Chapter 4

Without further delay, Rob went out to find gillies saddling fresh horses for him and for the other men from Trailinghail. His lads were tying bundles to their saddles, provisions for the journey. So he waited patiently for his grandmother.

She appeared some minutes later with a basket in hand. The black-haired lad who had shouted Rob down in the hall accompanied her.

"This is Jake MacCullie's Gibby," she said, putting her free hand on the boy's scrawny shoulder. "Jake and his wife died of a fever last year. I have kept Gibby with me, but he needs a strong man to teach him how to go on. I had hoped to find someone suitable here. However, Alex has too many as it is, he says, so I bethought me of Fin Walters, at Trailinghail. He'd be just the man, I think."

Rob nodded. Walters was his steward, married to a good-hearted lass, and had no bairns of his own yet. "He'll take the lad in if you send him, and I've no objection. Do you think you would like to live by the sea in Galloway, lad?"

Gibby shrugged. "To me, one place be as good as another, Master Rob."

"Have you a pony?"

One of his men, overhearing, said, "We saddled one for him, laird. Herself did send word out to us to do that soon after we arrived."

Rob shot a look at his grandmother but said only, "What is in the basket?"

"Another one in need of a home," she said. "Cheetie had a litter of five, and Alex said that any I leave when next I go a-visiting will have to be drowned. So I thought you might have use for a good mouser at Trailinghail. It would be fitting, as Cheetie herself was born there. Gibby can look after him until you get home."

"Nay, then, me lady," the boy protested. "That wee terror bites and scratches, and I dinna hold wi' cats any road! Nor, they dinna like me any better."

Taking the basket from her, Rob lifted the lid just enough to see a small, fluffy orange-and-white kitten with enormous golden eyes that instantly narrowed in wrath. As quick as lightning, the kitten tried to shove its head through the opening.

"Whoa, laddie," Rob murmured, pushing it gently back inside and fixing the lid's reed loop over its ring with a peg to hold it there. "Very well, madam," he said. "I'll take your wildcat and your orphan, too. Have you other commands for me?"

"Nay, my dearling," Lady Kelso said with the quick, charming smile that Rob had inherited from her but rarely saw. "I think I have burdened you sufficiently to ensure an entertaining journey. I shall miss you, but I do mean to go a-visiting before returning here for Easter. Mayhap, before I go to Glasgow, I shall visit you at Trailinghail. That was ever one of my favorite places to stay."

"You know you will always find a hearty welcome," Rob said.

"I do know that," she said, nodding. "I also know that unless you ride until midnight, you won't get home today. 'Tis all of five-and-thirty miles after all."

"Aye, well, we'll see," he said. "'Twould be but seven hours on a dry day. But we've already traveled more than fifteen miles today, and the forest tracks will be boggy from the rain. I'll not mind making camp, if need be, but if we have clear starlit skies, I'll want to push on home. In any event, we must go now," he added, extending his free hand to her.

"I don't want to shake your hand, Robbie-love," she said, stepping close and putting her arms around him.

Hugging her as hard as he could without dropping the basket, he kissed her cheek and said, "I do hope you will visit us soon, Gran."

"Just mind that you haven't let the place go to rack and ruin before I do," she said gruffly, stepping back. "You'll suffer the rough side of my tongue if you have."

Smiling, Rob watched as she walked stiff-backed away until she was inside the keep. Then, turning to his new young charge, he said, "Get you on your pony, lad. We've a long journey ahead, and I want to hear no more sauce from you."

"Nay, then, I ken that fine," Gibby said. "Just dinna make me mind that wee terror ye've got in yon basket. Then ye and me will get on fine."

"We'll get on better if you mind that cheeky tongue of yours," Rob said.

"Aye, sure," Gibby said, flinging himself onto the horse provided for him.

A quarter of an hour later, they crossed Devorgilla's Bridge into Galloway. Below the bridge, the river Nith roiled in spate, its water so high that it threatened to invade the lowermost of the cottages on the steep hillside below the town.

"See how high the river can rise," Rob said to his young companion, who had chosen without invitation, or command to do otherwise, to ride beside him. "Such dangerous spates as this are why we have Devorgilla's Bridge."

"Aye, sure," Gibby said. "But 'ware now, sir! That wee terror's a-trying to get out o' his basket."

Glancing at the basket he had tied to his saddle, Rob saw two small white paws poking out from under the lid, clearly seeking freedom for their owner.

Grinning, he reached back and pulled out the peg that held the lid in place. Flipping the reed loop off its ring with a fingertip, he opened the basket and deftly grabbed the kitten before it could fling itself out.

"Mind your fingers, laird," the boy warned. "He's gey fierce!"

"He won't bite me," Rob said confidently just as needle-sharp teeth buried themselves in the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. Yelping, he freed himself, murmured soothingly to the kitten, and tucked it inside his leather jack. For the moment, astonishingly, it seemed content to stay there.

Noting Gibby's gap-toothed grin, he said, "Not one word from you now."

The grin widened, but the boy did not speak.

As they rode on in silence, Rob found his thoughts returning to Dumfries and Alex. Was his grandmother right? Was the tension between them as much his fault as Alex's, and his own duty to his clan greater than aught else?

Hadhe come to think of himself as a man of Galloway rather than a Maxwell of Dumfries? Or was he right to believe Alex was incapable of accepting the fact that his younger brother was no longer a child who merited constant, watchful attention and dutiful censure? Should he exert himself more to aid Alex in his plan to extend their clan's power over all of Dumfriesshire or simply stay away from Alex for his own peace of mind—and mayhap for Alex's, as well?

What if he did stay away?

What if Dunwythie's defiance then spread to the other lairds, and worse?

Rob was sure that, before long, Alex's response would be ruthless enough to cost lives—men of Annandale and Maxwells alike. Might there, he wondered, be a way that would not result in the deaths of so many more of the region's young men?

What might Dunwythie care about more than he cared about impeding any extension of the sheriffdom? He cared about peace, they said. And he took pride in his forebears. Dutifully, Rob tried to focus his mind on potential strategies.

His unruly thoughts drifted instead to the lady Mairi Dunwythie.

According to the Jardines, her ladyship was Dunwythie's heiress apparent. But the lass herself was Dunwythie's treasure. His lordship had to be well aware of his good fortune in having such a beautiful, serene, and sensible daughter.

Because, Rob wondered, how could the man not be?

Their journey continued without incident unless one counted persistent efforts of one small kitten to escape captivity.

They reached the outskirts of Kirkcudbright by torchlight after clouds had hidden the last of the stars. As they prepared to eat, the kitten made it plain that it, too, had urgent needs. But when Rob put it down, it dashed into the shrubbery.

Shouting for his men to circle the area and warning them that Lady Kelso would take a dim view of the kitten's loss, Rob waited grimly for its reappearance. When it shot out from under a bush and frantically clawed its way up his leg into his arms, he felt a wholly unexpected surge of pure delight.

A generous helping of minced beef assured him of its continued goodwill.

Loudly purring, the kitten slept beside him that night, woke him at dawn with a rough, wet lap across his nose, and after they had broken their fast, rode contentedly inside his leather jack the rest of the way home to Trailinghail.

"But why must we leave Dunwythie Hall?" Fiona demanded that same fine morning. "And why go now in such haste?"

"Hush, Fee," Mairi said. "Your mam feels unwell again."

"If that is so, it is even more reason not to be mounting our horses and hurrying back to Annan House. Forbye, I don't want to go home."

Sternly, clearly having overheard her, Phaeline said, "Your father made the decision because of threats that dreadful Maxwell person made. 'Tis clear we will be much safer at Annan House until the Maxwells come to their senses. So, unless you would incur my gravest displeasure, Fiona, you will obey without further protest."

"Aye, madam," Fiona said with a sigh.

Mairi knew that, although her father had decided to leave Dunwythie Hall, her stepmother had likely prompted that decision, for so it often was. Phaeline always preferred Annan House, because she thought the area there more civilized.

Mairi also knew that Fiona's imposed silence would end as soon as they were well on their way. Indeed, the Hall had scarcely disappeared behind them when the younger girl hissed as they rode side by side, "I'll wager you are no more eager to return home than I am."

"I ken fine why you do not want to go, Fee," Mairi said. "But you cannot think that I have the same reason."

Fiona hunched a shoulder. "No one ever cares what I want. But Father will heed neither of us at home, especially as he means to visit the other lairds and warn them about the Maxwells' newest threat. One wonders what we'll have to occupy us there, other than our usual duties and needlework. Aye, and Lent began yesterday and tomorrow is Sunday. So we'll be all morning in kirk and until Mam grows tired of the sacrifice, we'll have no meat to eat!"

Mairi said, "At least we know more about the estates now than we did before Father took us to the Hall. Also, our people will have planted the fields below Annan House during our absence. So we can learn even more about such things at home."

"You know I don't care a blink for such stuff. All I want is to meet eligible young men, Mairi. And you should want that, too, or you'll have no one to think about except Robert Maxwell. What will you do then, eh?"

Slowing her mount to lessen the risk that Phaeline or Dunwythie might hear them, Mairi said, "I don't deny that I found the man intriguing, Fee, but I cannot even tell you why I did. Perhaps it is only that he seems so strong and sure of himself when I so often feel rather helpless in the uncertainty of my future."

"Sakes, what makes you think he is strong or confident when he failed so miserably to persuade our father to agree with him?"

"The strength I felt came from within him," Mairi said. "I do not think he counts success or failure in one such an attempt. It seemed to me more as if he were doing his brother's bidding, never really expecting to prevail."

"But—"

"Have mercy," Mairi pleaded. "This is foolishness, because it cannot matter what I think he feels inside, or why or how I sense it. His arrogant posturing when he said his odious brother could seize our estates went beyond what I think of as civil behavior. It infuriated Father, too, although he did keep his temper."

"Aye, and Father likely infuriated Robert Maxwell, too. That is why it all disturbed you, Mairi. You always hate disagreement. I think that whenever you see conflict, you feel as if you ought to be able to smooth it over," Fiona added sapiently. "When you cannot, you feel guilty."

"Mercy, you make me sound as if I think of naught save myself," Mairi protested. She was afraid, though, that much of what her sister said was true. Disagreements did upset her. But surely they upset most people.

"I know you are not so selfish," Fiona said. "You just sometimes seem to assume responsibility when you need not and, when things go amiss—even when they have naught to do with you—to take it as a personal failure."

"Anyone with common sense prefers peace," Mairi said. "The plain truth is that it frightened me witless when Father just dismissed the sheriff's threat to seize the estates if Father does not submit."

"But such a threat cannot be real," Fiona said flatly.

Mairi feared that it was, however. Her annoyance with Robert Maxwell persisted. However, just thinking about the handsome wretch brought memories of his charming smile, his musically vibrant deep voice, and the strangely sensual air of strength and power the dreadful man projected.

In facing him that first time in the field, she realized now that although she had dreaded crossing words with him, she had found it easier than expected to make her point. It felt almost as if she had drawn her strength then from his.

Silently scolding herself for such foolish thoughts, she had the happy notion to remind Fiona that they would enjoy Easter with Jenny and Sir Hugh at Thornhill. Thereafter, as they followed the river's course southward, they chatted desultorily.

Rob was glad to be home and glad, too, that the day was turning out to be a fine one and showed Trailinghail at its best.

The stone tower stood atop one of the sheer cliffs forming the west boundary of Kirkcudbright Bay less than a mile from where it opened into Solway Firth. The position provided panoramic views of the bay and the more turbulent Firth. On such clear days, one could see Kirkcudbright's kirk spire and the towering keep of Castle Mains, ancient seat of the Lords of Galloway and guardian of the town and its harbor.

The rain had passed, and the few clouds scudding across the azure sky were white and puffy. The air was chilly and smelled strongly of the sea. Gulls cried overhead, and Rob's people hailed his return with sincere delight.

He had inherited the tower and its forested estate from his grandfather, Lord Kelso, at the age of one-and-twenty. Before then, Trailinghail being one of his lordship's distant and lesser estates, the place had received less attention than his larger holdings and had suffered accordingly.

Lord and Lady Kelso had spent most of their time at his primary seat near Glasgow or at their house in the royal burgh of Stirling, just as their eldest son, Rob's uncle and the present Lord Kelso, did now. Rob was sure that his inheritance had come at her ladyship's instigation, if only because his grandfather had shown unexpected forethought in also leaving sufficient funds to set the place in good trim.

As isolated as Trailinghail was, although he had visited his grandparents there as often as possible, Rob had never expected to live there permanently. However, he realized now, rather than chafe under Alex's thumb in Dumfries, he had taken to spending a little longer at Trailinghail each time he visited.

The people on the estate had made it plain from the outset that they looked on him as a blessing. Their delight in his first arrival and in his declared intent to visit several times each year had spurred him to exert himself more than he might have otherwise. As a result, he had come to love the place as much as they did.

The job of putting things in order had taken up much of the past four years. His fields were in good trim now, the wall was sound. And if the tower had received less attention, it was comfortable enough to welcome his grandmother if she did choose to visit. Despite her suggestion that she would, Rob doubted he would see her before summer. The present Lord Kelso and his family would press her to visit them, and Trailinghail lay miles away from the road to Glasgow.

Rob knew that Lord Kelso adored his blunt-spoken mother despite the trouble they had living together for long periods, and would do all he could to keep her until her annual return to Dumfries for Easter. And, despite her ladyship's independent nature, she doted on her son's family and would miss them dreadfully if aught happened to prevent her visiting them.

Thoughts of that mutually doting relationship brought Mairi's image to mind, and Dunwythie's. The odd connection spurred a tickling jolt in Rob's train of thought as if his mind had jumped ahead of itself. Letting the wisp go, he returned his attention to Trailinghail and the new projects he wanted to begin there.

His steward, Fin Walters, a sensible man in his mid-thirties, welcomed Gibby's arrival. Walters had grown up in service to Rob's grandfather and had a respect for Lady Kelso that bordered on worship.

"If Herself commends ye to me care, lad, I'm sure ye'll be a great help," he said. "I've any number o' things ye can do."

Gibby, who had been eyeing him askance, straightened noticeably and said he could do aught that anyone asked of him. "Except for herding carnaptious wee cats," he added stoutly with a sidelong look at Rob.

Suppressing a smile, Rob said, "You will do whatever Fin Walters tells you to do or suffer unpleasant consequences."

"Aye, sure, I said so, didn't I?" Gibby said, his demeanor wide-eyed and earnest. "Just not cats."

Grunting, and avoiding Fin's twinkling eyes, Rob left them to get acquainted and went inside to stow his gear.

He soon realized he had acquired an orange-and-white shadow.

Amused by the kitten's curiosity and its antics as it explored his bedchamber, he otherwise ignored it. He was certain it would soon find its way to the kitchen. As soon as someone down there fed it, it would forget all about him.

He had stripped off his jack and his shirt, and was scrubbing himself at the washstand, when a now-familiar voice spoke from the open doorway.

"Fin Walters did say I should ask d'ye ha' aught ye'd like me to do for ye."

Reaching blindly for a towel, Rob blotted his face as he turned to face Gibby. "Have you annoyed him already, then?"

"Nay, I just tellt him I'd served Herself mostly inside and rode with her when she went out, and such. So he said I should tend to things in the tower for a time, till I learn me way about and get to know the men. I expect he wants them to ken more about me afore he gives me to one o' them to train," he added sagely. "He said ye dinna ha' a man to look after ye, though. So I might make m'self useful."

"I don't need much looking after," Rob said. Noting Gibby's disappointment, he added, "You can clear up those things I carried up here if you like. The shirts and my netherstocks will need laundering, so take them downstairs when you go. You may also brush my breeks and boots if you think you can. And put those other things away in the two kists you see against yon wall."

Gibby soon tidied the chamber. As he rose from stowing things in a kist set in the east-facing window's embrasure, he moved to look outside, standing on tiptoe.

"Coo," he said. "Ye can see forever from up here."

"Not quite as far as that," Rob said. "You can see even more from the next level, and more yet from the ramparts. The large chamber above this one has a window looking over the Firth as well as one like that one overlooking the bay."

"Then why d'ye no take the two-windowed one?"

"Too many stairs," Rob said with a grin. When the boy shook his head, he added, "This chamber was my grandfather's whenever he stayed here. But I'm thinking that when Herself comes to visit, she'll want to use the great chamber."

"Aye, she would," Gibby agreed. "I could help ye get it ready for her."

What had been only a wispy tickle of an idea earlier took form as he considered how comfortable the upper chamber could be. As her ladyship was unlikely to visit soon, that chamber might even serve another purpose or person first. He would have to consider the notion more thoroughly, to see if it had merit.

Dismissing Gibby to help set up in the hall for the midday meal, Rob said, "I want to think a bit before we dine, Gib. But we'll go upstairs afterward and take stock of what we might do there."

"I told you so," Fiona said with a grimace the following Thursday morning as she and Mairi aired bedclothes on the hillside below Annan House's gateway. "At least we're outside, but only because Mam wants to keep us busy whilst she rests."

"She is tired," Mairi said.

The grassy hill sloped away more or less on all sides of the house. They could see the river below and the strip of narrow but dense woodland edging it. Across the river lay western Annandale and hills separating it from Nithsdale.

The woodland edging the river continued south and then east above the breeze-rippled waters of Solway Firth, sparkling now in the sunlight. From the woods upward, freshly tilled fields covered most of the hillside.

"I vow, Mam must be pregnant again," Fiona said abruptly. "She behaves as if she were. In troth, she has been with child more than she has been without child for most of my life. And to what purpose? She has miscarried so many that she does not even seem sad anymore when she loses one. But then, before a person can turn around, she declares she is pregnant again and Father hovers over her, fretting about her health, just as he has been doing of late."

"It is natural that he should concern himself," Mairi said fairly. Her thoughts shifted abruptly to Robert Maxwell, as had happened far too often of late. This time it was to wonder if he might fret over a pregnant wife as her father did.

But, in truth, Phaeline was the fretful one, always talking of how she felt, and Mairi had a notion that a wife of Robert Maxwell's might have no cause to do that.

It occurred to her only then that she did not know he was unwed. Unlike Will Jardine, who lived in Annandale and was Old Jardine's heir, and would therefore occasion much remark when he took a wife, Robert Maxwell was an outsider.

Mairi had assumed he was unwed from the way he had gazed at her when they met. But he was certainly old enough to have a wife and many children.

"Why do you frown?" Fiona asked, startling her from her reverie.

With a self-deprecating smile, Mairi said, "I just happened to realize that although we can be nearly sure that Will Jardine does not yet have a wife, it is a different matter with Robert Maxwell."

Fiona's eyebrows shot upward. "So you were thinking of him again, were you? How you can let your thoughts dwell on that man for even a minute when you believe he and his wretched brother want to seize our estates, I do not know."

"No one can control the way thoughts form, Fee. They just do. For that matter, we don't know that Robert Maxwell wants to seize the estates. I believe he was just warning Father that the sheriff has the power to do so."

"Aye, well, I won't deny that I think about Will Jardine because I want to," Fiona said. "Even if we did not know he is unmarried, one could never doubt that he is. He would surely not flirt as he does if he were married."

"Do you think he would not? Men often flirt who should not, I think, even married men. In troth, if you stop to consider, our father's friends often flirt with us, and nearly every one of them is married."

"Aye, but they ken fine that we do not believe they mean it," Fiona said as she moved to help Mairi shake out their featherbed.

"Nor do they mean it," Mairi said, wondering at the odd ways of men, even gentlemen and noblemen. "If a married woman flirted the way married men do, her husband would soon sort her out."

After they had vigorously shaken the featherbed to settle its contents more evenly, Fiona said with a sigh, "Life is most unfair to women, I think."

"Even women are sometimes unfair to women," Mairi said a little tartly. "I am sure that Phaeline believes I shall never find a husband."

"She has certainly hinted as much," Fiona said. "One wonders how she expects the situation to change when it is her determination to produce a son that prevents any eligible man from learning what your fortune may be."

"Well, for all that she has been the only mother I've known and has, I think, been a dutiful mother to me, I think she would prefer to see me married and gone."

"Mayhap she would, but she will not say so," Fiona said. "I suspect that one thing keeping her from insisting Father find you a husband is that it would force him to offer a large tocher. You'd have to have enough so that suitors would not mind so much if Mam does succeed at last in giving him a son."

"I don't have any suitors."

"So we must persuade her to arrange for us to meet eligible men. Mayhap she would let us hold a feast here after Easter," Fiona added with a thoughtful air.

"Fee, you might as well admit that you are just scheming to invite William Jardine here. You must not even dream of such a thing!"

"Well, if I am not to think of Will Jardine, then you must swear never to think of Robert Maxwell again," Fiona said. "In time, I do think I can persuade Father to engage more kindly with the Jardines and thus make friends of them. Even if he does, though, he will never agree to let you marry a Maxwell."

"But I don't want to marry him," Mairi said. "I've no thought of marrying anyone yet. Nor will I until I meet a man with whom I could bear to spend my life."

She meant what she said. Her thoughts might now and again—without effort—turn to Robert Maxwell. But although he might be handsome and display reassuring strength and undeniable charm, he was no less an enemy, and he had behaved arrogantly when they'd first met. So that, she told herself, was that.

Since leaving Dunwythie Mains, she had missed it more each day. During the sennight they had spent there, her father had behaved as if she and Fiona were important to him and useful. He had exerted himself to explain things, and to introduce them to his steward, his bailie, and others who might aid them—if it ever came to that.

He had also promised to introduce them to neighboring landowners in days to come. Instead, he was traveling hither and yon to talk to other men about the sheriff's threat, leaving his daughters at home with Phaeline.

Mairi felt as if, after a week of pretending to be an adult, she had returned to her childhood. Fiona was right, she decided. Their life at Annan House was boring. If she had an ounce of spirit, Mairi told herself sternly, she would not stand for it.

She would do something about it.