The Heather Moon Read Free

"Let's get this lass home."
    "Look, wee Tamsin misses the boy too," Cuthbert remarked. "Are ye sad, wee girl?"
    Archie glanced down. Tamsin frowned, the glint of tears in her eyes. She lifted her right hand to wave.
    The boy in the glen looked up and saw that, and waved in return. Archie felt a sharp tug deep in his heart.
    "Och," Cuthbert said, "d'ye think she knows that he was meant for her, and now she's lost him? That we've all lost him?"
    "How could she know? Nor will we tell her, not ever."
    "So she will never meet that fine lad." Cuthbert sighed. "Well, this day has made my heart full sore. I will have to make me a ballad about William Scott and the gypsy lass."
    Archie groaned. "Yer ballads are the worst I ever heard!"
    "Will-yam Skoht," the child said softly.
    "I thought she didna have the Scots tongue," Cuthbert said.
    She looked up at him. "Tongk," she repeated.
    "She's quick, this one." Archie patted the girl's silky head. "John Faw said she speaks Gypsy and some French, which he taught to her. Said she's a clever one."
    "But how do we teach her Scots?" Cuthbert asked. "I am no classroom dominie to teach a child, nor are you."
    "I will find her a tutor." Archie watched the party below disappear into a passage between two hills. He sighed and turned his horse away.
    "God's own wounds," he muttered. "Allan Scott o' Rookhope was the best of rogues. I will never forget the injustice that was done this day. Never."
    "Nor I. And if that lad ever decides to avenge his father, he will have Armstrongs and Elliots riding at his back."
    "Aye so. Rogue's Will Scott coulda been my own good-son, wed to my wee lass here."
    "Archie man, what must be, must be," Cuthbert said. "Ye'll find her a husband. Ye have years, yet. She will be a pretty chit, despite all."
    Despite all, Archie thought to himself. The child stirred in his arms and settled against his chest as they rode. Soon she drifted to sleep and her tiny left hand slipped free: a fingerless wedge, curled like a claw, with a normal enough thumb. What an odd little claw she had, Archie thought; it was soft and smooth and sweet as any babe's hand. He tucked it gently under her cloak, and held it protectively for a moment.
    He wondered if he would find a husband for her at all when the time came, let alone one to equal the son of the Rogue of Rookhope. Whatever came of the future, he would keep this wee bairn safe, he thought, and nodded to himself.

 
     
     
    Chapter 1

     
    Your pardon, lady, here you stand (If some should judge you by your hand) The greatest felon in the land Detected.
    —Ben Jonson, Masque of the Metamorphosed Gipsies
    July 1543
    Her eyes were a cool, delicate green, even in torchlight, but her gaze was hot and furious. If her gloved hands and booted ankles had not been bound, William thought, she might have thrown herself at him in a rage.
    Of the men gathered in the dungeon cell watching her, William Scott stood closest. He had advanced toward her, while his English host, her captor, stayed by the door with his guardsmen in trepidation.
    She watched William warily, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, breath heaving beneath the old leather doublet she wore. Despite men's clothing and the agile strength of her resistance, not one of them had mistaken her for a lad. She was clearly female, with well-shaped curves beneath doublet, breeches, and high boots.
    Besides, William thought wryly, only a woman could cast a glare that would make several armed men hesitate.
    She reminded him of a cornered wildcat: lithe, tawny, eyes blazing. Still, he saw a flicker of fear in her gaze. He remembered too well what it was like to be confined, bound, watched like a mummer's animal. Though he had been a lad at the time, the day of his own capture—the day his father had been hanged—still burned clear in his memory.
    He edged closer. "Be calm, lass," he murmured.
    Her glance darted from him to the others, sparking like green fire. She looked down at the man who lay