Angus Robson cast a thick shadow across the room from where he stood outside. “The lackwit has already arrived.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right. I’ve been called worse.” He leaned his head into the room and frowned. “You cannot possibly mean to live here.”
The fly was back. Did he intend to bite? Margaret’s eyes flicked to her crossbow leaning in the corner.
“I do.” Her hand crept to the hilt of her dagger hanging at her waist. “It is my home, and I will defend it with my life.”
He put his hands up. “I shan’t even cross the threshold. Unless, of course, you invite me in.” He smiled broadly, making him look more lackwitted than ever.
Margaret lowered her brows at him.
He dropped his hands and sighed. “Your home, eh? Wait a moment.” His eyes lit up. “Are you . . . ? You are the daughter of Sir Godric Grey. I thought I recognized you.”
Margaret groaned. How could one man give her so much trouble? Never mind. Foolish question.
“I remember you.” He paused. “Marian. Mildred.” He snapped his fingers. “Margaret. Yes? Margaret Grey.” He seemed very pleased with himself.
She slid her dagger back into its sheath and picked up the rotting broom that rested in the corner.
“I’m right, yes? Tell me I’m right.”
The bristles cracked and snapped as she worked the piles of dirt, animal waste, and dead leaves out of the corners. She could deny being the daughter of Godric Grey, but then she might be forced to leave Hartfell, for the place still belonged to the Grey family.
Soon, she’d need to go to Redesdale for supplies. Food. Tools. And a better broom. People were bound to recognize her sooner or later. It’s not as though her family was the only one to be touched by reivers. Most had been stolen from at one time or another. And they had more than likely stolen back, as reivers grew thicker than heather in the Border Marches.
Raid a farm here. Steal cattle from there. ’Twas the way of life in these parts. Even murder, if it pleased the raiders. A lawless country filled with lawless men.
“You have guessed right. Now, take your beast and leave.”
He bowed deeply. “Had I known you were Lady Margaret, I would have made the Halls pay for their impertinence to you.”
She glanced up at him. She had not been called a lady for a stone’s age. She’d given that name up long ago. One cannot be a lady when surviving day to day in the gutters of London. “I am no lady—”
Something thudded in the chimney, and a moment later, smoke billowed from the fireplace. Margaret coughed and pulled a piece of her linen head wrap over her mouth as she ran outside.
Angus rushed to his horse, pulling a rolled blanket off the back of his saddle. He took it into the tower and smothered the fire she’d just barely lit. When he emerged from the fog, he was fanning the air in front of his face and coughing.
He bent over, gasping something at Margaret and pointing toward his horse. To the side of his highbacked saddle hung a water bladder. She pried it off and carried it over, careful not to touch him—even with her gloves on.
He took a mouthful, swished it around, and spat. Then he drained it.
“I think your chimney is blocked.” A black haze covered his face, making his gray eyes stand out even more. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead.
“Aren’t you the clever one,” Margaret said. The plume of smoke roiling into the sky was enough to alert every living being in the Middle March that her chimney was blocked. “It was drawing fine a moment ago. Something must have dislodged.”
She covered her face with her veil again and went in. The fire was completely out, and Angus’s ruined blanket lay on top of the logs. Little by little, the smoke cleared, making its escape out the door, where she could still hear Angus coughing.
On her hands and knees, Margaret leaned in and peered up the chimney. Only a small speck of light shone down. Whatever had blocked it wasn’t too far up. She climbed over the smoldering logs and rammed the broom handle up the chimney. The broom hit a mass of something. She rammed again and again, grunting as she tried to dislodge it.
“Allow me to assist you,” Angus said. He must have followed her back in.
“I think,” she thrust the broom again, “I’ve almost,” another sharp push, “got it.”
A mass of debris fell into the fireplace right at her feet. She looked down to find the empty black pits of a squirrel’s eyes staring at her from a pile of leaves and twigs.
She shrieked and jumped back.
Dead animals in abandoned chimneys must be quite common. And she was not the type to be frightened by squirrel remains. But still, it had surprised her.
She looked up at Angus and laughed. “That gave me a start.” Then she caught herself. That man was not a friend. Not even an acquaintance. Nor did she want him here. For all she knew, he could be as bad as the Hall brothers.
He took what was left of the blanket and scooped up the squirrel carcass and its ill-placed nest and carried it outside. Margaret crawled back into the fireplace and checked the chimney. A big square of light shone down.
Angus returned. “How does it look?”
“All clear,” she said. She dusted off her dress and hands and stood before him. “It appears I am in your debt yet again.”
“Lady Margaret—”
“No lady.” She would not have anyone calling her that.
“Might I persuade you to come stay at Carrigdean until we can put this place to rights? It is unlivable.”
“No.” She would never. Too many strangers. All she wanted was solitude, where she could carry out her plans undisturbed.
“We have beds enough to spare. My mother is there, so you’d not be the only lady. And you’d not be alone. This is wild and dangerous country.”
She shook her head. He need not remind her of that. No danger on earth was worse than what she’d already been through.
“No. Hartfell suits me well.” She’d hoped to make a quiet return, not rouse an invitation from Angus Robson. And she’d not have him spreading word that she lived here by herself. “There is one favor I would ask of you.”
He grinned. “Name it.”
“I should like it if you’d not tell anyone of my being here.”
He nodded his head. “You have my word.”
Margaret walked to the door and motioned out. Time now for him to leave. He should never have come. “Thank you, and good even.”
He seemed taken aback but nodded and stepped through the door, casting a backward glance at Margaret and her murky tower. He swung his leg over the saddle, mounting up. Before he rode off, he let out a long whistle. A moment later, his dog burst from the thicket.
“Hamish. Stay.” The bushy gray beast sat on his haunches right next to Margaret. Angus turned his horse northward. “Hamish will keep you company.”
For goodness sake. What game was he playing at? “You’re giving me your dog?”
“I’m loaning him to you. Until you come to your senses and leave this godforsaken tower. Goodbye, Meg.” He dug his heels in and rode off.
Even sitting, the dog’s head came up almost to her chest. Margaret glanced down at the beast. Its ears perked up, and he wagged his tail.
“Come on, then.”
The dog followed Margaret into the house.
* * *
Margaret lay on a soft pillow by the warm fire, her belly full of meat from the table. She yawned and stretched in her contentment. Then she was bounding across the moor, hot on the tail of a doe. Freedom. Exhilaration. She lengthened her stride, barely touching ground as she chased the deer.
She opened her eyes, rubbing her palm against the pain in the side of her head.
Sometime during the night, Hamish had left his place by the fire and now lay spread out beside her. His legs twitched as he dreamed of the deer and the heather. This was Hamish’s dream, not hers.
Margaret rolled away, and the vision ended. She’d taken her gloves off to sleep, but it was the dog’s head nestled into the bare skin of her neck that had made the connection. She supposed for a dog, it wasn’t so bad. At least he hadn’t been dreaming of gutting the deer and feasting on offal.
In truth, the warm body next to hers had been rather comforting after so many years of avoiding direct contact with anything living. Her world was cold and barren and hard as stone. But with touch came the visions. The sensation of all the other person was thinking. Then came the sharp pain stabbing through her forehead and centering on her left temple where the border reiver had crushed her skull on a rock.
Most people yearned to know the thoughts and feelings of others. Of their friends. Their children. Their lovers. If they had her same burden, they would come to regret it as quickly as she had. The minds of men were not beautiful places; they were a hunting ground filled with anger, deceit, and malice.
The dog’s mind, on the other hand, had not caused nearly the pain she usually experienced. Perhaps because he was an animal. Perhaps because he was a gentle beast.
Margaret rose from her pallet on the hard stone floor and added a few logs to the fire. Hamish watched her from the comfort of the bed. The night was cold, and the patter of rain on the roof high above echoed in the stone tower. The constant dripping of water as it leaked through and landed on the floor above her only reminded her of the mountain of work still ahead to make Hartfell Tower decent again.
She returned to the bed and pulled her blanket up over her shoulders and between herself and Hamish, then she scooted closer, hungry for his heat. As obstinate as Angus was, the dog was a welcome companion.