Caolan rolled his eyes. ‘So we are agreed. We reach out. Strachan can string the Macaulays along with the temptation of his hand in marriage. Perhaps the Warden has his boot on their throat, so they seek an alliance. Jasper, you can make a match for your sister with the Irvines or the Beatties.’
‘She can’t marry them both,’ he growled.
‘She won’t have to. Just sound them out. Now, let us go. Take care to ensure you have not been followed.’
Jasper watched Peyton Strachan until he was swallowed by the woods. Sooner or later, their enmity would swell into violence. They would forever be at odds over Liddesdale and the rivalry would only end when one of them was dead.
Unease settled on Jasper like a shroud as he turned his horse to the cold comfort of Kransmuir, and his lovely, passionate, lying bitch of a wife.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fallstairs’ grimy façade was not a welcome sight. The yard was even more unkempt than when Rowenna had left – goats and pigs wandering, ankle-deep mud to squelch through - and the gate wide was open for her to ride in. Most likely, her father’s men, who should be guarding it, had sloped off to the tavern.
As Rowenna grew closer, she spotted several horses tethered outside the main door and two loutish men lounging against the house, looking bored. Strangers. Rowenna dismounted in a rush and led her horse around the back way to the stables before they could see her. She watched the yard. All was quiet, no sound of trouble, but she had grown up wary, and her instincts screamed that something was amiss. The day was fading. She could not tarry in her hiding place forever. What if the men decided to take a look around and discovered her? It would not do to end up alone in the stables at the mercy of men’s appetites, which she was now too aware of since being bedded by Jasper.
Rowenna crept out of the stables and headed to the back door of Fallstairs. Once inside, she followed the sound of voices to the hall. She hesitated outside the doorway.
‘But you must have word of my son.’ It was her father’s voice.
‘No more than you have word of mine.’ It was a cold reply, full of contempt, and spoken by an Englishman.
‘I have done as you bid, sent men all over searching, but nothing has been found, not even a….’
‘Corpse?’ snapped the stranger.
‘There is no telling what happened. This land is full of villains - desperate men who will slit a throat for a few shillings and bury their crimes deep. I cannot do more than I have.’
‘Nor can I. So Bran will stay lost to you, as Edmund is lost to me. Perhaps your dolt of a son flapped his lips in the wrong tavern to the wrong people. God save me for my folly in ever coming into this godforsaken country.’
‘I swear, Bran would never say anything about the raid on Dungarnon, or your plans to…’
‘Oh, you are back, I see,’ said a voice behind Rowenna, far too loudly. It was Morag bearing a jug of ale and cups. Rowenna put a finger to her lips, but it was too late. Morag continued. ‘I thought you were too good for the likes of us now.’
The hall fell silent, and her father called out, ‘Who is there? Is that you, Rowenna?’
There was nothing for it but to enter under the watchful eyes of two strangers. One was the man who had spoken. To Rowenna’s surprise, the other was a woman whose stare was unfriendly. She had seen neither of them before, yet Morag seemed to know them well enough and began to hand out ale with a broad smile.
‘So, who do we have here?’ said the man, waving away Morag and her ale with great condescension. He was grey-haired and imposing, with a sharp, hawkish face. The woman beside him was stunningly beautiful and finely clothed in scarlet velvet. Her eyes roamed over Rowenna, glittering with malice.
The man came over. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?’ he said. Suddenly, he grabbed her between the legs. ‘I always like tupping the peasants. They make for a lively ride.’
‘Let go of me,’ cried Rowenna, leaping back and trying to tear her skirt out of his hands. When she looked to the woman for help, she just smirked cruelly, enjoying her discomfort.
‘This is no peasant, Sir Henry. This is my daughter, Rowenna, come to visit her old father.’ Rufus exchanged a glance with her, and it screamed, ‘Careful!’
A grim smile lit the man’s face, and it did not reach his eyes, which were as grey and cold as sleet. ‘Daughter!’ he exclaimed. ‘You cannot be in earnest. How could you produce such a rare beauty? Such remarkable hair and fine eyes, though she looks like she has just been tumbled by some brute or other,’ he added, taking in her hair, hanging loose, and the mud on her skirt. He leaned in, and his breath was sour, like old milk. ‘Was it one of my men? Did they get a whiff of you and take liberties, girl? I can’t say that I blame them if they did.’
‘Surely, she is a little coarse for a man of your discerning tastes,’ said the woman with a hard look at him. Her words were both genteel and insulting, and she was Scottish.
They were both playing some cruel game with her, but Rowenna would not indulge them by showing fear. She wrenched Sir Henry’s hand free of her skirt.
‘Your father needs to teach you to curtsey to your betters,’ he said with a thunderous scowl.
‘As you like,’ she replied, bowing low as courtesy dictated. Then, to her horror, the man grabbed her hand and slowly traced the tip of his tongue along it, up to her wrist, all the while keeping his eyes on his companion. His tongue left a snail’s trail of saliva cooling on Rowenna’s skin. It revolted her, and she tried to withdraw her hand.
‘Hold, girl,’ he commanded. ‘I like looking upon pretty things, though you are a little vulgar for my taste.’ He smiled at the woman. ‘She clearly lacks the refinement of a well-bred English lady of court who would know the prudence of extending a warm welcome to a man of substance, such as I.’
‘I don’t care who you are. Let go of me,’ cried Rowenna.
