Chapter 6

I'm sorry for this, lass," Rob muttered to his captive as he straightened the blanket that covered her and shouted for his crew to launch the galley and get them away as fast as possible.

The tide was already on the turn, so their timing had been well-nigh perfect. They had traveled most of the way on the swift incoming tide from the Irish Sea, gaining another boost from a brisk southwest wind. Conditions had been ideal for traveling east but risky, too. Such speed—as much as eight to ten miles per hour on a flooding tide into the ever-narrowing Firth—could also prove treacherous.

At Kirkcudbright Bay, tides were nearly normal, each cycle taking a little over six hours. But the farther into the Firth the flood tides pushed, the swifter they moved. From low to high tide at Annan could take just under four hours on a spring tide, while its ebb could take as long as nine and a half hours.

Traveling outward on the ebb was always slower and would be more so with wind from the southwest, but almost any wind could prove useful in sparing his oarsmen and would aid them when time came to enter Kirkcudbright Bay.

He had meant only to learn the lay of the land at Annan House. First he had intended just to see how well guarded the place was from a river approach. He would then have anchored in Annan harbor and explored more from there.

Depending on what he learned, he would either have returned to Galloway to reconsider his plans or stayed in the area until opportunity arose—or he had created one—to put his plan into action. Instead, the lass had stepped into his path, and he had seized the moment—and her ladyship as well.

He waited only until they were out of sight from Annan House, before stooping to free her. The big square sail was up, blowing full above them as he loosened her gag. Removing it, he expected a flood of reproaches, even tears.

But after an initial, unmistakable flash of fury, she remained stonily silent.

Deciding she must be too terrified to speak, he began to untie the rope he had wrapped around her over her cloak.

Quietly, he said, "You've nowt to fear, my lady. I mean you no harm."

She said nothing, merely shifting to let him deal with the rope more easily.

When he had finished, he said gently, "Take my hand, lass. I'll steady you whilst you stand. Then you may take a seat on that wee bench by the stem locker."

She let him help her stand but warily, and again he could sense her anger. Being a man who vented his anger whenever it stirred, Rob looked on her continued silence as proof that he had terrified her. That would not do.

"By my troth, Lady Mairi, no one will harm you," he said. "Your predicament is a matter of politics only—of necessity, in fact—to avoid much bloodshed."

"Indeed, sir?" she said tartly. "One hesitates to question such noble intent, but does your helmsman mean to smash us all on those rocks straight ahead?"

"Nay, they are but tacking against the wind," he said, relieved to learn that it was not him she feared. "Often, to move forward," he added pointedly, "one must take what seems a strange course. As you will see, though, we are about to turn."

Mairi had realized as much as soon as she had spoken, because one of the crew moved then to reset the angle at which the big sail caught the wind. The helmsman shifted the steerboard then, to take a course very near the wind and no longer heading toward shore.

Maxwell, apparently realizing that she did not want to talk to him, slipped off his heavy leather jack and rolled it up. "Here, lass," he said. "Put this behind you so you don't bruise yourself against the wood."

Accepting it with a nod and exerting herself not to reveal that she found the leather disturbingly warm from his body, she adjusted it to cushion herself. Then she turned so she could watch the water and the shoreline that they followed west.

He had clearly thought she feared him, but she did not. Perhaps she ought to, she mused. But for now, she was grateful to feel only anger.

She had occasionally been out in a small boat during neap tides, when the rise and fall of the water level was minimal. Also, she and Fiona had ridden ponies across the open, muddy sands east of the Annan during low tide, when all twenty miles of the Firth from its head almost to the outflow of the river Nith looked more like a boggy desert—with two narrow rivers through it—than a vital waterway. The Firth was thus deceptive, and one dared never underestimate its dangers.

Only neap tides came in and went out courteously.

She had heard tales of raiding parties into England mistiming a ride across the sands and hearing what seemed a distant roar. Men had looked toward it only to see the incoming tide nearly upon them in a six-foot wall of water.

The nearby coast sloped gently to the water as it did near Annan House. The rhythmically undulating water of the turning tide was brown and silt-ridden.

Comfortably warm in her heavy cloak, lulled by the sounds of the wind in the sail and an occasional rhythmic thumping of oars, she drowsed.

When she opened her eyes, the sun was halfway to the western horizon and Caerlaverock Castle was coming into view, with the mouth of the river Nith beyond it. Apparently they had to head right into the wind now to follow the coast.

The sail was down, and the oarsmen were rowing hard.

She recognized the great ruin of Caerlaverock easily, because the previous year she and Fiona had traveled with their father and Phaeline to Threave, the Lord of Galloway's great stronghold on an islet in the river Dee. Galloway lay much farther west, making her wonder just how far the little galley would take her.

She stole a glance at her captor, who stood amidships, eyeing the sky and casting glances coastward, mayhap judging the depth of the ebbing tide.

He truly was a fine figure of a man, she thought, for an unprincipled villain.

Wondering if he was daft or just much more dangerous than he had seemed at Dunwythie Mains, she wondered, too, what he would do with her.

His apparent comparison of her abduction to the way his helmsman steered his boat had made little sense, as little as his suggestion that by abducting her—capturing her, he had said—he could save untold numbers of lives.

Such a claim was absurd. It was also infuriating.

How outraged she had been when he had scooped her up so effortlessly, ignoring her struggles and useless cries, and carried her to his boat. She was still furious, come to that. But she had concealed her fury just as she had whenever such strong emotion had stirred for almost as long as she could remember.

Venting her emotions had rarely won anything but punishment and censure for unladylike behavior. So she had learned to control her outbursts.

By heaven's grace, she would continue to keep her temper until she could better judge her situation and the man who had stolen her. By then, she hoped she could devise an argument that would persuade him to take her home.

Whatever else he might do, she would not, under any circumstance, let him provoke her into losing control of herself.

Rob sensed her anger again. It radiated from her in waves even when she did not look at him. But he began to wonder if her continued silence might be due only to the presence of his men. He hoped that was all it was and that she would express herself more easily when they reached Trailinghail.

It had occurred to him only after he had captured her that he had terrified her. At the time, he had merely seized his opportunity without sparing a thought for her feelings. Hardly an excuse, but he had done it and could not undo it now.

Having become certain after talking with Parland Dow that disaster must result if Dunwythie's recalcitrance spurred Alex to invade Annandale, Rob had decided to see to the matter himself, not only to prove that he could influence Dunwythie but also, and more important, to avoid an outright clan war that could affect any number of clans both great and small.

Believing that Alex would pursue no violent course during the holy season of Lent, Rob had set himself to work out the details of his plan with care.

Alex clearly believed that Dunwythie's stubbornness was ill-willed, that he was simply defying the sheriff's rightful authority. But Dunwythie just as clearly believed that he was adhering to legal, time-honored tradition.

Lady Kelso had reinforced much of what Alex had said to Rob, primarily with regard to one's duty to one's clan but also regarding his habit of retreating to Trailinghail whenever Alex infuriated him.

Rob had never thought of his visits that way. He had loved the tower since first visiting his grandparents there. That it had provided a summertime escape from Alex's stern guardianship was true, so he could see how Alex might perceive those visits as he did. However, Rob had given no thought to living there permanently.

His tenants' delight over the improvements he had made did make it clear that they hoped he might make his home there. He would certainly not mind staying longer than usual. And with a hostage to look after, he would have good reason.

Other details had brought form to his plan. The unusual frequency with which thoughts of the lady Mairi had leaped to mind had led the way.

She'd had a strong impact on him from the moment he'd met her. Having no sisters and little memory of his parents, he had no idea how most men felt about their daughters. But he knew how he would feel about one such as she was. Surely, her father, having known the lass from birth, would value her even more. Would Dunwythie not therefore do whatever he must to ensure her safe return?

Sakes, Rob told himself, looking at her, any man would!

Aware that his brother's patience with Dunwythie, never long, had neared its end, Rob had decided he would have to settle the matter before Easter.

Having nearly six weeks until then, he had not meant to act so precipitously.

Impulse had occasionally led to his undoing in the past, and he had promised himself each time that he'd take greater care in future. But it was useless to make that vow now. The deed was done, and the tide was ebbing.

By now, the water was so low in the upper Firth that even if he'd wanted to take her back, they would run aground long before reaching Annan. But he did not want to take her back, for a multitude of reasons having naught to do with the tides.

Chief among them was that if he could get Dunwythie to submit, Clan Maxwell would gain considerable power, increase their wealth, and everyone would avoid war. Also, surely, the administration of the dales would be fairer for everyone under one sheriff, and local government would run smoothly.

There were risks, though, not least of which was the Lord of Galloway. The best course with Archie, Rob had decided, was to see that Dunwythie submitted and brought the other lairds into line quickly and without raising a dust.

As to Dunwythie, Rob's objective was to persuade the man without drawing suspicion to himself. But he had not yet decided just how to approach Dunwythie when the time came.

In the meantime, he meant to make the lass as comfortable as anyone could.

These thoughts, mostly reassuring, poured through his mind for some time between issuing orders to his crew, covertly studying his captive, and taking his helmsman's place for a few miles now and again to let the man stretch—until he realized he was just trying to assuage his feelings of guilt for taking her.

Aside from the flashes of anger he had detected, she had not even protested her capture. At present, she watched a pair of otters playing and seemed content, so he did not disturb her.

The men took to their oars and rowed whenever an especially strong current challenged their course or the fickle wind briefly shifted to a new quarter. Between bouts of rowing, they rested. But when they entered the widest part of the Firth, where wind and tide grew more turbulent, Rob set them all to rowing steadily.

Noting that the lass had put up her hood and huddled against the stem locker to avoid the wind, he went down the narrow center walkway toward her.

Her gaze met his, and he detected serenity in her eyes again.

When he was near enough, she said, "Prithee, sir, take me home."

Mairi saw a blizzard of oystercatchers flash through the air behind Maxwell as he stood there, apparently frozen in place by her polite request.

Then, with a hand to the gunwale, he shifted to lean his well-muscled backside against it. His booted feet were near those of the first-bench oarsmen. Holding her gaze, he gently shook his head and said, "You know I cannot do that."

"Why not?"

"Lass, the tide is nearly four hours into its ebb, and the sea here is roiling like water in a fiery cauldron. Surely, you know how the upper part of the Firth must look by now. Not only will it be dark in two hours but this boat would not get two miles beyond the river Nith before grounding in mud. Sakes, it would be sooner than that, because this wind would be of little aid against the power of an ebbing tide. As it is, we'll have an exciting ride into the bay."

"Which bay? Where are we going?"

"Kirkcudbright Bay," he said.

Noting puzzlement in his expression, she knew that her steadily quiet, reasonable tone was surprising him. Clearly, he had expected temperament and tantrums, behavior of which Fiona was certainly capable but which Mairi avoided.

The mental image of her sister, flouncing about, declaring her privileged life to be beyond unfair—as she frequently did—nearly made Mairi smile.

He reacted to that near smile, too, with a slight one of his own.

Good, Mairi thought. If she behaved reasonably, he would do likewise. Then doubt stirred upon hearing an echo in her mind of Fiona declaring that if people would only treat others kindly, the others would react with equal kindness.

She knew less about this man in front of her than she knew about the Jardines of Applegarth. But after all she had heard about that fractious family, she knew she would be unable to persuade herself that quiet reason would win any argument with them.

Deciding that she would do better to accord Robert Maxwell the benefit of the doubt until he proved himself unreasonable, she said, "How much farther is it, then? I have been to Kirkcudbright only once before."

"When?"

"Last year," she said. Lest she sound as curt as he had, she added, "For the Lord of Galloway's anniversary celebration of the King's coronation."

A wry smile curved his lips, forcibly reminding her of what an unexpectedly strong effect the man's slightest smile could have on her.

Then he said, "Doubtless you seek to remind me that your mother is kin to Archie the Grim and that he is gey powerful. But I do not fear Archie."

"I simply answered your question," she said tartly. "I am sure we do not go near Threave today. So where do we go, and how much longer will it take?"

"Not long, as you will soon see," he said. "Are you warm enough?"

That he would dare to pretend he was concerned about her comfort while he was forcing her to go God knew where with him made her lip want to curl. In fact, she thought it must have curled, for he looked surprised and then, oddly, rather hurt.

Compassion stirred, but anger raced at its heels, aimed inward for allowing herself for even one foolish moment to feel sorry for the odious creature.

She turned abruptly forward without another word, to watch the rolling waves. His presence loomed above her for a full, if silent, minute longer. Then he moved away until oars, wind, and sea were all she could see or hear.

The next time she looked for him, she did so because the sun had dropped so low that one had to look straight into it to watch the sea ahead. He was with the helmsman again, shouting for the oarsmen to weigh enough. The oars came out of the water for a short time then, fifteen minutes or so, she thought.

No sooner did they begin rowing again, though, than she sensed a change in rhythm, both in the wooden thumps of the oars and in the movement of the boat.

The landscape had changed, too. The gentle slopes of Annandale and Nithsdale had grown to higher hills and a much more rugged coastline. Ahead of her, she saw sheer cliffs that she remembered from the year before.

They were nearing Kirkcudbright Bay.

Soon, the bay opened to their right in a deep, cliff-lined vee. The water became turbulent as the sea from the Firth met water ebbing from the bay. Huge rollers sent spray high into the air, and the galley seemed suddenly tiny.

Their approach the year before had been nearer the turn of the tide than this, and their ship had been twice as big. For the first time, Mairi felt fear that they might capsize. Even in its midst, she realized that she had felt none before, only her anger.

The man was a thoroughgoing villain, but he did not scare her.

Nor did she think he would let the boat sink beneath them. Something in the very way he stood shouted confidence. So did the way his men heeded his every word and responded instantly and ably to his calm commands.

Her anxiety eased.

As oarsmen and helmsman battled the waves, she watched Robert Maxwell. She expected to hear him order the galley straight into the confluence of clashing currents, to steady it as one steadied small boats in similar circumstances.

But he did not. Instead, his men seemed to taunt the waves, daring them to strike broadside and try to overturn them. His commands came swiftly, and she saw how skillfully the men synchronized their strokes with the rollers to cut a shallow angle across the tumultuous waters wherever they crashed together.

Clearly, they were not making for Kirkcudbright, which lay at the head of the bay. The galley continued through the clashing waves until she saw that they aimed toward a point near the Firth end of the high, sheer western cliffs.

Those cliffs looked higher than the ones on the east side. The long, mostly sheer cliff face was rugged, its base forbidding. A multitude of sharp rocky outcroppings and toothlike formations poked out of the water there.

A tall stone tower stood on the cliff ahead. Below it, she saw an opening in the wall. As they drew nearer—too near—she looked at Maxwell in alarm.

His eyes were narrowed, his attention fixed. He murmured commands to the helmsman. The men still rowed hard, and the galley rocked over roller upon roller.

The air seemed colder, for the cliff wall hid the sun, putting them in shadow. The wind still blew, making the sail crackle, and gulls screamed overhead.

The hole in the cliff grew larger the nearer they drew, revealing itself as a deep cavern. Suddenly, the nearby water was calmer. Huge boulders formed a wide channel right to the opening.

The big sail came flapping down, startling her. Its mast followed as men laid it down the galley's centerboard. Water eddied around them but calmed more near the opening. Even so, she could feel it heaving under them.

Then Maxwell roared, "Hold water!" and Mairi held her breath as the galley swept through the opening to an almost glassy surface within. Despite the water's appearance and the thrusting of all oars into it, the galley pitched forward.

Astonishingly, a stone wharf with timber facing became visible against the cave wall to the left of the entrance. Three men stood on it, waiting.

The portside oars lifted, and men aboard threw lines to those on the wharf, who quickly hauled them in and made them fast.

"Come along, my lady."

She had been watching the men on the wharf and had not seen Maxwell move from the stern. But he stood right behind her with a hand extended.

Standing, she found her legs uncertain. The seemingly calm water was surging up and down just as the sea outside did. Much as she would have liked to disdain his help, she dared not. She let him grip her hand.

He steadied her as she stood. Then, without comment, he lifted her to the wharf, following agilely and so swiftly that she had taken but a step on the slippery surface and was still skidding when he caught her.

Again without comment, he scooped her into his arms. He was a full head taller than she was, and much larger. Nevertheless, she protested.

"I am perfectly able to walk. That is, I will be able to when I stop feeling as if I'm still rolling with the tide."

"Whisst now, we are not going to fratch," he said. "The stairs are as slippery as this wharf. I don't want you to risk injury."

"As if your carrying me could be safer," she said scornfully. "I am no lightweight, and if those steps are so slippery—"

"Whisst," he said again, already mounting the steep stone stairway.

Deciding she should not distract him, she obeyed. But above the cavern, what little light there was vanished, leaving them in pitch darkness. She could tell that the stairs spiraled and had narrowed until he seemed barely to fit with her as a burden.

She discerned a pale glow above that soon revealed itself as an open doorway. As they passed through it to a small, candlelit chamber, Mairi smelled onions and tallow, as if it were a storage cellar.

He carried her through it and along a narrow corridor, then up more stairs to one end of what was clearly a kitchen. Its fire roared, and she saw bustling people. But no one spoke to them as he crossed to another stairway, wider than the first.

That no one looked at them or spoke made her feel as if she were invisible.

From the next landing, she saw a large empty hall and another fire. On the next after that, two doors faced the landing. The next floor's arrangement looked the same. He paused there and set her gently on her feet.

Opening one of the doors, he gestured for her to precede him. As she entered a large room containing a moss-green-curtained bed and a sitting area fine enough for a lady's solar, he spoke at last: "Welcome to Trailinghail. This is your chamber."

"What do you mean, my chamber?" she demanded, whirling so quickly to face him that her skirts nearly knocked over a cushioned, three-legged stool.

As the stool thumped back into place, he replied evenly, "This is where you will stay whilst you are here."

"Just how long do you mean to keep me here? And for what purpose?"

With maddening calm he said, "You will stay as long as necessary, and my purpose need not concern you. As you see, this room is a fine one. Its windows face both the Firth and the bay, so you will enjoy some grand views. In good weather, one can see the kirk spire in Kirkcudbright, six miles from here."

"I don't want to see Kirkcudbright," she said, her voice sounding shrill in her own ears. Her hands clenched into fists. "I want to leave at once."

"That cannot be. And 'tis best that you know from the outset that escape from this tower is impossible."

"Even if I could get out of this horrid tower, I doubt I could walk all the way home from here," she said, clipping her words and struggling to regain control. The truth was that if she could get out, she would. And if she did, she would get home.

However, experience with her father and stepmother had long since shown her that argument and tantrums only irritated people. Since the man in front of her was clearly as daft as any man could be, he was not one she wanted to irritate.

Looking around the chamber, although admittedly larger and more luxurious than she had at Annan House or Dunwythie Hall, and boasting two narrow window embrasures, she saw only a prison. That he dared to think he could so casually make her his prisoner, for any reason, was enough to make her think fondly of murder.

In the hope of regaining control of herself, she untied her cloak and cast it onto a nearby settle. Carefully avoiding the stool her skirts had disturbed, she moved to the nearer of the two windows, unshuttered now to admit a chilly breeze from the bay. A stout shutter was fastened back against the inside wall to her left.

Peering out over the deep, breast-high sill, Mairi tried to focus on the view, truly splendid in the last golden rays of the setting sun. Or so it seemed until she leaned forward far enough to look down and saw that the tower stood so near the cliff edge that she could see all the way to the water below.

"H-how far down is that?" she asked, wincing at the catch in her voice.

"One hundred fifty feet at low water," he said.

She swallowed hard but continued looking out, hoping to conceal her horror.

"If you fall, I'd advise doing so at high water," he said into the silence.

"Sakes, if I fell I'd die no matter how high the water was," she retorted.

"Aye, but with so many sharp rocks sticking up as they do, the result would be tidier than if you flung yourself out at low water. You will soon begin to see one particularly interesting formation. It is called the Misty Brig."

Turning to face him, she said with what, under the circumstances, she thought was admirable if caustic calm, "If you are trying to be cruel, it does not suit you." Moving nearer, looking right into his eyes, she added, "You should be thoroughly ashamed of what you have done today."

Looking annoyed instead, he said, "Do you not like this chamber?"

"I am sure it is pleasant," she said. "But it is no less a prison for that."

"Aye, well, you might have a look at the clothing in yon kists," he said. "I've provided everything I thought you might need—fine gowns and such. But some things may be a trifle out of date or of an unsuitable size. If you require aught else, you need only tell me. We tried to make this chamber as comfortable as possible, because I do want you to be comfortable. So if you are not—"

Her remaining control slipping, she exclaimed, "Comfortable! You want me to be comfortable? How could I be? By my troth, what manner of devil are you that you can even utter such a statement? You have stolen me from my home, brought me to this place! You say I must stay upon your whim or till you've had enough of me, but I should be comfortable? What then? Do you ever mean to take me home?"

"Aye, sure, I do," he retorted. "Sakes, I said I won't harm you, and I meant it. I also meant it when I said I want you to be comfortable. Surely—"

He got no further before she snatched up the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be the three-legged stool, and flung it at him as hard as she could.

Noting with satisfaction that she hit him a glancing blow with it but almost as much shocked by her act as by anything he had done, Mairi clapped fingers to her lips, eyed him warily, and stepped hastily back toward the window.