You—’ ‘You forget yourself, sister. I am a man, and the laird, besides. I—’
‘You are a—’
‘Enough! Hold your tongue!’
He towered over her, menacing, his brows drawn together in a black frown, his fists clenched.
Cassandra tried not to cower away from him. She must not give him the satisfaction of knowing she was afraid. If only she were not so alone.
‘No one but you would dare to question my actions. I will have no more of it. You are only a lassie. You will do as you are told. And if you don’t…’
He bent down so that his face was within an inch of hers. She could feel his fury like the waves of heat from a roaring fire.
‘You’ll not be forgetting what happened to your mother, will you now?’
His voice had suddenly sunk to a snarling undertone, far more terrifying than all his bellowing. At the mention of her mother, Cassandra’s heart began to race. Now she was surely lost.
‘I can put you in the Bedlam just as easily as Father did your mother. There’s no man here will gainsay me. They all know what a mad, headstrong lassie you are—have always been. I have only to say that you’ve been playing the harlot, following in your mother’s footsteps, and every man among them—aye, and the women, too—will help me carry you through the Bedlam door.’
She reached a hand out to him. ‘You would not—’
‘Do not put me to the test, lassie. Remember, I am my father’s son.’ Snatching up the single candle, James strode to the door and left the little parlour, without once looking back.
Cassandra heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. She did not need to try the door. She was imprisoned—again—and it would be a long time before James relented and permitted her release. If she were truly unlucky, he would not even allow her food and drink.
She looked around the room in the feeble glow of the dying fire. She must have some light. She could not bear the thought of being shut up alone, in the dark, in this bare and hostile chamber. She knelt before the hearth to light a spill from the embers but, as she touched the flame to the tallow dip, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor behind the chair leg. It was the last remaining evidence that anyone in the world truly cared for Cassandra Elliott.
She pulled the fragment from under the chair and smoothed it once, then again and again, as if willing it to be whole again. At least one person did care. Just one. But he could not help her.
Impatiently, she brushed away a tear. It was anger. Only anger. She was not so weak that her half brother could make her cry. She was not!
She caressed the paper yet again. There was so little left. It was barely an inch wide and held only a few disjointed words, part of three lines of Alasdair’s bad poetry. She had smiled when she first read it, recognising the evidence of the boy’s calf-love. He might be only fifteen, but he idolised her. He saw himself as a knight, winning her love by deeds of great daring. But if James Elliott once discovered the lad’s identity, the daring would be thrashed out of him. She would never betray his name, no matter how much James threatened.
She dropped on to the hard oak settle once more and stared at the scrap of paper. Like her Trojan namesake, she, too, could prophesy, all these centuries later. She could prophesy that the Elliott family was doomed. First her father, and now her half-brother. Drunkards and gamblers, both. Neither of them caring anything for their land, or their people. Both of them wasting their substance in the pursuit of pleasure. Both of them treating their womenfolk worse than their cattle.
If only she could get away. But where could she go? She had no money and no friends in Galloway who would dare to take her part against the laird. Everyone hereabouts knew exactly who she was. It would be impossible to hide from James on this side of the Solway. If she did run away, James would find her and bring her back. He might even carry out his threat to lock her away in the lunatic asylum. Cassandra’s own mother had died there, imprisoned on trumped-up accusations of adultery. Had she been mad? Not at first, perhaps, but certainly at the end. And her husband, Cassandra’s father, had shut the door on her as if she had ceased to exist. From the day she was put in the asylum, he had never visited her, never sent to ask after her, and never once mentioned her name.
James Elliott was capable of doing exactly the same to Cassandra if she did anything more to thwart his plans to marry her off. She had to protect Alasdair. But if James really believed she was unchaste—
Cassandra shuddered and dropped her head into her hands. She would not weep. She refused to be so craven. She would—
The key grated in the lock.
Cassandra quickly wiped her face and squared her jaw. If James had returned so quickly, it boded ill. She hastily tucked the precious scrap of paper into her pocket.
‘Miss Cassie?’ It was Morag, Cassie’s maid, who had served the family since Cassandra was a child. ‘I’ve brought you some warm milk, dearie, and some bannocks and cheese. The laird is in a fearful temper with ye, but he’s off to the whor— He’s gone out. He’ll not be back till the morn, ye ken.’ Morag put a pewter plate and a mug on the low table. ‘Eat up, Miss Cassie. I’ll be back in a wee minute to take they things away.’ She said nothing more. There was no need. They both knew that if James discovered what Morag had done, she would be dismissed on the spot.
Cassandra ate greedily. She had had nothing since early morning. The cheese was strong and delicious, the oatcakes newly baked. All too soon, the plate was empty. Cassandra licked her finger and ran it round the rim to pick up any stray crumbs. She was still hungry.
Ross looked up at the sky. He had become used to the longer days as he moved north, taking advantage of the extra hours of daylight to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the pain of London. Here in the Scottish border country, the light held till well-nigh midnight when the weather was fine, as it had been for most of his journey.
But now the weather was changing. And suddenly. On the western horizon, huge black clouds were rearing up like angry stallions, ready to attack with flailing iron-shod hooves. A mighty storm was coming. And there was precious little shelter available for a solitary traveller and his faithful mare.
Ross touched his heel to Hera’s chestnut flank. She needed little encouragement to quicken her pace. She had probably smelt the coming storm long before Ross had noticed anything amiss. He began to regret that he had decided to travel on to Annan instead of stopping on the English side of the border, where there were good beds to be had, and good food for man and beast. Here, so close to the Solway, there was no sign at all of any habitation as far as Ross could see. Probably the ground was too treacherous.
In the distance, he spied a small copse of trees. Dangerous, of course, if there was lightning. He looked up at the sky again. The black anvil clouds were swelling even before his eyes. And they were racing towards him. He had no choice.
He turned Hera towards the copse. He dared not go in. But, in the lee of the trees, they would find some shelter from the increasingly sharp wind, even if not from the wet. He pushed Hera on, urging her to a faster pace than was truly safe in the deepening gloom. ‘Not far now, my beauty,’ he murmured gently, laying a gloved hand on her neck. The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice. She was unsettled by the coming storm. Even her master’s voice was not enough to calm her. ‘Not far now,’ Ross said again.
The
