The Devil Wears Plaid

by Teresa Medeiros

“I’m so sorry, Mags. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said softly, as if waking to the sight of the woman hanging over her bed like a vulture hadn’t taken half a year off her own life.

  At the sound of Emma’s voice, the woman abruptly stopped keening and lifted her head. She hesitated for a moment, then scrambled to her feet and came creeping back toward the bed. She bore little resemblance to the sharp-tongued old biddy who had sparred with the Sinclair over Emma’s bed earlier that day.

  The woman perched on the edge of the bed and lifted a gnarled hand to stroke Emma’s disheveled curls. “So pretty,” the woman crooned. “Me bonny wee lass. Me sweet Lianna.”

  A chill danced down Emma’s spine. Jamie’s words echoed through her memory—Mags went half-mad with grief for a while after they were found.

  Perhaps the woman was still half-mad with grief. Or perhaps Emma’s arrival had simply stirred up old memories, some of which were better left buried. For all she knew, this might be the very chamber where Mags’ young charge had once slept.

  “It’s Emma, Mags,” she said gently, taking care not to make any sudden moves. “Not Lianna. Lianna doesn’t live here anymore.”

  The woman continued to chant in her eerie sing-song as if she hadn’t spoken. “Ye were always such a good girl. Such a fine daughter. Ye hadn’t a rebellious bone in yer body. Ye always had such pretty manners and did what yer papa told ye to do.”

  Emma’s chill deepened as she realized the old woman could have been talking about her. She didn’t know if it would be kinder to try to correct her again or to allow her the brief comfort of believing Jamie’s mother had finally returned. “You loved your Lianna very much, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. I loved ye like a mother would. That’s why I knew ye’d come back to us someday. I told him he just had to be patient and never give up hope.” The nurse leaned closer, lowering her voice to the same hoarse croak that had awakened Emma. “I told ye I’d look after it fer ye and I did. I’ve kept it safe all these years. He tried to bury it so deep no one would ever find it but auld Mags knew just where to look.”

  Emma watched with reluctant fascination as the woman drew something wrapped in a scrap of fabric from the pocket of her homespun skirt. She placed her offering on Emma’s lap, then nodded toward it, beaming with pride.

  Hoping she wasn’t about to find the rotting corpse of some bird or mouse, Emma gingerly unfolded the cloth to reveal a simple cherrywood box with a hinged lid. The box smelled damp and moldy, like something that had been in the ground for a very long time.

  Emma gently brushed away the bits of dirt clinging to the lid to reveal an oval miniature of a young girl set into the wood.

  “Her father gave it to her when she turned seventeen,” Mags said, warning Emma that she was once again drifting between past and present. “Had the likeness painted from a sketch done by a traveling artist, he did. She was so proud of it! I still remember how she threw her arms ’round his neck and smothered his face with kisses.”

  Emma turned the box toward the window, studying the miniature by the gentle glow of the moonlight. Although she would have sworn Jamie was the very image of his grandfather, he carried something of his mother in him as well. It was there in the regal angle of his cheekbones, the beguiling way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

  Emma squinted at the likeness, struggling to make out the shape of the necklace adorning the graceful column of Lianna’s throat. It appeared to be some sort of Gaelic cross.

  “Go ahead,” Mags urged. “Open it.”

  Emma reached for the lid, her hand trembling ever so slightly.

  “Mags! What do ye think you’re doin’?”

  Both Emma and Mags jumped guiltily, jerking their heads toward the doorway.

  Jamie’s grandfather was standing there. He looked even taller and more imposing with his broad shoulders draped in a cloak of shadows. “Ye mustn’t trouble our guest, Mags. The lass needs her rest.”

  “Aye, m’lord. I was just checkin’ to see if she wanted another quilt.”

  Emma moved to throw a fold of her coverlet over the box only to discover it had already vanished back into Mags’ pocket. Before the old nurse turned away from the bed, she startled Emma anew by giving her a mischievous wink.

  Jamie’s grandfather stood aside to let her shuffle past him. “Don’t mind auld Mags, lass,” he told Emma. “Sometimes late at night when she can’t sleep, she wanders—both in mind and body.”

  For an elusive moment, he looked nearly as wistful as Mags had when she’d come creeping toward the bed to stroke Emma’s hair. Emma wondered if he, too, still spent sleepless nights wandering the fortress, haunted by memories of his poor doomed daughter.

  “Sleep well, child,” he said gruffly before melting back into the shadows, his shoulders more stooped than when he’d appeared.

  Emma collapsed against the pillows with a sigh, still troubled by her brief glimpse of Jamie’s mother and wondering why her lonely bed had to be visited by everyone except the one person she most desired to see.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  WHEN EMMA AWOKE THE next morning the chair beside the bed was still empty, making her feel oddly bereft. A mournful sigh drifted across the chamber, warning her she was not alone.

  She sat up to discover the deerhound stretched out in front of the hearth, his shaggy head cradled on his massive front paws.

  “Nice pony,” she murmured, eyeing him nervously and wondering if he’d broken his fast yet. He looked large and fierce enough to leave her bones scattered around the hearth.

  In response to her greeting, he simply sighed once more and closed his soulful brown eyes, looking more inclined to nap the rest of the day away than to gobble her down in a single bite. Perhaps he only ate deer.

  Someone had already slipped into the room while she slept and wrestled open the wooden shutters, inviting the sunlight to come streaming into the chamber. She gave her wounded shoulder an experimental shrug. It was far less stiff and achy than it had been the previous day.

  “M’lady?”

  Mags appeared in the doorway, struggling to balance a fat bundle of cloth and a ceramic washbasin filled with steaming water.

  “Good morning, Mags,” she said tentatively, wondering if the old woman still believed Emma was Jamie’s mother or if she even remembered their moonlit encounter.

  Mags shuffled over to deposit her burdens on the rough-hewn table to the right of the hearth, her eyes bright and clear. There was no sign of the adoring creature that had crept into Emma’s room to stroke her hair while she was sleeping. “And a bonny mornin’ it is, lass! I’ve brought ye a fresh gown and stockin’s and everythin’ ye’ll need fer yer bath.”

  Puzzled by the change in the woman’s demeanor, but eager to test her growing strength, Emma climbed out of the bed and padded over to the table. “Your master didn’t punish you for disturbing me last night, did he?”

  “Ha!” Mags leaned closer, the mischievous twinkle Emma had so briefly glimpsed the previous night returning to her eye. “I stopped takin’ orders from the master a long time ago. Now I’m the one tellin’ him what to do.” She reached over to pat Emma’s hand. “Don’t ye fret, lass. I’ve brought ye everythin’ ye’ll need,” she repeated, as if the words should have some special significance.

  As the old nurse went shuffling from the room, the deerhound unfolded his lanky form to follow. Emma moved to close the door behind them both, wondering if Mags was simply a bit balmy or if she might actually be dangerous.

  The basin of steaming water quickly distracted her from her worries. She tugged the nightdress over her head, taking care not to dislodge the bandage on her shoulder. As she dipped a rag into the heated water, she couldn’t help but remember sinking into the bath Jamie had arranged for her at Muira’s cottage. Had she known then what she knew now, she might have invited him to join her.

  With her eyes closed and the warm water dribbling between her breasts, making her sigh with pleasur
e, it was only too easy to imagine herself and Jamie entwined in that tub, their bodies sleek and wet and straining toward that perfect bliss that could only come when they were joined.

  Her eyes flew open. It would hardly do for Jamie to come striding through that door only to find her melted into a puddle of longing. For all she knew, he was perfectly content with the one night they had shared. He might even have spent those long hours at her bedside nursing her back to life out of guilt, not devotion.

  Growing increasingly out of sorts, she finished bathing and dried herself off. The gown Mags had found for her was more of a kirtle. It was cut from midnight blue wool and had a graceful bell of a skirt with a hem that swept the floor. As she donned it, struggling with the front laces of the old-fashioned bodice, she wondered if it, too, had once belonged to Jamie’s mother.

  It wasn’t until she lifted the stockings that she realized Mags had left her more than just the garments.

  Lianna Sinclair’s box sat on the table, just as it might have thirty years before. Emma’s heart took an unexpected plunge toward her toes. She stole a look at the door, knowing exactly how poor Pandora must have felt. She should probably just wait for Jamie or his grandfather to appear so she could return the box to its rightful owner.

  There was probably nothing of any import inside anyway. Mags had most likely just been hoarding some cherished trinkets from her young mistress’s childhood—a watercolor landscape the girl had painted or perhaps some flowers she had collected and pressed.

  Emma ran a finger over the miniature portrait set in its lid, surprised to discover how unsteady her hand was. She wondered if Jamie’s mother had already met her young lover when the miniature was painted. Lianna might have the demure smile of a girl, but she had the knowing eyes of a woman—a woman with a dangerous but delightful secret to keep.

  He tried to bury it so deep no one would ever find it…

  The echo of Mags’ words both frightened and tantalized her. For it wasn’t Lianna’s secrets Emma longed to discover. It was her son’s.

  The next thing Emma knew, she was lifting the lid. A handful of off-key notes drifted through the room, as haunting as they were beautiful. It wasn’t just a box. It was a music box. A yellowed piece of paper was nestled within its oilcloth-lined interior.

  Emma pulled the paper out and gingerly unfolded it, taking care not to tear the brittle edges. Squinting at the faded ink, she carried it over to the window.

  Sunlight streamed over the paper for the first time in years, illuminating the words scrawled across its face. Emma studied it for several minutes before lifting her disbelieving gaze to the snow-capped crags beyond the window. Apparently, Mags wasn’t the only one who had lost her wits. Because she couldn’t possibly be seeing what she thought she was seeing.

  “I’m obviously not making enough of an effort to keep you in bed, am I?”

  Emma whirled around to find Jamie standing in the doorway, looking every inch the Scottish laird in a maroon and black tartan kilt and a cream-colored linen shirt with full sleeves and a fall of lace at the cuffs. She had been so preoccupied with her find that she hadn’t even heard him open the door.

  Still speechless with shock, she tucked the hand clutching the paper behind her back. She could only pray he wouldn’t notice the open box sitting on the table.

  He cocked his head to the side, looking increasingly suspicious. “Just what have you been up to?”

  “Nothing,” she said hastily. “Nothing at all.”

  “Then why do you look so deliciously guilty?” He sauntered toward her, favoring her with an indulgent smile. “What is it, sweeting? Have you managed to get your hands on one of my grandfather’s pistols? Now that you’re on the mend, are you planning on shooting your way out of here?”

  As he advanced on her, Emma shot a panicked glance over her shoulder. Unless she planned to back right out the window, there was no escaping him. But she could evade him, at least until she figured out a way to tell him that everything he had ever believed about himself was a lie.

  She planted her fists on her hips, still keeping the paper carefully concealed, and glared at him. “And why would I have to shoot my way out of here? You proved in that glen that you were only too eager to be rid of me.”

  He stopped in his tracks, eyeing her warily. “Perhaps I should go tell my grandfather to lock up the pistols.”

  “Don’t bother denying it! The earl didn’t even give you what you asked for, yet you couldn’t wait to let me go.” As Emma felt her temper begin to rise in earnest, she was surprised to discover that she meant every word she was saying. “All he had to do was wave a little gold under your nose and you practically shoved me into his arms. I’m surprised you didn’t offer to trade me for a horse. Or maybe even a… a… sheep!”

  Jamie’s lips twitched, as if he desperately wanted to smile but knew he didn’t dare. “After spending the night in your arms, I have to confess that even the most devoted sheep has lost its appeal.”

  “Why, Jamie?” she asked, refusing to let him charm his way out of answering her question. “Why did you let me go?”

  “Because I didn’t believe you were mine to keep.”

  She turned back to the majestic view beyond the window, not wanting him to see she was on the verge of bursting into tears. She’d tried to be strong for so long but the events of the past few days seemed to be catching up with her all at once, compounded by the shock of what she had just discovered.

  When Jamie’s voice came again, it was a husky whisper in her ear. “But I was wrong.” She could feel his strength, his heat, warming her deeper than any beam of sunlight ever could. “Even before you were shot, I knew what a bluidy fool I’d been. I was already coming after you. That’s why I was able to react so quickly when I saw the gunman. Because I realized that I—”

  Emma turned to gaze up at him, so mesmerized by his words that she forgot all about her shoulder… and all about the piece of paper in her hand. Until it slipped from her limp fingers and went fluttering to the floor at their feet.

  She scrambled to retrieve it, but unhampered by a wounded shoulder, Jamie was able to reach it first.

  “And what’s this, lass?” he asked, shooting her a bemused glance as he straightened. “Were you penning a ransom note of your own? Because at the moment I don’t think my grandfather would give you two shillings for me.”

  He studied the piece of paper briefly before giving her a curious look. “It looks like a page torn from some auld church register. Where on earth did you get it?”

  “Mags gave it to me,” she reluctantly confessed.

  “Ah!” He returned his gaze to the paper, shaking his head fondly. “Mags has always been like an auld crow, collecting odd treasures to feather her nest—pretty rocks, auld coins, shiny…” His voice trailed off, fading along with the color in his face. When he lifted his eyes to her again, they had gone dark with shock. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “What is the meaning of this?”

  She attempted a weak smile. “Apparently you’re not as much of a bastard as I thought you were the first time we met.”

  He glanced back down at the paper, his lips moving as he read the last two signatures on the page once again.

  Lianna Elizabeth Sinclair.

  Gordon Charles Hepburn.

  “I know this must come as something of a shock,” Emma said gently. “But your father didn’t just seduce your mother. He married her. According to this, your parents must have secretly eloped months before you were born. You’re not a Sinclair after all. You never were. You’re a Hepburn and you always have been.”

  Jamie glanced up at her again, his look of abject horror almost comical.

  She shook her head, marveling anew at their discovery. “You’re not only the Hepburn’s grandson but his legitimate heir. The heir to an earldom.”

  Jamie spun on his heel and stalked across the room, crumpling the fragile proof of his lineage in his fist as if it was so much garbage.
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br />   He drove his other hand through his hair, ruffling it beyond repair before wheeling around to face her. His expression was as savage as she had ever seen it. “So they weren’t eloping the night they headed down the mountain?”

  Emma shook her head. “Apparently not. Perhaps they were going to tell the Hepburn that they’d been wed all along, that he would have no choice but to acknowledge their love… and their son.” She took a few steps toward him, longing to smooth the tousled sable strands from his brow, to lay her lips against the troubled furrow between his eyes. “This doesn’t change who you are, Jamie. You’re still the same man. What are you so afraid of? That if you lay claim to your inheritance, you’ll have to give up your wild ways? Your freedom?”

  “I’m reasonably certain the Hepburn only requires your soul to enter his service.” He shook the fist holding the paper at her. “You know damn well the auld goat will never acknowledge this. Where did it come from anyway?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I told you. Mags gave it to me.”

  “And where did she get it?”

  Not sure just how many more shocks his battered heart could take, Emma reluctantly nodded toward the table where the old nurse’s offering still sat. Jamie crossed to the table and picked up the empty box, jarring a few more off-key notes from its rusted works.

  The look on his face as he lowered the lid, coming face to face with his mother’s miniature, made Emma’s own heart clutch in her breast. “I’ve never seen her before,” he whispered. “She’s even more beautiful than I imagined. But where did Mags find it?”

  “She left me with the impression that your mother had trusted it into her keeping but that someone else had taken it from her after your mother’s death and buried it to keep it from being discovered.”

  Their eyes met, both of them realizing in the same breath exactly who that someone must be.

  “Why?” Jamie asked hoarsely. “Why would my grandfather do such a thing? Why would he pretend to love me, yet lie to me with his every breath?”

  Emma shook her head helplessly. “I have no idea. Perhaps he was afraid of losing you to the Hepburn. If the earl had known from the beginning that you were his legitimate heir, he might have tried to claim you for his own. Perhaps your grandfather felt he had no choice but to bury it—along with the truth.”