Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (27 page)

The area was reassuringly empty, doubtless because the rain had kept folks in town who might otherwise have come to sup at the castle and then sought privacy.

Westruther’s and Buccleuch’s continued absence reinforced that notion.

Nevertheless, Sibylla resisted the temptation to enter one of the nearer chambers, opting instead to go to the end of the first corridor before peeping into one. Finding it empty, she went into the chilly room, shut the door, and—recalling that she had walked in on Rosalie and Edward Colville in just such a chamber—looked for a bolt or some way to fix the latch in place. Examination revealed only a fragile-looking brass hook that she slipped into an equally fragile-looking ring.

Aware that most people seeking such a room would not want to find anyone in it and would accept any resistance as proof that someone was there, she could be relatively sure to remain undisturbed. She knew she ought to have gone upstairs to think, but she wanted to stay near Simon. He was plainly avoiding her, and she wanted to give herself a chance to speak to him—after she had decided what to say.

Taking a seat on a cushioned bench, she reminded herself that he would reject even the slightest suggestion that Kit might be the Lady Catherine. Trying to imagine why the intriguing possibility had struck her with such force made her want more than ever to talk to Simon.

The plain fact was that she liked talking with him. His mind was coldly logical, whereas she tended to think more emotionally when something engaged her feelings, as she was coming to realize Kit had. He did have an irritating tendency to dispute nearly anything she might say. However, irritating or not, when he did disagree with her, it nearly always sharpened her focus and clarified her thoughts.

She also admired his good sense except perhaps when she disagreed with him. Even then, if only after the fact, she envied his ability to keep his head and think beyond his emotions—if any emotions other than anger ever plagued him.

Focusing her thoughts, determined to think as logically as he would, she recalled that from the first, Kit had taken small notice of the fine quality of the garments provided for her at Elishaw. She had seemed oblivious, as if she had always worn such things. She had also revealed surprising grace and good manners.

As absurd as the idea of her being Lady Catherine seemed, and however illogical, such qualities and attitudes suggested that the little one was better born than they had thought. And if she
was
the lady Catherine, she stood in danger if not of life and limb, then certainly of making a dreadful misalliance.

However, Kit’s obvious fear and the fact that both children had ended up in the river Tweed as victims of so-called raiders indicated worse danger.

That
, Sibylla decided, was why she had to discuss it with Simon.

But would he talk to her? Well before she had ripped up at him on the ramparts, he had clearly abandoned his vow never to forgive her and had listened to her in a way that few men ever had. Had she destroyed the comfortable way they had of talking with each other by accusing him of still being in Fife’s pocket?

He
had
kept his temper after she lost hers and had seen to it that she did not make a fool of herself by stomping off in full view of the castle guards. And he had left primarily because Meg and Amalie had arrived and had told him to go.

Hope stirred.

Reminding herself that he also cared about Kit, she wondered how she might suggest the idea of Kit’s being Catherine to him without putting up his back.

Simply seeking his advice did not appeal to her. She had got out of the habit of asking anyone but the Douglas or Isabel to advise her, and Simon was too quick to take control and issue commands if one gave him the least encouragement.

The latch on the door rattled.

Catching her breath, ears aprick, Sibylla fixed her gaze on the door.

Silence.

Her heart pounded at the guilty reminder that the little chamber was no place for any young woman alone.

“Lass, if you’re in there, open the door.”

Exhaling with more relief than she might have expected to feel at the sound of Simon’s voice, she got up and went to open it. But she stepped back at once.

His stern gaze swept the room. “Sakes, are you alone in here?”

Stiffening despite her expectation of the question, she said more sharply than she had intended, “Did you think you would interrupt an assignation, my lord?”

His stern, penetrating gaze shifted back to her. When it met hers, she felt again that strange, intense sense of vulnerability he could stir so easily, as if her innermost secrets clamored to shout themselves to him.

He shut the door and took a step toward her.

She stepped back, saying, “I’m glad you came. I want to talk to you.”

“I came because I saw you leave the hall and I thought . . . that is, you looked as if you were . . .” More abruptly, he said, “What compelled you to leave, Sibylla?”

“I told your mother I sought the garderobe,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot at revealing the lie.

“I don’t want to know what you told her. I want to know why you left.”

“I’ll tell you, but may we sit first?”

“Just tell me. We must not linger here.”

She licked her lips, certain it would be useless to tell him what she had overheard and uncertain what else to say. Impulsively, she said, “When we did not see you all day, I thought Fife must have sent you to Huntly with Edward Colville.”

“He did not even send Colville,” Simon said.

“Are they not going to search near Huntly for the lady Catherine then?”

“Sibylla, such interest in a matter that is someone else’s concern can have nowt to do with why you left the hall so abruptly.”

“But it does,” she said. “That is to say the lady Catherine does. Do you know how old she is, sir?”

“I heard she is too young for Colville. But that is no unusual situation.”

“She is just seven,” Sibylla said, watching his expression. She thought his jaw tightened but saw nothing else to indicate his feelings.

“That is very young,” he said. “But that, too, has happened before.”

“Do you know what most people call the lady Catherine Lennox?”

He frowned, clearly holding his temper in check. “I cannot think what that has to do with any of this. Most people call her Kitty, I think.”

“Or Kit,” Sibylla said, still eyeing him closely.

To her astonishment, instead of bewilderment or an exclamation of flat denial, he remained silent with an arrested look in his eyes.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?” “Nowt,” he retorted. “It just came to me what foolishness
you’ve
been thinking. Use your sense, lass. Come now, we’re going back to the hall.”

Chapter 15

S
ibylla caught Simon’s arm as he turned toward the door. “We must not go yet,” she said. “Prithee, sir, you must hear me first.”

He turned back, but his eyes had narrowed. “Look here, Sibylla, you are not thinking clearly. I’d wager that Kit and Kitty are common nicknames for Catherine.”

“Then why did you look as you did when I told you? And do not say it was because the very idea is absurd. I could see that it was more than that.”

He met her gaze. “The last time I replied honestly to a question of yours, you chose to mistake my meaning,” he said in the chilly tone she so disliked. “If I reveal the thought that entered my head, I fear you may do it again.”

Licking dry lips, she said, “I behaved badly last night, sir. Learning that Fife is again trying to order my life infuriated me. His very interest is intrusive, but I should not have spoken as I did, and I cannot insist that you see this matter as I do. After all, I may easily be wrong. And, too, if Fife does demand that you help look for the lady Catherine, I should not even tell you all I—”

She broke off with a cry of protest when he grabbed her by both shoulders, believing he meant to shake her. He certainly looked as if he did.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, drew a breath, and let it out.

His hands felt hot through the thin sleeves of her silk tunic. Their heat radiated through her until she could scarcely breathe. His grip tightened as he opened his eyes again, but then he eased it, although he still held her.

His voice was calm, almost gentle, as he said, “You may tell me anything. I would never betray your confidence.”

“Nor I yours, sir,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady when what she really wanted was to forget Kit and have him take her in his arms and kiss her again.

The thought of how foolish she was to feel so at such an inauspicious time steadied her. Without giving him time to reply, she said, “Tell me first why you looked as you did when I suggested Kit might be Catherine.”

His lips tightened, but he nodded. “I’ll tell you, but I hope you will consider my words in a context other than as grist for your mill.”

Curiosity burning now, she said, “I’ll try, I promise.” This time an eyebrow twitched, giving her to realize that, as seldom as his feelings revealed themselves in his expression, she was coming to note even the slightest sign. Reading the twitch as doubt that she could remain objective, she dampened her lips again. She could not promise more than to hear him out.

“Don’t
do
that,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “What?”

“Lick your lips. Every time you do it, I want to—” He shook his head. “Never mind. I think I’m just trying to divert you as you have diverted me when I’ve asked a question
you
don’t want to answer. The fact is that Lady Catherine is not at Huntly as I had supposed and has not been for some time. She and a servant disappeared from Oxnam Tower, a Gordon holding not ten miles from Elishaw.”

“There! You see?” When his eyebrows shot upward, she said, “Be fair, sir. You must see that had you told me instead that someone had
seen
her at Huntly, it would have proved that she cannot be at Elishaw. But a servant with her . . . That could be her nurse. Surely, we should at least discuss the possibilities!”

Simon gave her a shake then but only to emphasize his point as he said, “See here, lass, the idea of our Kit being a young noblewoman or an heiress of any sort is daft. She may be the right age, but her speech and appearance befit a common lass, not a noble one. There is also Dand to consider. The lady Catherine has no brother.”

“Are you sure?” Sibylla demanded. “You said you don’t know her family.”

He fought a smile. “We both know that a brother would inherit before Catherine would,” he said gently.

She grimaced. “Very well, I spoke too hastily for my thoughts to catch up. But mayhap
he
is the servant. Has Kit ever said that Dand is her brother?”

“Certainly—” Doubt assailed him. Had Kit said that, or had they just assumed Dand was her brother? “Sakes, I don’t know if she said it or not. But I have certainly referred to him as her brother, and she has never denied it.”

“She is afraid to admit or deny anything,” Sibylla said.

“But she does not know if his Sunday name is Andrew. If he were her brother, she
would
know. Mayhap he is the nurse’s son or some altogether different kinsman. If Lady Catherine was at Oxnam, she clearly has Gordon kinsmen in the Borders.”

“Aye, many, but now you are adding facts you’ve no right or reason to add,” he said. “I know nowt about the servant. But the notion that Kit is wealthy remains absurd. Think how common she looks, lass. Think of the clothes she was wearing!”

“She wore boy’s clothing,” she reminded him. “Oh, don’t you see, sir, she has evaded every question about herself. As to her looks, she told me she hacked off her own hair. She is wearing your sisters’ cast-off clothes and pays their quality no heed. In fine clothing with her hair grown long again, her appearance will change.”

“But her manner and speech will not.”

“They already have,” Sibylla declared. “You may not have noticed that she speaks perfectly well when she chooses, but—”

“I have noted that,” he said. “I have also noted that when she is with you, she walks, talks, and moves as you do. The child is an excellent mimic, Sibylla, striving to be like you. That is all she is.”

Her beautiful eyes flashed. “Is
this
how you listen, Simon Murray? Must you dismiss whatever does not match your own opinion of things? What about those awful men throwing Kit and Dand both into the Tweed?”

“Dand said—”

“By heaven, there is no talking to you!” she exclaimed, trying ineffectively to pull away. “I do not know
why
I thought it would help. Unhand me, sir!”

His hands tightened, but although he had to fight harder than he could ever remember having fought to keep his temper, he resisted the urge to shake her. “You cannot leave here if you will do so in a temper,” he said. “I’ll let you go when—”

“You will let go at once,” she snapped, trying again to pull free.

He held her easily. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her close until she calmed. He wished fervently that Fife had never entered his life.

The absurdity of that thought nearly made him laugh. His gaze shifted past her in what was becoming a familiar need in her presence to conceal amusement lest she demand an explanation he was reluctant to give her.

Her sudden stillness warned him that he had failed.

In measured tones, she said, “Your behavior is shameful. To invite me to talk to you about anything, then dismiss what I say as if it were of no consequence
and
dare to laugh at me is unconscionable.”

Meeting her angry gaze, he said in all sincerity, “I admit my amusement, lass, but I deny that it arose from any such cause. In troth, I was wishing that Fife had never entered my life when it occurred to me that such a wish was as daft as any thought I have accused you of having. He has filled a large part of my life for years. Until these past eight months, he played a greater role in it than my family did, so he has done much for which I owe him gratitude as well as loyalty.”

When she remained silent, he added softly, “You do make me laugh, Sibylla, often. But I am grateful for that laughter. You have made me like myself again.”