Chapter 7 #2
His impassive glance took in Jason. Then with a nudge of his heels, he lunged past Rose to take his place at the head of his men, leaving her horse to fall into place in the middle of the group.
Whatever else he may have thought, leaving her with Jason, he took no chance she would escape him again.
Stonehaven appeared in the mist-shrouded horizon as the amber-rippled clouds faded to crimson in the western sky. With two tower houses that flanked a baronial hall of gray stone and blue slates, the magnificent house commanded a view of the countryside.
That the place was vast was Rose’s first astounded impression.
From a dozen chimneys, white wood smoke unfurled into the chilled air.
Mullioned casements embellished the structure, the sinking sun touching the myriad of windows and turning the panes amber.
A circular carriage sweep joined the road near the front hall, a breathtaking parkland and pine forest at the back.
The house was grand and as ostentatious as the oldest baronial estates, an unexpected contrast to the borderland chieftain himself.
She found herself looking for Roxburghe.
They had not spoken since he left to ride at the head of his men.
One of his men had given him a cloak and with the exception of his height, he looked much like the unshaven bedraggled dozens who surrounded him.
She had glimpsed him once as he laughed over something his uncle said, but she had looked away when he glanced over to find her watching him.
Duncan rode beside him now. She had not liked the way his uncle had looked at her in the glade.
There had been no gentleness or kindness in his hazel eyes, and the humor briefly glimpsed in his manner had been rooted in something dark and angry.
She would not want to be alone in the same room with him, a born-and-bred Scotsman and inherently dangerous to the English.
The troop soon divided and Roxburghe rode with a dozen others into an embellished stone courtyard away from the main entrance of the estate.
Within minutes retainers poured outside to meet the heavily armed men.
Roxburghe dismounted as two grooms rushed to take the reins of his horse, and after that, she lost him among the confusion and noise as a dozen barking dogs joined in the chorus of male voices.
The man with whom she’d ridden helped her dismount.
Barely able to stand, she clasped the edges of the cloak tightly against her as she looked around and awaited instruction.
Men were still mounted, armed with swords in their belts, all laughing and in high spirits, and casting her an occasional glance that caused a stab of apprehension in her chest.
“I am to bring you inside, Lady Roselyn,” the young man she had ridden with said after speaking to a servant. “If ye can no’ walk . . . ?”
The thought that anyone would put his hands on her brought her up. “I can walk. You are Jason, correct?” she asked, remembering the name Roxburghe had called him.
“Aye, mum. Lord Roxburghe’s third cousin on our grandfather’s side.” He executed a brief bow. “This way if ye will, my lady. We are to go through another less-used entrance.”
She might be a guest, but she was an unwelcome one.
Once inside, Rose felt the warmth of the entrance hall.
She swept her gaze over the tall archway and wood beams that braced the weight of the ceiling and saw it magnificently decorated with flags and the Roxburghe coat of arms, which, ironically, was the mythical beast Chimera, a fire-breathing dragon with the head of a lioness and the tail of a serpent.
The room was a three-story half-timbered hall with lead windows.
Flemish tapestries covered the stone walls.
A stairway carved from heavy oak led to a second level where a forest of horns, antlers, and stuffed boars’ heads glared back at her from amid the aged weaponry on the walls.
Someone came up to Jason and told her he was to take her to the dining hall. “But his lordship told me to take her to her quarters . . .”
“Duncan said to bring her . . .”
She was taken from Jason and escorted through doors down a corridor.
The curious unnatural silence that preceded her was worse than the noise in the courtyard.
Her breeches were damp where the injury had opened, but she couldn’t think of that right now.
Her gaze took in the walls and doors as she desperately sought to memorize her surroundings.
The man delivered her into the dining hall.
Tall windows reflected back the torchlight flickering on the walls.
Dozens of men were there sitting at planked tables as if waiting—for what she didn’t know, and she was more frightened because it seemed they awaited her.
Hounds lounged around the great hearth and, as if sensing the sudden tension in the room, came to their feet.
She took a startled step backward. One command would send them loping across the room and at her throat.
But the men, though fierce-looking, did not seem brutal to her as their eyes fell on her—merely hardened. Their voices rose around her.
She tightened her clammy hands in her cloak. She did not see their laird among the men, but she knew he must have come up behind her, for the men’s gazes went to the door and a terrible quiet came over the hall.
She stopped her knees from buckling. She stopped herself from stepping near him as if he had the power to protect her.
Indeed the only thing that stopped her from turning into his arms was the contemplation of that thought and the realization that she would not be at Stonehaven at all if not for him.
“You had better have a bloody good reason for bringing her in here, Duncan.” She heard the quiet fury in Lord Roxburghe’s voice.
His uncle stepped forward. He still wore his leather trews and plaid that she had seen him in.
Mud caked his boots and woolen hose. He looked even larger in the room that seemed more filled with shadows and ice than warmth from so many bodies.
“If this is Hereford’s daughter, then we will know it tonight.
If no’ then some of us are finished with negotiations.
” His eyes pierced hers. “If ye are innocent, we’re no’ here to hurt ye, lass. ”
“Innocent?” she heard herself whisper in panic.
What were her crimes, she wanted to shout at them.
An older woman was brought to stand before Rose. “Do you know who this is?” Duncan asked the woman, and his voice was surprisingly kind, as if he spoke to a child.
A black shawl covered the woman’s head and shoulders. She wore black muslin. But her eyes were a kindly blue and did not look as if she meant her harm. Rose did not know the woman. She had never seen her before.
“My name is Anaya Fortier, mum,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I was the Countess Hereford’s handmaiden.”
Rose didn’t understand. “My mother? You knew my mother?”
“Aye, mum.” Mrs. Fortier looked first at Ruark, then Duncan. “She is the image of her mam. The very image. There is no mistakin’. Beautifil like her, she is. No mistakin’.”
Behind the woman, the murmurs grew to a low din. “And her holdin’ the Lancaster wealth.” Someone shouted something about riding to Alnwick Castle tonight with new terms of trade. “She will no’ be any good to Hereford dead. Aye, I swear he’ll trade now.”
Roxburghe moved behind her. “Are you finished?”
His words effectively shocked the men to silence.
His hands dropped on her shoulders. “You’ll swear that Lady Roselyn should pay for her father’s sins? With what? Her life?” He moved her behind him. “Aye, we have cause to celebrate tonight. We also have much work to be done.”
Roxburghe turned and placed a hand at her arm. “Now, if you don’t mind, we can save the questions for later tonight, I need to get our guest to her room.”
“Aye, she’s a comely lass,” a voice called. “Ye can take her to my room.”
The men laughed and some of the tension broke. A man in the front raised a mug. “To our laird,” he said into the lull. “And to his success.”
A sober toast followed, and no one seemed to recognize the tension inside Roxburghe as he took Rose by the elbow, his touch firm yet gentle, and pulled her into the corridor, where Jason was awaiting him.
Roxburghe said nothing to her. What could he say? What could she say?
They had reached the entry hall. A woman stood on the bottom stair tread, her hands at her side, her eyes a turbulent blue.
She wore burgundy silk trimmed in black lace.
Even with red-rimmed eyes, and her hair hanging down her back as if it had not been properly brushed, no one could mistake her for less than a lady.
“Then ’twas no rumor . . .” the woman’s trembling words stumbled out of her mouth.
“Hereford’s daughter lives.” Her eyes glared accusingly at Roxburghe.
“How could you bring her into my house as if she were a guest?”
Rose startled. The woman must be the dowager countess, though she looked too young to be the mother of a twelve-year-old son. Not even the swish of beautiful silk overshadowed the hatred in the woman’s eyes as she strode toward Rose, and she stood motionless, saying nothing.
“She is not to be here in my house. Do ye understand?”
Two steps more and Roxburghe was suddenly between them, catching the woman in his arms. “Enough, Julia.” He held the woman with gentle strength all the more apparent as she struggled. “Lady Roselyn is my concern, not yours.”
“Have ye lived among the Sassenach for so long that ye do not see the grave offense to me?” She clasped her fist against her breasts.
“Does my son sleep on a soft feather bed with warm blankets, food, and servants to do his bidding? Will he live better now that we have that woman beneath our roof? Where is my justice that you dare bring her into this house?”