Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  “I would have to drink poison before the wedding night,” Cicely parried, laughing.

  Micheline put a hand on Nora’s shoulder. “My family is packing to leave London for the summer, but I will try to help you before we go. Andrew has said you are welcome to stay here, but I understand your need to be independent.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I may have an idea for a house that would suit you very well. What name will you take?”

  Gratitude welled up in Nora. Although she felt strong and confident she could navigate the challenges ahead, underneath she was conscious of being alone and vulnerable. “You are so kind.” She wanted to embrace the duchess but gave her a radiant smile instead. “I thought I might call myself Mistress Lovejoy. If I encounter anyone who knew me before, when I was weaving at court with my father, I will tell them I married in Scotland but am now a widow. What do you think?”

  Cicely clapped in delight. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I agree,” said Micheline, clasping Nora’s hands. “Welcome to London, Mistress Lovejoy!”

  Chapter 25

  The journey to Surrey was made in the Duke of Hastings’s closed carriage, which had been recently imported from Belgium. Lennox had never seen anything like it, not even at the Scottish royal court. Of course, Lennox would have preferred to ride on horseback rather than shut up inside the dusty, jouncing coach, but he couldn’t leave his father to travel alone.

  Conversation was nearly impossible, given the noise of the wheels over the rocks and ruts of the roadway, yet it seemed the duke was content just to look at Lennox from the seat facing him.

  “It was kind of Sandhurst to lend you a doublet. You look exceptionally fine in it,” his father said when they came to a smoother, quieter stretch of road. “Heller, my tailor, will arrive at Greythorne Manor within the fortnight. I’ve described you to him and asked that he bring what he can—doublets, hose, and so on. Clothing that might fit you with a few alterations.”

  Lennox glanced down at the new spice-brown doublet he wore with his belted plaid. The relatively simple garment had been a first step, he decided, toward assimilating into this new world, though he couldn’t yet imagine putting away his lengths of muted green tartan. One step at a time, Lennox thought, smiling at the duke. “Thank you.”

  Soon, the carriage rumbled up a long drive lined with beech trees. A fine manor house built of red brick, its rooftops decorated with ornate chimneys, came into view. It was laid out in four wings that enclosed a central courtyard, with a gatehouse facing the drive. His father was watching him, waiting for his reaction.

  “Ye have a very impressive home indeed,” Lennox said.

  “Ah, it’s gratifying to hear you say so, my son. I know it’s very different from Scotland.”

  Unexpectedly, Lennox’s heart tightened. This leafy estate, all red brick and sculpted gardens, was quite the opposite of wild, dramatic, stone-built Dunvegan, where one arrived by water and ascended through a sea-gate. He closed his eyes, seeing Magnus, Alasdair Crotach, Ciaran, Fi, and all the clansfolk he had known since birth. Yet he’d left Skye to seek out the truth, and now, here he was. Had the time come for him to stop thinking of himself as a MacLeod?

  Lennox tried to draw a deep breath, but the knots remained inside him.

  The coach moved past the gatehouse, where a barrel-chested, ginger-bearded man waved them through. In the open courtyard, a chubby boy rushed from the stables, smiling.

  “Welcome home, Your Grace!” he called.

  Lennox looked up to see the duke produce a large handkerchief, which he used to dab his eyes. “God’s wounds,” the older man exclaimed. “What’s come over me?” As he spoke, he lifted a hand in greeting to the boy. “It’s young Burley, Charles’s groom. I suppose just the sight of him, coming out like that, reminds me of my son.”

  “How long ago did you lose him?” Lennox asked softly.

  “Two days before Easter.” His voice was choked.

  “Just one season ago.” Lennox wanted to lean forward and touch him. “I can well imagine the depth of your grief, sir. If I can help in any way…”

  A liveried servant was opening the door to the coach. As the duke began to rise from the cushioned seat, he said, “You can, Lennox. I would ask you to address me as ‘Father.’”

  “Of course.” It would be cruel to deny him such a simple request, yet the word seemed to stick in Lennox’s throat. “Father.”

  For a moment, the older man paused, eyes closed. “When you say it,” he murmured, “I can almost imagine it is my Charles speaking, your voice is so much like his.”

  * * *

  The next few hours passed in a blur for Lennox. He was shown through the grand rooms of Greythorne Manor and encountered many servants, all impeccable in the duke’s garnet livery. Except for Burley, the young groom who had greeted them outside, the servants were clearly trained to fade into the background. The duke treated them with an air of absentminded kindness, as if he didn’t really see them.

  “The original dwelling that stood here was in the Domesday Book, you know,” his father said as they toured the house. Lennox reminded himself to find out what that meant. “King Henry gave it to my father, the last duke, but it’s been up to me to do the rebuilding. My travels in Europe inspired me a great deal.”

  Lennox saw that there was no great hall, no common room where most of the guests would eat and sleep, while only the lord of the manor and possibly a few family members would have private chambers. It was all very different from Duntulm Castle, where Lennox had been raised, or Dunvegan Castle, the clan stronghold. The walls were hung with costly tapestries, though none could match Nora’s artistry, Lennox thought. Much of the carved paneling was gilded, and the ceilings were elaborately decorated.

  The duke paused to speak to a stone-faced steward named Wilton who led them up a wide staircase. Arched windows overlooked the stairs, spilling the pink hues of twilight through diamond-shaped panes.

  As they ascended, Lennox realized that the duke was watching him from the corners of his eyes.

  “Your home is magnificent,” Lennox said, careful to be truthful without admitting that he didn’t care for the style.

  “I’m so pleased you approve. Are you not an artist?”

  “Aye, I suppose ye could say that. I do like to draw and paint, when I have the necessary materials.”

  Hastings gestured toward the paintings ranged over the large wall beside the stairway. “I like to think that we have some very fine works of art here. Holbein himself painted these.” He paused in front of two large portraits that hung side by side. One featured a timid-looking young woman, petite and rather plain, wearing an old-fashioned gable headdress. “That is my duchess, Jane, when she was a new bride.” Even as he spoke, his gaze moved away to settle on the other portrait.

  “Her Grace was very lovely,” said Lennox before turning slightly to regard the painting of a young man. “And is this Charles, your son?”

  The duke nodded mutely, tears filling his eyes.

  “I am so sorry.” Should he touch his father? Probably not, yet he could not resist laying a hand on his shoulder in comfort as they stood together. The young man looking back at them from the painting had an angular face and large, dark eyes that held a spark of humor. Lennox found himself returning his half-brother’s wry smile. “Ye must be very glad to have this fine portrait. I can see how special he was.”

  “Can you indeed?” the duke asked hoarsely. “I still cannot quite believe he is gone.”

  Lennox patted his shoulder. “I am sorry,” he repeated.

  “You are a kind young man.” Their eyes met for a moment. “I appreciate that. Now then, let us go up.”

  Wilton was waiting discreetly at the top of the stairs. He led the way down the corridor and opened a door. Lennox felt both men watching him now, and he guessed the fine, spacious room must have belonged to Charles. He went in, inhaling a faint but unmistakable scent of sandalwood. It felt as if the last occupant had dep
arted only a short while ago.

  For a long minute, Lennox stood silently, looking around the room. Clearly designed for a man, it was richly paneled and lined with tapestries depicting the drama of a boar hunt. The carved poster bed was covered in midnight-blue velvet, and precious leather-bound books lined shelves near the mullioned windows. One volume lay open on a polished desk, as if the room’s occupant had just stepped out and would soon return to finish reading.

  “You doubtless can perceive that this was Charles’s room.” The duke spoke from behind Lennox. After a brief pause, he added hopefully, “Do you mind?”

  Lennox didn’t know what to say or even how to feel. Briefly, he remembered the persistent sense of discomfort that haunted him while growing up in Clan MacLeod. It was a life that should have fit him like a glove yet never did, and the reason had teased and eluded him right up to that day at Fiona’s cottage when he found the miniature.

  Drawing a deep breath, Lennox tried to shake off the past. He considered Charles, who was his half-brother, and how this room honored him. In every way, Charles must have felt charmed and embraced by the world around him. Clearly, he’d been showered with every blessing, and the duke’s aching heart was a testament to how much he had loved his son.

  “Do I mind?” Lennox echoed softly. “No. How could I? It’s a very handsome room, and I should be grateful to stay here, where your son lived.”

  “And now you are my son,” his father declared. “Truly, a gift from God.”

  * * *

  In the days that followed, Lennox told himself to be patient and wait to see what lay in store at Greythorne Manor. He often thought of Nora’s words: “If this is the life you are meant to have, the part of you that has been missing, you must go with him and explore it.”

  Lying in the carved bed at night, he ached for her. Memories of their past together ran through his mind. What was she doing? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? He knew now that he loved her, and so he wanted her to be happy, but at the same time he imagined that she would somehow send word to him and implore him to come back.

  Although the duke was doing everything in his power to make Lennox feel welcome at Greythorne Manor, he still felt out of step. Would that change with time? The two of them dined together each evening at one end of a long table. There were no smelly, panting dogs lying on the floor, no uninvited guests from neighboring estates, no ribald jokes. At the duke’s behest, the cook made an elaborate castle fashioned of sugar to welcome Lennox. The notion that someone had labored over this confection on his account was unsettling. He tried to imagine such a scene at Dunvegan, with his clansmen present. If one of the cooks, like Old David, had carried in a sugar castle, he would have been laughed out of the great hall.

  The duke spent hours showing Lennox around the estate and invited him to ride Zeus, the impressive black gelding that had belonged to Charles. One day, when it rained, he beckoned Lennox to the library, where he taught him about their distinguished family history and showed him the numerous, valuable books on the shelves.

  “You may take any of these to read,” his father said, then paused. “Oh, I may have spoken too soon. Has someone taught you to read, son?”

  Stung, Lennox straightened his shoulders. “Aye, of course I can read—and write, as well. My mother saw to that.”

  “I meant no offense, I assure you. I often forget that Eleanor was there with you until you were grown. She was very literate indeed.”

  “Ma was not the only learned person on the Isle of Skye, I can assure ye.” Lennox softened his tone. “It’s hardly a wilderness.”

  “Of course not. I have many friends who are Scots, and they are good people.” With that, the duke turned back to the books, showing them to Lennox one by one and suggesting which volumes should be read first.

  On Lennox’s tenth day at Greythorne Manor, the duke made an announcement.

  “Heller, my tailor, arrives within the hour,” he said, looking especially pleased. “You will soon have a proper wardrobe, son. How splendid you will look!”

  Lennox managed to smile, yet it felt as if he was in a hole that kept getting deeper.

  When the tiny, balding tailor came into the courtyard on horseback, accompanied by two assistants riding pannier-laden steeds, Lennox was summoned to the duke’s private apartments. His father stood off to one side but came forward to make introductions.

  “It is an honor to meet you.” Heller paused to rake Lennox with an imperious glance before exclaiming, “My good sir, I must inquire, what are you wearing?”

  The duke spoke first. “I am certain I explained to you that my son has been living in Scotland. This sort of apparel is common in the Highlands.”

  Heller assumed a deferential posture, as if suddenly remembering how much income was at stake. “Ah, yes, Your Grace, so you did. I assure you I meant no offense.” Turning to Lennox, he bowed. “Pray forgive me, my lord.”

  Lennox chafed at this term of address, but this was not the time to mention it to his father. Instead, he nodded to Heller. “I understand. Ye are not the first Englishman to stare at my plaid.”

  The little man parried, “That clothing does allow me to judge that you’ve a very fine pair of legs, my lord. You’ll look splendid in these hose!”

  With that, he snapped his fingers at the assistants, who began to display the hose, breeches, and doublets Heller had brought from London. The duke came forward to examine the pieces, inclining his head and nodding approval.

  Soon, Lennox had been divested of his belted plaid and stood in the middle of the room wearing only a new pair of gray silk hose. Heller’s assistants, who kept their eyes down as they scurried to and fro, brought a long shirt that was made of white silk. The shirt alone was finer than anything Lennox had ever worn.

  “Trunk hose, I think,” said Heller, and produced a pair in teal-blue velvet trimmed in gold that were rather like short breeches. Next came a matching blue-and-gold doublet with slashed sleeves and sapphire buttons.

  Lennox wanted to protest that he felt ridiculous, like a cursed peacock, but the sight of his father’s pleased smile made him swallow the words. Just then, one of the tailor’s assistants appeared in front of him, holding out a soft velvet cap decorated with an assortment of gems and a swan’s feather.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, suddenly yearning for his worn tartan bonnet with the clan MacLeod badge.

  The duke came to stand at his side, turning him toward the mirror. “It’s all a change, I know, but I can assure you you’ll grow to appreciate these fine new clothes. Once we have you shorn, you’ll be every inch a gentleman.”

  Lennox raised a hand to his wild golden hair. “Shorn?”

  A moment later, Heller was putting something in his hand. “Don’t forget this!” said the tailor.

  Looking down, Lennox saw a yellow satin codpiece, its strings dangling between his fingers. God save me, he thought.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Lennox was preparing to change into his riding clothes after dinner when he heard voices in the courtyard. Crossing to the arched window, he looked down to see the ginger-bearded guard speaking to a young man who held the reins of a horse. Two more of the duke’s liveried men-at-arms emerged from another small building and seemed to be telling the dark-haired lad to go away. Lennox leaned forward, staring, as he realized that the newcomer wore a belted plaid and his chestnut horse looked familiar. His heart beat faster, swelling with something that felt very much like joy.

  Was there a way to push the window open and shout to the boy? It didn’t seem so, and Lennox could hardly pound on the delicately glazed panes of glass. Turning, he rushed from the room and ran down the stairs, nearly colliding with a serving maid who was carrying a box of candles.

  “Sorry!” With a breathless laugh, he reached out for a moment to steady her then continued his descent.

  Wilton stood near the entry, impassively watching the scene in the courtyard through a narrow window next t
o the door.

  “Pardon me.” Lennox reached for the latch on the big door.

  “Sir, wait, please, you must allow me,” Wilton protested.

  Lennox was forced to ignore him. Emerging out into the warm afternoon, he saw that the men-at-arms had escorted the visitor away. The horse’s tail was barely visible in the distance beyond the gatehouse.

  “Stop!” shouted Lennox, sprinting toward them. The guard and men-at-arms turned to stare, clearly unused to hearing anyone in the duke’s household behave in such a manner.

  A moment later, the young man came back into view. As he entered the courtyard, a smile spread across his face, and Lennox saw that he had been right. It was Grant Carsewell, holding the reins of Lennox’s own horse, Chaucer. The chestnut stallion brought his head up and down at the sight of Lennox.

  “This youth is my friend,” he told the guard, hearing his own voice catch with emotion. “I’ll take charge of him.”

  One of the men-at-arms, a stocky man with a freckled face, spoke up. “We are tasked to keep His Grace safe when he is in residence. For all we know, this odd-looking, solitary fellow could have come here to do him harm.”

  “The lad’s name is Grant Carsewell, and he’s come from Scotland with my horse,” Lennox said, thinking that they all must have thought he’d been odd-looking as well, before he’d traded his belted plaid for this new finery.

  “We must confer with His Grace before a stranger can enter Greythorne Manor,” asserted the stocky man.

  “I will wait with my guest outside, then,” said Lennox. Looking around, he saw Burley, the friendly young groom who had come into the courtyard on the day he arrived. Motioning for him to come forward, he introduced Burley to Grant. “And this is my horse, Chaucer.” As he spoke, Lennox ran his hand over his horse’s neck and felt him respond. “Will ye be kind enough to look after him for a bit?”

  “I’d be honored, my lord!” cried the groom.