A Laird to Hold

by Angeline Fortin

  This moment only served to prove she’d made the proper choices all along.

  “I’ve moved on with my life, Mother. I repeat; I’m done.”

  “Done? You’re nothing of the sort.”

  “Mother, really…”

  “When the reporter comes in you’ll have to come up with something better than that.”

  “I will not give an interview!”

  “But you will,” her mother ground out. “I convinced Natalie Bannon from the Telegraph to come up from London. She’ll be tactful and cooperative with editing the final text.”

  “Do you not hear me, Mother? I will not give an interview.”

  “We’ll have to get a makeup crew in here ASAP and try to do something about all this.” She gestured a hand up and down to indicate all that was wrong with Scarlett in her eyes.

  Irritation left a sour taste in Scarlett’s mouth. She’d just given birth, for crying out loud. And she might be a few years older, but those years had been kind to her. If nothing else, she was still beautiful in Laird’s eyes and that was all that mattered.

  “We’ll have to explain the hair somehow. Tell them you regretted your choice to cut it, harming your image, and that’s why you got those extensions. I don’t know about the rest.”

  “Mother.”

  “The reporters are already running with a story about a secret honeymoon to explain your mysterious disappearances over the past month, so we can stick with that excuse.”

  Scarlett blinked at that. “With who?”

  “Why Grayson, of course.”

  Her eye roll couldn’t have been any bigger. Her former co-star Grayson Lukas had always fabricated false stories about their supposed romance. “Let me guess. We eloped?”

  “He had to say something to keep from being arrested for kidnapping you,” Olivia pointed out. “You’ve been so unkind to him when he’s a far better fit for you than that brutish man.”

  Frustration couldn’t entirely squelch the snort of amusement that Grayson might somehow be a better man than Laird. She pushed herself up and off the bed. “Of all the bloody nonsense I’ve ever heard, that trounces them all.”

  “And what’s with this fake accent? You’re not on a movie set any longer. Stop it immediately. It’s grating on my nerves.”

  “Enough, Mother. I’m done with this and with you.” Olivia parted her lips in rebuttal, but Scarlett was ahead of her. She stood close enough to stare her right in the eyes and added more bluntly, “I’m not your puppet any longer, Mother. I told you I’m done and I won’t say it again.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes. “You think that will put an end to it all? They will hound you to the end of time.”

  They would. Hopefully, however, she’d soon find a time they couldn’t follow her to.

  “You may go, Mother.” Scarlett put all the haughtiness of the countess she was into the command. Cold and final. “Feel free to return if you’d like to meet your son-in-law or granddaughter. But not before.”

  Her mother gaped. Hemmed, hawed and threatened. Finally, she turned on her heel with the promise to return, and Scarlett drew in a deep breath in an attempt to expel all the scorn her mother had piled on her. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to wash away the past half an hour with imaginings of how a true mother-daughter reunion should have gone. How a loving grandmother would have greeted her new baby. Between her mother and Laird’s stepmother, they’d obviously never know.

  Strong arms encircled her and lifted her. On Laird’s lap as he sat in a chair, she nestled into his warm embrace and took solace in his strength. How would she have ever survived here without him? Where would she have been in this time without knowing the support and comfort of his love?

  “We’re most definitely no’ naming our lass after yer mother,” he said quietly, drawing a choked laugh from her.

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Tyrone seems a decent enough man, though.”

  “One of them ought to be.” She tilted her head back and kissed the bottom of his bearded chin. “Have I told you lately how happy I am to have you?”

  “Nay, but yer happiness couldnae exceed my joy. I would hae naught, no’ even my own life, if no’ for ye, mo chroí.” He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers, then deepened the kiss. Their breath mingled. Scarlett shivered as his tongue plunged, dueled with hers, and inhaled the scent of soap and aroused male. She wound her arms around his waist, reveling in his strength. A moment later, his hand drifted upward to cup her breast. “My bonny lass. How much time do ye think we hae ere everyone returns?”

  Scarlett shook her head with a low chuckle. “I did just give birth to your daughter less than twenty-four hours ago, you know?”

  “Shall I see if I can make ye forget the exact number of hours?” He kissed her again.

  “You already have,” she whispered against his lips. “How about just holding me and assuring me everything is going to work out for the best? I can’t live this life again.”

  “Ye willnae hae to. All will be well, I promise.”

  He’d never broken a promise to her, but Scarlett feared there was a first time for everything.

  Scarlett

  “Back already? That was quick.”

  No more than a few hours had passed since Emmy and Connor left. Scarlett hadn’t expected them to return for at least an hour more. She hadn’t even managed a nap after her mother’s visit before Rhys brought Hermione back from their outing.

  “Ye hae nae idea, lass,” Connor countered, his palm pressed to his stomach just below his ribs.

  “Are you all right? Did something happen?”

  Emmy came in behind him with a laugh and patted her husband on the butt affectionately. “Nothing a little Dramamine couldn’t fix. Turns out my speedster here is a lover of back roads and freeways, but not so comfortable with the constant stop and go of a more urban environment.”

  Connor looked affronted, drawing himself up to his full height. He was wonderfully handsome, not so gorgeous as Laird, but Scarlett imagined he looked splendid against the rugged backdrop of the castle he’d told her about. Like Laird, he wouldn’t like being seen as weak. Or less than the alpha sort of male he was in his own time period.

  “But I did a fine job of driving when Hugh let me. I ne’er dreamed of traveling at such speeds. A true thrill, I cannae tell ye how I’ve longed to—”

  “Who is this Hugh ye speak of?” Laird cut in. “No’ one of those paparazzi Scarlett warned ye to avoid, I hope?”

  “No, not a paparazzi. A passerby who was kind enough to give us a ride down to Dunskirk and back again. Really quite kind of him.” Emmy paused, biting her lip. “He asked to meet you.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” Scarlett reminded. Besides, she’d had enough of ‘visitors’ after her mother’s surprise visit. “You know that.”

  “Not you. Laird.” Emmy turned to him with a shrug of apology. “I know such a claim seems strange, but he says he knows you.”

  Laird’s brows bunched together. “Impossible. ‘Tis obvious I ken nae one in this place. Send him away.”

  “I told him ye’d say that,” Connor assured him. “As Emmy said, ‘tis an odd circumstance, but he insisted he knows ye but wouldnae explain how. He said if ye had any reservations aboot receiving him, to gi’ ye this.”

  All eyes in the room darted to the gold chain he held out, the burnished medallion on the end gleaming as it danced and swayed hypnotically in the light. But Scarlett’s immediately went from there to Laird, who stood clutching his chest.

  Emmy’s eyes widened in alarm. “God, are you okay?”

  Laird

  Laird clutched the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, staring at the one dangling before him as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul and brandished the trophy. Leaving him naked and vulnerable with its removal. Secure in the knowledge his own piece was safely in place, Laird snatched the undulating necklace from Connor’s hand. After a thorough inspection of
the pendant, he closed his eyes.

  “How is this possible?”

  “Let me see,” Rhys demanded and looked the disk over, though Laird held tight to the chain. “Where would someone get this? Ye ne’er remove it.”

  “Let’s ask him, shall we?”

  “Laird,” Scarlett warned. “He could be a charlatan, someone who saw you on TV. You shouldn’t just let him in.”

  Of all the things Laird imagined if he were to see the future world his wife had been born in, discovering his medallion anywhere but around his own neck had been the last of them. Mayhap the greatest blow as yet among the maelstrom of painful revelations. If the pendant were a fake, it was a clever one. The embossed image on the front, a rampant lion with the Latin phrase Nobilis est ira leonis around the perimeter, was identical to his own. The weight in his hand, the feel…it was the same if somewhat worn. Aye, he was cautious about allowing new people into this room and their lives. Especially after meeting his mother-in-law. But he could not simply turn away from learning where the last five hundred years had taken his one true legacy.

  “They’re decent people, Scarlett. They mean no harm,” Emmy assured them, sealing his decision.

  “Send him in.”

  Rampant curiosity couldn’t entirely quash wariness and good sense, so Laird was on guard when Connor opened the door to admit not just a man but a tall, willowy redhead as well. The woman smiled, bonny and friendly. The man, however, wasn’t as confident of a welcome reception.

  Wise of him, because however interested Laird was in the person who possessed his keepsake, the welfare of his family came first. One wrong move and Laird would have his sword drawn and at the man’s throat before he could blink.

  Laird strode the space between them with slow steps, taking the measure of the man. Tall as he, the stranger was. Near as braw, but not quite. Dark hair cut short. Unarmed, his hands were open at his sides where Laird could see them. Clearly no numptie then. Laird came to a stop before the man, aware Rhys stood at guard at his back. The stranger’s vivid blue eyes, however, never veered in Rhys’s direction, remaining on Laird.

  “Who are ye?”

  “My name is Hugh Urquhart,” the visitor answered, his eyes studying Laird with unwavering interest. As if he were searching for something in turn. “This is my wife, Claire. Or Sorcha, if ye will.”

  Laird spared her a nod but not the more courtly bow he would normally have given a lady. This was no ballroom, unless he wanted to compare his ill ease to the backbiting throngs of King James’s court. Keeping his eyes on this Urquhart, anticipating any attack, he held up the pendant. “Where did ye get this medallion?”

  When the stranger reached for the necklace, Laird drew it back. There would be no returning it until he had answers.

  “I am happy to explain,” Hugh replied, “but might I hae yer name first? I’ve already met Connor and Emmy. My wife is familiar with Miss Thomas.”

  “She is nae Miss Thomas to ye, but my wife,” Laird told them, earning a little gasp from Sorcha. He shot her a dark look meant to threaten and subdue and the woman shrank back into the man’s protective embrace. “Dinnae think to be selling information to one of those prattling scandalmongers we’ve seen upon that blasted box.” He gestured to the television mounted to the corner of the room.

  “I would never. I swear.”

  Reading the truth in her unusual periwinkle eyes, Laird nodded tightly. “My name is…” Scarlett cleared her throat and the litany of reprimand and cautionary advice only a wife could infuse into such a tiny sound reminded him of where he was. “Most call me Laird.”

  Hugh nodded stiffly. “Aye, I was told as much, but may I ask yer true name?”

  A feral growl deep in his throat heralded Laird’s impatience, but the stranger neither cowered nor looked askance as any God-fearing man might. He but met Laird’s stare evenly. Waiting patiently. Laird’s respect for their visitor notched up ever so slightly. Behind him, he felt Rhys relax, but suspicion kept Laird tense.

  However, he wanted answers far more than he wanted to cow the man, so truth down to the bare bones accompanied his answer. “My name is Lord James Stewart Patrick Hepburn, Laird and Earl of Achenmeade. This medallion was a gift to me from my mother, Lady Elizabeth Stewart, as it was gifted to her by her father, James Stewart the Auld King.”

  “Laird!” Scarlett cried out, but Laird ignored her protest. ‘Twas the time for truth. Not prevarication.

  “Now tell me ‘ere I’m persuaded to violence, where did ye get it?” The man’s face paled, but not from fear. Laird could sense fright well, even from a distance. Instead, this Hugh Urquhart, though stricken by the news, did not appear as dubious of Laird’s lineage as he might expect. “Speak!”

  “From my mother, as well. Given to her by hers when she married my father,” Hugh answered, recovering his composure. “To my knowledge, there has only been one Earl of Achenmeade. How is it that he is here before me?”

  The disclosure stunned Laird into silence for a moment. What? No son to pass on his name? Or was it worse than that? Would he and Scarlett never return to his time so he could carry on his name? The idea struck him with dread, but he bore the blow well. “What ken ye of it?”

  “I know the history of my family verra well,” Hugh responded, further shocking him.

  Hugh looked down at his wife, who was gripping his arm with both hands and staring up at him with open concern written on her face. He tweaked her chin with a slight smile. “’Tis fine, lass. I saw it coming.”

  “I didn’t,” she mumbled.

  Nor had Laird. He shook his head to clear it, aware that everyone behind him had grown quiet as they absorbed the news. Denial wedged away common sense and the notion of the impossible. Was this man saying he was Laird’s clansman?

  “Five hundred years is too long while to ken yer ancestry,” was all Laird could manage from beneath the cloud of his doubt.

  “Mayhap, but two hundred is no’.”

  His revelation hammered the stunned silence of the room firmly into place. To the last, all eyes were upon the stranger in varying degrees of disbelief. Laird’s was the most profound. Was this Urquhart saying what Laird thought he was? That he was his descendant? That he was not from this time either?

  Both?

  There was a tug on the leg of his trousers. Glancing down, he found Hermione smiling up at him. She broke the weighty atmosphere with a merry command of, “Da, up.”

  Reflexively he lifted her into his arms. She grinned at him and patted his cheek then turned to the couple across from him. “I hae a new book.”

  Hugh, staring at the child in wonder, made no move, but Claire took the book Hermione was holding out with a smile. “How wonderful. Can you read it?”

  The toddler shook out her auburn curls and Hugh extended an open, if somewhat trembling, palm to her. She set her hand in his without pause and Laird oddly thought they needed to teach her not to be so friendly to strangers. How absurd a reflection for the moment.

  Hugh spoke softly, his eyes fixed on the child. “I was born at Rosebraugh Castle on Cromarty Firth in the year seventeen hundred and twelve, oldest son of the Duke of Ross and Lady Aileen MacGilvery. If I’m no’ mistaken, ye would place yer birth date far beyond that date.” He looked past Laird to the tiny bundle wrapped in pink in Scarlett’s arms. “I wonder which of yer lasses I’m descended from.”

  Astonishment at his revelation crippled the room until all they could hear was the din beyond the closed door. Then Scarlett broke the silence with a low profanity that got all of their attention.

  “That son of a bitch. I’m going to strangle him for this.” She looked around at the startled, yet blank faces all turned toward her. “Well, you get it, don’t you? What this is all about?”

  “Now, lass, dinnae be giving away all my secrets.”

  Hugh

  No one in the room had even twitched but at the sound of the pebbly burr, they all swiveled around and stared at the old man who st
ood just inside the door, looking for all the world like he’d just stepped out of an old-world pub.

  Donell looked up at Hugh with a frown that folded his forehead into more rows than a Shar Pei. Hugh’s own confusion contorted into far greater layers.

  “What are ye doing here, lad?” Donell demanded. “I hae to admit, I dinnae see it coming.”

  “Donell? Auld Donell?” Hugh’s constricted tone couldn’t convey a fraction his bewilderment, which was amplified to astronomical heights when Claire echoed his amazement.

  “You know him, too?” Scarlett asked the room, then snorted indelicately. “Why am I not surprised.”

  “You know him?” Claire repeated the question to Hugh, her violet eyes brimming with questions.

  “Aye, and ye as well?”

  Claire nodded. “He used to work at Mark-Davis.”

  “He served in the Rosebraugh stables for years,” Hugh turned to Donell, concealing as best he could how confounded he was. For all this time had shown him, nothing compared to this coincidence. “Would ye care to explain how that’s possible?”

  The old man stuffed his fists into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and looked about the room. “Bit crowded in here, ain’t it?”

  “Sure would be interested in hearing your master plan, Donell.” Again, it was Scarlett who spoke the question raging in Hugh’s mind. No doubt in the mind of everyone in the room.

  Laird might’ve been the only one unmoved by the old man’s appearance. His icy gray eyes remained locked on Hugh with a mixture of disbelief and shock.

  “Och, well, I ne’er did anticipate ha’ing all its parts together in one room,” Donell responded to Scarlett, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor. “Bluidy awkward.”

  “I’ll say,” Emmy chimed in. “Never thought all your little projects would be in one place, did you?”

  Confusion further clouded Hugh’s mind and he tried to shake the stagnant feeling. “What do ye mean projects? Did Donell hae something to do wi’ all this?”