English, Elizabeth (12 page)

"Aye,
they did," she said, tears of anger and frustration starting to her eyes.
"But I hope—I ask—that you don't let anything I might have said—"

"God's
blood, what do you take me for? Do you think I'd hang the man on a whim?"

"I
don't know," she answered honestly. "If you wanted to there's no one
who could stop you."

"Save
you," he pointed out, a hint of amusement showing at the corners of his
eyes.

"Aye,
well, I've made a sorry job of it."

"Oh,
I don't know about that," he said slowly. "Considering that you think
I'm the kind of man who might hang one of my own subjects for amusement, I'm
rather surprised you dared to asked at all."

He
glanced down at her hand, still held fast within his grasp, and released it,
his fingers trailing over the delicate bones of her wrist. She felt the light
touch race through her entire body.

"I'm
sorry," he said. "Did I hurt you?"

"No,
my lord," she said, suddenly a little breathless. "But we were
talking of the shepherd—"

"We
were talking about justice," he corrected. "And you were explaining
my duty to my people."

She
felt herself begin to flush. "I'm sure you are aware of your duty—"

"Are
you? You didn't seem at all sure a moment ago. But I'm afraid there's no time
now for you to instruct me properly in the subject. So perhaps instead we can
strike a bargain."

"What
sort of bargain?" she said suspiciously.

"I'll
promise to give the shepherd a fair hearing. I can't promise more until I've
heard the full tale, but I'll show whatever mercy I can."

"And
in return?"

Like
summer lightning it flashed across his face, the charming, merry smile that had
the power to muddle all her thoughts and set her pulses leaping.

"Do
not ever mention the word 'London' to me again. No Princess Joan, no
tournaments—and please, for God's sweet sake, no more Bohemian headdresses. Do
you think that you can do that?"

She
would have to be more careful around him, she thought, biting her lips against
the startled laughter struggling to escape. He'd surprised her yet again.

"Yes,
my lord," she said. "I can try."

"Then
it's a bargain." He put one finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to
his. His smile vanished as he stared into her eyes. "But it must be
sealed," he said softly.

"I—I—"
she began, then stopped. There would be no point in angering him now and losing
all she'd gained, she thought, knowing she was lying. It wasn't for Tavis' sake
that she swayed forward, one hand moving to touch his cheek.

Jemmy
leaned down and brushed her mouth with his.

She
accepted the kiss shyly, with closed lips and open eyes, and desire slashed
though him with a force that took him by surprise. His hand moved gently along
her jaw to cup her head, and he slipped the other arm about her waist, bending
to her again. Her eyes fell shut and she tipped her face to his.

"My
lady, are you ready to go?"

Alyson
jumped back at the sound of Sir Donal's voice.

"Yes,"
she said, her voice shaking. "I'm ready."

Jemmy
released her. "Guard her well, Donal."

"Aye,
my lord," the young knight answered proudly.

As
Alyson mounted she looked back. Jemmy leaned against the oak, his face in shadow.
But as she set heels to her horse, she thought she saw his teeth gleam in a
smile.

The
next afternoon Alyson peered cautiously through
the garden gate. Once
she was certain there was no one within, she stepped inside and looked about
with mingled admiration and dismay. Oh, what a pity that such a lovely place
had been let to go to ruin!

Sheltered
by the castle buttresses on either side, the garden faced southwest. Heavy bars
of golden sunlight fell across the weed-choked beds of flowers and lay bright
upon the overgrown expanse of lawn. Someone had obviously planned this place
with loving care, but it had been years since it was tended properly. She had
passed the kitchen garden on her way, filled with tidy rows of herbs and
vegetables—though not so tidy as her own kitchen garden at Aylsford—but this
place was made for a lady's leisure hours.

Had
Lady Kirallen come here? Had she sat sewing while her two sons played on the
soft grass at her side? Alyson almost imagined she could hear the sound of
childish laughter and a woman's soft voice bidding them to mind their manners.

But
Ravenspur had no lady now. The Laird's wife had died years before and the other
lady, Ian's wife, had died as well, in childbed. Oh, Alyson was certain that
she could make this bloom again—she cut that thought off immediately. Her stay
here would be as short as possible, and she had no business worrying about the
gardens or anything else that belonged to the Kirallens. She wandered about,
stopping now and then to pluck a blossom and inhale its fragrance.

"What
are ye doing here?"

She
started guiltily, the flowers falling from her hands.

"You
again!" she said, relief sweeping over her as she met the bright blue eyes
of Jemmy's nephew, Malcolm. "Do you have naught to do but hide in corners
and frighten people half to death?"

"I
wasna hiding in a corner," Malcolm answered with an injured air.
"These are my gardens."

"Yours,
are they? I rather thought they were the Laird's."

"So
I shall be—one day. Or should have been," he added, brows drawing together
in a scowl that sat ill upon one so young. "Before your father... Damn
him!" he burst out. "Murdering bastard! I hate him! One day I will
kill him."

Alyson
regarded him seriously. "I don't blame you for hating my father. Sometimes,"
she added very low, "I hate him myself."

She
could see that she'd surprised him. "Why?" he demanded.

"It
was wrong of him to kill your father. It was wicked. I think he's done many
wicked things."

"Do
ye now?" He considered this seriously. "But ye shouldn't be saying
that, should ye? What with ye being his daughter and all."

She
shrugged. "Why not? It's the truth. And that," she added sternly,
"is just between the two of us. Can I trust you?"

"Of
course!" He clasped his hands behind his back and looked her over. "I
don't think you're a pawky, stuck-up bitch," he said at last. "That's
what they say, ye know."

She
ignored the challenge in his words and answered mildly, "Do they? And what
do they say of you?"

His
eyes gleamed. "They say I'm the devil's own," he answered proudly.
"They say they've never seen such a wild boy as me."

Alyson
resisted the impulse to laugh. "Oh dear. What exactly is it that makes you
so wild?"

"Well,"
he began confidentially, glancing about the garden. "I'm not. Oh, I did
put the frog in Annie's bed and she went all to pieces—but Annie's a bit simple
even at the best of times. And I don't like my lessons, that much is the truth,
it's no good pretendin' that I do. But Father always said he dinna care much
for lessoning himself, and he used to let me ride out with him instead. Now
Uncle Jemmy's back,
he
says I have to mind my tutor but I dinna care.
I'm
not afraid o' him."

"Afraid
of him? Why should you be?"

"They
say," Malcolm said, leaning close and dropping his voice to a whisper,
"that he'll be trying to do away with me. Aye," he nodded wisely.
" 'Tis true. For he cannot afford to keep me about. My father was the
Young Laird, and there's them that think the honor should have gone to me— not
to my uncle. I've no doubt he'll murder me soon," he finished with
satisfaction.

"Wherever
did you get such an idea?" Alyson asked, chilled at this calm discussion
of his own death.

"Alistair
said so," he answered at once. "Alistair says that Uncle Jemmy's not
fit to be the Young Laird, not after he ran off and left us all those years
ago. He says that Uncle Jemmy doesn't know anything about us or the way things
ought to be. And he thinks it was a shameful thing for my uncle to marry ye.
Have ye no' met him yet?"

Alyson
nodded, remembering the man who'd watched her during the wedding feast with
eyes as hard as granite.

"Well,"
Malcolm continued, "Alistair was my father's foster brother. Father used
to say that Alistair was even better than a real brother, because he'd never
leave him like Uncle Jemmy did."

The
boy scuffed one toe in the grass. "But ever since my father died,
Grandfather and Alistair are always shouting at each other. I dinna understand
it. Alistair is
kin
—but now Grandfather says he's a dreadful
troublemaker. But
I
still like him. Just as my father did."

"You
miss your father, don't you?" Alyson said quietly.

"Ah,
well," he said, turning from her. "He died a hero's death, ye know.
And I'm very big now, nearly twelve. That's far too old to be crying for my
father."

"Does
Alistair say that, too?" she asked sharply.

"Oh,
everyone says that! They all say how brave I've been."

"I
don't think that's brave. I think that you should cry for him—even the heroes
in the old tales wept when one of their companions fell in battle."

"They
did?"

"Of
course they did," she said, wondering if it was the truth. Well, if it
wasn't, she reasoned, it should be. "There's no shame in it, none at
all."

He
was silent for a long time, then at last sighed and wiped his hand across his
eyes. "Can ye catch a ball?" he asked suddenly.

"If
it's not thrown too hard, I can. But you look as though you might throw very
hard indeed."

"Oh,
aye. Harder than any of the others. Do ye want to try?"

"I
really shouldn't—" His face fell and she added quickly, "For just a
short time, then. I have things to do."

They
threw the ball back and forth among the flowers and soon Alyson's cheeks were
glowing from the exercise.

"You're
none so bad—for a lass," Malcolm admitted at last. "But catch this
one!"

The
ball flew over her head. Alyson searched for it among a thick bank of weeds
growing beside the castle walls. She crawled about, then reached a small
doorway overhung with flowers. Stepping inside, she found herself in a small
room. She ran her hands over the dusty shelf that stretched the length of one
wall, looking curiously at the desiccated herbs hanging from the ceiling among
a tangle of cobwebs. There were other shelves, as well, some of slatted wood
meant for drying herbs, others that held small jars and bottles. A mortar and
pestle stood overturned in one shadowed corner.

"This
was my grandmother's room."

Malcolm
stood beside her.

"Doesn't
anyone use it now?"

Malcolm
shook his head. "Not since my mother—" he looked down and swallowed
hard. "She used to come here sometimes. But no one does now."

"What
a shame," Alyson said, picking up a small bottle and pulling the stopper.
Whatever it had held was dried now, but the faint scent of chamomile rose from
within.

"Do
you know about... well, herbs and things?" Malcolm asked.

"A
little. Not as much as I'd like."

Alyson
replaced the bottle and wiped dusty hands on her skirt. "Here," she
said, stooping. "I found your ball."

They
stepped outside. "It's late," Alyson said with some surprise.

"Aye.
I've missed my lesson. Conal will be furious," he said with a satisfied
grin. "But now I have to bathe and change before I go to the hall. You,
too," he added. "You've got cobwebs in your hair. And dust, just
here—" He reached up and touched her cheek, then snatched his hand away,
blushing. "I'd best be off," he said gruffly, then turned and ran
from the garden.

She
followed him more slowly, her spirits falling as she reflected that this had
been a mistake. It would be far too easy to grow fond of Malcolm, who was
blameless in this whole damnable mess. Poor boy, with no mother and his father
so lately dead, what would become of him if he lost both his grandfather and
uncle? But at least he'd be alive, she reminded herself grimly. And that's more
than Robin would be if she failed.

When
she reached the garden gate a man stepped into her path. He was powerfully
built, his broad shoulders straining the plain wool tunic he wore beneath the
Kirallen tartan.

"My
lady," he said with a bow so flourishing she wondered if he was mocking
her. "We've met already. Do you remember?"

"You're...
Sir Alistair?"

"I
am." He leaned casually against the wall, blocking her path. "How do
ye find Ravenspur? Not what ye are used to?"

"No."
She made to walk past him, but he did not move.

"I
don't doubt we could all benefit from a... lady's touch," he said slowly,
smiling in a manner she did not like at all. She was suddenly conscious of the
isolation of the garden; the high walls that had seemed so friendly were
menacing now, cutting her off from any hope of assistance. When a dove called
from among the branches, its plaintive cry accentuated the heavy silence.