This, she thought bleakly, was the final punishment for her lust. When Arabella found out, she would never forgive her. Her daughter was as lost to her as if the Scots had slain the girl this day instead of carrying her off. And she, Rowena, was condemned to live in hell with the devil himself for the rest of her natural life. And what of the child who even now ripened and grew beneath her heart? Would he be like his father? Pray God, no! Better he be born dead!
Chapter Four
Arabella Grey sat stony-faced atop the Earl of Dunmor’s big, gray stallion. Her captor, who was mounted behind her, kept one arm lightly about her while guiding his horse with his other hand, a feat at which he seemed quite adept. Arabella kept her head carefully turned so that she should not have to look at him. She was tired and not just a little frightened, although she showed none of these emotions, nor would she show them to the enemy, for the Scots were England’s enemy. She would not quickly forget that they had killed her father.
Arabella was angry, but not so much at the earl, for though she was but a woman and therefore assumed to be ignorant, she knew enough of the code of honor to understand that Tavis Stewart had done the only thing that he might have done under the circumstances. Arabella found, not greatly to her surprise, for she was a practical girl, that her anger was directed more toward Jasper Keane for having caused this impossible situation.
It was with a harsh and dawning cognizance that Arabella realized she believed her captor’s version of events past. Why she believed this stranger she could not fathom, but there was something so innately moral and honest about the Earl of Dunmor, something that caused her to trust him, and distrust Sir Jasper about whom she had already had doubts. Doubts she had so resolutely tried to deny. She almost squirmed with annoyance remembering her girlish ravings of this morning, when she had declared to her mother that she loved Jasper Keane. How could she have loved a coward? A man who would not satisfy a debt of honor in single combat. Not that she would admit her error to this hawk-browed Scot.
What a fool she had been! Oh, she had heard the rumors about him, but for the sake of imagined love she had been willing to overlook the gossip that had swirled about him. Had not Father Anselm assured her that all Jasper needed was a virtuous wife? She wondered now if the old priest had known the truth of Jasper Keane, or if, innocent like her, he had merely hoped for the best.Murder.Sir Jasper Keane had murdered a helpless woman. No matter that the earl himself admitted that the lady was no better than she ought to be. Murder was a heinous crime, particularly the murder of a woman or a child.
And like a lamb to the slaughter she had tripped down the aisle of Greyfaire church less than an hour ago, eager to wed with Sir Jasper Keane. Would he have murdered her too, had she not pleased him? What of her poor mother, left to the mercy of the man? And would Sir Jasper come after her? Well, she certainly did not intend marrying him now! As soon as she returned to Greyfaire she intended going to cousin Richard herself and exposing Sir Jasper Keane for the blackguard that he was!
They rode relentlessly on, crossing over the Cheviot Hills, which were clothed in the green of their summer mantle. The day, however, remained mist-filled despite the smoky sun, which could not quite burn away the fog. The dampness seemed to eat through her beautiful gown, chilling her to the bone. They stopped once, and the earl told her most bluntly that if she needed to relieve herself she must do so now behind the nearest bush. Arabella blushed to the roots of her pale gold hair, for no man had ever spoken to her of such a private function, but she grimly followed his instructions, for she knew that this was no time for outraged modesty. If he said that she would not get another chance, then she believed him. She was both hungry and thirsty. Because of the early hour of the wedding with its Mass, she had not yet broken her fast. She had seen some of the clansmen chewing on oat cakes they had drawn from their pouches, and drinking from flasks as they rode along, but no one had offered her either food or drink.
As if he were reading her mind, the earl said in a kindly tone, “We will soon be at Dunmor, lassie, and I’ll wager there’s a joint already on the spit roasting for supper. Are ye hungry?”
“I’d sooner starve than eat a morsel of your food!” Arabella lied hotly.
“I doubt ye’ll eat much in any case, for that yer a wee bit of a wench,” the earl noted, ignoring her obvious anger. “We’ll have to see if we can fatten ye up, lassie.”
“Are you so thick-headed, my lord, that you do not understand me? I will starve myself before I accept your hospitality!” Arabella hissed furiously at him.
“If ye starve yerself, lassie, ye’ll not have the strength to fight wi’ me,orto revenge yerself on Sir Jasper,” he said calmly.
“Why on earth would I want to revenge myself on Sir Jasper?” Arabella said sweetly, the lie almost choking her. “I love him, and he will kill you when he comes to rescue me. On reflection, perhaps you are right. I should accept your hospitality so I am alive and well to see the horrible death you will die at Sir Jasper’s hands!”
Tavis Stewart found it impossible to restrain his laughter, and it burst forth, echoing across the hillsides, much to his captive’s outrage. Turning, she glared up at him as he wheezed with mirth. “Lassie, yer Sir Jasper has nae the courage to come after ye, nor has he the skill to win in a fair fight wi’ me, for I am a better swordsman than most. Why do ye think he refused my challenge this day? I expect ye’ll be my guest for some time.”
“Then why did you kidnap me, my lord?” she demanded.
“Yer Sir Jasper gave me no other choice, lassie, but dinna fear. I expect yer pretty mother will appeal to yer king, who will appeal to my king, and all will be well in the end for ye. I will have to catch yer Sir Jasper another way, but if ye marry him ye’ll be a widow sooner than ye’ll be a mother, I promise ye.”
“Sir Jasper will come for me,” Arabella said with more conviction than she actually had. “He must, for he cannot have Greyfaire without me.” She did not bother to tell the earl of her decision to unmask Jasper Keane and his perfidy to King Richard. Another husband would be found for her to help defend Greyfaire, but this time she would insist the king allow her to choose. She was tired of having her entire life ruled by men. It might suit her mother, but it did not suit her!
“So he canna have yer inheritance wi’ out ye, eh lassie?” the earl said thoughtfully. “Perhaps his greed will overcome his good sense and he will come after ye. Who made the match between ye? Yer mother?”
“No,” Arabella said proudly. “The king himself. The late queen was my mother’s cousin. Mama was fostered by the Earl of Warwick, and Queen Anne was like her sister.”
“Yer king did well by Sir Jasper, lassie. He will want to keep yer Greyfaire, for he has no other home now.”
“You are mistaken, my lord,” Arabella said. “Sir Jasper is the master of Northby Hall, though it is currently in ruins.”
“I know,” the earl told her, “but it was a poor place scarcely worth the burning.”
“You burnt Sir Jasper’s home?”She was secretly glad.
“Aye,” the earl replied. “In retribution for Culcairn House. ‘Twas fair.”
Arabella was silent, but she agreed with him. She had been as shocked as any by the earl’s tale of rapine and violence. She realized that Tavis Stewart would not have come over the border after Jasper Keane had he not been certain. He had witnesses in the surviving Hamilton family. She had quickly ascertained by his manner, his horse, the handsome chieftain’s ring upon his finger, and the deference with which his men treated him, that the Earl of Dunmor was a great nobleman. Why would a man of his stature want to pick a fight with Sir Jasper unless it was justified? He would not.
“Ahhh, lassie, look! There is Dunmor,” the earl said, pointing ahead to where a small castle sprang from a distant hillside. “Ye’ll be sore with the long, hard ride we’ve had this day.”
“Savage,” she snarled at him, “have you no delicacy at all?” She struggled about on her precarious perch to slap him, and he laughed again, skillfully managing his dancing stallion, all the while avoiding her blows.
“What a little spitfire ye are, lassie,” he said, and chuckled, not in the least offended. “There must be some Scot in ye, I’m thinking. Grey is a Scot’s name as well as an English one, and the border Greys are a sect of the Stewarts, ye know. Perhaps we are related, lassie.”
“I’d sooner be related to a donkey than to you, my lord!” she replied spiritedly.
