Margaret opened the door carefully the following morning, half expecting to see the entire Hall clan lined up with spears drawn.
All seemed well. No sign of her late-night visitors, other than the crossbow bolt lying in the dirt. Kind of them to allow her to reuse it. If she ever fired this at a Hall again, they could be sure it would not be at a foot.
She opened the door farther. “There you go, Hamish. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Hamish burst out into the sunshine, spinning several times in celebration before darting off into the trees at top speed and disappearing almost immediately. No matter how often she watched him run, his speed took her by surprise.
She finished off the last of her bread to break her fast. Later today, she would have to bake some more. At least the visit from the Halls had not ruined the weather. The day was so fine and the sun so warm she walked down to the river for a bath. With one last check to confirm she was alone, she unlaced her bodice and laid it aside. She stepped out of her skirt and pulled her shift up and over her shoulders.
The water was cold as ice, but she waded in anyway. It moved swiftly, carrying away her dirt and filth with urgency. She closed her eyes, wishing it could pull her past off with it.
If only she hadn’t gone to the standing stones that night, her family might still be alive. If she’d been home, she could have saved them from the fire. Gotten her siblings out of the house. Her brothers. Her sister. As the eldest, it was her responsibility to look after them. The images she fought constantly to push down floated upward.
If only she hadn’t crept out to meet Timothy, she would not be burdened with her affliction. Her curse.
She ducked under the surface. The cold water eased the memory of heat and ash and flame that burned her skin. Perhaps she should stay here. It would be easy to let herself float downstream forever. Away from Hartfell. Away from reivers and fires and evil men. A soft and gentle journey from which she need never return.
Something brushed up against her. It clamped onto her hair and pulled. Margaret gasped as her head broke the surface of the water. Hamish. It took her several heavy breaths to fill her lungs as Hamish tugged her toward the shore.
When she got her footing, she pried her hair out of his jaws. “You can let go now. Witless dog.”
Hamish bounded to the shore, wagging his tail.
Ridiculous beast. What was he about, saving people who didn’t want to be saved. She tossed a stick into the thicket, and he lunged after it.
She waded back into the river. “I’m just going to wash,” she called over her shoulder in case Hamish was still worried about her mental fortitude. Time to bathe and get on with her day. She had a visit to the warden to make.
She cleaned her hair and body with castile soap scented with lavender and rose hips. A little something she’d borrowed from the good nuns at St. Helen’s. Always careful to use it sparingly, she took the opportunity now—a visit to the warden meant looking and smelling her best.
She pulled her shift on over her wet body. Then her underskirt and skirt and last her bodice. It would take her thick, black hair the bulk of the day to dry. She combed her fingers through it, letting it hang down past her waist.
Hamish returned with his stick and two more besides. He kept dropping one and stopping to try to pick it up, not quite able to fit them all in his mouth. Then, of a sudden, he dropped them all and bounded off.
“Nonsensical beast.”
Margaret followed the path back toward the tower. She emerged from the thicket to see Angus squatting on his heels, doing his best to protect his face from Hamish’s enthusiasm.
“Where is Gillis?” she asked.
Angus’s head came up, and his hands went still. He rose. “He . . . didn’t come.”
“Pity.” Margaret shrugged. “I like it better when he comes with you.”
Angus smiled. “Indeed. He will be sorry he missed this.”
Missed what? Dog licks all over his face?
He stared at her, at her face, at her wet hair hanging loose in the morning light.
She was sick to death of the unwanted stares of men. Something about her dark hair and green eyes seemed to draw their looks. At least once a day in London, she’d had to deflect some man who had tried to get too close. What bothered her now was that with Angus, she didn’t seem to mind. A flush of warmth crept up her neck and tickled her cheeks.
He took a step closer. “You smell exquisite this morning.” He closed his eyes and breathed in.
At least her bathing hadn’t gone completely to waste. If she’d passed the test with Angus, the warden would surely be more accommodating to her pleas for justice.
Angus reached up and took hold of a strand of hair. Margaret jumped back. That was too close. His hand had almost touched her cheek.
Angus seemed to waken from a haze. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
“Why are you here?”
“Uh.” He strode over to his horse and removed a bundle wrapped in raw linen. “I brought you this.” He handed it over.
Margaret lifted back the folds to find a small wheel of soft sheep’s milk cheese. His generosity was too much. She already owed him for his assistance on the moors the other day, the furnishings, and all the man labor.
“Our dairyman hails from York. This is a secret recipe from the monks at the Abbey of Fors. You’ll not find the likes of it anywhere else.”
It smelled rich and sharp, and she wished she’d not already finished the last of her bread. She wrapped the cloth around it and held it out to him. “You are very kind. Too kind. I cannot accept.”
“Nonsense.” He resumed rubbing behind Hamish’s ears, leaving her arm outstretched with the bundle. “’Tis only cheese.”
He was so stubborn. Or perhaps his presence made her weak. She feared the latter was closer to the truth, and it did not sit well with her.
“Angus Robson.” She tried again to return the cheese. “I am grateful for all you’ve done for me. Truly, I am. But I cannot accept any more charity.”
He threw a stick far out into the heather, and Hamish ran after it, traveling nearly as fast. “’Tis not charity. Not when it is among friends.”
“We are not friends. I do not have friends.”
A scowl crossed his face. He must understand that his trips across the border were pointless. Whatever he hoped to gain from them, friendship or pity or otherwise, it could not be.
“I am sorry,” she said, forcing the cheese into his hands. As she pulled away, her bare finger brushed along his. An intense disappointment rushed through her and a turbulent longing to reach out and smooth the lines between her brows. To stroke her hair, gleaming like polished onyx in the sunlight.
Angus’s thoughts. She gasped and pressed the heel of her hand against her head, trying to knead away the stabbing pain.
“Margaret?” He reached out as if to help her, and she quickly stepped away. Neither of them was wearing gloves. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine.”
He watched her, clearly not believing.
“Just a passing headache.” She told the truth. It was almost gone now. “I am well.”
He looked down at his hand. At the bundled cheese. Then up at her.
The touch had been fleeting. The blink of an eye. But even in that short moment, she’d seen more of his thoughts than she’d ever wanted. It did nothing to strengthen her resolve to keep her distance when he clearly wanted more.
Hamish ran between them, stirring up the dust of the courtyard. She backed away to keep it from settling in her damp hair. She should have gone in a long time ago and put on her hood.
“I wish you would come to your senses and leave this place. I hate the thought of you here alone.”
It was his simple concern that chipped away at her, for no one had cared about her in a very long time. “On the contrary, you’ve set me up so that I’m perfectly safe. The new door saved me last night.”
He stepped closer. “What happened last night?”
On second thought, it might have been better had she not mentioned it. “Nothing.”
He shook his head. “Tell me. What happened last night?”
“I had visitors. That is all.” She smiled. “But thanks to your door, they did not come in.”
“Who was it?”
“I cannot say for certain. It was dark—”
“Who was it?”
“The same men we saw the first day we met.”
“The Halls,” he grumbled.
She nodded.
He turned and stomped three paces away, then came back. “Can you not see? This is why you must not stay here.” He was gripping his wheel of cheese as if trying to murder it. “What did they want?”
“Nothing.”
“Margaret.”
“They wanted me to pay for their protection. They said Hartfell is in their territory and I owe them for it.”
“Black rent.” He rubbed a hand over his face, more upset about this than she’d been last night when they’d been here. “Did you pay?”
“Course not. I have no money to give. I shot the elder one in the foot, and they left.”
“By the saints, woman. What were you thinking?” He gaped at her. Even Hamish was staring at her with his head cocked to the side.
“I was thinking to make them leave. And it worked.”
“They’ll be back, you know. With spears and torches. Jack Hall will never let this rest. You’ve not scared them away; you’ve stirred them up to action, like a badger in a bee’s nest.”
How naive did he think she was? “I’m not a fool, Angus Robson. I’m on my way this very day to report them to the warden.”
He stared at her as if she’d finally and thoroughly crossed into the realm of madness. “Lord William Dacre. The warden.”
She nodded. Problem solved.
“Lord Dacre will lead his men out and come raiding himself if he knows you are here and unprotected. That is, if you had anything to raid. The only law in the Marches is the law of the clan. Do not look to the warden for anything but more trouble.”
“You think I should pay the black rent?” She would never be cowed by reivers, no matter the cost.
He paced to and fro in the courtyard, with Hamish prancing at his heels. “I’m afraid I must insist that you come stay at Carrigdean.”
“And I’m afraid I cannot go.”
“Margaret.” He glared at her.
“Angus.” She glared right back.
He groaned his disapproval and then thrust the cheese at her. “I must go.”
“Then go.”
He took her by the shoulders but she flung her arms to get him off. “Do not touch me.”
“Is there no way to convince you to come with me?”
Not back to this again. “None.” Especially not riding together on one beast.
“Do not go to the warden; do you understand?”
“Yes. Very well. I’ll not go.” Which meant she’d just wasted a portion of her fine soap for nothing, although Angus had appreciated it. So many years she’d had no one to trust, but for some unknown reason, she trusted him. It frightened her more than any threat from the Halls.
He stepped away. “Do not stay out after dark. Bar your door. And for pity’s sake, do something with your hair.”
“My hair?”
He strode over to his horse, mounted up, and rode away. Hamish stood beside her, his tail wagging slower and slower as Angus disappeared into the heath.
Margaret fingered her hair, swishing it about to quicken the drying. If Angus didn’t want her going to the warden, that was fine. Still, she had unanswered questions about the Halls. They were her nearest neighbor, and they’d shown keen interest in Hartfell by coming last night. She thought once more that they might very well be the reivers she was looking for. And if they weren’t, they likely knew who was.
Time for a visit. If Angus were here, he would certainly oppose this course of action as well, but he was not. And in broad daylight, under the curious eyes of the entire Hall household, she would probably be safe. After all, a friendly call was always appropriate when one was new in the neighborhood.
Margaret wrapped her hair in a hood and secured her misericorde to her girdle. With Hamish trotting along beside her, she set off toward the worn track leading away on the opposite side of the Rede.
By the time she reached the Halls’ barmkin wall, the sun was at midday. Their house was old but sturdy, with a three-story pele tower almost identical to her own. The whole place was not in the best of keep; several cracks in the barmkin wall had ferns growing through, and pieces of plaster on the timbered house had flaked off.
Margaret paused at the gate. The hackles on Hamish rose.
“I agree,” she said to the dog. She pushed through the rusting iron and approached the house. A neighborly house call. That was all this was. No reason to the fear them.
Margaret tugged off her gloves and tucked them into her girdle. She knocked hard on the door. She was already here. No sense being timid about it.
A serving woman answered. She said nothing but simply stared at Margaret and the big, gray dog.
“I’m here to speak with Jack Hall,” Margaret said.
“An’ who may I ask is callin’?”
“He doesn’t need to know my name.”
The woman stepped away and tried to close the door, but Margaret stuck her foot out, stopping it.
“Tell him I’ve come here from Hartfell.” That should be enough to lure at least one of the Hall brothers out. All she needed was confirmation one way or the other. Either they were involved with the raid on her family or they were not.
The woman pursed her lips and strode away without even inviting her in. In the servant’s eyes, she was a commoner; what business did commoners have with the master of the house. But this was what always bothered her. The serving woman was also common, so what made her feel like she was worth more than Margaret?
Sure enough, a tall man appeared in the doorway with straw-colored hair all a tangle. It was the youngest of the three brothers. Not Jack, but good enough. His eyes widened when he saw Margaret. He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “You,” he said.
She nodded. His hands were bare, and Margaret quickly devised a way to make contact.
“Come.” He led her away from the main door and around the corner. “I’m surprised to see you here. This is, perhaps, not the safest place for you. Jack will not be happy if he finds you here. He is extremely vexed about his foot.” The young man chuckled.
This was the first time Margaret had had a chance to observe this youngest of the Halls. He’d hung back the day they’d found her on the moor, and he’d been absent last night when his brothers had visited Hartfell. He had strikingly blue eyes, and for a moment, Margaret could not look away.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Margaret straightened her back. “I’ve come to ask about the family that lived in Hartfell six years ago.”
“What about them?” If he recognized her as their daughter, he did not show it. Nor did he ask why she cared.
“I heard in town it was a raid. Do you know what happened?” As she spoke, she stepped toward him, stumbling and falling into him.
He caught her, and she grasped his bare hand. What is wrong with her? I forgot how beautiful she is. Clumsy though.
“What happened on the raid to Hartfell?” Margaret pushed his mind in the right direction; she’d not come all this way to hear his thoughts on why she’d purposefully fallen into him.
The raid? I do not know. He leaned Margaret back onto her feet, but she kept hold of his bare hand. “We were in Carlisle at the time. When we returned, the house was burned and the family gone.”
Margaret pressed one hand onto the scar on the side of her head but did not let go of him with the other. “Do you know who was responsible?”
“No.” We never heard. I do not think she is well. Margaret pulled away, but he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Are you ill?”
“No.” She pulled her hand away, rubbing against the fire in her head. He didn’t know. He was telling the truth—they’d all been gone to Carlisle at the time. She’d seen it in his mind. It lightened her heart that this youngest of the Hall brothers was not involved in something so horrific. It did not suit his bright eyes and cheerful face.
“Truly, you do not look well.”
Margaret stuffed her hands back into her gloves, leaning against the timber-and-plaster outer wall.
“Miss?” He studied her more closely, keeping his grip on her shoulders. “Come inside and rest a moment. I’ll have a cup of oak bark tea brought in.”
She couldn’t help smiling. He was in earnest about his concern; she’d seen that in his thoughts also. But already, the pain was subsiding, and she wanted to be on her way.
She shook her head. “A momentary headache is all. I get them from time to time.”
“Harry?” a deep voice called from the front door.
“Jack,” he whispered. “He’s looking for me. Go quickly if you do not wish to deal with my brother.”
Margaret nodded. “Good morrow.” She hurried away, crossing the courtyard with her skirts in her hands. He was not what Margaret had expected from one of the Halls. From a reiver. She glanced back in time to see his light hair duck into the house.