Chapter Six

Malcolm bent a look on the woman who rode so close on the saddle, in front of him. During the last three days he’d become accustomed to having her there—the feel and scent of her, the constant awareness. For a peasant lass from an isolated clachan, she made a surprisingly good companion, lively, clever, and always willing to listen. In fact, she soaked up whatever he chose to tell her the way dry bread sops up wine.

As a consequence, he might have confided more than he should. After his harrowing experience at Dun Ballan, words seemed to tumble from him. Moreover, he missed Mercien’s company. The two of them had tended to chat effortlessly when they traveled, as if of one mind.

Curious, but he felt of one mind with this lass also. Odd that he’d find a connection with someone he’d stumbled across by chance, a woman so different from himself. Yet half the time he could sense the thoughts moving in that black head of hers, and twice she’d roused him from deep and evil dreams in the night, with soft words.

And he sensed a restlessness in her that matched his own.

Now he wondered what she’d make of Crag Corvan. He loved the place with a deep and unwavering affection that, like his attachment to his father, followed him everywhere he went in the world—a tether, an anchor drawing him always home. An ancient settlement claimed by his Montgomery ancestors and theirs before them far into the mists of antiquity, it had been built around a stone tower that kept watch over the North Atlantic. The pile of rock might not look like much at first glance. But it sheltered Malcolm’s heart.

“There,” he whispered to Mistress Tansy Bellrose, “now you will see.”

Time for no more. His weary horse breached the rise, and Mistress Tansy gave a satisfying gasp.

“Och, ’tis a jewel of a place. We go there?”

“Aye.”

She turned on her perch to look at him. So near did she ride in his arms, her black hair brushed his chin. It felt like silk.

“You did no’ say ’twas set beside the ocean. I ha’ always wanted to live within sight of the sea.”

“’Tis an ancient stronghold, this. Granted to my ancestors back in the time of Robert the Bruce, the original fortress has been here much longer. But as you can see, ’tis not so much by the sea but above it—there is no easy way down.”

“You must be so glad to be home.”

He was—a hard knot unfurled in his chest, affording him a measure of ease. At the same time, dread tightened his stomach. He brought ill news to his father, news he did not look forward to imparting.

“Aye,” he said and chucked to the horse, to get him moving again. Rest soon, he promised the valiant beast. And a new life for the lass he’d brought.

As if reading his mind once more, she asked, “Sir Malcolm, what will my place be, here?”

A good question. Having now made her acquaintance, he could not imagine her suited to becoming a good servant. Too volatile, too filled with energy and ideas. Yet that would most likely be her fate.

Still, throwing her into the kitchen would be like tossing a fox among hens. Could she cook? Sew? Make cheese?

He grunted and said nothing. These many days, his body had argued hard about what he’d like to do with her. He’d entertained wild imaginings of her in his bed, warm and smelling of thyme as she did, and beyond willing. Not that she’d given him any indication she desired him, beyond an occasional look from those uncanny eyes.

He maun put such thoughts away from him. Did he not have enough over which to worry?

“Sir Malcolm?” she persisted. He’d learned she did not give up easily when pursuing what she wanted to know.

“I shall ask my father to place you where you can do the most good. What skills do you possess?”

“I am right clever with herbs and medicines. And I brew the best heather ale in all Scotland.”

“Formidable skills. Our brewer is called Angus. I am no’ certain he will welcome anyone interfering in his affairs, specially a lass. And our physician, Brother Matthew works alone in the dispensary.”

“No’ any more,” she said smugly.

He laughed. “Well, we shall see.”

She shot him another look over her shoulder, from so close he might have numbered her eyelashes had he wished. “One word of warning, Sir Knight: I am of no use in the kitchen. No point stationing me there.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Better, surely, than in the hands of the Commission?”

“Aye, but ’twould be a close thing.”

****

No mistaking the man who embraced Malcolm Montgomery for anyone but his father. Sir Malcolm, as Tansy could see, was the spit of his sire, and gazing at Master Murgo, she fancied she beheld Malcolm in a score of years.

A handsome man and no mistake, though with a liberal helping of silver in his dark hair and a face scored, no doubt, by both living and pain. He and Sir Malcolm were nearly of a height and similarly built. Nor could she mistake the affection and relief with which Master Murgo clasped his son to him.

Yet a glad homecoming it proved not. Sir Malcolm soon drew away from Master Murgo’s grasp far enough to speak. “Father…”

“Where is Mercien?” Master Murgo’s face grew suddenly grim. “Never say he is lost! You sent word from France telling us you would both soon return home.”

“Father, we maun speak together. The news is no’ good.”

“Where is your brother?”

“At Dun Ballan, a prisoner of Donald Latham. But…”

“You do no’ say! That bastard.” Master Murgo glanced round at the others gathered for this homecoming, including Malcolm’s young brother and sister, both of whom listened avidly. “You are right—we maun speak. In my study. Nellie, bring the whisky.”

Master Murgo’s dark gaze fell on Tansy. “But who is this?” He gave his son a sharp look. “You did no’ return to my household with some Frankish strumpet?”

Tansy stiffened indignantly. Was that how she appeared, like a foreign tart? And was Malcolm in the habit of keeping such company? She did not like the prospect, though to be sure, she had no claim upon him.

“This is Mistress Tansy Gant. I did offer her my assistance, Father, in order to remove her from peril. She needs refuge for a time.”

“Mistress Tansy Bellrose Gant,” Tansy elucidated, dropping a rough representation of a curtsy. They did not have much time for such niceties in Slurt. That didn’t mean she could not rise to the occasion.

Master Murgo waved a hand. “Take her to the kitchens and see her fed. Everyone else, please leave mysel’ and my son to speak together.”

Tansy felt a touch on her arm. “Come,” said a girl standing beside her. “Awa’ as the master says.”

Tansy followed with unwonted obedience, though she did hold back one instant in an attempt to catch Sir Malcolm’s eye. Wholly engaged with his father, he spared her not so much as a glance.

Would he give her another thought? Or had she vanished from his mind?

She supposed she should be grateful either way. Had he not happened upon the crossroads when he did, where might she be now?

Her companion gave her a curious look. “Master Malcolm has ne’er before done this.”

“Done what?”

“Brought home a servant.”

“I am no’ his servant,” Tansy said, with some umbrage.

“Nay? What be ye, then?”

A good question. Tansy looked at her companion, a lass of no more than fifteen or so, with hair the color of straw and an unusually pale complexion. She appeared a bit like those white spiders that sometimes clung to the rafters in the loft back home. Did she never see the light of day?

“I am Noreen, and I start the fires.”

“Eh?” Tansy uttered, startled.

The girl with the straw-colored hair seemed proud of it. “I am up betimes and trusted to go from room ta’ room, to see the fires laid and kindled so the important folk in the house are warm when they wake.”

Somehow, Tansy kept from sneering. “When is ‘betimes’?”

“Och, I rise well before first light.”

“You are up creeping about this place in the dark and cold just so others can lie in comfort?”

“And arise in comfort,” Noreen added happily. “’Tis a gey important task, so Mistress Dinmore says.”

“Who is Mistress Dinmore?”

“She is in charge of us all, even in charge of you.”

“I tell you, I am no servant.”

“Aye, but you maun be, if you wish to stay. Everyone here does work, frae the high to the low.”

“The high?” This time Tansy did sneer. “You say the masters here work?”

“Aye—hardest of all, Master Murgo running this great place and Masters Malcolm and Mercien fighting the King’s battles. ’Tis an honor, just, to serve such men.”

Well, Tansy thought, and that remained to be seen.