The Heather Moon (5 page)

"I think ye maun be my match," she said, "My match, and something mair..."

—"Proud Lady Margaret"

"You dinna believe me?" Tamsin asked, as she looked up at William Scott. Torchlight spilled through the doorway, flickering in a bright halo around his dark hair and his wide, square shoulders. He leaned close, his gaze grim. She leaned slightly back.

"'Twasna that dark, my lass, and you and your father are not that stupid," he murmured. "Nor am I. Musgrave thinks the pair of you are simple fools, but I see differently."

She widened her gaze, hoping to feign innocence, but his steady gaze affirmed that he meant what he said. He did not believe her innocence for a moment.
Likely those clear blue eyes never overlooked anything
, she thought. He was not the least like Jasper Musgrave.

This man was lean and hard, strikingly handsome, and keenwitted, much the opposite of her father's old enemy. But she had never regarded beauty or intelligence as an outward reflection of good character. She had learned to seek true worth within each person. Otherwise, her own flaws would have persuaded her long ago that she had scant worth herself.

She could not allow herself to be charmed by William Scott's pleasing outward appearance, nor would she favor him based on his father's character, as her father was likely to do. She had heard of this man through her father, a tale of a lad taken long ago by the Scottish crown to stand as imprisoned pledge for the good behavior of his kinsmen. He may have been friend to a king, but his deeds, so far, told her that he was not to be trusted. And she had to be honest with him now or risk worse trouble.

"My father delights in annoying Musgrave," she finally admitted. "He and Jasper have been enemies since they were young. Usually my father manages to escape harm. But this time he was caught."
And for now, she was left to face it alone
, she thought, glancing at her father, who appeared to be asleep.

"And you with him," William Scott said. He folded his arms, watching her. "What happened? And how is it that Archie rides with his daughter?"

"I dinna ride with him by custom," she said. "He asked me to come along because he was scarce of able men." She shivered a little, remembering the harrowing moments last night when she and her father had been taken down. "Two nights ago, Musgrave's men snatched eight sheep from our lands. My great-uncle Cuthbert saw the deed and knew the men, but couldna catch them. My father swore to return the favor. But most of his kinsmen and comrades were gone to Kelso, to the market fair, and there was no one to ride with him but Cuthbert and me."

William nodded. "I sent men and livestock to that fair myself," he said. "Go on. Why would he want to endanger his own daughter? Reiving is no game. 'Tis a serious and risky matter."

"I am a nimble rider, taught by the Romany—the gypsies—who know horses better than most," she said. "My father knew I could help in the herding of beasts taken in payment for our sheep. So I rode with him and Cuthbert into England, and we were caught."

"With Musgrave's horses in hand," he said.

She shrugged and nodded. "We found a few horses pastured on Musgrave's land. My father thought 'twould be a good thing to sell Musgrave's horses at the market fair this week, since Jasper is likely going to sell our sheep there. So we took them. As we came back over the border, we met an ambush."

"Musgrave's men were waiting for you?" he asked.

"Aye. We nearly escaped, but my father was struck down and fell from his horse. I turned back to help him, and I was brought down too. They took us here." She looked away. "My uncle got away. At least I hope he did," she murmured.

"He did," William said. "With the rest of the horses."

She let out a breath of relief. "They waited for us, I see that now. They knew we would come after them for taking the sheep. Musgrave must have set those horses out to trap us. He doesna leave horses pastured like that at night by habit."

William nodded his understanding. "This feuding has gone on a long while between your father and Jasper."

"Since they were lads," she said. "Their fathers fought too, over the land boundaries. But 'tisna a deadly feud, just one of harassment. My father delights in finding ways to annoy Musgrave, but he wouldna truly harm him. There would be no pleasure in that. Jasper will let us go in a day or so. After a rest, they will go after each other again."

"I wouldna be so certain. Jasper lacks your father's humor. And he is under the scrutiny of his King Henry just now. He may react differently than you think. Step carefully with him."

She frowned. "Why does a stranger trouble to warn us?"

"I do not want to see a hanging," he said quietly.

"Hanging is naught to a rogue like you."

"You," he said, "are wrong."

"Besides, Jasper wouldna dare."

"He would," he said. "This time, I think he would."

She scowled, feeling wary. "Why should you care?"

He shifted where he stood, facing the door. The torchlight spilled over his clean profile, his firm jaw, the long, wide column of his throat. "I remember your father, though I was a lad the last time I saw him," he said. His voice was quiet, calm. She watched him, and felt oddly warmed, in that chill, dank place, by the timbre of his voice, the steadiness of his presence. "My father thought well of Archie Armstrong. For the sake of that old loyalty, I offer you what advice I can. Take it or not, as you please."

"Why should I trust you?" she asked. "You are a comrade of Musgrave, who is English, and my father's enemy."

"You have no reason to trust me," he said simply, glancing at her. "But you can believe that I want you and your father well out of this matter, where neither of you belong. Tell Archie to say aye to whatever Musgrave suggests to him. Say aye, and he will let you go your way. Else you may both hang."

Her heart pounded, but she revealed none of her dread. She tipped her head to watch him. "I heard you and Musgrave. I know there is some plan between you. My father will never agree to be part of an English scheme. And Jasper willna hang us. He will let us go in the morn."

He slid her a glance. "Horse thievery is no light crime, lass. He could hang you both and be within his rights. Or he could keep you here for months, even years. Do not be a fool."

She frowned at the unbearable thought of lengthy confinement in a cold, dark dungeon. She would sicken in such a place, without her freedom, without the air and the sun. Like a plant plucked from the earth, she would wither and dry up. The thought terrified her.

"I want to be free." She shrugged to mask how desperately she meant that.

"Then take freedom no matter the price, when he offers."

"What will he offer us?"

"A bribe of some sort. He will ask you to join the English in some cause. Agree to it."

"What cause?"

"I cannot guess. Something that matters to him."

"But not to me! You agreed to help him—I heard you. More rascal than I thought, you! Taking a bribe from that one!"

"It is not your concern, lass." He leaned close, speaking low. Soft and deep, his voice thrilled through her body as if he had touched her. "Only tell your father to accept the offer and to take the reprieve that comes with it."

She would not flinch from his steady gaze, or the closeness of his body. Warmth radiated from him, and his breath, wine-sharp, air-soft, drifted over her face. She wanted to show defiance, but she felt an urge to lean toward him, his strength.

She resisted that, and told herself he was not trustworthy, nor did he care what might happen to a reiver and a gypsy.

But she remembered what had occurred earlier between them. When he had set her hands free, his blade had cut her, and him as well. And that had set her heart and thoughts into a spin.

The edge of a knife, a turn of a hand, a moment of shared blood: those were elements of the Romany custom of marriage.

The realization made her knees weak. She could not think about that now, with his gaze intent upon her. She looked away, knowing she could say nothing of what that meant.

"Did you hear me, lass? I want you to agree to whatever Musgrave tells you to do."

Taking a breath, she looked up at him. "Neither my father nor I will agree to help the English."

"I suspect your father is a thorough rogue," he said. "Once he's free, he'll avoid Musgrave entirely until this matter is done. Tell Archie to agree, but tell him to take no coin, to give Musgrave no true hold over him."

"Why should I tell my father any of this?"

"Because, you care more for your father's welfare than for your own," he said in a near-whisper. She closed her eyes, felt the mysterious, sensual power his voice. Her body seemed to melt at the sound. She drew back. "Heed me. Tell him to listen to Jasper. It is more important than you can guess."

She glanced at her father. "Da, do you hear the man?" she asked. Archie did not move. She frowned, leaned over him. "Da, speak to me. Are you well?"

Her father mumbled, shook his head. Alarmed, she knelt beside him despite the restraints around her ankles. "Da, what do you need?"

Archie groaned softly. She touched his head with her folded left hand, snug in its leather glove. More a mitten than a glove, the casing had a pattern of stitches that imitated four fingers held together, concealing her deformity. She dipped her bare hand into the water in the bucket and offered her father a drink.

He sipped awkwardly, turning his head. The bandage, wet with blood, slipped over his brow. Tamsin attempted to adjust it with one hand, while Archie slid sideways along the wall.

"Da!" she cried, catching at him.

"Eh," he mumbled. William dropped to one knee beside her and took her father by the shoulders.

"Armstrong," he said. "Archie Armstrong."

Archie grimaced. "Eh... let me sleep...."

William shoved some straw into a makeshift pillow and helped Archie lie down. He lifted the man's eyelids, slapped at his cheeks gently, and received an irritable response. "He just needs rest. He'll be fine," he told Tamsin.

Tamsin tugged at Archie's bandage. "I need to tend to this again," she said. "I made poor work of it before." She pulled at the tucked end with her bare fingers.

"What's wrong with your other hand?" William asked. "Is it hurt? Here, let me do that." He took over the task of loosening the bandage.

His touch was warm and gentle. Tamsin snatched her fingers away as if his had been flame. At the same time, she dropped her left hand out of sight.

"My hand is fine," she said stiffly.

William unwrapped the bandage, revealing the swollen, split lump on Archie's brow. He sopped at the blood with the bandage. "We'll need another cloth."

"My shirt's hem will do." With her right hand, Tamsin began to unfasten the hooks that closed her leather doublet.

"Let me help," William said, touching her wrist. She batted his hand away. "Your other hand is obviously hurt—"

"'Tis fine," she snapped. William raised a brow and turned back to press the wet cloth to Archie's wound.

Tamsin resumed her task. One by one, the hooks flew free as she worked them, fast and capable, accustomed to using one hand. Her doublet fell open, and she pulled at the tucked hem of her linen shirt. "Use your dirk to cut a strip," she told him.

He did, tearing a long piece which he wrapped and secured the strip around Archie's head. Tamsin removed her leather doublet and handed that to William, who shoved the garment under Archie's head for a cushion.

"He should be fine," William said, as Archie began to snore. "Just make certain that he sleeps sound and isna faint. Poke him now and again to awaken him."

She nodded, knowing that her father could slip into unconsciousness with such a head wound. Shivering, she tucked her arms around herself. "I'll stay awake the night."

William knelt beside her. "Listen to me," he said. "I do not agree with imprisoning women. But this is Musgrave's house, and all I can do is make sure that blankets and food are given to both of you. Now let me see your injured hand."

"I am not hurt." She tucked her gloved hand under her arm.

"You lack the use of it," he said. "Was it hurt in the raid?"

"Nay," she said. She was not about to show him, or anyone, her small, misshapen hand.

"As you wish," he said. "I might do the same myself."

She did not reply, rubbing her arms in the chill.

"You're cold," he observed calmly.

She glanced down. Through her pale linen shirt, she could see—as he must have—her globed breasts and taut nipples. She crossed her arms there and gave him a sour glance.

William loosened the pewter buttons that fastened his brown woolen doublet, drew it off, and held it out. "Take this."

She hesitated, then slipped her arms into the sleeves. The garment was still warm from his body. He lifted the doublet over her shoulders and fastened the button on the high neck, then proceeded to the next one, and the next.

She let him work his way down. Buttons were more difficult to manage than hooks and loops. She stayed silent, watching him as he worked.