Chapter 6

Chapter 6

After extinguishing the lone candle, Rob still felt her presence like a warm breeze in the chapel. He heard the faint rustle of movement as she turned his way.

"What happened to your French accent?" she asked a bit stiffly.

He hesitated, uncertain how to reply.

"As you see, I … I have guessed who you are," she added.

"Have you?"

"Aye, but you need not fear me, either. And although I do not approve of secrets or clandestine behavior, I did want to seek your advice. Therefore, for the present, I shall acquit you of any ill intent in concealing your identity."

"Will you?" Still feeling his way, he added, "Forgive me, but I am not certain I understand what you are saying, Lady Adela."

"Will you deny that you have affected a French accent, sir?"

Although tempted to deny it categorically, he did not want to lie to her unless it became necessary. So he said, "I will admit that from time to time I have found it useful to affect such an accent, and others, for that matter."

"I knew it!" Her tone was lighter, less strained than before.

"What did you know?" he asked.

"Your identity, of course. I am not a fool, sir. You did give yourself away to me, you know—straightaway."

"Did I?"

"You must know that you did. I own that had you not stared at me so conspicuously in the chapel and after-ward, I'd never have guessed. And then, flirting as you did tonight … You sounded completely different, that's all."

Realizing that his hands had clenched at the thought that someone had been staring at her, had even dared to flirt with her, he forced himself to relax and let the irritating thought go. Evenly, he said, "You expressed need of a friend today, my lady. And, too, you expressed concern for another man."

"I did," she admitted, surprising him. He'd half expected a coy demand to know if he were jealous, but as quickly as the thought formed, he berated himself.

She had given him no cause to expect such a reaction from her. Indeed, she had revealed little of herself other than her simple trust that he meant her no harm and a confidence or two. He was tempted to warn her that such innocent trust could be dangerous, but aware of her history, he feared such a warning might frighten her.

It was more important to discover how much she had overheard, so he said instead, "What happened, exactly, to make you feel so concerned for him?"

"I … I heard two others talking. They said it was time to put an end to him. He did me a particular service, so I don't want harm to come to him, but I cannot imagine what you could do to help him. You do not even know him, do you?"

"I know who he is," he said, realizing as he did that he was sinking deeper into the pit of his deceit. But he had to know what he was dealing with and what she meant to do about Einar Logan. "Who were the men you overheard talking?"

"I don't know," she said hastily. "I just heard voices in a stairwell."

He could hear the lie in her voice and would have discerned it even had he not known the truth. Still, it was good to know that, although she disapproved of secrets, she would protect those for whom she cared. She had not recognized his voice, but surely she had recognized Hugo's.

With nothing to gain by letting her know he had detected the lie, he said, "What else did the men say?"

"One said someone had died. Nay, that two had died. That is …" She hesitated, evidently trying to recall all that she had heard. At last, with an audible sigh, she said, "Truly, I am not certain. He did say someone had died— Sir Ian, I think—but the only name I knew was Einar Logan."

"What else did they say about him?"

"That was all. I heard a thud, as of a door shutting, then nothing more."

"So you saw no one."

"Nay, and I did not try to go nearer, either."

So she wanted him to believe she did not know exactly where the two men had been. Well, he would not press her on that, either. He had no need.

"You were wise to keep your distance," he said. "Was that the reason you let it be known you needed a friend, or was there some other cause?"

She was silent for so long that he thought he would have to coax any further information from her. But at last she said, "I should not bring my trials to you."

"A friend is always willing to listen."

When still she hesitated, he wondered what had happened to put her off. She had trusted him the night before. That she had, had laid an unexpected burden on him, a burden that grew heavier now. Exerting patience, he waited.

"It is nothing to make a song about," she said as if she spoke to herself. Drawing another audible breath, she said, "I know they care about me, but everyone still plagues me so with advice that I cannot think. I'd hoped that discussing the matter with you might help, but I have no right—"

"Don't trouble yourself about rights. I am wholly at your service. I will not claim to offer good advice, but I am an excellent listener if you want to talk."

"I'd like that," she said. "I've found it easy to talk with you. Only I cannot stay long. Lady Isobel's maidservant, Kenna, accompanied me to the postern door and waits there for my return. I don't want her to have to explain herself to anyone."

"Doubtless the lass can think of something to say that won't give you away."

"Then I'll tell you. I'd expected I'd have to go home with Ardelve's body, you see, but Lady Clendenen said that would be unwise. My sisters agree, as does my father. Still, I fear people will think it is my duty to go, even to assert my right to stay there with his son. I don't want to live with a man I don't know. He may be my son by marriage, but he is only a year or two older than I am."

"Did Ardelve provide otherwise for you?"

"Aye, and generously if what Lady Clendenen told me is true. I'll have money enough to support myself and the lifetime use of a house in Stirling."

"Lady Clendenen has been busy," he said dryly.

"I am not surprised that you should think so. I warrant you know her much better than I do."

He let that pass, saying only, "I wonder why she is sticking her oar so deeply into your water."

"She has said she will not marry my father until he has got rid of his last daughter. She would not be pleased if I were to return to Chalamine."

"Mayhap she only wants to see you happy."

"That is possible, but she has been …" She stopped, then said, "I should not say this to you, of course, but it is just so easy to tell you things that I will anyway. She has given me cause to believe she has already selected one whom she believes would make me a good husband. I'm certain that must be why she invited me to stay with her at her house in Edinburgh."

"I see." He did not, but it sounded like the sort of nonsensical thing lassies often said, and he did not want to lose sight of her primary concern. "If you truly want my advice," he went on, "I think you'd be wise to accept her invitation. If Ardelve arranged an income for you, you've no need to apply to his son to support you. That would be uncomfortable. Nor need you seek a new husband. In fact, I'd counsel you strongly to avoid that course until you are sure you are ready for it."

"I understand why you would support her ladyship's invitation. At least, I think I do," she said. "'Tis why I hesitated to discuss that with you."

"I think you must explain that to me more clearly," he said, utterly baffled.

"I want to trust you," she said. "Indeed, I am persuaded that you mean me no harm, but you were flirting with me earlier, and …"

Nearly interrupting her to set her straight, he bit down hard on his lower lip to prevent any inadvertent sound.

"… and, in truth, I do not know why you should flirt when we scarcely know each other and … and in my present circumstances."

Forcing calm into his voice, he said, "Before we continue this conversation, my lady, I must ask you to tell me exactly who you think I am."

"But …" This time her hesitation was of shorter duration before she said on a note of relief, "Oh, I see how it is. You think I may be wrong, that I believe you are someone you are not. I feared that might be the case until you explained about the different accents you have used. It did not occur to me till then that you might have reason to conceal your identity other than to make yourself mysterious and thus more interesting to me. That was foolish, for I do recall that your father—"

"My father?" The words were out before he knew he would speak them.

"Aye, for your cousin told me—"

"Lady Adela, please, just tell me who you think I am."

"I beg your pardon. You must think me a dafty, because I'm chattering away like a clap-dish. I promise you, I do not often do so, but I already fear I may be going mad. There now, you see how easily I speak my mind to you, and that is another thing I don't often do. So if I am wrong in my belief as to your identity, I shall be certain that I have lost my wits."

Her voice wavered, and realizing that she truly did fear such a happening, he felt like the lowest worm in Christendom to have manipulated their conversation to that end. Although he could not see her, the picture of her in his mind was clear.

She was small and slender, almost fragile looking. And doubtless she wore the solemn, sad look that had dimmed her glow since her abduction and rescue.

That mental picture made him wish he had the right to walk up and put his arms around her, to hold her tight, because she sounded as if a hug might help. But he had no right to do that, so he waited, despite suspecting that she would soon begin to fear he had tired of what she called her chattering.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, instantly confirming that thought. "I suppose I'm afraid to say the name aloud lest I do discover I'm wrong. But if you are not the chevalier de Gredin, I do not know who in the world you can be."

He would have given anything then to be able to utter the strongest epithet he knew, but he could not. Moreover, every word of his training warned him to admit nothing in haste or without thinking the whole situation through carefully first.

And since he could not tell her the whole truth, in any event, until he knew exactly what course he would take, he would be safer to admit nothing at all.

"Well?" she said with a hint of impatience.

To give himself time to let his thoughts sort themselves, he said gently, "I hope you will not voice that suspicion to anyone else."

"No, no, of course I won't!"

The relief in her voice told him she was certain now that she was right in believing he was de Gredin, and it did nothing to ease his guilt. Still he persevered, saying firmly, "The chevalier de Gredin should not be flirting with you. Nor should he be living under the same roof. If you explain that to Lady Clendenen—not that she should require explanation—I warrant he will remove to some other abode to accommodate you. If you fear people may talk—and, given the least encouragement, they will—you should avoid his company in all but the most public settings."

"I … I see," she said. "I'll take care to avoid other meetings. Doubtless there is more you are not telling me, but I do think I can decide now what I shall do."

"Can you?" He tensed, hoping she had not decided to accompany the body.

"I shall stay where someone honestly wants me to stay."

"I'm glad," he said sincerely.

"Think you that if I need a friend again, I may count on you?"

"Any time, lass. As long I have power to help, I will."

"Thank you," she said. "I should go now before Kenna looks for me."

"Can you find your way to the door?"

"I think so. Do you want to leave first?"

"Nay, I'll linger yet a while. I'm near the archway. Will you feel more at ease if I move some distance away?"

"I … I don't mind if you stay where you are."

"Then I will," he said. His body stirred suggestively at the thought of her walking so near him, and he wondered if he was the one who had lost his wits.

Adela had risen and turned to face the sound of his voice as soon as he had spoken, but in the silence now, after a step or two, she faltered in the darkness.

"Talk to me," she said. "I cannot see a thing, and I feel as if I could be walking in any direction."

"I'm here," he said. "Just walk toward me. There should be nothing in your path even if you veer a little one way or the other."

"I know. The floor is clear without all the kneeling stools out."

"I think you've made a wise decision," he said. "I don't know Lady Clendenen, although everyone knows her name, and many are kin to her. But—"

"I still don't know that I'll stay with her," she said, thinking she had better make that plain lest he believe later that she had deceived him. "She wants to take me to the royal court, and I am not—"

"Surely, you don't mean to stay at the house Ardelve left you in Stirling! I'd wager he never meant you to stay there alone—not until you were many years older than you are now, at all events."

"Nay, I've no wish to do that," she said. "But I may have another option."

"What?" His voice sounded as if he stood right in front of her now.

"I want to see if it truly is an option before I give it more thought," she said. "I need to talk to Sir Hugo."

"You must talk to him anyway, lass," he said gently as a large hand touched her shoulder in the darkness.

She stopped still, nearly unable to breathe. Raggedly, she said, "Why?"

"You must tell him what you overheard in the stair-well. He will know what to do about it. Einar Logan is the captain of his fighting tail, and Hugo can protect him more easily than anyone else can. You should have told him straightaway."

She did not want to tell him Hugo knew all about the conversation, but since she had realized that Hugo would arrange for her to speak to Einar Logan if she said she wanted to thank him, she said, "I'll talk to him."

"Good," he said without taking his hand from her shoulder.

She made no attempt to move away.

"You should not so easily trust men you do not know, lassie," he said, his voice sounding oddly gruff.

"I feel as if I do know you," she said. Her voice came from low in her throat, and her body tingled, feeling more alive than it had for weeks, perhaps forever.

"You don't, though," he said.

"'Tis strange, I know," she added. "But from the very first moment the other night on the ramparts—"

"Sakes, lass, that happened just last night."

"Did it? It seems longer than that. But since that moment I've felt as if I'd known you all my life."

"Have you?"

Warm fingers touched her left cheek, then moved gently to cup the side of her face. She licked her lips nervously but stood still.

Slight pressure against her cheek tilted her face up-ward. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do, and the gentle touch of warm lips against hers felt natural, too. When the hand on her shoulder shifted to draw her nearer, she did not resist.

His lips pressed harder against hers, then broke away. But still he held her, saying quietly, "A while ago, you made me think you might need a hug."

In answer, she leaned closer and rested her cheek against his chest, realizing as she did that he wore a leather jack of some sort.

Her head fit under his chin without touching it. He was hard, his chest muscular. His arms as they eased around her seemed to draw her to safety.

She felt his heart beating, at first slowly and steadily, then faster. His embrace tightened for a moment before his hands moved to grip her shoulders and he said gruffly, "I'm a right scoundrel, lass. You seek safety and sanity; and instead you meet me. I fear you'll never forgive me for this."

"There is naught to forgive, for am I not safe with you?" she asked, feeling no less safe for his suggestion that she might not be. "Your flirting before distressed me because … Mercy, I don't know why, but it did. Mayhap 'twas because others were around, or because despite scarcely knowing Ardelve, I am his widow."

"Aye, but you're a Highlander, lass, and in my experience, Highlanders, like Borderers, set expediency ahead of others' notions of what's proper. The dead are dead and remain so, but the living continue to live and should do so."

"That's true, and it sounds perfectly sensible when you say it."

"Here is more sense, then, so heed me well," he said, his voice stern for once. "You are safe enough with me whilst others know naught about it. But this world is a dangerous place, as your recent experience proves. If the wrong people come to suspect a connection between us, you may find yourself in danger again."

"Is that why you pretend to be other than you are?"

He sighed. "Don't ask me to share my secrets with you, lass. Not only would it be unsafe for us both if you knew them, but I do not share them with anyone."

"I'd never betray you."

"I know you'd not mean to," he said, his voice gentle again. "But secrets are dangerous—at least, some are. And the only way to be sure of keeping one is not to share it with anyone. You've admitted yourself that you hate secrets. I'd be a beast to burden you with mine."

She felt as if her own words had betrayed her. Was this what curiosity did to one? She had always, in the past, felt superior to Isobel and Sorcha in that respect, as if their burning curiosity about everything were somehow an offense against good manners. But now, with him, her curiosity seemed reasonable, and his unwillingness to confide his secrets a personal affront.

She wanted to tell him as much, but her recent ability to speak frankly with him had vanished, making way for more customary reticence. She would not lower herself to pry into what was so clearly his business. That his shutting her out hurt seemed of less importance than her own need to understand why she should feel so strongly that she had a right to know what he refused to tell her.

Gathering her dignity, she said, "I should go now. Kenna will be growing impatient, and it would not do for her to come here in search of me."

"No," he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before releasing her. "I'm glad you have decided not to return to the Highlands."

"I, too," she murmured. "Goodnight."

As she moved past him into the entryway, less dark now than before, thanks to a slit of light round the door and the courtyard torches, she felt his gaze on her.

Just as she reached to lift the latch, he spoke once more. "Stay well away from de Gredin, lassie."

She did not answer. It was all she could do not to look back to see if she could make out any of his features in the ambient torchlight.

She was certain he would not allow that to happen. But the diversion kept her from wondering until she was crossing the yard how he expected her to avoid him if she were to stay with Lady Clendenen. Even if he moved out, they would be bound to meet socially, especially if both of them went to court.

Standing at the door of the chapel with the door held open a crack, Rob watched Adela cross the courtyard to the patient Kenna. He could easily guess what she was thinking and cursed himself again for having put her and himself—however unintentionally—in the position in which they now found themselves.

Unlike Adela, he had always liked having a secret or two. He knew his grandfather had tested him more than once—probably more times than he knew—before entrusting him with portions, at least, of his two most prized secrets. He recalled the conversation that had ensued when Sir Walter revealed the first one.

"I've learned ye can keep your mouth shut when ye must, laddie," Sir Walter had said. "So I've summat to tell ye and summat I mean to ask o' ye."

Puffed with importance, thirteen-year-old Rob had waited with breathless anticipation to learn what it was his grandfather wanted him to do. Enlightenment had hardly seemed worth the effort.

"Ye're strong and quick on your feet, lad, as I were and me own father afore me. Your father took his physique from his mother's kin and never were much good wi' a sword, but ye display the Logan skill already. Your father said he'd foster ye wi' the Douglas, but I'm thinking I'll send ye to Dunclathy instead. Ye'll ha' to work gey hard, but the reward will be worth the effort."

"Dunclathy?" He'd never heard of such a place, or such a person, if it were a person. And he'd looked forward to learning to fight with the Earl of Douglas.

Their family ties to the Douglas were strong and had been so since that long ago time when Rob's great-grandfather and his brother, and Sir James Douglas, had died during their attempt to take the Bruce's heart to the Holy Land. Their ties to the Sinclairs were just as strong from that same connection to Sir William Sinclair.

"Ye'll learn swordsmanship at Dunclathy, as well as other knightly skills, and more," his grandfather had said. "Ye want to be a knight one day, d'ye no?"

Rob did. His desire to study swordsmanship and other fighting skills under the Earl of Douglas's command had stirred when he'd heard Douglas say he meant to be King of Scots, a goal the man pursued for some time before deciding it would suit his clan better to side with Robert the Steward, now Stewart. Douglas had called the Steward a peaceful man, one unlikely to challenge the Douglas power in the Borders, and his support had guaranteed the Steward's bid to become Robert II of Scotland.

A second reason had stirred Rob's ambition. The Douglas had a stunningly beautiful daughter. Then but thirteen and smitten, Rob secretly harbored dreams of a magnificent marriage even then.

"I'd thought to go wi' Douglas," he'd said boldly to his grandfather.

"'Tis a great honor, Rob, the greatest you can imagine, to go to Dunclathy. But ye must keep it to yourself. Speak nowt o' this and do as I bid ye."

"Aye, sir," Rob had said with a sigh, feeling much put upon but knowing he had little choice in such a matter unless his father objected. And that was most unlikely, because Sir Ian never set himself against Sir Walter.

However, when his older brother Will learned that Rob was not to serve under Douglas, he had taunted him until, angry and determined to defend himself, Rob had snapped that he was doing a good thing, a fine thing, and in fact, a far more important thing than going with Douglas, as witless Will was to do. What was more, he added, he knew a secret that Will would never know.

The result was yet another fight between the two, broken up by Sir Ian and reported to Sir Walter. It was the only time in Rob's memory that his grandfather had ever beaten him, but he had done so thoroughly, and Rob had never forgotten it. The lesson had stuck. And as far as he was concerned, it would stick until his dying day.

But as he watched Adela speak to Kenna, other hard-learned lessons taunted him. A knight never acted dishonorably. A knight did not practice deceit. A knight never abandoned or abused those in need or who were weaker than himself.

In the case of Lady Adela, Rob realized, he had done all those things. If he were ever going to put things right, he would have to begin by talking to Hugo.

He did not look forward to that conversation any more than he supposed Adela was looking forward to hers— which was to say, not one bit.