Border Bride

Border Bride

Amanda Scott

To Cindy Kaye

for her faith and her long memory

Thank you!

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A Biography of Amanda Scott

Preview: Border Fire

1

HARSH, SNOW-LADEN WINDS whipped and roared through the late-October night, wreaking a chilling vengeance upon the southern Scottish landscape and piling huge drifts against the great gray stone manor house at Critchfield. The upper floors of the house were dark, for behind each decorative stone balcony the unglazed window opening was shuttered tightly against the cold. On the ground floor, however, the warm glow of welcome shone brightly through tall, leaded-glass windows, laying golden paths upon new fallen snow and setting snowflakes aglitter where they whirled and danced through the beams of light.

Inside the house, the great hall was warm and cheerful, the bagpipes loud, and the dancing merry. Mary Kate MacPherson laughed aloud when her partner, fair-haired young Kenneth Gillespie, nearly overset himself by attempting a double back kick directly in front of her immediately after completing a high, twisting leap in the air.

Do you mock my skills, mistress? Gillespie demanded, grinning down at her as they changed places.

Nay, sir, truly, she replied without missing her own cross step. Such graceful jumps and slidings must surely be the envy of all the other gentlemen.

Are they, indeed? The pattern of the dance separated them again before he could say more, but he was still smiling.

Mary Kate was enjoying herself hugely. She wore her favorite gown, a delicious confection of Florentine silk, its saffron color accentuating her smooth, red-gold curls and wide-set hazel eyes. Black Naples lace edged the gown’s tight bodice and undersleeves as well as the simple ruff encircling her slender white throat, its color enhancing the perfection of her roses-and-cream complexion; and her skirts, instead of billowing stiffly over a farthingale, draped in fluid folds that swirled gracefully about her tiny satin-slippered feet when she danced.

Mary Kate always enjoyed a party, but Critchfield provided novelty as well as pleasure. Highland-bred, she had not been allowed to enjoy social life away from her home near the river Spey until recently when her father had at last given in to the persistent badgering of his sister Sarah, Lady Aberfoyle of Edinburgh, and had begun to allow visits to other relatives when social gatherings were in the offing.

Throughout the first few of these affairs Mary Kate had felt shy and unsure of herself among relatives who kept a close watch over her, allowing her to associate only with those young gentlemen, often stiffly uncertain themselves, who could be trusted to hold their behavior within acceptable bounds. However, here at Critchfield, not only was she farther from home than she had been before—for the manor was well south of Edinburgh, nearly in border country—but her aunt and uncle, though certainly as affectionate toward her as any of her other relatives, had exhibited not the least desire during her week’s visit to play the strict chaperon. Consequently, with her confidence increasing steadily, even before this evening, Mary Kate had begun to feel the heady power of her own beauty and to realize that she was attracting a veritable court of fascinated cavaliers, not least among whom was her current partner.

Not only was Kenneth Gillespie tall, handsomely fair, and debonair, but his father was an advisor to King James, which fact provided the young man with an impressive veneer of arcane wisdom whenever he chose to affect familiarity with the goings-on at court. Moreover, he possessed a sufficient amount of practiced charm to turn the head of any young woman.

Mary Kate had met him several times before coming to Critchfield, at functions such as this one, but although he had always displayed polite interest in her, his previous attentions had not been particularly marked, and the possibility that he might have been deterred by her more watchful relations had not occurred to her. Although she had already danced with him twice that evening before he had asked her to join him in the galliard, the fact that she found his attitude delightfully flattering had seemed sufficient reason to accept a third invitation without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

The galliard, as Mary Kate’s short social experience had quickly taught her, was more of an acrobatic display than a dance, especially on the part of the gentlemen, and Gillespie, like the other young men in their set, took every opportunity to show off his skill. When he swung her high in the air, setting her skirts awhirl and causing her breath to catch in her throat, she thought fleetingly of stories she had heard of people who had broken their legs as a result of the wild skipping, leaping, and turning required by the dance, but then her feet touched the floor again, forcing her to concentrate upon her steps. The next part of the pattern included a difficult back-to-back turn while her partner retained both her hands in his, but no sooner had they reached that point in the dance than a thunderous clamor at the massive front door interrupted the festivities, bringing the music to a discordant halt.

The great oaken portals were swung wide at once to admit four men who stamped their booted, spurred feet and brushed snow from their heavy fur cloaks amid shouts of welcome and laughing shrieks at the sudden icy blast of air from outside. Servants were sent scurrying to tend the newcomers’ horses and to provide food and drink, while pipers and dancers alike continued to gaze curiously at the snow-dusted men.

Do you know them, sir?

Aye, mistress, Gillespie responded without taking his eyes off the four men, now being surrounded by an increasing crowd of the merrymakers. His casual tone was belied by an alertness in his wintry gray eyes as he added, That is to say, I know two of them. The tall man with the dark hair and heavy eyebrows is the borderer, Sir Adam Douglas of Tornary, a close friend of the king. The stout gentleman who rushed to greet him, and who is even now clasping his hand so fervently, is Sir William MacGaurie. I did not realize he was here at Critchfield. Indeed, I had thought him to be still in England.

England?

Aye. He supports the cause of the Queen o’ Scots and has been actively seeking that unfortunate lady’s release from the English clutches these many years past.

Godamercy, then mayhap his presence here tonight means Elizabeth intends to set her free at last. The thought was an awesome one, for Mary of Scotland’s captivity at the English queen’s hands had taken place nearly a full year before Mary Kate’s own birth, and it seemed to her therefore that for their queen to be a prisoner was simply a fact of Scottish life. She regarded Gillespie with wide, questioning eyes. Do you imagine such a thing to be likely, sir?

His only reply was a doubtful smile and a shrug of his shoulders before he suggested that since the pipers seemed to have regained their wits they might finish their dance.

Mary Kate consented willingly, though not before noting that Sir Adam Douglas, with a quick, curiously frowning glance around the great hall, had spoken briefly to Sir William MacGaurie, then signed to his own men to retire with him from the company. She soon forgot the incident in the gaiety of the party, however, so it was with no little astonishment half an hour later that, hearing her name, she turned to find her uncle standing just behind her with the tall borderer at his side.

Lord Critchfield made the introductions with a twinkle of delight and then, clearly believing that he had served his purpose, swung on his heel and departed before Mary Kate had risen from her curtsy.

She glanced up from beneath her lashes to encounter an impudent grin and dancing dark brown eyes. Douglas had changed to evening dress of emerald velvet, his hose puffed and slashed with white satin. Despite the prevailing fashion for tiny pointed beards, he was clean-shaven, and she thought him rather more civilized-looking than one might have expected a borderer to be, and handsome into the bargain.

Shall we dance, mistress? His voice was deep and resonant, and he had the poise and confidence of a man who knew his own power, an attitude that set him well apart from any of her previous partners.

Though she accepted his invitation warily, the dance was a simple, much more stately one than the galliard, giving him the opportunity to draw her into light conversation, which he did with the ease of long practice. She soon discovered that, although he was indeed border-bred, a branch of his mother’s family had land on the river Spey just above her father’s estates. When she looked surprised to hear it, he grinned at her, his eyes twinkling more than ever.

Did you mistake me for just another border ruffian, mistress, albeit better dressed than most?

Not a ruffian, no, she replied carefully, feeling the betraying warmth creep into her cheeks at the thought of how nearly he had echoed her first opinion of him. Rallying quickly, she added with more spirit, But I’d not have mistaken you for a high-lander either.

He chuckled. I’d be well enough satisfied, I think, if you could but believe I possess some good qualities of both.

She smiled up at him, then found it hard to look away, for the warmth in his gaze caught and held hers, and she suddenly felt as though she had known him for years rather than minutes. The feeling passed quickly, but added to the fact of his having relatives on the Spey, it was enough to allay her natural high-lander’s mistrust of anyone from the borders. Mary Kate soon fell victim, to an intoxicating degree, to Douglas’s engaging manner and easy confidence, responding to his gallantry in a way that would ordinarily have been completely alien to her nature.

When their dance ended, he relinquished her hand to another admirer with a nattering air of reluctance, and as he moved away through the crowd of guests, bowing to one and shaking hands or laughing with another, her gaze followed his progress. She even experienced a twinge of jealousy later when he led first one then another damsel into the dance, and if she conversed with her own partners, she was unaware of the fact. When Kenneth Gillespie daringly sought to engage her hand for a fourth dance, she snubbed him so unconsciously that she failed to note the bewildered, ego-bitten air with which he turned away. Beside the fascinating borderer, Gillespie cast but a pale shadow.

Douglas caught her eye upon him several times, and she made no attempt to avoid his glances, even going so far as to return his impudent smile. Though she knew she was flirting outrageously, she found it impossible to stop.

When he came to claim her hand for a second time, she accepted with alacrity, too inexperienced to notice that his attitude toward her had altered, that his voice was a whisper warmer, his touch now a flickering caress. And if, when he swung her through a complicated step, he did so with a hint more energy than was entirely proper, Mary Kate was unaware, mesmerized by his extraordinary charm. Just the flash of his even, white teeth when he smiled was exhilarating. Indeed, the warmth of his hands when he touched her waist, her shoulder, or merely her fingertips was enough to send tremors of excitement racing through her body.

The music stopped at last, and he guided her toward the huge open fireplace where gillies were ladling out mugs of steaming mulled claret. Douglas procured one for each of them.

Will you be too warm here by the fire? he asked.

Oh, no, sir. The hall is chilly if one is not dancing. She sipped cautiously. Ah, it warms me all the way down!

He laughed. But you ought not to be chilled, mistress. You have danced often.

I have, she agreed with pleasure. Is it not remarkable? I have scarce missed a single turn.

Not so remarkable as that, he said. Not when you are by far the bonniest lass in the hall.

Her eyes twinkled as she regarded him from beneath her thick lashes. There are others more beautiful than I, Sir Adam.

Are there? I have not seen them.

Blinded by their beauty, in fact, whilst you danced with them, she replied, chuckling. I saw you.

Art jealous, lassie? He tweaked a curl that had escaped her coif. ’Twas not their beauty but the spell cast by a red-headed witch that blinded me.

My hair is not red! ’Tis copper-gold.

If you prefer to call it so, though I am partial to red hair. He grinned at her over his mug as he took a long sip of the potent brew, but Mary Kate only wrinkled her nose in reply. Douglas used his sleeve to good purpose, then spoke again. How is it that you speak English so well, lass? And with a most delightful accent, I might add. When your uncle said you were a hielan’ wench, I confess I thought I’d have an opportunity to practice my Gaelic.

Most highland girls of my class have some education, sir. She spoke proudly, knowing he would think it an unusual accomplishment, because she had often heard that border women, like English-women, were rarely educated. "I took my lessons in the clachan near my father’s estate, from Parson MacDole, she continued, grimacing at a sudden mental vision of that dour worthy with his beetling gray brows and the slender little ferule he carried as a reminder to those not sufficiently diligent in their studies. And I do not have an accent, sir."

He chuckled. You do, but ’tis an uncommonly beguiling one. However, he went on hastily, you continue to evade answering my question. To hear you confess to even the smallest twinge of jealousy would content me well.

She reddened but was spared the difficulty of forming an acceptable reply when his attention was suddenly diverted to a point beyond her shoulder. Turning, she saw one of the men who had arrived with him beckoning from the doorway into the west gallery.

Douglas set his mug on a nearby trestle table. ’Tis my secretary, Johnny Graham. I must leave, mistress, but I shall not tarry.

It is of no import to me if you do, sir, for I intend to retire soon. The hour grows late, and my uncle’s parties are like to last till dawn. She hesitated, looking around. Her aunt, who enjoyed all the advantages of self-declared and unsubstantiated ill health, had retired much earlier, and her uncle, having overindulged himself in his excellent whiskey, sprawled near the great fire, languidly casting dice with a group of his cronies, all in a like condition. Mary Kate laughed doubtfully. Mayhap my uncle will leave his dicing long enough to escort me to my chamber.

Douglas shook his head. No need to trouble him, lass, or to summon a servant. Escorting you will be my pleasure. Taking her mug from her, he placed it next to his own and gallantly offered his arm.

Although she knew it to be highly improper for her to accept escort from an unmarried gentleman, Mary Kate made not the slightest protest before giving him directions to her bedchamber. It was not even necessary for them to request a candle from one of the servants, because candles and torches had been lit in every public room and gallery in honor of the party.

They had reached the door to her bedchamber on the second floor of the west wing when the same young man who had signaled Douglas before approached them from the other end of the long gallery. Sir, he said respectfully, the others await you in your chamber, and Sir William grows impatient lest someone note the absence of so many at one time.

Hold your tongue, lad! Douglas snapped. It clacks like a beggar’s claptrap. Go and tell them I am just coming.

Graham turned away, his face crimson from the rebuke, and Mary Kate reached toward her door latch.

One moment, mistress. Douglas pulled her around to face him. I’ll be rid of them soon, he murmured, folding her into his arms and lowering his mouth to hers.

Astonished though she was, the unexpected heat of his passion transmitted itself to her at once, flooding through her body, electrifying every nerve end. Mary Kate had never been kissed in such a way in all her eighteen years, and shock held her rigid for several seconds before she collected her senses sufficiently to shove her small hands against his broad chest in an attempt to free herself.

He released her with a sigh. If you insist, lassie, but I enjoyed the experience very much and look forward to repeating it as soon as may be. Bowing deeply, he turned on his heel and strode off down the gallery.

Mary Kate stood for a moment, breathless, her cheeks flushed, her emotions on end. Surely, she thought, only a man bred in the borders would dare to use her so. The odd thing was that she was not as angry as, by rights, she ought to have been. Instead, she was strangely excited by the fact that he had wished to take such liberties with her. Reaching distractedly for the door latch, she had begun to lift it before young Graham’s words echoed tantalizingly through her mind.

Kenneth Gillespie’s reaction to the new arrivals had given her a fleeting notion of intrigue afoot, and that notion had later been reinforced by Douglas’s wary attitude when he signed to the others to leave the hall. Were borderers, she mused now, not noted for their constant plotting and devilry? Suddenly convinced that Douglas had come to Critchfield to meet Sir William MacGaurie for some secret purpose, she allowed curiosity to overcome good sense without putting up so much as a token battle. With a darting glance in either direction to assure herself that the gallery was empty, she hastened after Douglas.

As she approached the room that she had seen him enter at the far end of the gallery, she could hear the low murmur of masculine voices, but she had to put her ear right against the door before she could make out any words.

That Babington business, one man was saying, has convinced Elizabeth at last that her own life is in jeopardy so long as Mary lives. I doubt there be any practicable course left to us now, MacGaurie.

Sir Anthony Babington, replied a second, more gravelly voice, though his heart was true, was a young fool, but more important than that is the fact that he was no more than a pawn for that devil Walsingham.

A murmur of protest greeted the remark, and Mary Kate searched her memory. The name Babington was unknown to her, but Francis Walsingham she knew to be Queen Elizabeth’s Secretary of State, a man renowned for his devious nature.

The gravelly voice was speaking again in reply to the protests. Nay, lads, ’tis true enough. My sources are infallible. ’Twas a wicked plot devised by Walsingham himself to entrap our unfortunate queen, and Babington walked into it just as tidily as you please. In point of fact, Mary’s own courier was Walsingham’s man, and Elizabeth was never in danger from anyone, least of all Babington. Walsingham intercepted all his letters to Mary and hers to him from the outset.

Outraged voices demanded to know whether Douglas thought the king would act upon such information, and after he had replied somewhat vaguely, Mary Kate soon learned from the lively conversation that followed that a commission had recently been formed in England to try the Scottish queen for treason as a result of her part in Sir Anthony Babington’s assassination plot against Queen Elizabeth.

They meet in the Star Chamber almost as we speak, said the gravelly voice, and ’tis certain I am that they will demand her death.

Mary Kate froze. Rather than bringing news of the Scottish queen’s imminent release, as she had so naively suggested to Kenneth Gillespie, she realized with horror that Sir William MacGaurie had brought warning of Mary’s imminent danger of execution instead.

A new voice, louder than the others, demanded just then to know whether perhaps James VI liked being King of Scotland too well to intercede on his mother’s behalf.

Douglas’s tone was grave. I do not know what Jamie will do. He treasures his throne but will not want to anger the Scottish people, many of whom, as you all know, are still pressing him to demand Mary’s release. However, you must also recognize the difficulties encountered whenever one attempts to make him comprehend the power he holds against Elizabeth. As we all know, he could create a deal of trouble for her should he decide to cast his lot with France or Spain against her, but he sets great store by the alliance he signed only months ago and fears to annoy her lest she leave her precious crown elsewhere and not to him. Nonetheless, I agree that MacGaurie’s news is ominous. Jamie must be told at once so that whatever can be done may be done quickly. I warn you, however, that I doubt even this news will convince him that Elizabeth is capable of signing Mary’s death warrant or that of any other monarch. For her to do so would be to set a most undesirable precedent.

The gravelly voice said bleakly, It is impossible now that both Mary and Elizabeth shall continue to live.

The tangle of voices rose again as Mary Kate leaned weakly against the door, amazed by what she had heard and trembling to think that she had listened in upon such a conversation—or upon any conversation, for that matter, for she had been strictly taught to regard eavesdropping as an unthinkably disreputable action. A highland servant caught with an ear to his master’s door was assumed to be a traitor attempting to gain information to be used against the clan. For such an act, she had heard of people being summarily executed without question or trial. Though she had reason to believe that listening at doors was not everywhere so violently disapproved, such behavior was, according to her Aunt Aberfoyle, consistently regarded as an unforgivable social solecism. Surely, she thought, she must have greatly overindulged herself in her uncle’s mulled claret to have been guilty of such a contemptible act.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Douglas’s voice. There is little else we can accomplish tonight, though my own lads would do well to forgo the festivities below in favor of sleep, for we leave for Edinburgh at dawn. When someone suggested that more haste than that was in order, he laughed. We will make greater speed by waiting for this storm to lift. Besides, there is a wee, winsome armful waiting to offer me the comforts of her bed and ’twould be ungentlemanly to disappoint her.

Furious to realize that he must be speaking of her, Mary Kate snapped upright and nearly pushed open the door to contradict him on the spot. But then, cheeks burning, she came to her senses, flipped her skirts around, and hurried back to her own chamber, sped along the length of the gallery by mortifying echoes of appreciative male laughter.

How dare he! she demanded of the ambient air as she snapped the door shut behind her and slammed the stout iron bolt into place. Pacing wrathfully, she kicked off her satin shoes, letting them fall where they would, and told herself bitterly that she ought to have expected nothing less from such a man. Boast how he might of maternal relations in the highlands, Douglas himself was naught but a lowly, uncivilized borderer.

Had she not heard all her life that such men held women cheap? Had it not been recommended on more than one occasion that she ought to thank the good Lord for having granted her the privilege of being born in the highlands, where women were properly respected, where they could own property in their own names, where they might even become clan chieftains? Border women, like Englishwomen, were said to be regarded by their men as inferior beings, as mere chattel, in fact. Even among the upper classes the women were expected to bow before their men or to follow several paces after them, to obey them unquestioningly, and to have no intelligent thoughts or opinions of their own. Was it any wonder then that Douglas, clearly a power among borderers, should arrogantly assume that he might command any woman to his bed merely because he wanted her? She had been foolish to be swayed by his charm, to think he might be different. Clearly, he was just the sort of man she ought to have expected him to be. But he would learn a lesson tonight. He would not trifle successfully with Mary Kate MacPherson.

A fire crackled in the stone fireplace set into the north wall of her high-ceilinged bedchamber, and candles in pewter holders stood ready to be lit upon a table by the door as well as on the candle table near the cupboardlike bed opposite the fire. No chambermaid awaited her pleasure, for the young maidservant who had accompanied her from home had succumbed to a feverish cold and Mary Kate had sent her to sleep in the servants’ hall so as not to contract it from her. She had intended to send for one of her aunt’s maids, but now, with Douglas on his way at any moment, she had no wish to do so.

Beside the candle on the table near the door, there was also a ewer of water, a basin, and a flagon of wine, but Mary Kate had use for none of these items at present. Lighting the candles, then hastily pulling off her gown and flinging it onto a back stool in a black-edged, saffron-colored heap, she snatched the pins from her hair and let the red-gold tresses fall in a cloud of ringlets over her bare shoulders to her waist. Next she removed her petticoats and underbodice and reached for her night rail. Slipping the flimsy lawn garment over her head and flipping her hair free, she strode to the court cupboard and took out her fur-lined cloak, sheepskin mules, and her hairbrush, muttering unflattering descriptions of the Douglas character to herself as she wrapped the cloak about her slender body, shoved her bare feet into the mules, and sat down at the dressing table to yank the brush in hasty, rhythmic strokes through her curls.

Moments later she stepped to the tall, oak-shuttered window near the northwest corner of the room and, using the nearby latchpole, unhooked the shutters’ high, upper latches. Leaning the unwieldy pole against the wall again, she dealt manually with the bottom hooks and pulled the heavy shutters wide, letting in the night’s chill but also revealing the spectacular scene beyond the stone balcony’s snow-frosted parapet.

Large, puffy black clouds still raced across the night sky, but the snow had stopped, and whenever the moon appeared through a break in the clouds, it bathed the white landscape below with a magical, silvery light. The temperature remained extremely cold, however, and with the brief thought that her relatives’ money might better have been spent on thick, leaded glass than on balconies for every window, Mary Kate blew out her candles, flung off her cloak, and dived beneath the thick quilts piled atop the high, curtained, cupboardlike bed. Wriggling to get warm, she listened carefully for sounds of approach from the long gallery.

Several persons passed, but nearly ten full minutes elapsed before the door latch rattled and Douglas called to her in a low, seductive voice. She held her breath, a tiny smile playing upon her lips. He called again, more loudly, and rapped upon the door. Silently, she waited until, with an oath and a hefty blow of his fist upon the offending portal, he moved away down the gallery. Then, with a final wriggle, she turned onto her stomach and prepared to sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Fifteen minutes later she had reached that drowsy state which is neither sleep nor wakefulness when a muffled scraping sound and a heavy thump from the balcony brought her fully alert. Surely, she thought without moving a muscle, that had been a human sound, perhaps even a step; and, as fear raced through her body, the light in the chamber dimmed. Something or someone standing in the tall, arched window had blocked the moonlight.

Though her eyes were open, she dared not move her head to look directly at the intruder lest her movement startle him, for her first conjecture was that a thief had decided to take advantage of her slumber to search for booty among her belongings. But even as the thought stirred, she wondered what thief would dare attempt to enter a window fully thirty feet and more above the ground by way of a snow-crusted balcony.

Just then the intruder moved past the bed, and through quickly lowered lashes she saw his outline clearly against the glow of the dying fire. She could not mistake that tall figure, those broad, muscular shoulders, that easy stride. Indeed, he moved toward her now as though he were in his own chamber rather than hers. When he paused beside her, she shut her eyes more tightly, then had all she could do to keep from holding her breath. She breathed slowly and deeply, hoping that if he thought she was asleep he would go away again.

She sensed that he had moved nearer, then heard a rattling sound from the candle table near the head of the bed. He moved away again, and opening her eyes to slits, she saw him kneel before the dying fire. He gave it a stir with a kindling stick from the basket on the hearth, then tossed the stick onto the leaping flames and lit the candle he had taken from the table. Standing again, he turned more quickly than she had anticipated, and when she saw that he was grinning at her, she turned onto her back and sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her chin.

Get out, she said, pleased that the words came clearly, even calmly, from her tightening throat.

His grin widened. Ah, lassie, you mustn’t be angry. You ought to have had more faith in me. I’ll grant I was a long time coming, but you knew my business was urgent. ’Twas right cruel to lock your door against me.

I don’t want you here, she said carefully. I never did. You merely thought to take advantage of my innocence.

He chuckled. There was no mistaking your invitation, sweetheart. And as for believing you had really gone to sleep, I am not such a fool. I’d have been angrier had I not chanced to recall both your uncle’s fancy for underscoring his windows with balconies and the highlander’s unnatural love of night air. To leave one’s shutters ajar is a dangerous and unhealthy practice, as all civilized persons are aware, but I was right glad to recall that misguided highland habit this night.

There is nothing misguided about it, she informed him tartly. ’Tis merely that men who learn to make do with naught but a plaid betwixt themselves and the elements are a hardier lot than you weak-kneed borderers. Nevertheless, she told herself, the habit could indeed prove dangerous, as she had just discovered. When Douglas moved nearer the bed, she wriggled back away from him. What are you doing?

What I came to do, he said. When she squirmed to the back of the bed, he set the candlestick on the candle table, placed both hands on his slim hips, and looked down at her with a frown. This game becomes wearisome, lass. I’ve proved my desire for you by risking my hide in a leap of at least a dozen feet from one damned balcony to another—

They are not so far apart as that, she said, in a voice that was beginning to fail her at last. Not more than four feet, maybe six at the most.

I am persuaded they are twelve feet apart at the very least, he said firmly. And the parapets are blanketed with icy snow. Therefore, I have risked life and limb. Moreover, I have apologized for tarrying, though it was not my fault and it is not my habit to apologize. So, come now, sweetheart, comfort me. With these words, he put one knee upon the bed and leaned toward her, his right hand outstretched.

No! Shrinking away from him, she bumped hard against the wall. He paused then, his hand still held out toward her, and in the light from the fire, she saw his eyes narrow and experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Since she knew she dared not make him angry while he loomed over her like that and since he didn’t seem open to reason, she blurted the first thought that came into her head. Would you not like something to warm your insides first, sir? There is a flagon of my uncle’s excellent wine on that table next to the door.

But I don’t— He hesitated, watching her closely for a long moment. Then he smiled and, to her great relief, moved off the bed. I see, he said. You are not quite so experienced as you have led me to believe. Well, that is no bad thing, lassie. Mayhap a taste of the wine will do us both good.

Picking up the candlestick again, Douglas turned toward the door, and with the merest rustle of rushes from beneath the feather bed, Mary Kate scrambled out at the far end the moment his back was turned. It was but a few steps from there to the wall by the open window. Snatching up the latchpole without a sound, she flew across the cold floor on silent bare feet, coming up behind him just as he set down the candlestick and reached for the flagon. Without thought for consequence and with a strength she would not have believed possible, she whipped the cumbersome five-foot pole through the air as though it had been no longer or heavier than a riding whip.

Douglas sensed movement behind him at last, but too late. As he turned, the metal end of the pole caught him solidly on the side of his head, and with a look of blank astonishment, he collapsed like a tower of bairns’ blocks at her feet.

Mary Kate stared at him for a long moment before the horrible thought that she might have killed him intruded upon her triumph. But once she had ascertained that he still breathed, she was conscious only of vexation that he had fallen across the doorway. Moving him proved to be no easy task, and by the time she had managed to drag him into the empty long gallery, he had begun to grumble and stir in a way that frightened her witless.

Whisking herself back into her bedchamber, she bolted the door, flew to relatch and bolt the shutters, and then leaped back into bed. Not until she had yanked the covers over her head did she realize how violently she was shivering, and whether that was from cold or from reaction to her own daring, she had not the faintest idea. Moments later, feeling stifled, she lowered the quilt to her chin just as the stout door to the bedchamber shook to a thunderous kick. The measured sound of retreating footsteps followed. Then came blessed silence. Douglas had recovered sufficiently to take himself off to bed.

2

MARY KATE AWOKE THE next morning to the extremely welcome news that Sir Adam Douglas and his party had left Critchfield Manor soon after sunrise. She departed for home herself that day, expecting, indeed hoping fervently, never to set eyes upon the handsome borderer again. The thought that she might likewise never again see Kenneth Gillespie did not so much as cross her mind, nor would it have troubled her had it done so.

In the months that followed, she stayed near Speyside House, although for a time there were still parties and other amusements to be enjoyed. Christmas came and went, followed by January and February with the worst of the heavy winter’s weather. Then, some weeks after the dreadful event itself, news of Queen Mary’s execution reached the highlands, reminding Mary Kate briefly of her last night at Critchfield Manor. The story was enhanced by such lurid details as that Mary had worn a scarlet petticoat, that she had been as beautiful as ever despite the surprising discovery that she had been completely bald beneath her wig, and that she had shown no fear when she knelt at the block. Although such minutiae fascinated her, Mary Kate spoke not one word of the matter to her father or to anyone else. Douglas and the others having obviously failed in their efforts to save the Scottish queen, the incidents at Critchfield now seemed remote and her knowledge, in view of the manner by which it had been obtained, somehow a thing better left unmentioned.

Her social life dimmed during the fierce winter months and was slow to improve even when it began to look as though spring