“Farewell, my dame, sae peerless gude,
And he took her by the hand…”
O
N THE STAIRWAY, JANET
eavesdropped shamelessly. It had taken her only a few moments to tidy her hair in the laird’s chamber, and she had started down the spiral stone stairs with Jemmy Whiskers in her arms when she realized that she could hear their voices. On tiptoe, she moved to the turn just before the landing outside the entrance to the master’s hall, where she stopped to listen.
She heard much of Buccleuch’s reprimand, and she knew that, earlier, he had not exaggerated for her benefit his displeasure with his kinsman. She could almost feel sorry for Quinton Scott. Buccleuch had a harsh temper and was skilled in the use of words to express it. She listened with respect, glad that Quinton Scott and not she was standing the brunt of it. Clearly, Buccleuch had faced a dilemma, for among other things, she heard him tell his cousin that he had pondered the wisdom of revealing Rabbie Redcloak’s true identity in order to secure his release.
“And that would have worked only if you could have kept yourself from being hanged long enough for me to get word to Scrope and him to get word to Hugh Graham,” she heard him snarl. “In truth, since I believed they’d house you at Carlisle to await the next wardens’ meeting, you’d have been dead long before.”
Hearing that, Janet grimaced and felt shame again that her brother had flouted the law. She could not fault Buccleuch for believing what he had. She wondered if she could trust Hugh to keep his part of the bargain if he did agree to let her marry Quinton Scott. That was, of course, if she agreed to marry him, and that was by no means as certain as Buccleuch had made it sound. The alternative, however, was not tempting, for if she went home, she would face both Hugh’s wrath and social ostracism. Although she doubted that they would actually hang her for aiding a felon, no one would receive her after they learned she had spent a night in the company of any man who was neither her father nor her brother. Doubtless the same standard would hold true if she remained unmarried on the Scottish side of the line, assuming that Buccleuch would allow her to stay if she rejected his kinsman.
Her resolve weakened even more when she heard Quinton Scott claim full responsibility for her plight, because she knew that her predicament was not entirely his fault. Had she not decided in the first place to defy her brother’s authority, she would not be in any predicament. On the other hand, she reminded herself, had that been the case, Quinton Scott would be dead.
Hearing Buccleuch command him again to marry her, she decided that she had better add her own voice to the conversation. A clatter of footsteps from below urged haste, for it could only be one of Buccleuch’s men, and it was most likely the lackey, Will. She did not know whether whoever it was would come farther than the master’s hall, but she did not want to be caught eavesdropping. Accordingly, she snatched up her skirt with her free hand and hurried down the few remaining steps to the hall, taking care to do some clattering of her own.
Above the sounds she made, she could hear Quinton Scott saying, “I tell you, Wat, the lass is not as likely to bow to your command as you think she is.”
“She will not, sir,” she said briskly as she entered. “I am not so submissive, nor will I become so now that I know Scottish law will support me if I refuse. I have no wish to marry a man who has so grossly deceived me, or one who engages in such nefarious activities as those in which Rabbie Redcloak engages.”
Before Quinton Scott could reply, Buccleuch said, “Aye, well, we’ve work still to do, all of us. Ah, good, Will,” he said on a heartier note, “you’ve brought our ale, lad! Will you take aught to drink, Mistress Graham, whilst they arrange the table for our supper?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Janet replied, still watching Quinton Scott.
Obliquely, she saw Buccleuch wave the lackey away, and as he left, she became aware of others entering, bringing the wherewithal to set up for supper.
Buccleuch and Quinton Scott seemed to regard the newcomers as so much more furniture, but Janet’s gaze automatically shifted to follow them at their work. Nature and habit stirred her to see how well they attended to their tasks.
Her distraction was fleeting, though, because Quinton Scott said gently, “I would remind you, mistress, that your brother engages in those same nefarious activities; even worse, he pretends to act for the English government when he does.”
“Hugh has authority to act for the government,” Janet said, raising her chin. “He is, I remind you, sir, deputy to our warden of the west march. When he acts in that capacity, he acts with all the authority of her majesty the Queen of England. You, however, possess no such authority. If King James backs your actions, I have not heard about it, nor has my brother.”
“Your brother is—”
“Enough, Quin,” Buccleuch snapped. “Cease your fratching! You’ve given Hugh Graham the right to claim that you abducted his sister. ’Tis yourself who handed our bitterest enemies the means to bring our clan to its knees. If you mean to mend matters, you’ll not do it by offending Mistress Graham or her pestiferous knave of a brother.”
“But if she will have none of me—”
“Then you’ll face the legal consequences of your escape and her abduction,” Buccleuch declared. “I do not care if you do it as Rabbie Redcloak or as Sir Quinton Scott of Broad—”
“
Sir
Quinton!” Janet exclaimed, more outraged than ever.
“Aye, he is,” Buccleuch said. “Jamie found himself in a good mood a few years back, at his queen’s coronation, and knighted the both of us.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Janet told Sir Quinton. “A man of high position to be playing such games—leading men into danger! It is one thing to do so in times of war, sir, but to do so now! I vow, I do not know what you deserve.”
“Your brother is also a knight, mistress, albeit an English one. Still, if he possesses any honor, he protects his own people, and that is all I do. I support men who have suffered deprivation at English hands. I help them regain what is rightfully theirs, and I support the efforts of broken men—those who can claim no support from their kinsmen—to present their cases before the wardens or to do what is necessary to keep their wives and bairns from starving.”
“You should trust the law to see to those things,” Janet said stubbornly. “You are no better than Hugh, sir. If men like you do not support the law—if indeed, you flout it outright—how can you expect lesser men to obey it?”
“Aye, now that’s an excellent question,” Buccleuch said virtuously.
“Perhaps it is,” Sir Quinton agreed, “but things being what they are, philosophical discussion gains us naught. We can scarcely resolve more abstract matters when our two sides cannot even agree on a site or date for a Truce Day.”
Buccleuch said testily, “We do not need to resolve the problems of Truce Day now. ’Tis of greater import to settle the business of this marriage, Quin, and that remains your concern. I have said all that I mean to say.”
Janet said, “You claim that my brother can force Sir Quinton to face legal consequences for abducting me, sir. Hugh might realize that Sir Quinton and Rabbie Redcloak are one and the same; however, I promise you that before I would allow him to demand his head, I would testify that Sir Quinton rescued me not only from Redcloak but from Hugh’s wrath, as well. Many would believe me, too.”
“Mayhap they would, mistress,” Buccleuch said, “but no one here will ask such a thing of you. Much as I deplore your brother’s interfering nature and his scurrilous intent to hang Quin without a proper trial, his present wrath is justified. You defied his authority, then compounded your sins by helping his prisoner escape. He or Scrope could order you hanged for march treason on that account alone. I doubt that either would, but I’ll not take the chance. The pair of you will marry, or I’ll withdraw my protection, and that’s my last word on the subject. You need not decide now. I’ll give you till we finish eating to make up your minds to it.”
Serving men arrived with their food, and they sat at a table near the fire. Janet found the meal more pleasant than she had expected. Jemmy Whiskers curled up next to her right foot, and conversation remained general. Buccleuch and Sir Quinton spoke of kinsmen and general family matters, frequently making her laugh at the tales they told about certain kinsmen. Her thoughts kept returning to the decision she was to make, though, and at last, unable to contain her curiosity, she said bluntly, “What will you do with me?”
Buccleuch regarded her with amusement. “That must depend upon what you decide to do, mistress.”
“It seems to me,” she said thoughtfully, “that even if I refuse to marry Sir Quinton, you are honor-bound to protect me, sir. He is your kinsman, and you are his headsman, are you not?”
“Aye, sure, ’tis true; I am.” He smiled. “Will you abide by my decisions?”
“I expect I shall have little choice about that.”
Sir Quinton chuckled. “She has taken your measure, Wat.”
“Aye, she has. An it please you, mistress, I’d send you to Branxholme—to my wife, Margaret—till we can safely return you to Brackengill or till you marry.”
Janet nodded. “I would agree to that, sir. Your wife is a Douglas, is she not?”
“Nay, ’tis my mother who is the Douglas,” Buccleuch said, adding, “She has lived in seclusion at her farm in Whitlaw since my stepfather, Bothwell, fled the country. My wife is also named Margaret, but she is a Kerr.” He smiled, adding, “It surprises me that you ken aught of my family’s origins, mistress.”
“My brother speaks of such matters,” she explained. “I have a retentive memory, and families interest me, but it is difficult to keep everyone sorted out when so many people bear the same names.”
“Aye, I’ve noted that myself,” Buccleuch said. “My Margaret is a fine lass, though, and she’ll enjoy your company whilst we unknot this tangle. Quin will take you to her, but first the pair of you must determine what course you mean to take.”
She nodded again, and when he addressed his next remark to Sir Quinton, she returned her attention to her supper.
The two men continued to converse desultorily. She enjoyed listening, wanting to learn more about them.
Sir Quinton’s deep voice seemed to reverberate in her mind whenever he spoke, and she remembered how it had stirred her when first she heard it in the dungeon. He was handsome and well connected. She could do worse in a husband.
Her brother would be furious with her no matter what she did. Despite any agreement Buccleuch might arrange, it would be long before Hugh would forgive her, if ever he did. And if the arrangement included her return to Brackengill, he would see to it that she suffered for her defiance. Nothing they made him promise would deter him; and marriage to the reiver certainly seemed preferable to that.
Marriage across the line would carry disadvantages even if Hugh and Scrope—and perhaps even Queen Elizabeth—were to permit it. The Grahams—the English ones, anyway—would view it as betrayal, and the Scottish Grahams would not be inclined to accept her as one of them. They were far more likely to cast her off, just as the English ones would. Would Scots in general accept her if she married Sir Quinton, she wondered, or would they shun her, too?
Only dimly aware of the men’s voices, she realized that although she had considered the possible consequences, she had given little thought to the marriage itself. What would Sir Quinton Scott be like as a husband? The thought instantly stirred those increasingly familiar sensations inside her.
Surreptitiously, trying to make it appear that she focused her attention on her plate, she watched him through her lashes while she used her knife to spear a chunk of salted beef. He was a handsome man, to be sure. His eyes fascinated her. They looked hazel now, not really gold, but whenever he turned toward the firelight, orange lights danced in them, giving him a devilish appearance. Nevertheless, he was a handsome man. She could see a family resemblance between the two, but Buccleuch was shorter and slighter, and carried less bulk through his shoulders.
Sir Quinton’s gaze shifted from Buccleuch to her, almost as if he had sensed her curiosity. Quickly she lowered her gaze.
“Mistress, will you take some wine?” he asked quietly.
“Aye, sir, thank you,” she murmured.
He set a pewter goblet in front of her and filled it from a jug on the table, then turned back to his cousin.
Keeping her gaze fixed on the table, Janet continued to consider her options, but her mind seemed resistant to decision, resistant even to orderly thought. She was too much aware now of Sir Quinton’s deep, musical voice.
As Buccleuch scraped his chair back and got to his feet, she realized that he was speaking to her.
Looking up guiltily, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I was not attending.”
His whimsical smile lit his face. “I said, mistress, that perhaps I should leave the two of you to discuss what choice you will make. Shout down the stairs, Quin, when you want me. With the lass to look after, you’ll not make Branxholme by sundown even if you leave within the hour, but I’ll send some of my lads along to make sure the pair of you get there safely.”
Sir Quinton nodded, and a moment later Janet was alone with him.
She felt more vulnerable than she had felt since leaving Brackengill. She could not think of a single thing to say to him.
The silence lengthened while he poured himself more wine. He looked at her, still holding the jug. “A bit more perhaps?”
“No, thank you, sir. If I drink any more, I shall have difficulty sitting my horse without falling off. How far is it to Branxholme?”
“About nine miles, I reckon, if we could travel in a straight line. Since we cannot, it’s nearer being twelve or more. You must be well nigh exhausted, lass.”
“I am tired,” she admitted. Then, smiling, she said, “That is why I did not argue when Buccleuch said that I would likely slow you down.”
“Mayhap we would do better to remain here overnight.”
“I think that would be unwise,” she said.