The Heather Moon (44 page)

"Westron wind, when wilt thou blow?

The small rain down can rain

Christ, if my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again!"

—Anonymous, early sixteenth century

Clay shards lay scattered at his feet like the bits of his heart. William nudged at them with his toe and looked up. Archie and his kinsmen stared at him as if he had just committed a murder. In truth, he felt as if he had been slain himself. The dark wine at his feet spread out like lifeblood.

"She broke the jug between ye," Archie said. "I am nae fool. I know what it means. I had a Romany wife, and a Romany wedding. What else has happened between ye? Speak, man, or die sitting there." Rabbie, when Archie spoke, put a hand to the hilt of his sheathed dirk.

William took a breath and looked at the ropes wound around his wrists. The sight of rope had always twisted his gut, choked his heart. The knots, his isolated seat in the center of the room, the men staring at him, the hole blown through the center of his being, all seemed familiar.

He had sat like this in another chamber years ago, bound, questioned, shattered numb after the loss of someone he loved. But he had been a lad of thirteen, incapable of fully understanding what had happened to him.

Somehow the loss of Tamsin's trust and love had the same devastating impact as the death of his father, or the moment when he had been torn from his mother's arms and taken away. For a moment, he did not know how to proceed, how to endure. He only stared at the splinters of clay, the wine stains, at his feet. He breathed in and out, existence without thought or emotion, a little space of recovery.

He was not that wounded lad anymore. He had survived. He had grown, like a young oak with a slashed limb, past the damage. He was stronger despite it, and because of it. He would survive this too. Somehow.

When he had entered the hall, while the old man quavered the song, he had seen Tamsin first. She was beautiful, so necessary to him that he felt the ache of that need in his soul. He saw the hurt in her eyes, and felt her anger cut into him. The ropes, interrogation, roused old anguish. The song twisted him further, like another rope tugging him where he did not want to go.

But the most surprising blow he had taken—before Tamsin had finally shattered him—had been the hurt and the disappointment he had seen in Archie's eyes, beneath the man's understandable anger. He had not realized, until then, how much Armstrong's respect meant to him.

Archie was the last remaining link with the rogue that his father had been, the rogue he himself had dreamed of becoming. Armstrong seemed an embodiment of Allan Scott's respect, even his love. William wanted desperately to preserve that link to his father.

The questions, the accusations, the suspicions had made him retreat behind silence. Now he saw that he had been wrong to do that.

Pride and protection had their place, and were instinctive to him. But truth and openness were needed here, in good amounts, offered like a balm for the pain he caused, and felt himself.

He had to begin somewhere. The best place, he knew, was with the most essential truth of all.

He lifted his head. "Archie Armstrong," he said quietly. "I love your daughter."

Archie's face paled. "Well, I see she's divorced ye," he said calmly, though his hand clenched the hilt of his dirk.

"Aye," William murmured. "I thought to wed her proper, with a priest, but she doesna want that now. She's made that clear."

"Ye've been busy this past fortnight." Archie sent him a hard glance, green as glass.

"Somewhat," William said. "Not as busy as you might fear."

He waited for Archie to darken with rage, to shout or burst into violence. But he stood there, a gruff giant, shoving his fingers through unkempt, straw-colored hair, scratching at his whiskers, looking suddenly bewildered.

"Ye love her," Archie repeated. "Ye love her?"

"I do," William said. He sighed, reached up with his bound hands to rub at his brow. "God, I do. You dinna know how much." He lowered his hands, looked at Archie. "The lass torments me, and that is heaven's own truth. I swear it."

"Sweet Savior," Archie murmured, watching him. "By God. I believe you. On that matter, at least." He blew out a breath, raked his hair again. "But I had better hear the rest of it, man, and quick."

"I'll give you the truth on all of it," William said. He gazed evenly at him. "I trust you well, Archie. Otherwise I would tell you naught. But I'll tell you, and you alone."

Archie looked at his comrades. "Go see to our other prisoner. Bring him some ale and bread, for I stand by hospitality, even if he doesna know I'm his host."

"There is one thing you will want to know first, before you send men down to Musgrave again," William said.

Archie turned. "Aye? What?" he demanded.

"I spoke with Musgrave before your man came to fetch me here, across the gap between our cell doors," William said. "He was groggy and not so coherent as he might have been. I suppose you hit him hard, as you did me—"

"What did he tell ye?" Rabbie asked.

"He assumed, since I was in the dungeon too, that we have both been taken by the regent. I didna tell him different." He lifted a brow. "Now, why would he think that?"

"I might tell my sins to ye, when ye lay out yer sins to me," Archie growled. "Go on."

"He thinks we're both in the custody of the Scottish crown, and sure to be hanged on the morrow," William continued. "But he is down there cackling with joy that he's outwitted the regent and any who would stop his king's plan."

"And why warn us, man?" Archie asked. "Is it but another piece in Musgrave's game, that ye're art and part in?"

"That," William said, "I will explain later. For now, you had best be aware, before anyone else talks to Musgrave, that he claims to have already set his plan in motion. He told me that he tired of waiting upon a list of Borderers and gypsies that he might never see—I couldna answer him yea or nay on that matter. He says he's already gathered the help he needs." William gave Archie a hard stare. "He says he's paid coin to some gypsies and rascals who are on their way, even now, to do what they've been paid to do."

"And what," Archie said in an ominous tone, "is that?"

"We were all too late, Archie. The queen is in danger," William answered.

"Jesu!" Archie turned to Rabbie. "Go question him, Sir Regent, and find out what the de'il he's done."

Rabbie and Cuthbert both nodded and left the room quickly. Archie stepped toward William, crunching over broken shards of clay.

"Now, then, Rookhope," he said, folding his arms. "Speak."

William lifted his bound wrists. "No ropes while we talk."

Archie frowned. "Shall I trust ye enough to set ye free?" he asked. "I have been cursing myself for trusting ye wi' my daughter. But I'll give ye a chance to explain first. Only because o' yer father."

"We dinna have much time, Archie, if Musgrave told me the truth," William said. "You had best take the chance that what you heard of me is wrong. Take the risk that I am what you think I am."

"What are ye, then?" Archie narrowed his eyes skeptically.

William paused. "I am my father's son," he said.

Archie sighed, long and hard. He slid the narrow dirk from the sheath at his belt, and came toward him to slice through the ropes, casting them to the floor. "Speak, then."

William leaned forward and quietly began.

* * *

She sat on her bed in the dark, curled inward, knees up, head in the circle of her arms. No candle illuminated the room. The peat fire in the hearth gave off a musty odor, and provided only a reddish glow. A candle stood on a table near the bed, but Tamsin did not light its cold wick.

She had not opened the shutters of the window either. The moonlight had been replaced by rain and rumbling thunder. A downpour pattered against the shutters and the roof overhead, for her chamber was on the uppermost level of the tower.

Enveloped in darkness, she let her tears flow. Sobs gathered and rolled through her like the storm, dredging deep, bringing up old pain, and cleansing it with the new. Emotions thundered through her and diminished, leaving her empty and exhausted. She lifted her head and wiped her face on her sleeve, and sat quietly.

Her marriage to William was over, ended in anger and mistrust, a love found and let go too soon, scarcely begun. She felt as shattered and irreparable as the jug she had destroyed at his feet. Calmer now, she feared that nothing could restore the damage that both of them had done through secrets and temper.

William's secrets, had they been revealed to her earlier, might have changed her willingness, but not her feelings. She had no choice but to love him. He was a part of her now, part of her blood and her soul, inseparable and elemental as heat and light to flame. She could exist without him, she knew that. But she would cease to thrive.

She looked at her left hand in the shadows, opened the palm, saw the blush of the reddish light on the uniquely shaped wedge. William and his family had taught her that she could show her hand without shame. That one small liberty was a finer freedom than any other she had known.

William's complete acceptance of her, his delight in her, his quiet love for her, had given her the power to begin to see her loveliness, rather than her flaws. She was changed now, irrevocably. She could not return to her former self. But without him, she did not want to advance to the future.

Thunder sounded again, and lightning flashed. Though weariness pulled at her, she stood and went to window, opening the shutters to look out at the deluge that obscured the night. Mist wet her face, and the wind gusted through the opening.

What she had heard, had said, had done this night, tumbled through her mind. Desperate to hear William's explanation, she lacked the strength to confront him, for she was drained by anger and shock.

Seeing him would only bring more pain to both of them. She had not missed the anguish in his eyes. By now, William would be back in the dungeon. She would not try to see him until morning. By then, perhaps she could control her tears, and steel herself against the torrent of love that she still felt for him.

For now, she only wanted to crawl into bed and give in to the numbness of sleep. The rain drummed heavily as she turned and unfastened the hooks down the front of her leather doublet. When she had removed her boots, stockings and breeches, she stood in her long linen shirt and fingered its torn hem. William had cut into the cloth to make a bandage for her father the night that they had been in Musgrave's dungeon.

She remembered how generous and gentle he had been then. His various kindnesses to her had taught her to be kinder to herself, his patience with her helped her to be more tolerant of herself. Compassion was part of his nature. She could not understand how, or why, he had hurt Jean Hamilton in order to revenge himself on the girl's father.

Trust me.
His desperate words repeated in her mind.
Trust me.

Oh, God, she thought, she wanted to believe in him. In giving him her faith and trust, she had found better faith in herself.

And in losing faith in him, she lost it in herself. The two threads of their existence were bound together, twirled around one another like strands of silk, each separate, yet forming together a stronger, more beautiful cord.

She wanted to believe William innocent of wrongdoing, but he had admitted to his involvements with Jean and with Musgrave. She should have stayed, she told herself, should have asked questions, and listened, and tried to understand. But she had let her temper undo her, and undo what existed between them.

Weary and worn by her thoughts, she lifted her hands and began to tug at the fine silken net and the pins that held her hair in place. She hardly knew where to start to take it down, once she freed the net and ivory pins. The braiding seemed like the last tie to the happiness she had known at Rookhope. But all of her hopes had collapsed. She would not cling to the reminder.

Her left hand was clumsy and slow. She tangled more than she unraveled, and soon muttered a few impatient curses.

The rain pelted the roof overhead. A loud rumble of thunder, followed by a crack of lightning, made her jump. Her fingers could not undo a stubborn knot of hair, and she pulled at it. Overcome by fatigue and frustration, she covered her face with her hand and sobbed.

"Hey, lass, come here," William murmured behind her, his voice blending with the thunder. Her heart surged. She whirled.

He gathered her into his arms even as she turned. She went, stunned and willing, her anger suddenly small beside the love that surged within her, melting her resistance. He tucked her to him while she cried her misery against his chest.

"Ah, God, Tamsin, I am sorry," he whispered into her hair. "Forgive me—" His lips soothed over her brow and eyelids, finding her cheek and the shell of her ear as she tilted her head.

She meant to pull away and ask him what, and how, but she turned her face to him, and was lost to the blessing of his mouth over hers.
Just for now,
she told herself, and let him erase her fears, her hesitancy, with his lips, his hands, the warmth of his arms. She succumbed to an onslaught of kisses, seeking and giving.