to know that yer awake.” Mistress Fenella bustled out of the room before Alix could question her further.

Alix pulled herself up, stuffing the pillows behind her. She was in one of her own night garments. Her eyes quickly swept the chamber. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed. To her right was a large window draped with a homespun linen and shuttered. Her bed was hung with the same linen. It was a natural color with a pattern of blue. To her left was a small table with a taper stick. Was it day or night?

The door to the room opened and a tall man strode in. “I am Malcolm Scott, the Laird of Dunglais,” he said brusquely. “What is your name, mistress?”

“Alix,” she answered him, startled. “Alix Givet, my lord.”

“You are English,” he noted almost scornfully.

“My parents came from Anjou,” Alix said, stung by his tone.

“Where are your parents, mistress?” he asked.

“They are dead, my lord,” and Alix crossed herself piously.

“And from whom were you running when we found you half-frozen out on the moor?” he demanded to know. “Who will sooner than later come pounding at my door insisting upon your return? Or are you being sought after by the local warden of the Marches and his sheriff?” He fixed her with a stern look.

“I am not a criminal, my lord. I have stolen nothing, nor broken any laws of which I am aware. I am a widow, and having been left with no means, set out to find my old mistress who has come into Scotland from England with her family. I hoped to be taken back into her service once again,” Alix explained.

“You are no servant,” he said. “The quality of your garments, the small bits of jewelry in your pack told me that.”

“Where is my pouch?” she asked him nervously.

“In the chest at the foot of your bed, mistress. I have no need to steal,” he said softly. “Why were you on foot? And how long had you been walking?”

“I was on foot because I would not take what was not mine from my father-in-law’s stable,” Alix said.

“You did not take a horse because you did not want him to know you were going,” the laird responded. “Did the old man lust after you?” He chuckled.

“I had been walking for two days when the storm caught me,” Alix said, ignoring his query. He didn’t need to know why she had left Wulfborn. She had done nothing wrong, and she certainly wasn’t going to put herself in the position of being forced back.

Malcolm Scott noted her avoidance of his question, but the truth was it didn’t matter. As soon as the lass was fit, he would send her on her way. Of course he would give her the loan of a horse and have her escorted to her old mistress, wherever the woman was. Having rescued the girl from death once, he wasn’t about to put her in harm’s way again. No one had come seeking for her in the few days she had been at Dunglais. And winter was about to set in anyhow. If she had been truly wanted, they would have.

“Have I been ill?” Alix asked him, breaking into his thoughts.

“Aye. You were unconscious and ran a high fever for several days. Fenella thought you would pull through, and she’s usually right,” the laird told her.

“I’m hungry,” she said softly.

He chuckled. “Then you are indeed on the road to recovery.”

“What are you going to do with me, my lord?” Alix asked him.

“Do with you?” He looked puzzled by her query. Then he said, “When you are well enough, I will help you to reach your old mistress.”

“Oh.”

She did not, he noted, appear happy by the news. But now was not the time to continue his interrogation of her. Fenella had said he was not to exhaust the lass, and if truth be known, she looked paler than when he had entered the room. “I’ll go and see that you are brought something to eat.”

“What day is it, please, my lord? And is it day, or is it night?”

“It’s two days after Martinmas, and ’tis afternoon,” he replied. Then he turned and was gone from the chamber.

Alix lay back against her pillows. She was safe. But for how long? Would Sir Udolf come riding over the border to demand her return? And if he did, would the laird turn her over to him? She somehow thought that he would. She had unwittingly intruded upon his life, and Alix suspected he wasn’t a man who liked being imposed upon even unintentionally. He was very handsome, but his face was a stern, hard one. This was a man used to being obeyed and having his own way.

The door opened again, and Mistress Fenella bustled in with a young girl who was carrying a tray. “Here’s a nice hot meal for you, lassie, and this is Jeannie. She’ll be looking after you now that you seem to be on the mend. I didn’t fill the trencher full. You may be hungry, but your belly will only be able to take a little food at a time. Eat what you can. Don’t make yourself sick, lassie. And there’s a cup of nice red wine for you. I’ve mixed an egg in it. It’s strengthening.”