by Arnette Lamb
The dull thud of crystal against crystal sounded loud in her ears. Where to begin? She sipped the heady wine. As it spread over her tongue, she found a starting place.
“Do you know that this is only my second time to drink brandy?”
As serious as she’d ever seen him, he gave a slight shake of his head and waited.
“The first time was the occasion of Captain Brown’s unexpected visit to Poplar Knoll. He came to say that he’d spoken with you in Glasgow. Mrs. Parker-Jones sent Merriweather to the hamlet to fetch me.”
“The hamlet?”
Shame choked her. “Yes. That’s where I lived.”
“I love you.” He reached for her.
She held up her hand. “I lied to you all the way ’round, Cam.”
Compassion softened his gaze.
“I wasn’t the housekeeper. I worked in the fields because . . .” The name of her villain tasted too bitter on her tongue.
“Because?”
Let it go, her heart said. “Because . . .” The words stalled in her throat.
“Take a sip,” he encouraged.
She did, and the drink fortified her. “Because I tried to follow you to France. I planned to sneak aboard your ship, but—”
“But I’d already sailed to China.”
“I didn’t know that was your destination at the time. I thought you were going to France.”
His smile was gentle, loving. “Sarah taught you French on the sly.”
“She told you that?”
“Of course. For years, we spoke of little else save our misfortune in losing you.”
She took strength from that love. “Let me go on. I must tell it all.”
“I’m listening, love.”
“When I learned you had sailed, I found another ship, captained by a man named—” Again, the named stalled on her tongue. She took a deep breath. “A man named Anthony MacGowan. He swore he was going to France. He said he knew you well and promised to take me to you.”
“But he didn’t take you to France.”
Agony squeezed her chest. “No. He took me to Williamsburg and sold me to Mr. Moreland.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Again he reached for her.
Again she held him off. “Wait.” She must get on with it. “He called it an indenture and named the term ten years, but it doesn’t change what they did to me.”
“I hate them,” Cameron swore through his teeth. “They are vile, and you were innocent.”
Let him think that if he wished. At ten, she’d been mature enough to make the decision that had cost her a decade of her life. She would not place the blame elsewhere. “All of that changed.”
“Oh, Virginia.” He held out a trembling hand.
She slipped her fingers in his. “There’s more. You must let me say it. I never fell from a horse. I wasn’t allowed near a horse. My memory is perfectly intact, always has been. I lied because I hadn’t the courage to tell you the truth about my life there.”
“You thought to spare me and your family the guilt.”
“Yes, and to give myself enough time to fit in here. I didn’t always have shoes, and I slept on a pallet of hay.” She gazed around the finely appointed room. “Life here is very grand.”
His hand grew damp in hers. “You worked hard?”
She nodded. “I tried escape once but lost courage after that.”
“Were you ever beaten?”
The frightened girl she’d once been now begged to be set free. “No, but other, more horrible things . . .”
“Have another sip of the brandy; ’twill ease the way.”
The third swallow of the fiery drink cleared her throat and bolstered her courage.
His eyes were pools of kindness. “Who hurt you?”
The dark times hung on the edge of her mind, but she pushed them back. Cameron was here, and a happy future awaited them. “The doctor. Mr. Moreland had taken a slave for his mistress, but when she died bearing him a stillborn child, Mrs. Moreland assumed he’d take me. She had allowed him a slave, but she forbid him to move me into the house. He hadn’t even spared a glance at me since he bought me from MacGowan. She didn’t believe him. To assure herself that he’d left me alone, she had the doctor come ’round every month and—and . . .”
“Let it out, love.”
“I didn’t know at first what he was doing. I was four and ten at the time.”
“Damn. That’s enough, Virginia. You needn’t—”
“Yes, I must. I had to lie on a table. It was so cold. He always told me to spread my legs.” Quickly, she drank again. “He felt inside of me . . . for my maidenhead.”
The glass slid to the floor, and she covered her face with her hands. Shame curled her spine, and she drew up her legs.
He held her then and rocked her, crooning words of comfort. When she quieted, he said, “How long did it go on?”
“Until two years ago when they sold the plantation to Mr. Parker-Jones.”
“Bloody hell!” He squeezed her, as if in doing so he could drive out her demons.
But the horror was behind her. “That’s why in Norfolk when we—”
“Made love?”
“Yes. That’s why you thought I had been raped.” In a way, she had been raped, often. Even now, she remembered the long walk to the main house, the icy table in the buttery, the cold look in the doctor’s eyes. The relief that lasted for one turn of the moon. The next month, the doctor was back again.
“I’m sorry I lied to you, Cam, but I was ashamed.”
“Oh, sweetheart. ’Tis in the past. We’ve only tomorrows ahead.”
She felt cleansed. For the first time in a decade, her soul was unburdened. “I’ll never lie to you again.” Unfolding her hands, she help up her palms. “You have my word.”
He twined his fingers with hers. “Put it behind you, love. Try never to think of those times again.”
“I will as soon as I’ve told Papa and the others.”
He held her at arms length, and she saw tears in his eyes. She attempted a smile to cheer him, but she failed.
“Must you tell them, Virginia?”
That surprised her. A full confession had always been part of her plan. “Yes, I must.”
“Why? What good would it serve? They’ll feel guilty if they know you were mistreated. As it stands, they are grateful to have you back, and they shoulder only the blame ignorance brings them.”
“But I’ve never lied to Papa.”
“Aye, you did. On many occasions we both lied to him.”
“But we were children, and the lies were small.”
Succinctly, he said, “And they hurt no one. Think of how Agnes will feel if she knows that you had no shoes.” A tear slid down his cheek. “I gave up hope and went on with my life. Your father also did. You’ll crush him with a confession. He’s happy now. Why bring back his suffering?”
She wanted to believe him. Cameron Cunningham had been her dearest friend since before she knew the meaning of the word. But old beliefs brought doubts. “I owe him the truth.”
Cameron searched for the words to convince her. Lachian MacKenzie had found vengeance. Virginia need never know that Anthony MacGowan would spend his days rotting in the hold of a Moorish galley. Thinking of that well-deserved fate, Cameron said, “What is the truth? That you love your father well?”
“Yes.”
“That you are glad to be back among those who love you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s truth enough. Our life together awaits. You cannot return to your father’s house. We’ll be married. You’ll bear our children here or aboard our ship or where ever we find ourselves.” He laid her hand over his heart. “Your place is here, with me, as we’d always planned.”
Her smile was tentative at first; but reason won out. “All right. But what if Anthony MacGowan tells the truth?”
“What if Anthony MacGowan is dead? Shall I ask Trimble to find out?”
“Oh, please.”
“I shall if you’ll do something for me?”
She’d swim to France if it would ease the pain he didn’t try to hide from her. “Anything.”
“You must do this, true heart.” He clutched her upper arms. “Please forgive me for giving up hope of finding you.”
“That’s easy. I love you.” She moved into his arms and held on tight. “I have always loved you.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “And I you. ’Tis a pity we have to wait to wed until your father returns.”
“Where is the betrothal agreement?”
He didn’t answer for so long she thought he hadn’t heard her. At length, he said, “That is the last truth. Your father and I burned it.”
“Together?”
“Aye, we tapped a laird’s keg and drank ourselves into a stupor. Drunk as Turks, we had a ceremony, although he recalls little of the night.”
“You’ve never reminded him of it?”
“Nay, he has suffered enough.”
“All of us have suffered.”
“Aye, but no more,” he said.
“I am at peace then.”
“Good.”
Without moving from the floor of Napier’s library, they held each other, and a silent healing began.
Sometime later the peace was shattered by a knock at the door and the arrival of Constable Jenkins.
Cameron drilled Agnes with a curious gaze. When she winked, he breathed a sigh of relief. While Cameron had been in the library making love to Virginia, Agnes and Edward had engaged the vicar in a game of billiards. But Agnes had left them under the guise of soothing her fretful daughter. With the lad Notch for accomplice, Agnes had broken into the constable’s office, stolen the hide, and destroyed the evidence.
Now she stepped forward. “Constable Sir Jenkins, are you acquainted with Father John? We’ve been playing billiards since after supper. When did you lose your evidence?”
Blustering, his chain of office crooked on his shoulders, he shook with anger. “Not above an hour ago.”
“None of us is to blame.”
All self-righteous servant of the law, Jenkins turned his hateful gaze on Cameron. “You’re a thief, Cunningham. You stole that rabbit hide from my safe.”
“Me? I couldn’t have.”
“Where were you?”
Virginia moved between them. “Cameron was with me, sir.” She paused, a blush flagging her cheeks. “We’re betrothed, you know.”
Cameron had expected as much, and he loved her for it. “You’ve told him enough, love.”
With Virginia and the vicar to verify his alibi, Cameron could not be charged, and no other suspects were found. Without the key piece of evidence, Horace Redding was set free.
* * *
The next day, a cartoon appeared in the Mercury. In retaliation, Mary had depicted a dole-faced Constable Jenkins standing before a high court justice, his empty hands held out in supplication. MacKale was pictured off to the side, a smug look enhancing his striking features. A bewigged and stately justice glared down at poor Jenkins. The caption read, “You’ve not seen hide nor hair of it?”
* * *
A month later, Quinten Brown’s ship arrived in Glasgow Harbor with the duke and duchess of Ross aboard. When word reached Napier House, everyone clamored to meet the ship. A caravan of carriages rumbled down Harbor Road, Napier’s spherical conveyance in the lead.
The moment Lachian stepped onto Scottish soil again, Lottie blurted the news that Virginia had taken up residence at Cunningham Gardens. Upon arrival at Napier House, Lachian ordered Cameron into the study. An hour later they emerged, both smiling.
Virginia expected her father to call her into the study. Instead, he declared, “Do you truly want this half Englishman for your husband?”
“Yes, Papa. I love him well.”
“Then we are twice blessed.” He picked her up. “Worry not, lass, about those lost memories. You’re back home and that’s all that matters.”
They adjourned to the nursery, where Sarah’s daughter Isobel took her first wobbly steps—into the arms of a gloating Lachian.
* * *
A special license was acquired, and on Saturday next, Virginia and Cameron fulfilled their destiny. As a private wedding gift, Cameron relayed a message to Virginia. Anthony MacGowan was dead.
“How? When?”
It served no purpose to tell her of her father’s involvement. So he told a lie he thought would satisfy her. “Some time ago. His death was slow and painful.”
“Good.”
When they exited the Napier carriage and approached the dock to begin their honeymoon, Virginia noticed a canvas draped over the side of Cameron’s ship. MacAdoo stood near the bow, and the crew stood at attention.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
Holding her hand, he whistled to MacAdoo, who saluted, then tossed off the mysterious canvas. Cameron had again changed the name of his ship. Now it was called True Heart.
“For you,” he said. “My dearest love.”
Then he swept her into his arms and carried her aboard. As they waved good-bye to her family, Cameron said, “Where shall we go first?”
Feeling reckless and joyful, she said, “The crow’s nest?”
Laughing, he held her close, and as they sailed away from Scotland, Virginia remembered the vow he’d spoken to her during their wedding.
Gazing up at him, love swelling inside her, she said, ‘Tomorrow is no dream, but our destiny.”
“Aye, True Heart.”
Epilogue
Rosshaven Castle
Scottish Highlands
Harvest, 1793
Harvest drummers and pipers heralded the return of the haywagons. Cameron scooted to the edge of the loft and peered through a knothole in the wall boards of the stable.
“Who’s riding in the first wagon?”
Cameron gazed back at Virginia, who languished on the pallet. They’d spent the afternoon loving, napping, and enjoying being back in Scotland again.
For three years, they’d sailed the True Heart around the world. Only when Virginia had conceived had they returned to Scotland. But they hadn’t gone to Cunningham Gardens in Glasgow, nor had they visited Cameron’s parents. They’d come to Rosshaven Castle in Tain, principal residence of the ducal MacKenzies, the place where Cameron and Virginia had grown up together.
Now that the harvest was over, the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the duke and duchess of Ross would begin. With the exception of Cameron and Virginia, all of the MacKenzies, their spouses, and children had spent the day in the fields.
Only one member of the extended family was not here.
“Cameron Cunningham! Tell me who won.”
The annual harvest race was over. In order of their finish, the wagons returned to Rosshaven.
Expecting her to gloat, Cameron said, “Edward Napier and Notch.”
“I knew it. He never boasts. When he said his machine could harvest as much wheat as three men, you should have believed him. You owe me fifty pounds.”
She rolled over and, on stiff arms, crawled toward Cameron, her breasts swaying in a hypnotic rhythm. Larger since the birth of their daughter, Virginia’s womanly attributes never failed to rouse him. But then, with a saucy wink or a spicy rejoinder, she could as easily stir his desire.
“Where’s Agnes?” she asked.
Peering through the opening, Cameron studied the line of approaching wagons. “Astride the lead horse pulling Napier’s wagon, and Jamie’s up before her. Hannah and little Juliet are perched atop the cargo.”
“The next wagon?”
“Your father and Lily’s husband, Sutherland.”
“Third?”
“Lottie’s husband, David, and Christopher Napier.”
“Where’s Lottie?”
Cameron chuckled. For her part in the celebration, Lottie had made dresses for all of the women. Except that each was a different color, the
cotton dresses, designed for a day of frolicking in the field, were alike. The fabric of Virginia’s gown was dyed a leafy green, and the contrasting apron was a darker hue. Lottie wore apple red with a crimson apron. “She’s in that jaunty trap. Lily, Cora, Rowena, and Sarah are on horseback, carrying torches to light the way.”
“Where’s Mary?”
Cameron hesitated. Robert Spencer, the earl of Wiltshire, had met his death beneath the hooves of the leading pack at Avon Downs. Mary had buried him over a year ago. She had yet to forgive him. But neither had she forgiven herself for not giving him a son. Hamish Dundas, heir apparent to the constable of Scotland, was doing his considerable best to get Mary out of her mourning gown. Odds were running three to one that he’d succeed before Hogmanay next.
“Where?” Virginia repeated.
“In a cart with Hamish.”
“Good.” Content to have him narrate the order of finish, Virginia again lay on her back. “Who’s next?”
“Kenneth and his rowdy nephews. Michael and MacAdoo are behind them.”
Raising her arms over her head, Virginia stretched, effectively lifting her nipples into view. “MacAdoo should be playing the pipes.”
“You should stop teasing me.” Cameron shifted to ease the swelling in his loins. He winced at the movement.
“What’s amiss?”
Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t want you again so soon.”
All saucy female, she writhed. “Shall I show you the folly in that train of thought?”
He laughed.
She lifted her brows in warning and challenge. But the wagons had entered the yard. The din of dozens of familiar voices blended with the stamping of hooves and the rattling of harnesses.
Confident that they’d soon have company, Cameron folded his arms.
“I could change your mind,” she threatened.
He smiled, taunting her. She lifted herself up and moved closer.
The stable doors opened, then closed. Footfalls sounded on the planked floor below.
Holding a finger to his mouth, Cameron whispered, “Shush,” and eased to the edge of the loft. Virginia followed.
Arm in arm, the duke and duchess of Ross strolled toward the ladder. His hair was now liberally sprinkled with gray, but Lachian MacKenzie could still hold his own with a man half his age. Juliet, serene and stately in a lavender dress and purple apron, smiled up at him. He stopped, drew her into his arms, and kissed her long and deeply.