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  To Debi Allen

  for her consistent, unmatched, and delightfully creative support.

  Thank You!

  Late, late in the gloaming, when all was still,

  When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,

  The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane,

  The reek o’ the cot hung over the plain

  Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane…

  James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd

  Author’s Note

  For readers’ convenience, the author offers the following guide:

  The Borders–refers to the English and Scottish areas near the borderline

  Borderers–people who live in the Borders

  Buccleuch–Buck LOO

  Cockburn–COE burn

  Father Abbot–proper form of address for an abbot

  Haugh–HAW(k) = low-lying meadow beside a river

  Hawick–HOYK

  Herself–refers herein only to Lady Meg Scott

  Himself–refers to the laird or lord of the manor

  Keekers–eyes

  Lassock–young girl

  The Douglas–refers only to the current Earl of Douglas

  Tuedy–TWEE die

  Vespers–the clerical hour preceding supper, about 4:30 p.m. in November

  Wheesht–as in “Hold your wheesht”–“Be quiet.”

  Chapter 1

  The Scottish Borders, 4 November 1426

  What was she thinking? God help her, why had she run? When they caught her… But that dreadful likelihood didn’t bear thought. They must not catch her.

  Even so, she could not go any faster, or much farther. It felt as if she had been running forever, and she had no idea of exactly where she was.

  Glancing up through the forest canopy, she could see the waxing half-moon high above her, its pale light still occluded by the mist she had blessed when leaving Henderland. Although the moon had been rising then, she had prayed that the mist would conceal her until she reached the crest of the hills southeast of her father’s tower. After she reached the southern slope in apparent safety, she had followed a little-used track that she hoped her pursuers—for they would certainly pursue her—would never imagine she had taken.

  Experience had warned her even then that the mist might augur rain ahead, but the mist had been a blessing nevertheless. In any event, with luck, she would find shelter before the rain found her, or the light of day, come to that.

  Long before then she had to decide what to do. But how? What could she do? Who would dare to help her? Certainly, no one living anywhere near St. Mary’s Loch would. Her father was too powerful, her brothers too brutal and too greedy, and Tuedy—

  She could not bear even to think about Ringan Tuedy.

  A low, canine woof abruptly curtailed her stream of thought, and she froze until a deep male voice somewhere in the darkness beyond the trees ahead of her said quietly, “Wheesht, Ramper, wheesht.”

  Terrified, knowing that she was too tired to outrun anyone and dared not risk time to think, let alone try to explain herself to some stranger, eighteen-year-old Molly Cockburn dove desperately into the shrubbery and wriggled her way in as far, as quietly, and as deeply as she could, heedless of the brambles and branches that scratched and tore at her face and bare skin as she did. Lying still, she feared that her heart might be pounding loudly enough to betray her.

  A susurrous sound came then of some beast—nay, a dog—sniffing. Then she heard scrabbling and a rattle of nearby dry shrubbery. Was the dog coming for her?

  Hearing the man call it to heel, then a sharper, slightly more distant bark, and realizing that he and his dogs were closer than she had thought, she curled quietly to make herself as small as possible, then went utterly still, scarcely daring to breathe.

  She was trembling, though, and whether it was from the cold or sheer terror didn’t matter. She was shaking so hard that she would likely make herself heard if the nosy dog did not drag her from the shrubbery or alert its master to do so.

  Above the sounds of the animal that had sensed her presence came others then, even more ominous. Recognizing the distant yet much too near baying of hounds, Molly stifled a groan of despair. They were doubtless Will’s sleuthhounds, trained to track people, even—or especially—rebellious sisters.

  Twenty-four-year-old Walter Scott, Laird of Kirkurd since childhood and the sixth Lord of Rankilburn and Murthockston for a scant twenty-four hours, had just taken a long, deep, appreciative breath of the energizing, albeit chilly, damp-earth-and-foliage scented forest air—filling his lungs and trying not to think of the myriad responsibilities that had so suddenly descended on him—when his younger dog gave its low, curious woof.

  “Wheesht now, Ramper,” he muttered. When the shaggy pup ignored him, its attention fixed on whatever nocturnal creature it had sensed in the always-so-intriguing shrubbery, Wat added firmly, “Come to heel now, laddie, and mind your manners as Arch does. I’d liefer you disturb no badgers or other wildlife tonight.”

  Hearing its name, the older dog perked its ears, and Ramper turned obediently, if reluctantly, toward Wat. Then, pausing, Ramper lifted his head, nose atwitch.

  Arch emitted a sharp warning bark at the same time, and Wat heard the distant baying that had disturbed them himself.

  “Easy, lads,” he said as he strode toward the sound, his senses alert for possible trouble.

  Both dogs ranged protectively ahead of him, but seeing torchlight in the near distance and now hearing hoofbeats over the hounds’ baying, he halted a few yards past the area where young Ramper had sought whatever wildlife had gone to earth there. Calling both of his dogs to heel, Wat looked swiftly around lest there be other intruders nearby.

  The misty moon’s position indicated that the time was near midnight, so whoever was riding his way with hounds had not come to offer condolences to the new Lord of Rankilburn and hereditary Ranger of Ettrick Forest. That they might be raiders occurred to him next, but he dismissed that thought as unlikely, too.

  A third thought and a companion fourth one that brought a near smile to his face led him to shout, “Tam, Sym, to me!”

  Doffing his voluminous, fur-lined cloak, he draped it over nearby shrubbery, listened for sounds behind him, and watched the torches draw nearer as he waited.

  Except for the ever-closer riders and dogs, silence ensued.

  It was possible, he supposed, that neither Tam nor Sym, or perhaps only one of them, had followed him from Scott’s Hall, but both tended to be overprotective of him, and had been since his childhood. At such a time, it was more likely that both men were within shouting distance than that neither one was.

  As the riders drew nearer, Wat drew his sword and eased his dirk forward, hoping that he would need neither weapon.

  His dogs were quiet now and kept close, awaiting commands. Hearing a slight rustle behind him, Wat said, “Are you alone, Tam, or is Sym with you?”

  “ ’Tis both of us, laird,” Jock’s Wee Tammy said quietly. “We should be enough, too. It be just four or five riders, I’m thinking.”

  Even more quietly, Sym Elliot muttered, “Herself did send u
s out, laird.”

  At Rankilburn, “Herself” referred to only one person, his grandmother.

  Wat said gently, “Are you suggesting that, had Lady Meg not sent you, you would not have followed me?”

  Sym cleared his throat.

  “Aye, well, I’m glad you did, both of you,” Wat said, looking at the two shadowy figures as he did.

  Jock’s Wee Tammy, despite his name, had nearly sixty years behind him and was thus the older as well as much the larger of the two. A time-proven warrior and still fierce with a sword, he was captain of the guard at Scott’s Hall. He and Sym had both served Wat’s father and grandfather long before Wat was born, and he knew both men well and trusted them completely. “I was woolgathering as I walked,” he told them frankly. “But Arch and Ramper warned me of our visitors.”

  Lanky Sym said, “Herself sent me to tell ye that her ladyship were a-frettin’ earlier and restless. She said to remind ye that if she wakens—her ladyship, I mean—she’d be gey worried to hear ye was out roaming in the forest, so…”

  “My mother and grandmother are both strong women,” Wat said when Sym paused. “I do know that Mam is grieving, Sym. We all are.”

  “It were too sudden,” Tam said.

  “It was, aye,” Wat agreed, stifling the new wave of grief that struck him. “We will miss my lord father sorely, but death does come to us all in the end.”

  “Not from this lot we be a-seein’ now, though,” Sym said confidently, drawing his sword. Tam’s was out, too, Wat noted.

  “Don’t start anything,” he warned them. “Take your cues from me.”

  “Aye, sir, we know,” Tam said.

  He knew that they did, but the riders were close. Their baying dogs were closer yet, and he hoped they were well trained. Arch and Ramper would fight to the death to protect him, but he didn’t want to lose either one. He kept them close.

  Seconds later, a pack of four hounds dashed toward them through the trees.

  “Halt and away now!” Wat bellowed, shouting what the Scotts had long shouted to keep their own dogs from tearing into their prey.

  Either his roar or his words were sufficient, because the four stopped in their tracks. Two of them dropped submissively to the ground. The other two hesitated, poised and growling, teeth bared.

  Wat stayed where he was and watched the riders approach, four men in pairs, the two on the right bearing flaming torches. In the fiery glow, he recognized the two leaders and a man-at-arms who served them. He did not immediately recognize the fourth man although he looked familiar.

  When the four saw him and wrenched their horses to plunging halts, Wat said grimly to their leader, “Will Cockburn, what urgency brings you and these others to Rankilburn at this time of night?”

  Cockburn was a neighbor who lived at Henderland Tower on St. Mary’s Loch. He was a wiry man several years older than Wat and known for leading brutal raids across the border and on the Scottish side, too. Such a reputation was common in the area, which was rife with reivers. Wat shared a somewhat similar repute.

  However, the two of them had never been particularly friendly, and if Will had hoped that Rankilburn might be ripe for his raiding…

  Will glowered at him. Then, exchanging a look with his brother Ned, beside him, he looked back at Wat speculatively, as if he hoped that Wat might say more.

  Instead, Wat waited, expressionless, for the answer to his question.

  At last, Will said, “One of our maidservants seems to have lost her way home. The hounds picked up her scent near St. Mary’s Loch and led us here.”

  Molly nearly gasped. So she was a maidservant, was she? Not that it was far off the mark. But did they truly think that Walter Scott of Kirkurd would care about a missing maidservant? And, surely, the man must be Scott of Kirkurd if Will called him “Wat” and if they were on Rankilburn land near Scott’s Hall.

  “You fear that a maidservant wandered all the way here from Henderland?” Kirkurd said, his tone heavily skeptical. “Sakes, Will, ’tis eight miles or more.”

  “I ken fine how far we’ve come,” Will snapped.

  “Rather careless of you to lose such a lass,” Kirkurd replied evenly, doubtless wondering at Will’s curtness. “Do your maidservants often go missing?”

  “Dinna be daft,” Will retorted. “It be dangerous for a lass in these woods.”

  Molly could imagine the sour look on Will’s face as he spoke and prayed that heaven would keep him from getting his hands on her after chasing her such a distance. He’d get his own back first. Then he’d turn her over to Ringan Tuedy, and Tuedy had told her what he’d do to her. A shiver shot through her at the memory.

  “You won’t find your serving lass here,” Kirkurd said, his deep voice reassuringly calm. “My dogs would alert me to any stranger within a mile of here, just as they did when they sensed your approach.”

  A snarling voice that Molly identified with renewed dread as Tuedy’s interjected, “So ye say! But since ye’ve no said what ye’re doing out and about at such a late hour, how do we ken that ye didna come out tae meet some lass yourself? Ye kept them dogs o’ yours quiet, for I didna hear nowt from them.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  Molly had never met Walter Scott of Kirkurd, but her father had mentioned once that he was just six years older than she was. Tuedy, on the other hand, was older by nearly ten years. He was of powerful build, an experienced warrior, and a man ever-determined to have his own way. Would Kirkurd defer to him?

  Shivering again, she hoped not.

  Recalling then that Kirkurd’s authoritative tone had stopped Will’s dogs before they could surround her and reveal her presence to Will, she told herself she should be thankful for that one blessing and not be praying for more.

  At last, in a tone that revealed only mild curiosity, Kirkurd said, “Tuedy, is that you? I thought you looked familiar, but it must be five or six years since last we met. Do you often help others search for lost maidservants at midnight?”

  Molly’s lips twitched wryly, but her fear increased as she awaited the reply.

  To her surprise, Tuedy said only, “I was visiting Piers Cockburn.” He made it sound as if it had been an ordinary visit and not one that had turned her life upside down. “But ye’ve no answered me question, Wat. What be ye doing out here?”

  “It is unnecessary for any Scott to produce his reason for a moonlight stroll on Scott land,” Kirkurd said. “However, you may not yet have heard that my lord father died last night. We buried him today, so it has been a grievous time for us here. I came out into the forest to seek fresh air and peaceful solitude.”

  Robert Scott of Rankilburn was dead? Sadness surged through Molly at the news. She had met him only a handful of times, but unlike her brothers and her father, Rankilburn had treated her with the respect due a lady. He had been younger than her father, and she had thought him kinder, too. She wished she could see the men as they talked, but she was facing away from them and dared not move.

  Tuedy said mockingly, “Ye come seeking peace, ye say. Yet ye come fully armed and wi’ Jock’s Tam and Lady Meg’s Sym behind ye, also full-armed.”

  “Most Borderers carry weapons wherever they go,” Kirkurd said.

  Nay, but she must stop thinking of him as Scott of Kirkurd, Molly realized. Walter Scott was now Lord of Rankilburn and Chief of Clan Scott.

  He added, “I certainly won’t ask why you four are armed or why you seek a missing maidservant instead of sending minions in search of her. But you, Tuedy, do seem over-familiar with my people.”

  “Sakes, everyone kens that Sym Elliot is your grandame, Lady Meg’s, man. We also ken Jock’s Wee Tammy and that he be captain o’ Rankilburn’s guard.”

  “Enough argle-bargle,” Will declared curtly. “Ye willna object if we have a look through the forest hereabouts for our lass, will ye, Wat?”

  Molly held her breath again.

  “I do object to such an unnecessary intrusion,” Scott replied, “especia
lly whilst we here are grieving our loss.” His tone remained even but had an edge to it, as if he disliked Will but tried not to show it. “Tammy and Sym were nearby,” he added. “A few of my men always are. If I whistle, two score more will come.”

  Molly relaxed, although the thought of more men coming was daunting.

  Another silence fell before Scott added amiably, “Methinks you should train your sleuthhounds better, Will, because they must have followed a false trail here. Moreover, you ken fine that you had no business hunting man or beast in Ettrick Forest without Scott permission. You would all be wise to turn around now and ride peacefully back to Henderland.”

  “What if we don’t?” Tuedy demanded provocatively.

  “You are on my land, Ring Tuedy, and you must know that I now wield the power of pit and gallows. Do you doubt I’d use that power against troublemakers whilst my lady mother, my sisters, and my grandame endure deep mourning?”

  When yet another silence greeted his words, Molly bit her lip in trepidation, fearing that Will and Ned might react violently to such a threat. Then, to her deep relief, she heard Will mutter something to the others, followed by the shuffling sounds of horses turning. Calling the dogs to heel, Will shouted, “Ye’d best not be lying to me, Wat. If ye’ve given shelter t’ the maid, ye’ll answer to me.”

  “I am not in the habit of sheltering misplaced maidservants, Will. If such a lass shows herself here, I’ll get word to Henderland straightaway.”

  Although Molly was sure that Will had heard him, he did not deign to reply.

  She listened intently until she could no longer hear any sound of horses, dogs, or men. When utter silence reigned throughout the nearby forest, she decided that Will and the others had indeed departed. Moreover, she had begun to feel the icy chill again. Tension stirred, nevertheless. Had everyone truly gone away?

  Gathering her courage, she decided to risk moving and carefully wiggled the toes of one bare, chilly foot, grateful to find that her toes had not gone numb.

  “They’ve gone,” Walter Scott said quietly. “You can come out now.”