English, Elizabeth (13 page)

"Please
excuse me," she said. "I really must be going."

"Oh,
not yet. Why, we've hardly had a chance to get acquent."

She
stared into his wintry eyes and all at once she was reminded of Sym, a stable
lad at Aylsford Manor, who had tried several times to get her alone. She'd been
frightened of Sym, as well, back in the beginning. But she'd learned to handle
him.

"Get
out of my way, Sir Alistair," she said firmly. "Stand back from there
and let me pass."

"In
a moment," he said, his eyes moving over her with lazy insolence.
"There's one or two things I'd like to tell ye first."

"I've
no wish to listen to anything you might say—not until you let me by." She
brought her foot down hard upon his instep, forgetting she wore a lady's
slipper and not the wood-soled shoe she was accustomed to.

His
hand shot out and grasped her arm. "Ah, lady, this isn't England. And I'm
not your husband to be so easily put off. Ye listen to me and listen well, for
a mistake's been made and I mean to set it right. The Laird is—God help him,
he's not the man he was. And as for his son—" he laughed. "Jemmy's
no' the man to hold this clan together—-not now, not after what he's done to
us. He actually thinks that we'll bow our head to a Darnley—"

His
eyes went over her again and he smiled mirthlessly, "But then, he's no
proper man at all, is he?"

"Let
go of me," she said and now she was afraid in truth, for his eyes were
blazing with cold anger and his hand was hard as steel upon her arm. Without
giving herself time to think, she brought her free hand up and struck him
across the face. His grasp loosened and she pushed past him, then forgetting
all Lady Maude's careful teachings, she picked up her skirts and ran across the
grass.

***

Once
Alyson reached the kitchen garden she stopped, for there was no sound of
pursuit. She should go directly to her chamber, she knew, and shut herself
inside, but that would be dangerous folly. Celia would be there, and Maggie,
and perhaps dour Mistress Selton or poor widowed Edina, and she simply could
not face them as she was, shaking, shaken, and all too close to tears. No, she
must keep well away from watchful eyes until she had gathered her wits about
her once again.

Here
there was no one to see her distress save an elderly gardener who knelt among
the rows and had not noticed Alyson's approach. She crept to the far side of
the low stone wall and sat down in a patch of sunlight.

From
here she could see the hills beyond, dotted with white sheep, and could hear
the muted bleating of the new spring lambs. Bees droned steadily among the
flowering hedges. It was an ordinary spring day upon its surface, as calm as
the millpond glinting at the foot of the hills. But like a stone cast into water,
Alyson's arrival had shattered life at Ravenspur.

The
scent of new-turned earth was sweet beneath the beating sun. As its warmth sank
into her skin, her conversation with Sir Alistair began to seem unreal, as
though it had happened long ago to someone else. Well, it had happened to
someone else, she thought drowsily. To Maude. She wondered what Maude was doing
just now—walking in the Aylsford garden, she thought, her eyes falling shut, or
hawking by the river...

The
shadows had grown long when Alyson awoke. The gardener was gone. She sat up and
rubbed her eyes, yawning, but her jaw snapped shut when she spotted the figure
perched cross-legged on the low stone wall beside her.

Perhaps
twenty years old, he was so like Jemmy that she knew at once they must be kin.
Curling dark hair fell loose about his face, accentuating the stark pallor of
his skin.

"Did
ye have a good rest?" he asked, his voice low and soft and rippling with
amusement.

She
got quickly to her feet.

"Yes,"
she answered shortly.

"Good.
Ye need to gather up your strength. It won't do to let down your guard with
Alistair about."

She
meant to walk away, but something in his eyes halted her. Dark and luminous,
they shone in his pale face with an intensity that drew and held her gaze.
Though she did not mean to speak, the words slipped from her lips.

"He
frightens me," she said.

"Ye
do well to be ware of him. He's no' an evil man, ye ken, but he's a danger to
ye just the same. He sees further than most—or did, poor wight. His sight is
clouded now," he added with a sad shake of his head. Then he glanced at
her and smiled faintly. "But in your place, I wouldna count on that."

"Whatever
do you mean?" Alyson asked uneasily, casting a quick look behind her. The
door was perhaps ten paces away, set deep into the castle wall. She began to
edge toward it, keeping a wary eye upon the stranger.

"Ye
bide close to Jemmy. He's keeping his own secrets, but for all that ye can
trust him." Her disbelief must have shown upon her face, for he smiled a
bit more broadly. And so potent was his charm that against all reason, Alyson
smiled in response, even as she moved another step away, her hand reaching
behind her to fasten on the latch.

"Ye
are a braw lassie," he said approvingly. "Ye will have to be very
strong—aye, and very brave. But I think that ye can stay the course. Just remember
that things— and people—are not always as they seem. Can ye do that,
Alyson?"

"Yes,"
she answered quickly, turning with relief toward the door. "Thank
you."

She
had just twisted the latch when the significance of his last word reached her.
She turned sharply, but the wall was empty now. Running back, she searched the
other side, but he was not there. He could not have vanished into the manor.
There had been no time for that. She stood bewildered, turning slowly round.
The last sunlight fell upon the garden and the field beyond, without a single
rock or tree behind which a man could conceal himself from sight.

But
though Alyson stared until her eyes ached, not a living creature could she see.

***

It
was a dream, Alyson decided as she opened the door of her chamber. It must have
been. People don't just vanish into nothing! And when she looked at the whole
thing calmly, what had he told her that she did not already know? To keep her
guard up? To be wary of Sir Alistair? He had done no more than echo her own
thoughts and fears. As for his advice to trust Jemmy—well, there was no mystery
to that! Wishful thinking, nothing more.

She
shut the door and leaned her back against the stout wood with a deep sigh of
relief. Maggie, kneeling by the hearth, looked up questioningly.

"Are
ye all right, lady? Ye look awfully pale! Did some-thin' afright ye?"

Where
to begin? Alyson thought, and felt a bubble of laughter—or was it tears?—rising
in her throat.

"I—I
met Sir Alistair in the garden," she answered, sitting down in the deep
chair by the fire. She would not mention that other meeting—not now, not ever.
The more she thought of it, the less real it seemed. And she had far more than
dreams to worry about now.

"Och,
and did ye now? And what's that rapscallion been up to? He dinna hurt ye, did
he?" Maggie added, her voice sharpening as she studied Alyson's face.

"No.
But he said—I suppose he said what every one of you are thinking."

Maggie
sank back on her heels. "What many are thinking," she amended.
"Not all."

She
brushed her hands together, staring down into her lap. "There's not one of
us hasn't been touched by the fighting," she said slowly. "Alistair
lost his father when he was just a bairn. He's been fighting since he was old
enough to hold a sword. It's all he knows—and it's the same for most o' the
men. But then there's others... The farmers want it to be over, the shepherds
and the drovers, they're weary of seein' their fields trampled, their stock scattered,
their sons sent out to fight. War's no' such a glorious venture for the common
folk, lady."

Alyson
nodded, thinking that Maggie couldn't possibly guess how sincerely she agreed.

"Not
that Alistair would be concerned with that," Maggie snorted. "But—but
I think Master Jemmy sees how it is for us. There's more than a few of us who
are grateful for the sacri—"

She
broke off, her round face flushing.

"The
sacrifice he's made?" Alyson finished with a wry smile. "Aye. I
see."

"No
offense meant, my lady," Maggie added quickly. "I'll go heat the
water, shall I? There's just time for a bath 'ere supper."

Alyson
wandered restlessly about her chamber when Maggie had gone, finally settling on
the window seat and plucking at her lute.

This
was none of her affair, she reminded herself sharply. She was just one of the
common folk Maggie had spoken of, helpless against the orders of her betters.
Another fortnight or two and it would all be over.

And
then, she thought, staring blindly out the window, the entire clan would know
how shamefully Jemmy had been deceived. How Alistair would gloat!
He
would
be glad to take up the fight again and see this false peace utterly destroyed,
as would the men who followed him.

For
the first time Alyson realized how difficult this must be for Jemmy. "He's
no proper man at all," Alistair had sneered, but Alistair was wrong. It
took courage for Jemmy to stand against them all with no support but that of
his ailing father. He acted in the interests of his clan— even the common
people in his care. Which made him, Alyson reflected sadly, the first noble she
had met who considered common people worth a thought.

Which
was precisely why, if she told him the truth, he'd have no choice but to
prepare for battle. Lord Darnley would find out and then Robin... She
remembered Darnley running one finger across his throat and shuddered. She
couldn't do it. No matter how wrong it was, she could not order Robin's death.

Oh,
this was all beyond her, she decided wearily, rubbing her throbbing temples.
Let the priests and nobles debate the fine points of the issue and God decide
the outcome. She only wanted to save her brother's life.

As
she did every morning and every night, she dropped to her knees and uttered a
fervent prayer for Robin's safety. Then her eyes fell shut and she remembered
Jemmy's kiss beneath the oak tree, wondering what would have happened if they
had not been interrupted. She imagined his arms tightening around her, the
warmth of his breath against her lips, the scrape of roughness against her
cheek as his mouth closed over hers.

"What?"
she demanded, glaring up at the ceiling. "What is it you want of me, God?
Can you not even give me a hint? Is that so much to ask—just a bit of
guidance?"

But
when she closed her eyes all she saw was Jemmy bending to her and felt again
the helpless melting of her bones.

She
jumped to her feet.

"Don't
think of that," she said aloud. "It doesn't matter, it meant nothing
to him. Think of Robin. Please, God, help me remember Robin." She stopped,
her throat tightening, as a terrible shaft of doubt shot through her. For a
moment she stood on the edge of an abyss, staring into emptiness.

"I
do believe," she cried, casting a pleading look toward the ceiling.
"I do. Thy will be done." She bent her head contritely, but after a
moment she raised it and added with some asperity, "Although I can't help
thinking, Lord, that I'd be far more use if you'd make your will a wee bit
clearer."

As
always, Alyson approached the high table with her
stomach twisted into a
knot of apprehension. Alistair was seated at the Laird's left hand. In Jemmy's
absence, Alyson took his accustomed seat on the Laird's right. Malcolm was
already in his place beside her empty chair. The boy nodded as she approached
but wouldn't meet her eye. She guessed that Alistair had had some sharp words
for him after they'd left the garden.

When
she was seated, Alistair caught her eye and smiled slowly, raising his goblet
in a mock salute. Lord Kirallen shot him a suspicious glance, the lines
deepening on either side of his mouth. Alyson raised her own goblet in
acknowledgment of Alistair's gesture, smiling as graciously as if he'd given
her a compliment instead of the intended challenge. The Laird relaxed slightly,
though he still frowned in Alistair's direction.

Malcolm
had said that since Ian's death, the Laird had been at odds with Alistair,
naming him a troublemaker. But

Alyson
knew that wasn't quite the truth. The trouble had been made by Lord Darnley,
not Sir Alistair. Every one of the knight's suspicions was well-founded. It was
just his bad luck—and her good fortune—that the Laird was not inclined to
listen to him.

"We'll
be leaving soon," Kirallen said suddenly to Alyson, turning his back to
Alistair. The knight stiffened slightly at the insult, and Malcolm looked from
his grandfather to his friend, his bright eyes troubled. He doesn't miss a
thing, Alyson thought. Children never do.

"And
I'll be glad enough to see my kin again," the Laird continued. "We'll
have a merry time; the gathering is always such fun for young people. And the
journey will do ye good, I'm sure."