Sir Stirling smiled. “Aye, quite possible.”
“This Marigold might be the missing descendant of Robert the Bruce.”
Sir Stirling had begun making neater piles, and his smile slipped. As did Malcolm’s, after Stirling handed him the death records of Angus and Mary Kincaid in 1794.
“What became of her?” Malcolm muttered. “I must speak with Laird Nicholas as soon as possible. I’ll need to find out where he lives.”
A man at the table to Malcolm’s left faced them. “Pardon me for eavesdropping. The name Kincaid caught my ear. He lives here in town, but you have nae chance of meeting him. He is too full of pride to grant an audience to the likes of you.”
Malcolm’s face heated. Usually, a Scottish laird would not be impossibly outside his circle of acquaintances.
“Do you know the man?” Sir Stirling asked the stranger.
“Aye. The miser owes me ten thousand pounds. His butler once made the mistake of trying to throw me out.”
The gentleman winked, and Malcolm scanned his bulk. Only a fool would try to manhandle him. He imagined the butler came out all the worse for the attempt.
“He says ‘my kind’ is unwelcome.” He raised his tankard in toast, a glint in his eye that almost made Malcolm laugh.
“Do you know anything about his family?” Sir Stirling asked.
“He has a bulldog of a wife and two daughters that are her spitting image.” The man shuddered, and this time Malcolm had to bite back a laugh. The man had a flair for drama.
“Might he be the guardian of a young lady?” Sir Stirling asked.
Stirling’s eyes flitted to Malcolm’s, and he understood. If they were lucky, Miss Marigold had not gone to her American family, but resided in Scotland.
The man nodded. “Rumor has it she is his by-blow, and that’s why he and the Missus mistreat her. I heard that from a maid I was trying to sweet talk.” A corner of his mouth ticked up in amusement. “I dinnae know if it is true.”
“They abuse her?” Malcolm demanded.
The stranger peered into his now empty tankard and frowned. Malcolm signaled a barmaid, who hurried over and refilled the mug. “With my compliments,” Malcolm said. “Sir, what is your name?”
“Douglas Randolph.” He raised the now full mug. “To your health.”
Something flashed in Sir Stirling’s eyes. Recognition, Malcolm realized, but he had no time to question the reaction before Stirling said, “The young lady?” and Malcolm waited, heart pounding.
Randolph set the tankard on the table. His mouth thinned. “Becky said the miss does all the work of a house maid with none of a servant’s meager pay.”
Anger twisted through Malcolm. “A daughter of the Bruce reduced to such.” He pounded a fist on the table. “And I can do nothing.”
He looked at his list again. Each lady in the bloom of her life, like a delicate flower, and all their potential squandered away. Although strangers, he felt these women were as near as he could come to the sisters he never had.
“Perhaps,” Sir Stirling’s voice drew Malcolm’s attention, “there is something we can do.” His lips twitched upward ever so slightly.
As an eccentric publican nearing his thirtieth year, Malcolm doubted there was anything he could do for the ladies...but the heir to a dukedom? “What?” he asked.
“I have a talent…considered unusual for a gentleman of my position. For any man, really,” Sir Stirling conceded.
Malcolm tensed in anticipation.
“What they did not receive from family, they might find in marriage.” Sir Stirling’s eyes twinkled. “I can find the four lasses husbands. Successful, perhaps even wealthy men—and certainly, honorable men.”
Malcolm stared. “Wealthy husbands? Forgive me, they deserve the best, but life is not so kind. Their stations are lowly.”
Randolph laughed. “Aye, he is right. I wager you cannae find one man deuced enough in the head to marry a pauper lass, let alone four.”
Stirling met his gaze. “I will meet your bet. What are your terms?”
Randolph scowled. “I have learned my lesson on expecting so-called gentlemen to honor their debts,”
“We will not wager money then,” Sir Stirling held up his hands, palms out.
“Verra well.” A wicked gleam entered Randolph’s eyes. “The loser has to serve as a bar maid in this tavern.” He looked Sir Stirling over. “In a gown.”
Stirling and Malcolm looked at each other, then broke into laughter. “Do you think they make a gown big enough to fit Mr. Randolph?” Stirling asked Malcolm.
“Dinnae know,” Malcolm said with a laugh. “One of my hands says his mother-in-law is as large as a house. Maybe she has a gown that would fit.” He laughed again as the image of the brawny man before him dressed as a woman and serving customers flitted through his mind.
“And what would you gain, should you win?” Sir Stirling asked with a grin. Lines crinkled around his eyes.
Randolph studied him. “Perhaps I fancy seeing what a bonnie lass you could be,” Randolph laughed as Stirling flushed. He shook his head and answered soberly. “I need a business partner in a new enterprise. Should I win, your name and reputation will lend necessary respectability. Now, name your stake.”
“Beware,” Malcolm spoke up. “Rarely have I seen a man best Sir Stirling Ja—”
Sir Stirling interrupted. “This is no game of cards. There is no luck in this. I will win by sheer determination.”
Randolph cocked his head. “You think well of yourself.”
“Do not mistake confidence for arrogance,” Stirling said with a wink. “When I win, you will agree to marry a lady of my choosing.”
“What makes you believe I am a bachelor?”
Stirling laughed a moment. “Only the unwed would declare no wealthy gentleman willing to marry a lady of few means.”
“You think that highly of marriage?” Randolph raised a brow.
“Most men I know have found it a blessing. However, I would think men who regretted their choice made it while enamored with something about the woman. If not her fortune, then her beauty or wit.” Stirling shrugged. “Of course, perhaps these ladies have no redeeming qualities and the risk is all on my side.”
For a minute, the two held each other’s eyes in steely silence. Finally, Randolph nodded, although the firm set of his jaw hinted at displeasure.
“One month ought to suffice,” Stirling said and extended a hand.
Randolph arched a brow and clasped Sir Stirling’s hand. “Ye will find me here a month hence with contract in hand.”
“I will bring the minister so you may purchase the marriage license, and look forward to collecting my winnings, Mr. Randolph.”
Malcolm’s thoughts snapped from the distraction of excitement over discovering the missing descendant and recalled the article in the Society page of yesterday’s newspaper.
Douglas Randolph arrived in Inverness a week ago. Society declared him scandalous and wild by nature of his birth. Although the grandson of a duke, his mother was an actress. After his father’s death, his blue-blood family cut him off. The old Duke died three years ago but his youngest grandson remained a mystery. In subsequent years, the family lost two more dukes and now the line fell on the long-hated and missing offspring. Rumors abounded about the heir. The young man apparently had no intention of acting the proper duke. He remained estranged from family members in Inverness. That was the look of recognition Malcolm had seen in Sir Stirling’s eyes. Stirling had recognized the newly titled duke.
Before Malcolm could react to his new understanding, Sir Stirling stood. “Russell, I think I will visit Laird Kincaid.”
Malcolm’s heart fell. Was his hunt for the fourth young lady over? “Why?”
Stirling grinned. “A Scot always rises to a challenge, of course—not to mention, where is our honor if we simply abandoned these flowers of Scotland?”
Chapter Two
The chirp of robins woke Marigold Kin
caid for her morning chores. She arose, shook off soot from the kitchen hearthstones, where she’d fallen asleep the night before, and stretched. In most households, the cook slept in the kitchen, but Marigold could not bear to think of the good-natured, elderly lady sleeping on the hard and cold floor while she had a bed in the servants’ wing.
She gathered kindling and knelt to light the cook fire.
Years ago, her existence as an unpaid servant occasionally stung. As a child, she had only known the way her cousin’s household ran. As she aged, she realized most people did not house their cousins with the servants. Still, her life was better than many. She had food, shelter, and clothes. Miss Dottie, the cook, told her stories of her father, his beautiful American bride, and how much they loved her. The housemaids, Becky and Ruth, were her friends; the footmen, as protective as brothers.
More than the fine gowns and luxurious meals her cousins enjoyed, Marigold craved independence. The servants could leave and find new situations. They could court and marry. Marigold could look forward to none of that. She had no dreams of promotion to lady’s maid or housekeeper. No hope of ever finding love. Cousin Nicholas and his wife, Priscilla, would never allow that.
With the flames now licking larger sticks of wood, Marigold left to collect fresh water from the garden well. As she labored, she considered the book she had smuggled from the library last night. If she could not leave and have adventures herself, she could read about them.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, Miss Dottie, Becky and Ruth had arrived. Dottie was making quick porridge for the servants before beginning on the family’s meal. After exchanging greetings, Marigold set to work on building the downstairs fires.
In the summer, she could sleep an hour later than in the winter, and she didn’t have to awaken in the middle of the night to refresh the fires in bed chambers. For those reasons alone, she loved the summer. For now, though, she continued her morning chores.
The family had just completed breakfast when an unknown gentleman arrived. As Marigold polished the furniture of the entry, she listened to the conversation in the drawing room. The man introduced himself as Sir Stirling James, and asked questions about her parents. Although Marigold knew it unwise, she crept closer to the door so as not to miss a word.
“Pardon me for being so blunt, Laird Nicholas,” Sir Stirling said. “I am assisting a friend on a genealogical project. Your grandfather was David Kincaid?”
“Yes, although I never knew him. He left for America shortly after my birth in ‘45.”
“Indeed. And your parents stayed here with you?”
“They died before I entered the school room.”
“My condolences. Such a mean existence for a young child.”
Cousin Nicholas remained silent for a moment, and then answered in a cold voice, “Relations took me in.”
Marigold held her breath to keep from gasping. She had never known that about her cousin.
“I see. They raised you well.” Sir Stirling spoke with what sounded like a perpetual smile. “Did you ever meet Angus and Mary Kincaid?”
Marigold crept closer at the mention of her parents. Her cousins said nothing, and she trembled in the silence.
“Forgive me,” Priscilla said abruptly. “I do not know why the refreshments have not arrived. Excuse me as I go speak with the maid.”
Marigold frowned. She had not heard Priscilla order tea. Her cousins did not freely offer refreshments to visitors. Expecting Priscilla to head to the kitchen in the most direct route, she did not move from her position until she heard steps behind her. Turning, she came eye-to-eye with Priscilla’s steely glare.
“You stupid girl,” she hissed. “Get out of here at once. Get down to the kitchen and tell Cook to hurry with tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marigold said with rehearsed obedience. “That man, did he know my parents?”
Priscilla raised a hand in warning and instinct made Marigold cower. There was no time for questions. There was never time for questions about her parents. Marigold hurried to the kitchen.
Once there, she gave Miss Dottie the message. As the cook set about making a refreshment plate and heating water, Marigold assisted and repeated what she overheard.
“Do you think Sir Stirling knew my parents?”
Dottie remained quiet for a moment. “I do not recall the name. He is from Inverness?”
“I think so. A Scotsman, certainly.”
“Then it is doubtful they were ever acquainted. Your parents did not meet many people in the limited time they were here. Most people turned up their noses at them.”
Marigold lowered her eyes. “Because grandfather fled to America?”
“You come from the same blood that your cousin does. It was the master’s grandfather too that left. Do you hear of his daughters being treated ill?”
“No,” Marigold answered. “So, everyone in Inverness hated my parents because they were American?”
Dottie sighed. “I expect they were an unpleasant reminder of the independence that most Scots had hoped for in ’45. Instead of fighting for it, they gave up. Your father returning from exile reminded people of those who stood for their principles and those who valued comfort. People didn’t like having to remember their failures.”
The service bell to the drawing room rang incessantly, interrupting their conversation. “I’ll take this up. You go on to the market. Here’s the list.”
“But I want to ask more—”
“I said, go! The missus is going to be in a thundering mood, and you don’t need to be around for her ire. Shoo!”
Dottie picked up the tray and left the kitchen as the drawing room bell rang again. She was right, of course. Priscilla was always upset after talking about Angus and Mary Kincaid. The cook was kind to attempt to spare Marigold the wrath of Priscilla. However, Marigold could not shake the feeling that Dottie sheltered her from the truth.
Sighing, she gathered the basket she used for market days. She passed by the kitchen garden. In spring and summer, she spent hours tending the herbs and flowers. Gardening could be back-breaking work, but it was also her favorite task. She loved seeing something she nourished come to fruition.
“Did my mother and father name me after the flower?” Marigold wondered aloud as she opened the garden gate and walked to the road leading to town. “They must have enjoyed gardening, as well.”
A sliver of winter sun struck her, and Marigold felt its warmth in her soul, chasing her worries away. Her cousins may have never been affectionate, but they took her in when her parents died. She had not a penny to her name, but, truthfully, she was happy to do the servant’s work. She could not imagine being presented in Society like their daughters. Additionally, it was undoubtedly true that, as a child, they spent money on her care.
The January wind blew, and she shivered, considering what might have happened to her as a child without parents had no one taken her in. Marigold was more than happy to repay the cost of her keep when she was too young to work.
Marigold reached the market square, scanned Dottie’s list and then selected the purchases, taking time to greet each vendor. An hour later, she returned as the wind swirled around her. The earlier sunshine had retreated behind clouds. Marigold had spent the one hour of what passed for daylight in winter this far north at the market. Dusk fell quickly and would linger a few hours until darkness swallowed all the light.
She had nearly reached home when she saw a man loitering near the kitchen door. His clothes appeared dirty and well-worn. Was he a thief? He wore no livery and was therefore unlikely to be a servant. Setting down her basket, she scooped up a handful of rocks near her feet.
“You there,” Marigold threw a rock and hit his shoulder.
“What the devil?” the stranger exclaimed.
Anger overrode fear. She strode through the garden. “How dare you!”
The man turned and glared at her. With a stormy expression, he came toward her. Marigold gulped and felt her thr
oat constrict as her heart pounded. The man was far larger than she had thought. Indeed, larger than any she had ever met. Tall as a tree and as robust as one. She imagined him striking terror in the hearts of men wherever he went.
She could not afford to stand frozen whilst a raging, lunatic man charged her. Air came to her lungs in erratic gasps and she ignored her wobbly legs as she sent another rock sailing through the air. It hit his forehead and he fell forward. Blood trickled from a gash and he moaned, but was neither dead nor unconscious. He rolled onto his back.
“I will strike again if you dare move one more muscle,” she said, her voice high and shrill, her final rock gripped in her fist. “Bates,” she screamed, calling for the butler, but believed them too far from the house for anyone to hear. Should she run and alert them or subdue the would-be attacker?
“Would you be quiet,” the man said in a more educated tone than she would have suspected from his dress. “I mean you no harm.”
Slowly he raised to his elbows and fished a handkerchief from a pocket to apply to his wound. Marigold poised to strike again.
“What were you doing?” she demanded.
“Waiting for a maid.” He looked her over and glared.
“Just any maid? Well, I am a maid for Mr. Kincaid. State your business.”
“No, not you,” he shook his head. “The one I spoke with before. She had brown hair.”
“Becky?” Marigold asked. “Oh, you were the man sweet on her!”
“Me, sweet on her?” He laughed. “Hardly. She was the one sweet on me.”
Marigold folded her arms over her chest. “You approached her first. You rose her hopes without a care! She cried for a week when you didn’t return, and now you are here without so much as an apology.”
“Pardon me, Miss, but if I am to apologize, should it not be to her?”
Tension released from Marigold’s frame as she recognized the truth of his words. “I am sorry for hurting you. Do you truly wish to speak with Becky?”
The man removed the handkerchief, and Marigold’s breath caught. Despite the blood and slightly haggard appearance proving he had not seen a good meal or a good bed for some time. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. A small scar on his cheek, near his smile lines, lent character. Brilliant blue eyes glared up at her, and she felt like she was seeing a cloudless sky for the first time.
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