The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  “They were alone all day today,” Louisa reminded him.

  Reginald’s lips quivered with indignation. “All alone?”

  Louisa shrugged. “The children were with them. And that Clara.”

  “Hmmm,” Reginald said. “I wonder if His Grace would be interested. ’Tis disgraceful. Poor Alasdair must be turning over in his grave. I always said he shouldna have married a Jacobite.”

  “He did not know her family was Jacobite,” Marjorie defended her late son.

  “I will try to find out how long he plans to stay,” Reginald said. “If it is to be a long time, we will plan a ball to introduce him. Then we can find out more about him. He does not provide much information.”

  The other two nodded.

  “If only it were not for the lad,” Louisa said in a low voice. “Then you would be in line for the succession.”

  “Aye, but he is healthy,” Reginald said. “I do not think we can expect anything there.”

  “There would be nothing left, either,” Louisa said caustically. “Janet apparently has his ear, and she appears to want to give everything away.”

  “Everything that should have been ours,” Reginald added. “And she nothing better than a murderess.”

  A silence settled around the table. They had tried to have Alasdair’s death declared a murder but the physician had said he could not be sure. It was not arsenic, he said, because he would recognize the symptoms. But as to any other poisons, there was no way to be sure.

  “If only she had been barren,” Louisa said.

  “Colin is my grandson,” Marjorie said, straightening. “Alasdair’s son.”

  Reginald threw a warning glance toward Louisa. “We are only saying that by rights the guardianship should be in our family, not be given to a slip of a girl nor some bastard outsider.”

  “I canna disagree with that,” Marjorie said. “I do have friends. I will write them and see whether they will intercede with His Grace.”

  “We will pray it is not too late,” Louisa said piously. “This … Braemoor could loan money, then call in the debts. We may have nothing left. That, indeed, could be his plan.”

  Marjorie nodded. “I will journey to Edinburgh and talk to His Grace myself. He may not even realize that Reginald could manage things here well, and that it is both his duty and right.”

  Reginald felt some of the tension fade away. His mother could be quite formidable and persuasive and she was a member of the powerful Campbell family. While they were but distant to the powerful Campbells, the name should mean something. “Perhaps you should also visit our Campbell cousins,” he suggested.

  Marjorie nodded. “I will leave tomorrow.”

  Reginald nodded his head. Mayhap there was a way out of this catastrophe. Perhaps there was more than one. He had to have money of his own, not just what Janet felt like dispensing. If he could sell some of the land, then mayhap he could invest in some venture that would make him independent. It was the devil’s own punishment to be a second son, a poor relative living on largess. He just did not know what he had done to deserve such.

  All had been said. Marjorie would have the new stablelad prepare the phaeton to take her to the dowager’s house on the edge of the property.

  After a servant had been sent to the stable to have the phaeton readied, Reginald poured himself a brandy and his wife and Marjorie a glass of sherry. Reginald lifted his glass. “To freedom,” he said.

  “To success,” his mother added.

  Janet told her daughters a story, then sang a lullaby to Colin and held him close after nursing him.

  She should be content. She had the children. She had her own son in her arms. She now had the independence she’d so longed for.

  It should be enough.

  She couldn’t remove from her mind, though, the image of Braemoor holding her son, the look of tenderness and vulnerability on his face, the stark longing in his eyes. An image she wanted to see?

  Why did her skin burn and her insides quiver when he touched her, her heart remember the kiss they had exchanged years ago and long for another? Nothing about him had indicated he returned the interest at all.

  What if he were roaming again tonight? What if he did not seem to sleep any more than she had since his arrival?

  Colin fell asleep and she placed him in the cradle next to her bed. She liked to reach out at night and just touch him, reassure herself he was here and well. Then she went to the window and looked out. A flicker of light shown from the barn. Someone was there.

  How late was it?

  Past midnight, she thought.

  Perhaps she should see what was happening down at the stables. But that, she knew, was only an excuse. She would not go. She had made fool enough of herself these last few days.

  Go down.

  No.

  But she found herself putting on her shawl. She checked Colin. He had already kicked off his covering and she replaced it and leaned down, touching the soft skin of his face with her own. Dear God, how she loved him. And she loved her daughters, each one with all their own lovely qualities. If nothing else, she would make sure they married men they loved.

  Janet felt something wet on her cheeks. Her eyes stung. Was there really such a thing as love?

  She used the shawl to wipe away the unwanted moisture, then left the room, taking the stairs slowly. She hesitated once more at the door. It was probably the new lad. Tim.

  In any event, she needed fresh air. She took the several steps outside. The air was bracing, cold. Then she saw the light go out. A second later, Braemoor emerged from the stable. He stopped when he saw her.

  Janet felt as if the world had stopped. She backed up against the door, ready to escape inside, but her legs did not move as he approached her. Why had she come out here?

  He wore no jacket against the cold, and his hair was tousled, several wayward strands falling over his forehead. In the moonlight, his face looked shadowed, darkened by afternoon stubble. He looked reckless and even dangerous. He’d never looked that way to her before. As a young man, he had been vulnerable and steady and gentle. In the past week, he’d appeared in many guises. She’d even believed that some of them were treacherous.

  But dangerous?

  For the past several days, he’d merely watched and studied and held his own counsel in a particularly maddening way. He’d given away nothing at all at supper tonight. He had not championed her, nor had he championed the others. He’d just watched.

  “My lady?” he said. “It is late.”

  “I might say the same to you,” she said. “I saw a light in the stables and thought I should see if all was well.”

  “It seems to be,” he said. “I talked to Tim earlier. He found your Kevin, and he is coming back. I’ll be sending several men, too.”

  “To spy?”

  “Nay, my lady. To help. You may dismiss them anytime you wish. I thought I had made it clear. You may do whatever you like. I only ask that if you have any difficulties that you send me a message.”

  “And you will come as you did this time?”

  “Aye,” he said simply.

  “Why?”

  “Call it a whim, my lady. I do not care for your relatives.”

  “They are loyal to your Cumberland.”

  “A good reason to suspect them.”

  She took a step back but was stopped by the wall. “I thought you were close to Cumberland.”

  “He had an admiration for my cousin, not particularly for me. I never did understand it. My cousin was, as he liked to say, interested only in his own welfare. He was, as you probably heard, a profligate and womanizer.”

  “And you did not approve?”

  “No, madam, I did not. I thought Braemoor deserved more.”

  An odd statement, and a telling one. Janet took a moment to absorb it. Braemoor deserved it. Not he. Not Neil Forbes, the Marquis of Braemoor. She looked again at him, at the plain clothes, the lack of pretense.

  Nothing made
sense. If he had been so concerned with her dowry, with inheritances and titles, why did he not wrap himself in their trappings now that he had them?

  Silence stretched between them. So did the awareness that she’d sensed earlier today. He was not indifferent to her. So why did he act as if he were? Because she was so recently a widow?

  “You have been riding,” she finally said. She had to shatter the intimacy building between them.

  “Aye. I needed fresh air after that meal.”

  She had to smile. She, too, had needed air. But she’d had three little girls and a wee bairn to look after.

  “You cannot be referring to my husband’s family.”

  “Of course not. The room was just a bit … stuffy.”

  “And the fresh air helped?”

  “Aye,” he said simply.

  “I would like to ride at night. I have not done it since …” Her voice faded. She had not done it since that one night at Braemoor she’d met him.

  “I hurt you years ago, madam,” he said unexpectedly. “That was not my intention.”

  “Is that why you are here now?”

  “Guilt? I hardly think so, my lady.”

  “You used to call me Janet,” she said.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Centuries,” she agreed. “I learned much during that time. But you still have not told me why you are going to so much trouble.”

  “So much trouble?”

  “Aye,” she mocked him by using his own simple answer.

  “It is no trouble at all. I do not like the Campbells.”

  “All Campbells or just this branch?”

  “I think all of them would be accurate,” he said judiciously.

  “So this is just a game?”

  She saw a shadow cross his eyes but then his mouth moved into a wry, cynical smile. “Aye. I have been taught by the best to play.”

  Disappointment flooded her. For a second, she’d thought …

  “You have a fine son,” he said. “And bonny lasses.”

  “They like you.”

  He looked surprised at that statement.

  “Samson wetting on you helped,” she offered.

  He raised an eyebrow and she thought again how … handsome he looked when he did that. “Definitely not my charms,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow this time. “Charms?”

  His lips did crack slightly then, even turned up around the edges. Something shifted inside her. How could she care so much after what had happened, what she knew about him? How could she really trust him again?

  She tried to move. “I should go inside.”

  He was blocking her. Even if she could move. He was close, too close. A distinctly musky smell enveloped her. The air grew dense. Despite the chill in the night, she felt warm. She wanted to touch him.

  Her gaze met his. His eyes were fathomless, still inscrutable. His face was like a statue. Nothing moved now. But then his hand moved and the back of it brushed her cheek.

  “My lord?” Her voice was a whisper.

  He reacted as if it were a slap in the face.

  He stepped back. “I will be leaving after having one last discussion with your brother-in-law,” he said in that cool voice she hated.

  “I thought you wanted to see more of Lochaene.” What was she doing? Practically inviting him to linger. Incomprehensively, she felt a far greater loss than when her husband died. She had grieved for Alasdair as she would for any man, but not for him as a husband. She’d felt no little guilt about that fact, but she could not deny it.

  “I have seen enough, and you do not need me, lass,” he said.

  She did need him. She needed parts that he probably did not even realize existed inside him.

  She would not beg, so she merely nodded.

  “I have business at Braemoor,” he added. “As I said, I will send someone here to help you.”

  “I would rather try Angus,” she said. “’Twould be better if I had someone from the property.”

  He looked dubious.

  “You said I could make my own decisions. Was that the truth, or another lie?”

  She was beginning to know that muscle in his jaw. It was the only telltale sign that anything bothered him. He did not have to ask her what lie she meant. He nodded, then said, “I will return in a fortnight.”

  “I would not be wishing to keep you from your own affairs.”

  “Lochaene is now my affair,” he said. It was an unkind reminder. “If you have but need of me—”

  “I will not.”

  She was grateful that he was silent at that latest boast. She’d obviously had need of him. He had repaid what he obviously considered a debt. Either that, or he had some nefarious plan in mind. She was not quite sure which she preferred at the moment. She wanted to dislike him, to despise him. It was easier to live with the memory that way.

  Still, he did not turn away. She felt the impact of his presence throughout her entire body. How could she still be attracted to him?

  But the unfortunate fact was she was, and far greater than even eight years ago. Age, perhaps battle, had written lines in his face. Small wrinkles jutted out from around his eyes, and his jaw was leaner. He had a confidence now when once he had youthful bravado. His eyes were the same dark, deep mystery, and they more than anything had not changed, except they were far more wary. He reminded her a little of a hawk, and the danger that image conveyed stroked treacherous places inside her.

  The truth was she did not want him to leave, and that was the worst thought of all.

  “Thank you for being kind to the children today,” she said, putting off the leaving just one more moment.

  “It was not that difficult, Countess.”

  “They have not had much kindness from men.”

  Neither have you. She saw the realization in his eyes. It hurt. She did not want his pity.

  His fingers touched her cheek again, brushing away a curl that had fallen from her braid. They hovered there for a moment, then he leaned down and touched her lips with his. Electricity ran through her like lightning through an oak. Heat puddled inside as she instinctively responded to his caress. Gentle yet so maddeningly persuasive, seductive, searching. She tried not to respond, but her body betrayed her. Her arms reached around him.

  Her entire body was alive with need. She told herself it was for the tenderness that her husband had never shown. That it was loneliness. Mayhap it was all of them, but she had never been quite so alive. Her lips responded to his, and her mouth opened as his kiss became hungry, demanding. But it still had a tenderness that had never colored Alasdair’s advances. Her husband had just taken. He’d never explored, invited, seduced.

  She turned her eyes upward to Braemoor’s. In the moonlight, she saw a pain so strong it ripped her apart. Her fingers tightened against the back of his head.

  His kiss deepened, and the tenderness erupted into an explosiveness that echoed in every part of her body. Lips became almost frantic with the need to touch and feel and taste. The need burned straight through her, and nothing else mattered. Not betrayal, or resentment, or fear. Her body melded to his, and her lips opened, allowing his tongue entrance as her hands went up around his neck, tracing her fingers along his back. It was as if she’d been seized by a storm of feeling and tossed around with no will of her own.

  She felt his hands moving around her body, and she felt it tense with expectation, with an eagerness new and unexpected. She tried to take a deep breath, to return to sense, but his tongue was devouring her mouth, his hands burning paths everywhere they touched. Her own body had become a natural adjunct to his, bending and yielding, her own hands and mouth as greedy as his.

  Magic wrapped itself around them, a magic she’d experienced with him years ago, but this sorcery was even stronger, more demanding, more painful. A sob built deep inside her. How could she need him so?

  A month after her husband’s death. A month after the relief she’d felt that no man woul
d again invade her body with no care for her. She felt herself shuddering. How could her body and heart and mind be at such odds.

  She wanted to clutch him with all her might, to keep him with her. But he was as much a phantom as the man the Highlands had called the Black Knave. A myth.

  With a cry, she pulled away from him. She stood, her body trembling, aching, wanting. She fought back the tears that had been far too close to the surface since he’d arrived. She’d thought she could never be affected by a man again. And now she felt like a mindless puppet.

  He stepped back, looking at her with those dark unfathomable eyes. “I apologize, Madam. I did not mean for that to happen.”

  Then why had it? If neither of them had wanted it … why?

  Sweet Mother in heaven, but those tears were threatening again.

  Braemoor stood there silently for a moment. He looked down at her, and she almost thought she could hear his heartbeat. She wished she could read his eyes, but she could not. They were as barred to her as his heart. She’d been a moment’s fancy. An easy kiss stolen from a love-starved widow. Once he’d proven his prowess, he had little interest. Pain ripped through her. She straightened, lifted her chin. He would never know how much that moment hurt her.

  But it was Braemoor who finally turned away. “I am going to walk awhile,” he said.

  She was clearly not invited. Nor did she want to be, she told herself. It was better that he left before she did anything foolish. She turned toward the door.

  He nodded, “Do not forget. If you have need of me …”

  It would be a good day in hell before she approached him again.

  She did not answer him but slid inside the door. She closed it, then leaned against it as if her body could keep him out. Why did she always lose all her senses around him? And why did the good memories push away the bad? Especially when he had just made it obvious that he was only paying back a debt. He evidently had no interest in her as a widow, either. Her estates were not so large. In truth, she had to admit, they were very small indeed compared to his own.

  Had he expected more? The Campbells had properties throughout Scotland, most of them stolen, she knew. Had he come here thinking that Lochaene might be a treasure to drain?

  That must be it. And now that he had discovered differently, he was leaving as fast as his horse would carry him. She would, most likely, not hear from him again.