A Laird to Hold

by Angeline Fortin

  “Can’t really see a man Rhys’s size performing a graceful Cat Daddy, can you?” Scarlett moved her body, undulating in a manner that had Laird looking at once appalled yet captivated. “Not really in his wheelhouse, is it? Maybe Jack will teach him a thing or two.”

  Hermione jumped up and tried to imitate her mother’s moves so adorably they were all bent over in gales of laughter.

  “They’re really hitting it off, aren’t they?” Claire asked, moving to sit beside Hugh.

  “Aye.” Laird nodded and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “But Rhys would be best to remain unattached. We’ll be going home soon.”

  “Soon?”

  Then Laird did smile fully. “Aye, they’ll be releasing our bairn from the hospital in a few days more. Then we can all finally leave this hellish place.”

  Hugh noticed Connor’s smile slip a notch and wondered at his lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps Connor’s upset mirrored his own, for in a sense he did not want these happy moments to end. However, Connor’s humor was restored so quickly Hugh thought he must have imagined it.

  “To yer good fortune.” Connor lifted his glass high and toasted them.

  “Aye, my friend.” Laird waved a hand. “Let us all drink to my bonny bairn’s sound health.”

  Another round of drinks were poured. Achenmeade Whisky for the men—Laird had been thrilled to see the whisky brand he’d launched centuries ago on the shelves. Wine for Emmy, and a teeny tiny dram for Scarlett since she was breastfeeding. Claire lifted her glass of club soda and another toast was given, then another. Until they were all talking over one another. Laughing and relaxed.

  Even Laird, who was the most serious of them all, smiled contently as he drank his whisky.

  Aye, Hugh had found friendship here.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to name her yet?” Emmy moved to sit in Connor’s lap and looped an arm behind his neck as she snuggled against him. “You can’t keep calling her the baby or bairn.”

  “In my defense, I wasn’t planning on even giving birth until next week at the earliest. We’ve had a few ideas but haven’t settled on anything yet.” Scarlett sat on the floor near Hermione.

  “Why don’t you get Hugh to tell you what the baby’s name is?” Claire suggested.

  Scarlett seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Claire cast him a knowing grin and patted his knee. “He claimed he knew his family lineage back the two hundred years from his birth to Laird’s, didn’t he? I would guess he knows what her name is. Or will be.”

  Scarlett turned to him, intrigue alive in her eyes. Hugh thought it might be the first time she’d ever looked at him with such directness. She still hadn’t warmed to him fully. He who had been known for his ability to charm anyone. A gift, he’d told Claire, which had served him well in life. Yet, for all his efforts, he hadn’t been able to win Scarlett over. Despite spending mornings at the hospital while Claire worked, giving a fair amount of effort in winning over Hermione and holding the new bairn, she still seemed wary.

  Of him, but not the others.

  He couldn’t help but question why.

  “Do you?” Scarlett asked. Laird, too, looked fascinated by the possibility that the bairn’s name was a foregone conclusion.

  Since he did know, perhaps it was. However, his curiosity was roused by the idea of seeing whether they’d come up with it on their own. He told them just that.

  Scarlett’s lips twitched. “Perhaps the only reason we name her whatever we name her is because you told us to. Have you considered that?”

  “I hae no’,” he admitted, enjoying the casual interaction with her. There’d been little of it between them since he’d arrived. “Nevertheless, I’d hate to influence ye unduly.”

  Then she laughed. With him. Because of him, and his heart warmed. Mayhap he’d win her over yet.

  “Oh my God, the pressure! I hope we don’t disappoint you.” She took a wee sip of her wine with a sigh. “Oh, that’s yummy. The things we do for our children.”

  Claire nodded. “No caffeine and no alcohol is a true sacrifice. Soon it’ll be your turn, Emmy. And you can feel the pain.”

  “I already sympathize,” Emmy assured them. “At least you behave, so many of the mothers-to-be at home refuse to believe in the dangers of consuming alcohol during their pregnancies. I plan on setting a fine example for them all.”

  “Is that so?” Connor probed, more seriously than the comment required.

  “Of course, I do.” She grinned at him and caressed his chest. “After all the practice we’re getting in here with nothing else to do, it may happen sooner rather than later. After all, I met our grandson, remember? It will happen. Oh, I didn’t even think of it. We should look him up while we’re here. Then you can get a chance to meet him too before we go home.”

  “Assuming Donell ever comes around so you can,” Hugh pointed out. “We’ve seen so sign of him in weeks.”

  Scarlett sighed, twirling her now empty glass between her fingers. She set it aside and picked up one of Hermione’s books, inviting her daughter into her lap. “I wish he had shown up. If for no other reason than to send Connor and Emmy back home. There was no need to have you stay so long after the baby was born.”

  “Oh, we’ve enjoyed it,” Emmy assured her. “Haven’t we, Connor?”

  “Aye.”

  Hugh narrowed his gaze on his new friend, noticing again his lack of enthusiasm. From everything Connor had told him, he’d been having a fine time. He wondered what had happened to change his mind.

  “’Tis a fine lute here,” Laird commented, drawing Hugh’s attention. “Where did ye get it?”

  “I found it at an antique shop on the Royal Mile,” Hugh told him. “My mother had one like it.”

  “Do ye play?” Laird asked, setting aside his drink to lift the fat-bellied instrument off the side table and strum the strings. He frowned and turned one of the pegs to tune it. Then another.

  “Nay, I never learned.”

  Claire scoffed at his confession. “Couldn’t learn is more like it. My Hugh is a regular savant when it comes to most things but turns out he’s completely tone deaf.”

  Laird smiled as he tuned the instrument. “Nae man is perfect, lass. Other than myself, of course.”

  Scarlett let out a loud moan that roused more laughter. “Don’t let him fool you. I taught him how to play.”

  “Aye, I was imperfect then. Now…?” Laird shrugged as if there were nothing more to say on the matter, prompting another round of mirth.

  Laird plucked each string in turn, then nodded with satisfaction. To Hugh’s surprise, he began to pick out a melody. More of a surprise, he recognized the tune after a few bars as an old Scottish folksong Auld Wallace. Then Laird sang along softly.

  O for my ain king, quo gude Wallace,

  The rightfu' king of fair Scotland.

  Between me and my soverign blude

  I think I see some ill seed sawn.

  Wallace out over yon river he lap,

  And he has lighted low down on yon plain,

  And he was aware of a gay ladie,

  As she was at the well washing.

  What tydins, what tydins, fair lady, he says,

  What tydins hast thou to tell unto me

  What tydins, what tydins, fair lady, he says,

  What tydins hae ye in the south Countrie

  Though it was neither a mournful tune nor a slow lament, Hugh felt a stab of melancholy for his homeland. Not the Scotland of now but the Scotland of old.

  The Scotland revisited in the company of these men.

  As if she sensed his wistfulness, Claire slipped her hand into his and lay her head on his shoulder. She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. One that was easy to answer. While Hugh might feel some nostalgia for the time he was born, there was no time he’d rather be. No era better suited to him. No place he’d rather raise his child.

  He was precisely where he was meant to be, and w
ith whom he was meant to be with. Hugh could forgive Donell his methods because of his current happiness. Even if given the opportunity, he would never go back. Especially after Donell’s assurances regarding his family’s welfare.

  Still, he had to wonder at Donell’s motives. This master plan of his which had been mulled over and questioned many times by them all these past weeks. If the birth of Laird and Scarlett’s child had been the plan of most concern to the old man, Hugh had to think he was part of it. The others concurred. The baby had been saved so Hugh might be born.

  But what was he then? Another project? But what could be so important to Donell that he went through such troubles to make sure Hugh arrived safely in this time? To erase all history of Rosebraugh, his family, and the life he led before?

  Were Scarlett’s worries the same?

  Hugh usually excelled at puzzles of all sorts, but the potential endgame of this one left him baffled. His questions might never be answered.

  Certainly not if Donell refused to make another appearance.

  Jack

  “Listen, Prescott, I hired you to follow that actress and learn what you can about the people she’s with.”

  Jack turned his head and glowered at the man, sick of his bullshit and his tired navy blue suit. “And so I have.”

  His employer sneered, slicing his hand through the air between them. “Bullshit, the only one you’ve even talked to so far is the red-headed man.”

  “Aye and I’ve learned a lot from him.” Jack nodded, his fingers tightening around the handle of his beer mug. “First, he’s a poof. I wouldn’t have expected it given his ultra macho persona.” It’d been a surprise but a pleasant one. They hadn’t shared any of the old ‘How’s your father’ yet, but oddly enough, he didn’t mind. He was happy with a slap and a tickle or even simply sharing long talks instead, for Rhys was an endlessly fascinating guy. “Secondly, he’s fiercely protective of his brother and sister-in-law. Third, he’s good with kids. He dotes on his niece.”

  The information didn’t satisfy the aggravated man next to him though. “But where are they from? What are they doing here? I want answers. That’s what I hired you for.”

  “They haven’t said a thing about it. Any of them, and I’ve met them all,” Jack shot back. “The only one who has something to say is the child, but nothing she’s told me makes any sense.”

  His client latched on to the tidbit like a terrier with a bone. “Like what?”

  “Odd stuff, like wanting to know what things are that any child should know. Like traffic lights, for example. Or those light-up athletic shoes all the children wear these days.”

  “Whose child is she?”

  “Scarlett Thomas’s.” Jack leaned back, disturbed by the wild expression on the man’s face.

  “Has she said anything about where they came from?”

  “Listen, mate, they’re just good, decent people. A little out of touch, maybe. Old-fashioned like they’ve been living in a vacuum or some—”

  “How old-fashioned?” his client interrupted. “Explain.”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t know exactly. The way they talk, some of the terms they use. Like they’re out of a Shakespearean play or something. Listen, mate, I don’t know what you expected to find, but there’s nothing else I can give you other than to confirm that all the headlines are true.”

  The headlines of all the gossip rags had spelled it out in bold black letters for weeks. Thomas’s secret marriage. Secret love child. Secret life. He hadn’t learned much more than that. Not really, other than to discover what kind and lovely people they all were. And he wasn’t about to share those intimate moments he’d witnessed. Not with this arse.

  “I want more, dammit!”

  “Then you’ll have to find someone else to get it for you.” Jack pushed a fat envelope down the bar toward him. “I’ve decided not to take your case.”

  It pained him to say it. This had been his big chance as a private investigator. A high-profile case dealing with one of the most famous people on the face of God’s green earth.

  But the moment that handsome ginger had looked at him, all Jack’s good intentions had become better, more decent ones.

  Oh, he’d tried to work the commission professionally. Hefty bread and honey were involved, after all. More quid than he’d seen all year were stuffed in that envelope. Unfortunately, he’d come to care for Rhys and the others more than a stack of pound notes.

  And far, far more than he liked his client. Information about them most assuredly wouldn’t be used for a noble purpose by a tosser like him.

  “You already took it.” The man shoved the envelope back.

  Jack smoothly pushed it away again without a twinge of regret. “Then I’m un-taking it. I like Rhys.” Too much, which was part of the issue here. “I’ll not spy on him anymore. Not for you or all the money in the world.”

  “You’ll regret this, you son of a bitch.”

  “I doubt it. Cheers.” The final word conveyed a wealth of meaning far removed from a fond farewell.

  The man stormed away and watching him go, Jack spotted Rhys approaching. The two men passed one another, Jack’s former employer glowering and Rhys wearing a more inquisitive look before he joined Jack at the bar.

  Rhys

  “Who was that?”

  Rhys glanced down at Jack as he slid onto the barstool adjacent to him and signaled to the bartender, who was on the verge of becoming a dear friend after all the visits he’d paid for a beer and a bump of his favorite Scotch.

  “A client of mine,” Jack admitted, looking not at him but into his beer.

  “American was he?” The question couldn’t be denied, though it wasn’t the greatest of those on his mind. Merely the most polite. He’d heard the man’s final, feral pledge to Jack, but didn’t want to press for an explanation. “I could tell by the accent.”

  “Aye, American and a thoroughly distasteful one at that.”

  “I’ve recently heard recounting of another confrontation between an American and a Scotsman. It seems the Americans are well aware of the impression we hae of them, but some feel rather terribly about it.”

  Jack finally laughed. “Do they?”

  Rhys shrugged with a grin, but was pleased he’d set his friend’s troubles aside for the time being. “There may hae been some degree of sarcasm involved.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “They’re no’ a bad lot, for the most part,” Rhys went on offhandedly. “Granted, my experience wi’ them is somewhat limited but Scarlett is beyond charming. Claire and Emmy are also delightful.”

  Jack opened and closed his mouth several times then finally said only, “That they are. Kind, too. Scarlett clearly cares about you, but then she’s your sister-in-law.”

  “She’s my best friend,” Rhys corrected in earnest. “’Tis what she calls us. ‘Tis more than a familial bond that connects us. She would do anything for me and I would lay down my life for hers.”

  Jack started to say something, then chuckled ruefully. “I was just going to say what an old-fashioned line that was, but I forgot who I was talking to.”

  “I doubt I could change who I am,” Rhys told him. “I was raised to protect and defend those I love. God help anyone who does them harm.”

  Jack fell silent for a long moment, staring into his ale. Rhys wondered if he imagined the little shudder that shook his shoulders. “Are you saying you’d kill for them? For her?”

  “An odd sentiment in this…er, era, but aye,” Rhys agreed. “I’ve pledged my life to protect hers.”

  “Who talks like that?” Jack shook his head. “Never mind. Again, I should know better by this point. I guess I didn’t realize you were so close.”

  Rhys could tell his declaration troubled his new friend, but couldn’t take them back. To his mind, there were not enough people willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of another. If it were a passé sentiment, he was content with that.

  However, he was sorry
if he’d unduly upset Jack. “My apologies if the ferocity of my words upsets ye. Alas I can believe nae other way. She’s been my dearest companion other than my brother since Will—”

  He hadn’t meant to mention it and tried to stop himself but Jack’s interest was already piqued.

  “Will?”

  “Willem,” Rhys intoned the name solemnly. His beer and whiskey arrived, but instead of sipping the ale, he took a large swig of the other with a wince. “He was my…friend for quite a long time.”

  “I see,” Jack said and Rhys rather thought he did. “For how long?”

  “Close to six years.”

  Jack whistled under his breath. “That’s a long time. What happened? Did you break up?”

  Rhys wasn’t certain what he meant by break up, though it had shattered him at the time.

  “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it…”

  It was both an out and an invitation. Rather than opting for the former, Rhys was surprised to hear himself say, “Nay, I dinnae mind. He passed away no’ long ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” The apology was sincere and Jack took his hand with a comforting squeeze. He asked how it had happened and Rhys glossed over the truth as best he could but it was a relief to talk about it. The pain of that moment had lessened. It was easier than he’d imagined.

  “How did you meet?”

  “He was my squi—” Rhys cut himself off again, wishing he didn’t have to be so bloody circumspect with someone he’d begun to trust. And care for. “He was in my employ. Despite our time together, he was ne’er comfortable wi’ ignoring the difference in our stations, which kept us from truly bonding despite our years together. As for me, I dinnae acknowledge the more personal aspect of our relationship until Scarlett urged me to. I had been engaged to wed a lady ‘ere that so I’m fore’er grateful to her.”

  Jack’s eyes went wide. “Scarlett Thomas is the one who pulled you out of the closet? That’s a story I’d love to hear.”

  “One for another time,” Rhys evaded the request. Recounting his drunken conversation with Scarlett about the wives of Henry the Eighth while Willem poured them more wine than they could hold with dignity was definitely not a tale for a friendship only two weeks old. “Now, I thought we were planning on an evening out, aye?”