Seduced by a Rogue (13 page)

Deciding that she would do better to accord Robert Maxwell the benefit of the doubt until he proved himself
un
reasonable, she said, “How much farther is it, then? I have been to Kirkcudbright only once before.”

“When?”

“Last year,” she said. Lest she sound as curt as he had, she added, “For the Lord of Galloway’s anniversary celebration of
the King’s coronation.”

A wry smile curved his lips, forcibly reminding her of what an unexpectedly strong effect the man’s slightest smile could
have on her.

Then he said, “Doubtless you seek to remind me that your mother is kin to Archie the Grim and that he is gey powerful. But
I do not fear Archie.”

“I simply answered your question,” she said tartly. “I am sure we do not go near Threave today. So where
do
we go, and how much longer will it take?”

“Not long, as you will soon see,” he said. “Are you warm enough?”

That he would dare to pretend he was concerned about her comfort while he was forcing her to go God knew where with him made
her lip want to curl. In fact, she thought it must have curled, for he looked surprised and then, oddly, rather hurt.

Compassion stirred, but anger raced at its heels, aimed inward for allowing herself for even one foolish moment to feel sorry
for the odious creature.

She turned abruptly forward without another word, to watch the rolling waves. His presence loomed above her for a full, if
silent, minute longer. Then he moved away until oars, wind, and sea were all she could see or hear.

The next time she looked for him, she did so because the sun had dropped so low that one had to look straight into it to watch
the sea ahead. He was with the helmsman again, shouting for the oarsmen to weigh enough. The oars came out of the water for
a short time then, fifteen minutes or so, she thought.

No sooner did they begin rowing again, though, than she sensed a change in rhythm, both in the wooden thumps of the oars and
in the movement of the boat.

The landscape had changed, too. The gentle slopes of Annandale and Nithsdale had grown to higher hills and a much more rugged
coastline. Ahead of her, she saw sheer cliffs that she remembered from the year before.

They were nearing Kirkcudbright Bay.

Soon, the bay opened to their right in a deep, cliff-lined vee. The water became turbulent as the sea from the Firth met water
ebbing from the bay. Huge rollers sent spray high into the air, and the galley seemed suddenly tiny.

Their approach the year before had been nearer the turn of the tide than this, and their ship had been twice as big. For the
first time, Mairi felt fear that they might capsize. Even in its midst, she realized that she had felt none before, only her
anger.

The man was a thoroughgoing villain, but he did not scare her.

Nor did she think he would let the boat sink beneath them. Something in the very way he stood shouted confidence. So did the
way his men heeded his every word and responded instantly and ably to his calm commands.

Her anxiety eased.

As oarsmen and helmsman battled the waves, she watched Robert Maxwell. She expected to hear him order the galley straight
into the confluence of clashing currents, to steady it as one steadied small boats in similar circumstances.

But he did not. Instead, his men seemed to taunt the waves, daring them to strike broadside and try to overturn them. His
commands came swiftly, and she saw how skillfully the men synchronized their strokes with the rollers to cut a shallow angle
across the tumultuous waters wherever they crashed together.

Clearly, they were not making for Kirkcudbright, which lay at the head of the bay. The galley continued through the clashing
waves until she saw that they aimed toward a point near the Firth end of the high, sheer western cliffs.

Those cliffs looked higher than the ones on the east side. The long, mostly sheer cliff face was rugged, its base forbidding.
A multitude of sharp rocky outcroppings and toothlike formations poked out of the water there.

A tall stone tower stood on the cliff ahead. Below it, she saw an opening in the wall. As they drew nearer—too near—she looked
at Maxwell in alarm.

His eyes were narrowed, his attention fixed. He murmured commands to the helmsman. The men still rowed hard, and the galley
rocked over roller upon roller.

The air seemed colder, for the cliff wall hid the sun, putting them in shadow. The wind still blew, making the sail crackle,
and gulls screamed overhead.

The hole in the cliff grew larger the nearer they drew, revealing itself as a deep cavern. Suddenly, the nearby water was
calmer. Huge boulders formed a wide channel right to the opening.

The big sail came flapping down, startling her. Its mast followed as men laid it down the galley’s centerboard. Water eddied
around them but calmed more near the opening. Even so, she could feel it heaving under them.

Then Maxwell roared, “Hold water!” and Mairi held her breath as the galley swept through the opening to an almost glassy surface
within. Despite the water’s appearance and the thrusting of all oars into it, the galley pitched forward.

Astonishingly, a stone wharf with timber facing became visible against the cave wall to the left of the entrance. Three men
stood on it, waiting.

The portside oars lifted, and men aboard threw lines to those on the wharf, who quickly hauled them in and made them fast.

“Come along, my lady.”

She had been watching the men on the wharf and had not seen Maxwell move from the stern. But he stood right behind her with
a hand extended.

Standing, she found her legs uncertain. The seemingly calm water was surging up and down just as the sea outside did. Much
as she would have liked to disdain his help, she dared not. She let him grip her hand.

He steadied her as she stood. Then, without comment, he lifted her to the wharf, following agilely and so swiftly that she
had taken but a step on the slippery surface and was still skidding when he caught her.

Again without comment, he scooped her into his arms. He was a full head taller than she was, and much larger. Nevertheless,
she protested.

“I am perfectly able to walk. That is, I
will
be able to when I stop feeling as if I’m still rolling with the tide.”

“Whisst now, we are not going to fratch,” he said. “The stairs are as slippery as this wharf. I don’t want you to risk injury.”

“As if your carrying me could be safer,” she said scornfully. “I am no lightweight, and if those steps are so slippery—”

“Whisst,” he said again, already mounting the steep stone stairway.

Deciding she should not distract him, she obeyed. But above the cavern, what little light there was vanished, leaving them
in pitch darkness. She could tell that the stairs spiraled and had narrowed until he seemed barely to fit with her as a burden.

She discerned a pale glow above that soon revealed itself as an open doorway. As they passed through it to a small, candlelit
chamber, Mairi smelled onions and tallow, as if it were a storage cellar.

He carried her through it and along a narrow corridor, then up more stairs to one end of what was clearly a kitchen. Its fire
roared, and she saw bustling people. But no one spoke to them as he crossed to another stairway, wider than the first.

That no one looked at them or spoke made her feel as if she were invisible.

From the next landing, she saw a large empty hall and another fire. On the next after that, two doors faced the landing. The
next floor’s arrangement looked the same. He paused there and set her gently on her feet.

Opening one of the doors, he gestured for her to precede him. As she entered a large room containing a moss-green-curtained
bed and a sitting area fine enough for a lady’s solar, he spoke at last: “Welcome to Trailinghail. This is your chamber.”

“What do you mean,
my
chamber?” she demanded, whirling so quickly to face him that her skirts nearly knocked over a cushioned, three-legged stool.

As the stool thumped back into place, he replied evenly, “This is where you will stay whilst you are here.”

“Just how long do you mean to
keep
me here? And for what purpose?”

With maddening calm he said, “You will stay as long as necessary, and my purpose need not concern you. As you see, this room
is a fine one. Its windows face both the Firth and the bay, so you will enjoy some grand views. In good weather, one can see
the kirk spire in Kirkcudbright, six miles from here.”

“I don’t
want
to see Kirkcudbright,” she said, her voice sounding shrill in her own ears. Her hands clenched into fists. “I want to leave
at once.”

“That cannot be. And ’tis best that you know from the outset that escape from this tower is impossible.”

“Even if I could get out of this horrid tower, I doubt I could walk all the way home from here,” she said, clipping her words
and struggling to regain control. The truth was that if she could get out, she would. And if she did, she
would
get home.

However, experience with her father and stepmother had long since shown her that argument and tantrums only irritated people.
Since the man in front of her was clearly as daft as any man could be, he was not one she wanted to irritate.

Looking around the chamber, although admittedly larger and more luxurious than she had at Annan House or Dunwythie Hall, and
boasting two narrow window embrasures, she saw only a prison. That he dared to think he could so casually make her his prisoner,
for any reason, was enough to make her think fondly of murder.

In the hope of regaining control of herself, she untied her cloak and cast it onto a nearby settle. Carefully avoiding the
stool her skirts had disturbed, she moved to the nearer of the two windows, unshuttered now to admit a chilly breeze from
the bay. A stout shutter was fastened back against the inside wall to her left.

Peering out over the deep, breast-high sill, Mairi tried to focus on the view, truly splendid in the last golden rays of the
setting sun. Or so it seemed until she leaned forward far enough to look down and saw that the tower stood so near the cliff
edge that she could see all the way to the water below.

“H-how far down is that?” she asked, wincing at the catch in her voice.

“One hundred fifty feet at low water,” he said.

She swallowed hard but continued looking out, hoping to conceal her horror.

“If you fall, I’d advise doing so at high water,” he said into the silence.

“Sakes, if I fell I’d die no matter how high the water was,” she retorted.

“Aye, but with so many sharp rocks sticking up as they do, the result would be tidier than if you flung yourself out at low
water. You will soon begin to see one particularly interesting formation. It is called the Misty Brig.”

Turning to face him, she said with what, under the circumstances, she thought was admirable if caustic calm, “If you are
trying
to be cruel, it does
not
suit you.” Moving nearer, looking right into his eyes, she added, “You should be thoroughly ashamed of what you have done
today.”

Looking annoyed instead, he said, “Do you not like this chamber?”

“I am sure it is pleasant,” she said. “But it is no less a prison for that.”

“Aye, well, you might have a look at the clothing in yon kists,” he said. “I’ve provided everything I thought you might need—fine
gowns and such. But some things may be a trifle out of date or of an unsuitable size. If you require aught else, you need
only tell me. We tried to make this chamber as comfortable as possible, because I do want you to be comfortable. So if you
are not—”

Her remaining control slipping, she exclaimed, “Comfortable! You want me to be
comfortable
? How could I be? By my troth, what manner of devil are you that you can even utter such a statement? You have stolen me from
my home, brought me to this place! You say I must stay upon your whim or till you’ve had enough of me, but I should be
comfortable
? What then? Do you
ever
mean to take me home?”

“Aye, sure, I do,” he retorted. “Sakes, I said I won’t harm you, and I meant it. I also meant it when I said I want you to
be comfortable. Surely—”

He got no further before she snatched up the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be the three-legged stool, and flung
it at him as hard as she could.

Noting with satisfaction that she hit him a glancing blow with it but almost as much shocked by
her
act as by anything he had done, Mairi clapped fingers to her lips, eyed him warily, and stepped hastily back toward the window.

R
ob had been feeling frustrated and angry, although he was not entirely sure why, but now he did not know whether to laugh
or to shake her. He was glad to learn that she had spirit, though, and could express it. He had wanted to know what would
make her display her temper, if anything would. And now he knew.

A temperamental lass was always more interesting than an insipid one, and Dunwythie, like most men, would surely care much
more about a daughter with strong feelings than he would about a passive, entirely submissive one.

Rob had seen for himself at Dunwythie Mains that the lady Mairi could be self-possessed, and she was undeniably beautiful
even now after a long day on the water. He admired both qualities.

But there was something else as well. It was the undefinable trait that had led him to believe that her father—in truth, that
any sensible man—would do whatever he must to protect her, and to recover her if he were so unfortunate as to lose her.

He could not have named that special trait, but he knew instinctively that when she flung the stool at him, she had given
evidence of it. He was glad, though, that no one else had seen, and that he did not have to explain his instincts to anyone.

Had her seemingly calm acceptance of the situation not muted his usual self-protective instincts, he’d have caught the damned
stool easily.