"You found a lass? Where? Out in this storm?" the laird asked sharply.
"I cannot say for certain, my lord, but it would appear that the lass was traveling alone on foot and was caught unawares by the storm even as we were. She was clever enough to secrete herself between two of the cattle. It kept her from freezing to death. Robbie and the dogs found her when we went to fetch the cattle home."
"Where is she now?" the laird wanted to know.
"Robbie carried her to the pasture shelter where he and I had spent the night. He heated some whiskey and water and gave it to her. She fell back asleep, but after a night in the open she is, I suspect, very ill. We built up the fire, left food and water, and one of the dogs with her. We had no means to transport her, my lord, being on foot ourselves."
"Who is she? Did she tell you her name?" the laird asked sharply.
The herdsman shook his head. "Nay, my lord. The poor lass was barely conscious at all. If my son and I might take the cart and fetch her to the keep."
"Here? Why not your cottage, where your wife can nurse the wench?" the laird said. "She's probably some tinker's lass who got lost or separated from her people."
"Nay, my lord, I believe her to be a lady," Jock quickly responded.
"Why would you think a lady would be traveling alone and on foot across the moors?" the laird wanted to know.
"Her clothing, my lord. 'Twas not poor stuff. Her cloak is an excellent heavy wool, its hood edged in fur, its closure polished silver. She had good leather gloves upon her hands. I will wager they are lined in fur. I caught a glimpse of her gown beneath her cloak. Jersey of the best quality, and she carried a fine leather pouch strapped about her. She is not tinker's brat, or servant. She is a lady, my lord, and must come to the keep."
"Fiona, my angel, go and find your nurse," the laird instructed his little daughter. He kissed her cheek, and with a smile at him the little girl ran off. The laird turned back to Jock. "We'll ride out," he said, and then he called out that he wanted two horses saddled immediately. Standing up, he came down from the high board and, with Jock following in his wake, he hurried to the stables.
Malcolm Scott was a big, tall man with coal-black hair and eyes the color of a stormy gray sky that looked out from beneath a tangle of dark, heavy eyebrows. His thick wavy hair, which was longer than fashion dictated, was held back by a strip of leather and gave the appearance of being undisciplined. But the look in his eye bespoke a stern, strong man not easily moved. Everything about him appeared long. His straight nose. His thin mouth. The shape of his face with an oddly neat, squared chin that had the faint imprint of a dimple in its center.
As they entered the courtyard of the keep, a stableman ran forward with two horses. The laird mounted the large dappled-gray stallion while Jock clamored aboard a roan gelding. They clattered out and across the moor, heading toward the summer pastures and the pastures' small shelter. By horseback the distance was traveled more quickly, and they soon had the little structure in sight. No sooner had they dismounted than the dog inside began to bark.
"Hush, Shep!" the herdsman said as they entered. He was relieved to see that the fire in the tiny hearth was still burning. The oatcakes and the flask lay as they had been left. And the girl was still half conscious, half sleeping.
Malcolm Scott strode over to where Alix lay curled tightly up. He took her gently by a shoulder and rolled her onto her back. "She's flushed," he said, and put his hand upon her smooth forehead. "And feverish. We had best get her back to the keep." The herdsman was right. The lass was no tinker's get, cottager's wench, or servant girl. The high, smooth forehead, the dainty straight nose, the rosebud of a mouth, told him whoever she was she was not lowborn. "I'll carry her outside and take her up with me on my horse," the laird said to Jock. "You get the fire out and secure the shelter."
"Aye, my lord," Jock responded.
Malcolm Scott picked up the girl. Her head fell back from her hood against his arm, revealing a tangled mass of honey-colored curls. She was really quite lovely, he thought, but then the beautiful ones were always troublesome. Whoever she was, he would wager she was running away, but from whom? A husband? A father? He'd see she was made well again, and then he'd send her back from wherever she had come. Outside he handed the girl back to Jock briefly as he mounted his stallion, reaching back to take her up into his arms. She murmured softly as her cheek pressed against his leather jerkin, snuggling against him in a manner that made him oddly uncomfortable. He wasn't her savior, but she would soon know that. Urging his horse forward, he rode off towards the keep while behind him Jock closed up the shelter, then followed his master.
Alix finally awoke to find herself in a large bed. The sheet smelled of lavender. The coverlet was down, and she was not flea-bit. Opening her eyes fully, she saw a small hearth directly across from the bed blazing merrily. Next to the fireplace was a chair in which a woman dozed. "Can you tell me where I am?" she called out.
The woman woke immediately. She arose and came over to stand by the side of the bed. "Ahh, lassie, you're finally awake," she said in a soft voice. She was small and plump. Her hair was snow white yet her youthful round face held snapping blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and a broad mouth that now smiled at Alix. "I'm Mistress Fenella, the laird's housekeeper. Yer at Dunglais Keep."
"How long have I been here?" Alix asked softly.
"Ah, lassie, 'tis six days now since you were found out on the moor. Yer a very fortunate lass too that Jock and his lad found you. You might not have awakened at all if they hadn't. 'Twas canny of you to put yourself between the cattle for warmth." She turned. "I'm going to go fetch the laird now. He'll want to know that yer awake." Mistress Fenella bustled out of the room before Alix could question her further.
Alix pulled herself up, stuffing the pillows behind her. She was in one of her own night garments. Her eyes quickly swept the chamber. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed. To her right was a large window draped with a homespun linen and shuttered. Her bed was hung with the same linen. It was a natural color with a pattern of blue. To her left was a small table with a taper stick. Was it day or night?
The door to the room opened and a tall man strode in. "I am Malcolm Scott, the Laird of Dunglais," he said brusquely. "What is your name, mistress?"
"Alix," she answered him, startled. "Alix Givet, my lord."
"You are English," he noted almost scornfully.
"My parents came from Anjou," Alix said, stung by his tone.
"Where are your parents, mistress?" he asked.
"They are dead, my lord," and Alix crossed herself piously.
"And from whom were you running when we found you half-frozen out on the moor?" he demanded to know. "Who will sooner than later come pounding at my door insisting upon your return? Or are you being sought after by the local warden of the Marches and his sheriff?" He fixed her with a stern look.
"I am not a criminal, my lord. I have stolen nothing, nor broken any laws of which I am aware. I am a widow, and having been left with no means, set out to find my old mistress who has come into Scotland from England with her family. I hoped to be taken back into her service once again," Alix explained.
"You are no servant," he said. "The quality of your garments, the small bits of jewelry in your pack told me that."
"Where is my pouch?" she asked him nervously.
"In the chest at the foot of your bed, mistress. I have no need to steal," he said softly. "Why were you on foot? And how long had you been walking?"
"I was on foot because I would not take what was not mine from my father-in-law's stable," Alix said.
"You did not take a horse because you did not want him to know you were going," the laird responded. "Did the old man lust after you?" He chuckled.