Stuart, Elizabeth (7 page)

"What's
happening?" she asked Grant.

He
shrugged his shoulders, not deigning to speak. But his gaze was riveted on his
master's dark profile.

The
Douglas captain perused the papers carefully, then handed them back to
Alexander. They continued speaking amiably. The man gestured off behind them
and again to his left, and Alexander waved his men on ahead.

Numbly,
Jonet nudged her mare forward, doing her best to imitate Grant's bored slouch.
Nothing had happened. The Douglases were allowing them to continue.

The
first shock of relief gave way to anger. If Alex had a safe conduct, why hadn't
he told her? She'd been worried half out of her mind. And just what kind of
safe conduct could he have?

An
ugly suspicion reared its head. Facts that hadn't bothered her took on a
sinister character. Alexander claimed poverty, but he wore fashionable clothing
and kept a creditable wine cellar if she was any judge. And he certainly wasn't
languishing away on oatcakes and pottage.

She
found herself wishing she had asked more questions, that she had peeked into a
few of those supposedly empty rooms. If the gossips were to be believed,
Hepburn of Durnam was a man who betrayed his country as easily as he drew
breath. And he had openly admitted working for Angus. Yet she had impulsively
put her life and that of her uncle into his hands—for little more reason than a
well-told story and an incredible charm of manner. Viewed in such a light, her
behavior had been foolish. Unforgivably so.

But
Alex had asked only once for the location of her uncle's hiding place. When
she'd refused to divulge it, he hadn't pressed her. He'd accepted her vague
directions toward the Lothian country with an understanding nod.

That
thought was comforting, and there were others. He hadn't wanted to bring her.
She'd had to be at her most persuasive to convince him to help, and he had
threatened to have done with her at least a half dozen times.

But
what could he have had on those papers to make the patrol let them go?

They
turned into a forested hollow between two hills and Alexander called a halt.
Jonet sat her mount woodenly. She knew she should dismount, but she had reached
the limit of her strength, the last of her endurance. If she tried to get down
now, both her legs and her poise might give way.

For
she wasn't trained to this life as a rough country lad, she was Jonet Maxwell.
And she was lonely and frightened and half wondering if she'd been played for a
fool.

"Well,
lass. It's dawn. Weary yet?"

Turning,
she stared down into a pair of assessing gray eyes. Alexander Hepburn's eyes.

"Perhaps
a bit," she responded in what she hoped was an offhand tone. "It's
been a full night."

"Aye,
that it has."

He
held up his arms, but Jonet didn't move. "I'm to get no special attention.
Master's orders."

"There
is that," he agreed. "But the horse needs a rest. And you appear to
be settled till the call of the last trumpet."

Catching
her by the waist, he eased her to the ground. She wavered unsteadily, and he
swung her into his arms. Her face flushed as she remembered the last time he
had carried her. It was more than a little unnerving to remember she had
enjoyed it. "I can walk," she murmured.

"You're
spent, Jonet. I would to heaven I could give you a good day's rest, but we can
spare only a few hours."

He
deposited her on the ground in the lee of some sheltering whin bushes where a
blanket had been unrolled. "Still thinking this is all some grand
lark?" he asked with a smile.

"I
did. Until half an hour ago."

Alive
to the subtle change in her voice, the doubt in her eyes, his smile faded.
"Oh? And what happened to change it?"

"Why
didn't you tell me you had a safe conduct from the Douglases? I was worried
half out of my mind."

"And
now you're not?"

"Now
I am."

Without
a word, he reached into his doublet. She heard the rustle of papers and then he
was holding them out, his gaze never leaving hers.

Jonet
took the neatly folded sheets. She was afraid to see what they held, but more
afraid not to. Holding her breath, she opened them. Bold, dark script in a
graceful, sloping hand raced across the pages, blurring before her eyes.
"B-but this is a letter," she murmured in confusion. "It appears
to be from—"

"My
mother," he interrupted coolly. "Read it if you like. I assure you
you'll find no state secrets—English or Scots."

She
still didn't understand. "But certainly you didn't give the man
this?"

"Oh,
but I did. You saw me, I believe."

"But..."
She looked up at him helplessly.

"We
were lucky. The man was an unlettered soldier. My mother writes a bold hand
that could pass for a man's."

Jonet
felt faint. "But what if you'd been wrong? If he had read it?"

"Then
I'd have offended your delicate sensibilities by running him through with my
sword, and you and Grant and Jem would have been on your way. On the whole this
seemed the better idea. I couldn't have your last remembrance of me so barbaric
now could I?"

Jonet
lay weakly back on the blanket and closed her eyes.

"I've
kept nothing back from you, lass. I told you I work for Angus
occasionally," Alexander reminded her. "Murdoch Douglas even asked my
help in finding you and your uncle. I could pass through here without
difficulty, but the patrols have orders to check every traveler for you and
Mure. Only that supposed safe conduct and my own urging for the man to search
if he liked got us off with scarcely a glance. No one looked worried so he
believed me. Keep a cool head, lass, and we'll carry it off."

A
cool head. Impossible. She was almost sick from her fear. "Alex... there's
something you should know," she muttered. "I'm a terrible
coward."

He
chuckled and she felt his fingers gently rumpling her short curls in a way that
was strangely comforting. "Ah, John, you're one of the bravest—not to
mention the prettiest—lads I know."

She
opened her eyes. He was propped on one elbow, leaning toward her. His beautiful
eyes were alight with laughter and his smile stopped her breath. And in that
moment, that touch, all her doubts slipped away.

His
thumb brushed her cheek, lingering just below her bottom lip. Her whole body
tensed, tingled in the oddest of ways.

"Go
to sleep now, Jonet," he murmured. "We've some hard riding ahead of
us. The Douglases kindly informed me that the county ahead is crawling with
patrols. We're going to ride south now, lass, and cross over the border."

Her
eyes widened.
"England?"

"Yes,
England. It's not the hell on earth you believe. We'll skirt the border land
and double back once we're past these patrols." He sat back on his heels.
"Sleep now while you can," he repeated. "I've things to see
to."

Jonet
obediently closed her eyes but couldn't shut off her churning thoughts as
readily.
England... the one place on earth she'd never thought to set foot.

They
traveled deeper into the Cheviot Hills and crossed into England beneath a
rapidly darkening sky. The wind was rising, whipping their mounts' manes and tails
and sending tree branches bending and scraping together overhead.

Jonet
clung to her reins, scarcely daring to look at the sky. She was an excellent
horsewoman but her mount scented the coming storm and was nervous. And so was
Jonet.

A
jagged flash of lightning tore the sky, leaving a faintly sulphurous scent in
its wake. Almost immediately thunder crashed overhead, rolling over the hills
and reverberating down the narrow valleys.

The
mare bunched her muscles and reared. Jonet leaned forward, slackening the reins
as her uncle had taught her, pulling them taut when the animal's feet danced
down to the ground.

Grant
reined toward her, but she waved him away. The mare was moving forward now and
Jonet forced herself to breathe deeply. Despite the chill, she had broken out
in a sweat and her fingers were clammy clutching the reins.

She
wiped her palm against her doublet and gritted her teeth. She hated storms.
She'd been told her father had died in a storm when his mount spooked and went
off a rough trail. He had survived the horrors of Flodden only to return home
to die in a storm a few months later. Her mother had never recovered from the
shock. She had died a scant eight months after her husband.

A
terrible irony, Jonet had always thought. A quirk of fate that would have left
her life a vast emptiness were it not for Robert Maxwell.

The
black afternoon sky suddenly brightened as dozens of brilliant flashes threaded
the heavens simultaneously. Thunder rumbled again and then there was darkness.
Jonet's heart quickened painfully. The wind buffeted her in a powerful gust,
hurling the first scattering of icy raindrops. She flinched and closed her
eyes.

"You've
a good seat, lass, and a light hand on the reins. Who taught you to ride?"

She
opened her eyes. Alexander was riding beside her. He held his reins in one
hand, the other rested casually on his hip. "M-my uncle," she got
out.

"He
must be a good teacher. Did you ride with him often?"

An
odd feeling swept her, as if the hair on her head were on end. Then the summit
of the hill ahead exploded in a burst of light and noise. She gave a small cry,
stating in horror at the shattered, smoking remains of what had been a towering
beech.

"Look
at me, Jonet. Did you tide with him often?"

She
was frozen with fear, but the calm, authoritative voice won through. She
turned. "I... I, yes, I suppose."

"Where
did you ride?"

She
flinched as another brilliant flash scorched the air. "Around Beryl."

"And
do you favor a mare or a gelding as a mount?"

He
kept up the inane conversation, posing simple questions, forcing her to reply
as they rode down out of the hills and into a sheltering valley. Here the roar
of the thunder didn't seem so loud nor the vivid flashes of lightning so
dangerously close.

She
began to breathe evenly, to thank the saints she hadn't been struck dead. Then
another sound began, the muted rush of millions of wind-driven raindrops
striking the wood behind them in the first onslaught of the storm.

Jonet
hunched her shoulders as the rain caught up with them. In a matter of seconds
she was soaked to the skin. The liquid gray wall sluiced over her, drenching
her head and shoulders and trickling in an icy rivulet between her breasts.

Alex
grinned and slung the wet hair out of his eyes. "Shall we pretend this is
refreshing?" And when she didn't answer, "At least life with me isn't
boring, lass. You'll have to admit that."

Jonet
dashed at the rain streaming into her eyes. Despite the fear she'd just
weathered or perhaps even because of it, she began to laugh. "No, Alex.
You're the last man in the world I'd call boring."

His
grin widened and he sent her a jaunty salute. He made as if to move away then
turned back with a searching look. "Are you all right now, lass?"

She
lifted her chin, still smiling. "Certainly. I've always hoped for a death
by slow drowning."

For
a moment he didn't speak, then he reined his mount so closely his knee brushed
her thigh. "You're a remarkable woman, Jonet. No matter what happens,
remember I said that."

He
leaned slightly toward her and for one insane moment there in the drenching
rain she thought he might kiss her. Then he reached out and tousled her wet
hair. "Now if only you didn't look so much like a lad."

With
another devilish grin, he sent his horse splashing forward to the head of the
little column of riders, and Jonet was left with a quickened heartbeat, a rapid
pulse, that had little to do with fear.

The
downpour continued and much of the valley floor became a streambed. The horses
splashed on through the mud and Grant dropped back to explain that they were
making for a place down the valley where the overhang of a cliff would block
the worst of the weather. Jonet was relieved. Somehow she'd never imagined this
when she'd set out to join her uncle.

But
it was as they were rounding a pink sandstone cliff that the little band of
riders came face-to-face with a troup of English soldiers huddling in the lee
of the hill.

Jonet
didn't know at first what had happened. One minute they were slogging along in
the rain, shoulders hunched, eyes half-closed as they peered ahead through the
dimness. The next they were turned right about, galloping back hell for leather
the way they had come.

"English
soldiers," Grant shouted across to her. "Run smack into a whole
hornet's nest full of 'em!"

The
horses galloped wildly onward and she could only cling to the cold, slippery
leather of her saddle, trying desperately to stay up with the others, to guide
her mare around bushes and rocks and low-hanging trees that came rushing out of
the watery grayness to drag them both down.

Then
the mare stumbled, struggling for her footing amid grass and mud that had gone
slick as ice. Jonet held the floundering animal together as the mare regained
her balance. Then they were racing after the others.

Miraculously,
they hadn't gone down, but Jonet was shaken. It was mad to be tearing along in
unknown country in this kind of weather. Someone was going to get killed! And
she didn't even know why they were running. They'd done no wrong.

Then
Alexander was galloping close alongside. Catching her reins, he dragged her
mount's head up and they veered away from the group, checking their speed as
they entered a wooded tract. The rest of the riders vanished into the rain to
be followed seconds later by the hotly pursuing soldiers.

Alexander
drew both horses to a halt. Jonet was breathing almost as heavily as her mount
and even Alexander seemed breathless. "Grant'll lose 'em," he said
shortly. "He's a wily old fox. You wouldn't think it, but he is." He
turned to her. "Are you all right?"

She
nodded, still unable to speak.

"That
was close. Still, we did get off with our skins. That's what counts."

"But
why did we leave the others?"

He
sent her a long look. "Too risky for you, lass. I'll not have you break
your neck in some wild escapade you should never even have started. I'll hand
you over to Murdoch Douglas myself if things get worse."

The
rain still battered them both, though it seemed to be slackening. "But I'm
not hurt," she said quietly. "And, as you said, we did get off with
our skins. If I'm not complaining, why should you?"

He
raised one dark eyebrow. "Are you telling me you weren't afraid when your
horse slipped back there? That you didn't realize you could have been killed?
God save us, if you're that big a fool!"

So
he had seen it. "Of course I was afraid. I've been afraid most every
second since I met you." She leaned toward him over her mare's shoulder.
"But I'm not going back. I'll brave another dozen storms just like this if
I have to. And if you try to hand me over to the Douglases, I'll fight you
kicking and screaming every step of the way."

They
sat their mounts silently, sizing each other up in the falling rain.
"You're wet," Alexander remarked at last.

Fully
prepared for a blistering reproof, Jonet almost choked. "What?"

"You're
wet," he repeated with a grin.

She
couldn't help but grin back. The rain ran down her face, detouring into her
eyes, pouring down the back of her neck. She could feel her short hair
plastered to her skull, the clothing beneath her doublet clinging to her body.

Obviously,
Alex didn't want to argue. She didn't either. "It may have escaped your
notice, my lord, but half the North Sea's just been dumped on us both."

He
cocked a weather eye skyward. "It'll be stopping soon. We'll find some
shelter and wait out the rest of it. Grant'll bring the men back around once
he's shaken off those soldiers. We'll be on our way again come nightfall."

"But
why did we run, Alex? We've done nothing that could interest English
soldiers." She glanced at him, suddenly unsure. "Have we?"

"We're
Scots on English soil. We need a safe conduct for that, and I'm not quite so
willing to risk my mother's letter on an Englishman." He grinned.
"More of them can read. What's more, this border country is a
no-man's-land inhabited mainly by outlaws. Anyone traveling through here had
best have a heavy guard.

"Most
anyone found without papers or a suitable entourage is considered up to no
good. Those soldiers are probably after Scots reivers who slipped over the
border last night and made off with some stock. Most of the border lords do it.
Bothwell and Home and John Armstrong have it down to an art."

He
sent her a sideways glance. "Probably even your uncle has a few
light-fingered crofters, though he's a bit far north to make it easy. It's a
way of life here, Jonet, and has been for hundreds of years. Scotsmen raid
south, Englishmen north, and neither would know what to do if the practice ever
came to an end. Occasionally a few too many get killed, houses burn, feuds
develop and the wardens from each side of the border step in to settle
disputes. But for the most part here, it's every man for himself."

"Unless
the English stir things up," Jonet put in. "I've heard Henry of
England sends men north to raid and keep the lowlands in turmoil."

Alexander's
eyebrows rose in an expression Jonet was learning to dread. "That's
obviously Mure speaking. Still hates the English as much as ever, I see."

She
was unable to meet his eyes.

"I
promise you, Jonet, Henry Tudor has far more important matters on his mind than
inciting a handful of border outlaws. If he sends men north it'll be in
organized levees and they'll be wearing the Tudor green and gold. And God help
Scotland if that day comes anytime soon."

He
turned his horse as he spoke and made off through the dripping trees. Jonet
followed silently. For a moment she had forgotten that Alex had been raised in
England, had an English mother and no doubt English friends. And if the gossip
were true, he'd even been employed by the English.

She
was suddenly uneasy with the subject and wished she'd never brought it up. She
wanted to know more about his past, but at the same time she felt better not
knowing. Robert did hate the English. He would be appalled by the friendship
she'd struck up with Hepburn of Durnam.

They
plodded on through the sodden forest, allowing their weary mounts to pick their
own pace. The rain stopped and a pale, watery sunlight filtered down through
the leaves. Jonet was wet and uncomfortable and beginning to wish they would
find shelter when Alexander dropped back. "We're being followed,
lass."

"The
soldiers?"

"I
don't
think so. I'm not certain yet."

"What'll
we do?"

"Care
to stand and fight?"

She
sent him an incredulous look and he grinned sardonically. "No? Then we'd
best make a run for it and pray their mounts are at least half as weary as
ours." -

He
brought his reins down across the rump of her mare, sending the animal forward
into startled and instant flight. Jonet was almost unseated. She clung to the
saddle as they hurtled through the trees, ducking as wet limbs slapped her face
and tore at her skin. Behind her the woods exploded with the sounds of pursuit
—pounding hoofbeats and the noise of what must have been dozens of animals
crashing through the trees.

Jonet's
fear of the storm had been as nothing to this. Alexander's men were gone and
whatever danger pursued, the two of them would face it alone.

They
plunged on at a dangerous pace and she held her mount doggedly at the heels of
Alexander's fleeing gray. Alexander didn't look back and she kept her eyes
riveted on his broad shoulders, praying she wouldn't be unseated. Far better to
concentrate on keeping her mount in hand and dodging the next low-hanging tree
limb than to think about what might happen if she lost Alexander.