Free Border Storm by Amanda Scott

upright in his armchair at the high table.
    Her elaborately dressed hair was such an improbable shade of red as to make him suspect that, like the Queen, she wore a wig. Her face was heavily made up to look fashionably pale with pink cheeks, red lips, and dark lashes and brows. Her clothing was rich looking and fashionable with beaded and jeweled trim.
    She peered toward him myopically, frowned as if to reprove his hasty entrance. Then she smiled, saying in a high, bright, carefully cultured voice, “Why, you must be Sir Hugh!”
    “I am Hugh Graham, madam,” he affirmed with a nod, adding as he doffed his steel helmet and handed it, along with his steel-and-leather gauntlets and his sword belt, to a lackey, “May I inquire who escorted you here to Brackengill?”
    “Why, I escorted myself, sir.”
    “Perhaps my people did not explain that this house lacks a proper hostess, madam. Indeed, there are no women here, barring the cook and her small daughter. I’ll gladly provide you with an escort to Bewcastle, where I am persuaded that Lady Nixon will see to your every comfort.”
    “It is your lack of a hostess that brings me here,” the lady replied.
    Hugh stared at her, wondering if she was mad.
    “But, there,” she said, “I can see that you do not know who I am, and I warrant no one could blame you for that, since it must be fifteen years since you last clapped eyes on me.”
    She paused with birdlike expectancy, clearly assuming that she had provided sufficient information about her identity for him to deduce it.
    Bewildered, he said, “I crave pardon, madam, but I have no idea who you are. It does not matter, in any event, since it is patently unsuitable for you to remain overnight. I will have my lads carry your things outside to your sumpter ponies, although perhaps I should provide fresh ones if you’ve traveled any distance today.”
    “Today I traveled from Carlisle, sir. I traveled there from London in my coach, however, with a wagon to bear my baggage. A dreadful, rough journey it was, too. I feel obliged to inform you that your roads hereabouts are deplorable—where you have roads—but I have resolved not to complain about them.”
    “They are tracks rather than roads, I’m afraid,” Hugh admitted.
    “Yes, and because of them, although the distance I traveled today is not so great, I had to leave my coach in Carlisle and hire sumpters, saddle horses, and two men-at-arms to protect me and my tirewoman. Thus, I am worn to the bone from riding, and I am persuaded that you will not wish to turn your own aunt out again under such circumstances. Now, will you, sir?” She smiled sweetly.
    Hugh had all he could do to conceal his shock. “My aunt? Lady Marjory? But how can that be, madam? Surely, my uncle Brampton—”
    “Dead, I’m afraid,” Lady Marjory Brampton said with a sigh.
    “When?”
    She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I am afraid I have lost track of time during this dreadful trip, my dear sir. I believe it must be quite four months now, though.”
    Hugh stared at her, speechless. At last, he said, “If it has been as long as that, someone should have informed me. Do you not know the date of his death?”
    “Why, yes, how clever of you to think of that! It was the fourth of April. Moreover, it was a Sunday. I remember the day distinctly, because I had just got home from services when they told me that your uncle had collapsed and died. So, you see, it has been more than four months. I did think that someone would have informed you by now, but of course, there always are complex matters to attend to in such cases, and being a man of law himself and so often with the Queen, Brampton was not accustomed to putting his own affairs in anyone else’s hands.”
    “But I have written to him twice in that time,” Hugh protested. “The second time was scarcely a month ago! I am surprised that you did not reply to my letters yourself, madam, if only to explain why my uncle was unable to do