Virginia Henley Read Free Page A

her glance slid across his wide, muscular shoulders, she licked her lips and tossed back her red hair. “Patrick, I saw the fine horses you brought today. I’m old enough for a mount of my own. Would you be generous enough to give me one for my birthday?”
    “You are a saucy wench, Jenny Hepburn, and the answer would be no even if it was your birthday. I intend to sell the English horses back to the English.” When he saw her lips pout prettily, his big hand ruffled her hair. “Tell your father I said you could have a sure-footed pony. He can cut one from the herd that wintered on Fala Moor.”
    The seductress vanished. Jenny’s eager young face shone with hero worship. “Thank you, Patrick!”
    As Hepburn stood up and stretched his shoulders he saw the head steward, who was in charge of his household, approach with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. Patrick nodded his head in the direction of the library. He cursed good-naturedly and knew he’d have a couple of hours of Crichton business to attend to, approving everything from supplies for the brewery to a tally of his tenants’ rents, which his bailiff had collected. It was a constant battle between income and output, and he hoped he would never have to mortgage Crichton again to pay his men. The dogs followed at his heels and flung themselves down before the library fire. Like the castle’s human inhabitants, they knew that all was right with their world now that the master was home.
    Next morning, by break of dawn, David Hepburn had assembled the young reivers who had lifted the longhorns so successfully only a sennight ago. As Patrick joined them for the trek north, he noted with amusement that they showed little remorse. Still, it was enough that they were being forced to swallow their pride—no small feat for Borderers.
    The five-mile journey presented few problems but produced some ripe curses from the men as they herded the longhorns across Tyne Water. Winton Castle lay on the far side of the river, atop a rise in the fertile land. Pastures filled with cattle ranged as far as the eye could see, all owned by Geordie Seton, the irascible Earl of Winton. Seton land stretched all the way to the sea, and Patrick silently admitted that he coveted every acre.
    The earl spied them from half a mile away and came at full gallop. Now almost sixty, he had once been a handsome man with a head of thick, jet-black hair, which had now grown sparse and gray. His once fair skin was florid and wind-chapped. “God’s wounds, Hepburn, I never thought to see those beasties again. I intended to send men out searchin’ as soon as the calvin’ was done, but cowherds are no match fer bloody, thievin’ raiders! Where did ye find ’em?” he demanded angrily.
    “I spotted them yesterday on my way back from Border patrol. The cattle are distinctive—I knew immediately they were yours, Lord Winton,” Patrick replied truthfully.
    The wiry Seton would not let it go that easily. “I thought we were safe this far from the Border. I suspect it wasn’t the bloody English. I believe these reivers were Scots!”
    Patrick saw David Hepburn stiffen and he felt the alarm his men were experiencing. “You are right, your lordship. They were Scots,” he confirmed, relishing the discomfort his words provoked.
    “I knew I was right! It was the bloody Armstrongs, wasn’t it?”
    His ruddy face turned a shade of purple. “I demand that ye arrest them! I intend to lay charges at the next Border Wardens’ Court. I’ll go to the king if I must. I want justice!”
    “I dispensed immediate justice. I hanged Sim Armstrong.”
    “By Christ, ye ha’ my admiration and my thanks fer returnin’ the herd.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ve always bin against payin’ protection money, thinkin’ it a form of blackmail, d’ye ken? But now I believe the time is ripe to loosen the purse strings. Bring yer horse to the stable and come up to the castle, Patrick. We’ll draw up an