Chapter Seventeen

A sleepless night brought a frosty dawn, and Jasper barging into her chamber, all eagerness.

‘I have come to relieve your boredom,’ he declared.

Rowenna shrieked, sat up and clutched the blankets to her. ‘What? No. Get out!’

‘Fear not. I’ve not come to ravage you.’

‘Then why are you here? Are we under attack?’

‘Not just yet. But give it time,’ he murmured. ‘I am here to take you hunting, as you demanded. So make haste and get dressed before my mind turns to warmer pursuits. I will see you at the stables, and then we will head for Slayfell Wood. Plenty of rabbits and deer there. You can show me if you are as good with a bow as you claim.’ Jasper turned to leave and then said. ‘Oh, and try not to aim at my back, Rowenna.’

She sighed and got out of bed, shivering as she donned her warmest clothes. Though she hated to do it, she pulled on the fur-lined cloak Jasper had given her. She was grateful for its thick folds as she headed to the stables and whatever awaited her in Slayfell Wood.

***

A few miles of galloping across fields silvered with frost brought them to the gloom of the woods. All was quiet, save for small birds greeting the day with their song. Rowenna was comforted by her crossbow as it bumped gently against her hip, and her heart lightened at being outdoors after being shut up in Kransmuir. But she was alone in a deserted place with Jasper, and she could not decide if she was nervous around him because of his threat to consummate their union or because she wanted him to. As the day wore on, her stomach clenched every time she looked at him, though he barely glanced her way and said little.

‘Are you tiring, lass?’ he asked eventually.

‘No.’

‘There’s plenty of game here, but it is wily. We must creep up on it.’ said Jasper.

‘I know how to hunt, Jasper.’ He just smiled in reply, turning her knees to jelly because he looked good when he smiled. Was it the cold that made her hands shake or Jasper’s looming presence and intense scrutiny? He could do anything he wanted to her out here, alone. Was he thinking the same?

A shaft of sunlight lit some fallen trees, and a flash of colour caught Rowenna’s eye. Bluebells, flowering early in the season, a sign of hope and new beginnings. Some leaves rustled nearby, and a plump rabbit emerged from a bank of ferns, nose twitching at the morning air.

In one swift movement, Rowenna slipped off her horse, loaded an arrow and fired. The rabbit scuttled and fell over, and she could not suppress a yelp of delight. When she glanced at Jasper, he was lowering his own bow. He had not been as quick as her.

‘First blood to you, lass. Well done,’ he said.

‘I told you I could hunt.’

Jasper picked up the dead rabbit by its ears. ‘He’ll do nicely, lass. Let us see if that was a lucky shot or real skill, shall we?’

Once the challenge was laid down, Rowenna was determined to win, so by the time the sun was well up, three more rabbits were hanging from Jasper’s saddle. Two were hers, and only one was his, and it was clear he was feeling his loss.

‘Shall we call it a day and return to Kransmuir?’ he muttered.

‘But we are just getting started,’ she said with a smile.

They had stopped near a little burn deep in the woods. As he tethered their horses, Rowenna marvelled at how a big man like Jasper could move so silently and gracefully. When she stumbled over a tree root, he took hold of her arm and hauled her up as if she were a feather. She stared down at his hand, but he did not release her. When she met his eyes, there was desire there but some kind of desolation, too. Perhaps she could kiss him and see how it would feel to follow Bran’s plan. His mouth had been gentle before and pleasing on hers. It might be bearable.

Her courage turned and fled. ‘The game will have gone to ground if we tarry,’ she said, and he snatched his hand away as if her flesh burned his fingers.

Rowenna scooped a handful of water from the burn. It dribbled down her chin, and suddenly, Jasper was there, gently brushing it off her skin with his thumb. He took his time over it, and all the woodland noises faded. There was just his face close to hers, the white mist of their breath mingling in the cold, crisp air.

Jaspers took hold of her waist and pushed her back against a tree. ‘God, I admire you, Rowenna.’

‘Why?’ she croaked.

‘You have humbled me on this hunt and you have such strength. Aye, you are soft on the outside in a way a man wants to sink into, yet so hard within. What goes on in that bonnie little head of yours? Tell me. I would know.’

‘There is little to tell. I am no one, not important at all.’

‘You are important to me. Right now, you are all I see, lass. And I would know you in every way one person can know another, in the way a man knows a woman.’

‘You are trying to turn me from the hunt because you do not want to lose,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light.

His mouth edged closer. ‘You are right. I don’t want to lose,’ he murmured.

Eventually, Jasper’s patience would run out, and he would take what he wanted. She could not hold him off forever. Maybe it was better to succumb on her own terms and get something out of it – Bran’s release, some measure of freedom for herself. And a traitorous part of Rowenna imagined that surrender and yearned for it. Now that she was looking at Jasper as a possible lover instead of a tormentor, she had to own that he was attractive – big, manly, and even handsome. And when he chose to smile and not snarl, her heart melted a little.

His lips brushed hers. ‘Kiss me, lass,’ he said, and the command in his deep, dark voice frayed the last of her resistance.

His mouth was warm and delicious, sending a pulse of desire straight between her legs. Her heart galloped as Jasper’s fingers tightened on her waist, and he pressed her against the tree. The crossbow slid from her boneless fingers. Breathlessly, Rowenna clung to his arms. His fingers slid up her back and into her hair, and before she knew it, she was clutching at him as he plundered her mouth. She wanted more, everything he could give. In her wickedness, she wanted to take him into her so that they were one.

Jasper kissed her neck, his hands roaming. ‘So soft and warm and lovely,’ he gasped into her skin. ‘I want you, Rowenna. So badly. Will you have me?’

She forced his mouth back to hers like a wanton trollop, and then the jingle of a bridle froze the blood in her veins.

‘What have we here? A lover’s tryst?’ shouted a man atop a horse - thuggish, hostile, English. He was accompanied by two others.

‘Can we keep the whore when you have finished with that dog?’ said one of them.

‘No, she has to die too,’ said the other man.

‘But it is a waste. She’s pretty, and I’d rather keep her for a few days and make her squeal. Can’t I have her?’

Jasper slid his sword from its scabbard with a shriek of metal. ‘You can have my sword in your guts if you like,’ he snarled. There was no hesitation. With a roar, he ran at the men, sword swept back. Their horses scurried sideways in alarm, and the nearest man got a swipe to the leg before he could defend himself. Blood gushed crimson down his horse’s flank as it crashed off through the undergrowth.

Rowenna fumbled for her crossbow, but her fingers shook. She tried to load an arrow as the middle man, the one who had spoken first, kicked his horse and charged. But Jasper was nimble and jumped aside and, in one fluid movement, swept a dirk from his belt and hurled it at the man’s back. It sank to the hilt in his shoulder, and he slumped sideways and lost his seat, landing badly on a tree stump with a sickening crack.

The third man aimed a crossbow at Jasper’s back. He fired, and Jasper spun and fell into the ferns. Rowenna’s hands came up. She had no time. Acting on instinct and rage, she fired. Her arrow hit the man’s forehead. He brought his hands up, and his fingers seeped red. Rowenna’s legs went from under her. Her ears started to ring, and she fell to the ground.

As if from far away, Jasper’s voice cut through. ‘Lass, are you hit?’ Moments later, a bloody hand hauled her up.

‘No. I am well, but I thought you were dead,’ she cried. ‘Oh, you are bleeding.’

‘A flesh wound is all. An arrow grazed my arm, and I tripped over a tree root like a fool. Lass, are you alright?’

Rowenna doubled over and vomited.

‘There, there. It is alright,’ said Jasper, holding back strands of hair near her mouth. ‘Did you never kill a man before?’

‘No,’ she gasped as the nausea passed.

‘Well, don’t dwell on it. You had no choice. It was either that villain or me.’

A terrible groaning sound reached her ears. ‘Oh God, is he still alive?’

‘Not the one you hit, but the other one. I think he broke his back when he fell off his horse. Stay here.’

Rowenna steadied herself against a tree to stand upright. She still felt sick, but slowly, the woods stopped spinning in a blur of green. She followed Jasper over to the injured man, recoiling when she looked upon him, for his body lay at a sickening angle.

‘Finish it,’ gasped the man.

‘Not just yet.’ Jasper squatted beside him and raised the man’s shoulder to retrieve his dirk from his back. Then he let him fall back down. The man screamed.

‘You are dying, and a long way from home. Tell me why you tried to kill me.’

‘Go to hell,’ said the man.

‘Would you meet your maker with this on your conscience, and meet him you will, my friend? Your back is broken, and your companions are gone. I can finish this quickly or leave you out here to linger. It will be a bad end when the wolves come at night. So speak.’

‘Jasper. Have mercy,’ said Rowenna.

‘They would have raped you and then slit your throat,’ he said. His words were chilling. ‘These men did not come upon us by chance. They were sent to kill me, and they would have if not for you. You heard what they were going to do with you. Why should I show this dog any mercy?’ Jasper stared down into the man’s face. ‘Who sent you?’ he snarled.

‘You know who, and he will get his way,’ he panted between groans of agony. ‘He wants you reiving bastards gone for good. You are already dead, Glendenning, as dead as me.’ The man’s head lolled sideways. ‘Ah, I am fading.’ He grasped Jasper’s jacket and held on. ‘I must say my words before I go to my maker. Hear my confession.’

Jasper lowered his head to the man’s ear. There was a whispered exchange, which Rowenna could not catch.

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. Just nonsense. I could not make out most of it. Look away, lass.’

‘Jasper, no.’

His voice was fierce. ‘I said, look away, or else this will haunt your dreams for years to come. Do it.’

Rowenna turned around and stared at the clumps of bluebells carpeting the woods. A horrible gurgling told her that Jasper had slit the man’s throat. Was it mercy, or was Jasper the ruthless savage she had always thought him to be?

‘Jasper. The third man?’ she said, not daring to turn around.

‘He is long gone. With any luck, he will bleed out before he reaches his master.’

‘And who is that?’

Sir Henry Harclaw, the new Lord Warden of the Marches.’

***

A good while later, they sat before a roaring fire, with Rowenna squinting at a bloody gape of sliced flesh.

‘By all that is holy, woman. Can you not be gentle?’ snarled Jasper, whose mood had darkened considerably.

‘The wound is deep. It has to be stitched, and you must sit still.’

He had turned a little pale, so Rowenna made the next stitch as gentle as she could manage. The curse she got for her troubles made her glad that she had lived around coarse men all her life, yet still, it made her blush. Jasper’s eyes on her made her skin take fire, too. As they had ridden back to Kransmuir, he had explained why the new Lord Warden might want him dead along with other lairds. King James regarded the Scots as a scourge on the borders – villains all. He wanted to stamp them out like vermin.

Jasper had been talking about murder and intrigue, but in some strange way, there had been intimacy in sharing his peril and vulnerability. It was like a savage lurcher rolling over and showing its soft underbelly. But since their frank exchange, he had been watching her like a hawk. Was it because her life had been threatened, or did he regret spilling his secrets and wish to take them back?

‘A couple more stitches, and we will be done,’ said Rowenna.

‘That is a shame, for then I have no excuse to get you up close and stare at you.’

Jasper’s steady regard made Rowenna’s heart thump. ‘You should count yourself lucky you are alive instead of wasting your time staring at me when I would rather you did not.’

‘But I will do it all the same, for I am only alive because of your courage. There is much to admire in you, Rowenna MacCreadie.’

‘My skill at killing a man, you mean. It was an awful thing. I never want to do it again.’

‘If you have to do it often enough, it gets easier,’ he said flatly.

There it was again - the ruthlessness that gave her pause. Yet Rowenna’s heart had leapt when she thought he might be lying dead in Slayfell Woods. What madness had come upon her? She had only to show him enough regard to gain her brother’s freedom and to stop her father from being thrown off his land. She did not want this soft feeling when she looked at Jasper. Nor did she like the pulse of desire deep in her belly when she looked at his rough hands and imagined them all over her body.

‘How do you know how to heal, lass?’ he said, startling her from her unclean thoughts.

‘I stitched my brother up many times. He is always getting into fights he cannot win.’

She met his eyes. Not a flicker of guilt crossed Jasper’s face at the mention of Bran locked in his fetid dungeon. He looked away first and said, ‘Your hands are shaking? Did my stolen kiss in the woods move you so much?’

‘No. It was killing a man that moved me, and I was almost….they would have…’ She gulped down a feeling of revulsion so strong that she almost vomited again. ‘I had this awful feeling that I would die this day before I have lived. I have never travelled beyond these glens nor enjoyed life’s comforts. I have never had a man look upon me with love.’

Jasper took her hand. His was brown with dried blood. ‘You saved my life, Rowenna. Now I have one more reason to want you.’

Must he always want her? Is that all there was? He said nothing of love. Suddenly, it occurred to Rowenna that there may be a way to free Bran without surrendering her virtue, for lying with Jasper Glendenning was a pit of lust she could never climb out of. ‘As you owe me your life, perhaps you might give me a reward, Jasper.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘What is it you want?’ he said.

‘Do not turn my father off his land and cancel Bran’s debt.’

‘I will think about it,’ he said sternly as if he could see into her conniving soul.

Rowenna tugged hard on the thread, making him wince, and tied off the wound. ‘There, we are done,’ she said.

Jasper stood and put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Take a bath. And do not fret. The guilt washes off as easily as the blood.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Never you mind,’ was his reply, with more frost in it than the dawn.

***

By the time Rowenna had bathed and dried her hair before the fire, the sun was lowering in the sky. Winter days were short in the Marches. Rowenna could not eat the food they brought. Instead, she took a glass of whisky. Its peaty burn helped, but Jasper had not returned, and she wished he would, for even his gruff company would be a balm to her harried nerves. Feeling the need to act, she took a chunk of bread and stuffed it in her pocket.

All was deserted in the bowels of Kransmuir. Bran had told her the guard only came early mornings to feed him, now and then. He said they were starving him into submission, though he did not look that thin. Well, at least he would have a meal tonight. One less thing to feel guilty about.

Rowenna took a meandering way down to the dungeons, past the kitchens, where a few servants and the cook nodded her way. She pretended nonchalance, picking an apple off the table as she passed by and munching on it. Osla had warned her not to go the same way twice, and though she had described a route, Kransmir was so vast that Rowenna got a little lost. She ended up in a vaulted store room. A dim light filtering through a barred window, up high, revealed that it was packed with barrels, jars containing all sorts of food, and sacks laid in piles – grain, most likely. It hit her that Kransmuir had bountiful supplies, whereas Fallstairs had little.

Suddenly, it was as if the dark shadows were reaching for her. She could have died in Slayfell Woods without ever having lived. It would be awful to die a virgin, though she was not entirely sure she still was after what Jasper had done? And now she was lost and alone, exhausted in the darkness, and Bran still had to be fed.

Rowenna was about to return the way she had come when a voice called from the shadows.

‘Are you lost, lovely?’