Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (4 page)

Since the hood of the thick woolen cloak that enwrapped her covered most of her face, she could not see enough of the passing landscape to do any good. She gave silent thanks that the princess and her other ladies were away from home, thus sparing her any awkward explanations. She also prayed that her chilly dousing would not make her sick again.

She was warm at least, warmer than by rights she should be after such an experience. The cloak was not her own though, because the river had swept hers away forever. And her other garments—warm or not—must still be wet, because had anyone tried to strip her, surely she would have wakened.

Worry for her horse stirred until her usual good sense assured her that the beast had likely run back to its stable.

The hood’s fur lining felt soft against her cheek and smelled comfortingly of cinnamon, cloves, and something else she lacked the energy to identify. The smooth, loping gait of the horse soothed her, and whatever Simon Murray had threatened years ago, she knew he would keep her safe . . . until he could safely murder her.

Simon stared straight ahead, his face carefully devoid of expression but his thoughts whirling like water spouts as memories formed, renewing emotions they had stirred in the past, some as strong in the minute as they had been at the time.

He remembered the damp, gloomy day in Selkirk as if it had been yesterday. Looking back, he recalled the sense of pride he’d had that he was doing his duty. He had believed in his liege lord, the Earl of Fife, and Fife’s wanting him to marry the elder daughter of the Laird of Akermoor had been sufficient cause to do so.

A man obeyed his lord, and that was that. He had been proud, too, though, that Fife had singled him out from all the other men who served him.

As for his bride-to-be, what more had she been than the chosen vessel, singled out from all the families with which Fife might have wished to ally himself?

But not only had she disdained the honor, she had done so in a way surely calculated to make a fool of Simon. How disappointed she must have been to have had such a small audience! But Fife and Sir Malcolm had each had reason for that.

Despite the small number of witnesses, her rejection had dealt Simon’s self-esteem a massive blow. Just two days past his twenty-first birthday, he had been thinking himself a man at last, as well as one of value to his family and to his lord.

The lady Sibylla had shattered that image in less than half a minute.

In days following, he had imagined hundreds of things he might have said or done at the time, or afterward, to punish her. None had seemed sufficient.

His only consolation, although he had not learned of it until months later, was that the impertinent snip had spurned another before him. Lord Galston had died soon afterward, leaving his vast wealth and estates to the distant cousin who was his heir. Simon had hoped that the lass recognized her loss and mourned it, for Galston had agreed to settle the bulk of that wealth on his wife. It had not taken much thought, though, to realize that most likely the lass had not known about that.

Men did not discuss marriage settlements with their daughters. Moreover, he had also learned over the years that such arrangements usually benefited the Earl of Fife, and now the Crown, more than they benefited those more nearly concerned.

The fickle lass had then spurned another of Fife’s men, but Simon knew naught of the settlements for that one. Fife did not encourage his men to confide in each other.

His warm burden shifted slightly and moaned, so he tightened his grip. It would not do to let her fall. She had already injured herself, for he had seen a reddened lump forming on her forehead and knew she must have struck it on something. At present she was sound asleep with her head against his shoulder, and although he remembered her eyes widening at first sight of him, and knew she had recognized him, she was relaxed, apparently trusting him.

An image rose then of her racing to beat the child to the ford. He’d say one thing for her: She had an even better seat on a horse than his sister Amalie did.

He also had to admire her courage, but he was not ready to forgive her. Nor, now that he had his hands on her, was he ready to let her go. He was older, his emotions more carefully guarded, but he still had a score to settle with her.

Over the past few years, from one cause or another, Fife’s crest had lowered in his estimation, but he had only to think of that day in Selkirk to feel the humiliation of Sibylla Cavers’s insolent rejection burning through him again.

Chapter 2

Y
ou, there! What are you doing in here?”

The woman’s imperious tones seemed to come from far away, but Sibylla felt an immediate quickening of guilt. Was she not at Sweethope Hill House, where she ought to be? To be sure, she had no memory of arriving, but—

“You have no business in this chamber, girl,” the authoritative voice went on. “Begone, and do not let me catch you here again, or”—Sibylla struggled to collect her wits—“it will be the worse for you.”

“I told her she could stay.”

That deep, masculine voice was not distant but very clear, very firm. Nevertheless, it certainly ought not to be in Sibylla’s bedchamber.

Her eyes flew open.

She was lying on her side in a cupboard bed, and the first thing she saw was the waiflike child standing beside it, her thin hands clutching each other at her narrow waist. Now that she was dry, one could see that her hair was short, softly curly, and very fair. Her face was pinched and drawn, her pale blue eyes wide.

Following the child’s gaze to an unfamiliar doorway,

Sibylla saw Simon Murray of Elishaw, watching her. A fashionably attired woman with a long, horsey face bridled like an irritated mare beside him.

Sibylla thought vaguely that she ought to recognize that face and the English lilt in the woman’s voice. Where had she—?

Abruptly, she realized the woman was Simon’s mother, Lady Murray.

The villain had not taken her to Sweethope Hill House. Instead, he had ridden a greater distance with her, to Elishaw Castle, his home.

Her ladyship stood stiffly, cheeks afire, but controlled herself enough to say, “You do not know this child, sir. It could be diseased.”

A movement from the child drew Sibylla’s gaze. Indignation had turned the wraithlike little figure almost as stiff as her reluctant hostess.

“Shhh,” Sibylla murmured.

“Ye’re awake!” the child exclaimed. “Praise be, for I feared ye were—”

“I told you she was just sleeping, Kit,” Simon said, snapping Sibylla’s gaze back to him. He had spoken so gently that she would not have believed it was his voice had she not looked in time to see his lips still moving.

“I am at Elishaw, am I not?” she asked him, astonished to hear the feeble croak of her voice and feel its roughness. Her throat was sore.

“I thought it best,” he answered coolly, as if that were that.

“Oh, but I must—” As she started to sit up, pain sliced through her head, inside and out, making her shut her eyes.

She reached to find a lump on her forehead as she continued trying to sit. But in the brief time she’d had her eyes shut he had closed the distance from doorway to bed. Putting a firm hand on her shoulder, he pressed her back to the pillows.

“Lie still,” he commanded. “I have sent for our local herb woman to provide something to ease your pain. You’ve taken a hard knock to your head.”

“That log . . . no, a branch clouted me as I was trying to keep the river from impaling us on another. Faith, I scarcely remember! How long was I unconscious?”

“Just a short time,” he said in that maddeningly cool tone, as if what had happened had been quite ordinary. “You stirred shortly after you fainted, and—”

“I never faint,” she replied, firmly suppressing the discomfiting memory of coming to in his arms. “Doubtless, I suffered a delayed reaction from the blow.”

She was thinking with gratitude that her voice sounded stronger, more like her own, when his sharp gaze locked with hers. As she gazed back, her confidence faltered. His hand still touched her shoulder, and she was vaguely aware of its warmth there, but she seemed to lack strength enough to speak or look away.

She had known his eyes were dark and had thought them merely dark brown. They were not. They were a deep, almost fathomless green and strangely hypnotic.

She often felt as if she could look into a person’s eyes and know his mind, but one would never see deeply enough into Simon Murray to see anything but green.

As faintly as when she was first awakening, as if the sound came from a great distance, she heard Lady Murray say, “Simon.”

He glanced at his mother, straightening as he did, and broke the spell. For spell it must certainly have been, Sibylla thought, to have rendered her speechless.

Speechlessness was
not
one of her normal characteristics.

Though he had taken his hand away, her bare shoulder still felt warm where he had touched it.
Bare!
She tugged the coverlet higher.

That brief glance was the only response he made to his mother before he looked back to say, “It may be rare for you to faint, but you did. You stirred shortly thereafter, murmured something unintelligible, and then you slept.”

“The blow must have rendered me unconscious,” she repeated firmly.

“It did no such thing. You will shortly recall that we had a brief conversation before you fainted. I do not doubt that the blow made you dizzy or that you fainted from sheer exhaustion, which accounts for your sleeping so deeply and so long. The difference was notable, so I did not try to wake you. I knew sleep would do you good and that you’d travel more comfortably so.”

She frowned, only to wince again as she said, “I’ve no memory of that ride.”

“You stirred when I dismounted here at Elishaw but went back to sleep before I carried you upstairs,” he said. “You are in my sister Amalie’s chamber.”

“But who are you?” Lady Murray said, moving to stand beside Simon and making Sibylla feel more vulnerable than ever and a little uneasy. “You look familiar,” her ladyship added. “I am sure we have met somewhere.”

“At Sweethope Hill, my lady, when you visited Amalie last summer before she married,” Sibylla said, avoiding Simon’s gaze. “She and I are friends, although I’ve seen little of her since she married Westruther. I am Sibylla Cavers of Akermoor.”

“I do remember you,” Lady Murray said. “But ’tis no mystery that I did not know you, as bedraggled as you were when my son carried you in. He said you’d fallen into the river. We could learn no more, because you slept even whilst Tetsy and another maidservant undressed you and put you to bed.”

“It was kind of you to look after me,” Sibylla said.

“I doubt that anyone at Sweethope Hill told me your name. In troth, I am quite sure that I never heard your surname. Did you say Cavers?”

“Not now, madam,” Simon said. “We ought not to have wakened her. She should rest until the herb woman comes.”

“But I don’t need her,” Sibylla protested. “I am rarely sick, sir. If you will just send someone to gather a handful or two of willow bark and boil some water to steep it, I shall be my old self in no time. And, pray, ask someone to find something dry for me to wear so I can get up. I detest lying abed.”

“Nonetheless you will stay where you are until you have recovered from your adventure,” he said.

Her lips tightened. She was grateful for his hospitality but annoyed with herself for having shown weakness before him—or, indeed, before anyone.

Softly, he said, “You would do well to think carefully before you defy me.”

She glowered, looking him in the eyes again, only to wish she had not.

This time, his mother broke the spell, saying, “Do not waste your breath arguing with him, my dear. He rarely alters his decisions.”

“Then he should learn to be more considerate of other people’s wishes,” Sibylla said, still watching Simon. More tartly, she added, “Why did you not take me home to Sweethope Hill, sir, instead of bringing me all the way here?”

“Would you have subjected this child or her brother to crossing that river after their ordeal?” he asked, laying a hand lightly on the little girl’s head.

“Her brother! Do you mean to say there were two of them in the river?”

“Aye, and thankfully, my men were able to save the lad,” he said. “Due to the rains we’ve had, the river is still rising, so I decided that Elishaw was the most suitable place to look after you. You and the children will be safe here.”

He turned away and, with a touch to his mother’s arm, urged her back to the doorway. As he did, Sibylla noted a tightening at one corner of his mouth, but whether it was from vexation or triumph she did not know.

He shut the door without looking back, and a nearby sigh of relief reminded Sibylla of the child’s presence.

“I was sure the lady would send me away,” Kit muttered.

“I warrant she would if she could. But if his lordship said you could stay—”

“He did, aye,” the child said, nodding. “He brought me up here himself.”

“Then you may stay,” Sibylla said. “Have you any other name but Kit?”

The child shrugged. “That be all they call me.” “Where is your brother, Kit?”

A cloud passed over the thin little face. “Dand do still be asleep, mistress. I thought he were drowned. He’s not, but the laird would no let me stay with him.”

Wondering if the boy was in dire straits, Sibylla said bracingly, “Recall how deeply I slept, Kit, and I am fully grown. If they think he needs a good sleep to make him well, they may fear that with you in the room, he might waken.”

“He might, aye,” Kit said thoughtfully. “Mayhap ye should sleep more, too, mistress. The laird said ye need your rest.”

“I’m wide awake,” Sibylla said. “And I do not like lying abed if I need not.”

“They took your clothes, though,” the child pointed out.

“They did.” Recalling then that Simon had said she was in Amalie’s bedchamber, Sibylla began to sit up, only to feel her head pound and lie back again. She said, “That kist near the door . . . Do you see others like it in here?”