“Is that fair?”
“It is expedient,” Buccleuch said. “If we were to pursue every complaint to a finish, we would soon fall years behind in handling them all.”
“I doubt that such a tit-for-tat method recommends itself much to those whose cattle were stolen, though,” Quinton said.
“They will do as they are told,” Buccleuch said.
Quinton chuckled. “Aye, perhaps. They can simply await the next full moon, can they not, and take compensation the hard way.”
Buccleuch shrugged. “’Tis often quicker than depending upon legal action.”
“And far more satisfying,” Quinton said, shooting an oblique look at Janet.
She saw it and knew that he was teasing her. She did not let herself be drawn into the conversation, though, knowing she would learn more by remaining silent.
The men continued talking, and the platters of food soon were empty, but no one stirred from the table. Sipping wine from her goblet, Janet realized that it was nearly empty and reached for the jug to pour a bit more for herself.
Quinton’s hand closed over hers, warm and startling. She met his gaze.
“I’ll pour it for you, lass,” he said.
They were the first words he had spoken to her since his arrival. Buccleuch had fallen silent, and in that moment it was as if he and Margaret had vanished. She could not seem to look away from Quinton. Only when he lifted the jug did the spell shatter. She put her hand back in her lap and watched him pour.
As if the interlude had never happened, Buccleuch said, “And for the love of heaven, do not offer yourself as hostage for anyone.”
Looking astonished, Quinton turned back to say, “I wouldn’t!”
“Good. Others may offer. If an offer is good, and the English accept it, you can agree to it. However, you must take particular care when you hand over any hostage, especially if it is the prisoner and he cannot pay his fine. The process of handing him over can be delicate, because there have been instances in the past of prisoners breaking loose at the moment of transfer.”
“Is that not punishable by death?”
“Aye, it is, and it has been for years now, but still it can happen.”
“That seems overly harsh,” Janet said. “One cannot blame someone for trying to escape, especially if he is to be imprisoned by his enemy.”
“The law is just,” Buccleuch said to her. “You must remember that an attempted escape from a Truce Day would almost certainly start a fight between the two sides. Such a fight could result in mass slaughter.”
The thought of such a scene made Janet’s stomach churn. What if Quinton acted impulsively and such a thing occurred? What if someone else caused it to happen and Quinton were killed?
Without thinking, she said, “I shall attend the meeting, too, shall I not?”
The two men replied together in a tangle of words.
“Aye, lass, of course, if you like.”
“You will not!”
Looking at Quinton, she said quietly, “Would you have my kinsmen conclude that you married me against my will, sir, or that you have locked me up at Broadhaugh to keep me in Scotland? Or would you prefer to show them how happy I am in our marriage and how firmly I support you and your kinsmen?”
“You’ll go with him, lass,” Buccleuch said, his tone and the look he shot Quinton making it clear that he would tolerate no further debate. “Send for my man now,” he said to his wife. “I’m for bed.”
“We will bid you good night then, Wat,” Quinton said. “Come, Jenny. We have some matters to discuss privately, I believe.”
Her spirits sinking, she rose to go with him, knowing that she would have been wiser not to announce her desire to attend the Truce Day. He had nearly smiled at her only moments before, but now he looked like thunder again.
Quinton did not like to be challenged when others were at hand, she recalled belatedly. She still did not know him as well as she knew Hugh, but in that regard both men were the same, and she ought to have remembered.
“His looks grew keen, as they were wont,
In dangers great to do.”
W
RAPPED IN HER THOUGHTS—
in truth, trying to ignore the images they suggested about her immediate future—Janet paid no heed to where Quinton was taking her. It seemed as if scarcely a minute had passed, though, when he opened a door and, with a firm hand on her back, urged her into a cozy chamber where a small fire crackling cheerfully on the hearth set shadows dancing on the walls.
Barely aware of anything but the flames ahead of her and her large husband’s intimidating presence behind her, she experienced a brief, disorienting sense of having stumbled into the lair of the devil. The thought startled her, and she gave herself a shake and tried to collect her wits.
The sound of the door latch snapping into place behind her nearly destroyed her careful composure, but she had not dealt with Hugh for most of her life without learning to conceal discomfiture. She turned to face her husband.
His expression was not hard to read. His eyes had narrowed, and they glittered dangerously. Logic told her they were only reflecting the firelight, but logic did little to quell her fluttering nerves. Impulse urged her to defend herself; instinct recommended silence. The two warred in her mind while she strove to present an image of calm. At least his face did not grow red as Hugh’s did when he was angry. She tried to tell herself that was a good sign, but his failure to burst into speech the minute he shut the door was more disconcerting than she might have expected it to be. Apparently he expected her to speak first.
The silence lengthened uncomfortably until she could stand it no longer. No sooner did she open her mouth to speak, however, than he said quietly, “You have disappointed me, Jenny.”
The five words hit her like physical blows. Her throat closed painfully, and she could not find words to reply. Indeed, she did not understand him, but when she tried to tell him so, she could not force the words past the terrible ache in her throat. Unexpected tears welled into her eyes.
As she fought her emotions and tried to speak, he added, “I did not think you were such a coward as to run away.”
The tears evaporated, and she said indignantly, “I did no such thing!”
“How else would you describe this impulsive flight to Branxholme?”
Belatedly, she remembered telling Margaret that she had run away from home. She had not meant what he meant, however, and Margaret had known that. Quinton should know it, too.
Raising her chin and straightening her shoulders, she tried to match his even tone when she said, “You sent me away, sir.”
“I did not send you to Branxholme.”
“No, but you sent me away like a child to my room without so much as a discussion of what had transpired. You never asked why I followed you and your men. You merely assumed that I had acted stupidly.”
“I assumed nothing. I would not have been so unkind as to call your action stupid. But you acted impulsively and without using good sense, you defied my orders, and you deserved my anger, Jenny. You deserve more now.”
She knew what she deserved, but she would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Still striving for calm, she said, “I might well have acted impulsively, Quinton, but you must understand that I am not accustomed to seeking advice before I act. For years, I’ve had no one to advise me but Hugh, and I generally knew what he would say. And for that matter, you did not expect me to seek your advice before I purchased dungs for Broadhaugh or hired new servants, even a new cook.”
“That is different, but even so, had you hired anyone I did not like, I would have told you so and expected you to get someone else. Moreover, in matters concerning the household, I know that you are capable. Most women are.”
Having no interest in discussing most women with him, she said firmly, “I am also competent to express opinions and to make decisions for myself.”
“Not decisions that go against my orders, lass. You will meet grief every time, taking that road. Surely, you are not going to try to tell me that your decision to follow us was a sensible one. You do recall what nearly happened to you as a result, do you not?”
“That was unfortunate,” she said, adding hastily, “and I will admit that in my haste I did not think carefully enough about my own safety, but—”
“Or Tip’s,” he interjected.
“What did you do to him?” she demanded.
He was silent.
“If you—”
“We are not going to discuss Tip,” he said. “You have admitted that you did not think before you followed us. We need not discuss that, either. In future, you will control your impulses and do as I bid you.”
Fighting frustration and anger, she nibbled her lower lip.
Quinton said evenly, “I do not want to be a harsh husband, Jenny, but I would be failing in my duty toward you if I did not take steps to prevent you from flinging yourself into danger.”
“I did not fling myself. I feared for your safety, and as it happened, you’d have run into an ambush if those louts had not stumbled over me!”
“I know that you have little faith in my ability to look after myself or my men,” he said.
“That is not true!”
“It
is
true,” he snapped. The sharp tone silenced her. He said more calmly, “I cannot blame you for harboring such feelings, considering how we met. Nevertheless, even if I had somehow been unable to look after my lads, you could have done nothing to help the situation.”
Much as she wanted to argue the point, she knew that she could not win it. Worse, she suspected that he was right, that in thinking she might have been of help in any situation, she had been harboring a delusion. What had seemed logical while she sat by herself worrying about what might become of him seemed anything but logical now. And without logic firmly on her side, it would be particularly difficult to make him understand her point of view.
The ache returned to her throat. That, added to her frustration, kept her silent.
He said, “Why did you run away from me?”
The first thought that leapt to her mind was, “So you would discover how much you would miss me.” Suppressing it, she muttered instead, “I was angry, sir, as angry as you were.” The ache eased enough for her to add, “I know that much of your anger was stirred by fear. You said as much, and I understand that kind of anger. I wish you would try to understand that my need to follow, to help if I could, was born of a like fear.”
“I do understand that,” he said.
“I don’t think you do. It was not what you think.”
“It does not matter,” he said with an impatient gesture. “I swear, lass, you would try even Job’s patience.” He drew a deep breath, clearly finding it difficult to keep his temper. “We are not going to debate this further.”
The note of finality in his voice irritated her, but her irritation turned to wariness when he turned away and began to unfasten his belt.
Defensively, she said, “You should not treat me like a child, sir. At home, I have dealt with many responsibilities much like yours over the years, and I am capable of dealing with them competently. Even Hugh does not ignore my advice or opinions out of hand. I just think you should—”
“Take off your clothes, Jenny.”
She froze. “What…what are you going to do?”
“We are going to bed, lass. I am too tired to fratch, and if you press me too hard, I am like to do something we will both be sorry for. Now, can you manage by yourself or do you need help?”
“I…I’ll need help,” she admitted. “This dress has too many laces and hooks in the back for me to do it myself.”
Quin watched the play of emotions on her expressive face and hoped that he had made his position clear to her. He understood her difficulty. Living with a man like Hugh Graham and lacking the guidance of a mother or any other responsible female, she had grown up in a most haphazard way. He would not quickly teach her to submit to his authority unless he were willing to treat her as he believed her brother would. He did not want to be harsh, but his hands fairly itched to shake her for what she had done. She could ignite his temper more rapidly than anyone he had ever known before.
He had taken off his belt and his doublet and pulled his shirt free of his breeks before he could trust himself to touch her. He was glad that she did not speak. She just watched him, and her expression remained wary.
He was glad, too, that she showed the good sense to be a little frightened of him. He would never have another peaceful moment if he could not trust her to rein in her impulses and behave sensibly. The Borders were too dangerous, and the Scotts had far too many enemies. Not all of those enemies lived across the line, either. Jenny did not know whom she could trust and whom she could not.
She trembled when he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her away so that he could unhook her gown.
His body stirred, just being near her, and he wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her, to force her complete surrender to his will. Gently, resisting the temptation, he helped her take off her dress, then loosened the lacing of her underbodice. A few minutes later, standing in her smock, with her fine, silvery-blond hair unbound and pushed back behind her ears, she looked like the child she insisted that he believed she was. She was no child, though. The soft, inviting breasts beneath her smock were plain testimony of that. Her nipples thrust hard against the linen. She was getting chilled.
“Get into bed, Jenny,” he said gruffly.
“Quinton, I want to—”
The words ended in a gasp when he grasped her shoulder and turned her toward the bed with one hand and gave her a smack on the backside with the other.
“Go,” he said, knowing from her reaction that he had smacked harder than he had intended. Watching her scramble into the bed, he felt an impulse of his own to apologize, but ruthlessly he quashed it. He knew that any apology would be spurious. So, too, was the thought that he had smacked her harder than he had intended. He had not. In truth, he had wanted to punish her, to put her across his knee and skelp her until she promised never to give him such a fright again.
He was not sure even now if his failure to do it sprang from nobility or fear that he might do her an injury.