by Aubrey Wynne
“We canna take this road. There are highwaymen ahead who have set upon travelers and torched the bridge.”
“Hush, now,” Ma soothed. “It was just a dream. I’m not surprised with the day we’ve had.”
“No, ye must listen. They’ve murdered a nobleman and his driver.” She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples, trying to bring back the image and push away the throbbing pain in her head. “It’s too late to help them, but we shall be the next victims if we continue on this route.”
Calum pounded on the roof and stuck his head out the window. The coach came to a halt, and he left the women inside while he spoke with the driver. “Now tell me exactly what happened in this dream,” he said, once again settled across from them.
An hour later, they stopped outside a small copse of trees. Behind them, smoke rose into the air. The driver yelled from above, “A sound idea to take a lesser traveled road, sir. It looks like the bridge is on fire. Must be thieves making trouble. The rabble like to take advantage in times of unrest. I don’t think we’d enjoy making their acquaintance.” With a crack of the whip, the carriage lurched forward.
Her mother exchanged a troubled glance with Da. Then he leaned forward and cupped her chin in his fingers. His soft voice belied the concern in his deep blue eyes. “Have ye had these visions in the past?”
Maeve nodded, her bottom lip trembling. “When the barn burned, I dreamt of it the night before.”
“Ye’ve inherited the family legacy, lass. One of the abilities passed down for centuries in times of trouble.”
“One of the abilities?” She shuddered, wondering what other secrets were hidden in their past.
“Your grandmother had the gift of empathy, which made her a natural healer. It came in handy with wee ones or unconscious patients who couldna tell what ailed them. She also spoke of a third ability to see the truth in a man’s soul. We never ken when a child will be born with such powers.”
Maeve shook her head. “But I don’t want this legacy. Why me?”
“The visions only come when there is a chance to change an outcome, to protect the future of our clan. As you have just done.” He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped her hands in his. “It’s an honor and a heavy burden. And I wish to all the saints that I could save ye from both.”
* * *
Chapter One
“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”
Edgar Allen Poe
* * *
August 16, 1819
Stanfeld Estate,
County of Norfolk, England
* * *
Gideon touched the horse’s flank with his boot, moving into a smooth, rocking canter as he focused on the distant stone wall. His muscular body moved with the gelding, his thighs gripping the saddle, and his hands resting lightly on the reins. Still in training, Verity had been worth every pound. He had heart and courage and would gallop over a cliff if asked.
Marked as a rogue and a bone-setter at Tattersall’s auction, the horse had apparently refused to bend under training or listen to the whip. But the gelding’s eyes had held intelligence when Gideon stroked his wavy dark forelock and blew gently on his nose. The “beast” turned out to have more common sense than most of those roughriders, who thought to break an animal’s spirit with fear and domination. The three-year-old wanted to please but had rebelled against unwarranted pain. The fading scars that marked the ebony hide from sharp spurs and countless lashes proved it had not been the proper incentive. Verity enjoyed a challenge and learned quickly when asked with kindness. Animals weren’t much different from people really, except perhaps more trustworthy.
The pair approached the hedgerow. Gideon leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of mane with his spur hand. A subtle cue and the horse sailed over the shrub, landing gracefully on the other side. The wind pulled at the opening in his shirt, and it billowed around him with a flapping noise. He gave Verity a pat on the neck and eased him into a trot. “Good boy!”
The cool morning breeze lifted the hair off Gideon’s neck and cooled the sweat running down his back. The sweet smell of fresh-cut hay filled the air and he breathed deeply. His eyes swept over the green pastures and dotted hills that had claimed his imagination as a child. Playing with the village children and fighting dragons on ancient ponies, looking for buried treasure, or going to war against the Danes or the French—depending on the most recent history lesson. Where had that adventurous youth gone?
Verity’s ears pricked forward. Gideon chuckled at the scruffy little brown mutt bounding up the hill. “Good morn to you, Little Bit.”
The dog barked in reply, his tail wagging so rapidly that it seemed a blur. “A race, you say?” Little Bit barked his agreement. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep him in a trot to make it fair.”
The threesome ambled west, their backs to the sun. They crested a hill and the sight of his childhood home in the distance, standing sentry over the countryside, filled Gideon with pride. The numerous windows of the imposing three-story medieval manor glinted and flashed like jewels in a crown of gray sandstone. On each corner, gable, and the entrance sat miniature turrets like arrows pointing to the heavens. Surrounded by the original moat, it reminded visitors of long-gone knights, fair maidens, and chivalry. A wide, arched bridge spanned the ditch, bricks matching the color of the mansion and providing ample entrance to the estate grounds. Rolling hills and grazing pastures surrounded the mansion on three sides with acres of forest along the back. From atop this hill, it was an impressive sight, and Gideon always enjoyed watching people’s reaction the first time they saw it.
Little Bit barked, tail wagging and feet pawing at his stirrup. “My father passed on quite a legacy, didn’t he? Now it’s up to me to maintain and improve it.”
He leaned down to give the dog a final scratch then headed down the hill at an easy canter, mentally ticking off the correspondence he would respond to after breakfast. The estate’s steward also wanted to update him on some newly acquired livestock. There was the appointment with the solicitor next week in London concerning the textile mill in Glasgow. The business had been his father’s personal project so Gideon was eager to learn more about the details of that particular investment. It was the only corner of the Stanfeld holdings the late earl had seen to himself.
London. The visit would be a two-edged sword. On one hand, he looked forward to a few nights of gaming and camaraderie with good friends. Perhaps a stop at Tattersall’s to see what was on the auction block. On the other hand, those voracious, title-seeking mothers with their simpering single daughters… At least the families were sparser this time of year. At twenty-five, he still enjoyed his bachelor status and tried to avoid the town in the spring and early summer as carefully as horse piles on a busy street.
Just before crossing the bridge, he dismounted. Little Bit rushed ahead, barking a warning that his master was home. Gideon paused beneath one of the yew trees flanking the bridge, tucked his shirt into his breeches, and rolled down his sleeves. The reddish brown bark shown with purple in the morning light, and the low hanging branches swayed softly in the breeze. He walked across the bridge, buttoning his cuffs, his boot heels clicking against the bricks. The water below sparkled as lilies floated lazily along, an occasional fish making a splash. A stable hand waited on the steps, holding a crust of bread out to the dog.
“Give him a long rubdown. He worked hard this morning.” Gideon gave the horse another pat on its muscular neck and handed over the reins.
“Yes, my lord.” The man led the animal away, the tatty pup at his heels.
Sanders, the butler, greeted him at the door. “Good day, my lord. Lady Stanfeld is waiting for you.” His gray eyes, matching his thinning hair, danced with humor as he collected his lord’s waistcoat, crop, and gloves. “She appears to be making a list.”
Gideon groaned. “Of females?”
“Yes, my lord, I’m afraid so.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you, Sanders.” Gideon ignored the family portraits and the suit of armor stoically standing guard as he strode through the entryway. Intent on changing before greeting his mother, he bounded up the circular staircase two steps at a time.
Gideon entered his chambers, finished a quick half-bath, and wiped dry with a clean linen towel. He dressed in fresh buckskin breeches, a white cambric shirt, a brandy-colored waistcoat, and finished tying his cravat as he hurried down the stairs.
“Good morning, dear Mama,” he murmured as he bent low to kiss her cheek. “You look fetching in that deep shade of lavender. I’m happy to see you finally out of those blacks. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’ve followed the English tradition of mourning in honor of your father. But I’m happy to have some color back. It brightens the skin.” Her words still held the barest hint of a Scottish accent. Maeve smoothed her crepe skirt and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“So I’ve been told. Perhaps some coffee before you bombard me with your list?” Gideon smirked at her surprised look until those dark blue eyes flashed with determination. He held up a hand. “I’ll listen with interest as soon as I’ve finished a cup and had something to eat.”
Maeve watched in bemused silence as a servant poured the steaming black liquid into a china cup. Gideon lathered soft butter onto a thick slice of fresh bread and scooped some cherry preserves on top. With a groan of delight, he chewed with his eyes closed and finished with a smack of his lips. “This season’s cherries were superb.”
Maeve opened her mouth then closed it as he reached for his coffee. She made a face.
“And is that displeasure aimed at me, Mama?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know how you can prefer that horrible drink to tea. And without even a drop of milk or lump of sugar.”
He grinned, spearing a piece of cold beef with his fork. “I have my father’s dour demeanor and prefer the bitter to the sweet. Now, who is on your marriage agenda?”
She frowned. “It is not an agenda or about marriage. I’ve decided to have a small dinner party, and I’ve listed a few names that might be of interest.”
The last thing Gideon wanted was to be surrounded by tiresome young ladies looking for a husband. But seeing the light back in his mother’s eyes, he kept his thoughts to himself. It had been over a year since she had accepted an invitation or entertained. He was willing to be the sacrificial lamb to see her reenter society.
“I am happy to play host for whatever event you would like to arrange. Now about that list…”
His mind wandered as she told him of the families that would receive an invitation. His father had endured these social affairs as a matter of course. Always the proper gentleman, always the mannered aristocrat, always the impassive Englishman. Life was a set of rules and one followed those tenets to the letter in private, in social circles, and in business. The world, according to the late earl, was black and white.
The exception had been his wife, the vibrant and outspoken Maeve of the prominent Clan MacNaughton. The earl had disliked the superstitious and rebellious Highlanders but had fallen in love with one of the chieftain’s daughters. She had seemed to be the only weakness in his inflexible world, the only person or thing he allowed to let him stray from society’s rigid rules. Gideon had seen her pull caps with him and hold her own, occasionally even winning an argument. Those instances had ended with a wicked glint in his father’s eyes and a smug smile on his mother’s lips. Then the two of them would hide away in their bedchamber the rest of the day.
“I received a letter from Marietta last week. She’d like to visit before winter. So I will plan it as a welcome dinner in September. She’s finally with child, you know. It may be quite some time before she can travel again.”
The last words sounded wistful and brought Gideon back to the conversation. Marietta, the eldest sister, was less than two years behind him. Then came Charlotte, four years his junior, and Helen the youngest at eighteen. All had married well, in their father’s opinion, with the exception of Helen. She had wed a wealthy base-born Irishman. “It will be good to see Etta again. I’m surprised Lord Burnham is allowing her out of his sight. After three years, I swear the man is still smelling of April and May.”
“There is nothing wrong with being in love. And he’ll most certainly keep a close eye on that girl.” Maeve laughed. “She’s still a bit impetuous, but motherhood will slow her down.”
“I hope something does.” He rose from the table and kissed Maeve again on the cheek. “I will leave you to your preparations, then. I’ll be with the steward for the rest of the day. ”
The accounts for the quarter completed, Gideon and Jethro Birks admired the sheep littering the grassy hillside. They were fine stock and his steward had finagled an excellent price the previous year. “Outstanding job. I’m impressed with the results of the spring shearing. Damn good wool and damn good profits.”
“It took some talking, my lord, but I finally convinced your father to let me bring in these sheep from Gower. Much better quality than the Vale long wool and brings twice the price.” The summer sun had bleached Jethro’s hair almost white, making his brown eyes and tanned skin appear even darker. He pointed in the direction of a southern pasture. “I’d like to try grazing the cattle same as the sheep. Get the animals out of the yards, and we’ll see better milk and beef.”
“With your past record, I’m inclined to trust your judgment on this. By god, you even managed a second hay cutting this summer. There’ll be plenty of feed for the winter.”
“Can’t take all the credit for that, my lord. The weather helped a bit.”
Gideon looked over the acreage with a contented smile, his father’s words coming to mind. Surround yourself with competent men, treat them well, and your land and finances will prosper.
This was proof of that philosophy. He’d known Jethro since they were boys, hunting squirrel with slingshots and swimming in the horse pond. He was the third generation of Birks to manage the Stanfeld estates, and Gideon was thankful to have such a downy steward.
“I’ll be in London for a few days, checking in with the solicitor. Fair warning”—he cleared his throat—“Lady Stanfeld has come out of mourning and is planning a country party for September. What she has described as a small dinner gathering will no doubt turn into a week of company.”
“Yes, my lord. Consider me prepared for the upcoming requests.”
“Give my regards to your charming wife.” Gideon turned his gelding back toward the manor. It had been a productive day, and he was ready for a glass of sherry and a good meal.
The Countess of Stanfeld settled into her favorite chair near the library hearth. She held a small book of poems and read a few pages until her eyes grew weary. Her thoughts strayed to her late husband Charles and the heart condition that had sapped his strength his last years. It had made him weak of body but not weak of mind. He had remained lucid and pragmatic until the end, knowing death was upon him and looking the reaper in the eye. Maeve had always admired his supreme will and saw that same strength in her children.
But he had also been a narrow-minded man in a sense, whose rational views did not allow him to see anything except what lay in front of him. If it was not factual or quantifiable, it was not real. He had laughed at her first vision of a sinking ship he planned to invest in, indulging her recount as if it were an amusing story. Until it came true. It had shaken the very foundation of everything he considered Truth. Rather than look too deeply into the situation, he shunned the unexplainable. Ran from it as if it were the devil himself after his soul.
His reaction had been swift and irrevocable. Her female mind was too easily swayed by homeland folklore. Maeve would not return to the Highlands while there was breath left in him. She would remain in England, become a proper countess, and forget the mystical nonsense of her childhood. By that time, she loved him so deeply that the fear in his eyes had frightened her also. He didn’t understand, didn�
�t have the capability to conceive of something so intangible, other than God. And he struggled with that omniscient presence. So she never told him of another vision, and instead did what she could to avoid tragedy whenever possible. She willingly gave up her childhood home for him but refused to give up her family.
The earl had compromised with his wife and in-laws by going to the Scottish Lowlands and meeting in Glasgow twice a year. The couple had first been introduced in that city, when Charles and her father, Calum MacNaughton, had met to discuss the purchase of a textile mill. Her father still insisted the papers had only been signed after Maeve had agreed to his courtship. The trips satisfied the desire for her children to know the MacNaughton clan. Gideon had always been especially close to his grandfather, growing more like his image every year with Calum’s muscular build, black hair, and piercing blue eyes.
She smiled, closed her eyes, and gave in to a pleasant afternoon nap.
* * *
He pushed against the throng of men, women, and children to hear the gentleman on the stage. The stink of unwashed bodies and a hum of excitement filled the air. He pulled off his waistcoat as the sweat pooled beneath his collar. The speaker’s words of reform and the right to vote echoed in his head and filled him with purpose.
A woman holding a small child sidled up next to him, a smile on her lips. The pair made him think of his own wife and the family they would have. The wee girl had the same dimples as her mother. The babe waved a hand at him, and he caught her chubby fingers in his. Grasping her mother’s braid in her other hand, the babe sucked heartily then began to cry as the noise increased. She squealed as the crowd jostled the pair and reached toward him. The pressure of bodies behind them intensified, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasna right.
Screams pierced the air, and he turned to see the cause of such panic. Mounted Hussars stormed the assembly, the rhythmic whisk of blades slicing the air. A glistening black beast, eyes rolling, lunged forward then reared. Flying hooves pawed at the scrambling bodies and struck the infant in the head. The mother screamed, her arms reaching for the falling child.