by Jill Jones
“I’m a selfish bitch, aren’t I?”
Duncan would never have accused her of that, but at the moment, he couldn’t agree more. “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.” He didn’t mean to be bitter, but the words were out before he could stop them.
“Touché.” She knelt and gave Pauley a hug, signing to him that she had to leave. The boy returned her embrace and gave her a kiss.
He didn’t understand that she meant forever.
I will not cry, Taylor told herself as she went out of Duncan’s front gate. I will not. Better to do this now than to allow her emotions to become even more entangled in a hopeless situation.
Because that’s exactly what it was.
Before they’d come back through the Ladysgate, and even when the boat had first docked, she had hoped they could work it out. For Pauley’s sake as well as their own. But as each minute ticked away now, she was ever more convinced it just couldn’t be. The feelings that had grown up between her and Duncan during their sojourn through history had no basis in reality. Indeed, that time seemed almost dreamlike now.
But the present day was reality. And Taylor’s reality was that she was afraid to trust in any future with a man who wanted children. The only relationship she could allow herself to depend upon was that between herself and her work, where the only person who could let her down was Taylor Kincaid. The arrangement had sufficed for over ten years. It would have to continue to do so.
But back at her hotel, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Hurting. She’d just walked away from the only man she’d ever loved. The only child she might ever have. Why? Because she was afraid of taking a chance?
“Grow up,” she uttered, throwing the bum-bag across the room with an audible curse.
Surely it wasn’t fear. Taylor had never been afraid of anything.
Except relationships. And more, loss of control over her life. Maybe that was it. When nature had taken control over her ability to bear children, had she retaliated by demanding control over everything else about her life? The idea was uncomfortable, and yet it settled in her gut with alarming alacrity.
Whatever amateur psychological explanation she chose, it didn’t matter. She’d made her decision, taken her leave, and would have to depend on time to heal the pain.
Trying to refocus her thoughts on the career she deemed so all important, she rummaged through her briefcase, looking for her notes on the story ideas that had brought her to Scotland in the first place. But none of them worked anymore.
She couldn’t go back to the Legends, Lore and Lunatics series, not after what had taken place in her own life. Never again would she take a legend lightly.
Nor could she produce a show about her incredible voyage through time. For all the reasons Duncan had given her, she’d decided against exposing the secret of the Ladysgate to the exploration of her viewers. So what did that leave her?
The diary of a Queen.
The letter from Lady Ogilvy.
And a lost treasure that only she, and Pauley, knew where to find.
The Lost Treasure of Scotland.
Perfect.
She would produce a show using the actual artifacts that she’d inherited to set the stage for the drama, and she’d film the live excavation of the cliff, as she took her viewers into the “belly of the castle rock,” as Mrs. Ogilvy had called it, seeking the Scottish Rose.
The idea stirred some small excitement in her, but it was pale in comparison to the eager enthusiasm she’d once felt at the start of a new project.
This is what you wanted, she reminded herself again. No risk. No entanglements.
No joy…?
It was her heart talking again. She ignored it.
Taylor picked up the international cell phone she’d purchased for this trip and called Robert Gordon. Had he had enough time to translate the diary? Authenticate it? It had only been a few days. She knew from experience the letter and the diary were both the real thing, but she couldn’t very well state on camera just how she knew that. An expert’s opinion was critical.
The phone rang twice, then the ring was replaced by a message, saying the number had been disconnected. Must have dialed the wrong number, Taylor thought, and redialed. When she received the same message, she replaced the receiver with the shadow of a nasty suspicion building in the back of her mind.
She knocked loudly on the door to the room where her crew members were likely still sleeping off their night at the Hook and Eye. “Need the car keys, fellows,” she said to a bleary-eyed Barry, who returned in a moment and dropped them into her hand.
“You want us to go with you?” he said, his voice clearly revealing he’d rather she didn’t.
“Nope. Sleep till supper if you want.”
It was early afternoon when Taylor made her way through the bustle of the city of Aberdeen to the lawyer’s office. Although the outside door to the building was open, she found the offices of Robert Gordon, Esquire, were shut down.
Permanently.
A note on the door referred her to another attorney whose office was upstairs.
“What do you mean, he retired?” Taylor was beside herself when the man told her the news.
“I didn’t know Mr. Gordon well,” he told her. “He came in late yesterday and explained to me that he was old and tired and wanted to spend the rest of his days on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“And I’ll bet I know what he’s going to live on, too,” she growled, furious with herself for entrusting the inherited artifacts to the old lawyer. That’s what happened when you lost control of a situation. You got taken.
“He left an envelope for you,” said the attorney’s attorney. “Just a moment, please.”
Taylor signed for the letter and opened it with fingers that trembled with rage. As she read its contents, however, she saw that Robert Gordon had had some shred of honor in him, even though the temptation of the ancient relics had been too great:
Dear Miss Kincaid,
I must apologize for my unseemly behavior as regards the matter of the two items given by Lady Agatha Keith into my keeping. As agreed between us at our meeting, I translated enough of the diary to discern that it was historically correct, after which I contacted a known antiquarian. Unbeknownst to me, he was in possession of another letter, already authenticated, authored by Mary Queen of Scots, the one referred to in the Ogilvy letter, and he offered me such a sum on the spot for the articles belonging to Lady Agatha, I was unable to overcome the temptation. I have been a lawyer for forty years, and I have seen others whose scruples did not match my own honest ones take advantage of opportunities presented them, whether or not it was the moral high ground to do so. I have worked hard for these many years, and have little to show for it. Therefore, I beg your understanding and forgiveness.
I am not the complete thief you might think me, however, for I took the liberty, upon receipt of the money for the letters, of paying off the mortgage on Lady Agatha’s house. Her will states explicitly that it is yours, as well as the belongings within it. I have concluded my duties as executor of her estate, and I find this to be the sum total of her worldly possessions. With this letter is the deed to the property, a copy of Lady Agatha’s will, and the key to the front door. I trust you will have no difficulties in the matter, as you now own the property free and clear.
Do not pursue me, I beg you, but allow me to enjoy the compensation I believe was my due for my long, sometimes trying, service to your relative. What was paid for the mortgage is more than four times what I have reserved for my quiet retirement. It is a fair arrangement, I believe.
Yours very truly,
Robert Gordon, Esquire
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Taylor drove back to Stonehaven, stunned, angry, and emotionally drained. She didn’t give a damn that Robert Gordon felt vindicated in his theft because he’d paid off the mansion. What good was a mansion in Scotland to a woman who lived in New Yo
rk? What she wanted were those artifacts. Without the documentation, she had no story. Unless, of course, she could unearth the Scottish Rose. But without the diary, which she felt must contain mention of Mary’s rose chalice, and the letter to provide evidence of where it had been hidden, Taylor doubted if she would be allowed to attempt to search for it on the grounds of the castle ruins. She had to find the unscrupulous lawyer and his antiquarian buddy immediately and get those papers back. She considered going to the police but decided against it, not wanting the investigation to get bogged down in bureaucratic procedure. She had to move fast to retrieve what belonged to her, before the antiquarian sold the goods to a private collector.
But Taylor felt uncharacteristically helpless, not knowing anyone to turn to in this entire country. Well, there was one person she knew who might possibly help her, but she was not at all sure he would want to. She knew she had hurt him badly.
But she also knew she could trust Duncan Fraser. He was a man of honor, a man who couldn’t not help.
A man who loved her.
She tried to keep her mind on the road, since driving on the left was a new experience for her. But the face of the handsome Scotsman kept looming in her mind’s eye.
Marry me.
It would be so easy to say yes, she thought, but warned herself that it was only because she was feeling vulnerable at the moment, in need of help.
Her heart spoke up. So what’s wrong with having a helpmate? it wanted to know.
When she reached the house at the top of the hill, Taylor noted there was a second car in Duncan’s driveway and another parked out front. She pulled to the curb and set the brake, a sixth sense alerting her suddenly that something was wrong.
She knocked on the door, nervous but undeniably anxious to see Duncan again. When he opened it, she was shaken by the bleak look on his face.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said in a low voice. “McDowell’s called the social services bureau about Pauley. They’re talking about taking him away. Right now.”
“Oh, no!” Taylor’s blood ran cold. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs playing.”
Taylor hurried into the living room, forgetting her own dilemma in the face of this new, more critical one. Andy McDowell sat on the edge of the ottoman, and a large woman dressed in a dark suit took up most of the corner of the couch where she and Duncan had made love the night before. Taylor didn’t wait for Duncan’s introduction.
“I’m Taylor Kincaid,” she said, extending a hand to the woman, forcing what she hoped was a warm smile to her lips. “Duncan’s fiancé. It was so good of you to come.”
“Marguerite Claiborne,” the woman replied, appraising Taylor with open curiosity.
Taylor saw Andy McDowell’s mouth drop open at her announcement, and she gave him a discreet wink. She wasn’t really Duncan’s fiancé, of course, but he had proposed to her, and Taylor’s instincts told her the social worker would be more cooperative with an almost-married couple in allowing Pauley to stay where he was.
She turned to Duncan, who was busy hiding his astonishment and confusion behind the face of a concerned potential parent. Taylor grinned and moved quickly to stand beside him. She slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze, hoping he’d play along with the ruse, the way she had when he’d introduced her to Kenneth and Greta as his wife, Janet Fraser. Their lives had depended on it then, and Pauley’s future might very well depend on it now. His hand felt warm and secure around hers and gave her courage. “So, Mrs. Claiborne, I assume you are here because you’ve found Pauley’s parents?”
“I am here because Mr. McDowell has made us aware of the child’s circumstances,” she replied stiffly. “Perhaps you can enlighten me more about the exact location where you found him. Mr. Fraser has been a little vague on the point.” Marguerite Claiborne gave Duncan a disparaging look that made Taylor want to throttle her. She wanted to throttle Andy, too, for interfering, although she knew he had meant well. But most of all, she wished she knew what Duncan had already told the social worker.
“I…I’m not from around here,” Taylor replied, “and Duncan had just rescued me. I’d been thrown overboard in a boating accident, you see. So you will have to forgive me if I must be vague as well. All I know is that when we found him, he was filthy and hungry and appeared severely neglected. Have you met Pauley, Mrs. Claiborne?”
“Uh, no, I haven’t.”
“We’ll bring him down in a moment so you can be introduced. He is deaf, by the way. We haven’t had time to take him for an examination yet, but I suspect his condition may be a birth defect.” Taylor reluctantly left Duncan’s side and took a seat next to the woman. She lowered her voice, continuing confidentially, “I also suspect that he is a victim of severe child abuse. When we found him, he was so hungry, he was almost sick. His clothes were so dirty we had to burn them and give him new ones.”
Marguerite Claiborne put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. He is in ill health then?” she said, making a note on the clipboard that rested upon her wide lap.
Taylor knew she’d made an error in wanting to impress this woman when she saw Pauley’s excellent state of health at the present, for she’d forgotten that the sickly Pauley they’d rescued had had months to recover and gain weight. “I…I only meant sick as in…weak,” she added hurriedly. “As soon as we gave him a sandwich when we got back to the RNLI station, he seemed to perk right up.”
“Could I see the lad now?” she asked.
Duncan turned to go upstairs, but Taylor shook her head. “I’ll get him.” She hurried up the stairs, anxious to see the child again, worried that this do-gooder would make a decision about his future that would inadvertently harm him instead. They had to make her see he belonged here, with them.
Them.
Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Fraser.
Taylor paused just outside Pauley’s door. Mr. and Mrs. It suddenly felt good to her. The knot did not tie itself in her stomach again. Her fears vanished as determination took their place, determination to keep her “family,” as strangely composed as it was at the moment, together.
Because clearly she wanted that family. Fiercely. She told her head to stay out of it. She was listening to her heart now. Pauley needed her. Duncan needed her. And she needed them. “We’re all we’ve got,” she’d once told Duncan, and it was as true in this century as it had been in that one.
She stepped inside the child’s room. Yes. She wanted them to be again the family they had been in 1651. Only this time for real.
“Hey, Pauley,” she said, touching the boy’s shoulder. “You’re really getting those Legos down, aren’t you?” She studied the plastic structure that was rising out of the floor, and she could swear she discerned the rudiments of a castle. She knelt and signed to him that someone was here to meet him. But instead of eagerly following her instructions as he usually did, Pauley gave her a look that reflected his doubt. It was as if he sensed the danger this visitor presented.
“It’s okay,” she signed and gave him a reassuring smile. She must remember not to sign to him in the presence of the social worker, however, lest she wonder where an abused boy had learned sign language.
She combed his hair, noting that Duncan must have cut it after she’d left. She also saw with satisfaction that Pauley wore a pair of clean jeans, a nice striped knit shirt and sneakers. It must have taken all of Duncan’s strength of will to dig through his sons’ clothing to find things for Pauley, she thought, a wave of pure love surging through her. She was glad he had taken pains to groom the boy, for she knew Mrs. Claiborne’s visit had come as a surprise, and it was important that Pauley be dressed like a child who was lovingly cared for.
She took him by the hand and led him down the stairs. His grip tightened around hers. In his other hand, he clutched both the teddy bear and the stuffed lion, and Taylor sensed the little boy clung to both her and the stuffed animals for protection. At the foot of the stairs, Taylor knelt and gave Pauley a reassuring kiss. T
here was no way, no way, this woman was going to take her new son from her.
“Mrs. Claiborne, this is the boy we rescued from the cliffs yesterday,” she said with great composure. “We don’t know his name, but we call him Pauley.”
She could feel Duncan’s body heat as she returned to his side, and she saw him put a hand protectively on Pauley’s shoulder. In the next moment, his other hand came to rest equally protectively across hers, and Taylor allowed herself to take heart from its strength.
The social worker leaned forward, and Taylor held her breath, trying to ascertain the woman’s first impression, but her face remained impassive. “Come here, Pauley.” Mrs. Claiborne motioned to him with her hands to come to her. But Pauley wouldn’t let go of Taylor’s leg.
“He’s…we’ve…sort of bonded in the past twenty-four hours,” Taylor said in apology for the child’s reticence.
“Well, it’s not important that he come to me,” Mrs. Claiborne replied. “I can tell from here he has been well-treated. You are to be commended in the temporary care you have given him. If we don’t find his family, I’m sure we’ll be able to find a good home for him.”
Duncan finally stepped forward. “He has a good home. Here. With us.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Fraser. You see, it is the policy of the agency to…”
“To take him away from the safety and security of familiar surroundings? What kind of policy is that?”
Taylor was alarmed at Duncan’s adversarial stance toward this woman. “Don’t you think it’s kinder to let him stay here?” she pleaded. “At least he knows us. He trusts us. And in all honesty, Mrs. Claiborne, once we are married, it is our intention to petition the courts to adopt him. Provided, of course, you are unable to find his real parents.” She felt Duncan’s hand tighten encouragingly around her shoulder, and she was glad. This was really scary territory for her. Marriage. Adoption. But it was also wonderful new territory.