“Is this true? Are you Mistress Cicely Milburn?”

Cicely felt a peculiar calmness come over her, and she removed her hat and allowed her braids to ripple down over her shoulders. “Aye, it is true, Your Majesty. I am she.”

The Queen seemed lost for further words, but then appeared to pull herself together and scowled at Cicely. “It is not seemly that you should be dressed in such a fashion and share Lord Mackillin’s bedchamber. It is against holy writ. You will need to be imprisoned and brought before the justice.”

“No! This would be wrong, Your Majesty.” Mackillin started forward.

“You dare to speak to me in such a tone?” said the Queen, looking furious. “I am the Queen of England.”

“And I am a Scotsman, who has answered my own king’s order to come to your husband’s aid.” Mackillin bowed before her. “Forgive my hot-headedness, but Mistress Cicely is a loyal servant of both Your Majesties, as was her father. I speak the truth to you now. Her father gave her to me to be my wife. We are betrothed.”

Cicely drew in her breath with a hiss. Did he realize what he was saying?

Tamed by the Barbarian

Harlequin®Historical

MILLS & BOON

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JUNE FRANCIS’s

interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her Web site: www.junefrancis.co.uk.

Tamed by the Barbarian
JUNE FRANCIS

Available from Harlequin®Historical and JUNE FRANCIS

Rowan’s Revenge #214

Tamed by the Barbarian #245

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#246 LADY GWENDOLEN INVESTIGATES—Anne Ashley

Elegant yet feisty, well traveled yet innocent to the world, beautiful yet modest—prying into others’ lives isn’t for Lady Gwendolen Warrender. Until murder and mayhem come to Marsden Wood!

To my dearest John, who is always there for me.

He never refuses to help me with my research,

be it traveling an ancient byway or to an abbey

in the depths of Yorkshire or abroad or closer to home.

A true romantic, he relishes my historical romances

with their swashbuckling heroes and feisty heroines,

considering them the perfect escapist read.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

January 1461

Cicely Milburn’s brow furrowed as she stared at the bloodied abrasions on the horse’s flank. Whose mount was it? She placed gentle fingers on its neck and the gelding quivered beneath her touch. Yet when she held out a wrinkled apple on the palm of her hand, it lipped the fruit and took it into its mouth. She smiled and moved away to her own palfrey in the neighbouring stall.

Noticing two dried-up burrs picked up on the return journey from her father’s steward’s house, she removed them. She was worried about her fifteen-year-old brothers and wished Matt had not had to make the journey to Kingston-on-Hull, to enquire of his twin, Jack, and their widower father. He had taken most of the male servants with them, concerned about the rumours of a great host of Lancastrians in the vicinity of the Duke of York’s castle of Sandal a week or so ago. If there had been a battle, then, in the aftermath, one could expect to encounter wandering soldiers on the rampage. She wished her stepbrother, Diccon, was here to share the burden of worry with her, but she had not seen him for the last six months and she feared for his safety. She fingered the dagger that hung from her girdle, then glanced round apprehensively as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

Anger surged in her veins at the sight of the man standing there. ‘Master Husthwaite! What are you doing here? How could you use this poor horse so cruelly?’ she demanded.

‘So there you are, Mistress Cicely. I’ve been looking for you.’

The mousy, lank-haired man ran chilling silver-grey eyes over her in a manner that caused her gloved hands to clench.

‘For what purpose?’ she asked coldly.

Master Husthwaite sucked in his cheeks and then released them noisily, not answering her question immediately. ‘The beast is a slug. My uncle should have insisted on his clients paying their bills more readily and then I could afford a finer horse.’

‘What do you mean—should have insisted?’

‘My uncle died recently and I am taking over his business.’ He approached her, sliding one hand against the other, his eyes fixed on her well-formed bosom. ‘So I came here in haste, after speaking to Master Matthew in Knaresborough. I thought you might need my help.’

She stiffened. ‘Why should I need your help here on my father’s manor? I am quite capable of managing the household myself. If in need of further assistance, I can call on Father’s steward’s wife.’

Master Husthwaite stroked his lantern jaw, his eyes narrowing. ‘It is a different kind of help I would offer you. When Master Matthew told me he was travelling to Kingston-on-Hull to seek news of your father from his agent, I was deeply concerned.’ He took a step closer to Cicely. ‘I fear you must brace yourself for bad tidings.’

‘I don’t know why you should deem that so,’ she retorted. And, feeling a need to put some distance between them, she moved to her horse’s head. ‘It is not the first time Father has failed to arrive home when expected—especially during the winter months. Stormy weather can delay a ship’s departure.’

‘No doubt that would be true if your father and brother’s arrival was only a few days or a week overdue,’ said Master Husthwaite, ‘but it is now the feast of St Hilary and, according to your brother, six weeks since he last heard from them. I really do think you have to accept that your father might well be dead.’

‘No!’ she cried, forcing back the dreadful apprehension roused first by Matt’s conviction in the last ten days that his twin brother was in pain. ‘I will not believe it is so.’

‘Naturally, you don’t want to accept his death as a reality, but you must do so because we’ll need to consider your future.’

‘We? What do you mean? I hope you do not have it in mind to interfere in my affairs,’ said Cicely, her fine eyes flashing blue fire. ‘It is no concern of yours. I—I am betrothed and will be wed at Easter.’

His deep-set eyes flickered. ‘I have found nothing amongst your father’s papers about such an arrangement.’

‘Nevertheless my wedding will take place.’ Cicely was furious that he should have access to her father’s private papers. She was certain that if Nat Milburn had known this clerk would dare to step into his dead uncle’s shoes, he would have left orders for another man of business to be found instantly.

‘So you say. Tell me—who is this so-called betrothed?’ demanded Master Husthwaite.

‘His name is none of your business. Now will you kindly leave, as I have to prepare for the return of my brothers and father.’

He glared at her, but instead of quitting the stable, he reached for the whip thrust through a strap on his saddle and lashed out at her horse. Cicely let out a scream of rage and, throwing caution to the wind, caught hold of the whip’s lash when he would have used it again. Her attempt to disarm the man resulted in her being catapulted against him. The breath was knocked out of her and he swiftly took advantage of her position. His arms went round her and he squeezed her so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

‘Unhand me at once! You forget yourself,’ she gasped.

He laughed and sank his head into the smooth flesh of her neck. She screamed and resisted as, inch by inch, he forced her down on to the damp straw. In the struggle, her headdress was dislodged and her hair swirled free. He grabbed a handful of it and brought her face close, seeking her mouth with his own. She baulked at the glimpse of his rotting teeth and the smell of his stinking breath, but she managed to get a couple of fingers to his chin and pinched it. He knocked her hand away. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he snarled.

Cicely feared that she would, but what happened next proved her wrong. Her rescue took place so swiftly that she could barely believe that in moments she was free and Master Husthwaite lay still on the ground. She was lifted to her feet as if she weighed no more than thistledown.

The pressure of her rescuer’s hand seemed to sear through her gown and set her skin tingling, a sensation that she found intensely disturbing in a completely different way from the shock of Master Husthwaite’s attack on her person.

Her eyes were now on a level with an intricately patterned brooch that gleamed dully like pewter. This fastened a roughly textured woollen cloak at a weatherbeaten neck. Her gaze moved higher and the breath caught in her throat at the sight of the unshaven chin and the strong cheekbones of a man’s rugged face, framed in a tangle of chestnut hair that fell to his shoulders. He spoke in a dialect that caused her initial feelings of relief to turn to stunned dismay. Thoughts whirled in her head as she remembered going on a pilgrimage with her dying mother to a priory at Alnmouth not far from the border of England with Scotland. Her mother was from that area and an admirer of the Celtic saints, who had brought the gospel from Ireland.

The man spoke again, but more slowly this time. ‘I hope he did not harm you badly, lass?’

She shook her head and her golden hair swirled about her shoulders. His eyes widened as he reached out a gauntleted hand and touched a strand, tucking it behind her ear. She froze, remembering the tales told to her twin brothers by their great-uncle and grandfather. “Enough to chill the blood,” her mother had often said. There was no doubt in Cicely’s mind that the border Scots were an uncouth race and she feared this man had saved her from Master Husthwaite’s foul intent for his own pleasure. If she had been the kind of female given to swooning, she would have chosen that moment to do so. Instead, her fingers crept to the dagger hanging alongside the keys at her girdle and fastened on its string-bound hilt.

Mackillin’s gaze skated over her blanched face, noticing that her eyes were the colour of bluebells, which grew beneath the rowan trees near Loch Trool. His mind was not the kind normally given to poetic thoughts, but he reckoned, if asked, that he could write a sonnet to such eyes. She had a heart-shaped face, a perfectly shaped nose and lips that were just asking to be kissed.

There was that in his gaze that caused Cicely to dart out a nervous tongue and wet her lips. She knew that it was now or never to draw her dagger. ‘Keep away from me, you—you barbarian!’ she said, brandishing the weapon in front of her.

Except for the flare of his nostrils, he appeared unmoved. ‘And if I don’t, what will you do with that…toy, lass?’ he spoke deliberately slowly.

‘I would stick it in you. Its edge is sharp!’ she warned.

His eyes glinted. ‘Such gratitude for rescuing you deserves to be rewarded in kind.’ With a carelessness for his own safety that alarmed her, he seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain as the weapon fell to the ground. Then in one smooth movement, his left arm encircled her waist and his right hand cupped the back of her head. ‘A kiss for my pains,’ he murmured, laying claim to her mouth.

She attempted to ward him off, but found it impossible to make an impression against his hard, muscular strength. The pressure from his mouth eased and now his lips moved gently over hers in a pleasant, tingly fashion. She was alarmed that she found even the abrasive roughness of his stubbly chin peculiarly sensual. Only thrice had she been kissed before and it had not caused sparks to charge through her veins, igniting her nerve ends in a truly thrilling fashion like this one did.

But she had sworn to love Diccon as long as she lived. He was the only man with the right to kiss her in such a beguilingly intimate fashion, despite her father having refused his consent to their betrothal. Still, Cicely believed she could change his mind when he returned. Yet now she was allowing this—this savage to kiss her without putting up a fight. She tore her mouth away and raised a hand to hit him, but the blow never landed because, unexpectedly, he freed her.

She glared at him and gasped, ‘My father will make you pay for daring to assault me.’

Mackillin’s eyes narrowed. He knew that it had been a mistake kissing her, but the sight of her lips alone were enough to drive a man to forget any code of chivalry he might live by. As for the golden hair that smelt so sweetly of camomile, he had never seen such hair. His breathing deepened as he remembered that same scent on her skin and his body recalled the feel of her breasts against his chest and the jutting bones of her hips against his nether regions. The stirring in his loins did not abate and he said harshly, ‘Your father? Is he one of the servants here?’

‘God’s blood, no! He’s…’ She paused, uncertain what his reaction would be if he knew she was the daughter of the house. She backed away from him and turned and ran, wondering what he was doing on her father’s manor. The Scots had not raided this far south of the border for decades.

No sooner was she outside the stables than she collided with someone. She gasped as her arm was seized and a familiar voice said, ‘Cissie, what’s wrong? Why did you scream?’

At the welcome sound of her brother’s voice, she collapsed against him. Only to realise that his right arm was in a sling. ‘It’s you, Jack,’ she cried gladly. ‘But what have you done to yourself?’ She touched his shoulder and gazed into his beloved face. ‘Matt knew you’d been hurt. Thanks be to our Saviour that you’re home. Was it that barbarian in there who damaged your arm?’ She gesticulated in the direction of the stable. Mackillin had followed in her wake and stood in the entrance, gazing at them. Cicely eyed him warily. ‘Have you a sword, Jack?’ she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

He glanced at her as if she had run mad. ‘What use would it be against Mackillin? His skill with a blade is greater than any I have ever seen.’

‘So you fought him and lost?’

Jack gazed heavenwards as if for divine intervention. ‘No, Cissie. He saved my life!’

She was aghast. ‘No! He couldn’t have—not his kind. There must be some mistake.’

‘You’re wrong, Cissie. He’s a friend of Father’s.’

‘He can’t be. Father’s a cultured man. Well travelled, well read. What could he have in common with that—that Scottish wild man?’ She glared at Mackillin, who looked at her with an expression on his face that confused her. ‘I must speak to him. Tell him that he dared to kiss me!’ She turned towards the house.

‘Cissie, wait!’ called Jack.

‘What for? If you think to change my mind, then you’re…’ She glanced over her shoulder at him and stopped in mid-flight at the sight of the misery in his face. Suddenly she was scared. ‘What is it? Why do you look like that?’

The muscles of Jack’s throat moved jerkily. ‘You won’t find Father in the house.’

She retreated her steps. ‘Why? Where is he? Has he had an accident?’ He hesitated. ‘You’re scaring me, Jack. Tell me—what’s happened to him?’ she cried.

‘He-he’s dead!’ croaked her brother. ‘Murdered by thieving rogues.’ The colour drained from Cicely’s face and she shook her head, clutching his undamaged arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Cissie,’ he added.

‘I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!’ Cicely picked up the hem of her brown skirts, revealing the lamb’s-wool ‘bags’ that had encased her legs whilst riding, and raced across the yard. The hens scattered before her as she approached the grey stone house. She ignored the three packhorses waiting patiently to have their loads removed and the man still mounted. She desperately needed to find her father indoors, shouting in his deep voice for his Cissie. She climbed the steps that ran at an angle along the wall to the entrance to the hall and struggled to open the door in the icy wind. At last it gave way beneath her fingers and she went inside.

As Mackillin watched her disappear from sight, that mixture of pity and dismay he felt deepened, overlaid with another emotion that he did not want to acknowledge. He had forgotten Jack had mentioned his sister was comely. If he had remembered, then he might have guessed her identity immediately. Even so, his not knowing she was the daughter of the house did not excuse his handling of her. Yet his body still thrilled with the memory of her in his arms. It was just as well that his sojourn here was of necessity to be short, otherwise he might be tempted to claim the reward the dead Nat Milburn had offered him.

‘I’ll go after her,’ said Jack, looking mortified.

Mackillin stayed him with a hand. ‘Allow her time to gain control of herself.’

Jack hesitated before nodding. ‘So you kissed her. Is that why she screamed?’

‘How could it be? She screamed before I touched her.’ There was a noise behind them. ‘Here is your explanation,’ said Mackillin, facing Master Husthwaite as he appeared, leading his horse.

The man’s jaw was swollen and showed signs of bruising. ‘So you’re returned, Master Jack.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the scowling youth.

‘Gabriel Husthwaite, nephew of your father’s man of business. He died recently and I have taken charge of his affairs. This family will have need of my services if my surmise is right and your father is dead.’

‘Aye. Set upon and murdered.’ Jack looked towards Mackillin with an uncertain expression. ‘This is the man Father’s agent spoke of in Kingston-on-Hull.’

Mackillin’s mouth tightened as Master Husthwaite smiled thinly. ‘Mistress Cicely wouldn’t have it that he was dead, but I told her it was the most likely explanation for his absence.’

‘So that is why she screamed,’ said Jack, running his free hand through his fair hair. ‘Yet she—’

‘Nay, it is not,’ growled Mackillin. ‘He was making a nuisance of himself, behaving in a manner that was unacceptable to your lovely sister.’

Master Husthwaite cast him a sly look. ‘Was my behaviour so different from yours? You demanded a kiss for your pains when you believed her to be a serving girl.’

Mackillin turned to Jack and said in a low voice, ‘Forgive me. She called me a barbarian and wanted to stick a knife in me.’

‘It’s because you’re a Borderer, Mackillin. I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘My great-uncle and grandfather used to tell us such hair-raising tales of the Scots reivers that we couldn’t sleep nights.’

Master Husthwaite stepped forward, ‘Mistress Cicely needs a curbing hand on her bridle. She threatened to do the same to me. I was only defending myself when this Mackillin came in on us.’

‘You lie. There was no sign of a blade and you were rolling her in the straw, man,’ said Mackillin, his expression disdainful. ‘She wanted none of you.’

The man sneered. ‘Nor of you. Get back to your own land. This family’s affairs are in my hands and have naught to do with you, barbarian.’

Mackillin’s anger boiled over and he seized Master Husthwaite by the throat of his surcoat and hoisted him into the air. Thrusting him on to his horse, he said, ‘Be gone from here before I put my fist down your throat and rip out your tongue.’ He hit the horse’s flank with the flat of his hand.

Master Husthwaite scrabbled to get hold of the reins and slid sideways but Mackillin forced him upright as the horse set off at a trot towards the beaten-earth track that led to the village and then the highway that would take him to Knaresborough, more than a league away.

Jack frowned. ‘I don’t like this. Father would never have agreed to such a man taking charge of our business affairs.’

‘That man’s a rogue. Is there someone else you can turn to help you deal with him?’

Jack nodded. ‘There’s Diccon, but I don’t know where he is…and there’s our stepsister’s husband Owain, who was a close friend of Father’s. I imagine Matt or Cissie will contact them. I wonder where Matt is?’ He glanced around. ‘He must be out somewhere. Otherwise he would have heard the commotion and come running to see what was going on. I hope he won’t be long. You will stay the night and speak to him?’

Mackillin looked up at the louring sky and nodded. ‘Aye. We would not get far before darkness fell. Now inside and see to your sister while Robbie and I deal with the horses. And, Jack, do not mention aught about your father’s offer to reward me with her hand in marriage. I cannot accept it.’ He urged Jack in the direction of the house. ‘I will see the baggage is taken indoors for you to unpack at your leisure.’

Jack thanked him and hurried after Cicely.

He found her kneeling in front of the fire, stroking one of the dogs. The face she turned towards him was tear-stained and when she spoke her voice shook. ‘I must believe what you say is true. I know you would not jest about such a matter as our dear father’s death.’

‘I’m sorry, Cissie.’ Awkwardly, he put an arm about her shoulders. ‘I’ve dreaded breaking the news to you. Where’s Matt?’

‘He’s gone to Kingston-on-Hull for news of you from Father’s shipping agent. It was in his heart that he might find you both there.’

His blue eyes darkened. ‘The agent did not mention him. When did he leave?’

‘Only this morning and he took most of our men.’ She sighed and got to her feet. ‘So you spoke with the agent. What did he have to say?’

‘He did not seem surprised to hear that Father was dead and spoke of Master Husthwaite. I had no idea his uncle was dead. A courier should have been sent to one of our agents in Europe, then word would have reached us and Father would have come home.’

‘I did not know of the elder Master Husthwaite’s demise until now and as far as I know his nephew has had no proper legal training, but only acted as his clerk.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Anyway, it is pointless discussing this at the moment. We need to get word to Diccon.’

Jack nodded. ‘You know where he is?’

Her expression was sombre. ‘No. But most likely Kate or Owain will know how to get news to him. They all must be informed of Father’s death.’ She paused as tears clogged her throat and had to swallow before continuing. ‘If Diccon cannot be found, no doubt Owain will help us deal with Master Husthwaite if he should prove really troublesome.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Cicely wiped her damp face with the back of her hand. ‘Tell me, did Father suffer? Were the devils responsible caught and punished?’

Jack kicked a smouldering brand that had fallen onto the hearth. ‘Death came swiftly for him, but not before he had wrung a promise from Mackillin to see me home safely. He killed one of them and so did Robbie, but another escaped.’

Her fingers curled into the palms of her hands. ‘I can’t understand how Father believed he could trust a Border reiver to do his bidding,’ she cried.

Jack looked uncomfortable. ‘He is not what you think. I saw how they recognised each other.’

She was amazed. ‘How could Father know such a man?’

Jack sought to scratch his itching arm beneath the splints. ‘They’ve both travelled. Mackillin owns his own ship. They must have met for the first time before Father promised our stepmother to stop his wanderings—after he inherited this manor from our great-uncle and chose to live here, rather than in Grandfather’s house, which was ramshackle.’

‘I remember. I was twelve summers when Great-uncle Hugo died and left no issue. Father decided to run the two manors as one,’ she murmured through lips that quivered.

Jack’s expression was sombre. ‘Five years ago. Matt and I were ten. Most likely Father and Mackillin met in Calais.’

Cicely sighed and picked up the pillowcase she had been embroidering before she had left the house earlier that day. ‘That’s where Diccon met Edward of York. Father was angry because he was so taken with him and spoke of allying himself to his cause.’ She put the linen down again, too upset to sit and sew.

Jack grimaced. ‘You couldn’t expect Father not to be. He’s supported Henry of Lancaster all his life, despite his being half-mad and a hopeless king. More priest than soldier, so Father said.’

Cicely nodded. ‘This is true and why I suppose Diccon has gone over to the side of York, despite his having been born and raised in Lancashire.’ Yet that was not her father’s only reason for withholding his permission for her and Diccon to wed…the fact that he was landless and had little in the way of money most probably had a lot to do with it, too.

Jack sighed. ‘I’m tired and in no mood to worry myself about the affairs of York and Lancaster right now. We have enough troubles of our own. Father would expect you to show all courtesy to Mackillin. Food and shelter is the least we can provide him with as he refuses to claim the reward Father offered him.’

Cicely’s eyes sharpened. ‘So that’s what brings him here—the promise of a reward.’

Jack frowned. ‘I should not have mentioned it. I told you he has no intention of claiming it.’

‘So he says,’ she said scornfully. ‘He deceives you. He must know Father is a wealthy man. Perhaps he intends to take more than he was offered.’

Jack flushed with anger. ‘You insult him. Mackillin could have cut my throat and stolen our extremely valuable property any time these last ten days. I know he kissed you, Cissie, but you mustn’t hold that against him. It was a mistake.’

Pink tinged her cheeks and she bent over one of the dogs, noticing it had bits of bramble in its rough coat. She gently removed the thorns and said in a low voice, ‘He thought I was a servant girl. That’s his excuse for behaving like a savage.’

‘He’s no savage. You must curb your tongue, Cissie, and be thankful that he sent Master Husthwaite packing.’ Jack sighed. ‘It seems so strange being home without Matt and Father here. It’ll never be the same ever.’ His expression was bleak.

She agreed, thinking that the long winter evenings were even more depressing since her stepmother had died two years ago. She could only hope spring would come quickly, so they could at least spend more time outdoors. It was difficult filling the hours at this time of year because most of the tasks suited to the long dark evenings had been completed—the bottling, the pickling, the salting of meat and the making of candles—although there was always embroidery, darning, as well as salves and soap to make to keep her busy, but that left her mind free to wander and worry about Diccon. She sighed heavily, wishing desperately for her father to still be alive, but that was a wish that couldn’t come true. Instead she was going to have to be polite to Jack’s rescuer and that would not be easy.

As if he had read her thoughts, her brother said, ‘A hot meal and a warm bed is little recompense for all Mackillin has done for us. Right now some mulled ale would not go amiss.’

‘I suppose you’ll want me to give him the best guest bedchamber and prepare a tub for him as well,’ she muttered.

‘That will not be necessary,’ said a voice that caused her heart to leap into her throat and she wondered why the dogs had not barked a warning.

She took a deep breath, pausing to gain her composure before facing Mackillin. He was standing only a few feet away and not only looked unkempt, but stank of horse and dried sweat as well as something indefinably male. She was amazed that her body should have reacted to his the way it had done. He was so large and strong, but she would not be scared of him.

‘Of course, you must have the best bedchamber. You saved my brother’s life and brought him home to us.’ She tried to infuse warmth into her voice, but it sounded stiff.

He inclined his shaggy head. ‘I gave your father my word.’

‘And you honoured it.’

‘Even barbarians keep their word, occasionally.’ His eyes sent out a challenge to her, daring her to deny that she believed him incapable of behaving like a gentleman.

She held his gaze. ‘They have their price, though.’

Mackillin glanced at Jack. ‘I did not tell her,’ he said hastily.

‘Good.’ A muscle twitched in Mackillin’s jaw. ‘I assure you, mistress, you would not wish to pay my price if I were to demand it. Now I would ask only for pallets and blankets for my man, Robbie, and myself. Here in front of the fire will do us both fine.’

But before she could comment, Robbie spoke up. ‘Nay, Mackillin, you’re a Scottish lord now and should have the best bedchamber.’

Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’

He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’

‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’

She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.

‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’

‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’

She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’

He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.

She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.

She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’

Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.

‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.

Martha gasped.

‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.

Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.

Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’

She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’

‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.

Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.

At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible. Her concern was that he might have been caught up in fighting between the forces of Lancaster and York. Oh, why did he have to go and give his loyalty to the Duke of York’s heir? The trouble was that her stepbrother could be stubborn and, having little in material goods, was determined to make his own way in the world.

Tom appeared with the bedding and placed it near the fire to air. She whispered to him to see that their guests’ horses had enough hay and water before supper was served. After a wary glance at the two strangers, he hurried to the stables, taking a lantern with him.

Cicely did not leave the spices to infuse for long, certain that her brother and the men were so in need of a hot drink that they would not mind it not being too spicy. She fetched cups and ladled the steaming brew into them, whilst all the time she was worrying about how Matt, now heir to the estate, would cope with the terrible news of their father’s death.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed in the next few days,’ said Jack, watching her approach with their drinks. ‘There’s an eerie glow in the sky above the fells in the west.’

‘That’ll be the sunset,’ said Cicely, dismayed at the thought that if a blizzard set in they might be cut off and she would have to cater for two guests that she would rather be gone. Now was not a time for having to see to the needs of a guest, and a Scots lord at that! She needed to grieve and devote her hours to prayer for her father’s soul and Diccon’s safe return.

‘Is that cup for me?’ asked Mackillin, gazing down at her.

She nodded, steeling herself to meet his eyes with a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘Aye, Lord Mackillin. Is there aught else you need? I could show you to a small bedchamber. Perhaps you’d like to change the garments you’ve travelled in…and have water to wash your hands, face and feet.’

A devilish glint showed in his eyes, lighting facets of gold and green in the iris. ‘Just Mackillin. I appreciate the offer, but I’m warm in my dirt, lass. As for changing my clothes, what’s the use of that when I’ll be travelling in them on the morrow?’ He removed his gauntlets and reached for the pewter cup.

She made certain his fingers did not touch hers. ‘As you wish,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

He inclined his head and she almost fled into the kitchen. He was a savage. She found the women servants plucking chickens and saw that dough was rising on a stone slab close to the fire. Realising that it would be some time before supper was ready, she left them to their tasks. Taking a lantern from a cupboard, she lit the candle inside and made for the door that opened on to a spiral staircase that led up to her turret room.

Built a hundred years ago during the times when the Scots had raided this far south of the border, the house had been fortified. Since then, improvements had been made to the property, but her dead stepmother had constantly said it should be pulled down and a cosier, more convenient one built in its place. Her father had laughingly suggested that his wife might prefer his father’s house and she had not complained again.

Cicely had been hurt at such criticism of the house she had always liked and had hoped that when she and Diccon wed, he would be willing to live here, so they could all be one big happy family. Now her dreams were all up in the air due to his prolonged absence, and with the changes her father’s death would necessarily bring. Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with her sleeve.

She came to her bedchamber and was grateful for the warmth and light from the charcoal brazier that had been placed there earlier in the day. Darkness had fallen and she could hear a rising wind so, hastily, she crossed the room and closed the shutters.

She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against her breasts. Could he possibly have hinted that bedding her was the reward he would have demanded? The blood rushed to her cheeks and she got up hastily and went over to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She lifted the heavy lid and pushed it back, holding the lantern so she could peer inside. When her stepmother had died, Cicely, aided by her maid, had made mourning clothes to attend her funeral and had worn them almost constantly for months afterwards. Even though there would be no such service for her father here in Yorkshire, Cicely wanted to do everything possible to honour his memory and that meant dressing in a way that was fitting.

She put down the lantern and pulled out a black surcoat and unadorned black gown, knowing that a requiem mass must also be arranged. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand and she poured some into a bowl and washed her hands and face, drying them on a heavy cotton cloth that her father had brought from one of the great fairs in Europe. She removed her muddy shoes and the lamb’s-wool bags, as well as her outer garments. Then, over a cream woollen kirtle, she put on the black gown made from the finest wool that her father’s tenants’ flocks produced. On top of these, she fastened a silk-lined, padded surcoat, trimmed with sable, the fur having been shipped from the Baltic and bought in Bruges.

Again, she rummaged to the bottom of the chest and this time took out a sweet-smelling cedarwood box from its depths. She removed a girdle that was made of links formed in a pattern of silver leaves and fastened it about her hips before lifting a fine silver chain and crucifix from the box and fastening the chain about her neck. She found black ribands in a cloth bag, wove them through strands of her hair and braided them into two plaits. Lastly she slipped on heelless leather slippers before sitting on her bed and wondering what to do next.

Her emotions were in confusion and she felt too close to weeping to face the men downstairs just yet; especially the Scottish lord, whose eyes expressed much that his lips did not say. Lord or not, she still believed him a barbarian at heart. The manner in which he had swept her into his arms and kissed her had been truly shocking. She lay down on the bed, thinking of those moments. Her eyelids drooped and she told herself it was unseemly and sinful to still dwell on his kiss. Instead she should be praying for her father’s soul and considering what they should do when Matt returned. Her thoughts began to drift and, within minutes, she was asleep.

Chapter Two

‘Where’s my sister?’ Jack, who had been dozing in front of the fire, blinked up at Martha who was setting the table.

‘I don’t know, Master Jack, but it’s a good four hours since Mistress Cicely came to the kitchen. Supper is ready to be served and we’ve had no word from her.’

‘Perhaps she’s in her bedchamber,’ suggested Mackillin.

Martha stared curiously at the Scottish lord and her plump face told him exactly what she made of him. ‘I’ll send Tabitha to look,’ she said.

So the maid went upstairs to her mistress’s bedchamber and found her slumbering. Uncertain what to do, and knowing Cicely had passed many a sleepless night, worrying about her father and brother, Tabitha was reluctant to disturb her mistress and went downstairs to tell of her discovery.

‘Dressed for mourning she is, and lying on top of her bed fast asleep. No doubt she’s exhausted, Master Jack. She’s been fretting for weeks, worrying herself about you and the master, as well as your stepbrother.’

The youth glanced at Mackillin. ‘Should I wake her?’

Mackillin wondered if she was truly asleep or whether she was pretending in order to escape his presence. Either way, it might be best if he were not to see her again before leaving in the morning. ‘Let your mistress rest, lass. Sleep is good for her at such a sad time. Make sure she is warm—I think we’re in for a cold night.’

‘And after you have done that, Tabby, fetch in the supper,’ ordered Jack.

‘And a bowl of water and a drying cloth,’ added Mackillin with a smile. ‘I’d like to wash my hands before I eat.’

Cicely started awake and for several moments lay in the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming that she was being chased along a castle’s battlements, pursued by a large hound and a black-cloaked dark figure. Her heart pounded. Then she heard a shutter banging and the howling of the wind and, although reluctant to get out of bed because she was so snug, knew she had to silence that shutter.

As she sat up, the crucifix slid along its chain and she clasped it. It had been her mother’s and she only wore it on special occasions, never in bed. Memories of yesterday came flooding in and a sob broke from her. She would never again see her father’s smiling face or hear his deep voice speaking her name. For a moment her grief was such that she could not move, but the shutter banged again and a freezing draught blew across the room. She felt a dampness on her cheek. Pushing down the covers, she climbed out of bed.

No glow came from the charcoal brazier and the candle in her lantern had burnt down. How long had she been asleep? Was it late evening or the middle of the night? Her stomach rumbled. She had missed supper. Why hadn’t someone roused her? She remembered Mackillin and groaned. He would surely be thinking the worst of her. Then she asked herself why she should care about what he thought of her. In the morning he would be gone.

The shutter crashed against the stone wall outside once more and icy air gushed into the room. She shivered, remembering her father’s promise to bring her a sheet of the finest Flemish glass for her window opening. Her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, but she wished she had a light and fumbled for a fresh candle and her tinder box in the small cupboard next to the bed.

Another gust of wind fluttered the long sleeves and hem of her gown and she pulled a face, realising it was unlikely she’d get a decent spark in such a strong draught. She placed both items on the chest and crossed to the window. She reached through the aperture and was almost blinded by a flurry of snowflakes. She gasped and frantically groped for the shutter. A sigh of relief escaped her as her fingers touched wood, but she had a struggle pulling the shutter towards her. At last she managed to do so and fastened the hook securely before stepping back. The clothing chest caught her behind her knees and she fell on to it.

Wiping her damp face with her sleeve, she looked around and could just about make out the outline of the door to the stairway. Her stomach rumbled again. Why hadn’t she been roused? Perhaps Mackillin had got Jack drunk on her father’s wine and cut his throat and was even now plundering the household. Fear clutched her heart. Yet surely she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Jack trusted him. Even so, she would not rest until she saw for herself that all was well.

She groped for the candle and tinder box, but it was just as hopeless trying to get a spark in the dark. Hopefully, she would find her way downstairs without a light. If she failed, then she would return to her bedchamber. She would not think about Jack lying there with his throat cut—or demons and apparitions, which some said were the souls of the dead come back to haunt the living. She thought of her father and prayed that God would accept him into Heaven. Clutching her crucifix, she felt her way along the wall to the door.

Once outside, there was a lessening of the darkness and she noticed a faint light penetrating the lancet aperture on the stairway. She put her eye to it and saw that snow blanketed the landscape and was still falling in large, fat flakes. Her heart sank, realising she was not going to get rid of the barbaric lord after all. Using extreme caution, she continued down the steps, brushing the wall with her hand.

Once through the door at the bottom, she paused to get her bearings as there were no windows in the passageway. She could still hear the roaring of the gale, albeit the sound was fainter here. Her heart beat heavily as she moved forward through a darkness that seemed to press in on her like a living force. She strained her eyes and ears, alert to any danger. Her hand touched wood. A closed door. She passed it and came to another closed door. She walked on with more confidence, convinced that the kitchen door was straight ahead. She heard the squeak of a latch and started back as the door opened and the light from a lantern temporarily blinded her.

An expletive was swiftly smothered as someone reached out and seized her by the wrist. ‘God’s blood, lass! What are you doing creeping around in the dark? I could have hurt you,’ said Mackillin, lowering the lantern.

She caught a glimpse of his wild hair, unshaven rugged profile and words failed her. Light-headed with hunger and emotional strain, she swayed against him. He smothered another expletive and, placing an arm around her, half-carried her into the kitchen. She stirred in his arms and tried to push him away, but it was like trying to make a dint in a shield with a feather. ‘Let me go,’ she cried.

‘I’ll free you once I’m certain you aren’t going to swoon again.’

‘I did not swoon,’ she said indignantly.

‘You did.’ He placed the lantern on a table and sat down in a chair in front of the fire and drew her onto his knee.

‘What are you doing?’ Panic strengthened her will and she hit out at him.

‘Desist, woman! I intend you no harm, you little fool.’

‘I don’t believe you. Where’s Jack?’ She looked wildly about her.

‘Where any sensible person is at this time of night—in his bed. Now, don’t wriggle. I will release you if you promise to sit still and listen to me.’

She considered what he’d just said and calmed down. ‘You mean you’ll tell me what you were doing creeping out of the kitchen?’

‘I heard banging and wondered at first if it was some misguided traveller, who had lost his way and come seeking shelter,’ he said smoothly, not wanting to frighten her. ‘I had fallen asleep and had no idea what watch of the night it was when I woke. Not wanting to disturb those sleeping in the hall by opening the main door, and uncertain whether the traveller would be a friend or foe, I decided to make for the kitchen door. When I looked outside I realised that any traveller would have to be a madman to be out on such a night.’ His expression was grim. ‘It appears I will not be going anywhere in the morning.’

‘The snow might not be as deep as we fear,’ she said quickly.

‘Perhaps. I pray so. My enemies will take my land if I am delayed here too long.’ She wondered who his enemies were, but did not ask because he was speaking again. ‘What set you to wandering about the house?’ he asked.

‘The wind had blown my shutter loose and woke me up. I managed to fix it. I realised how hungry I was and came in search of food.’

‘Of course, you missed your supper. There is still food aplenty.’ She caught the gleam of his strong teeth in the firelight and the arms constraining her slackened.

She shot off his knee as if stung. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your bed, Lord Mackillin.’

She put some distance between them by going over to the table and leaning against it. She waited for him to leave the kitchen, but he made no move to do so. Tension stiffened her shoulders and she forced herself to relax and walk over to the fire, where an enormous log slumbered, its underbelly glowing red. She estimated it would last out the night, ensuring a fire would not have to be relit in the morning, a difficult task at times. A few feet away, her favourite mouser twitched in its sleep.

‘You remind me of night, all black and silver,’ said Mackillin abruptly.

His words startled her into staring at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘If you did not hear, I will not repeat it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Sit down by the fire, mistress. I will fetch some bread and fowl. I have slept enough and who is to say that you might not hesitate to knife me if I were to slumber.’ His expressive eyes mocked her.

Several times he had shocked her by his words, but that he should believe she would stab him as he slept and the idea that he should wait on her were two things not to be tolerated. ‘I would not harm you. Indeed, if you are to extend your stay, you cannot continue to sleep in the hall. You need privacy. As for you fetching and carrying for me…nay, my lord, it is not right.’

‘I do not care whether it is right or wrong.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I am not so high and mighty that I cannot serve another. Did Christ not wait on his disciples during the last supper? No doubt the following days and weeks will prove difficult enough for you in the light of your father’s death, so take your ease and do not argue with me. And if you are worried about my hands being dirty, I’ve washed them.’

He left her to think on that while he fetched food and drink, trying not to dwell on how erotic he found her appearance in her mourning garb. He had to remind himself that she was the daughter of the house and that he could find a far more suitable bride in Scotland. He had almost made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong. She was the daughter of one of his neighbours, an arrogant man who ruled his household with an iron rod. His wife had died in suspicious circumstances and Mackillin would like to rescue Mary from her father’s house.

Besides, his mother, the Lady Joan, had been a great friend of Mary’s mother, and she had spoken in favour of such an alliance years ago, although his father had been against it. There had been no love lost between the two men. The disagreement had resulted in one of their quarrels which always ended up with his mother preserving an icy silence towards her husband for days on end. As a young girl she had been carried across Mackillin’s father’s saddlebow on a border raid like a common wench and she had never forgiven him for treating her in such a fashion.

His mother had found no welcome in her future in-laws’ house, one reason being that she could never forget that she belonged to the highborn English family, the Percys. It was to them Mackillin had been sent after his half-brother, Fergus, had tried to kill him seventeen years ago, when he was eight years old. His Scottish half-brothers had resented him, almost as much as they hated his mother. His upbringing would have been less violent if they had been girls instead of boys, but then he might have stayed home instead of leaving to be educated in Northumberland and indulging his love of boats and travel.

Cicely decided that perhaps it was best to do what Mackillin said and sat in the chair he vacated. She stretched her cold feet towards the fire, not knowing what to make of the man. What kind of lord was it that waited on a woman? An unusual one who excused his lowly behaviour by speaking of Christ’s humility. She wondered in what other way he would surprise her during his sojourn in her home. What if he ended up staying a sennight or more? She was thankful there was still food in the storeroom: flour, raisins, a side of bacon, salted fish, smoked eel, a little butter, cheese, fresh and bottled fruit, honey, oats and barley. Also, enough logs remained piled high in one of the outhouses. The animals were not forgotten either and there was some straw and hay, as well as corn in the barn.

She heard a noise and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mackillin carrying a platter. She rose hastily to her feet. ‘You should not be doing this, Lor—Mackillin,’ she said, taking the platter from him and placing it on the table.

He ignored her comment and put a napkin and knife beside the platter before leaving the kitchen. She sat down, wondering if he would return. No matter. She was famished and the chicken leg and slices of breast meat looked appetising. She picked up the meat and sank her teeth into it. It tasted so good that she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

‘This will wash it down,’ said a voice.

She opened her eyes and saw that Mackillin was holding a silver-and-glass pitcher of what appeared to be her father’s malmsey, a wine he had called the best in the world. ‘You’ve drunk some of that?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Jack said it would go well with the pears and green cheese.’

‘But not chicken,’ she said firmly. ‘We always drink a white wine from a kinsman’s vineyard in Kent with fowl.’

‘We had some of that, too.’

She stared at him suspiciously. ‘My brother was not drunk when he went up to bed, was he?’

Mackillin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nay, lass, he wasn’t. I drank most of the white wine. Although I have to tell you that I have tasted better. Not your fault, but if I’d known I might be snowed in here, I would have thought of bringing some of my kinsman’s vintage from the Loire, instead of shipping it with a courier to my mother. Still, you have the malmsey and that will do you good.’ He added conversationally, ‘The grape used in making malmsey is from the Monemvasia vine, now grown in Madeira, but native to Greece. Sugar is also cultivated on the island and together they produce this sweet dessert wine.’

‘I wanted Father to take me with him on his travels,’ she murmured, watching Mackillin pour the tawny-coloured wine into a beautiful Venetian drinking vessel, which seemed out of place in the kitchen.

‘Perhaps one day someone else might take you there,’ he said, handing the glass to her. ‘Bon appetit, Mistress Cicely. I will leave you to enjoy your wine and see you in the morning.’

She murmured her gratitude, watching him leave the kitchen. He had left the lantern behind, its flame winking on the sparkling glass. Sipping the malmsey, she pondered the unusual behaviour of a certain Scottish lord and sensed it was even more imperative for her peace of mind that he left as soon as possible.

But it was not to be the following morning because although the snow had ceased to fall, it lay thickly over the fields and hills as far as the eye could see. The sky looked heavy with the threat of more to come.

‘I hope Matt reached York before the snow came,’ said Jack, his youthful face grim as he addressed his sister. ‘Perhaps he won’t ride on to Kingston-on-Hull when it clears, but come home.’

She nodded, gazing at the path that had been cleared through the snow to the outbuildings. Mackillin, Robbie and Tom had seen to the horses and Jack had fed the hens housed in the barn.

‘Even Father’s steward won’t be able to reach us while it is like this,’ said Cicely, chewing her lower lip. ‘His concern will be for the tenants’ flocks.’

‘And who can blame him? Even the best of shepherds will have difficulty keeping all their sheep alive in this weather. We can manage here without him.’ Jack stamped snow from his boots and glanced at their guest as they went indoors. ‘I pray you’ll forgive me, Mackillin. It’s my fault you’re stranded here.’

Mackillin shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. It is the fault of those murdering curs in Bruges. Besides, you have no control over the weather. We could have been on the road when the blizzard came and we’d have been caught out in the open. If I’m to be delayed, then best it be here.’

‘Come and warm yourselves by the fire,’ said Cicely. ‘I’m mulling ale and have asked Cook to fry some bacon collops. I thought you might be in need of a second breakfast.’

‘That’s a grand notion,’ said Mackillin, rolling the ‘r’ and smiling down at her. ‘Yet you must be cursing me at a time when you need peace and quiet to mourn your father.’

‘I deem the house is big enough for all of us to find peace in solitude if need be,’ said Cicely, her calm expression concealing the turmoil his nearness caused her. ‘As soon as possible we’ll have to get a message to Diccon, informing him of Father’s death, albeit we’ll most likely have to get in touch with Owain ap Rowan first.’

Mackillin’s brow furrowed. ‘I have heard the name of ap Rowan before.’

‘Owain ap Rowan is a horse breeder and has stud farms in the palatines of Chester and Lancaster,’ said Jack.

‘He’s a good man,’ said Cicely, fetching cups from a cupboard and placing them on a table. ‘He has travelled Europe, too. Diccon told me that the ap Rowans supplied horses to the present King Henry’s armies during the wars with France. He and Father were great friends.’

‘I deem that Master ap Rowan has several excellent qualities—but who is Diccon?’ asked Mackillin, watching her graceful figure return to the fireplace.

‘Our stepbrother,’ replied Jack.

‘We had hoped he would be home for the Christmas festivities,’ said Cicely, ladling the brew into cups, ‘but he never arrived.’

‘Cissie fears he might have got himself involved with the Yorkists’ cause,’ said Jack, grimacing.

Cicely tried to frown her brother down, not wanting Mackillin to know too much about Diccon’s affairs, but it was too late.

‘I met the Duke of York’s heir in Calais the other year. I can understand your stepbrother’s involvement with him,’ said Mackillin, catching that frown of hers and wondering what was behind it. ‘He spent a great deal of time talking to merchants and mariners. I saw your father there, too.’

‘Then it’s likely you met Diccon,’ said Jack. ‘Diccon Fletcher? He would have been with Father.’

‘In that case it’s highly likely that I did. I just need to think back to that time and I will remember him.’ Mackillin accepted the cup of steaming ale from Cicely. His hazel eyes washed slowly over her lovely pale face and he remembered the feel of her mouth beneath his and would have liked to have repeated the experience, but knew he had to resist such urges. Mary was to be his chosen bride. He did not love her, but then what had marriage to do with love? His father had supposedly fallen in love at first sight with his mother and what good had that done him? Mary would be grateful to him and get on with his mother and together they would organise his household. He would never beat Mary like her father did and he would do his best to make her happy. Although he did not care for Sir Malcolm Armstrong, it would be better to have him as an ally than an enemy.

‘Well, have you remembered Diccon?’ asked Jack.

Mackillin smiled. ‘Not yet. So what is it you fear? That in the power struggle between Lancaster and York, he will be caught in the middle and be lost to you?’

‘Aye. That is exactly what I fear,’ murmured Cicely, lifting her eyes to his rugged face. ‘We are betrothed and I have no wish to have him taken from me before we are even wed.’

Before Mackillin could assimilate her words, Jack burst out, ‘Father made no mention of such a betrothal.’

Cicely turned on him. ‘You know naught about it. I tell you I could have persuaded Father to change his mind about refusing to give Diccon my hand if he had not been killed.’ Her voice broke and, dropping the ladle, she would have fled the hall if Tabitha and Martha had not entered, carrying trays, at that moment.

‘The bacon collops, Mistress Cicely,’ said Martha, looking askance at her.

Cicely pulled herself together and returned to the table. To her relief, neither man mentioned her outburst, but instead spoke of the baggage that had been unloaded from the packhorses. Mackillin asked whether Jack wanted the packages moved or unpacked first and sorted out.

Jack hesitated. ‘Some goods are for customers and others gifts for family and the church. I had thought it was probably best to leave all until Matt returns—but with the weather the way it is it’ll give us something to do, unpacking and listing everything.’ He turned to his sister. ‘You can help me with that, Cissie.’

She had calmed down somewhat and agreed, stretching out a hand for her bacon collop on the platter in the middle of the table and placing it on a slice of bread. ‘Father promised me a sheet of Flemish glass for my bedchamber window. At this time of year so many draughts manage to get through the gaps between the shutters and frame.’

Jack turned to her and his eyes were bright. ‘He kept his promise as he always did. He purchased a new kind of glass, not so thick as that in my bedchamber and much clearer. The trouble was that it was too large to load on to the packhorses—as were some of his other purchases, such as the glass he bought for the village church in memory of our stepmother. The shipping agent is sending them by cart. They were packed carefully and I pray that neither gets broken on the way.’

‘Me, too,’ she murmured, thinking the glass would be a gift worth waiting for. She took a bite of her food before getting up and wandering over to the pile of baggage.

Mackillin and Jack followed her over, but no one made a move to unpack any of the goods immediately. Cicely was remembering other such times when her father had produced gifts for his womenfolk’s delectation.

Noticing the sadness in her face and guessing the reason, Mackillin sought to detract her thoughts. ‘There is a fine thirteenth-century stained-glass window in the Cathedral of St Maurice in Angers,’ he said.

His mention of the saint roused Cicely’s interest. ‘St Maurice is the patron saint of cloth-makers. Do they make cloth in Angers?’

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I only know that the women are skilful in tapestry work.’

He had surprised her. ‘How do you know this?’

‘My mother visited her French kin in Angers as a young girl and a few years ago she asked me to purchase a tapestry for her.’

‘Isn’t Angers the main city of Anjou?’ she asked.

Mackillin nodded. ‘The Queen of England’s father, King René, has his court there.’

‘You have visited his court?’ asked Cicely.

A slight smile lifted the corner of Mackillin’s lips. ‘If I said aye, admit that would surprise you, lass.’ She flushed, but did not comment, and he added, ‘I was no lord then, but he knew the Percys and so welcomed me. René is a good man, cultured, but with no airs and graces. He likes to talk to his subjects and visitors alike. We discussed painting, music, the law and mathematics.’

Indeed, he had amazed her, thought Cicely, finding it difficult to imagine this man conversing on such topics.

Jack groaned. ‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned mathematics. Father was adamant that every merchant should have a knowledge of the subject. There are books he wanted me to read. That’s why he wished to speak to Master Caxton. I never thought being a merchant would involve so much study.’

Mackillin winked at Cicely and instinctively she smiled. For a moment their eyes held and it was as if a flame passed between them. Her pulses leapt and she thought, this can’t be happening! Determinedly, she looked away. Just because he was proving not as uncouth as she had first believed him to be, that did not mean he was to be trusted. She spotted the rolled pallets and blankets in a corner and faced him again. ‘I will have the best bedchamber prepared for you.’

‘I would appreciate that…and a basin of hot water would not go amiss,’ he said, rasping the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.

Jack swallowed the last bite of his bacon collop. ‘We can do better than that for you, Mackillin. Adjacent to the best bedchamber is a room with a tub.’

‘Aye,’ said Cicely, her eyes brightening. ‘I’m sure your lordship will benefit from a soak in hot water and some clean raiment.’

Mackillin desired only a few things more than sinking his smelly and aching body in a tub of steaming water and to don the clean raiment in his saddlebag, and he realised at the top of the list was an urge to bed the lass in front of him. Knowing that was out of the question, he teased her instead. ‘I could catch ma death of cold if I were to wash, lass.’

He had to be jesting, thought Cicely and said firmly, ‘Then put on an extra garment.’

Jack grinned. ‘I deem he does not wish to give you more work, Cissie. I saw Mackillin immerse himself in a barrel of water aboard ship when we crossed the sea. I wouldn’t have done it. The wind was freezing and from the north.’

‘Hush, laddie,’ said Mackillin, laughter in his eyes. ‘Your sister might start changing her mind about me.’

Cicely would not allow herself to be drawn on that subject and only said, ‘Then you would like the tub filled?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘It will be done, even if I have to wind up the buckets of water myself,’ she said, picking up one of the parcels and trying to guess its contents by feeling it.

Instantly the laughter died in his eyes and he looked horrified. ‘Nay, mistress, it is not a task for you. Robbie will help me to draw water. We’ll also fill the empty water butts. It will help pass the time and prevent my body from getting soft…. And before you remind me that lords don’t do such menial work,’ he added, ‘I tell you that this one has done plenty in the past. We’ll make a start now. Who’s to say when next I’ll be able to bathe if the ground freezes and the water in it, too?’

She put the parcel down. ‘Then we would have to break the ice and when the water butts ran out we’d dig snow and melt it in pans over the fire,’ she said promptly.

‘You’re a lass of good sense,’ he said gravely.

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and watched as he and Robbie left the hall. ‘Has Mackillin mentioned a wife to you, Jack?’ she asked casually.

He hesitated. ‘Why don’t you ask him if you’re interested? I’m certain Father did not wish you to marry Diccon.’

‘If he did not speak to you about it, how do you know?’ demanded Cicely.

Jack’s expression changed. ‘Take my word for it, Cissie. He had someone else in mind for you.’ Before she could ask whom, he hurried after Mackillin and Robbie.

Frustrated, Cicely went upstairs to prepare the best bedchamber for Mackillin.

It was to be a couple of hours before the tub was ready and Mackillin followed her upstairs. His eyes were drawn to the seductive sway of her hips in the black gown and he wondered what Diccon Fletcher was thinking, to leave her here unprotected when he must have known her father was away in Europe. He remembered Diccon now. A pleasant-looking young man, hot for adventure and keen for advancement. After Nat Milburn had introduced them, they had later met in a tavern in company with the young Edward of York and some of his followers. Diccon had drunk too much and spoken of King Henry failing to keep his word and reward him for services rendered. Mackillin did not doubt for a moment that Diccon was now Edward’s man. It concerned him only as far as it would affect Cicely’s future. Nat Milburn’s dying words made him uneasy in the light of what he now knew about his daughter and her relationship with Diccon. What if he was killed in battle? Who would she marry then?

He told himself that it was not his concern, he was for Scotland and a bride of his choosing. Even so he could not take his eyes from Cicely as, holding the lantern high, she turned right and led him along a passage. Now he was only a pace or so behind her and could smell the perfume of her hair. He was reminded of the camomile daisy that grew in profusion on his French kinsman’s estate. He had seen the women gathering the flower heads and drying them to use in their washing water, but their scent had never affected him as it did now.

She stopped in front of a large, carved door that stood slightly ajar and pushed it wide. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here, Mackillin.’

‘I’m sure I shall. You can have no idea of the state of some of the places I’ve slept in,’ he said, indicating that she precede him into the bedchamber.

She hesitated, but then told herself it was unlikely he would make advances to her now he knew that she was the daughter of the house, only to recall seconds later his pulling her on to his lap in the middle of the night. If only Diccon would return. Surely she would not be so affected by this man’s presence if he was near?

She placed the lantern next to a bowl of dried rose petals, lavender and gillyflower heads on an ornate circular table. This stood beneath the polished metal of an oval gilt-framed mirror. On the other walls there were several tapestries. The sky had darkened and snow was falling again, but the chill had been taken from the room by a charcoal brazier. The bedchamber was bright with the light from several costly beeswax candles.

It was obvious to Mackillin that much care and money had been lavished on the room. He glanced at the bed that was of a width in which two people could lie in comfort. Its hangings and coverlet were made from a damasked cloth, woven in reds and yellows, and he imagined tossing Cicely on the bed, drawing the curtains and ridding her of clothing before smothering her body with kisses. He felt himself grow hard and forced himself to look away from the bed.

There were two armoires, as well as a large carved chest, and underfoot a floor covering thick enough for his boots to leave an impression. If he had not known already that Jack and Cicely’s father was a rich merchant, then he would have recognised just how wealthy he was now. He remembered his parents having separate bedchambers and neither were half as well appointed as this one. He could have laughed out loud at the thought of his mother being introduced to Cicely and finding her wanting as a suitable wife for him because she was a commoner. She had more grace and spirit and good taste than many a lady he had met in his Percy kinsman’s Northumberland castle.

He felt out of place in his mud-splattered and smelly garments and a desire to improve his standing in Cicely’s eyes swelled inside him. ‘This tub?’ he asked, noticing his saddlebags had been unpacked by Robbie and raiment laid out on the bed.

‘Through here,’ said Cicely, casting a glance at the garments.

She led him over to a small door that stood ajar in the corner of the chamber. As she did so there came a sound at the outer door and a discreet knock. They both turned their heads to see Tom, carrying a steaming bucket. ‘More water for his lordship, Mistress Cicely. Shall I top up the tub?’

‘Aye, Tom.’

Mackillin held up a hand. ‘Nay, man. Just place the bucket inside the room. I’ll need to test the water first. Do you know where Robbie is?’

‘He’s seeing how the horses are doing.’

Mackillin’s brow puckered. ‘I’ll need you then to help me off with my boots. Have you any skill with barbering?’

‘Aye, my lord, I used to shave my grandfather,’ said Tom.

Mackillin nodded and flashed a smiling glance at Cicely. ‘My thanks, lass. I’ll not keep you.’

She hurried from the chamber and forced her mind along different channels from that of him shaved and bathed. She had not seen her brother for a while and wondered if he had placed some of the goods that had been unpacked in his bedchamber. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it and peeped inside. It was empty.

She searched for him downstairs and when she did not find him, wondered if he was in the stables with Robbie. She hoped he had not done too much by using his damaged arm to cut cords. She decided to return upstairs, wanting to check with Tom that Mackillin had all he needed. On passing the chest in the passage, she noticed a tablet of soap on its lid and thought she must have forgotten to place it alongside the drying cloths in the tub room. She picked it up and hurried to the bedchamber. The door was ajar and she called Tom’s name. When he did not answer, she decided that most likely he was with Mackillin. She could hear splashing from the adjoining room, which surely meant his lordship was already in the tub.

‘Tom!’ she called. No response. ‘Mackillin!’

She hesitated before knocking on the antechamber door and peering inside. She could see the tub and a few wisps of steam, but no sign of either man. A whooshing noise caused her to almost jump out of her skin. A head broke the surface of the water and then shoulders and chest. She gaped, staring at the double-wing shaped mat of dark coppery curls and the long silvery scar beneath the left collar bone. She felt such a heat inside her. As if in a trance, she watched him reach blindly for the sword lying on the drying cloth on the stool.

She scooped up his dirty garments as he flicked back his trimmed hair and stood up, water streaming from his body. Cicely gasped and closed her eyes tightly. She had seen her brothers naked in a tub when they were tiny, but never a fully grown man exhibiting such masculinity. She opened her eyes, threw the soap in his direction and fled.

Chapter Three

‘Cissie, where are you going in such a rush?’ asked Jack, passing her on the stairs. ‘You’ll break your neck coming down at that speed.’

Thankfully diverted from the vision of the naked Mackillin, she placed the dirty garments behind her back and slowed to a halt, resting her free hand on a baluster. ‘Where’ve you been? I was concerned about you.’

A crack of laughter escaped him. ‘Why? What do you think could happen to me when we’re snowed in? I’m not such a dolt as to attempt with a damaged arm to ride ten leagues or more in deep snow and the heavens throwing more of it down.’

Alarm caused her to blurt out, ‘You’ve thought of doing so? You’re concerned about Matt?’

A wary expression flickered in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Do you sense he’s in danger?’

He hesitated. ‘I imagine he’s anxious and fearful, but that shouldn’t surprise either of us in the circumstances. Why don’t you sit by the fire with your embroidery and rest?’

‘What about the rest of the unpacking of the goods you brought home?’

‘They can wait. You’re always hurrying hither and thither. I’m sure the servants know well enough what to do about preparing our next meal without you overseeing them more than necessary.’

Cicely considered his words. Sitting quietly by the fire with her embroidery held a definite attraction. But what if Mackillin should come down and find her alone? She did not know how she was going to look him in the face. Her eyes would travel south. No! She must not harbour such a thought. If only he had not come here, she thought fretfully. If only her stepmother had not died, she felt certain her father would not have set out on his travels again. If he had allowed Jack to go abroad with one of his agents, he would still be alive and Mackillin would not have hotfooted it here for a reward. She must keep telling herself that was his only reason for being here. Although, perhaps it would be best not to think of him. Instead, she would consider how they were to get the news of her father’s murder to Diccon.

She went and placed Mackillin’s dirty clothing in the laundry room. Then she fetched her embroidery and thought to cover her hair with a black veil to complete her mourning attire before settling in front of the fire. She soon realised it was a waste of time trying to work out a way to get news to Diccon while they were snowed in. Instead she allowed her thoughts to drift to what it would be like to travel the seas on Mackillin’s ship and see those places that her father had visited. She regretted deeply that never would she be able to hear his voice describing Venice, Florence, Bruges and all the other cities she would have liked to have seen in his company; but she sensed that his lordship had her father’s gift for painting pictures with words.

Mackillin was thoughtful as he rubbed himself vigorously with the drying cloth. His skin glowed and a wry smile creased his face. At least Mistress Cicely should be satisfied that he no longer stank of honest sweat and horse. Had it been she who had thrown the soap? He had glimpsed a whisk of a black skirt vanishing when he opened his eyes and his soiled garments had disappeared. Hopefully she had not seen enough of him to frighten her away. He smiled wryly, remembering on his travels how pleasant it had been to have a wench wash his back and generally make herself useful. Vividly, a picture came into his mind of Cicely behaving in a similar fashion and he imagined the soft swell of her breasts beneath silk brushing his bare shoulder. Desire rushed through him and he shook his head as if to rid himself of such longings. She was not for him, whatever Nat Milburn had promised.

He must concentrate his thoughts on his intended bride. From what he remembered of her from their last meeting, Mary was as different in appearance to Cicely Milburn as could be, but then she had only been a child and would surely have improved. She had dark hair, not the colour of corn like Mistress Cicely. He had never felt it, but doubted it would be as silky as Jack’s sister’s was when he had seized a handful of it while he had kissed her. Hell and damnation, he must stop thinking of her! Marrying Mary Armstrong would provide him with all he needed. She was sturdy and strong and no doubt could produce healthy sons and pretty daughters. His elder half-brother had wed and sired children, but no offspring had lived beyond infancy. As for the younger one, Fergus, his wife had died in childbirth last year and the baby with her, poor lass.

His lips tightened as he relived Fergus’s teasing and bullying, the challenges and hard-fought tussles on the battlements of their grandfather’s castle in the south-west of Scotland and his father’s keep in the Border country. The scar beneath his collarbone throbbed as if experiencing afresh the plunge of Fergus’s blade. Mackillin would never forget the hatred in his eyes for the son of the English woman who had replaced their mother. Now the three men were dead, killed in an ambush. His mother did not seem to know who was responsible. Due to his half-brothers leaving no heirs, Mackillin had inherited Killin Keep and its lands.

He was reminded again of Cicely, wondering if she would change her mind about his being a barbarian if she knew he was half-English. At least his altered appearance might convince her that he was no savage. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw as he strolled into the bedchamber with the drying cloth slung about his lean hips.

Mackillin reached for his drawers and hose and pulled them on. He then put on a petticote beneath a linen shirt and donned a green woollen doublet, embroidered at neck, cuffs and hem. Over this he pulled on a sleeveless brown velvet surcoat that reached to his hose-covered calves before placing a vellum-backed book inside a concealed pocket. He combed his hair, which had been cut to just below his ears. Now he felt fit to be in a woman’s company.

Thinking of Cicely again brought a lift to his heart, but a frown to his face as he slipped on a pair of leather shoes that laced up the sides. He took the lantern from the table and left the bedchamber, locking the door behind him. He placed the key in his pocket and strolled down the passage. As he went downstairs, he spotted Cicely sitting by the fire and scowled. She had covered her hair with a black veil; with her black gown and surcoat, this gave her a nun-like appearance. Was it deliberate? Was she saying, Do not touch?

As he approached, the dogs lifted their heads and she glanced up from her sewing. He saw her eyes widen and knew he had achieved the effect he had aimed for. His mood lightened. She half rose in her chair, but he told her not to disturb herself, so she resumed her seat and bent her head over her embroidery.

Mackillin settled himself in a chair close to the fire and took out his book. It was one that an elderly Percy relative had left him in his will and was over fifty years old. Fortunately the handwriting was still legible. As he carefully turned the pages, he was aware that Cicely was watching him.

‘Whenever I take up this book, I think of the copyist working for months on end, writing out thousands of words,’ he said.

‘What book is it?’ asked Cicely, impressed not only by his appearance but that he should produce a book and to all purposes seem intent on reading it. She was relieved that he appeared to have no idea that she had seen him in his skin and yet felt vexed with herself for wanting to touch his shaven cheek and run her fingers through the chestnut hair that curled about his ears. What would her father have thought of her for having such desires? How could she be grieving for him, be in love with Diccon and yet still be attracted to this man?

‘The Canterbury Tales—have you heard of it?’ asked Mackillin.

‘Aye. But I’ve never seen a copy before.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded normal.

‘Perhaps you’d like me to read some to you?’ He had found the place where he had left off and, without waiting for her answer, added, ‘This is part of “The Monk’s Tale”, a piece written about Count Ugolino of Pisa.’

‘Who was this Count, my lord?’

‘Mackillin,’ he said automatically, reading in silence for a few moments before lifting his head and grimacing. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Why—why not?’ She stared at him and their eyes met and held for several quickened heartbeats.

‘Because it is a tragedy and you have enough sadness to deal with at the moment,’ he said brusquely, lowering his gaze and turning pages. ‘“The Miller’s Tale” is amusing and brings tears to the eyes, but it is not suitable for a maid’s ears. Perhaps “The Second Nun’s Tale” would be best. There’s an “Invocation to Mary”, daughter and mother of our Saviour in its pages.’

‘Daughter and mother?’

‘Aye, such is what the writer has written here…maid and mother, daughter of thy son.’

‘I have never thought of our Lady being both daughter and mother to our Saviour before….’ She stumbled over the words, but added, ‘Of course, if He is part of the Trinity—Father, Son and Holy Ghost, three in one—then it must be so. And yet…’

‘It is a mystery, I agree. Do you wish me to read on? Or would you rather I read…what have we here?’ He smiled. ‘An “Interpretatio Nominis Ceciliae”. Did you know that the name Cecilia in the English tongue means Lily of Heaven?’

‘Aye! My father told me so. Cecilia was a highborn Roman woman and my name derives from hers.’ Cicely was amazed that they were having such a conversation and not only because she was reneging on her decision to distance herself from him.

‘You know her story?’

She nodded, filling in a flower petal with blue thread and thinking of the Cecilia who had converted her pagan husband to Christianity. ‘If you have not read it before, then I do not mind hearing it again,’ she murmured.

‘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?

She pondered the matter on and off for the rest of the evening, as they unpacked some of the items Nat had bought in Europe. Amongst the goods he had purchased on behalf of his regular customers, she discovered a great gift from her father. Tears filled her eyes as she turned the pages of The Book of Hours, a layperson’s book of devotion that Jack told her was Nat’s belated extra birthday present for her. She was tempted to wander over to the fire and delve further into it, but at that moment Mackillin produced a lute from wrappings of thickly woven cloth.

‘Who’s that for?’ she asked, clutching her precious book to her breast.

Jack paused in the act of opening a box containing jars of pepper that had also been purchased in Venice, the city controlling a large part in the market of that commodity. ‘Owain asked Father to have one specially made for Anna in Venice. Gareth accidentally dropped hers down the stairs—unfortunately it was smashed beyond repair.’

‘Who are Anna and Gareth?’ asked Mackillin absently, inspecting the inlaid mother-of-pearl patterning on the musical instrument.

‘Anna is Owain’s much younger half-sister and Gareth is his son,’ answered Cicely.

‘It’s a wonderful gift,’ said Mackillin, carefully plucking a couple of the strings.

‘You play?’ asked Cicely, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘Matt plays the guitar and Jack makes a noise on the drums. Sometimes they create sounds that cause me to cover my ears and yet at others—’

‘At others,’ interrupted Jack with a grin, ‘you were wont to sing and dance. I remember Father—’ He stopped abruptly and his lips quivered.

Mackillin placed the lute on a table. ‘I am certain Nat would not want the music in this house to end with his death,’ he said firmly. ‘I remember meeting him in Marseilles a while ago and he would insist on singing after we’d downed enough wine and brandy to float a ship.’

Cicely and Jack groaned in unison. ‘Father loved music, but he always sang off key,’ said the latter.

‘Yet right now I’d give anything to hear him sing,’ said Cicely, a catch in her voice.

Jack nodded and Mackillin noticed that his eyes were shiny with tears. The youth left the box he’d been unpacking and walked over to the fireplace. Cicely followed him, putting an arm around him as her brother gazed into the fire. Mackillin cursed himself for telling that tale and racked his brains for something to do to take the youth’s mind off his sorrow. Then he remembered the chessboard he had seen set up on a side table and suggested to Jack that they could make a match of it.

‘I’ve never played,’ he admitted, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘It was Father and Cissie who enjoyed testing the other’s wits.’

‘I could teach you,’ suggested Mackillin.

Jack hesitated and then nodded.

Cicely left them to it and sat down and opened The Book of Hours.

Now the only sounds to be heard were the occasional murmur of voices, the turning of pages, the crackling of the fire and the roar of the wind in the chimney. Even so Cicely found it difficult to keep her mind on the pages of her book. Her attention kept wandering to the table where their guest was instructing her brother. He had surprised her again in more ways than one. He was extremely patient with Jack and she wondered where such a man as he had developed such a gift. Several times she caught him glancing her way and she lowered her eyes instantly. Suppressing her attraction to this man was essential if she was to maintain a distance between them until he left.

Two days later when Cicely threw back the shutters, the sun poured in. The air might be bitterly cold, but the brightness of the day lifted her spirits. She wanted to be outside, and after washing and dressing, hurried downstairs. On entering the hall, she found Tabitha shovelling ashes from the fire into a pail.

‘We’ll be needing those ashes,’ said Mackillin, appearing in the main entrance. ‘I’ve been outside, and the steps and yard where the snow has been cleared are slippery.’

Cicely’s pulses leapt. ‘Have you measured the deepness of the snow?’ she asked.

His hazel eyes creased at the corners as his gaze rested on her heart-shaped face. ‘I have been no further than the stables. You have it in mind to go somewhere?’

Had she? ‘I would like to go to the village. It is but half a mile away. I need to speak to the priest.’ She paused and felt a lump in her throat. ‘I deem he needs to know what has happened to Father as soon as possible so prayers can be said for his soul in church.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘I am willing to attempt a ride that far with you. If the snow proves too deep, then we will return.’ He picked up the pail of ashes.

Before Cicely could protest at his doing such a menial task, he had gone. She presumed they would break their fast before attempting to reach the village and went with Tabitha to speak to Cook.

It was just over an hour later that Mackillin and Cicely left the confines of the yard. The surface of the snow was frozen and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as they picked their way gingerly towards the track of beaten earth. It was only recognisable as such by the stark outline of the leafless trees that grew on one side of it; on the other was a ditch. Cicely noticed that Mackillin had a staff and a coiled rope attached to his saddle and wondered what use he would make of them. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold and her breath misted in the icy air; even so she was glad to be out of the house. For extra warmth she had wound a length of thick woollen material over her head and round her neck and her legs were encased in her lamb’s-wool bags beneath her skirts.

Even Mackillin had made a concession to the freezing weather by wearing a russet felt hat with a rolled-up brim. Neither of them spoke, although each were extremely aware of the other. Mackillin was questioning his reason for offering to accompany her when Tom could have easily done so. It would have been wiser to spend less time in her company, not more. Yet he was glad to have her at his side. She was a delight to look upon and surprisingly she rode astride her mount. He wondered if she had had cause to ride like the wind to escape an enemy at any time or because she enjoyed a good gallop and was more likely to remain in the saddle that way. He thought of last evening and of her reading the book her father had bought her. He mentioned the fact that she was able to read now.

She glanced at him. ‘Sometimes Father would be away for months on end and Mother never learnt to read or write, so he had the priest teach me along with my brothers. They were skills she seemed unable to grasp, so I kept the housekeeping accounts and she dictated messages to me to send to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I would like to read the gospel in English some day. Father told me once that his grandfather was imprisoned because he had read one of John Wycliffe’s translations. He was a follower of the Lollards. Have you heard of these men?’

Mackillin nodded. ‘Because they read the gospels in their own tongue, they began to question not only the Church’s interpretation of God’s word, but also the structure of society itself. They stirred up the common people to revolt and were ruthlessly put down at the instigation of the Church.’

She nodded, thinking he had surprised her again by being so well informed. ‘Some believe the movement has died out, but others have spoken of it having gone underground.’

His gaze washed over her face. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Dissatisfaction with the Church’s teaching is growing in some quarters in Europe too. There are men in the Low Countries determined to print copies of the gospels in their own tongue on the new printing presses. I do not doubt they will find a market and sell in their hundreds.’

Cicely’s eyes widened. ‘Is this possible?’

‘Aye. Although, no doubt, the Church will try to prevent it.’

‘Then there must be some truth in what the Lollards taught,’ she said firmly, ‘if the Church is so determined to prevent men reading God’s word for themselves.’

‘Men doing so could turn the world upside down.’

She did not say so, but she agreed with him. The Church had such power that it would surely fight any challenge to its authority.

Mackillin said, ‘Does Master Fletcher share your interest in reading the gospels in English?’

‘It is a matter we’ve not touched upon,’ she said in a stilted voice.

Mackillin frowned. ‘Yet you want to marry him. Do you have a day in mind?’

She flushed, sensing a criticism of either herself or Diccon in his comment. ‘Eastertide,’ she muttered. ‘If the quarrels between the houses of York and Lancaster do not spoil my plans and Master Husthwaite keeps his nose out of my affairs.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Master Husthwaite! You speak of that lantern-jawed cur who claimed to be your father’s new man of business?’

‘The very same! I do not trust him.’

‘You show sense. In my experience, it is not unknown for such men to act inappropriately with their clients’ funds. You would do well—’ He broke off as his mount lurched to the right and, steadying it with a firm hand, he looked down to where the wind had blown the snow into a drift that blocked the path. Their conversation was forgotten as he dismounted.

Cicely watched as he unfastened the straps that held the staff to his saddle. She hazarded a guess that he intended to test the depth of the drift. His booted foot sank into the snow past his knee as he plunged the staff into the snow a few inches in front of him. The staff disappeared from sight and he lost his balance, toppling face down in the snow. She bit back a laugh.

He lifted his head. ‘Don’t you dare!’

She giggled.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Stop your cackling, woman. It’s not helpful.’

‘I’m not cackling,’ she said indignantly. ‘I was about to dismount and offer you my hand. Now I’ve a good mind to leave you to your fate and ride back. Perhaps someone will find you after the thaw.’

He groaned. ‘You have to be jesting. I’ve a plan.’

‘So have I. I’ll fetch Robbie.’

‘And have him laugh his boots off? That’s not kind, Cissie.’

He had called her Cissie! ‘I don’t see why it isn’t,’ she teased. ‘Laughter is good for the soul.’

‘Cissie, if you dare fetch him, I’ll…’

He had called her Cissie again and his doing so gave her an odd feeling, as if a barrier had been removed. ‘You’ll what?’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re in no position to threaten me, Mackillin.’

He twisted his head and sighed. ‘That is no way to speak to a lord. You’ll have to help me, but don’t make a move until I say so.’

For a few moments Cicely had forgotten both that he was a lord and her decision to keep him at a distance because she had so enjoyed mocking him. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mackillin. Sing loud when you want my help.’

She dismounted, waiting for his command. It was obvious that he could not get up unaided. The snow might be hard on the surface, but it was soft underneath. If he tried to push himself up, then his arms would plunge beneath the snow and he would sink deeper into it.

‘Take the rope from my saddle and tie one end to the pommel and throw the other end to me where I can reach it.’

Instantly she realised what his plan was and wasted no time obeying him, reminded of a day on the fells when she had come upon a sheep that had wandered into a mire. She had wanted to help the poor creature, but couldn’t, and it had vanished beneath the surface. Mackillin’s situation was fortunately different because she was able to help him.

Having fastened the rope to the pommel, she watched Mackillin ease the other end of it round his chest and back and knot it beneath an armpit. He signalled to her to urge his horse along the path the way they had come. She did so and Mackillin spun round slowly and slid along the surface of the snow. In no time at all, he was free of the snowdrift and standing upright. She approached him, reaching out a hand, thinking only to help him unfasten the rope and brush the snow from his clothing.

But he seized her wrist and drew her towards him, a glint in his green-coppery hued eyes. ‘I should punish you for laughing at me,’ he said in a teasing voice.

She was breathlessly indignant. ‘I rescued you! I deserve a reward.’

‘Then you decide which it is to be.’ Smiling, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers in a tantalising fashion. It was so pleasant that instinctively his arms went round her and he brought her against him so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder.

With a heavily beating heart Cicely gazed up at him, knowing she felt his kiss had been no punishment. Perhaps he saw her answer in her eyes and that was why he followed it up with another kiss that was longer, deeper and intensely satisfying. She should have struggled, but she had no desire to resist him. Her lips parted beneath the insistent pressure of his mouth and she felt a further thrill as the tip of his tongue danced along the inside of her lip. It felt so sensual that her own tongue flickered against the side of his. Instantly she was aware of the quiver that passed through him and knew she should pull away, but her insides seemed to be melting like butter on hot bread and she didn’t want the moment to end.

Then a horse whinnied and attempted to thrust its head between them. Instantly Mackillin released her and his expression was so thunderous that Cicely was shocked and hastily turned away from him and went to her own horse, fumbling at the beast’s accoutrements with shaking hands. She dragged herself up into the saddle. Did he blame her for what had just happened between them? What was happening to her? What were these unfamiliar urges she felt towards him? It had been such fun and satisfying when they had worked together to free him from the snowdrift. If only she and Diccon could share such moments of being in harmony. She needed Mackillin to go far away so that she could concentrate her thoughts on praying for Diccon’s return. She needed inner peace instead of the tumultuous feelings that gripped her now. She must hold steadfast to her decision to keep her distance from Mackillin for the remainder of his stay at Milburn Manor.

‘We must go back.’ The harshness in his voice was enough to make her school her features before looking at him.

‘It would be foolish to continue,’ she said, sensing the tension in him as he held himself erect in the saddle.

He clenched his jaw and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. There were words he would have liked to say to her, but it would indeed be folly to speak them. He was shocked that a kiss he had intended as part of the fun they had shared had turned into something far deeper. What did he think he was playing at? He had made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong, knowing it was sensible. He did not expect to reach the heights in his alliance with her, knowing that the love that the poets and minstrels raved about scarcely existed between man and wife. Yet just now he had felt such an explosion of feeling inside him that a certain part of his body still throbbed with arousal. He could not help wondering whether Cicely was attracted to him, as he was to her, against her better judgement. He certainly could not allow it to interfere with his plans. After years of travelling and adventure it was time to settle down and raise a family. For that he needed allies to make his position more secure. For the remainder of his stay he would make sure not to be alone with Cicely.

Having made their decisions, both prayed that God would be kind to them and send a thaw.

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