June Francis - Tamed by the Barbarian

‘It is of no matter. I know the story.’

He closed the book and, excusing himself, rose and went over to where some of the baggage was still piled in a heap. Silence reigned but for the crackling of the fire. He wondered if she was tired after their disturbed night and that was why no more inroads had been made on exploring the contents of the goods here. Perhaps it would be wiser to leave her alone to her embroidery and her grief. Yet he found himself wondering if this was the only leisure pastime she occupied herself with to help pass the winter days when the weather kept her indoors. Even when Nat was alive it must have been a lonely life for her after her stepmother died and with the males of the family busy elsewhere.

He recalled the moment when a courier had arrived at his kinsman’s manor in France. His mother had pleaded with him to return to the keep in the Border country, which had never felt like a home; rather he had considered his own house in the port of Kirkcudbright with its busy harbour as home. As his eyes roamed the tapestry-covered walls, he realised why he felt relaxed here. ‘This hall reminds me of my house in Kir’ coo-bri.’ He pronounced the name in the dialect of that area of Scotland. ‘It was to that port I used to escape when life became unbearable when we stayed at my grandfather’s castle—and there I discovered a love of ships and a longing to travel.’

‘In what way does this hall remind you of your house?’ asked Cicely, wondering why he had found his grandfather’s castle unbearable.

‘Its size and…’ He went over to a wall and fingered a tapestry of The Chase. ‘This tapestry. I wager your father bought this in Angers.’

‘I cannot say for sure. France certainly.’ She gazed openly at his back, her eyes lingering on the hair at the nape of his strong neck, his broad shoulders and the firm muscles of his calves.

He turned suddenly and she lowered her eyes swiftly, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment because he had caught her looking at him…and looking in a way that was unseemly. She cleared her throat and rushed into speech. ‘Father had one of his agents purchase several for my stepmother soon after we moved here. The walls were unadorned and filthy after the smoke from the winter’s fires…as they are now. But you being a lord, surely you will live in a castle with a great hall when you return home to Scotland?’

Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘No. My father’s elder brother inherited the castle. Have you ever visited the Scottish Borders, Mistress Cicely? The place I return to is not like the great edifices of England, such as my kinsman Northumberland’s at Alnwick. The building that I have inherited is a keep in a wild lonely place. At the moment my mother is Killin’s chatelaine, which is within a day’s journey of Berwick-on-Tweed.’

She dug her needle into the linen and murmured, ‘My father used to speak of Berwick-on-Tweed. Is it not on the Eastern seaboard and has changed hands several times—as did the border during the wars between our countries?’ she asked.

‘You are well informed,’ he said approvingly, returning to the fireplace.

She flushed. ‘I am a merchant’s daughter and as such am interested in the places my father visited. He has estranged kin up near the border, but we have naught to do with them.’

There was a silence before he said carefully, ‘Then they have never visited this manor?’

‘Not while I’ve lived here. Probably they might have visited during my great-uncle’s time.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why do you ask? Are you acquainted with them?’

He hesitated. ‘Not at all, but I suspect they could have been behind your father’s murder.’

She started and stared at him from dismayed blue eyes. ‘Why should you think that?’

He was unsure whether to burden her further but, remembering the way she had threatened him with her dagger, decided she was strong enough to know the truth so as to be forewarned. ‘Robbie recognised a man he killed in Bruges as a Milburn he had seen in the Border country.’

She was astounded. ‘You have spoken to Jack of this?’

He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should have, but at the time I thought he had enough to worry about, having seen his father die and fretting over how he was going to break the tragic news of Nat’s death to you and his twin.’

A furrow appeared between her finely etched brows. ‘I deem you’ve told me to put me on my guard?’

Mackillin nodded. ‘The man might have been acting on his own account, but we don’t know for sure.’

Her concern deepened. ‘How did this kinsman know where to find Father?’

Mackillin shrugged. ‘If he wanted to find Nat and knew enough about his business, then it would be easy enough for him to make enquiries.’

‘Of course. But why?’ she asked of him, realising she trusted him enough to believe that he would give her an honest and sensible answer.

‘Money, power? Perhaps your northern kinsman thought he should have inherited this manor instead of your father.’

She bit her lower lip, thinking about what he said. ‘That would make sense despite my great-uncle and grandfather having quarrelled with their brother up north. It was my great-uncle’s wish that Father inherit this manor and he made it legal by stating so in his will.’

‘Even so, speak to your brothers when Matt comes home about this matter. It could be that it is not finished.’

She nodded. ‘I will do so.’

His frown deepened and he thought again of his half-brothers and how they would have hated his inheriting in their place. There could be that there would be others on the Borders who would not approve of his doing so. He rose from his chair and began to pace the floor, thinking of the times he had had to ride for his life, not only from his half-brothers but his Scottish cousins, as well. So much hatred in a family, which he had to admit had sometimes been fuelled by his mother’s disdain of their simple way of life. Another reason perhaps why he had turned down Nat’s offer of his daughter. She was accustomed to the luxuries that money could buy and might prove to be another like his mother. Perhaps that was the reason why he, himself, had been determined to make his fortune.

Cicely wondered what was on Mackillin’s mind—the way he could not keep still suggested his control over his emotions was uncertain. He was obviously desperate to be up in his wild country dealing with what needed to be done for his future in that land. Well, the sooner he could leave the better it would be. She would be able to get on with all that needed doing in the wake of her father’s death.

The door opened and Martha appeared. Her jaw dropped as she stared at Mackillin. Amused by the serving woman’s expression, Cicely said, ‘You may well look surprised—Mackillin looks like a nobleman now, doesn’t he?’

Martha nodded and bobbed a curtsy in his direction. He raised an eyebrow and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m glad you approve, Mistress Cicely.’

She blushed and turned to Martha. ‘Is supper ready to be served?’

‘Aye, mistress.’

‘Then I’ll fetch my brother.’ She folded her sewing and hurried upstairs, needing to escape Mackillin’s charismatic presence for a while.

Over the meal, Cicely spoke little but she was intensely aware of Mackillin sitting across from her. Their earlier conversation had been fascinating and frightening in equal measure. She appreciated that he had not talked to her in that condescending manner some men adopted when speaking to a woman. He had given her a problem, though—did she wait until Matt returned home as he had suggested, or tell Jack before then what Mackillin had said about their northern kin?