Had Margaret been found out? What other reason would the man have to place himself right in front of her? She blinked at him several times while her wits caught up. There was no way he could know. “I do beg your pardon,” she said again. She turned to shuffle off with the tide of tunics and kirtles inching away from the warden.
“You again,” the warden said. His hand came down on her shoulder.
She still could not say whether or not he recognized her as Margaret Grey, the girl who’d decorated his cheek with that scar. For certain, he remembered her from their encounter at the bladesmith’s cart.
“Sir.” She had nothing more to say to him.
His eyes narrowed, and his head tipped to the side as he stared at her. She could almost see the cogs in his mind turning behind his dark eyes.
“Did you come to survey the weapons again?” he asked.
She held up the empty basket, her eyes wide with innocence. “I came for beef, but there was none to be had. Leastways none that I could afford.”
“Search her,” the warden instructed one of his guards.
A laugh came from just behind the warden. A laugh she immediately recognized. Angus.
“Surely you don’t suspect a woman?” Angus said.
The warden turned. “I suspect everyone. That is why I’m still alive.”
Margaret choked down a laugh.
“There is something about this one I can’t quite put my finger on.” The warden nodded to the guard, and the guard stepped forward. He turned Margaret’s basket upside down, but any fool could have seen that it was completely empty. The guard tore her purse from her belt and dumped out a few copper coins. He tugged the misericorde from its sheath. Everyone carried a knife, as they were required for eating and nearly a dozen other daily activities, but hers was unusual with its long and slender blade, the intricate dragon hilt.
The warden took it from the guard and studied it, weighing it in his hands. “What is this?” he asked.
“My knife.” She added a quick, “Sir,” because it seemed if ever she was going to show obeisance, now was the time.
“A misericorde.” He tested the sharpness. “It is well crafted.” He turned it over in his hands, his fingers closing around the hilt.
“I’ll have it back, sir. It was a gift.” She held out her hand, and the warden’s eyes narrowed even more until they were slits of black. She quickly dipped her head. “It is my only possession and carries great sentimental value.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to keep it. She would be able to do nothing about it. But he handed it back, and she tucked it into its sheath. The market was getting more crowded by the moment as the guards herded the townsfolk and outliers into the square, all of them piled up waiting to be searched and set free.
He waved her on. She gave him a minimal curtsy and felt his eyes on her back as she squeezed her way out the gate. At last she was free—of the town, the warden, and the press of the crowd.
She would have to lie low for a while. Let things settle. Then she’d try again. Perhaps with her crossbow again—though she doubted Angus would return it, knowing how set he was against her plans.
Margaret stayed on the main road for a while in case the warden sent another man to follow her. She’d seen naught of the brown-hooded man she had dispatched the other day. Perhaps he was too ashamed to reappear after he’d been bested by a woman.
She stopped and bent over, pretending to work the lace of her shoe again whilst peering behind her. She waited to see who would pass by and who would slow their pace to keep behind her. She fiddled with her girdle, straightening her sheath and purse—which she noticed was now empty. Sticky-fingered guard.
In the end, it seemed everyone on the road today was going their own way. All in a rush to get away from the scene taking place in the market. She turned off on the small path that led through the weald, making use of the tree cover.
She ducked behind a thicket, watching carefully behind her for the sign of anyone following her. Still no one appeared. The warden must be too busy dealing with the assassination attempt to bother with her today.
She set off again, glancing back every half mile or so, but she still found herself alone. Just as she preferred to be. Though she did miss Hamish trotting along beside her. If he were here, surely he would detect if they were being followed. The clouds overhead darkened, and the air turned cold. A thick, misty rain filled the air as she tramped through the damp moor.
Hartfell rose in front of her, smoke wisping from the chimney. Thank you, Osanna. With any luck, there would be pottage stewing in the fireplace and something warm to drink.
In the inner yard, the two chickens pecked at the dirt. She rounded the barmkin wall to find a horse tethered to a post. Angus’s horse. Margaret groaned, though she was not surprised. How was she to ever cut the cords round her heart if he kept returning no matter how firmly she sent him away? Even so, her pace quickened as she hurried to the tower door.
He sat stretched out by the fire, sipping something warm. Her crossbow lay on the table, the poisoned bolt beside it. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he smiled back. Osanna was not helping her cause, always offering him hospitality. She crossed the room and snatched the drink from his hands.
“Oh, my lady!” Osanna threw her arms around Margaret. “I’ve been so worried!” She glanced at Angus and then whispered, “What with your secret plans and all.”
Margaret patted Osanna’s back. “I’m fine.”
Angus stood up. “No need for whispers.” He took his drink back from Margaret. “I already know all about the secret plans. And they failed. Thanks be to heaven.”
“The poison didn’t work?” Osanna asked with surprise. “I’m sure we did it right.”
“We will never know,” Margaret said. “Angus foiled my attempt. Again.” She took back the mug from him and sipped. It burned her tongue, but she drank it all anyway, giving it back to him empty.
“I did nothing of the sort.” Angus tipped the mug upside down. Two drops fell onto the floor. He glared at Margaret. “But if my presence prevented the secret plan from succeeding, I am happy for it.”
Osanna pulled the kettle from its spot at the edge of the fire. Angus held out the mug to be filled again, but Margaret would not have it.
“Don’t feed him, Osanna. It will only encourage him to stay.”
Osanna withdrew the kettle. “But—”
“No.”
“She has already promised me dinner.” Angus returned to his chair and reclined by the fire. “Besides, ’tis raining.”
“You will find a far more satisfying meal at Carrigdean, I’m sure. Gillis will be wondering where you are.”
“But, my lady—”
“I said no.” Margaret cut off Osanna’s renewed attempt. She would not harbor a reiver. Not even one who brought a rush to her blood.
“I’m not leaving,” Angus said. “Since it is your fault I am here.”
“How could it be my fault? I specifically asked you not to come here ever again. I would have come for my bow in a few days.”
He shook his head. “I’m not here because of the bow. Nor because you owe me a favor after I risked my neck hiding it for you.”
Margaret turned her eyes toward the fire. He had done so much for her, including saving her life today by concealing her crossbow. She owed him so much. So much. And all she’d given in return was blame and rejection. Even if he were not a reiver, she did not deserve him. Yet here he was once more, filling her dark tower with light. “Then why? When you know you are not welcome, why do you linger?” She had to free herself from his grasp.
Angus crossed the room and closed the door. He glanced at Osanna, who was following the conversation with wide eyes. It seemed he no longer cared what the girl heard, for he stepped close to Margaret and spoke. “I am here because I do not want to lose you.”
“You already lost me,” Margaret said. “The first time you ever went reiving.”
He nodded. “But now I have gone my last.” He folded his arms as if to give strength to his words.
Margaret shrugged. “Such a thing is easy to say. Until the next time you go reiving.”
“Tonight,” he said.
“What?”
“That’s why I was in town today with the warden. There is a raid planned for tonight. It has been months in the making. Very lucrative, if they can pull it off. The rain is good. It muffles the sound of the horses. So they might come away with quite a profit.”
“Who? You and the warden?”
“My father. The Robsons. The warden. And the Halls.”
“The Halls?” She could scarcely believe it. “You are riding with the Halls? I thought you were their enemy.”
He shrugged. “Here in the Marches, the line between enemy and friend is ever shifting. Changing here and there faster than the wind.” He sat once more, spreading his long legs in front of the hearth. “In any case, I refused to go. That is why I am here.”
Margaret didn’t know what to say. It was a great cost to him not to go. “But, Angus, what about your father? Won’t he be vexed?”
Angus snorted. “Vexed? He’ll be furious. Murderous. I will likely be disavowed and lose Carrigdean and my birthright altogether.”
Even as he sat here losing his inheritance, he spoke with a lightness, as if playing a game of nine-man morris. Then his fists clenched, and the tendons of his neck strained. “I just hope he doesn’t take it out on Gillis.”
“Gillis is going?”
Angus nodded. “Aye. I could not persuade him to stay. He and my father . . .”
His father, indeed. She’d seen firsthand the way his father treated Gillis—and Angus. She pulled a chair over and sat near him. “After what happened with James, I am surprised you are willing to risk your father’s wrath once more.”
Angus’s head came up. “What do you know about James?”
Now she wished she’d not deprived Angus of his mulled cider. He’d never mentioned a word of it, but from Gillis’s thoughts, she’d gathered enough. “Everything.”
He leaned back, his eyes on the fire. “It was an accident.”
Margaret put her gloved hand on his arm. “I know. As sure as you are sitting here in my tower, I know it was an accident.”
He shook his head. “You may think you know, but that is not possible. No one knows the whole truth.”
“Gillis knows,” Margaret said. “Perhaps I am better at understanding him than you think. I know that all these years you have taken the blame for something you did not do. To protect your brother.”
He looked up again, more surprised than ever. “Gillis,” he grumbled. “He wasn’t to tell anyone.” He let out a curt laugh. “How you charmed that information out of his silent mouth, I’m not sure I want to know.”
She didn’t mean for Gillis to be in trouble. “It’s not his fault. I guessed most of it from what I overheard that day between you and your father. He simply filled in the blanks. And not entirely on purpose.”
Those Robson boys lived in turmoil every day. Angus’s father treated him with hatred and disdain for something he did not do, all the while wishing Angus had been the one to die. And Angus bore it without a word, all to take the suffering from his brother.
“I think it very fine, Angus. What you have done for Gillis.”
He shrugged. “It hasn’t stopped my father from despising him.”
Osanna had kept herself unusually quiet, working at the table while they talked. She crossed to the hearth and swung the iron cooking arm out of the fire, carefully lifting the pot from the hook. “This is ready.” She moved silently back to the table and ladled out the pottage into Margaret’s cracked wooden bowls. Placing a spoon in each, she handed one to Margaret and one to Angus.
“You’re feeding me now?” Angus asked, lifting a spoonful of the pottage.
“I suppose so, even though you will eat more than your share, leaving Osanna and me to starve.”
He smiled as he put a spoonful in his mouth. “Hot,” he muttered while fanning the steam pouring out of his mouth. Osanna gave him a mug of water, then took her bowl of pottage and slipped away, up the stairs. No doubt on her way to consult her bones about all the things they’d just been discussing.
Angus was risking everything by disobeying his father and not riding out with him. But Margaret could more easily understand him turning against Lord Linkirk than leaving Gillis behind. It didn’t make sense.
“Why are you here, Angus Robson?” she asked. “And not with your father and Gillis and the rest of the Robson clan?”
“You said you would have nothing to do with a reiver.” He lifted another spoonful, taking the time to blow on it.
If he was giving up everything for her, he was making a grave mistake. “I am no one. We both know I will be dead soon anyway. Or in prison. My approval means nothing.”
He set his spoon down and looked directly at her. “It means everything to me.”
She looked down so he could not see her flush. Mercy. This was not part of her plan. When she set out from London to avenge her family, a man was never to come along and stir up her heart. Especially not a reiver. But here sat Angus, willing to give up his entire world for her affection.
An affection that could never be. His family wanted him to marry the Lady Elizabeth. Margaret’s course led to a very different end.
He set his bowl on the hearth and leaned forward. “Margaret. Can you not put aside your quest? Can you not let it go and find another path? One that doesn’t involve your death. A path we can, perhaps, walk together?”
Even if she let go of her need to avenge her family, even if he wasn’t a reiver, she still had the curse upon her, keeping them apart. It was a rift that could not be crossed. She could never be with anyone until she rid herself of it.
“I cannot,” she said. “I must finish this.” It was the only way she could think of to end her curse. It had started the day of the reiving. It made sense that it must end the way it began.
“Why?” He leaned closer. “How will your family be better by you giving up your life? Is that what they would want for you?”
“Stop it.” He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He wasn’t there the night her life went up in flames. He did not know the burden she carried with her curse. “You think you know me, but you do not. You should get on your horse and go to your brother. I’m sure he is looking for you. And Elizabeth. She thinks you will wed her. She believes you love her. You should leave and pretend you never met me.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I cannot have what I want. To make right the wrong done to my family is the best I can do. And that is that.”
“Why, Meg? What is it you’re not telling me?” He seemed so sure, and he was right, of course. “Are you already wed?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Betrothed?”
“No.”
“You love someone else?”
“No.”
He grinned. “What about the smithy?”
“He was a childhood infatuation. One long past.”
“I don’t think it’s long past for him.”
“I love no one.” She sighed. “Remember? My heart is turned to stone.”
He shook his head. “I was wrong to say that. I don’t think it is stone at all. ’Tis only the wall around it that is built of stone. One day, a man will come along strong enough to break through that wall. He will be the luckiest man ever born.”
The fire cracked and popped in the hearth, but it was nothing compared to the heat that filled her veins. She wanted to lean forward, closer. Tell him he’d already managed to breach her wall and that her heart was entirely his. But such words were pointless. All the wanting in the world could not change her fate. Every moment Angus sat here watching her, showing her more kindness than she ever deserved, was but another tear in her soul.
She stood. “In truth, sir. You should go. There is nothing for you here.” She opened the door. The night was dark with rain.
He rose and crossed the room, standing over her. She kept her eyes on the floor, for if she looked up into his face, into those gray eyes, turbulent and longing, she would not be able resist. Especially now that he’d risked everything to be with her. He would hate her after this.
He stared at her for a long time before asking, “What happened to you? Who has made you thus—afraid of life? Of love?”
She could tell him about her curse. He already knew how she’d stolen away to the stone circle while her family burned, how she’d been unable to save them. Even if the touch of another did not affect her, she did not deserve love.
He lifted a strand of her dark hair, letting it sift through his fingers. “If that is what you want, I will go.”
She nodded, unable to open her mouth for fear it might betray her. He took her by the wrist and lifted her hand. He tugged on the tip of her glove, first one finger, then another.
Margaret tried to pull her hand away, but he held her wrist tight. Her glove slid off. What was he doing? She looked up now, into his face. She should not have. His eyes were more determined than ever before.
“Do not touch me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. He understood that rule and had always respected it, at least thus far.