Amanda Scott(7)

He had spoken to her only once, and she had never been alone with him.

Forcing herself to stay relaxed so he would not know she had regained consciousness, she peeked through her lashes, hoping to see where they were and judge how far she was from the safety of Sweethope Hill House.

Since the hood of the thick woolen cloak that enwrapped her covered most of her face, she could not see enough of the passing landscape to do any good. She gave silent thanks that the princess and her other ladies were away from home, thus sparing her any awkward explanations. She also prayed that her chilly dousing would not make her sick again.

She was warm at least, warmer than by rights she should be after such an experience. The cloak was not her own though, because the river had swept hers away forever. And her other garments—warm or not—must still be wet, because had anyone tried to strip her, surely she would have wakened.

Worry for her horse stirred until her usual good sense assured her that the beast had likely run back to its stable.

The hood’s fur lining felt soft against her cheek and smelled comfortingly of cinnamon, cloves, and something else she lacked the energy to identify. The smooth, loping gait of the horse soothed her, and whatever Simon Murray had threatened years ago, she knew he would keep her safe . . . until he could safely murder her.

Simon stared straight ahead, his face carefully devoid of expression but his thoughts whirling like water spouts as memories formed, renewing emotions they had stirred in the past, some as strong in the minute as they had been at the time.

He remembered the damp, gloomy day in Selkirk as if it had been yesterday. Looking back, he recalled the sense of pride he’d had that he was doing his duty. He had believed in his liege lord, the Earl of Fife, and Fife’s wanting him to marry the elder daughter of the Laird of Akermoor had been sufficient cause to do so.

A man obeyed his lord, and that was that. He had been proud, too, though, that Fife had singled him out from all the other men who served him.

As for his bride-to-be, what more had she been than the chosen vessel, singled out from all the families with which Fife might have wished to ally himself?

But not only had she disdained the honor, she had done so in a way surely calculated to make a fool of Simon. How disappointed she must have been to have had such a small audience! But Fife and Sir Malcolm had each had reason for that.

Despite the small number of witnesses, her rejection had dealt Simon’s self-esteem a massive blow. Just two days past his twenty-first birthday, he had been thinking himself a man at last, as well as one of value to his family and to his lord.

The lady Sibylla had shattered that image in less than half a minute.

In days following, he had imagined hundreds of things he might have said or done at the time, or afterward, to punish her. None had seemed sufficient.

His only consolation, although he had not learned of it until months later, was that the impertinent snip had spurned another before him. Lord Galston had died soon afterward, leaving his vast wealth and estates to the distant cousin who was his heir. Simon had hoped that the lass recognized her loss and mourned it, for Galston had agreed to settle the bulk of that wealth on his wife. It had not taken much thought, though, to realize that most likely the lass had not known about that.

Men did not discuss marriage settlements with their daughters. Moreover, he had also learned over the years that such arrangements usually benefited the Earl of Fife, and now the Crown, more than they benefited those more nearly concerned.

The fickle lass had then spurned another of Fife’s men, but Simon knew naught of the settlements for that one. Fife did not encourage his men to confide in each other.

His warm burden shifted slightly and moaned, so he tightened his grip. It would not do to let her fall. She had already injured herself, for he had seen a reddened lump forming on her forehead and knew she must have struck it on something. At present she was sound asleep with her head against his shoulder, and although he remembered her eyes widening at first sight of him, and knew she had recognized him, she was relaxed, apparently trusting him.

An image rose then of her racing to beat the child to the ford. He’d say one thing for her: She had an even better seat on a horse than his sister Amalie did.

He also had to admire her courage, but he was not ready to forgive her. Nor, now that he had his hands on her, was he ready to let her go. He was older, his emotions more carefully guarded, but he still had a score to settle with her.

Over the past few years, from one cause or another, Fife’s crest had lowered in his estimation, but he had only to think of that day in Selkirk to feel the humiliation of Sibylla Cavers’s insolent rejection burning through him again.