The Heather Moon (15 page)

Tamsin listened while she watched the Romany whirl about the fire. The pace seemed to quicken her heart, but she felt the burden of her lack of welcome. Suddenly she knew that she did not belong here, where she could be sold to a man for a few horses.

She rubbed her left wrist, feeling the sting of the small cut there. The irony of that tiny wound sliced deep into her heart. She had a marriage, she wanted to shout at her grandfather. Fate had found her a husband, had bonded her to him. He was more kind, more handsome, more skilled and daring than any man John Faw or Archie could find for her.

But in truth, she had only a sad mockery of a marriage, a sacred token made without meaning, without love. No man would truly love her in her life, would willingly marry her, unless he had been paid well to do it.

Despite her proud protests against marriage, she was deeply lonely. That realization crashed through her, heavy and hurting. She too wanted someone with whom to share the small joys and difficulties of each day, each year. Her small hand and mixed heritage did not make her any less a woman, or give her fewer needs and desires.

She stifled a sob, turned on her heel, and fled into the night. Her grandfather called out to her, but she did not glance back. Behind her, the dancers' laughter and the music echoed toward the stars.

She ran on through thick grass, her legs pumping. The wind lifted her hair, ruffled her skirt. All she wanted was to put her own thoughts and anguish behind her if she could. All she wanted was a measure of peace and love in her life.

The full moon, slung high and opalescent in the darkness, lured her up a long slope. The incline was dense with heather, and she slowed to walk through the deep, tufted plants. The tiny blooms were thick and fragrant in the night air, and she broke off a tough stem, covered with fragile bells. She inhaled their sweet, light, calming perfume, and walked onward.

The music faded behind her, replaced by the whisper of the wind and the burble of a stream that cut a tumbling path down the hill. The fragrance of the heather, the cool moonlight, and the steady rush of the burn soothed her emotions as she ascended the slope.

The Romany would not provide the refuge for her that she had hoped. If she disobeyed her grandfather, she could not easily stay with them. But she could not return to her father's home for fear of what the English lord would do.

Besides, she thought, Archie's newfound adulation for William Scott made her feel that, for the first time in her life, she could not rely on Archie for complete support.

He wanted her to marry Rookhope. That thought made her laugh, soft and bitter, as she stood knee-deep in the moonlit heather. The last place she could go for refuge was to Rookhope Tower itself, where another dungeon awaited her.

The breeze rippled through her hair as she walked with no clear idea where she went, lost in her thoughts. The Romany never wandered aimlessly, and always knew their next destination. Tamsin did not.

But then, she reminded herself, she was only half Romany, just as she was half Scot. Now she had begun to wonder, for the first time in her life, where she truly belonged. The answer did not come to her.

At the top of the hill, the wind swept over the peak, stirring her skirt, whipping her hair across her face. She spun to look down over the dark moor below. Tents and wagons dotted the open field, and the bonfire glowed like a hot yellow star fallen to earth.

She thought about her grandfather's words, remembered his criticism of Archie. Her father loved her well, she knew, but he had raised his daughter to be a reiver, not necessarily a lady. She had been given a book education by a dull, kind male tutor, so that she could write and read, even knew French and Latin. But she could not run a household as well as she could play at the cards or coax a flock of sheep from a moonlit pasture.

From the Romany, she had learned a love of freedom that had spoiled her for life in a restrictive manor household. Nature, to her, was teacher, shelter, provider, and a source of constant delight and wonder. The Romany had taught her tricks of cleverness, sleight-of-hand, and how the nuances of the voice could make a lie bright as truth. She could cook hedgehog stew, steal chickens, and weave baskets. She knew how to decipher the map of life in an open palm, could read messages in the picture cards, and knew how to convince people to part with good silver for both services.

But she did not belong fully in either culture. Did a man exist somewhere who could love her for what she was, who could admire what she knew of two cultures? Did a man exist who could love her with her flaws?

William Scott came insistently to her thoughts. She closed her eyes, shook her head to dispel his image.

She walked up the hill, distracted by her thoughts. The stream to her right sounded like soft thunder, and the wind buffeted her as she stepped onto the crest of the hill. The thunder was even louder here, an insistent pounding. She turned. And gasped.

A few feet away, a horse rose over the rim of the hill like a dark vision. The animal bolted toward her, a demon in the night, dark and strong. A rider hunkered low on its back, armor glimmering in the cool moonlight.

Tamsin screamed and stepped back, stumbling as the horse bore down upon her. Behind it, another horse soared over the hilltop, and then a third, rising in the night like dark ghosts. The fierce sound of beating hooves mingled with the howling wind.

"Out of the way!" someone shouted. "Move!"

Her foot struck a rock and she fell hard, slamming to the earth. She scrambled to get out of the path of the oncoming horses, instinctively raising her arm in front of her face.

The front rider shouted again as his horse streamed past, leaping over her as she crawled free. An iron hoof caught her a glancing, painful blow in the thigh. She half dragged herself away and curled in terror as the other horses thundered by within inches of her.

The first rider circled and came back, drawing the horse to a restive halt beside her. As Tamsin struggled to her knees, the horse whickered and bucked. The rider spoke calmly, then looked down at Tamsin.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

She looked up. He was silhouetted against the white moon, and at first she saw only the massive horse and its wide-shouldered rider. The man's steel helmet glimmered in the low light. Beyond him, the other riders turned and waited.

She tried to stand, but her injured leg buckled under her. She half collapsed with a low cry.

The man leaned down, held out a gauntleted hand, and swore.

"Tamsin Armstrong," she heard William Scott growl, "what the devil are you doing out here?"

Chapter 9

"...wretched, wily wandering vagabonds calling and naming them selues Egiptians... delyting... with the strangeness of the attyre of their heades, and practising paulmistrie to such as would know their fortunes."

—Thomas Harmon,
Caveat of Common Cursetors,
1567

William stared down at Tamsin in the moonlight. She plainly gaped at him. Then she whirled and took a step. Her leg seemed to collapse under her, and she half fell to the ground.

"You canna walk far like that. Come up here." William leaned toward her and held out his hand, intending to lift her up behind him. The bay, already agitated by the sudden appearance of the girl in his path, sidled nervously under him. William tightened his knees to control his mount, and stretched to grab the girl's arm. "Come up, and hurry. They'll be after us soon!"

"Who?" She pulled, resisting, as he tried to haul her up.

He glanced over his shoulder. The steady beat of horse hooves, an incessant, faint sound that he had heard for too long now, grew even louder. "Up, lass, or be trampled for certain!"

Bless her for quick wits, he thought. She gasped at the increasing thunder of approaching horses and reached up in the darkness. William lifted her, his fingers closing over her left forearm. Her feet cleared the ground, and she rested one bare foot on his leg to vault neatly into position behind him, despite her injured leg. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

"Nicely done," he commented, and let the bay launch forward. He hunkered low, and felt the girl do the same, her arms secure about him. Ahead, his comrades—his cousins Jock and Sandie Scott, who were in turn cousins to each other—galloped ahead.

A backward glance showed their pursuers clearing the rim of the hill. The riders' armor and weapons caught a cruel, cold gleam in the moonlight. William urged the bay ahead, down the long, gradual slope toward the moor. As the ground leveled, William gave the bay full rein, and they overtook his cousins within moments.

One of William's cousins whooped as the bay passed him, and both spurred their horses to a faster gallop, barely managing to catch the bay. Behind them, William could hear the other horses pounding in fierce pursuit.

In one direction, he saw the golden sparks of several campfires. In another, the hills rose high and dark against the moonlit sky. Unwilling to risk the horses farther in the hills at night, he veered for the campfires. His cousins followed him down the slope.

He glanced at the girl when they reached the base of the hill. "Hold tight," he said, and urged the bay forward.

The horse had a powerful, long stride at full gallop. A cousin rode to either side of him, steel bonnets gleaming, lances and pistols at hand. The rhythm of the horses' hooves seemed to match the pace of his heart, seemed to stir, in that meter, his pride and his power.

He felt exhilarated, his spirit heightened within him by the speed and the danger and knowledge of who he was, what he was. A reiver and a rogue, as his father had been, and his father before him, a long, uninterrupted line of Scotsmen who fought, in their way, for freedom of land, of heart and spirit, though they were called scoundrels for it rather than warriors.

Jock drew even with him, a smile on his handsome face beneath the steel helmet, his long blond hair fanning out. Jock felt the same thrill, William realized. The reason for the pursuit—the theft of a few English cows, and a kiss stolen from an English girl—was forgotten in the heady risk of the chase.

William turned and saw Sandie's face, lit by a bright grin. William knew that his stocky, red-bearded cousin took pride and delight in the knowledge that some English had been harried and aggravated that night.

William smiled to himself as he rode onward. He felt the weight of the girl at his back, felt the press of her thighs to either side of his own. She was calm and bold, which pleased him. He was not surprised that Archie Armstrong's daughter took a fast chase over a dark moor in stride.

Behind them, four Forsters and Arthur Musgrave were determined to apprehend them. Jock and Sandie had taken advantage of the moonlight to ride into England to visit with an English girl. Anna Forster was betrothed to Arthur Musgrave, according to the wishes of both fathers, but she and Jock had met and fallen in love a few months ago. William knew that Jock had been riding out to meet Anna secretly for quite a while.

He had accompanied his cousins, planning to venture out in search of the gypsy camp, since Sandie and Jock had said that they knew where it was. While Jock had met with Anna, Sandie had snatched a few Musgrave cows and had herded them onto Forster land for a prank. This, and Jock's clandestine meeting with Anna Forster, had brought a host of Forsters, and Arthur Musgrave as well, on their tails for the remainder of the night.

William knew his own risk in this night's endeavor. If Arthur Musgrave recognized him, his arrangement with Jasper Musgrave would be jeopardized, and a feud started between them.

He glanced back. Their pursuers had fallen behind. A line of trees edged the moor, and William veered toward those, slowing the bay to a canter. His cousins followed, and they made their way between thick birches, slowing under cover of the trees.

William watched over his shoulder. Their pursuers might have lost the trail in the darkness, but he would make no assumptions. He urged the bay ahead, guiding him cautiously toward the other side of the wooded area.

He turned to look at the girl, who gripped him hard around the waist. She lifted her head. "Who rides after you?" she asked.

"English," he said. "Forsters. Arthur Musgrave."

"Musgrave! Why would you run from him, or any English?" she asked in a bitter tone. "I'd think you would be eager to meet with them."