Stuart, Elizabeth (3 page)

They
slept a few hours that evening and then moved out, threading their way through
bogs and over bushy hillsides. The moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds,
and the breeze made a ghostly rustling sound in the heather.

At
any other time, Jonet would have thrilled to the exciting night ride, but she
was all too aware this was no game they were playing. They were but one step
ahead of the Douglases and she only prayed they stayed that way.

It
was for that very reason that she had divided her jewels with Duncan. If
anything unexpected happened, it was of the utmost importance that he press on
with the valuables.

Another
day and night passed in much the same manner as the first, and Jonet soon
became so weary she no longer marked the passing of time. She rode where she
was ordered and slept the few hours she could, rolled tight in a damp,
miserable ball on the ground or even dozing a bit in the saddle. But when
misery threatened to overwhelm her she reminded herself of what was
ahead—Robert Maxwell and passage to France.

It
was well before daybreak of the third day when their luck finally played out.
Moving along the shadowy verge of a dense stand of pines, they stumbled into a
group of men camped at the edge of a ravine. Whether the men were Douglases or
an outlaw band, they had no idea, but Duncan grabbed Jonet's reins, jerking her
horse after his, slipping and sliding down the muddy bank to the foot of the
gorge.

"Quick,
lass, straight ahead fast as you can till you get to the head of this
cut," he ordered. "It's but a mile or so. You'll see a stream running
off to your right and a wooded slope slanting up to the left. There's an
abandoned shepherd's hut at the edge of the wood. Wait there."

Jonet
couldn't believe she was hearing correctly.
"What?"

"Our
horses are spent. Whoever this is, we'll not outrun them. Our only hope is to
kill a few and lose the rest in the dark. Go on with you now, lass. You'll be
but a hindrance in the fighting."

"But..."

"Go!"
he
said savagely. "They're coming!"

Jonet
turned blindly away, kicking her mount to a headlong gallop into the blackness
ahead. Behind her she could hear the sounds of pursuit, then shouts and the
noise of clashing steel dying away with the distance.

She
clung to her saddle, terrified of what was ahead but all too aware that Duncan
spoke true. She was a hindrance. And if she couldn't manage to ride one mile by
herself in the dark, she was a damned fool who deserved what she got from the
Douglases.

The
ravine began to open up and a wisp of leftover moon shone down. She could see
what must be the wooded slope Duncan had described just ahead. She urged her
tired mount onward. Then the night and the wood and the moon all exploded as
her horse missed a stride, pitching forward and dropping out unexpectedly from
beneath her.

Without
warning Jonet was somersaulting through the air, landing hard on the muddy
ground to one side of the trail. For several moments she lay stunned,
struggling to breathe, struggling to understand what had happened.

Finally,
she sat up. She had taken a fall, but she was alive and at least she could
move.

Her
horse had stumbled to his feet and stood, winded and blowing a few feet away.
The sound of his labored breathing was loud in the silence. It reawakened her
fears. If Duncan and Gordon weren't successful in turning those men, they would
be on her in a moment. She needed to get her mount out of sight.

Gingerly,
she stood. Her head was pounding and her side ached where she had landed hard
against a rock. She took a few unsteady steps. Her legs hurt, but at least they
weren't broken. She only prayed her mount was in like condition.

Fumbling
for the reins, she coaxed her horse forward. He seemed to favor his right
foreleg, but he was walking. She leaned against his shoulder as a wave of pain
and dizziness swept her. She couldn't faint. Not here, for God's sake!

The
warmth and strength of the animal's solid body was reassuring. Slowly the
dizziness subsided and she eased away. She had to get moving. Several minutes
had already elapsed, and every one might be crucial. "Come, lad," she
coaxed, tugging at the reins.

The
horse moved obediently after her and they limped along the remainder of the
ravine, moving into the concealing shadows at the edge of the woodland. The
hushed whisper of a stream came to her from out of the darkness. A hut. There
should be a shepherd's hut here somewhere.

Slowly
she moved forward, eyes searching the shadows. There. The dark bulk of what
must be the abandoned shelter squatted just ahead through the trees.

With
trembling hands, Jonet tied her mount to one side of the old hut. Her ribs were
aching fiercely now. Perhaps there would be a stool inside, or even a pallet
where she might lie down. Surely she would be able to ride if she could just
rest a few minutes.

The
deep blackness of the hut entrance yawned before her. If there had ever been a
door, it was long gone. Hesitantly, she stepped over the threshold, hoping her
eyes would adjust to the absence of light. The noise of some tiny creature
scuttling off made her sidestep quickly away from the door. Then all was
silence.

The
flesh along the back of her neck began to tingle, some deep, primal instinct
warning her she wasn't alone in the hut. The noise of her own shallow breathing
was loud in her ears. She choked off the sound. Someone else waited here;
someone who had chosen not to announce himself when she entered.

Jonet
swallowed hard and took a backward step toward the door. Maybe if she just
backed out, whoever it was would leave her alone. Maybe they would just let her
go.

But
when the man moved, it was with all the noiseless speed of a striking snake.
The faintest rustle of clothing was all the warning she had, then two strong
arms closed about her, one hand covering her mouth as she was dragged away from
the door. She fought hard against her assailant, but arms like steel bands held
her close to a lean, powerful body she hadn't a prayer of overpowering.

"Not
a word now," a harsh voice whispered against her ear. "Not a sound
else I'll cut your throat. Understand?"

"Someone
else coming," a second voice bit out from a few feet away. "Christ,
what a botch! If this is our man, we'll have to get rid of her fast."

Jonet
fought frantically against the hand covering her mouth. She couldn't die, not
like this! Not because of some outlaws she had stumbled blindly upon in her
flight from the Douglases.

Fear
lent her strength and she twisted into the man, struggling to get an elbow
loose to jam into his midsection. But he was lithe as a cat. Anticipating her
move, he shifted with her, lifting her off the floor and crushing her tighter
against his side.

Injured
as she was, the position was agony. Pain radiated like a sunburst through her
body. She heard her own anguished whimper muffled against his hand. Then the
sweeping, dizzying emptiness took her, and there was only a murderer's strong
arms between herself and the floor.

The
bittersweet notes of a haunting melody wove their way through Jonet's dreams.
She strained to come awake, but the effort of lifting her eyelids, of coping
with the throbbing ache in her head seemed far too great.

But
where was that lovely music coming from?

She
shifted her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. A few feet away in a sunny
window seat sat a stranger strumming a lute. From this angle she could see
little of the man save his back and his elegant hands. His head was lowered,
rapt in the music, his hair, the glossy blue-black shade of a raven's wing. His
hands were large, each graceful finger strong and beautifully shaped. She
watched in fascination as they stroked a tune from the instrument more
skillfully than any musician she'd ever heard.

She
made a sound and he looked up. She had an instant impression of dark, handsome
features, of eyes a riveting silvery gray and of a ruthless, frowning mouth.
Impossible that this hard face belonged to the maker of such music.

He
smiled then, and the effect was far more dazzling than his music. The harsh
mouth was gentled, the cold, assessing eyes turned warm as smoke. Jonet took a
deep breath, scarcely noticing the pain in her side.

"Well,"
he said, putting down the lute and rising to his feet. "So you're awake at
last. I'm glad the herdsman who found you didn't leave you for dead as he half
thought to do."

He
moved toward her, and belatedly Jonet realized she was lying in a strange bed
with a stranger standing over her. Her memory was hazy, but she distinctly
remembered someone threatening to cut her throat. She tried to place where she
was, but the effort set up such a pounding in her temples that she winced and
closed her eyes.

"Don't
try to think," the man said softly. "You took a nasty bump on the
head and were half-dead when my people found you. Don't trouble yourself.
You're safe here."

Safe?
If only it were true. But where were Duncan and Gordon, and where in heaven's
name was "here"? She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. Her
tongue flickered out, wetting her parched lips.

The
stranger read minds as well as he played. He caught up a cup from the table and
eased down beside her. One hand slid behind her neck, gently cupping her head
and lifting her enough to drink. "Just small sips now at first," he
warned. "There's plenty more."

The
water was cool. It trickled down her throat, reviving her. She opened her eyes.

The
man's face was only inches away. It was tanned and smooth, the face of a young
man, but about the eyes there was something too cynical for youth. Up close,
they were a curious combination—silvery gray with flecks of hazel spun
throughout. And they were beautiful. Heavily lashed like a woman's.

Something
indefinable tugged at Jonet's memory. She didn't know this man. There wasn't a
woman alive who wouldn't remember a face like his if ever she'd seen it before.
Yet there was something... an air... something.

"Who
are you?" she whispered.

The
man slipped a pillow behind her shoulders, then drew her hand from beneath the
covers. For a moment he seemed interested only in shaping her fingers about the
cup. At last he looked up. "My name is Alexander." Those exquisite
eyes narrowed slightly. "And who are you?"

Who?
Jonet
felt a moment of blind panic, carefully observed, she was sure, by those
all-seeing eyes.

"Don't
struggle with it, lass. It's obvious you're in trouble," he said gently.
"Tell me the truth and perhaps I can help you. Now, let's start at the
beginning. What's your name?"

The
man was well dressed, obviously a gentleman. Jonet glanced about. The gold
brocade bed curtains and heavy oak furniture bespoke wealth. Perhaps he could
help her. But then, he was more likely in league with the Douglases. "You
didn't tell me your family name," she countered.

His
dark, expressive eyebrows rose. "Ah... but you didn't tell me your
first."

"It
doesn't matter. You wouldn't know me," she said hastily. "I'm a
maidservant at one of the great houses hereabouts."

The
man's expression didn't change. "I see."

Catching
her hand, he took the cup from her fingers, deftly turning her palm to the
light. "A maidservant with the hands of a gentlewoman? You've either a
very kind or a very lazy mistress, lass. Come..." He smiled, but there was
no warmth in it. "You can do better than that."

Jonet
tried to pull away, but his fingers closed about her wrist. "And where did
you get those pretty baubles you were carrying? Had you robbed this kind
mistress? Picked the pockets of a dozen wealthy ladies of the land?"

Her
jewels.

Jonet
caught her breath. They'd obviously been found by whoever had put her to bed.
She stared at her arm, only now noticing. She was dressed in a soft, enveloping
garment of fine white linen with an abundance of lace at the wrist.

A
flush of humiliation swept her. She was dressed in a gentleman's shirt. A
gentleman's shirt and nothing else, by the feel of it.

She
glanced up in mortification.
This
gentleman's shirt.

"The
jewels, lass?" he prodded softly.

"I...
I was carrying
them... for someone else," she stammered. Her thoughts were reeling, her
head splitting with the effort of trying to think. She closed her eyes,
covering her forehead with her free hand. "I've robbed no one. Please, let
me be. I... I hurt."

He
released her immediately. Then came the sound of water being poured into a
bowl, and a cool, damp cloth was pressed to her forehead.

"You
took a nasty bump," he said matter-of-factly. "Take a few deep
breaths. The pain will ease."

His
fingers stroked the hair back from her face. It felt good. In her mind's eye
she saw those same strong fingers strumming the strings of the lute. Then the
faintest hint of sandalwood drifted over her, coming together with the dark and
her fears in a never-to-be-forgotten memory of terror.

This
was the man. The man who had threatened to kill her.

She
stiffened with an impulse she couldn't control. Her heartbeat accelerated, her
breathing quickened painfully.

His
fingers ceased their soothing strokes through her hair. Jonet swallowed hard,
forcing herself to lie still, eyes shut.

For
several long moments the man didn't move. "Tell me," he murmured
finally. "What gave me away?"

Her
eyes flew open. "What do you mean?"

His
gaze narrowed and she felt a sudden chill. "Don't play me for a fool,
lass. I can make you regret it."

Jonet
was certain he could. Gazing up into that hard, resolute face, she knew it
beyond all doubt. "Your smell," she whispered. "I... I
recognized it."

"My
what?"

"Your
smell... scent. Sandalwood I think."

He
stared blankly at her, then a look of amusement swept his face.
"Sandalwood?
Sweet Lord in heaven!" He began to laugh, and Jonet's terror eased
slightly.

"Mother!"
he remarked in exasperation. "A new soap she sent me from London. All the
rage at court, so she says."

Bending
over, he sniffed both hands. "You're right." He looked up, silvery
eyes still gleaming. "I shall have to remember that."

But
to Jonet's dismay, his amusement ebbed as quickly as it had risen. "And
now that we're both being honest. Tell me, lass. How much of last night do you
remember?"

She
met his gaze. How absurd to be sitting in a strange bed, half-naked, having
this conversation with a man who was probably a murderer. But did murderers use
scented soap? "Only that you were going to cut my throat," she responded
evenly. "Nothing after that."

"Ah,
nothing very important then after all."

"Perhaps
not, from where you sit."

He
lifted the towel from her head. Soaking it in the water, he squeezed it once
and then replaced it. "Rest easy, lass, I'm not going to kill you. I only
said that last night to keep you quiet. I was expecting someone. A friend I was
supposed to meet. I feared if you screamed it might frighten him away."

She
wasn't sure just what madness possessed her, but somehow she didn't think he'd
been waiting for any friend. "And this... this friend. Did he come?"

His
expression didn't change. "That's none of your business now, is it?"
He rose abruptly and moved away to a coffer chest, taking up a flagon of wine
and pouring out a measure into a goblet of Venetian crystal.

"Here,
drink this down," he ordered, handing her the glass. "Your head is
probably aching fit to come off. The wine will ease it."

Her
head was aching, and her bruised ribs hurt with each breath she drew. She took
a deep draught of the wine, surprised to discover it was laced with sugar and
spices.

He
smiled at her expression. "Good?"

"Yes."
She took another deep swallow, then regarded him uneasily over the rim of the
glass. "My clothes and... jewels. Where are they?"

"There
in the chest." He nodded to one side of the room where an ornate chest
stood. "Don't try to fetch them. I doubt you could walk now if your life
depended on it. Head injuries can be tricky. My father had one once."

She
took another sip, determined to ask one more question, not quite daring to meet
his eyes while she did. "Who put me to bed?"

"An
old woman of my house. One I trust implicitly." The amusement was back in
his liking voice. He hesitated a moment. "Though it may seem unlikely,
most of the proprieties have been preserved."

She
looked up. His eyes were warmly appreciative, his smile took her breath.
Impossible to believe him a murderer when he smiled at her like that. "Who
are you?" she asked again impulsively.

"My
identity's no secret. I'd tell you now, lass, but you'd believe yourself to be
in the clutches of the devil himself. We'll talk later. After you've
rested."

Jonet
was beginning to feel strange. The room was tilting and the man wavered
unsteadily before her. Her face felt flushed and a ringing had begun in her
ears. She stared down into the wine, a sickening realization sweeping her.
"Y-you've drugged me, haven't you?"

He
reached down and eased the goblet from her hand. "Yes. Some unexpected
visitors arrived and I can't risk having you up stumbling about. Besides, you
need rest."

She
looked up at him then, the fear and the wine making it difficult to speak
clearly. "Are you... going to kill me? I... I'd really rather know."

"No."
He eased onto the bed, leaning slightly toward her. "I swear to you, lass,
I'm not going to kill you. And I greatly regret I've frightened you half out of
your wits. This is my room and no one will bother you here. A woman will come
to sit with you while you sleep. And when you wake, we'll sort out this
hobble."

He
took her hand then, raising it to his lips. "Someone will watch over you.
Sleep now and be at peace."

It
sounded like a benediction. And strangely enough, Jonet slipped easily away
into a deep, dreamless slumber.

***

For
several minutes, Alexander Hepburn sat staring at the woman in his bed. Cleaned
up, she was quite a beauty with an unconscious, sensual innocence that made a
man ache. Heavy auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, and luxuriant lashes
like fine, dark fans lay motionless against her cheek. Her wide, full-lipped
mouth made him dwell for a moment on the undeniable pleasure kissing her would
bring. And he'd long been partial to green eyes. But a
maidservant?

His
mouth curled up. His mother had certainly never employed such a maidservant
with skin as soft and white as lily petals and hands that had seen no harder
work than the lifting of an embroidery needle. And the girl had been wearing
the kind of jewels hidden in her clothing that could bribe a lord. No
maidservant's pay that.

An
ugly bruise still darkened her brow, but the swelling that had concerned him
last night was rapidly receding. He leaned forward and removed the wet towel,
gently probing the knot. She was going to be all right—a minor miracle
considering what she had stumbled into.

A
soft, scrabbling knock sounded against the door. Alexander didn't move.
"Come in, Grant."

A
middle-aged man with unremarkable features and nondescript brown hair put his
head around the door. "I'm to tell you to make haste. His lordship's
gettin' impatient."

"Is
he now? What a shame."

Stepping
over the threshold, the man moved toward the bed. "Still asleep, eh?"

Alexander
held up the goblet. "No. Back to sleep. With a little help."

"Hysterical?"

"No.
But as the result of a careless mistake on my part, she knows it was me last
night."

"Christ
keep us, Alex! I told you we shouldn't have brought her back here. The
Englishman didn't show. Now what'll we do if he was caught? She can link you to
the place and it's like to be both our heads!"