Stuart, Elizabeth (11 page)

The
dark, oily waters swirled by. Jonet wet her lips nervously. "If I fall
off, I'll sink like a stone, you know. Isn't there a bridge somewhere?"

"Certainly
there's a bridge," Alexander acknowledged. "There's also a huddle of
houses and a few curious Douglases posted about as well. Which do you prefer? The
river or breakfast with our lord warden?"

Jonet
stared at the water. They had chosen to ford in the deep shadow of some
overhanging willows, but downriver the moonlight picked out the water's every
ripple in tones of sparkling silver. It was beautiful, but even she recognized
the danger. There was no way to cross a public bridge unobserved.

Taking
a deep breath, she put her heels to her mount, sending the animal plunging into
the icy water. "Damn Murdoch Douglas to everlasting torment! And see that
you send him there for me, Alex, if I end up at the bottom of this."

The
mare moved forward a few feet, then lunged out in an odd surging motion. Jonet
heard a soft chuckle but didn't dare take her eyes from the reassuring sight of
her mount's bobbing ears.

"I'll
do that, lass," Alex remarked, swimming his big gelding alongside.
"But I'd no idea you'd grown so bloodthirsty. A few more days and we'll
have you a proper Scots borderer."

The
horses scrambled up the bank on the other side, and Jonet was surprised to discover
she was scarcely wet to her thighs.

"Not
so bad now, was it?"

"No.
I might even grow to like it in another hundred years or so," she
responded with a grin.

"Remind
me someday and I'll teach you to swim," he said softly. "I've a
notion you'd like that as well."

She
stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown two heads. "To swim?"

"Aye,
lass. The sun hot on your head, the water cool on your bare skin, the leaves
whispering overhead on a soft summer breeze."

His
voice was husky, provocative, sending a tingling shiver of awareness all the
way to her toes.

Leaning
close in the shadows, he brushed a swift kiss against her mouth. " 'Tis a
pleasant summer pastime not enough ladies indulge in. Trust me, lass." He
smiled. "You'll like it."

Jonet
felt warm and breathless suddenly. The vision he'd so effortlessly conjured up
would have her doing penance with Father William a fortnight at least.

Without
another word Alexander turned, moving to the head of his men. She urged her
mare forward. She had a feeling that if Alex had told her she would enjoy
walking barefoot through fire, she would probably have believed him.

***

Once
past the Tweed, the land smoothed out and the hills became more rolling. Fewer
trees clumped together in wide islands of blackness and the wind increased,
sweeping over the moorland, carrying the scent of peat bogs and heather and the
faintest hint of the sea.

Jonet
had now been in the saddle for two days, with only a few hours of rest here and
there. And as the stars dimmed, dissolving against the dawn sky, she knew she
had reached her limit. She would have to ask Alexander to stop.

They
skirted a stretch of moorland and turned west, riding into a region of hills.
To her surprise, they halted, and it was Grant who turned to help her down.

Her
legs were cramped and stiff, and she was grateful when he assisted her to a
seat on a nearby log. Wordlessly he handed her a flask of brandy and she knew
she surprised him when she took a deep drink, it went down like liquid fire,
but it was strengthening.

She
wiped her mouth on her sleeve and handed it back. "My thanks, Grant, but I
doubt there's enough of this in Scotland to keep me going. I hate to admit it,
but I'm not made of the stuff this requires. Unless you're to carry me slung
over my saddle, I need to stop for a while,"

"You've
done well enough, and you'll be gettin' a rest now, most like. At the moment
we're guests of my lord Archibald Douglas, though he doesn't yet know he has
the pleasure."

"You
mean we're on Douglas lands?"

"Aye."

She
felt a strange mingling of relief and disappointment. They were nearing the
journey's end, but that meant she would be saying good-bye to Alexander. And
she wasn't quite ready to do that.

"Grant."
She hesitated. "Do you think Lord Hepburn might be persuaded to come with
me to France?"

"Not
a prayer," he replied bluntly.

"I
see."

He
took a long drink from the flask and stared out over the graying countryside.
"No, you don't, but don't get your hopes up, lass. Alex has—"

"Alex
has what?"

They
both swung guiltily toward the sound. Alexander had moved up behind them,
silent as a marauding cat.

"Alex
has his own schemes to manage," Grant finished evenly.

"Alex
is also the man giving the orders here... just on the off chance you've
forgotten," Alexander remarked in a silken voice. "And you'd best
talk to Jem now and see just what yours are."

Grant
moved off without a word and Jonet turned uncertainly toward Alexander. "I
was just thinking that it's today we'll be saying good-bye. I was wondering
if... if you might not come with us."

"No,
lass, it's not possible. Besides, we don't even know if Mure's here. You'd best
prepare yourself for the possibility that he might have sailed."

"Or
been taken," she added, clasping her hands together. "That's a
possibility as well."

"Aye.
But there's only one way to find out. Tell me exactly where he's hiding. Then
you can sleep a few hours while my men scout the area and find out if he's
there."

Jonet
hesitated self-consciously. She'd known she would have to reveal Robert's
hiding place eventually, and she had trusted Alexander with her life and honor
for three days now. Still, she had an odd sensation that she was betraying
Duncan's trust.

"
'Tis a place roughly three miles from the sea and two south of an old
watchtower on the southern reaches of Angus's land. There's a steep brae rising
up from a streambed with a thicket of young trees and gorse growing about.
There's a cave there hidden by the underbrush. That's where he should be... if
he made it this far."

"If
he's there, we'll soon have him out. If not, I'm taking you to a place you'll
be safe from the Douglases." Alexander caught her arm, drawing her
unsteadily to her feet. "Unless you've plans of your own," he
amended.

Jonet
shook her head. All her efforts had been focused on reaching this place, and
she hadn't thought much beyond it. If Robert was gone she would deal with it
somehow. But she wasn't quite ready to think about it yet.

Alexander
led her to a secluded spot a few yards away. Several blankets were spread over
a ground cover of thick moss. He motioned for her to sit. "Rest while you
can. If anything goes wrong we'll move and move fast and it's a bit too far to
the border from here for my liking."

"And
while I sleep, what do you intend doing?"

"I'm
off to find Robert Maxwell, lass. I'd not dream of doing anything less."

From
a short distance away, Alexander watched as Jonet surrendered to the
irresistible claim of exhaustion. He was amazed she had held up for this
journey and more than a little relieved. He'd been ready to coerce, to cajole,
to drag her on any way necessary. He was close now, damnably close to forcing
the haughty earl of Mure into a confrontation, a confrontation he hoped would
help in clearing his father of a fourteen-year-old brand of treason.

And
this time he wasn't a frightened boy of ten, trembling but defiant as he went
on his knees to the mighty earl to beg for his father's life. This time,
Alexander reminded himself with grim satisfaction, this time he held all the
cards.

His
eyes narrowed as he studied Jonet's shadowed profile. Well, almost all the
cards. There was still this girl, this wild card he hadn't expected. This wisp
of a lass who could spark his desire with little more than a look, yet had
earned his grudging admiration and respect. This lass who had reacquainted him
with an uncomfortable emotion he had almost forgotten. Regret.

But
it was an emotion he could ill afford, and certainly not now. He could be a
relentless enemy, men said, as dangerously imaginative as Lucifer himself. He
had proven his mettle time and time again in the shifting intrigues about Henry
of England's court and the treacherous currents farther afield in France and
Italy and the empire of Charles V. But he'd never liked hurting the innocent.
His own childhood pains were still too vivid, living scars tracking across the
shadowy netherworld of memory.

He
had used women before to get information; it had never bothered him. But they
had been women who'd known the labyrinthine pathways of intrigue and deceit.
Women who would have used him just as shamelessly if they'd been able.

He
didn't like using Jonet.

She
would be hurt and hurt brutally by what he'd first planned. He would have to
think, to reassess. But he was going to have his vengeance on Mure and not even
this inconvenient attraction to the man's kinswoman would change that. After all,
Mure was at least partially responsible for Gavin Hepburn's death—the only
tangible target for nearly fifteen years of accumulated rage and frustration.

But
damn it, he liked the girl! He didn't want Jonet tangled up in the mess if it
could be avoided.

Not
that that had troubled him at first. She had seemed the perfect weapon to
strike a devastating blow at Mure, a blessed tool sent by the sweet dark angels
who seemed to watch over Alexander's destiny.

So
intent was he on the delight of planning that first day, that he'd scarcely
even thought of Jonet as a person. She was simply an instrument of vengeance.
He would coax her to betray her uncle to the one man Mure had reason to fear more
even than Murdoch Douglas.

And
it hadn't been difficult. Jonet was as trusting as a lamb and twice as
innocent. She'd come into his hand like a dove to the dovecote.

Now
he thought of it all with an uneasy twisting in his gut, a tightness in his
chest. He really was turning into the monster so many thought him. No wonder
Grant had been hostile. He'd sensed the devil inside Alexander stretching and
sharpening his claws.

But
for nearly fifteen years Alexander had been driven by the memory of the day the
soldiers had taken his father away to Edinburgh, by the sound of his mother
weeping, by the memory of a hurried dragging together of possessions and a
frantic ride to the city. He had been haunted by the terror of a ten-year-old
boy, a boy who had huddled alone on a stone-floored hallway, blocking his ears
with his hands as the man he worshiped beyond God himself had screamed and
screamed and screamed again in the fearsome agony of the poison.

He
still dreamed of it sometimes. Even now the memory made him break out in a cold
sweat. His father had been murdered a week before his trial for treason.

In
the aftermath of Flodden with half the chivalry of Scotland dead, all Edinburgh
had clamored for the death of a traitor. A sympathetic guard had warned them of
rumors of murder, and Elizabeth Hepburn had swallowed her pride and her pain, had
begged for an audience with the acting warden, Lord Mure. The audience had been
refused.

But
Alexander hadn't allowed himself to be brushed off. He'd tracked Mure's
movements, then accosted him in the courtyard before a dozen nobles, babbling
out the threat of murder, asking —no begging-—that his father be removed to
another place, a place away from the prejudice of Edinburgh.

Alexander
closed his eyes now, fighting the memory. After all this time he could still
feel the bite of rough cobbles against his knees, could still see the faces of
the men shifting uncomfortably about him. Some had been scornful, others
pitying.

And
Mure... Alexander clenched his fists. Mure had roughly ordered him taken from
the courtyard. Five days later Gavin Hepburn was dead.

Alexander
dragged himself back to the present, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
He'd never really believed Mure had had a personal hand in the murder. As much
as the earl did hate Gavin Hepburn, the man fancied himself too pure to so soil
himself. But he could have prevented it, Alexander believed. And he had been
the one to call for Gavin's arrest, to insist that Hepburn had had the motive
and opportunity for treason.

Odd,
Alexander thought, a cynical smile twisting his mouth. Odd he should so hate
the man who might have been his own father.

"Well,
lad, what do we do now?"

Alexander
swung around with a start, surprised Grant could have come upon him unnoticed.
"You have your orders," he murmured, still half caught up in the
past.

"Aye.
To wait here. To watch over the girl."

Alexander
took a deep breath and relented. To most Grant showed an expressionless face.
It was one of his most valuable assets. But Alexander had long ago learned to
read it. "You don't approve?"

"You
give the orders."

Alexander
smiled outright at that. Grant was a master at throwing his own words back at
him with just the inflection to make them insulting. "Aye, and I've
additional ones for your ears. Regardless of what we find, the lass is to hear
that her uncle is already gone."

He
hesitated then, suddenly deciding. "And if for any reason I'm not back in
the next few hours, you're to get her across the border and south into England.
Take her to my mother. At least she'll be safe from the Douglases."

"An
interesting ride the pair of you must of had." Grant sent him a long,
considering look. "But you'd put that burden on your lady mother—Mure's
niece?"

Alexander's
eyes narrowed. "My mother is more forgiving than I could ever be. She'd
never blame the innocent and God knows, the lass is that." He glanced
away. "She's never even blamed Mure, God rot his soul!"

"So
she says," Grant said softly.

Alexander
bit his lip. "Very well. If I'm not there, take Jonet to Lyle Barrow. He's
the best friend I do have on this earth..." He hesitated, smiled briefly.
"Save yourself, of course. He'll see the girl housed and cared for until I
can talk to my mother to see how the wind lies."

Giant
gazed pointedly at the sleeping girl. "And how does the wind lie? Seems to
me it's taken a shift."

"I've
decided my soul's not half so black as I'd thought. Nothing more. That should
please you since you seem to fancy yourself the keeper of my soul."

"No,
I've just no liking for seeing a sparrow caged with a gerfalcon. Besides, I
like the lass."

Alex
frowned. "Enough. The girl's taken no hurt from me, nor is she like to.
And I'll see she doesn't suffer from being dragged into my personal
affairs."

"And
when she finds out 'twas you who betrayed Mure to the Douglases?" Grant
looked up. "She will, you know, even in England. And she'll know it was
she led the fox right to the poultry house."

Alex
motioned to Jem Stone, calling for his horse. "I'll handle that when the
time comes. It's a treacherous world, my friend. It's best she learns that
young."

"Oh,
is it now? Then why not give her up to Murdoch and wash your hands of the whole
business. There's more profit in it that way, not near as much danger."

"No."

The
two men stared at each other, each seeing more than the other wished revealed.
Then Alexander reined about. "Keep your eyes open, Grant. Move out if you
suspect trouble. I'll find you."

"Take
care, lad. Take care and—" Grant broke off. "Go easy," he
finished softly. "A personal feud's a bit different from the battles
you've fought up to now. It's easier to make mistakes, d'ye ken?"

Alexander
gave a curt nod. He touched a spur to his mount and moved off through the
trees, three of his men following in his wake. Grant was right. It would be
easier to give the girl up to Murdoch. It would consolidate his position with
the Douglases, allay any remaining suspicion the warden might have regarding
his loyalties. It had been his first plan and it was a good one.

But
there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to do it.

***

The
men sighted the old stone watchtower some five miles distant from Alexander's
camp. The chase was heating up and they moved across the land like a pack of
eager hounds coursing for game. It was only a matter of a half hour before they
came across the stream, another until they found an area with several small
caves.

There
were no footprints along the edge of the burn, but here and there the trained
eye could make out a stone newly turned from its bed, some bracken unnaturally
bent. The breeze brought the faintest acrid hint of ashes from a fire that had
probably burned in the night. Alexander felt his nerve ends tingling, his
muscles tightening in anticipation. Mure was here. He could feel it.

Soundlessly,
he eased through the scrub along the hillside, moving as he'd learned years
ago. The cave entrance was effectively screened, then ingeniously covered with
a couple of joined blankets. He'd never have discovered it if he hadn't known
what he was looking for.

Easing
the blanket back a careful inch, he peered inside. In the fitful light of a
makeshift oil lamp, a man sat cross-legged on a pile of bedding reading from a
small, leather-bound volume. Alexander could just make Out his profile. The
wide forehead was half-hidden by a fall of auburn hair, the proud aquiline
nose, the haughty mouth and square, determined chin—the face of Robert Maxwell,
Earl of Mure, a face branded on the pages of memory since he was ten years old.

"What
a pleasure it is to see you again, my lord."

The
man swung around and came to his knees, his right hand grabbing up his
unsheathed sword even as he dropped the book with his left. He gave a startled
gasp, some nameless horror draining the color from his face, halting his sword
in its instinctive arch of defense. He didn't even try to rise.
"Gavin?
God...
oh, my God!"

Alexander
stepped forward so that the light fell full on his face. "Not quite. I'm
no ghost come for retribution. But I'm pleased, my lord, to see you
remember."

Mure
sank back on his heels, but he had recovered from his start. His sword was up
and ready.

"Alexander!"
He
hissed the name very softly. "You must be Alexander. I'd have known you
anywhere. You're the very image of that devil."

"Put
up your sword. There are enough of us here to take it if need be."
Alexander gave a low whistle and his men moved in at his back.

He
glanced pointedly about the small chamber. It was little more than a cell
hollowed in stone. "You seem to have left yourself little hope of retreat.
Was that wise, my lord? Surely you've hunted before, have seen what happens
when the fox goes to ground?"

Mure
didn't answer. "So you're working for Angus now, at Murdoch's beck and
call, I take it. Does he suspect you've another master as well? Henry Tudor
perhaps?"

Alexander
shrugged. "I work for whoever pays best, whoever has what I want."

"Spoken
like any whore from the Edinburgh stews. But then I suppose you come by it
honestly. From both sides." Mure smiled mirthlessly. "The breeding
always tells."

Alexander
picked at a broken thumbnail, biding his time. He had a weapon and planned to
use it. "Does it now? Odd, I've just been thinking the opposite, wondering
how Maxwell blood could have produced such a flower."

He
looked up through his lashes. Mure's hand had clenched on his sword, the muscles
in his throat had tightened visibly. A tense moment went by and Alexander
waited, enjoying himself.

"What
do you mean?" Mure got out.

"Only
that your brother must have been a sweet lad, quite different from
yourself."

Mure
swung to his feet with a snarl. "If you've touched her, I'll kill you, so
help me God!"

It
was the chance Alexander had been waiting for. For the slightest instant as
Mure rose he was off balance. Alexander lunged forward, smashing his heel into
Mure's knee while the leg was still flexed.