The Captive Heart

you!'

'I could not, my lord! I simply could not wed him. I pointed out to him the church would not give him a dispensation to marry his son's widow. He said the archbishop could be bought, and he would get his dispensation, and I would give him his heir. I thought at first that I might with time dissuade him, but he began to approach me in a manner with which I was not comfortable. I told him I wanted to return to Queen Margaret. He said he would ask her permission to wed me once he had his dispensation and that she would give him that permission. I suspected he was right. I knew then that I must escape Wulfborn and its lord. I waited until he planned a two-day hunting party with his men and it was then I fled. I never expected a snowstorm.'

'The weather here in the borders is changeable,' the laird said.

'I was fortunate you found me,' Alix replied.

'If you cannot go to Queen Margaret, what will you do?' Malcolm Scott asked.

'I would remain at Dunglais, my lord. Please, I can be of service to you.'

'Indeed,' the laird replied, cocking one of his thick black eyebrows. 'And just how would you serve me, Alix Givet?' He let his glance move slowly over her form.

Alix blushed at his open scrutiny. 'Your daughter is growing up, and her nurse is too old. Fiona needs to learn the things that only a lady can teach her. You have no wife, or other female relation here at Dunglais, my lord. How do you expect to prepare your daughter for the marriage she must make one day?' she boldly demanded to know.

He looked surprised. 'What would you teach her, then?' he said.

'Fiona must learn to read, to write, to do simple sums so she can be certain her steward isn't stealing from her. She needs to study French, for she might go to court one day. She should learn how to sew and embroider. Her table manners are terrible and must be corrected. She needs to know all manner of household matters, and how to treat large and small illnesses that will afflict her servants and her Dunglais folk. Her old nurse cannot teach her any of these things, but I can. And I am skilled in certain healing arts, having learned them from my own father. Until Fiona is old enough to manage your hall, you need someone like me.' She looked at him hopefully.

The laird was thoughtful for several long moments and then he spoke. 'You make a good case for yourself, Alix Givet,' he said. 'And I have seen you already with my child. Fenella says that Fiona likes you. But can you be content to remain here? I am a simple border lord, nothing more. You will find no excitement at Dunglais. Your life here will be most circumspect.'

'I can be content here, my lord,' Alix assured him.

'Twelve silver pennies a year to be paid at Michaelmas then, material for two gowns and two chemises, the loan of a mare to ride. You will keep the bedchamber that you have and eat at the high board. This in exchange for your service to me. Is it suitable, Alix Givet?' he asked her.

'It is most acceptable,' she replied without hesitation as relief swept over her, She was safe! And it was unlikely that if Sir Udolf ever got his dispensation that he would find her here in the isolated place. 'I will take up my duties tomorrow, my lord.'

'Go to bed, then,' he told her, and he watched as, with a curtsy, she left the hall. Alix had given him pause for thought. She had been perfectly right when she said Fiona needed her, or someone like her. He didn't intend marrying ever again. Once had been more than enough. If Robena had been unique in her behavior, but he knew she was not. He had seen women like her at court whose only passion was for their own pleasure. Alix was in a difficult position, he knew. He thought it rather brave of her to speak so boldly to him, pointing out that he was not doing all he could for his child.

Fiona was his heiress. And any husband he found for her one day would expect her to be fully capable of managing her hall, her servants, and her Dunglais folk. His servants, even Fenella, could not teach her what she needed to know as a laird's only child. Clever of Alix to assess the situation and take advantage of it. But, of course, by taking advantage of his need she had assured herself of a home. But would a girl raised in a royal court be truly happy at Dunglais? Only time would tell.

The Christmas season was upon them. The countryside about Dunglais's dark stone towers was white with snow. Fiona was now spending her mornings at her studies. He was amused by her excitement at learning French. Now she would greet him each morning with a cheerful Bonjour, Papa!, and because he did speak French he would return her greeting with an equally bright Bonjour, ma fille. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Alix. And Fiona would giggle delightedly.

The first time it had happened, Alix had said, 'I did not know you could speak French, my lord.' And she was indeed surprised.

'I was educated in my youth,' the laird replied. 'And I have spent time at court. It always pleased Queen Marie to be addressed in her own language.'

'What did you do at court?' Alix asked him, curious.

'The little king's father and I had similar interests,' he responded. 'I was his friend, and with him when he was killed.'

'How did he die?' Alix asked.

'He was preparing to fire a cannon. It exploded, and he was killed,' Malcolm Scott said. 'We were, as usual, fighting the English. As soon as the queen heard, she came with the little king to rally the troops, and we triumphed in the fray.'

'What interests did you share?' Alix queried.

'Guns, good whiskey, and beautiful women' came the reply. He looked directly at her. 'Has anyone ever told you that you're a very pretty lass, Mistress Alix?'

'She is, isn't she, Papa?' Fiona piped up. 'I think Alix has the most beautiful hair. I wish mine were that dark gold and curly.'

'Your hair is glorious, ma petite,' Alix told the little girl. 'It has the ebony sheen of a raven's wing, and is thick and wavy. Curls can be tres difficile.'

The laird smiled. It pleased him that Alix was so thoughtful of his little daughter. It was as if she really cared for the child. 'I think you both have glorious hair,' he said.

An enormous Yule log was dragged into the hall and hoisted into the fireplace on St. Thomas Night. Alix took Fiona out to gather branches of pine and holly with which to decorate the hall. She had the child watch as she directed the servants in their placement of the greenery. 'Next year I shall expect you to do this,' she told her. Together the young woman and the child set scented beeswax candle about the hall.

Fenella had, at Alix's request, made patterns of the laird's chemise and a shirt. Then, with Alix aiding her, she cut pieces for the two garments. The chemise was the easier garment to sew, and little Fiona set to work under Alix's guidance to complete the garment while Alix sewed a new shirt for the laird. The child's stitches were not small, nor were they as neat as they might be, but the knee-length chemise was made with love.

'They're like mother and daughter,' Iver, Dunglais's steward, observed to Fenella.

'Aye, they are,' Fenella said softly.

'Don't even consider it,' Iver responded. 'He'll not wed again. Not after her betrayal. He no longer trusts women, if indeed he ever did.'

'He fell in love,' Fenella responded.

'A foolish error in judgment on our laird's part,' Iver noted dryly.

'Not all women will betray a man. If that were so, where would humankind be today? You're a sour lad this day.'

'Don't expect him to wed the wench,' Iver warned. 'She's a good lass. Even I can see that, but he'll not make the same mistake twice.'

'He needs an heir,' Fenella said.

'He has an heiress, and is content,' Iver answered.

'Perhaps,' Fenella remarked. 'But I think every man wants a son.'

Iver chuckled. 'You will have your own way in this matter, lass, won't you? Well, go ahead and dream that the laird will fall in love with the little English girl and make her his wife. Maybe he will. I wouldn't object, nor would any other at Dunglais.'

'It could happen,' Fenella replied stubbornly. 'A man needs a soft companion.'

'Then he takes a mistress,' Iver said with a mischievous grin. 'I'll wager he's thinking about it too. Have you seen the way he looks at her of late? There is budding lust in the laird's eye, Fenella.'