A Hint of Heather

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  “I did not charge you with the duty of investigating Neil Claremont’s disappearance. I charged you with the duty of finding him and returning him for trial! I have friends in London,” the general boasted. “I have brother officers who keep me abreast of the events and the gossip in town. And the current gossip in London is that the marchioness of Chisenden has ordered enough household furnishings to equip a palace. It’s rumored that she has every seamstress and cobbler in town working on an order for the earl of Derrowford.”

  “What does that have to do with the major’s disappearance?”

  Major General Oliver walked over to the young lieutenant and clapped him on the shoulder. “My dear fellow, the reason is quite obvious to those of us who are members of society. Major Claremont left Fort Augustus with only the uniform upon his back. He cannot return to his London abode or to the home of mistress for fear of being captured and arrested for desertion so he’s setting up housekeeping somewhere other than his townhouse.”

  The lieutenant winced at the general’s insult. “Surely Major Claremont’s servants could deliver his old wardrobe to his new home.”

  “And risk leading us to them? Besides, Claremont is a rich man—” General Oliver paused to remove a speck of lint caught in the gold-braided frogs on the front of his uniform. He made a moue at the mirror hanging across the room from his desk and adjusted his cuffs in a gesture that had come to be automatic. “While some of us must make do with last season’s wardrobe, he can well afford a completely new one.”

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Pardon me for saying so, sir, but Major Claremont doesn’t appear to care as much about his wardrobe as you do—else he would not have left it behind. And if, as you say, he has ordered a new one, shouldn’t he have every tailor in London working on it rather than a battalion of seamstresses?”

  The general paused, staring at his reflection in the mirror while deep in thought. “The seamstresses are dressing his mistress, of course. He’s been away from her for over five months. A new wardrobe will amply reward her for waiting patiently for his return.” He turned from the mirror and focused his attention on the lieutenant. “Yes, of course, that’s it. That must be it because my sources tell me that the cobblers are crafting ladies’ shoes. They’re to be delivered as quickly as possible.” General Oliver snapped his fingers. “And when the goods are delivered, we’ll follow them right to Neil Claremont’s front door.”

  “Delivered where, sir?”

  Major General Sir Charles Oliver cast the lieutenant a withering look. “Must I do everything, Lieutenant? Finding out when and where the goods are to be delivered is your responsibility. Do that, my dear lieutenant, and you’ll discover where Claremont is hiding. Well? What are you waiting for?” He motioned the lieutenant toward the door. “You’re dismissed. Go! Do your duty, man! Send someone to London to find out. And keep me informed. I intend to be at the head of the column when we ride up to Claremont’s front door.”

  “Yes, sir!” The lieutenant saluted.

  There was no doubt about it. Major General Sir Charles Oliver was an imbecile, the lieutenant decided. A stubborn, vain, arrogant imbecile with an axe to grind. Unfortunately Major Claremont had become his whetstone. The lieutenant gazed at the soldiers milling about the post. They were all good men. Dedicated soldiers and engineers. They deserved a better fate than to be relegated to service under Oliver’s command. He deserved better. Major Claremont deserved better. Major Claremont. The lieutenant glanced up at the sky. He could understand Major Claremont’s frustration with General Oliver and his desire to return to London. But Major Claremont wasn’t a deserter. He couldn’t have left his quarters without help and he was too honorable to involve other men in his escape. There was no doubt in his mind that Major Claremont had been taken from Fort Augustus by force, kidnapped by enemy clans and transported north, deeper into the highlands. But for what purpose? The general was convinced that the major had deserted the army and returned to London. But Major Claremont was too smart to do the obvious. If he had chosen to leave, he wouldn’t have taken the most direct southerly route. The lieutenant sighed. He admired Claremont. He liked and respected him and he disliked following General Oliver’s orders. But there was no way around it. He knew he’d have to investigate—but he didn’t have to go to London to do it. The general’s information had proven too reliable for mere coincidence. There hadn’t been any commerce on these roads in months and now a large caravan several miles long and heavily laden with household goods and livestock was making its way across the countryside. The sentries had spotted it this morning. Heading north. That’s what he’d gone to report. But General Oliver had been too full of his own importance to listen. The lieutenant sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. Once again, he had no choice but to report his findings directly to General Wade in London. And while he was at it, he might as well gather a few men and ride over to take a closer look at the caravan. If it contained an inordinate number of pairs of ladies’ shoes, it would be best if he knew about it before General Oliver found out. Even an imbecile like Major General Sir Charles Oliver was bound to notice it eventually.

  Jessalyn felt the draft as the cold air lifted the hem of her nightdress and swirled it around her ankles. She turned to find one of several full-length mirrors lining the wall had swung open to reveal a ghost. She took several quick involuntary steps backward and screamed as the ghost moved closer.

  “Mac!” Neil practically leaped through the opening in his haste to reassure her. He set the tray of food on the nearest surface and hurried toward her.

  Jessalyn halted when the back of her knees touched the edge of the chaise. She could go no further. She squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to regain control of her racing heart.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Neil held out his arms.

  She hesitated for a brief moment before she stepped into the circle of his embrace and pressed her face against his chest. His heart was racing almost as much as hers. “The looking glass opened and you were standing in the shadows. I couldn’t see your face but I recognized the kilt and the shirt and for a moment, I thought you were a ghost.”

  “Not a chance.” He kissed her forehead and her brow, then bent and brushed her lips with his own. “I’m very much alive and—” He paused. “Did you say the looking glass opened?”

  “Aye.” Jessalyn nodded toward it.

  Neil turned and stared at the chasm in the center of the wall. A full length mirror in an ornate gold-leafed frame hung open, the bottom portion of the frame cleverly attached to the mirror to disguise the door hidden behind it. “I apologize for walking through a mirror and giving you a fright. I searched for a hidden door while you were sleeping. But I couldn’t find it,” he said. “Davina showed me the secret entrance from the kitchen—”

  “Davina knows how to get here?”

  “Yes,” Neil told her. “She’s the only other person your father trusted with the knowledge. She’s kept the room habitable since his death.”

  Jessalyn stepped back out of his embrace and looked up at him. “Then she must have a key as well.”

  “No,” he said. “Your father left the door behind the mirror unlocked so Davina would have access to the room, but you and I are the only ones with keys. Which reminds me …” Neil reached out and gently caressed her cheek with the palm of his hand. A strand of her hair was caught on her eyelashes and he carefully pulled it free. “I have your key.”

  “I know,” she said. “You took it with you when you left to find food.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I have your key. The laird’s key.” He tugged the heavy silver chain from beneath his shirt and held it out to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I prefer the smaller one. I’ve worn it for years.”

  “You’re the laird. You should have this one,” Neil insisted.

  “But I gave that one to you as a wedding token.”

  “I know,” he said. “And I cherish it as suc
h, but you didn’t know what you were giving me. It’s like the brooch. You should have kept your father’s key and given me the one that belonged to your mother.”

  Jessalyn shrugged. “I like the smaller one. And since it takes both keys to open the doors to this place, what difference does it make whether you have my father’s key or my mother’s?”

  “It doesn’t take both keys.”

  “Of course it does,” she insisted. “There are two locks on every door except the one concealed in the cave that leads outside the tunnels and onto our enemy’s land.”

  “And the one behind the mirror. Your key opens the door concealed in the cave, but it won’t lock or unlock the door behind the mirror. I know because I tried it,” he paused. “Your key only opens the locks in the doors leading to this room. But the laird’s key will lock and unlock every door in the castle.”

  Jessalyn looked puzzled. “But that means my father could have come here without my mother. But she …”

  “Could only come here with him.”

  “He didn’t trust her.”

  Neil shook his head. “Not necessarily. You inherited these keys from your father who inherited them from the previous laird. Just because the original laird used these keys as a means to safeguard his castle against betrayal by his enemy’s daughter doesn’t mean that your father did the same thing. Your mother may have known about the difference in them.”

  “The Laird’s Trysting Room was their special place. My mother loved to tell the story about the laird who built a secret room in the castle so he could court his enemy’s daughter. How they’d scandalized both clans by breaking with tradition and marrying outside their clans. And my father used to tease my mother about scandalizing the kinswomen in our clan because she broke with tradition by refusing to retire to a lying-in room when we were born. She had insisted that the laird’s children be born in the laird’s bed. My father always thought that was amusing. He’d laugh and say that every bed in the castle was his bed. And if she insisted that it be a bed he slept in, why had she chosen the big bed in the master’s chamber instead of the bed we’d been created in. And my mother would laugh and say it was because it was easier to find. But after my mother died, he could have brought …” Jessalyn’s knees began to shake and she sank down onto the chaise.

  “He didn’t.”

  Jessalyn gave him a disbelieving look. She had learned a great deal about men and their desires since she’d entered this room and she found it hard to believe her father hadn’t satisfied those needs during the years after her mother died.

  Neil held up his hands as if to surrender. “I’m not saying your father didn’t take a lover after your mother died. She had been dead six years before the rebellion and your father was a normal, healthy man. I’m sure he had needs, but according to Davina, your mother was the only woman who ever joined the auld laird in this room.”

  Jessalyn slowly released the breath she’d been holding. “Then why didn’t he tell me the truth about the keys?”

  Neil shrugged his shoulders. “He knew you’d be the laird one day and he probably thought you’d use the key and discover the truth about it on your own. He had no way of knowing that you’d give the key to me instead of keeping it for yourself.” He offered her his key once again.

  Jessalyn’s eyes met his and she shook her head. “You’re my husband. The laird’s key was my wedding gift to you. I want you to keep it.”

  “You’re the MacInnes. You may need it one day.”

  Her eyes met his and the look that passed between them was the look of man and woman who had shared the joys of the marriage bed. “You’re husband to the MacInnes and my ceann feachd, the warrior who represents me—who stands in my stead in battle. I see no reason why you can’t keep the key to my castle.” She took the silver chain from him and slipped it back over his head and waited patiently while he returned the smaller key to her.

  “But …”

  Jessalyn reached up and pressed two fingers against his lips to stop his words of protest. “You can lend it to me if it ever becomes necessary.”

  Neil bowed his head. “I swear I’ll never betray your trust, milady.”

  Jessalyn’s heart began a rapid tattoo, her breath caught in her throat and the sudden rush of tenderness she felt for him made her legs go weak in the knees. She loved him. The unexpected realization struck her like a bolt of lightning from the blue sky. She loved the way he made her feel. The way he touched her. The irreverent way he had corrupted her title into an endearment. Mac. A name he had given her. A name no one else would ever dare use. She loved the way he said it. The way it seemed to roll off his tongue in moments of passion. She loved … him. Everything that was Neil Claremont. She loved him. And for now, her love was enough. “I know.”

  He was surprised by her firm conviction. “How?”

  “Because I …” She’d almost declared her love for him. “Because you’re strong and kind and good. Because you told me the truth about the laird’s key when you could’ve kept it secret.”

  “To keep such a secret would be dishonorable.”

  “You’re an Englishman surrounded by highlanders,” she reminded him. “To keep such a secret might have been in your best interest. I never would have known and if the clan came under attack you could have used the key to escape and save yourself.”

  “Escape and save myself? And leave you and your clan vulnerable?” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled a rush of air. “If you think that about me, then you’ve much to learn about men, milady.” Neil threw up his hands in frustration and stalked over to the tray of food.

  “On the contrary,” she replied.

  Raising an eyebrow at her stubbornness, Neil removed a bowl of stew and a wooden spoon from the tray and handed them to her before he served himself. He sat down on a chair, balanced the bowl in his hand and began spooning the contents into his mouth with more regard for easing his hunger than for his manners. “We’ll discuss it after we eat.”

  Her eyes shimmered with love as Jessalyn accepted the bowl of stew and sat down across from him. “There’s nothing to discuss, milord.” She took a bite of stew. “My mind is firm on it.”

  “You’ve misjudged my character.”

  “Nay, I ha’ not.” She smiled at him. “Because I think you’re the finest mon I’ve ever met.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Davina roused him a few hours before dawn. “Wake up, yer lairdship,” she whispered.

  Neil opened his eyes. Jessalyn lay sleeping beside him and Davina hovered at his bedside.

  “I knocked on the secret door, yer lairdship,” the older woman apologized. “But ye dinna stir and Tam sent me to tell ye that the stonemasons and the caravan from the marquess of Chisenden in London have arrived. The bailey is full of wagons and carts loaded with goods.”

  He shoved the covers aside and got to his feet.

  Davina caught a glimpse of his bare, well-muscled thigh and immediately bowed her head and averted her gaze.

  Neil touched her on the arm. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m dressed.”

  “Will ye be wakin’ Jessie? She’s the laird. She’ll want to welcome the caravan.”

  “Not this time.” He glanced over at the MacInnes. Her hair was free from its braid and fanned across the pillows. One shapely calf and her bare shoulders lay exposed to the frigid air. Neil leaned over and carefully tucked the blankets around her. He liked the fact that she burrowed next to him while she slept, then kicked off the covers when their bodies generated too much heat.

  It made him smile. “Let her sleep,” he whispered. “She’s had so precious little of it that I don’t have the heart to wake her.” He brushed his lips across her eyelids, then walked over to Davina.

  She studied him, eyeing the wrinkles in his shirt. “From the looks of it, ye’ve had precious little sleep yerself.”

  Neil took note of her gaze and attempted to smooth the worst of the creases from his clothing. “I didn’t mind
missing sleep. It was worth the sacrifice.” He flashed Davina a wicked grin. “Besides, I didn’t dare take off my plaid because I knew I couldn’t pleat it. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary.”

  Davina blushed to the roots of her gray-streaked hair and started toward the stairs.

  Neil followed, his eyes sparkled with devilment. “You blush like a maiden, Mistress MacInnes, but you’re a woman grown,” he teased. “Surely you appreciate the fact that the most attractive feature of the highlander’s plaid is that it’s easily adaptable to suit a man’s needs.”

  “Aye,” she murmured, “I did appreciate that once, but it’s been so long ago, I can scarcely recall it.”

  “If that’s the case, we must speak to the MacInnes when she awakens about one of her Ancient Gentlemen’s dereliction of duty.”

  He hadn’t thought it possible, but Davina blushed even redder. “The laird shouldna’ be bothered wi’ such personal troubles,” she said. “Jessie has bigger things to worry about.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Neil winked and continued his high-spirited devilment. “I haven’t measured myself against yer Ancient Gentleman.”

  “Oh, go on wi’ ye!” Davina swatted him playfully on the arm. “Ye know what I mean.”

  Neil nodded. “Aye, Mistress MacInnes, that I do. I know I can never hope to measure up to the likes of Alisdair MacInnes. The best that I may hope for is to be a suitable mate for the MacInnes.” He offered her his arm.

  “So let us go relieve the MacInnes of some of her worries by attending to the unloading of the caravan. I ordered a wardrobe for her—with shoes for every occasion. And I’ll need your help to keep her from discovering my surprise too soon.”

  Hours later Jessalyn awoke to find the delicate hint of freshly blooming heather in the air and a pair of pale yellow, pearl-encrusted slippers with matching patterns on the pillow beside her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again and blinked several times. Instead of vanishing into the mist of some luxurious dream, the shoes and the bouquet of white heather remained on the pillow beside her. Jessalyn pushed her hair away from her face, sat up in bed and looked around for Neil. He was gone, but he hadn’t been gone long. The heather was fresh. Droplets of dew still clung to the tiny blossoms. She reached out and caught one, transferring it to her lips where she tasted it with the tip of her tongue. The droplet of water was cool to the touch—as cool as the circlet of seed pearls decorating the top of the shoes. She traced the pattern of pearls on the nearest shoe with her finger, then repeated the procedure on the other one. This was no dream. The shoes and the pearls were real.