English, Elizabeth (3 page)

But
now the brilliant eyes were shadowed as they regarded Jemmy narrowly.

"Alistair,"
Jemmy began, and then stopped. He had glanced instinctively to Alistair's side,
expecting to see Ian, but Ian wasn't there. And for the first time the reality
of his brother's death hit Jemmy like a blow. Ian, who had never been still for
a moment, was now forever still. Never again would Jemmy see his brother's
wicked grin or be drawn into one of his mad adventures. The sense of loss was
so keen and sudden that Jemmy was speechless with the pain of it.

Alistair
had caught the glance and read its meaning. His gray eyes softened, and even in
the midst of his own loss, Jemmy knew that it must be a thousand times worse
for his kinsman. For as long as Jemmy could remember it had been the two of
them, Alistair and Ian, bound by ties even closer than blood. Theirs was a
kinship of mind and heart—even as children each had known exactly what the
other thought without the bother of discussing
it.
There had been
jealousy, Jemmy remembered now, on his side and on Alistair's as well. Ian was
the link that had drawn them together—and the wedge that had driven them apart.

"Alistair,
I'm so sorry," Jemmy said at last.

"Aye,
so are we all," Alistair said, so briskly that Jemmy knew he was incapable
of discussing Ian's death. "But now you're back, though ye dinna hurry
overmuch that I can tell. Did ye no stop to think we had need o' ye at
home?"

"I
came as soon as I heard," Jemmy said, feeling instantly defensive without
knowing why he should.

"Well,
you're here now and not a moment too soon. You're the only one who can stop
your poor mad father, and that's what ye must do. Ye must tell him you'll have
no part of it. Tell him straight out so there's no mistake."

"Have
no part of
what?"
Jemmy asked, annoyed. Alistair hadn't changed a
bit. He was just as high-handed as ever, snapping orders right and left without
bothering to explain or caring who might be offended by his manner.

"He
gone and promised ye—we'll scarce make it back before the wedding."

"Wedding?"
Jemmy repeated sharply.
"My
wedding? But—he can't do that!"

"Aye,
well, that's what we've all been sayin', isn't it?" Alistair said, and the
men around him murmured in agreement. "But he isn't listening. Since
Ian—" he stopped and swallowed hard. "Since January, your father's
mind has come unhinged."

Jemmy
searched the faces of the other men, seeing embarrassment and reluctant
acquiescence. Though none would have put it so bluntly, it was clear that they
agreed.

"But
what does that have to do with any marriage?"

"He's
gone and promised ye to Maude Darnley."

"Maude—?"
Jemmy blew out an exasperated breath. "God's blood, Alistair, but that's a
sorry jest."

"I
wish I
was
jesting." Alistair gripped his elbow and led him to a
small hut, gesturing the other men away. " 'Tis true enough, Jemmy, and
you're the only man to stop it. The Laird is past all reason now."

The
rain drummed upon the thin plank roof, and the voices of the other men faded
into a distant hum. It seemed there was nothing left of the world but him and
Alistair, trapped together in this tiny space.

"Then
tell me," Jemmy said. "Tell me all that's happened."

***

In
the filthy taproom of a squalid little inn, Jemmy drank
without tasting
the sour ale and listened without hearing to all the news of home. When at last
he fell into bed, his mind was reeling.

Though
Jemmy had known Ian's death would be a blow to his father, it seemed that
matters were far, far worse than he'd imagined. For one thing, Ian's loss had
destroyed the Laird's health, bringing on the first of the attacks that
Alistair had explained were becoming more frequent and severe. The physicians
could say what they liked, but both Alistair and Jemmy agreed that the real
cause of the Laird's illness was simple: the old man's heart was broken. But
that was the only agreement they could reach.

Alistair
believed the Laird was mad as well, while Jemmy knew the opposite was true. Far
from unhinging his mind, Ian's death had finally brought the old man to his
senses. After a lifetime fighting against his father's warrior code, it was a
rather unwelcome shock to find that they had landed squarely on the same side.
It gave Jemmy a hollow feeling, a sense of the world having turned upon its head.
What made it infinitely worse was Alistair's belief that the only thing that
kept the Laird alive was his dream of making peace.

Jemmy
could make that dream a reality. It was what he'd always wanted as a child,
what he had prayed for during endless nights after days of watching his kinsmen
ride out to battle and then be carried home again, wasted deaths in Jemmy's
view.

And
now there was a hope of stopping the endless, senseless slaughter.
Be
careful what you pray for,
his mother used to say.
Be careful, for one
day you may get it.
Well, this was what he'd prayed for. And now it had
come upon him. All he need do was go home and do his duty to his clan.

Just
the thought of it drenched his body in cold sweat. Years ago Jemmy had given
himself to the sea as other men gave themselves to women or the church. Now he
was as much her creature as the leaping dolphin or gliding osprey. Like them,
he could not survive long out of his element. Lately even short visits inland
gave him a trapped, uneasy feeling. He hadn't cared—he could well afford to
hire men to do his business for him, scarcely bothering to count his profits
before setting sail again.

Life
at Ravenspur would be no life at all, but death by slow and painful inches.
Likely he'd run mad before the year was out. And the thought of marriage did
not tempt him in the least. He'd tried that once and it had been disastrous, a
mistake he had no desire to repeat.

Surely
there was some other way to make the peace. As the night wore on he turned and
twisted on the thin straw mattress, his thoughts racing like a ship before a
gale.

But
by the time dawn slipped through the broken shutters, he feared the trap had
sprung.

Dawn
crept imperceptibly into the tower room at Aylsford Manor where Alyson Bowden
lay listening to the moaning of the wind, a doleful sound that matched her mood
precisely. She shivered and pulled the heavy coverlet close, but it did nothing
to dispel her chill. Today she would be married. My wedding day, she thought, a
half-hysterical giggle rising to her lips. No, not mine. Maude's. But Maude
slept soundly in her bed, completely untroubled by what this day would bring.

The
door opened and Dame Becta, Maude's tiring woman, bustled into the room. Alyson
lay feigning sleep as the servant built up the fire and lit the candles.
"Come along, Mistress," Becta said, coming to the bed and looking
down. Her broad face held a trace of sympathy as she added, "The day's
sure to be fine after such a night."

Becta
knew, of course. There had been no way to keep the truth from her. But all the
other servants thought that it was Maude, indeed, who was to be married this
morning. They'd accepted the news with shock and a fair amount of grumbling,
for while they might have little fondness for their lady, she was the only one
they had. It was shame, they said, to send her to that Scottish swine. During
the past weeks they had gone out of their way treat Maude with a sympathy that
the lady had mocked behind their backs.

Alyson
threw back the covers. No good hiding in bed, she thought stoutly. Never
started, never finished. But she could not manage a bite of the food she was
given, nor even a swallow of warm ale. At last she stood, bathed and scented,
as Becta dressed her. First a soft linen shift beneath a gown of amber, then a
sideless surcoat of sapphire blue, richly furred around the hem, clasped about
her waist with an enameled girdle in Darnley's blue and gold. Her hair was
brushed out and left loose, then the shining auburn waves were covered by a
blue veil held in place by a golden circlet.

Maude
came to stand beside her half sister at the mirror. Alyson stared at their
reflections with the same cold shock she'd experienced near a month before,
when they had first stood as they did now. Here were the same blue-green eyes,
tip tilted at the edges, the same full mouth and short, straight nose—even the
way the hair grew from their foreheads in a small peak was the same.

Oh,
there were differences. Maude's hair was gold with a reddish tinge, while
Alyson's held all the fire of a winter's sunset. Maude's face was a perfect
oval, while the lines of Alyson's jaw and cheeks were more pronounced. One
would never be mistaken for the other at close range, and yet for all that they
were very much alike. But Alyson's eyes were huge with fear beneath the
high-plucked brows, while Maude's were gleaming with amusement.

If
only I could get warm, Alyson thought, chafing her icy hands together, then
mayhap I could think. Everything was rushing by so quickly that she could not
seem to catch and hold a thought for more than a single fleeting moment.

"He'll
expect you to be a virgin," Maude said. "I don't suppose you
are."

"I
am," Alyson answered, her eyes holding Maude's in the mirror.

"You'd
better not be lying—he'll be most displeased if he discovers otherwise."

Alyson
lifted her chin in perfect imitation of Maude's imperious gesture. "It
won't be something I need worry about," she said, mimicking Maude's icy
tones. "But what do
you
intend to do on
your
wedding
night?"

It
took Maude a moment to register the insult, then she slapped Alyson hard across
the face, her heavy rings splitting her half sister's lip.

"Here,
now, my lady, leave off!" Becta scolded, moving between them and whisking
the veil back from Alyson's face. "If ye've stained this I'll never get it
clean in time!"

Maude
reached past the tiring woman and grasped Alyson's wrist. "Don't dare
speak to me like that again," she hissed. "We may have the same
father, but never forget the difference between us.
My
mother was a
Percy. Your mother was a whore, and you're another."

"Your
father made my mother what she was," Alyson cried, her ready temper
flaring. "And you make me what I shall be! If I'm to play the whore, you'd
best pray I do it well."

"Whisht
yer clabber!" Becta scolded. "My lady, go sit down and let me finish
here."

Maude
subsided with reluctance and flung herself upon the settle, watching through
half-closed eyes as Becta dabbed Alyson's lip and rearranged the veil. The
tiring woman stood back and examined the girl with a critical eye, then hung a
gold and sapphire chain about her neck.

"Don't
get too attached to that," Maude said. She leaned back against the
cushions of the settle and stretched languorously as a cat. "I've marked
every jewel you're taking. If even one is missing, you'll hang for it. If you
live long enough for that," she added with a laugh.

Alyson
looked at her for a long moment. "What makes you the way you are?"
she said at last. The words held no anger, just a kind of wonder. For once
Maude had no answer. She dropped her eyes to the goblet in her hands as Becta
came forward to fasten the cloak across Alyson's shoulders and pull the veil
over her face.

As
last it was done, and Alyson, her heart pounding in sudden fear, knew the time
had come.

"Wait."

Alyson
turned in the doorway.

"You
can keep the necklace," Maude said with a defiant lift of her chin.

"Thank
you, my lady. But I don't want it."

She
waited for a moment but Maude didn't speak again.

When
Alyson reached the doorway she found the rain had stopped, though gray clouds
filled the sky and the wind blew strong and hard. As the grooms led the horses
from the stables, Alyson hung back in the shadow of the arch, her eyes darting
this way and that, hoping against hope that her brother might be among them.
But he was not. Beside her, Sir Robert Allshouse waited impatiently, tapping
one foot against the stone.

Though
he had been her tutor for the past month, Alyson felt she scarcely knew Lord
Darnley's half brother at all. Indeed, she was more intimidated by him than she
had ever let him see. He was by turns impatient, demanding, and caustically
amusing, but never once had he called Alyson by name or expressed the slightest
interest in why she had agreed to this outrageous deception. He had only cared
to see that she could eat properly, manage a few chords upon the lute, sit on a
horse, and draw a bow— skills that she had mastered to his grudging
satisfaction, having a strong incentive for success.

Today
he was dressed in the new style he had brought from court, a parti-colored
surcoat of gold and crimson with matching hose. Beneath a tawny velvet cap with
a crimson feather nodding in the breeze, his chestnut hair was curled
elaborately about his sharp, clever face.

"Well,
lass?" he asked with a grin. "You're looking a bit green about the
edges. Not losing your nerve, eh?"