Chapter 2

Y ou, there! What are you doing in here?"

The woman's imperious tones seemed to come from far away, but Sibylla felt an immediate quickening of guilt. Was she not at Sweethope Hill House, where she ought to be? To be sure, she had no memory of arriving, but—

"You have no business in this chamber, girl," the authoritative voice went on. "Begone, and do not let me catch you here again, or"—Sibylla struggled to collect her wits—"it will be the worse for you."

"I told her she could stay."

That deep, masculine voice was not distant but very clear, very firm. Nevertheless, it certainly ought not to be in Sibylla's bedchamber.

Her eyes flew open.

She was lying on her side in a cupboard bed, and the first thing she saw was the waiflike child standing beside it, her thin hands clutching each other at her narrow waist. Now that she was dry, one could see that her hair was short, softly curly, and very fair. Her face was pinched and drawn, her pale blue eyes wide.

Following the child's gaze to an unfamiliar doorway,

Sibylla saw Simon Murray of Elishaw, watching her. A fashionably attired woman with a long, horsey face bridled like an irritated mare beside him.

Sibylla thought vaguely that she ought to recognize that face and the English lilt in the woman's voice. Where had she—?

Abruptly, she realized the woman was Simon's mother, Lady Murray.

The villain had not taken her to Sweethope Hill House. Instead, he had ridden a greater distance with her, to Elishaw Castle, his home.

Her ladyship stood stiffly, cheeks afire, but controlled herself enough to say, "You do not know this child, sir. It could be diseased."

A movement from the child drew Sibylla's gaze. Indignation had turned the wraithlike little figure almost as stiff as her reluctant hostess.

"Shhh," Sibylla murmured.

"Ye're awake!" the child exclaimed. "Praise be, for I feared ye were—"

"I told you she was just sleeping, Kit," Simon said, snapping Sibylla's gaze back to him. He had spoken so gently that she would not have believed it was his voice had she not looked in time to see his lips still moving.

"I am at Elishaw, am I not?" she asked him, astonished to hear the feeble croak of her voice and feel its roughness. Her throat was sore.

"I thought it best," he answered coolly, as if that were that.

"Oh, but I must—" As she started to sit up, pain sliced through her head, inside and out, making her shut her eyes.

She reached to find a lump on her forehead as she continued trying to sit. But in the brief time she'd had her eyes shut he had closed the distance from doorway to bed. Putting a firm hand on her shoulder, he pressed her back to the pillows.

"Lie still," he commanded. "I have sent for our local herb woman to provide something to ease your pain. You've taken a hard knock to your head."

"That log . . . no, a branch clouted me as I was trying to keep the river from impaling us on another. Faith, I scarcely remember! How long was I unconscious?"

"Just a short time," he said in that maddeningly cool tone, as if what had happened had been quite ordinary. "You stirred shortly after you fainted, and—"

"I never faint," she replied, firmly suppressing the discomfiting memory of coming to in his arms. "Doubtless, I suffered a delayed reaction from the blow."

She was thinking with gratitude that her voice sounded stronger, more like her own, when his sharp gaze locked with hers. As she gazed back, her confidence faltered. His hand still touched her shoulder, and she was vaguely aware of its warmth there, but she seemed to lack strength enough to speak or look away.

She had known his eyes were dark and had thought them merely dark brown. They were not. They were a deep, almost fathomless green and strangely hypnotic.

She often felt as if she could look into a person's eyes and know his mind, but one would never see deeply enough into Simon Murray to see anything but green.

As faintly as when she was first awakening, as if the sound came from a great distance, she heard Lady Murray say, "Simon."

He glanced at his mother, straightening as he did, and broke the spell. For spell it must certainly have been, Sibylla thought, to have rendered her speechless.

Speechlessness was not one of her normal characteristics.

Though he had taken his hand away, her bare shoulder still felt warm where he had touched it. Bare! She tugged the coverlet higher.

That brief glance was the only response he made to his mother before he looked back to say, "It may be rare for you to faint, but you did. You stirred shortly thereafter, murmured something unintelligible, and then you slept."

"The blow must have rendered me unconscious," she repeated firmly.

"It did no such thing. You will shortly recall that we had a brief conversation before you fainted. I do not doubt that the blow made you dizzy or that you fainted from sheer exhaustion, which accounts for your sleeping so deeply and so long. The difference was notable, so I did not try to wake you. I knew sleep would do you good and that you'd travel more comfortably so."

She frowned, only to wince again as she said, "I've no memory of that ride."

"You stirred when I dismounted here at Elishaw but went back to sleep before I carried you upstairs," he said. "You are in my sister Amalie's chamber."

"But who are you?" Lady Murray said, moving to stand beside Simon and making Sibylla feel more vulnerable than ever and a little uneasy. "You look familiar," her ladyship added. "I am sure we have met somewhere."

"At Sweethope Hill, my lady, when you visited Amalie last summer before she married," Sibylla said, avoiding Simon's gaze. "She and I are friends, although I've seen little of her since she married Westruther. I am Sibylla Cavers of Akermoor."

"I do remember you," Lady Murray said. "But 'tis no mystery that I did not know you, as bedraggled as you were when my son carried you in. He said you'd fallen into the river. We could learn no more, because you slept even whilst Tetsy and another maidservant undressed you and put you to bed."

"It was kind of you to look after me," Sibylla said.

"I doubt that anyone at Sweethope Hill told me your name. In troth, I am quite sure that I never heard your surname. Did you say Cavers?"

"Not now, madam," Simon said. "We ought not to have wakened her. She should rest until the herb woman comes."

"But I don't need her," Sibylla protested. "I am rarely sick, sir. If you will just send someone to gather a handful or two of willow bark and boil some water to steep it, I shall be my old self in no time. And, pray, ask someone to find something dry for me to wear so I can get up. I detest lying abed."

"Nonetheless you will stay where you are until you have recovered from your adventure," he said.

Her lips tightened. She was grateful for his hospitality but annoyed with herself for having shown weakness before him—or, indeed, before anyone.

Softly, he said, "You would do well to think carefully before you defy me."

She glowered, looking him in the eyes again, only to wish she had not.

This time, his mother broke the spell, saying, "Do not waste your breath arguing with him, my dear. He rarely alters his decisions."

"Then he should learn to be more considerate of other people's wishes," Sibylla said, still watching Simon. More tartly, she added, "Why did you not take me home to Sweethope Hill, sir, instead of bringing me all the way here?"

"Would you have subjected this child or her brother to crossing that river after their ordeal?" he asked, laying a hand lightly on the little girl's head.

"Her brother! Do you mean to say there were two of them in the river?"

"Aye, and thankfully, my men were able to save the lad," he said. "Due to the rains we've had, the river is still rising, so I decided that Elishaw was the most suitable place to look after you. You and the children will be safe here."

He turned away and, with a touch to his mother's arm, urged her back to the doorway. As he did, Sibylla noted a tightening at one corner of his mouth, but whether it was from vexation or triumph she did not know.

He shut the door without looking back, and a nearby sigh of relief reminded Sibylla of the child's presence.

"I was sure the lady would send me away," Kit muttered.

"I warrant she would if she could. But if his lordship said you could stay—"

"He did, aye," the child said, nodding. "He brought me up here himself."

"Then you may stay," Sibylla said. "Have you any other name but Kit?"

The child shrugged. "That be all they call me." "Where is your brother, Kit?"

A cloud passed over the thin little face. "Dand do still be asleep, mistress. I thought he were drowned. He's not, but the laird would no let me stay with him."

Wondering if the boy was in dire straits, Sibylla said bracingly, "Recall how deeply I slept, Kit, and I am fully grown. If they think he needs a good sleep to make him well, they may fear that with you in the room, he might waken."

"He might, aye," Kit said thoughtfully. "Mayhap ye should sleep more, too, mistress. The laird said ye need your rest."

"I'm wide awake," Sibylla said. "And I do not like lying abed if I need not."

"They took your clothes, though," the child pointed out.

"They did." Recalling then that Simon had said she was in Amalie's bedchamber, Sibylla began to sit up, only to feel her head pound and lie back again. She said, "That kist near the door . . . Do you see others like it in here?"

"Aye, two more," Kit said with a gesture.

"Prithee, open them and tell me what they contain." "Should we do that, though? Them kists dinna belong to us."

"We should," Sibylla assured her. "The lady whose room this was is a friend of mine. If she left clothing here, she would want me to make use of it."

As she spoke, she wondered if Amalie's clothing would fit her.

Amalie—now Lady Westruther and happily expecting her first child—was several inches shorter, plumper, and more buxom. Her skirts would be too large around the waist and would hang shorter than fashion decreed. But Sibylla thought they would fit well enough to sustain her modesty.

She wanted to get up, but she was not wearing a stitch of clothing.

"I do not know what you can be thinking to have brought that young woman to Elishaw," Lady Murray said to her eldest and sole remaining son as she followed him down the winding stone stairs to the great hall. "She is a Cavers of Akermoor! Doubtless, she is that dreadful man's daughter."

"She does have a father," Simon said, weighing how much he ought to say.

"I do not admire flippancy," Lady Murray said with her customary, majestic air. "You know that she must be the daughter of Sir Malcolm Cavers of Akermoor. Moreover, you have been very glib, sir, about why you brought her here."

"As I explained, the river was too high to make a crossing safely with an unconscious woman and two bairns to protect," Simon said. "Also, I'd heard that Isabel departed a fortnight ago for Galloway to visit his grace and the Queen."

"More likely to create trouble for your liege lord," Lady Murray observed. "That surely was her purpose the last time she traveled to Galloway."

"That was nearly three years ago, after James Douglas's death," Simon said, suppressing familiar irritation. "She was seeking then to protect her widow's rights."

He was aware that he was unlikely to sway his mother from a position based on her strong belief that his destiny, and therefore Elishaw's, lay in his long service to Robert

Stewart, Earl of Fife and now Governor of the Realm in place of their crippled, disinterested King.

Because Sibylla Cavers served Fife's sister, who was often at odds with him, Lady Murray surely believed Fife would disapprove of Sibylla's presence at Elishaw.

As the widow of James, second Earl of Douglas, Princess Isabel had been entitled to lands deeded her in their marriage settlements and to a third of the income from other Douglas lands that James had owned or controlled as earl.

Fife had hoped to acquire Isabel's Douglas lands for the Crown, but Archie the Grim, now third Earl of Douglas and more powerful than any Stewart, had acted swiftly and honorably to protect those rights for her. Archie continued to provide her with knights and men-at-arms to protect her, too, just as James Douglas had.

Fife had hoped to arrange a second marriage for Isabel to one of his loyal adherents and thereby control both her and her property, but the Douglases had outmaneuvered him by hastily marrying Isabel to Sir John Edmonstone of that Ilk, a loyal if somewhat muttonheaded follower of Archie's.

Despite Isabel's inconsolable grief over James's untimely death, she had agreed to the hasty marriage to avoid battle with Fife. But she had married Edmonstone only with an understanding that she need not live with him.

According to Simon's sister Amalie, Isabel thought Edmonstone uncouth, too fond of his whisky, and worst of all, a paralyzing bore. So she had taken up semipermanent residence with her ladies at Sweethope Hill House in Lothian.

Entering Elishaw's empty great hall, Lady Murray moved to one of the two tall, narrow windows that overlooked the bailey and gazed silently out on the yard.

Simon waited, knowing she had more to say. She had a magisterial temperament, and he had often observed how patiently she let his late father bluster on about what he would do or not do. When the flow had run its course, she would exert her influence to persuade him that he meant to do something else altogether.

Since Sir Iagan's death eight months before, Borderers who knew them had made clear their expectation that she would continue to rule at Elishaw, that Simon, having lived under her thumb or Fife's all his life, would be no match for her.

But Simon's experience with her had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself until he could decide if anyone else wanted to hear them. The result was that he had weathered service with the Earl of Fife more successfully than most.

Subsequently, his experience with Fife had curbed his hitherto volatile temper and taught him to bide his time until he knew what the opposition's most potent arguments were and how fierce a verbal battle might become before joining a discussion. Therefore, he believed he was well equipped to deal with his mother.

His respect for her judgment was great. After his father's death, he had accepted her advice on many issues. But he was master of Elishaw now.

Realizing she was determined to outwait him, and not wanting to stir coals with her yet, he said, "You would fight to retain your rights here just as Isabel fought for hers, would you not, madam—if that were necessary?"

She turned then and met his gaze, her expression softening. "I'd have no need to fight you, my dear, whilst you remain Lord of Elishaw." Thoughtfully, she added, "Such knowledge was comforting eight months ago, but I own, it does now afford me concern. We have seen, have we not, how quickly lives may end—first James Douglas, then your father and our poor Tom."

When she paused, he looked away, unwilling to let her see the pain he felt at the still-strong memory of his younger brother's death.

Recollection of their father's demise just days before Tom's was likewise strong, but Sir Iagan had lived a good life, and a longer one than most men enjoyed in such dangerous times. And Sir Iagan had most likely died in a fall from his horse.

Tom had barely reached his majority before meeting his death in a violent, villainous attack while on a journey to their sister Meg's home in Rankilburn Glen.

If, as his sister Amalie believed, Sir Iagan's death had been violent, too, no evidence of that had come to light. Nor did Simon expect to find any. He suspected that the violence of Tom's death had influenced Amalie's thinking, and he could not blame her. He felt considerable responsibility himself for Tom's death.

"I have distressed you, Simon," his mother said.

" 'Tis nowt, madam," he assured her.

"It was not my intention, but you must know that 'tis time you were wed. Recall that James Douglas left Isabel with no child to comfort her, and himself with no suitable heir. You now find yourself in danger of leaving Elishaw similarly unprotected. I do not fear for myself. I think of your sister Rosalie, and so must you."

"I do not suppose you bring up this subject because you think I ought to wed the lady Sibylla," he said, trying to sound thoughtful rather than provocative.

She stiffened. "Certainly not. You know that your father and Sir Malcolm Cavers never got on. I mention the need for you to marry only because, despite being master here for eight months, you have not yet begun to seek a wife. Yet you could find yourself beset by raiders or thieves and foully murdered tomorrow, just as Tom was. However, we do need to discuss the lady Sibylla," she added. "What do you mean to do about her? It is most unsuitable to keep her here."

"I disagree," he said coolly. Keeping the lass where she was, was slight punishment for what she had done to him but too tempting an opportunity to abandon yet. "Whilst you are at Elishaw, madam, none will condemn her presence here."

"If you do not mean to return her to Sweethope Hill, one must suppose that you will inform Sir Malcolm that she is here. I warn you, sir, I will not allow that man to set foot inside this castle. Your father would writhe in his grave."

Simon met her gaze but remained silent until color tinged her cheeks. Then he said quietly, "If I send for Sir Malcolm, madam, he will come here as our guest."

Recovering swiftly, she said, "I do not set myself against you, my dearest. You command all here, as you should. But you have heeded my advice now and again, so I thought you understood that certain things just are as they are."

"I understand that you and my father took a dislike to Sir Malcolm long ago, but I never sought to know the reason. Perhaps now you might tell me."

"There is no need for that," she said, her color deepening. "You need not invite him here, after all. Akermoor lies nearer to Sweethope Hill than to Elishaw, so if you want him to fetch her, doubtless you will prefer the convenience of his collecting her there. Recall, too, that you extended an invitation to my cousin Cecil Percy to visit us with his family. So you will not want to be traveling any far—"

"Sakes, madam, you usually conceal your intent better," Simon said. "Cecil Percy's man did not say when Cousin Cecil means to visit or that he will bring his family. He said only that he sought to learn if we would receive him."

"That is true, and again you are right to rebuke me," she admitted without rancor. "I should not have spoken so plainly. But I have never made a secret of the pleasure it would give me if you were to marry an English girl. And Maria Percy . . ."

When she fell silent, Simon knew she had noted his increasing irritation. It was a measure of her displeasure at finding Cavers's daughter in her house that she had spoken openly of her hope that he'd marry an Englishwoman as his father had.

To add another Percy wife to the Murray kindred would, she believed, allow them to strengthen the neutrality that Elishaw under his father and his grandfather had maintained through years of Border strife. Lady Murray held that neutrality dear even now, with a truce in effect that allowed nearly free access across the line.

"I do still wonder, sir," she added, "at your decision to bring the girl here."

In truth, Simon wondered, too. His explanation had been glib, because he had not thought about his reasons before bringing Sibylla to Elishaw. In truth, he had been more than glib. His explanation had bordered on prevarication.

The Tweed was running dangerously high. But had Sibylla or either child been in danger of dying, he knew he would have risked the crossing to get them indoors where a fire and attentive servants could aid them as quickly as possible.

The truth was that he had succumbed to his long-held desire to teach her that humiliating people could be dangerous. And his mother had unwittingly given him an idea of how he might provide her with yet another little lesson.