“Maude?” she said with such purity he wanted to throttle her.
“Aye, love,” He leaned into her. “Do you think I did not know she knew your name?”
“Served you right,” Victoria retorted.
Her answer, given so unexpectedly and with such obvious relish, stopped him cold. He threw his head back and laughed. “Aye, love, I suppose it did.” His mirth vanished. “It would also have served me right had you had not returned. You would have been rid of me, and as free as a bird. Thomas,” Iain called,
“bring me the finest mare we have—saddled.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but Iain kept his gaze on Victoria until Thomas returned moments later and handed him the reins to a fine chestnut.
“I can have men ready in fifteen minutes,” Iain said. “They will escort you anywhere you wish. Montrose Abbey. England. You no longer have anything there to fear.”
Pain flickered cross her face, and Iain knew she would struggle with the knowledge that she had distracted Edwin, allowing Glen to deliver the final, fatal blow that had killed him.
Iain dropped the reins to the ground and went down on one knee before her. “Every day, every hour, every one of us, stands on a cliff. The decision lies not in the choice to jump or stay,” he paused, feeling himself spiraling downward, arms out, heart, at last, open wide, “but whether we go in fear or anticipation.” He paused again, these final words the hardest of his life. “It is your choice now, Victoria.”
She uttered a low laugh. “Even now, you seek to chain me to you, my lord. What a funny game you play.”
“I do not jest,” he replied. “I offer freedom, plain and simple. I will not renege, no matter the answer.
You have my word.”
“How can I be freed from these bonds? It matters not how many miles lie between us, or how much time passes. Mayhap even death cannot break these chains. Yet, you act as if I can shake them off by simply riding through those gates.” Iain stared.
She sighed. “Iain, stand up.”
He did as she said, but remained mute as a child awaiting instruction.
She leaned toward him. “I believe this is where you should declare your undying love.”
Iain shook from the spell. He took her hand in his. “How shall I best tell you that I can do naught but love you forever? Shall I speak of your beauty?” “I would not mind,” she replied.
“Perhaps your sweet charms?” He traced an invisible line along her cheek. “Or the fire…the innocence?”
Victoria blushed.
“Perhaps, I could speak of a woman who, of her own free will, chose to give the only thing she had: herself. A woman of courage. One who was a far better friend to me than I was to her. Aye, I shall love you always, and count myself fortunate you were in my arms even a short while. But any more days that pass between us will be by your choice.”
“You will give me a divorce?” Victoria asked.
“I will give you anything you desire,” Iain answered, his voice shaking.
“Aye, then,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iain glanced up when Thomas entered the library.
“You asked to see me,” Thomas said.
Iain nodded, and Thomas threw himself into the high backed wing chair that sat opposite the desk.
“What have you there?” Thomas nodded to the parchment Iain held in front of him.
“See for yourself.” He handed it to his cousin.
Thomas showed no emotion when his eyes fell on the letter written in his own hand. He laid it on the desk.
“I wondered how Hockley discovered she was here.” Iain studied him. “Do you deny the letter was written by you?”
“Nay.”
Iain picked up the letter that was addressed to England’s King Henry and read it aloud.
Be it known, sire, that, though word may have reached you to the contrary, the Countess of Landsbury of her own accord, sought out the safety of one Iain MacPherson, chief protector of the MacPherson clan.
Rest easy knowing she is in the best of health and enjoys every luxury available within the MacPherson home.
Your Most Obedient Servant,
A Friend
“This goes too far, even for you,” Iain said.
“Aye,” Thomas agreed.
“I am in no mood for games,” Iain shot back.
“Forgive me, mon ami. I understand how you feel, and I agree. I wrote the letter, but I did not send it.” Iain frowned. “But the letter.”
“Until you found it, it remained where I left it,” he said, regret in his voice.
“You regret not having sent it?”
“I regret having left it there. While writing it, I…well, you know how I love French brandy. When I awoke the next morning, I thought I had done away with the evidence. Where did you find it?”
“Behind the sideboard.”
Thomas shrugged. “As I said, you know how I love French brandy.”
“If you did not send it, then who contacted
Hockley?”
“There was only the one copy.”
“A mystery.”
“Indeed.” Thomas’s lips drew together thoughtfully.
“It was not, by chance, your cohort?”
A flash of surprise crossed Thomas’s face. “Cohort? Jesu, Iain, are you sure you are not gifted with second sight?”
Iain leaned back in his chair. “There were things our good priest said. To be honest, it was your part in the matter that remained unknown to me. Had you not left this letter, I might never have known.” He paused. “I assume you will not consider giving up the brandy?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Aye, then,” Iain said. “You may as well pour us both one.”
* * *
“Nay,” Victoria whispered with a stern shake of her head as Liam opened the door to her chambers. She stepped inside the antechamber, waited until he entered, then closed the door behind him. “I will not keep it from him. God help me if he ever found out. I have already kept silent too long. Either you tell him,
Liam Fraser, or I will do it for you.”
“Now, lassie—”
“Do not think to soothe me with your sweet talk, Father. And you had best make short work of the matter, or you will be explaining to my husband why I call you that in public.” She ignored the flush that rose in his cheeks.
“You would not do that,” he said in a near whisper.
Victoria crossed her hands beneath her breasts. “I would, and very soon.”
He turned even paler.
“Liam, if you had not been there the day I made the discovery, I would have confessed all to him.” She smiled gently. “You cannot expect me to keep the
knowledge from him?”
“Do you realize this could shake not only the foundation of the Fraser and MacPherson clans, but Clan Chatten as well?”
“I understand ’tis powerful.” She crossed to the chaise lounge near the window and sat down. “There is no denying that.”
“Aye. And that being the case—”
“Liam,” she cut in, “do you think we have the right to keep it from him?”
Liam strode to where she sat and sank down beside her. He sighed. “I suppose you are right.”
“It is not so bad as all that, is it?”
“The lad will be pleased to hear the news. We have been enemies a long time.”
“Nay,” Victoria said. “You and Eric were enemies.”
“Aw, lassie,” he said, “’tis the same thing.”
* * *
Victoria watched the two men from the solitude of the couch. Liam sat motionless in the chair opposite Iain’s desk. Iain hadn’t moved, other than to turn the pages of the journal. At his muttered, “Christ,” she knew he understood the full meaning of the document.
A muscle in his jaw jumped and he looked up.
“I am sorry, Iain,” Liam said.
“Why
?” Iain asked. “Because the man I thought was my father was not, or because the one who is my father I have been fighting my entire life?” He shook his head. “I cannot regret the first. Eric was never a father to me.”
“And the latter?”
Iain laughed harshly. “Seems fate has found her revenge.”
“We have all paid,” Liam said.
“Including Eric,” Victoria said, drawing the attention of both men. “He threw away the most precious thing of all.”
Iain smiled grimly. “He did, but I will not. My life is yours. They belong to you, every one.” He extended a hand.
“They?” She rose and came to him.
He took her hand in his.
“Aye, love. All my tomorrows.”
###
F
The Marriage Maker
Flowers of Scotland
Rose Fairbanks
Scarsdale Voices
Chapter One
“Who are ye?” Malcolm Russell, the owner and proprietor of Inverness’s premier public house, The Melrose, mumbled to himself. Hunched over yellowing, various sized papers stacked on the polished wood table in what passed for a quiet corner of the busy watering hole, he shuffled through handwritten copies of two-hundred-year-old marriage licenses and baptismal records. His eyes grew weary as sunlight streaming through the windows dimmed by the minute. Night fell fast this far north in the Scottish Highlands. He pulled the lamp closer.
Through the doors, more and more patrons entered and, with single-minded determination, Malcolm rallied his senses and tuned out the rising din of neighbors’ greetings and stories of the day. Around him, the barmaids circled tables, offering refills and female company—something he couldn’t discourage no matter his countless efforts. Customers wanted what they wanted.
From the corner of his eye, Malcolm spotted a man grab two tankards of ale from the bar and start on unsteady feet toward the table behind Malcolm's. The man reached Malcolm and belted a loud laugh as he listed right and bumped Malcolm’s chair. Malcolm stiffened when ale sloshed over the top of one tankard and onto his lap. The cool liquid soaked a potato-sized spot on his breeches. Malcolm glanced at his lap. A hazard of the business, to be sure, but at least the man hadn’t spoiled his papers. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the liquid staining his breeches.
“Malcolm,” the barmaid, Catriona, called over the crowd. “We need ye to bring up another barrel of ale.”
He waved her off. “Have Colin do it—or Harry.” He would not leave. This work held him enthralled. He stared down at the papers. Soon, he would finish his list.
Malcolm scanned the records in his journal, then cross-referenced them with dates in his well-worn and beloved copy of a biography of Robert the Bruce’s life.
Nearly every Scotsman admired their long-ago king who fought the English and united the clans. For Malcolm, the Bruce was an obsession. Legend claimed his heart was buried in Melrose Abbey near the English border. Fascination with the man inspired Malcolm’s choice for the name of his establishment.
Affection warmed him upon recollection of those nights before the hearth when his father recounted stories of their family lineage. Malcolm could claim a distant relationship to the revered monarch. The passage of centuries and the unification with England one hundred years ago, all meant the Russells had fallen from their loftier title. Still, their ingrained pride survived. He might now be a publican, but he ran his business with fairness and integrity. Malcolm had seen too many wallow in despair of what they believed an insignificant place in the world. Without pride or motivation, their circumstances always grew dire. The Russells’ pride had saved them from such destruction.
As he grew, his love of the family stories turned into an obsession to find proof of his genealogical ties. Along the way, he began to wonder about the less fortunate of the Bruce’s children. The ones born on the wrong side of the marital blanket. Whatever became of them? The English often bestowed titles on their bastards. Robert provided for his illegitimate offspring, but, sadly, Malcolm could find no proof that the great king had given titles to his bastard children.
Many women—too many to account for—claimed a child fathered by Robert. With care, Malcolm traced a finger across the four names on the sheet of paper before him. His chest expanded, as it did every time he realized the depth of his discovery. These four ladies were daughters of Scottish peers who were Robert’s supporters. Malcolm’s attention had snagged when he noticed that each woman had hastily married gentlemen of little prestige.
The pattern continued when the children’s birth dates proved too early to have been conceived after the weddings. He found no records of the husbands knowing the wives until a few weeks before the ceremonies. Nor did he find any evidence that the couples had lived in the same area preceding marriage. Years of tedious research and countless days and nights with little rest yielded the most interesting fact of all: the Bruce had visited each lady’s family while she was in residence. The dates aligned perfectly for a conception.
Malcolm hadn’t stopped there. How could he? He traced the lineages of these ladies. Their children never received the recognition they deserved as descendants of the King of Scotland. Instead, each generation brought the descendants lower and lower. Of the three lines he’d found, each ended in a single daughter of reduced means. He would find the fourth, though Malcolm feared that line would be no better preserved than the others.
“Who are ye?” he mumbled again.
A voice interrupted his musings.
“Pardon me, Mr. Russell.”
Malcolm looked up into familiar eyes. “Sir Stirling, what can I do for you?”
For the average customer, Malcolm wouldn’t allow his work to be interrupted, but Sir Stirling James had recently married the Duke of Roxburgh’s eldest daughter and would one day inherit the title. The proprietor of a tavern did not ignore a future duke.
Sir Stirling smiled. “I wanted to apologize for my friend who ah...shall we say, baptized you earlier.”
Malcolm considered Sir Stirling’s earnest eyes, surprised by his sincerity. “Think nothing of it. Happens all the time.”
“Sinclair is a good man, but a bit of a lightweight when it comes to your fine offerings.” Sir Stirling glanced at the table. “Speaking of baptisms, I find myself curious what you are doing over here with all of these.” He tapped a stack of baptism records.
Malcolm shook his head. “It is of no real consequence. A strange fascination of mine, and coming to a sad end, I must say.”
“Is that so?” Sir Stirling lowered himself into the chair opposite him.
Malcolm scowled. People usually found his obsession odd. “You do not have to humor me,” he said with a bit of warning in his voice.
“If you wish for solitude, I will leave you to your work. However, I asked out of genuine curiosity.”
Malcolm sighed and rubbed his temples. Of course, Sir Stirling meant no offense. Malcolm didn’t know the man well, but he had always behaved cordially. “Forgive me. This feels like my life’s work, and it is ending on a sour note. Add in weeks of too little sleep and…” He shrugged.
Stirling offered an encouraging smile. “A burden shared is a burden halved. Tell me how I may assist you.”
Malcolm hesitated, then launched into his tale. Soon they were both tracking the whereabouts of the fourth line, the descendant of Margaret de la Hay and Robert the Bruce.
“Here.” Malcolm waved a document. “Mary de la Hay married Laird David Kincaid in 1744.” He passed the paper to Sir Stirling, then consulted his journal. “David Kincaid fled to the colony of Virginia after the rising in ‘45.”
“Bad luck that,” Sir Stirling muttered.
Malcolm nodded. “I am at a dead end. The descendants must be living in America—God knows where.”
Stirling’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Who is the laird of the Kincaid clan now?”
Consulting his list, Malcolm ran a finger down the page to…“
Nicholas Kincaid. I know I have seen that name.” He rummaged through the stack of baptism records. “Aye, he is the grandson of… Of David Kincaid? How can that be?”
Sir Stirling also looked over the document. His brow drew down in confusion. “Might his father have been born in an earlier union? And remained in Scotland when David left?”
Malcolm searched through another stack of papers. “Yes...yes, it seems possible. Here is a copy from a book which recorded a marriage for David Kincaid and Marie Hannay.”
He shook his head at the women’s names. His papers came from a variety of sources. He had duplicated a few from original sources, others he obtained as copies provided by clerks of various parishes, and many came from ancestral records. Looking at the smeared and faded ink, the names appeared very similar, but being accustomed to reading such documents and comparing them next to each other, Malcolm easily discerned the differences. The marriages took place twenty years apart and in different parishes. He now felt confident David Kincaid indeed had two wives.
“I have no documents of Nicholas Kincaid’s parents, however,” Malcolm mumbled. How curious…and frustrating. There was a clear discrepancy between the ancestral record researched by another and the documentation Malcolm had in hand.
“What’s this?” Sir Stirling pulled one of the baptism records from the papers and passed it to Malcolm.
“A record for the baptism of Marigold Kincaid in 1791, daughter of Mary Burns and Angus Kincaid. I do not have a baptism or marriage record for them. It is as though they sprouted from nowhere.”
“When did Laird Nicholas marry?” Sir Stirling asked.
“I believe I just saw it. Allow me a moment, please.” Malcolm shifted papers around again. He truly needed to find a better organizational system. “He married Priscilla Hunter in…”—a grin spread across his face as he spotted the marriage certificate—“in 1791.” Malcolm clapped his hands. “Do you think it is possible Angus could be a child of David Kincaid and Mary de la Hay? Perhaps he returned to Scotland for his nephew’s wedding.”
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