The Raven's Moon by Susan King Page B
Authors: Susan King
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"Keep it," she said. "The wind is cold." He draped it over one shoulder and walked on.
"Take me as a pledge," she said. "Please!"
He stopped to look squarely up at her, and she drew the horse to a halt. "When I take you for riding the highway, lass—and I will," he added, "I will take you on my terms. Now go home." He resumed walking.
Her horse kept pace with him. "Will you tell Simon Kerr where you have been?" she asked. "That we held you?"
He glanced up. The sun made a halo behind her, shining reddish through her hair. Rowan sensed her uncertainty, suddenly. She was not the virago she would have him think. And for some reason, she did not want to be taken by Simon Kerr. She did not trust the man.
"I will not tell him. Now go home. I will capture you later," he said. "I do owe you for the head-banging."
But he would not be so foolish as to tell Kerr that a lassie had clobbered him and locked him in an abandoned ruin for three days. He walked on.
"Rowan Scott," she called. "I need your help."
"Go home."
"Blackdrummond, listen—"
"Keep my gear and my horse well for me until I come for them," he called back.
"I might let the reivers have them," she snapped.
"Do that and you'll pay dearly for it."
The wind whistled, the cold muck seeped through his stockings. He walked on, aware that Mairi Macrae watched him for a long while.
Chapter 8
"O when he came to broken brigs,
He bent his bow and swam;
And when he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran. "
—"Rob Roy"
Rowan stopped, yanked off his soggy stockings, and tossed their sorry remains in a small pool. Adjusting the plaid about him, he climbed craggy hills thick with old grass, and finally crossed an earthen road, pausing at the base of a slope.
Blackdrummond Tower rose high and stark, as if it emerged out of bare rock, an impenetrable Border tower on a high outcrop. Built when Rowan's grandfather had been a child, the stronghold was protected by its forbidding setting. Only single riders could maneuver the steep slope, and the roof offered a view that extended for miles.
He walked closer. Within the stout barnekin wall, the four-story stone tower thrust upward. Narrow windows pierced the grim facade like suspicious, watchful eyes. But the smoke spiraling up from the chimney reminded him of warmth, of pride, of home. He broke into a run.
Farther up the long slope, sheep grazed. The man tending them sat against a boulder, bonnet tipped low over his face. Rowan gave an eerie wolf's howl.
The shepherd leaped up, drawing a dirk. Rowan laughed and waved, and the man stared, then shoved the knife back into his belt. "Master Rowan!"
Rowan "Sandie Scott! Greetings!"
"The Black Laird's come back at last!" Sandie took Rowan's hand, his grin joyous. Rowan hugged his cousin, once his father's most loyal riding companion, and stood back. Sandie looked older, his beard nearly white, his reddish hair sparse now. But mischief still twinkled in his brown eyes.
"You look banged about. And wanting for gear," Sandie said, frowning at Rowan's appearance.
"A long journey, Sandie."
"We thought to see you a few nights past. The Auld Laird's been waiting for you. And Lady Anna was ready to ride out searching for you herself."
"I was delayed," Rowan said. "I could not send word. Are my grandparents well?"
Sandie grimaced. "Well, I've seen 'em better. This business wi' Alec has been a sore fret to both. But they're tough as old meat, that pair. Auld Jock is troubled betimes by the bone-ache in his legs, and doesna ride out much on account o' it. But Lady Anna is more spry than most."
"You've stayed with them all the time I've been gone, Sandie," Rowan said. "I thank you for it."
"Och, I've been wi' them all these years, I would not leave now, when my beard is white. And where would I go, but riding again, or livin' in the Debatable Land, where the worst scoundrels nest? I'd be in a dungeon fast enough. Auld Jock keeps me honest, he
"Keep it," she said. "The wind is cold." He draped it over one shoulder and walked on.
"Take me as a pledge," she said. "Please!"
He stopped to look squarely up at her, and she drew the horse to a halt. "When I take you for riding the highway, lass—and I will," he added, "I will take you on my terms. Now go home." He resumed walking.
Her horse kept pace with him. "Will you tell Simon Kerr where you have been?" she asked. "That we held you?"
He glanced up. The sun made a halo behind her, shining reddish through her hair. Rowan sensed her uncertainty, suddenly. She was not the virago she would have him think. And for some reason, she did not want to be taken by Simon Kerr. She did not trust the man.
"I will not tell him. Now go home. I will capture you later," he said. "I do owe you for the head-banging."
But he would not be so foolish as to tell Kerr that a lassie had clobbered him and locked him in an abandoned ruin for three days. He walked on.
"Rowan Scott," she called. "I need your help."
"Go home."
"Blackdrummond, listen—"
"Keep my gear and my horse well for me until I come for them," he called back.
"I might let the reivers have them," she snapped.
"Do that and you'll pay dearly for it."
The wind whistled, the cold muck seeped through his stockings. He walked on, aware that Mairi Macrae watched him for a long while.
Chapter 8
"O when he came to broken brigs,
He bent his bow and swam;
And when he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran. "
—"Rob Roy"
Rowan stopped, yanked off his soggy stockings, and tossed their sorry remains in a small pool. Adjusting the plaid about him, he climbed craggy hills thick with old grass, and finally crossed an earthen road, pausing at the base of a slope.
Blackdrummond Tower rose high and stark, as if it emerged out of bare rock, an impenetrable Border tower on a high outcrop. Built when Rowan's grandfather had been a child, the stronghold was protected by its forbidding setting. Only single riders could maneuver the steep slope, and the roof offered a view that extended for miles.
He walked closer. Within the stout barnekin wall, the four-story stone tower thrust upward. Narrow windows pierced the grim facade like suspicious, watchful eyes. But the smoke spiraling up from the chimney reminded him of warmth, of pride, of home. He broke into a run.
Farther up the long slope, sheep grazed. The man tending them sat against a boulder, bonnet tipped low over his face. Rowan gave an eerie wolf's howl.
The shepherd leaped up, drawing a dirk. Rowan laughed and waved, and the man stared, then shoved the knife back into his belt. "Master Rowan!"
Rowan "Sandie Scott! Greetings!"
"The Black Laird's come back at last!" Sandie took Rowan's hand, his grin joyous. Rowan hugged his cousin, once his father's most loyal riding companion, and stood back. Sandie looked older, his beard nearly white, his reddish hair sparse now. But mischief still twinkled in his brown eyes.
"You look banged about. And wanting for gear," Sandie said, frowning at Rowan's appearance.
"A long journey, Sandie."
"We thought to see you a few nights past. The Auld Laird's been waiting for you. And Lady Anna was ready to ride out searching for you herself."
"I was delayed," Rowan said. "I could not send word. Are my grandparents well?"
Sandie grimaced. "Well, I've seen 'em better. This business wi' Alec has been a sore fret to both. But they're tough as old meat, that pair. Auld Jock is troubled betimes by the bone-ache in his legs, and doesna ride out much on account o' it. But Lady Anna is more spry than most."
"You've stayed with them all the time I've been gone, Sandie," Rowan said. "I thank you for it."
"Och, I've been wi' them all these years, I would not leave now, when my beard is white. And where would I go, but riding again, or livin' in the Debatable Land, where the worst scoundrels nest? I'd be in a dungeon fast enough. Auld Jock keeps me honest, he