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Applegarth, Annandale, Scotland, 1377

The traveler approaching the open kitchen doorway along the path that ran behind Spedlins Tower paused at hearing a soft feminine voice inside:

"‘I expect I should be spinning, too, aye,' the maiden said sadly. ‘But it would be to nae purpose. I could never finish so great a task in time.'"

The traveler took a step closer as the voice went on, creaking now with age, "‘Och, but I could spin it all for ye, aye,' the old woman said."

"Gey good o' the auld crone!" cried several childish voices, as if they had many times heard the story and exclaimed always at the same place.

The traveler smiled, recognizing the tale from his own childhood. He moved nearer, trying to muffle the sounds his feet made on the loose pebbles of the path.

He saw the speaker then, seated on the stone floor of the scullery with her back to the doorway. Five small, fascinated children were gathered around her.

Beyond, in the darker kitchen proper, he discerned bustling movement and heard sounds indicating preparation of the midday meal.

The storyteller went on in her own soft, clear voice, "So the maiden ran to fetch her lint and put it in her new friend's hand. Then she asked the old woman for her name and where she should call for the spun yarn that evening."

One of the children, a lad of five or six, looked right at the traveler.

The tall, powerful-looking stranger put a finger to his lips.

Although the boy obediently kept silent, he continued to stare.

The storyteller continued, "But the maiden received no reply, for the old woman had vanished from where she stood. The lass looked long for her, and at last became so tired that she lay down to rest."

Three of the children eyed him now as a fourth, a lassie, piped up, "Aye, and when she awoke, it was gey dark!"

"So it was," the storyteller said. "The evening star was shining down, and as the maiden watched the moonrise, she was startled by an uncouth voice from—"

"Who is he?" the same lassie demanded, pointing at the traveler.

The storyteller, turning, saw him and scrambled awkwardly to her feet, saying as she did, "Sakes, where did you spring from?"

He noted first that she was black-haired, blue-eyed, and beautiful—and then, with unexpected disappointment, that she was heavy with child.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, mistress," he said. "They told me at the stable that I should come this way as it was quicker and none would mind. But if you will bid someone take me to Old Jardine, I will leave you to finish your tale."

"Nay, this is a good place to stop," she said, frowning and putting a hand to the short veil she wore over her long, thick plaits as if to be sure it was in place. "I can finish the story later."

To the instant chorus of indignant protests, she said firmly, "Nay, then, you must all go now to Cook and ask how you can help him. As for you," she added, turning her lovely blue eyes on the traveler again as the children obeyed her, "someone should have told you that Jardine of Applegarth sees no one these days."

"He will see me," the traveler said confidently.

"Mercy, why should he? Have you no respect for a dying man?"

"I doubt that that ill-willed old man is really dying. But he will see me because he sent for me. I am his heir."

Instead of the hasty apology he had every right to expect from a maidservant who had spoken so rudely to him, she grimaced and said scornfully, "You must have taken that notion from a tale of the same sort I've just been telling the bairns."

His temper stirring, he said, "Mind your tongue, lass, lest—"

"Why should I? Do you dislike being proven a liar?" she demanded. "For so you are if you claim to be the heir to Applegarth."

Doubt stirred. No servant of Old Jardine's would dare speak to him so impertinently. Despite their kinship, he barely knew Jardine. But if even half of what he had heard about the contentious old scoundrel was true, Jardine's servants would tread lightly and with great care.

"Who are you, lass?" he asked.

She gently touched her belly. "I am his heir's mother, or mayhap his heir's wife. Whichever it is, I can tell you truthfully that you are not his heir."

Stunned, he realized in much the same moment that the fact of Old Jardine's lie did not surprise him. In fact, he had expected a lie. He had just expected to learn that the old man was not dying. Suppressing the fury that had leaped at her words and attitude, he said, "I expect, then, that you must be Will Jardine's lady."

"Aye, of course, I am," she said. "Who are you?"

"Kirkhill," he said.

She frowned. "Should I know you? Is that all anyone calls you?"

"People call me several things, depending on who they are. Some call me Seyton of Kirkhill. As I am Will's cousin, you and I are clearly kin by marriage, so you may call me Richard if you like, or Dickon."

"I'll call you Kirkhill. I warrant it must be Lord Kirkhill, though."

"More to the purpose, my mother is that old scoundrel's sister," he said.

"Sakes, I did not know he had a sister!"

"I think she'd liefer not be one," he said with a slight smile. "But he did send word to us that he was dying and bade me hurry to Spedlins Tower."

"Then I expect I should go and tell him you are here and see if he will receive you," she said with a sigh.

"Nay, my lady. I did not come here to kick my heels whilst my uncle takes his time to decide whether he truly wants to see me. You will take me to him. First, though, I want to hear what happened to Will."

"So would we all," she said with a grimace.

"Sakes, do you not know? Jardine's messenger told me that my uncle was on his deathbed and that I was to be his heir, so I assumed Will must be dead. But as you've said you might be either the heir's wife or its mother…" He paused.

"Aye," she said, touching her belly again. "In troth, I do not know which. See you, Will was here and then he was not. He's been gone for over a fortnight."

"I hope you will pardon me if I ask if you and he were actually married. I am sure that no one told my mother of any such occasion."

"Aye, sure, we were," she said with an angry flash in her eyes. "If my good-father did not tell his sister, I am sure that is not my fault."

"Nay, it would not be," he agreed.

Looking away, she added, "My good-father has clearly called you here for no reason, sir. Doubtless, you would do better just to turn around and go back to wherever you came from."

"Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?" he asked gently.

She met his gaze again. This time he detected wariness in her eyes.

Seventeen-year-old Lady Fiona Jardine did not at all think that the man facing her was one who would cheerfully go away just because she had suggested that course. In truth, she was not sure what to make of him.

He was taller than she was by nearly a head, and looked as if he might be twice as broad across the shoulders. He did not look much like the dark Jardines. His hair was the color of dark honey and curly, and his face revealed dark stubble, revealing that no one had shaven him for a day or two. But he moved with athletic grace, spoke well, and seemed very sure of himself. She envied him that confidence, remembering a time when she had enjoyed similar self-assurance.

But was she actually married? What a question to ask one! A true gentleman would never challenge a lady so. At least, she did not think one would, but the truth was that she had not met many gentlemen.

The only ones that came quickly to mind were her deceased father, her sister's husband, Robert Maxwell, and her cousin Jenny's husband, Sir Hugh Douglas. She scarcely knew the latter two, though, and she certainly did not count her cantankerous good-father as a gentleman. Nor would she count her husband so if Will was still among the living.

But gentleman or not, Kirkhill did not look like a patient man. And, if he was kin to Old Jardine and to Will, she would be wise to do as he told her.

"Come this way, my lord," she said quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.

They passed through that vaulted chamber and up the winding stairs to the hall, crossing it to the inner chamber behind the dais.

She paused then, glancing at her unwanted companion. "His chamber is no pleasant place," she told him. "And my good-father will be in no good humor."

"I'll bear up," he said, leaning past her to open the door and gesturing for her to precede him inside.

Grimacing, she did. The odors of Jardine's sickness were strong, and she wanted the business over quickly. Her companion, however, showed no sign of minding the noisome atmosphere.

The fat old man was awake, propped on pillows, glowering at her through his piggy eyes. His personal servant hovered over him, holding a cup in his hand.

Old Jardine waved him away. "What d'ye want, lass? I ha' told ye afore that ye must rap on the door and wait till ye're admitted."

"That was my doing, Uncle," Kirkhill said, urging her farther into the room with a touch of his hand.

"Richard! 'Tis yourself, then? Ye've come? By, but I'd scarcely know ye!"

"I warrant I was no more than seven when last we met, for I've not been next or nigh this place since then. And apparently I've come on a fool's errand now."

"'Tis no foolish thing to answer the cry of a dying man," Jardine muttered, his voice suddenly much weaker.

Fiona nearly rolled her eyes. She did not believe he was any weaker than he had been a moment before. Evidently Kirkhill agreed with her, because his voice took on an edge as he said, "But why did you declare yourself dying and me your heir? I expect the first part may be true, but the second is plainly false."

"D'ye think so? Only God kens the answer to that."

Fiona gritted her teeth. She would have liked to remove herself from the old man's presence, but curiosity bade her stay as long as they allowed it.

Kirkhill said, "Your good-daughter is obviously with child, Uncle. And she assures me that Will and she are married."

"Aye, 'tis true he did marry her, the young fool."

"From your message, I thought he must be dead," Kirkhill went on with a new note in his voice, a harder one, that made Fiona look quickly at him to try to judge what manner of man he might be.

Not that she counted herself a good judge of men, for she knew she was not. But she had learned to recognize certain important things about them. So she studied him carefully as he continued to gaze sternly at his uncle.

Old Jardine continued to look at him, too, as if he were also sizing him up.

When the old man's silence made it clear that he had forgotten the question or did not choose to reply, Kirkhill added softly, "Is Will dead, Uncle?"

"He must be."

"Even if he is, why did you say I was to be your heir? I don't like liars." As soft as his voice was now, it sent a chill right through Fiona.

Old Jardine said in his usual curt way, "Nor do I tell lies. We've no seen our Will now for weeks, so he must be dead, like I said. Nowt but a grave would keep that lad away this long without any word to me."

"The English have been restless, breaking the truce by sending raiders across the line just east of here," Kirkhill said. "Mayhap he got himself captured or killed."

"D'ye think he'd ha' kept his name to himself? He'd ha' told them he were my son straightaway, and I'd ha' got a demand for his ransom. I'd ha' paid it, too, for Will. He's naebody's prisoner," he added. "It has been too long."

"If he is dead, you will soon have an heir or an heiress," Kirkhill said, gesturing toward Fiona.

"Faugh," Jardine snorted. "I'll believe that when I see the bairn. Sithee, she'll more than likely lose it afore it be birthed. Her own mam lost more bairns than anyone else I've ever heard tell of."

"I won't lose my child," Fiona said evenly.

"Aye, well, whether the bairn comes or no, Richard, I want ye to find out what became of my Will. I thought if I let ye know that ye stand to inherit Applegarth, ye'd come here, and so ye did. I've also willed it that ye're to look after the place when I die if Will doesna come home. Ye'll do that right enough, I'm thinking, for a tithe from the rents."

"I will, aye," Kirkhill said. "I'd do that for anyone, tithe or none."

"I named ye guardian for the bairn, too," Jardine said, shooting Fiona a look.

"My child won't need any guardian but me," she said.

"Even an I believed that, which I do not, 'tis my duty to name someone suitable to look after his interest here, and to look after yours, too, aye," he said.

Wondering if that were true, she looked at Kirkhill.

He met her gaze with a stern look that somehow reassured her even as he gave a slight nod and added, "That is true, my lady. However, you should have someone you trust to look after your interest, a kinsman of your own."

"Should I?" Fiona said. "My good-brothers live at some distance from here, and my father is dead. I do have an uncle who served the Lord of Galloway, but I've not seen him these past three years, so he may be dead, too, for all I know."

"They ha' nowt to do wi' her, any road, and I dinna want any o' them here," Jardine growled. "Get hence now, lass. I would talk wi' Kirkhill alone."

When the lady Fiona had gone, Kirkhill faced his uncle. "I expect you think I should just drop anything else I might be doing and stay here."

"Nay, I'm none so daft as that. Moreover, I'm good to look after things myself for a time yet. I just wanted ye to know how ye stand. Applegarth will be yours if Will be dead and the bairn also dies. I'd like a lad o' Will's to inherit, but I'm none so sure that I'd want one wi' that lass as his mam. God will decide that matter, I expect."

"He will, aye," Kirkhill agreed.

"Aye, sure, but I'll be damned afore I'll see any daughter o' hers taking Applegarth, so ye'll see to it that doesna happen," he added with a straight look.

"If I did not know better, I might think you mean me to do away with her."

"Aye, well, if I thought ye would, we might make a bargain o' sorts, for I've nae use for her. Too hot at hand for any man and doesna take well to schooling. Moreover, I've a strong notion that if my Will's dead, she killed him. Sithee, she were the last one to see him alive, and he were gey displeased wi' her."

Kirkhill concealed his distaste, saying only, "I'll gladly see what I can learn of his whereabouts, Uncle. Mayhap I should look for someone from his lady wife's family, too, in the event that she needs someone to look after her interests."

"Nay, then, ye'll look after Applegarth, so ye'll look after her, too. Mayhap we'll talk more anon, but I'm tired now. Ye'll stay the night."

Mayhap he would, Kirkhill decided. He had little interest in talking further with Old Jardine, but he did want to learn more about Will's lovely lady.

She was waiting outside the door for him.

"He thinks that I killed Will," Fiona said without preamble, knowing the old man would have lost no time in expressing his suspicion of her.

"He did tell me as much," Kirkhill answered honestly. "I doubt that it's true, though. Unless Will was even weaker than my uncle seems to be now, I doubt that you could have managed it, particularly in your present condition."

"That is kind of you, sir, because I'm nearly sure I didn't," she said.

His eyebrows arced upward. "Nearly sure?"

"My good-father has accused me so often that I've almost come to believe him," she said glibly. "That is the real reason he invited you here. He wants to know the truth before he dies, so he can hang whoever is guilty."

"I can understand him wanting that, aye," he said, nodding.

"He will appreciate such easy understanding on your part, I'm sure. But mayhap, before you tell him as much, you should know one thing more." Pausing, she added, "I overheard him telling his man that he also suspects you, my lord."