Timothy Tilghman’s house was well furnished, with several chairs gathered around the fireplace and a sturdy, well-cared-for table pushed up against the wall. He must have been doing quite nicely for himself.
“Please, sit.” He motioned to a chair near the hearth. “I’ll get a fire going.” He bent his strong body over the hearth and pulled off the large earthen curfew cover that kept the coals hot during the night. He tucked a few strands of straw and tinder amongst them, blowing softly until a single strand of smoke wafted up, then coaxed it into a flame. In only a few moments, a fire blazed. Margaret scooted her chair closer to the warmth.
He studied her with his deep-blue eyes, his flaxen hair mussed. “Is everything well?” he asked after she did not speak for some time. “Did the Robsons hurt you?”
She smiled at him. “No. You were right though. That family cannot be trusted.”
Timothy nodded. He seemed relieved that she’d at last come to her senses about them. “What is it that you need?” he asked.
She’d almost forgotten why she’d come in. She’d not expected to be so distracted by this man too. The infatuation of her youth. “I’m low on funds,” Margaret explained. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”
Timothy nodded. “Of course. He stood and opened a cupboard, removing a small coffer. He lifted the lid and removed several coins. “How much do you need?”
She shook her head. “I do not want your money.” Mercy. No more charity. “I need to find work. In the warden’s house. Do you know anyone there who could get me a position?”
He leaned back in his chair. Watching her. Contemplating. “Why the warden’s house?”
She shrugged. “He has a large house. He’s wealthy.” Too wealthy. Beyond the riches the king would have given him. Especially since this king hoarded all his coin to fund his break from Rome. But what King Henry did with his wives and his church mattered little to Margaret.
“I don’t trust that man,” Timothy said. “Take this money.” He pushed the coins at her again. “You are the daughter of a knight. You should not be a laborer.”
He little knew how she’d been surviving all this time. “I’m a lady no more.”
“Come and work here, at my house. With my mother gone, we could use an extra hand to—”
“No. I need to work at the warden’s house. Can you get me in or not?”
He sighed reluctantly. Or perhaps it is was of resignation, for he finally said, “I can. The cook is my aunt. She will take you on.”
Margaret reached out, clasping his hands in her carefully gloved ones. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”
Things were finally coming together for her. She should have cast off Angus and his soft, gray eyes long ago. So much easier to move forward alone, without ties. Without reasons to live.
“But it is inconvenient for you to travel every day. You could live here,” Timothy suggested. “It’s much closer.”
No. “You are very kind, Timothy Tilghman. You always have been.” She smiled at him. “But I prefer to be on my own.”
He nodded as if he hadn’t expected anything different. But that didn’t keep him from looking at her with the same eyes he’d lured her in with that night at the standing stones—before the reivers. That moment lay deep in the past.
If he had any thoughts about reviving his feelings for her, she should leave no question in his mind. “I appreciate your help more than you know. But I’m not the same person I was six years ago. Once I finish with the warden—Once I have earned enough money, I will be moving on. I cannot stay.” Or more likely, she would be dead. But if the warden was also dead, she would consider it a victory.
Timothy gazed into the fire for some time, then stood with a nod. “Let’s go to my aunt.”
The town was alive by the time they left the smithy. Margaret lowered her coif to hide her face.
She followed him, weaving in and out of the back streets. He was handsome and strong, his arms like tree trunks with all his heavy work. Odd that he did not have a wife already.
“How is it, Timothy, that you are not married? Surely you are the catch of Redesdale.” A well-established tradesman should have had every doe-eyed girl fawning over him.
He glanced over at her. “I did marry. Anne Hampden. I don’t know if you knew her.”
Margaret did not. “What happened?”
“Two winters past, the plague came through. We lost my mother, my wife, and our unborn child.”
Margaret halted in her tracks. Mercy, what a blow. Her anger at the warden flared. There was enough loss, enough suffering and death in this world. Why must men like him add to it? “I’m so sorry, Timothy. Truly, I am.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment.
Now she felt doubly burdened for not accepting his offer to move to his house. He must long for company. For a softer touch—not that Margaret considered herself the best example of feminine gentility. Nor was she reconsidering her resolve to keep her heart away from Timothy Tilghman.
Her heart was already bound in strings she was trying to sever. Strings that tied her to a man she must forget. A task that would be easier if his dog were not loping at her heels as a constant reminder.
They reached the warden’s house, a large square thing with the main walls of stone and the newer parts of timber work. Black beams, like burnt scars, slashed through the white plaster of the walls.
Timothy knocked on the back door. The servants’ door.
It opened, and a young scullery maid dipped her head.
“I need to speak with Martha Lynde, please,” Timothy said.
The girl dipped her head again and disappeared.
A few moments later, a tall, solid woman stood before them. She smiled briefly. “Good morrow, Timothy. I’m full busy. What is it you want?”
He motioned to Margaret. “This is Ma—”
“Mary,” Margaret interrupted. “Mary Barnes.” She curtsied because it seemed necessary. It would be hard for her to get a serving position without appearing servile.
“Mary Barnes,” Timothy said with a sigh. “She’s looking for work.”
Martha narrowed her eyes at her nephew. “What makes you think I can help with that? There’s people showing up every day looking for work. Needing wages. Specially with them reivers out helping themselves to other folks’ earnings.”
Margaret liked this aunt of his. She pulled out her best northern accent, careful to sound like a villager and not the daughter of a knight. “Indeed, goodwife. Only recently I lost me whole family to the reivers.” She wiped a tear from her eye.
Timothy leaned close and whispered, “No need for a show.” Then he said to his aunt, “Mary is a hard worker and no trouble. Take her in, and I’ll have Tobias’s plow sharpened good as new, no cost.”
His aunt laughed. “You do that already, Timothy Smithy.” She considered for a moment. “Come back in two days’ time. Warden’s having a feast. We could use the extra help then.”
“Thank ye.” Margaret dipped her head.
“Nice’n early. We’ve lots to do.”
“Certainly,” Margaret said.
Martha closed the door.
She’d found a way into the warden’s house. Margaret owed Timothy greatly for this. Once again, she found herself beholden to a man. Not a position she enjoyed, but this was a man’s world. If she needed the help of a man to accomplish her goals, so be it. “I am indebted to you, Timothy.”
He shook his head as if still bewildered by why she would be wanting to take work in the first place. “I’ll think of a way for you to repay.” By the gleam in his eyes, he still wanted her to be the girl he almost kissed six years ago. It was her own fault. She’d tried to keep him at a distance, but then, she’d been the one to show up at his door asking for favors. She would find a way to repay him on her own terms—if she survived long enough to do so. It was a dangerous path she was laying out in front of her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.
She gave him a small nod. “Good day, Timothy Tilghman.” Then she snapped her fingers, and Hamish leapt to his feet from his place in the sun.
She walked quickly to get out of town. After Angus’s talk of her being followed, she kept glancing over her shoulder for the brown-hooded man. Hamish seemed at ease, so that was a good sign, but she couldn’t shake the gooseflesh that tickled the back of her neck.
She hurried through the gate and continued along the road leading west. When it took a bend, she ducked behind the trunk of a large ash growing in the reach of the stream’s waters. She pulled Hamish by the scruff of his neck along with her, motioning for him to sit. He did, his eyes wandering the brush behind them, searching for a midday meal.
Then his head swung around, ears up, head cocked to the side.
A few moments later, she caught sight of a lone man walking along the dirt road. He wore a brown hood, same as the man on market day. Angus had been right.
He walked slowly, one hand over his brow to shield the sun. Searching. He would see her soon enough, for the tree was not adequate to keep her hidden much longer. The warden must have real suspicions about her to put a man on her.
She wondered again, had he recognized her after all? Even if he supposed her to be the girl from the stone circle, that should matter little to him. He couldn’t possibly fear her, for he was the warden, with power and men on his side, and she naught but a helpless girl. Was it all for curiosity, or did he want something more?
Though Angus had prevented the hooded man from following her on market day, when he saw her walking through town this morning with the same giant deerhound, he must have picked up her trail again. Hamish was quite the giveaway. But she couldn’t allow the man to follow her home.
She stepped from the tree and bent over, feigning to adjust the lace on her shoe. Hamish stayed beside her, his body tightly wound and the hackles on his back like a ridgetop.
The man glanced at her and slowed his pace. She inched the misericorde from its sheath. With her sack in one hand and her knife in the other, she turned and walked back toward Redesdale, Hamish trotting at her side.
After fifty paces or so, she checked over her shoulder. The road was empty—at least what she could easily see of it. She dared not look back fully.
When the path took a turn, she changed direction again, heading once more toward Hartfell. As she rounded the bend, there was the hooded man, coming right at her.
She almost laughed out loud. She was in no hurry to get home. She could do this all day. How many times would the man alter his course to follow her knowing it meant passing her on the road time and time again?
When he spotted her coming at him, his pace once again slowed, his face betraying a flash of surprise.
“Good morrow,” Margaret said with a nod as they passed each other.
She traveled on until once again a twist of the track gave her the opportunity to reverse direction without the man noticing.
Sure enough, as she rounded the bend, there was the hooded man walking toward her. This time he did even worse at concealing his confusion.
“Good morrow,” Margaret said again as they passed. Then she paused. “What ho,” she called out.
The hooded man stopped and turned.
“Are you lost, goodman?”
He did not answer.
“I’ve seen you now three times going this way and that.”
“Oh. Aye. I am lost,” he said with a friendly smile.
Margaret pointed down the road. “That way will take you to Redesdale.” She pointed the other direction. “That way to Oakshaw.”
“Thank you,” he said but did not move.
“So which way are you going?” Margaret asked. “I will be sure to go the opposite. For I do not like being followed.”
The smile fell from his face.
Margaret lifted her dagger, holding it inches from the man’s chest. “I suggest you choose that direction.” She gestured toward Redesdale.
In a flash, the man had a knife of his own drawn and at the ready. He swung at her, but she spun away. Not far enough though. With his other hand, he grabbed at her, catching hold of the wrap around her head. It pulled off, and her hair uncoiled in a tumble of gleaming black.
He lowered his knife and stared.
He’d known all along she was a woman so he should not be so surprised. If she’d learned one thing in her time in London, it was that big, strapping men always underestimated the strength of a woman.
In those few heartbeats he wasted gazing at her, she plunged her dagger into his side. It would not be enough to kill him, but it would keep him from following her.
He staggered backward. Hamish lunged at him, knocking him to the dirt. His jaws clamped down on the man’s arm.
Margaret snatched up her head wrap and knapsack. “Fare you well.” She ran northward through the heath, making sure to travel the exact wrong path toward Hartfell. She gave a whistle, and Hamish caught up, loping along beside her.