Border Storm Read Free Page A

together. She heard tales of dicing and playing chess and, worse, tales of the two of them laughing together at Scrope’s fury. Her demands became more imperious. James, she insisted, must hand Buccleuch over to English authorities.
    In the meantime, with Buccleuch safely out of the way in Edinburgh, Scrope had stepped up his activities until, in Hugh’s mind, the present one overstepped the bounds of what was fair and reasonable. He had dutifully supported the warden’s earlier raids, understanding as all Borderers did the need for immediate retaliation. But it was not long before he began to suspect that Scrope was not acting out of a sense of duty but out of plain vengeance against Buccleuch. The rescue of the prisoner had deeply wounded Scrope’s pride, and now he was extracting a far heavier toll than even blackguard-ridden Liddesdale deserved to pay.
    In truth, Hugh reminded himself, Buccleuch had taken Carlisle by stealth and cunning with less than a hundred men. Many were not even Liddesdale men but were followers of Rabbie Redcloak, the man Scrope still pretended to believe he had captured.
    And to be fair, they had had reason for the raid. Scrope’s erstwhile prisoner was actually Sir Quinton Scott, Buccleuch’s cousin and deputy warden, and Sir Hugh’s cousin, Francis Musgrave, had seized him unlawfully during a truce.
    Scrope had ignored these details, however. He had also ignored the fact that no one had suffered in the raid (since he had mounted no resistance), and as time passed, he developed a veritable passion for revenge, culminating in the Liddesdale raid. Hugh knew that Scrope had acted out of pique and thought less of him for it.
    “Looks like the cowards have fled,” Loder said, snapping Hugh’s thoughts back to the present.
    Realizing that they had reached the clearing Loder had mentioned and that the three cottages showed no sign of life, Hugh felt a wave of relief. Was he growing soft? Surely Scrope would say that he was if he ever learned about the girl in the tree.
    Loder said, “We’d best fire these cots.”
    “Leave them,” Hugh said curtly. “Only the thatch and doors will burn, and the smoke is likely to draw our men nearer. This deep in the woods, we’d lose any number of them to bogs, if not to armed Scots perched in those damned trees. I don’t know what drew you here, Loder, or how you found this place without miring us in a swamp, but I’ll be happy just to get out of here alive.”
    “I know the way,” Loder said. Shooting a look at Hugh, then looking away again, he muttered, “Had cousins hereabouts when I were young.”
    Since he said no more, Hugh assumed that the cousins were not friendly now. Such was the way of life in the Borders.
    He expected an argument over whether to leave the cots or burn them, but Loder offered none. He merely suggested that they look inside each cottage to be certain that the occupants had gone and had left nothing worth the taking.
    “You check,” Hugh said. “I’ll keep watch out here in case of ambush. At least the rain seems to have stopped.”
    Nodding, Loder walked his horse to the first cottage and dismounted.
    Hugh kept his pistol at hand. The presence of the girl in the tree meant that there were folks about, but instincts honed over years of service told him that no danger threatened him. He watched alertly while Loder took his time to search the first cottage but relaxed when he entered the second without incident.
    They had made little noise, but there were still only two of them. If armed men waited in the trees, they would likely have seen or heard some sign of them by now. Indeed, they would likely be dead. Although he and Loder were both skilled at defending themselves, the odds were not in their favor. He wondered again why Loder had seemed so willing to enter the woods alone.
    Loder was not a friend. Having made no secret of his belief that Hugh served as deputy warden only because he had a powerful kinsman in