Susan Johnson (4 page)

“Come sit down,” her old governess said in the comforting tone so familiar from her childhood, “and I’ll go and have Tattie put on tea for us.” Handing her a small volume from a table near the door, she added, “See what you think of Defoe’s newest work.”

Elizabeth couldn’t read, though; her thoughts were too much in disarray, her resistance to her father’s plans for her remarriage an ongoing struggle she found upsetting. So when the man stepped through the glass-paneled door half-open to the garden, she was still standing in the middle of the room, exactly where Rosie had left her.

His black robe was stark contrast to the scene outside, where blooming crocuses brightened the small walled garden, but his smile was warm, mitigating the cold black of his attire and his abrupt appearance.

“Good afternoon, Lady Graham,” Johnnie said, pale sunshine gleaming off his sleek dark hair, his cultivated bow too much the courtier’s for a minister of the church.

“Do I know you?” Perhaps she should have shown fear, but his smile charmed, as did his eyes, and she wondered at such seductive allure in a man of God.

“We haven’t met before, I’m sorry to say.” His pale blue eyes, cool in color like North Sea ice, seemed somehow incongruously to exude a delicious heat. “And rumor doesn’t do you justice, Lady Graham.” The Laird of Ravensby moved two paces nearer to better judge the jewel-like quality of Elizabeth Godfrey’s brilliant green eyes. “Cat’s eyes,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, its resonance curling around her like lyrical poetry. And then he grinned.

Sunshine seemed to fill the room, bathing her in warmth, and she wondered briefly if she were having a religious experience, if her tumultuous thoughts had somehow conjured up this glorious image. “Are you a Covenanter?” she quickly asked to steady herself, “a Presbyterian … a Reformist?” He was dressed in a severe long frock she didn’t recognize.

“I am actually …” he softly said.

And for a moment she thought he was going to name himself one of God’s archangels—so radiant and beautiful was his countenance.

“… the Laird of Ravensby,” he quietly finished.

And Elizabeth reflexively sucked in an inhalation of fear. No archangel here, come unbidden to her mind, but the Devil himself, the most celebrated rogue on the Border, where a certain degree of lawlessness was a way of life and personal armies bespoke a man’s power.

“We must go,” he added while she still reeled at his disclosure. “Come,” he said, putting out his hand as if he were asking mildly for a dance.

“No …” she whispered, backing away, all the wild and sinister stories of the Black Laird flooding her mind.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, his courtesy astonishing considering his purpose.

And suddenly her will reasserted itself, her momentary shock and paralyzing terror evaporating before the force of her nature. She opened her mouth to scream, but Johnnie Carre was faster, no tyro to reprisal raids, no novice on abductions for negotiated settlements. His hand came up in a flash, stopping her cry.

He had no intention of hurting her.

Even the hand on her mouth was lenient, almost gentle.

Elizabeth Godfrey Graham was only the negotiating hostage necessary for Robbie’s release. Beyond that, he had no designs on her. It was moot whether her father prized her person as his daughter’s, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he valued her fortune.

He would want her back.

Two men materialized when Johnnie issued a soft command, and her hands were swiftly bound, her mouth muffled by a gag. And when the Laird of Ravensby tossed her over his shoulder, her ankles were tied as well.

The small party exited the back parlor and then the garden through a gate in the redbrick wall, at which point she was placed in a burrow readied for her in a small covered cart piled high with hay. All three men discarded their black robes, becoming instantly ragged sheepherders.

Crawling into the narrow cart, Johnnie Carre compressed
his large frame into the space available, murmuring as his body touched hers, “I won’t hurt you.”

Despite his words, she attempted to move away, the extent of her danger ominously real.

“Because of the hay,” he said next, placing a fine silk shawl over her face, and after that she could no longer see, although she felt the solidness of his body against hers. And she smelled the sweet scent of clover, timothy, and rye grass above her as the contents of the cart were piled over them in concealment.

Adam and Kinmont led the horse-drawn cart through the village as swiftly as they could without drawing notice. And once they were a suitable distance away, the cart was discarded in a copse of alder near a stream where a small band of men leading horses awaited them.

Elizabeth rode then as they galloped north, settled across the Laird’s muscular thighs, the saddle pommel brushing her hip, her hands and feet still tied, her gag still in place.

Johnnie Carre could see the fire in her eyes and, a man of experience, he preferred not listening to her outrage.

An escort of two hundred Carre men fell in with them short miles away, at the dale below Allenton, and from that point every man’s countenance was wreathed in smiles. Two hundred Carres could fight their way through anything they met, take on any troop in pursuit. They were in high spirits.

“My brother’s in Harbottle Castle dungeon,” Johnnie said to Elizabeth shortly after they entered the ascending pass through the Cheviot Hills, no pursuers yet visible. Scotland lay on the other side; they would shortly be safe, and he wanted her to know the price of her freedom. “If you won’t blister my ears, I’ll free your mouth.”

She nodded, and he untied the white linen handkerchief.

“Well, Johnnie Carre,” she said, businesslike and cool, understanding now why she’d been taken, her fear allayed by her knowledge of the machinations of border politics, “I expect your brother will be home in Ravensby soon. My father wants my money.”

“I know.” He grinned, his eyes slowly traveling down her body before returning to her face. “And a shame, too, Robbie’s caught, for I wouldn’t mind keeping you myself.”

His smile infectious, she grinned back, recalling the stories beyond the Laird of Ravensby’s border raids, the ones detailing his amorous exploits.

“Perhaps I’m rich enough to afford you both.” She surveyed him as slowly as he had her. “Although I’m not at the moment in the market for someone to … keep me. Remember that,” she added in an altogether different tone, a warning that he duly noted. “But if I were,” she went on, the warmth returned to her voice, her green eyes amused, “I’d
certainly
consider you.”

It stopped him for a moment, the fact that she showed no fear, the additional fact that she propositioned as a man might. And Godfrey’s daughter took on an instant fascination. While he’d previously harbored no designs on her except for her value in Robbie’s release, he found himself suddenly aware of the soft warmth of her bottom bouncing gently on his thighs as they rode hard for the border.

As instantly, he reminded himself Robbie’s cause came first, and he forcefully set his thoughts into more prudent channels. He couldn’t afford to jeopardize the negotiations; Elizabeth Graham was not to be touched.

He had all the women he needed, in any event.

Although his wicked voice of unreason noted, “But none so pale and blond and green-eyed …”

He abruptly called for a halt then and had her put on her own horse. Never prudent or cautious, in fact self-indulgent and profligate, he didn’t trust his libido against two hours more of Elizabeth Graham’s sweet bottom bouncing on his lap.

She looked at him with a curious smile a few moments later, when he had her brought alongside his mount and he handed over her reins—as though she knew what he was thinking.

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he said, his voice dispassionate, courteous.

“And you, too, I expect.” She wasn’t flirtatious by
nature; she was merely stating a fact, although she couldn’t help but smile a bit at the Laird of Ravensby’s devilish dilemma. From all reports he was a man whose dalliances with women were legion. And now he was forced to curb his carnal instincts, or his brother might be put in jeopardy.

“You shouldn’t be at Ravensby long.” His hair lay like dark silk on the embossed silver of his shoulder armor.

“No, I won’t.” They were both practical people at base; they understood what was at stake. Her father would never chance losing her fortune for one man in his dungeons, however illustrious his family.

“We’ll send a message to your father from Uswayford.” His horse, recognizing his restless unease, curveted beneath him, held in place only by Johnnie’s firm grip on the reins.

“Two days, then, at the most,” Elizabeth casually remarked, “need I impose on your hospitality.” Her voice was as polite as his, as though they were discussing a country holiday.

“No more than two, I agree,” Johnnie said, holding his horse in check.

He had beautiful hands, Elizabeth noted, large, tanned, his fingers graceful, strong. “Maybe even less,” she added, his physical presence suddenly disturbing her.

He didn’t answer, only nodded.

Not much time, his wicked voice of unreason whispered.

Abruptly loosening his grip on the reins, he straightened as the black barb he favored leaped forward, leaving the beautiful, pale-haired Elizabeth Graham behind.

Safely behind.

And he didn’t speak to her again until they reached Ravensby.

Goldiehouse, a fortified castle much altered over the years into the embellished baronial style, offered a flamboyant display of European architectural fashion from the Gothic to the neoclassic. Dramatically situated in a parkland by the River Tweed, the structure had evolved into a full quadrangular complex and was, Elizabeth thought, the most princely home she had ever seen.

The local stone of its walls glowed golden in the setting sun, splendid against the dark pine and new-leafed beeches of the parkland, while its windows glittered like jewels.

No rough Border chieftain resided here, she thought as the troop clattered into the large paved courtyard, more like a Renaissance prince, from the magnificence of his establishment.

Scores of retainers poured out into the courtyard to assist the returning company, and Elizabeth found herself helped from her horse by no fewer than four servants. In the bustle and commotion of troopers dismounting she looked for sight of Ravensby’s Laird but caught no
glimpse of him. Threading her way through the crowd of men and horses, Elizabeth was led inside through a heavy studded door, originally constructed in the days when the keep needed to be defended. A large entrance hall rose around her like a treasure cave, the walls hung with rich tapestries, its ribbed Gothic ceiling of arched wood forty spectacular feet above her, a fireplace dominating one wall, a blazing fire taking the chill from the room.

Across the hall a woman stood on a small rise of flagstone stairs leading from the room, her presence conspicuous in the emptiness of the enormous space. Dark-haired, fair-skinned, slender, and beautiful, gowned in sapphire cashmere, she gave the appearance of the castle chatelaine.

“You won’t be here long, I expect,” the woman said, her cold voice carrying in the silence.

Elizabeth hadn’t anticipated heartfelt welcome in the home of her father’s enemies, but neither had she contemplated such hostility. The Laird of Ravensby had treated her with courtesy. Who was this woman? “I hope to be released very soon,” she replied as she approached the stairs. Sensing an air of disquietude in the small, middle-aged man escorting her, she quickly glanced at his face and found he was blushing beneath the weathered bronze of his skin.

“Has he touched you?”

There was no mistaking the umbrage in the woman’s tone or the identity of the man referred to, but before Elizabeth could answer, the familiar voice of her captor spoke from behind her.

“Good evening, Janet.” John Carre’s voice from the direction of the doorway was without inflection or emotion, mild, infinitely courteous. “Let me introduce you to Lady Graham,” he said, his long stride bringing him swiftly near, “although I see you’ve informally met. Lady Graham, Countess Lindsay, a neighbor of mine.” A small courtly bow made the women known to each other. “Your father has had some official Border transactions with Countess Lindsay’s husband, the Earl of Midlothian,” he said to Elizabeth, the scent of his cologne close, momentarily
diverting her attention. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Janet, I’ll see Lady Graham to her quarters. The ride has tired us all.” An experienced man with women, he was never impolite, but beneath his temperate voice was a distinct authority.

“I’ll wait dinner for you.” Janet Lindsay’s directness was intentional. She knew Johnnie well enough to know he’d decline making a scene in public.

His hesitation was minute, and then he quietly said, “Give me ten minutes to wash away the mud from the ride.”

Ravensby’s Laird seemed engrossed on their journey through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, unresponsive enough that the steward had to twice repeat his questions concerning Lady Graham’s luggage or lack of it.