Amanda Scott (27 page)

He shook hands with Toby and with the false Berridge, and as he left the room, he heard the latter cheerfully accept Toby’s
invitation to play Cent at the extravagant sum of sixpence a game.

Wondering how Tam expected to pay his debt if he lost, Kit mentally shook his head at the older man. He had said he had friends
who helped him learn what was going on at Hawks Rig. Apparently, he also had friends with sufficient resources to lend him
the fine clothing he wore, so perhaps their generosity would extend itself to financing his losses as Lord Berridge.

On the other hand, neither Kit nor Willie had ever learned why Tam had been sentenced to the
Marion Ogilvy.
The older man had had kept his counsel with regard to the details of his previous life.

In the stableyard, Kit found his horse saddled and waiting, so he mounted and rode outside the gates, feeling strangely bereft
and hesitant about the course he had set for himself. He had grown accustomed to having companions when he rode, and he missed
them. Riding to attend the wedding, he had had Willie with him and had been able to discuss his dilemma and what he might
do about it. Now, however, even had Willie been with him, Kit knew he would have felt at least a little uneasy discussing
his continuing suspicions of and profound dislike for his uncle. Eustace was, after all, family, while Willie, however close
a friend, was not.

He thought of Anne again then, and smiled. She had probably seen more of Eustace in past months than he ever had, and since
she was clearly intelligent and sensible, she might well have provided some helpful insights into his character. It was a
pity that he had not found an opportunity to discuss him further with her.

Now, however, he was alone, and the fact that Eustace had not wanted him to ride with his party was unsettling. Equally unsettling
was the cold shoulder he had received from other members of the Chisholm family, although, to be sure, very few that he knew
or even recognized had attended the wedding.

It occurred to him then that the other Chisholms scarcely knew him. His father had not been one who gathered family around
him even on festive occasions, and he had not done so at all after Kit’s mother died when Kit was fifteen. Three years later,
the old laird had sent him to the Highlands. And in truth, Kit admitted, he had done little himself to cultivate the acquaintance
of his Border kinsmen.

That he would one day be Laird of Ashkirk and Torness had been but a fact of knowledge, nothing more. His father had shown
small interest in training him to take his place, leaving him to learn about the power of his position and the proper way
to wield it from his Highland relatives, particularly from Lord Chisholm of Dundreggan. The irony of that was that Chisholm
had done nothing to train the son who would succeed
him.
Kit smiled. That was something he and Alex had in common, but their reasons were very different. Chisholm, with two other,
far more redoubtable sons, had never expected Alex, the youngest, to become his heir. But the murders of those two elder sons
had altered many lives.

Now, however, the sun was shining, birds sang, and a light breeze stirred the golden grass on the hillsides. The track was
clearly marked, and Kit’s mood improved considerably as he rode into the steep hills beyond Ewes village. He was eager to
see Hawks Rig again after his long absence, and the closer he drew, the more eager he became, but the wariness he felt grew
by equal measures.

He thought it was odd that Eustace hadn’t made more of a push to be sure he was dead. Had he simply inquired at Torness, Kit’s
steward would have warned him that Kit had only disappeared and that it was by no means certain he had died. But Eustace had
assumed that Kit was dead and had taken control. Certainly, Kit could not trust him. Nor could he trust Cardinal Beaton, who
seemed constantly to hover at the edges of his life, because Eustace was entirely too confident of Beaton.

Kit was not looking forward to the cardinal’s arrival in any case. He was as certain as he could be now that he did not want
to marry Fiona Carmichael, but if Beaton declared that he must, he would have little choice. That Beaton might be in league
with Eustace complicated things, but he could not imagine what Beaton might gain by standing with Eustace against him.

Despite his unhappy fifteen months Kit had spent as a prisoner aboard the cardinal’s ship, he knew of no particular reason
that Beaton should even be aware of his existence, since the Sheriff of Inverness had instigated that particular arrangement.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he recalled that the sheriff had been eager to please Beaton, but since Kit could think
of no reason that imprisoning him should do any such thing, that point seemed to lead nowhere.

Anne clearly had said nothing to Lady Carmichael about his time as a shipboard prisoner, because if she had, he was certain
her ladyship would not have treated him so kindly, nor would she be so eager to effect his marriage to her daughter now if
she knew he had once faced life servitude for murder.

That it might aid his case to tell her himself also occurred to him, but that seemed a scurvy thing to do. Moreover, the embarrassment
to himself and everyone involved was too great a price to pay, and too, he had the unhappy feeling that his would-be future
mother-in-law would not care a whisker for the charges if she could just marry her daughter to the Laird of Ashkirk.

Afternoon lengthened to dusk before Hawks Rig hove into sight on the high, rocky ridge from whence it drew its name. Beyond,
to the north the castle looked down on the swiftly flowing Teviot. Here to the southeast, it overlooked the steep hills serving
as the watershed for Ewesdale. The landscape was thus more rugged but familiar, and a short while later, he came to the steep
track leading to the ridge.

The light had faded nearly to darkness; however, despite his long absence, he knew the track was unlikely to have changed,
and although it wound among huge boulders, over and between running streams that fed Ewes Water, and alongside treacherous
slides of scree, he remembered it well.

The castle had been visible from below, but once he started up the track, he soon lost sight of it. Not only was the light
disappearing but rocky ledges jutted from the hillside above to obscure his view, and thickets of trees, now nearly denuded
of leaves, made tall screens near the larger streams. Apart from the trees and a few patches of dry grass, the hillside was
stark, barren, and lonely, making Kit feel as if he were the only human for miles, so when the shot rang out, it startled
both him and his horse and thus nearly unseated him.

“Sakes,” Catriona exclaimed, flitting to a nearby boulder as echoes of the gunshot reverberated across the hill, “why does
the great noddy not jump down and hide? He’ll be killed, and then where shall I be?”

Fergus was nowhere to be seen, but his voice followed her as he said, “I dinna want that any more than ye do, Catriona. ’Twould
sorely disappoint me if he’s no at hand tae marry the lovely Fiona, but there now, he’s off his pony and behind one o’ them
boulders. Did ye see where yon shot came from?”

“Above him on the hill,” she said as a second shot echoed over the hillside. “If we do not interfere, he may die! Oh, Fergus,
what shall we do?”

“Nowt,” Fergus said, pointing. “Look yonder.”

“Where?” she demanded, reminding him that she could not see him.

A single hand appeared in the air, pointing. “There,” he said.

Flinging himself from his saddle, Kit grabbed his own pistol from its holster. He had also brought his longbow and sword,
both of which he had carried with him from the Highlands, but since he was below the would-be assassin and unable to see him,
he was at a distinct disadvantage for any bowshot he might attempt. And swordplay on such terrain would be foolhardy.

The pistol was a weapon for closer quarters, and the boulders would provide cover for him to make his way nearer whenever
the shooter was distracted. The other weapon had sounded like a matchlock, which took time and care to reload.

As he moved cautiously from one boulder to the next, he heard shouting above him on the hill, then sounds of struggle and
two more shots.

A short silence fell, followed by a familiar voice yelling, “Laird, ye can show yourself now. We ha’ the villain well in hand!”

Kit looked around the boulder and, even in the fading, dusky light, recognized Blind Sammy Crosier waving from a short distance
up the hill. Leaving his horse where it stood, Kit scrambled up to meet him.

“What are you doing here, and who the devil was shooting at me?” he asked when he was near enough to make himself heard without
shouting.

“I dinna ken the lout,” Sammy said, “but he’s yonder wi’ me lads.”

Following him, Kit found the others zealously tying up a man he had never seen before. “Who are you?” he demanded, standing
over him with his hands on his hips. “Why did you shoot at me?”

The man, as rough looking as the reivers, gazed back at him sullenly.

“Likely he’ll be following your uncle’s orders,” Sammy said.

Kit frowned. “Why do you say so?”

“Because we watched him make his way tae this ambush o’ his,” Sammy said. “He came down the hill, laird, from Hawks Rig.”

“Then why the devil did you not stop him before he fired at me?”

“We were behind him,” Sammy said. “We couldna shoot, especially in this poor light, because dodging in and out amongst them
rocks as he did, he were never in sight long enough tae take aim. If we’d shouted, he might ha’ got away. Would ye ha’ believed
us if we’d told ye a man ye couldna see were trying tae murder ye?”

“I don’t know,” Kit said honestly, “but your way, I might have been dead.”

Sammy smiled, revealing broken, yellowing teeth. “Aye, I’ll grant ye that. Ye’re a good man, laird, and I’ll own that had
he waited till ye were closer, we’d likely ha’ shouted. As tae what we be doing here, if ye’ll come awa’ over where the lout
canna hear us, I’ll tell ye.”

Kit followed him to the bank of one of the little, trickling streams, where Sammy muttered, “It were our Willie, sir. He said
ye’d be coming home today, and we should keep near the track and watch for ye. Did we see anything out o’ the ordinary, we
was tae take steps, he said. Seemed tae me that a chap slithering down the hill wi’ a great matchlock gun under his arm counted
as out o’ the ordinary.”

“I’d agree with that,” Kit said dryly.

“What’ll we do wi’ him?”

“Keep him,” Kit said. “I don’t want him; and, from the look of him, he’ll deny having anything to do with my uncle. And my
uncle will certainly deny him.”

“Aye, but we’ve ways and all tae make him sing like a wee bird, if ye like. He’d ha’ killed ye wi’out a blink, I’m thinking.”

“Just keep him out of my way,” Kit said. “And if you’ve a pair of stout lads you can set to watch him, and your own horses
nearby, I’d be grateful if you and the others would ride the rest of the way with me. ’Twould give me a proper tail when I
reach Hawks Rig, and one I think I can trust.” He gave Sammy a direct look.

“Aye, ye can trust us, sir. We’re Willie’s lads, like always, and he did say we should look after ye now that ye’re one of
us, and all.”

Kit frowned again. “Willie’s lads? I know that he rides with you, but—”

“Aye, that’s all I meant, sir. We stick together, sithee, one and all. ‘Tis the reivers’ way, ye ken.”

Kit nodded. He had heard of the reivers’ way. Generally, each band came from a single clan or an alliance of clans, and where
one member went, they all went. When one member lied, they all lied together, and swore they were elsewhere if anyone accused
a single member or all of them of lifting a herd.

Still, the way Sammy had referred to Willie was unusual. Gently, Kit said, “Who is Willie’s father?”

“His da?” Sammy grinned. “Aye, well, that would be Ill Will Armstrong.”

“So Willie is Mangerton’s cousin,” Kit said thoughtfully, referring to the prickly, powerful laird who had long created uproar
in fractious Liddesdale.

“Aye, he is, and cousin tae Black Jock o’ vivid memory,” Sammy said.

Black Jock, as everyone in the Borders knew, was Johnny Armstrong, a notorious reiver hanged by the King more than a decade
before. Ill Will Armstrong had hanged with him, and the event had poisoned the relationship between the western Scottish Borders
and the Scottish Crown, and was a primary reason that Jamie could not trust his Border lords to support him against Henry
now. Willie came by his reiving naturally.

Sammy told two of his men to look after the gunman and sent a third to collect Kit’s horse. Then he led the way to where he
and his men had left their mounts. From where they stood, Kit noted, they could not even see light from Hawks Rig, let alone
the shadowy bulk of the castle. Nevertheless, anyone watching the track from atop its wall must have seen his approach before
he started up the track and must certainly have heard the gunshots.

He heard no sound of anyone riding down from above.

Sammy easily followed his train of thought, for he said, “That uncle o’ yours takes small interest in his own safety, I’m
thinking, since he doesna seem tae care that some’un be shooting on Chisholm property.”

“How did you get up here without the men on the wall seeing you?”

“Slipped up in the dark last night, we did, then hid amongst the rocks when Eustace and his lot rode up the hill at noon today.
Nae one saw us.”

“But how did Willie get word to you in time? He must have done so before he and Eustace left Mute Hill House.”

“Aye, now that would be telling,” Sammy said, grinning.

Kit realized they must have made their plan before Willie adopted his role as jester. The only information the reivers would
have needed after that was the exact day or days that Eustace and Kit would arrive at Hawks Rig.

He asked no more questions, keeping his mind on the hillside ahead, lest there be more surprises. There were none, but when
he and his escort approached the tall torch-lit gates to the castle, they found them closed.