Page 106 of The Scottish Bride
With a snarl, he snatched a page and flapped it. “See for yourself. King’s command.”
She snapped open the page, held it up, but the room was dim. Three candlesticks were alight on the table. She lifted one.
“Do not!” he shouted, lunging for her, missing.
“I will not burn it! I cannot read it.” She held it up to the light, turning away from his grabbing hand. Examining it quickly, she saw, as she had before, that changes had been made. Partial lines had been scraped away. But the original inked words had bled deeply into the vellum. Traces were visible when she held it to the candlelight. Only a practiced eye would see the difference. She caught her breath.
“This says—Sir William Seton is to marry Lady Thomasina Keith, widow of Dalrinnie.” She looked up. “This was altered! The original order was for Sir William to marry me—not you!”
Malise set a hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “That was the king’s jest on Seton, thinking you were an old woman. It amused him. But I knew better. I promised to deliver the document to Seton and then paid a clerk to make a false copy for Seton and another version for me. Worth the coin,” he muttered. “Worth getting you in my bed.”
“But you will never.” She could hear shouts outside through the window—and far below too, echoing in the stairwell. Someone was coming—she had to get to the door. She moved. He stepped with her, glaring, his handsome face distorted, beauty gone ugly with his vile hatred, his vanity, his cruelty.
She had to delay him, distract him. “So that was why you came after him at Lochmaben! Not because you were hunting an outlaw. Because you could not let him find out about the orders you changed!”
“He is an outlaw and does not deserve the chance Edward gave him. He does not deserve you—or Dalrinnie either. I have wanted you since the first day I met you here,” he growled. “Witton’s luscious young Scottish bride. He was an old man. He did not deserve the prize he got.”
“Neither did you!” As she said it, he moved, grabbed her, yanked her so hard she fell across the table. One of the candles tumbled, catching the edge of a parchment.
“Fire!” she gasped as he dragged her across the tabletop. “Fire!”
“Damn it,” he growled, shoving her aside and grabbing a jug of liquid, tossing it over the flame. But it only bloomed higher. He upended a goblet over it. “God’s blood!”
Tamsin ran to the door and pulled hard, yanking it open. “Fire!” she screamed.
The shouts she had heard were men on the lower part of the steps. Now they pounded upward. “Fire! Fire! Lady Tamsin, is that you?” She heard Sir Davey.
“Here!” She ran out to the platform step. But Malise had smothered the fire and came after her, grabbing for her. “Sir Davey!” she screamed.
“The fire is out. Go back,” Malise snarled as David Campbell came into view.
“No, sir—not here. The bonfire in the bailey! Fire in the yard!”
“What!” Malise would not let her go, even as she twisted against him.
“The guisers from the village—they came in. We saw no harm in it. But they went mad, that lot. Set a bonfire in the bailey, set fire to a hay wagon. It is pandemonium.”
“Get rid of them! Kill them if you must. Where are the bowmen—”
“Sir Malise!” Footsteps again, armor chinking, and Patrick Siward came around the stair pillar. “The guisers—among them are men from Ettrick Forest. I recognize some of them.”
Malise shook Tamsin. “Did you bring them here? Is Seton coming for you? Good!” He turned for the stairs that led upward,still gripping her arm. “Go deal with them,” he yelled to the men over his shoulder, and pulled her fiercely up the steps.
She knew where he was taking her. To the parapet. To Agatha. To the cage.
High on thebattlement walkway, the wind struck her, blowing back her hair and her gown as Malise pushed open the door and dragged her out to the parapet level. Twilight had gone full dark, the moon floating above, riding in clouds, casting eerie shadows over the stone walls. The wide stone walkway was enclosed by the parapet wall on one side and was open on the other, looking down on the bailey. In the corners, the walkway widened to platforms. The cage sat in the nearest corner, under glowing torches in brackets. Malise pulled her that way.
Fumbling for a key at his belt, he tore open the door and shoved her in like bread pushed into an oven. She fell nearly on top of the woman who cowered inside the narrow space. Slamming the door, he spun and walked away without a word. He did not take the stone steps leading to the bailey—where shouts and commotion reigned—but instead headed for a door leading back into the tower.
Tamsin helped the other woman, knocked over by her entrance, to sit up. “Dame Agatha? I am sorry—are you hurt? I am Thomasina Keith.”
The woman looked at her, torchlight glowing along her face, her hair, her body. Without a veil, her hair was dark, tousled, trimmed short; she wore a rumpled, formless black gown over a white shift showing here and there; her feet were bare. She held a tartan blanket in her lap and stared at Tamsin as if stunned to see her.
“Lady Tamsin?” She peered, then smiled. A deep tuck appeared at the corner of her mouth, part of the long ugly scar that ran from her chin upward along the side of her face, pullingat the corner of her eye, disappearing into the tousle of her dark hair.
“You know my name?” Tamsin asked.
Agatha nodded. That beautiful Seton face, Tamsin saw, was delicately expressed in the sister; the prominent scar made no difference after a moment. Her large, long-lidded eyes were dark in torchlight, her brows thick and dark, her smile charming. She was younger than Tamsin had expected.
