Tamed by a Laird (3 page)

Their father had not objected, nor had Hugh. At the time of their mother’s death, he was serving as squire to his cousin Sir
Archibald Douglas. After winning his spurs on the field of battle two years later, he had continued to follow Archie.

He had done so, in fact, until his father died. Hugh had married six months before then, and he and his beloved Ella had been
expecting their first child.

Ella and their newborn daughter died three months after Hugh’s father did, and the grief-stricken Hugh had left Reid with
Phaeline so he could devote his own energy to his Thornhill estates. Having had the chance to observe Reid for the past two
days, he could see that Phaeline’s up-bringing had done his brother little good, but Hugh found it hard to care. In truth,
he had found it hard since the deaths of his wife and tiny daughter to care much about anyone or anything except Thornhill.

He noticed a gillie heading their way with a jug of claret. Dunwythie saw the lad, too, and motioned him away. Then he turned
to Hugh and said quietly, “Mayhap if ye were to invite the lad to stroll about some with ye, sir, his head might—”

“Sakes, don’t talk about me as if I were not here,” Reid said in a tone more suited to a sulky child than to a man soon to
marry. “I see a chap I want to talk to, and I don’t need Hugh to look after me.” Turning to his betrothed, he said curtly,
“Don’t wander off before I return, lass. I’ll escort you to your chamber myself.”

Her dimples had vanished, and Hugh saw that the curt command annoyed her. But she said calmly, “I never wander. Prithee, take
time to enjoy your talk.”

As Reid ambled off, she glanced again at Hugh.

He noted that her beautifully shaped, heavily lashed eyes were an unusual shade of soft golden-brown, almost the color of
walnut shells. Her caul and veil covered her hair, so he could not tell what color it was, but her rosy cheeks glowed.

She wore a green silk gown with a snug-fitting bodice under a surcoat of pale gold silk. As his gaze drifted over her softly
shaped breasts, she shifted position slightly. A glance upward revealed that her dimples were showing again.

Dunwythie’s voice jarred him as the older man said, “I’ve been meaning to ask if ye ken the reason for this new tax that Sheriff
Maxwell of Dumfries has demanded, Hugh. He is trying to impose it even on us here in Annandale, although the man must know
that we have never recognized his authority over us.”

“As you know, Thornhill lies well within his jurisdiction, so I must recognize his authority,” Hugh said. “But his demands
have increased notably, so I suspect the Maxwells need money to rebuild Caerlaverock.”

“Aye, sure, and with Archie Douglas now building
his
new castle, we’ll likely have them both trying to snatch gelt from our purses. I’m willing to support the Douglases because
they can keep the English at bay. But the Maxwells have twice lost Caerlaverock to England, so I’ve told the sheriff I’ll
pay nowt…”

He went on, but Hugh listened only enough to respond suitably. He could scarcely advise Dunwythie. Maxwells or no Maxwells,
Hugh’s loyalty remained with Archie Douglas—now known to all as Archibald “the Grim,” Lord of Galloway—the most powerful man
in southwestern Scotland.

In the clearing below the dais, a tall juggler in a long scarlet robe joined the others, juggling six balls and manipulating
them with deft skill. In whiteface like the fools but with a turned-down mouth and tears drawn below each eye, he looked older
than the others, Jenny thought, too old to be Peg’s brother.

Plucking a long dirk apparently from thin air, the man flung it high to join the balls. As his audience emitted a collective
gasp, a second dirk joined the first. A red ball and a yellow one flew from his agile hands toward the high table, the red
one to the ladies’ end, the yellow to the men’s.

The younger of Jenny’s two Dunwythie cousins, fourteen-year-old Lady Fiona, leapt up and captured the red ball with a triumphant
cry that on any other occasion would surely have drawn censure from her lady mother. At the other end of the table, a nobleman
put up a hand almost casually to catch the yellow one.

By the time Jenny looked again at the jugglers, the older one was alone with six daggers in the air. She had no idea where
they had come from or what had become of the four balls he’d still had when she looked away. Others had performed sleight
of hand, making a pin or feather plume disappear from clothing of an audience member only to have it reappear on someone else.
But this man was much more skillful.

Musicians had played from the minstrels’ gallery throughout the afternoon and into the evening. But now, as the dirks flew
ever higher, each one threatening to slice the juggler’s hands when it descended, the music slowly faded. Soon the hall was
so quiet that one could hear the great fire crackling on the hooded hearth.

Clearly oblivious of the juggler and the increasing tension his skill produced in his audience, Phaeline, Lady Dunwythie,
fingered the long rope of pearls she wore as she said, “Our Reid is much taken with you, is he not, Janet, dear?”

Concealing irritation as she turned to her uncle’s round-faced, eyebrowless, richly attired second wife, Jenny said bluntly,
“Reid is ape-drunk, madam.”

“He is, aye,” Phaeline agreed.

“Such coarse behavior does naught to improve my opinion of him.”

“You are young, my dear. So is he. But he will soon teach you how to please him, and I cannot doubt that you two will ultimately
deal quite well together.”

“I fear the only thing about me that pleases Reid, madam, is my inheritance.”

“Doubtless that is true, although clearly he is not blind to your attractions,” Phaeline said without a blink. “One must be
practical, however, and although my lord husband would have preferred that my brother Hugh marry you, because ’tis he who
is Laird of Thornhill and thus equal to you in rank—”

“Sir Hugh may be more suitable, but I’d not want him, either.”

“Nor he you,” Phaeline retorted.

“Faith, did you ask him?”

“I had no need to ask,” Phaeline said. “Hugh declared two years ago, when his wife, Ella, and their bairn died, that he would
not marry again. And when Hugh makes a decision, let me tell you, no one can turn him from it.”

Resisting an impulse to look again at the dark-eyed gentleman at Dunwythie’s right, Jenny said, “Surely,
you
can be most persuasive.”

“Not persuasive enough to compel Hugh to do aught he has decided he will not do. However, you must not think that Reid is
wholly
unsuitable for you, my dear. Thanks to our inheritance laws, if Hugh dies without a son of his own, as he is likely to do,
Reid will inherit Thornhill.”

“In faith, madam, I should think Sir Hugh may well outlive Reid. He cannot be much older than Reid is.”

“Just five years, and that was the difficulty until I realized that Reid should marry you. You see, Hugh refuses even to provide
an adequate allowance for him. He is ever impatient with poor Reid, saying he would do better to win his spurs and perhaps
even an estate of his own. But Reid has no great opinion of taking up arms unless a man must, and one cannot blame him for
that—certainly not now, when we enjoy a truce of sorts with England. But had Hugh fallen in battle—”

“Surely, you did not hope for such a thing!”

“I am not heartless, Janet,” Phaeline said stiffly. “But knights often do fall in battle, and our Reid must have an income.
However,” she added with a sigh, “devising a way to provide him with a proper one did vex me until—”

“Until eight months ago when your lord husband assumed guardianship of me and my estates,” Jenny said.

“Aye,” Phaeline admitted. “Easdale being such a fine and wealthy barony, one might say that Reid’s betrothal to you simply
arranged itself.”

“You are very frank, madam!”

“ ’Twas providential, though, as even your uncle was quick to see.”

Jenny did not bother to point out that it had proven other than providential for her. She knew she would be wasting her breath,
just as she had wasted it in trying to avoid having her eyebrows and forehead plucked as bare as Phaeline’s.

Phaeline had said that one must follow fashion, so Jenny’s face was now a hairless oval framed by the expensive beaded white
caul that concealed her tresses.

Applying to her uncle to support her against Phaeline would likewise prove useless. Lord Dunwythie exerted himself to please
his wife, because he still hoped for an heir. At three-and-thirty, Phaeline was thirteen years younger than he was, but although
they had been married for fifteen years and she had several times been with child, she had produced only their daughter Fiona.

Dunwythie’s first wife, Elsbeth, had been Jenny’s maternal aunt and had died in childbed just as Jenny’s mother had. Elsbeth’s
daughter, eighteen-year-old lady Mairi Dunwythie, sat at Phaeline’s left with Fiona just beyond her.

Should Phaeline fail to produce a son, Mairi would eventually inherit the ancient Dunwythie estates. Such occurrences were
not rare at a time when men went frequently to battle, but most men hoped nonetheless for a son to inherit. And Phaeline had
declared just the previous month that she was pregnant again.

Leaning nearer, Phaeline said, “Reid was wrong, you know.”

Jenny looked at her. “Wrong?”

“Aye, for today is Friday, so your first banns will be read just two days from now, on Sunday. Thus, your wedding is but three
weeks hence…”

“… and two days,” Jenny said, stifling a sigh of frustration.

But Phaeline was no longer listening. Looking past Jenny, she said to her husband, “Prithee, my lord, I would take leave of
you now. In my condition, I need much rest. You need not escort me, though,” she added graciously as she stood. “Pray, continue
to enjoy this fine entertainment with our guests.”

Dunwythie stood then, too, as did everyone else at the table. Those below the dais were watching a troupe of players run into
the central space and paid no heed.

Summoning a gillie, Dunwythie told him to see his lady to her chamber. When they had gone, everyone sat and his lordship resumed
his conversation with Sir Hugh.

Mairi immediately changed her seat to the one beside Jenny; whereupon, Fiona—doubtless fearing as usual that she might miss
something—moved to Mairi’s.

“Art reconciled yet to this marriage they’ve arranged for you?” Mairi asked Jenny as the players took their places to begin
the play.

“Resigned, I expect, but scarcely reconciled,” Jenny said. “ ’Tis of no use to repine, though. The betrothal is done, and
Phaeline is most determined.”

“I think Uncle Reid is handsome,” Fiona said, her light blue eyes gleaming. She had inherited her father’s eyes, but she looked
more like Phaeline. Her pink gown plunged lower at the bosom than was proper for her age, and her flimsy veil failed to conceal
the pair of thick, dark plaits looped beneath it. “You are lucky, Jenny,” she added. “I just hope I can find someone like
him one day.”

“You are welcome to
him
if you want him,” Jenny said.

“Sakes, I cannot marry my own uncle,” Fiona said with a giggle. “But I do think you will come to like him in time, don’t you?”

Mairi said, “Don’t tease her, Fee. You know how much she dislikes him.”

“But I don’t understand
why
she does,” Fiona said.

“We can talk about that later,” Mairi said. “For now, if you wish to stay with us, you must keep silent. Otherwise, I shall
tell Father it is time you were in bed.”

“You would not be so mean,” Fiona said.

When Mairi only looked at her, she grimaced but subsided.

Jenny had returned her attention to the players and was wondering what sort of lives they led when Mairi said, “That tall
juggler was astonishing, was he not?”

“Aye, he was,” Jenny agreed. “You know, my maid-servant Peg’s brother is a juggler in this company. Don’t you wonder what
it must be like to travel about as they do and see all the fine places and important people they must see?”

When silence greeted her question, she looked at Mairi and saw that she had cocked her head and that her gray eyes had taken
on a vague, thoughtful look. She said at last, “In troth, Jenny, I do not know how they bear it. No bed of one’s own, only
pallets on a stranger’s floor, and traveling, traveling, all the time.”

“But the only traveling I have done is to move here from Easdale, whilst you have traveled with your father and Phaeline,”
Jenny said. “You enjoyed that.”

“Aye, sure, for we went to Glasgow and stayed with kinsmen everywhere we stopped. That was fun, because they were all eager
to show us how well they could feed and house us, and provide entertainment for us. But minstrels must
be
the entertainment wherever they go, and if they displease the one who is to pay them, they go unpaid. They may even face
harsh punishment if they offend a powerful lord. It cannot be a comfortable life, Jenny. I prefer my own.”

“Aye, well,
you
don’t have to marry your odious uncle,” Jenny said.