Susan Johnson (2 page)

There was no need to define who “they” were. The same enemy had confronted the Roxburgh Carres for a thousand years.

He leaped from the bed, reaching for his weapons left conveniently on the bedpost. The Borders had been Scotland’s battleground since the dim dawn of history; a man’s dirk and sword never left his side.

His men swiftly related the facts of his brother’s abduction as Johnnie gathered his clothes, the woman forgotten. His questions were harsh staccato queries, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl at the answers. His leather breeches were on in seconds, his boots jerked on next, his shirt thrown over his shoulders followed by his leather jack. Handing his sword belt to a clansman to carry, he strode from the room, closing his shirt, tucking it into his leather breeches with rough thrusts.

Halfway down the second-floor corridor he remembered Mary Holm. “See that the girl is sent back to Kelso with an escort,” he curtly said, buckling his jack shut, reaching out for his sword baldric. Taking the belt from his lieutenant, he slipped it over his shoulder. “Give her a purse and my thanks. Are the horses saddled?”

At a nod he adjusted the dirk at his waist, pulled his sword slightly out of its scabbard to test its feel, jammed it back in, and, in a voice harsh with hatred, growled, “Damned Godfrey! Damned English! They’re fucking vermin.”

Descending the broad balustraded stairway in long, racing leaps, he broke into a run immediately he reached the main floor. “How long ago was it?” he asked again of the man keeping pace with him.

His muttered curse at the unpalatable reply reflected everyone’s unease.

Five hours later, shaking his wet head to check the water dripping into his eyes, Johnnie Carre walked into his weapons room. Weary and frustrated, he unslung his sword belt, hung it on the wall rack, and began pacing.

His rain-soaked lieutenants followed him in, disposed of their weapons, and sank exhausted onto the heavy wooden benches and chairs. No one spoke, their chieftain’s exasperation echoing in their own minds. Five hours in the saddle, riding hard in despicable weather, and they’d been too late to overtake the English who’d abducted the Laird of Ravensby’s young brother. Riding two hours behind, they knew their chances had been slim at best—only the bad weather was in their favor. But the English troop had reached Harbottle ahead of them, and in all likelihood Robbie Carre was prisoner now in Harbottle Castle.

“If Godfrey harms a hair on Robbie’s head, I’ll see him on his way to hell,” Johnnie Carre muttered, the low sound of his voice clear and distinct in the utter silence
of the castle arsenal room, the small metallic jingle of his spurs counterpoint to his threat.

Reaching the limits of the large room, the tall, powerful warlord of striking presence swung around to retrace his stalking passage across the flagstone floor, a shimmering trajectory of water droplets from his drenched leather jack and plaid spraying out behind him. “Bloody damned English!” Rage and disgust pervaded his tone. “They’re looking for an excuse to take a Scotsman!” Last year’s Scottish Parliament had been rabidly anti-English, and with the war on the Continent and the controversy over Succession, for the first time in a century Scotland’s demand for independence had the hope of success.
²
Tempers were flaring on both sides of the border.

The flames of the candles in the heavy silver branches on the tables trembled before his swift movement. The light danced fitfully, illuminating in flickering chiaroscuro the harsh modeling of his face, the arresting beauty of his stark features.

“Can we get Robbie out?” Underlaid with weariness, the voice of one of his young clansmen uttered everyone’s concern. Harbottle Castle, England’s defensive fort on the Middle Marches, was heavily garrisoned; recently England had scrambled to defend her northern border against Scotland’s volatile bid for independence.

His mind on the frustration of a pursuit begun too late … on the worrisome plight of his young brother, John Carre didn’t answer. And for a moment it seemed as though he hadn’t heard. But when the clansman resting his head against the carved chair back bearing the coat of arms of the Earls of Graden began to repeat his question, the Laird of Ravensby softly said, “No, not if he’s in Harbottle.”

And then, as if the unpalatable thought had reined him in, the young Laird stopped before one of the neo-classic windows his father had added to the fortified castle when he’d returned from Ferrara with the Douglas in ’79.

A sudden hush descended on the room at his response. The weapons hung on the wall racks, the targes,
basket-hilted swords, the muskets and pistols, seemed to gleam in contradiction, as if mocking his assertion.

Slashing rain beat at the windows, pelted by violent winds driving down from the north, the wail and howl like Valkyrie cries. Outside the night was pitch-black, wet as Neptune’s kingdom, cold, stormy, fog-shrouded, impossible for accurate tracking.

Just as Harbottle Castle was impossible to infiltrate, the Laird of Ravensby pragmatically acknowledged. With the hostilities over and the Act of Security threatening to bring England and Scotland to war, the English had recently increased the castle garrison by an extra company of dragoons. Which meant the means to Robbie’s freedom would have to take some form other than a frontal assault.

John Carre, Laird of Ravensby, chief of the Roxburgh Carres, Eleventh Earl of Graden, slowly turned to face his friends and kinsmen, his movement restrained like his voice once again, his temper held in check, his mind already sorting through the available options.

“How many horses did we lose?” At word of Robbie’s abduction they’d immediately set out in pursuit, despite a week of rain, despite the late hour, despite the burns in flood-tide.

“Eight.”

“Permanently?”

“Red Rowan should know by morning. The Neapolitan barb may be one of the badly crippled ones.”

“In that case we’ll have to get something more, then … in addition to Robbie in exchange,” the Earl said, his tone businesslike, direct. “Assess the damage in the morning and give me an accounting.” The word “exchange” set him thinking, and a series of speculative possibilities began to unfold in his mind.

“And what, Johnnie, would you be thinking to exchange of sufficient interest to bring Lord Godfrey to the bargaining table?” The trooper asking the question had one brow lifted in whimsical inquiry.

“It may not come to that,” the young chieftain of the Roxburgh Carres answered with the smallest hint of drollery in his voice. The age-old border-raiding was part
game, part business, part drama—at least for the Scots Borderers; the English regarded everything in life with more seriousness—but
always
stimulating. “First we’ll send the Queen’s illustrious Warden a polite request for Robbie’s release.” He was anticipating the necessary steps already, a new assurance in his mood.

“And when that doesn’t bring your brother his freedom …” one of his lieutenants sardonically drawled.

“
Then
,” the dark-haired Laird of Ravensby softly answered, looking tranquil, untroubled, his abstract suppositions having crystallized into a plan, “we’ll offer him something he prizes.”

“Which is?” Adam Carre spoke for all of them. Every man’s eyes were trained on their tall, rangy Laird dressed like a freebooter: the shoulder armor on his leather jack gleaming in the candlelight; two pistols still shoved under his wide leather belt; an ivory-handled dirk swinging from a scabbard at his hip; his long black hair wet because he refused to wear headgear; his green-and-brown hunting plaid—the color of concealment—draped over one shoulder; his leather breeches and spurred riding boots dull earth brown like the landscape.

Bred up to combat on the Borders, where one didn’t travel abroad without an escort, where protection money—forbearance money—had been a tradition in the past, where the powerful clans could still muster two thousand horse in a matter of hours, where a glorious, rash, and hazardous young man could do anything … Johnnie Carre pleasantly said, “I hear the English Warden holds his daughter in high regard now that she’s nabob wealthy. With old Hotchane Graham dead and Godfrey’s daughter a widow, a very
rich
young widow … gossip has it Lord Godfrey’s planning on making another fine match for her.” A faint smile spread across Johnnie Carre’s finely sculpted mouth.

“She’s heavily guarded,” several of his men instantly replied, their shock and astonishment vivid, like the striking platinum of Elizabeth Godfrey’s hair. Everyone on the Borders knew how rough Harbottle was when the Redesdale men came to town, how Harold Godfrey, the Earl of Brusisson, protected his marketable daughter.
No longer young at twenty-four, she would still bring a spectacular dowry as prize to a second marriage. And even if she were barren, which possibility existed, since her marriage of eight years had resulted in no children, her lavish fortune would serve to mitigate that serious failing.

“Guarded she may be, but not flung into a dungeon in Harbottle Castle, garrisoned with two companies of dragoons,” the young Laird replied, beginning to strip off his sodden green leather gloves, his mood lightened now that a reasonable means for his brother’s release had come to him. “So I think,” he said with a dazzling smile, “we can begin to plan Robbie’s coming-home party.”

“Send the letter first,” his practical cousin Kinmont said, understanding that flaring light of excitement in Johnnie’s eyes. “Time enough for your notions of fun later.”

“Of course.” The young Earl’s expression took on an angelic cast; his voice purred like velvet. “We’ll write something charming and nice to the faithless rogue … with not a mention Robbie was unlawfully taken.”

Over the decades since England and Scotland had been joined in 1603, the semblance of peace in the Borders had been accomplished in the early years by mass deportations of renegade clans and septs, by wholesale slaughter and massacre by superior English forces. Later more civilized methods had maintained the peace; English peerages and government pensions were popular methods of control, or, those failing, the occasional stay in the Tower of London or the Tolbooth in Edinburgh was effective. Or banishment, exile, or beheading for those most recalcitrant. But certainly in Robbie’s case, regardless of the war fever, there were no legitimate grounds for his capture.

“Considering the nature of the man serving the English Queen,” John Carre softly went on, “and the particular style of Godfrey’s sense of honor,
and
old Hotchane’s fondness for his wife, estimated to be in the neighborhood of sixty thousand English pounds”—the Laird of Ravensby’s mouth twitched into a grin—“I personally feel having Elizabeth Godfrey Graham for a short visit
would not only be a fair quid pro quo in terms of Robbie’s abduction, but perhaps a financially sound proposition as well. Any questions?”

“When do we leave?” a hotspur young clansman cheerfully inquired.

“First Kinmont will send a courteous request for Robbie’s release. Godfrey should have that by tomorrow afternoon. A day or two for his reply—three days at the outside for delaying procedures … which I anticipate.” The Earl slapped his gloves against his palm with a smile, as if he were recounting nothing more untoward than a list of kitchen victuals. “Then two or three more days to reconnoiter the
Dowager
”—he emphasized the unsuitable word—“Lady Graham’s daily schedule.” Throwing the beautifully embroidered green gloves on a nearby table, he reached for the pistols at his waist. Pulling them free, he balanced them for a moment in his hands, as if gauging the perfect timing of the Lady’s coming abduction, then carefully set them down next to his gloves. “In the meantime,” he cheerfully said, “I’ll have the East Tower room fit up for the darling Elizabeth.…”

His lieutenants were smiling now, too, even Kinmont, who was Johnnie’s voice of reason. “You’ll make a shekel or two on Lord Godfrey’s arrogance,” said Kinmont Carre, a businessman at heart, like so many of the Borderers. Raiding was an enterprise for profit, although its danger and daring offered excitement along with the gains.

“Would you like to negotiate that for me?” Johnnie mildly said, aware of his cousin’s special joy in acquisition. “Beginning with the obliging letter to that scoundrel Godfrey?”

“With pleasure.”

“In that case the rest of us are free to sample the new Rhenish wines delivered from Berwick yesterday.”

But despite the casualness with which the Earl of Graden overtly dealt with his brother’s abduction, a very real apprehension gripped him. Harold Godfrey was a
blackguard and a knave, and the dungeons of Harbottle Castle had been the cause of many a Scots death. Time was at a premium; he wouldn’t have Robbie lying in that hellhole more than a week.

So while he joined his men in their drinking revels that evening, he found himself remarkably sober as he entered his bedchamber. And further sobered at the sight of Janet Lindsay in his bed. As Laird of Ravensby and Earl of Graden, he attracted women with his title alone, but had he been dispossessed of a title, his bonny looks would have served him equally well.