Amanda Scott (16 page)

“Because ye’re
Lady
Anne?”

“Well, that would draw attention, but also, at least a few people would say I was doing it out of jealousy or because I want
to marry Eustace myself.”

“But ye dinna want that.”

“Of course not. He’s a dreadful, lecherous creature, and one moreover who probably wouldn’t be above killing me for speaking
up. Even if he didn’t, my aunt very well might. She would certainly insist that I leave Mute Hill House. Not that that would
be any great penance.” She hesitated, hearing the bitter echo of her words. “I should not have said that, but— Look here,
may we walk on? Someone is bound to see me and wonder why I’m standing here talking to a rosebush.”

“Aye, sure,” Maggie said, plucking a bit of thistledown from a nearby leaf and flicking it into the air.

To Anne’s astonishment, the thistledown grew to the size of her fist, floated a few feet in front of her, and suddenly Maggie
appeared on it, sitting comfortably upright in the down as if it were a large cushion, her booted feet crossed neatly at the
ankles, her plump hands folded in her lap.

“Now ye can walk, and we’ll talk at the same time,” Maggie said.

Fascinated, Anne said, “Your voice stays the same, no matter how large or small you are.”

“Aye, why would it not? Now, go on, lass, and dinna fret about what ye say. Ye’re just speaking your thoughts, and I ken well
that ye’d like tae return tae your own home, King Henry or nae King Henry. ’Tis only natural, that.”

“You do understand.”

“I know ye think that at best ye’ve few choices in this matter, and that as far as ye can tell, nary a one o’ them be guaranteed
tae do aught but make a scandal.”

“If I tell my aunt that I met Sir Christopher— I expect you know about that, too. You seem to know all about me.”

“I’ve only just begun tae watch ye, but I ken more than ye might think. Ye seemed right taken wi’ the man, though.”

“Oh, no, not real—”

She broke off when Maggie shook her head with a knowing smile.

Anne frowned. It was disconcerting to think one was being watched, and she certainly did not want to think about her own reaction
to Sir Christopher, as strong as it had been. But even as the thought crossed her mind, it vanished and a warming sense of
comfort replaced it. “Did you do that just then?” she demanded.

“Aye,” Maggie replied. “Ye’ve nae need tae worry. We’ll do ye nae harm.”

“We?”

“I’m no alone, mistress, but sithee, few o’ me clan can make themselves seen tae mortals that dinna possess the gift o’ second
sight.”

“Can the others with you also read my thoughts?”

“Nay, verra few can do that. Anyone in the Clan can tell how ye’re feeling or the mood ye’re in, but it takes powers near
as great as mine tae ken your thoughts.”

“I see,” Anne said, although even that much was disconcerting.

“As tae the matter at hand,” Maggie said, “ye fear your aunt willna believe ye if ye tell her Sir Christopher be alive, because
she willna
wish
tae believe ye.”

“She’ll say that if he were alive, he would have presented himself at Hawks Rig, if not at Mute Hill House, as soon as he
learned of his father’s death.”

“And ye’d ha’ tae explain tae her why he didna do that.”

Anne’s imagination boggled at producing the scene that would follow any such explanation.

“Ye fear she’d prefer tae marry her daughter tae the fiendish Eustace even if he’s no the rightful Ashkirk than tae marry
her wi’ a man who’d been condemned tae life aboard a prison ship,” Maggie said, easily following her thoughts.

Anne regarded her narrowly. “What did he do to deserve such a sentence?”

“Nay, I canna tell ye that,” Maggie said. “Giving ye that information would be interfering for sure.”

“But I do not know how you can avoid that,” Anne said. “Is it not interfering merely to reveal your interest?”

“Aye, it is, so mayhap I should go.”

“No, not yet!” Thinking swiftly, Anne said, “Can you at least tell me what a man
might
do to deserve such a fate? I’ve thought of little else since I met him, and I cannot imagine him committing a crime evil
enough to warrant such punishment.”

The thistledown shot into the air and drifted down again. When it had returned to its former place, Maggie said evenly, “Dinna
ask such questions, for I canna answer them. Nor can I tell ye if the lad will be at yon wedding, because I canna predict
the future. I only wish I could,” she added fervently.

Anne sighed. “If you cannot help me, I am at a standstill, for they would lock me up if they so much as suspected I might
try to stop the wedding. Even if I wait to speak when the parson asks if anyone knows why they should not marry, Eustace or
Olivia need only order me taken away, and the parson would just continue.”

“Could they get away wi’ that?”

“Yes, because most of the guests are their friends, not mine, and many are powerful men who would be happy to restrain a young
woman who had clearly lost her senses. For so it would seem if I were to make such a spectacle of myself.”

“Who will be there?”

Anne shrugged. “Numerous Armstrongs, of course, because as you must know, that wild tribe counts the Carmichaels as their
allies and has few scruples about anything. They have only to desire a thing to take it, only to disapprove of someone to
destroy him. Scott of Buccleuch and Branxholme will be there, too, because his first wife was a Carmichael.”

“But she’s dead, and his second wife be nae connection.”

“If you know this already—”

“Pish tush, ye’re the one wha’ needs tae think out loud. Go on.”

“Well, they say that Buccleuch’s second wife, Janet Kerr of Ferniehirst, is proving tiresome and that he already has his eye
on a new one called Janet Beaton. He would marry her instantly, they say, if he could arrange to do it legally.”

“Aye, and he’s gey powerful, is Buccleuch.”

“Yes, and like the Armstrongs, he would side with Eustace and Olivia. The present Lady Scott, on the other hand, might prove
an ally for Fiona.”

“A verra dubious one,” Maggie pointed out.

With a sigh, Anne said, “Even if anyone should listen to me, no one would act in opposition to Aunt Olivia’s wishes, certainly
not quickly enough to stop the wedding. The ceremony is quite short, you know.”

“Aye, ye’ve the right of it, I’m thinking, so it all depends on Sir Christopher—if he shows himself and if he chooses to speak
up.”

“Can you not talk to him as you have to me?” Anne asked. But a gardener came around a turn in the path just then, and Maggie
Malloch vanished. The bit of thistledown, reduced again to its normal size, drifted slowly to the ground.

“What d’ye think ye were a-doing, talking tae me lass like that?” Fergus demanded the instant Maggie had removed herself from
Anne’s view.

Maggie had been aware of his presence while they talked, because he had been following Anne as usual, and had been bouncing
up and down and flitting around, issuing protest after protest, all of which Maggie had easily ignored.

Now, however, she turned on him angrily. “I dinna answer tae ye, Fergus Fishbait, so if ye want tae continue speaking in me
presence, have a care!”

“But ye’ve nae business—”

When his words ended abruptly and involuntarily in a high-pitched squeak, his eyes widened in horror, but Maggie said grimly,
“Now mayhap ye’ll listen politely whilst I explain. Will ye listen, Fergus? Quietly?”

He nodded vigorously.

“I care only about finding my Claud,” she reminded him. “And though I ha’ sensed his presence in the area, I canna find him.
We can watch these mortals all we like, but we’ll no learn enough just by watching, and since neither ye nor Catriona can
make yourselves visible tae them— Here now, show yourself properly!”

He was nodding and shaking his head, so agitated that his figure kept disappearing. Hastily, he reformed himself but pointed
to his mouth, his expression pleading with her to let him speak.

She flicked a finger. “D’ye mean ye can make them see ye?”

“I can,” he said, gasping.

“Och, aye, I remember now that ye bring it tae mind that the Ellyllon can show themselves occasionally, but ye canna make
them hear ye speak, can ye?”

Fergus shook his head.

“Well, that may prove useful in the end, but I’m thinking I may want tae talk tae more mortals, too. We’ll see. I’ve fixed
it so the lass will soon forget our talk, and I’m sure she kens nowt tae help us learn which one be melded wi’ Claud.”

“I tell ye, that be Eustace Chisholm,” Fergus insisted.

“Ah, bah,” Maggie snapped, silencing him again. But as she turned away, she remembered that Jonah’s last appearance had been
just after Fergus had first made his suspicion of Eustace known to her. And at the time, Jonah had made a point of telling
her that Fergus was not even warm. That, in itself, made her wonder if she might be wrong to dismiss Fergus’s suspicion.

Wondering if the little woman had ever been there at all or had simply been a figment of exhaustion and an overactive imagination,
Anne walked back to the house, deciding unhappily that she would have to hold her tongue if Sir Christopher did not attend
the wedding. Only then did she realize that she had not told him where the ceremony was to be held. Common sense stirred then,
however. He would have no difficulty discovering that for himself if he desired to know.

In any event, she had tarried long enough, for Fiona would surely be awake, and would have begun the ritualistic dressing
that tradition demanded of all brides. Having promised to help, Anne went at once to her cousin’s room, where she found something
less than the mad bustle she had expected to find.

At first, she saw only Molly, smoothing out Fiona’s sky-blue wedding dress, which lay on the high bed, because Fiona was having
her bath behind a screen near the fireplace. Olivia had not yet arrived.

“Her ladyship sent word to advise her before Mistress Fiona begins to dress,” Molly said when Anne asked about her absence.

“I see,” Anne said, moving toward the bed.

From there, she could see Fiona in a deep, high-backed tub by the hearth where a fire fended off the chill and the screen
shielded her from anyone in the doorway. Her golden hair was piled in soft curls atop her head, and the skin of her shoulders
and breasts glowed rosily from the hot water. Thanks to the French soap she used and a bouquet of pink and white asters and
pale blue rosemary in a jug on the table near the bed, the air was redolent of flowers.

Gesturing at the bouquet, Anne said, “You must have been up before I was, Fiona, if you gathered those for your bridal bouquet
and chaplet.”

“I didn’t,” Fiona said. “I did not want to chance meeting
him
in the garden with no one else about, so Molly picked them and brought them to me. I did help to arrange them though,” she
added.

Anne did not have to ask what she meant by “him,” nor was she superstitious enough to believe that Fiona’s failure to gather
her own flowers would result in bad luck. Indeed, she believed that, unlikely as it was that Eustace would have risen any
earlier than necessary, the only bad luck for Fiona would have been if she had gone outside alone to find her flowers and
had found him instead.

To her relief, her cousin did not seem inclined to further complaint, apparently taking interest only in her bath. Anne had
feared another scene such as the one the previous day, and since she had thought of no way yet to stop the wedding, such a
discussion would have been both fruitless and painful.

When Fiona said no more, Anne went quietly back to Molly. “Should you not be helping her?” she asked.

Molly shook her head. “She’s hardly spoken a word since she got up, but she did say she didna want me tae fuss over her. There
will be enough o’ that presently, she said.”

“Yes, for more guests will be arriving soon,” Anne said. “Doubtless, many of the women want to take a part in her dressing.”

“Aye, and her ladyship must be growing impatient,” Molly said. “The ceremony willna begin for yet another two hours, but folks
will fill the gardens near the chapel long afore that, I’d wager, tae watch for the bridal procession.”

“Then we should get her out of that tub,” Anne said. “She will be more comfortable in her shift than if they descend on her
whilst she is still bathing.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Fiona said from behind the screen.

Anne smiled as she said, “Then it is fortunate we said nothing we did not want you to overhear. Are you ready for your towel?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll take it to her, Molly. Find someone to send to her ladyship, or go yourself, and tell her that Mistress Fiona will be
ready in a few minutes to dress.”

Handing Fiona a large towel and then her soft cambric shift, Anne pulled a back stool near the fire and gestured for her to
sit on it so she could brush her hair. However, she had done no more than remove the pins that held the soft curls atop Fiona’s
head when the door opened and Olivia entered. Four other women followed her, chatting and laughing. They greeted Fiona and
Anne cheerfully, but Olivia stopped a short distance from the door and looked critically around.

Instead of the stark black or deep purple she usually wore, she had framed her still lovely face with a white barbe and soft
folds of a long, white silk veil that draped down her back to within a foot of the floor. To be sure, her ladyship’s gown
was black, albeit fashionably cut, laden with expensive black Naples lace, and included a gold-link belt hung with golden
trifles and a jeweled pomander.

Hoping to divert her from words of censure clearly hovering on her tongue, Anne said mildly, “I see you have decided to ease
your mourning, madam.”

“Certainly not,” Olivia said. “Not on this of all occasions, when memories of my beloved Stephen fill every chamber. White
is the color French royalty wears for mourning, you see, so it is entirely appropriate for an earl’s daughter.”

“It is a most elegant dress,” Anne agreed.