Tragic and pitiful.
“You understand the direness of my circumstance, McTavish. Why I’m here, non? If Oakberry doesn’t produce as anticipated, in a few weeks I shall return to France hardly more than an aristocratic pauper.”
Nearly penniless nobles weren’t permitted the privilege, the extravagance, of love.
“If I’m to save and restore my estate, I shall have no recourse but to find a woman as hungry for a title as I am a sizable fortune.”
On cue, as if in agreement or wanting to remind him of his reduced circumstances, his stomach complained noisily.
“Or food, at the moment.” McTavish’s attempt at levity fell short. “I’m saddened that you would settle for a loveless marriage, even if it’s not altogether uncommon, and were I in your shoes, I cannot say I wouldn’t do the same to save Craiglocky.” He rubbed his chin, regarding Jacques intently. “You’re essentially selling yourself.”
A wry smile, perhaps more self-loathing than actual irony, tipped Jacques’s lips. “A fair exchange, I suppose, non?”
Before uttering a single vow, Jacques would insist upon candidacy between his bride and himself. His baroness would have no false illusions. Theirs would be a marriage of convenience, each gaining something the other wanted and provided.
All the more reason he couldn’t permit his heart to become engaged. Such a union would be trial enough without his mooning over another woman.
What about an heir?
That delicacy he’d deal with when he must. Or perhaps, he’d permit the line to terminate, so his sons and grandsons wouldn’t be encumbered with the burden that forced him to choose between his happiness and responsibilities.
“I could extend you funds.” Not the first time McTavish had offered.
“Non, mon ami, but I thank you. Unless Oakberry proves as prosperous as I pray she is, I’ve no way to repay your generosity.” Lifting one shoulder a couple of inches, Jacques gave a rueful tilt of his mouth. “I’ve my pride if nothing else, and I won’t be further indebted to you.”
Shuffling through a pile of papers atop his desk, McTavish glanced up. “I shall permit you to stay on, at least until you’ve had an opportunity to visit the quarry yourself and speak with Newton, the mine’s overseer.” He waved distractedly behind his shoulder at the window, edged in miniature snow mounds. “I can hardly turn you out in this weather in any event.”
“Most considerate of you.”
Except for a brief, sharp look, McTavish didn’t respond to Jacques’s sarcasm.
“Damn, I need to hire a secretary. Corrigan retired, and I’ve been fumbling along for months.” Making an exasperated noise, he ruffled through a few more papers, then slanted Jacques an indirect look. “In the meanwhile, I would ask that you keep your distance from Seonaid. I also intend to speak with her about the incident at the inn.”
“Naturally.” Except for meals, Jacques and Seonaid needn’t see one another. He could take a tray in his room part of the time too, or simply arrange to be absent during meals.
Finding the document he sought, McTavish set it aside. He lifted an envelope. “This came for you two days ago.”
He slid a missive across the desk.
Jacques fingered the neatly folded rectangle, the taupe-colored wax imprinted with his man of business’s seal. Likely it didn’t bear cheerful tidings if Faucher determined the contents urgent enough they couldn’t wait for his return to France.
After McTavish tucked the paper he’d located into his interior pocket, he proceeded to straighten the stack he’d rifled through.
“Seonaid’s young and is an extremely sensitive soul. I won’t have her hurt. Unlike our other sisters, she’s fragile, gentle, and doesn’t possess a strong spirit.” His regard became grave. “Don’t do anything to encourage her affections.”
A distinct warning resonated in his last words.
Jacques stood, and after pulling his jacket into place trod to the exit. Clasping the door handle, he paused.
“You’re wrong, I’m happy to say. She’s the strongest of the lot, mon ami, and I mean to prove it to you”—and her—“before I leave Scotland.”
Chapter 11
Fighting tears, Seonaid kissed her father’s broad cheek while sitting alongside him atop her parents’ oversized bed.
“You’re looking well, Father. I wanted to come to you straightaway last night, but we arrived quite late and I assumed you’d be abed already.”
Except for his bandaged leg, a vicious scrape marring his left cheek, and another across his hand, he’d appeared the epitome of health.
He’d fared far better than the stable, to be sure. Nothing but its charred skeleton remained. Thank God, no livestock had been lost, and the other barns hadn’t been damaged except the nearest one’s north end was slightly singed.
Grinning, Father tugged a lock of her hair. “Lass, I’m pleased to see ye, though I canna say I be happy about ye gallivantin’ around Scotland on yer own.”
“Oui, you worried a year from my life, ma chérie.” Placing Father’s breakfast tray atop his lap, Mother smiled, her brilliant turquoise eyes sparkling. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? Impulsiveness isn’t like you.”
Running her fingers across the soft, buttery colored coverlet, Seonaid offered a contrite smile. “I’m sorry you were concerned.”
Satisfied Father wouldn’t dump the tray’s contents onto their bed, Mother shifted her attention to Seonaid. “I’d expect such behavior of Adaira, or even Isobel, but you’ve naught given us cause to fret.”
Biddable, boring, obedient Seonaid.
As Mother fussed over Father, Seonaid slipped from the bed. “I promise to explain why, and when I do, I believe you’ll understand and forgive my rashness.”
Mother bent near to arrange a serviette atop Father’s chest, and he stole a quick kiss. Blushing like a young maid, she swatted him.
Married over two decades, and still in love.
Sadness pinched Seonaid’s heart.
Love. A luxury she must deny herself.
He snatched another peck, and Mother giggled.
“Hugh, behave yourself. Seonaid—”
“Och, nae harm in the lass seein’ her parents kiss. She’ll be married soon enough herself.”
Sooner than they could’ve possibly anticipated.
Taking a seat at a small table placed on the bed’s other side, Seonaid lifted the silver dome from her breakfast.
“Umm, I’d hoped Sorcha would make scones and tatties.” Splitting the warm pastry, she inhaled the familiar aroma. Adding a generous dollop of creamy butter and marmalade to each half, she smiled. “I believe next to my family and pets, I missed Sorcha’s marmalade most of all.”
Chewing the delicious pastry, she nearly sighed in pleasure. No one, absolutely no one, made scones as tasty as Sorcha.
A moment later her mother joined her and once seated, poured them tea. She patted Seonaid’s hand. “I’m glad you’re home. Except for Yvette, I’ve been surrounded by men.” Her mouth bent into a teasing smile, she angled her dark head toward the bed and slid Father an indirect gaze. “Some rather obstinate.”
“Hmph, ye try havin’ to stay abed fer days on end. I’ll grow fat as a hog and weak as a lamb in nae time.” Father’s playful wink belied his complaining. “Yvette brings Broderick to visit daily. The laddie helps relieve my boredom.”
“I haven’t seen her yet, but Ewan mentioned she’s increasing again.” Scone at her mouth, Seonaid chuckled. “Actually, he boasted, prouder than a cock strutting in the bailey.”
Her sister-in-law and brother were also desperately in love. Should she tell her parents she’d had another vision upon waking this morning, this one involving Yvette’s pregnancy?
Ewan and Yvette would welcome two bairn girls, and though tiny and weeks early, the twins would be perfectly healthy. However, as a result of complications brought on by a difficult birth, Yvette would lose a great deal of blood and be barren afterwar
d.
How could Seonaid reveal such awful news?
Imagine the terror her sweet sister-in-law would live with for months. Ewan and the rest of the family too.
Like a sharp pebble in her slipper, indecision niggled.
What if telling prepared them for the wee babes’ arrival and helped save Yvette’s life?
What if Seonaid was wrong and caused them to fret for naught? Though rarely, she had been mistaken before.
For instance, the time she’d seen Midwife McCready lying lifeless upon her cottage floor. Dutifully riding to the village, Father discovered her in a stupor after nipping her medicinal store of whisky a speck too generously.
Not dead. Just foxed to her plumpish, ruddy cheeks.
And two summers ago when Seonaid had a vision of the keep under attack by a band of rogue Scots. Again, her family accepted her fey’s accuracy, and Ewan doubled the guards and patrols for six months. Nothing ever came of it.
Or that vision in Paris after meeting Jacques. She nearly snorted aloud. That one had been wholly inaccurate.
To see someone’s future, having to decide whether to share the knowledge. God alone possessed that right, not a mere mortal.
Why she’d been given the capacity, Seonaid might never know. Some would call her ungrateful for disdaining her ability, but others, like Reverend Fletcher, deemed her visions unholy.
That was why she’d come to a firm conclusion before leaving her chamber. She must wed and lose her virginity as soon as possible. Three visions in less than a week—in four days to be precise.
The increase in frequency alarmed her no end. How could she endure the foreboding? Keeping secret what she’d seen, or continually being the bearer of ill tidings might drive her to madness.
Anger flared, surging through her veins, scorching and unrelenting.
She didn’t want the cursed an dara shealladh anymore, didn’t want to be branded a soothsayer. Never had, truth to tell, and she feared that was her destiny unless she deliberately took measures to change the course.
No, she couldn’t bear to tell Ewan and Yvette what their future held. Yet. For now, she’d keep that dreary knowledge to herself.
Forking a bite of egg, Seonaid gauged how long she could safely postpone the telling. “Yvette’s expecting in April?”
Taking a dainty sip of tea, anticipation lit Mother’s face. “Oui, and I think they’re hoping for a girl this time.”
They’d get their wish.
Seonaid could keep her secret until at least February then.
Chewing a good-sized bite of sausage, Father pointed his knife at her. “Ye’ll be findin’ yerself a mon, soon enough, I’ll wager.” He wiggled his heavy brows. “Did any of those fine Sassenachs take yer fancy?”
No Englishman had. However, a certain Frenchman . . .
Never mind.
Jacques required a fortune, and though she possessed a generous dowry, it wouldn’t restore an estate in deplorable condition. Moreover, she’d no desire to return to France, or to leave Scotland to make a home elsewhere.
Unlike Isobel who yearned for adventure and travel, Seonaid was content to remain home with her books, plants, and pets.
With the right man, you’d go anywhere.
Mother had.
She’d left France at seventeen, first married to Ewan’s father, Liam McTavish, and then had stayed in Scotland to later marry Father.
Seonaid almost laughed at the image of her burly father sitting upon the dainty French furniture popular in the French homes she’d visited. He’d been as out of place there as she’d felt.
Yvette, Isobel, and Adaira had made the sacrifice as well.
Why was it only women left their homelands for the men they loved? Enough. Why humor these ridiculous mental ramblings? Less than a week ago, Seonaid and Jacques couldn’t be in the same room without quarrelling.
“Nae, Father. I can honestly say, no Englishman stole my heart.”
“Hugh, ma chére, our Seonaid wouldn’t likely have hustled to Craiglocky if that were the case, non?” An indulgent smile bent Mother’s mouth. “She is young, and she’s only returned home. There’s plenty of time to contemplate marriage, ma chéri, oui?”
No time like the present.
“Well, Mother, Father.” Seonaid directed her consideration from one doting parent to the other and took a fortifying breath. “Since you mentioned it. I wish to marry as soon as you can find a suitable man who also meets your approval.”
Father’s startled oath as he dropped hot tatties onto his chest muffled the clanking of Mother’s fork first hitting her plate, then bouncing onto the stone floor.
“Mon Dieu, why?” Mother breathed, blinking in confusion. Pressing a shaky hand to her throat, she cast Father a stunned, rather desperate, glance.
“Be that why ye fled London?” Father’s deep brown eyes, so like Seonaid’s, sank to her belly. “Are ye with child?” He sat up straighter, alert and suspicious. “Does the clan need to pay a Sassenach a visit?”
Seonaid’s mouth fell open, and burning heat enveloped her cheeks. She should have expected that assumption. “Of course not! It’s nothing of that nature, I assure you.”
“Chérie, I don’t understand. Your brother and sisters married for love, but you would have us choose your husband?” First confusion, then speculation crinkled the corners of Mother’s eyes. “Precisely what happened in London?”
Mother was far too insightful.
Releasing a long, controlled breath, Seonaid laid her serviette beside her plate. “My visions are occurring much more frequently. Three in the past four days. In London I was treated like a soothsayer, and yesterday, Craigcutty’s temporary rector—Reverend Fletcher, a horrid maggot of a man you haven’t met as yet—accused me of sorcery.”
A sound much like an enraged growl rumbled from Father, his russet eyes spewing wrathful sparks. Clumsily plopping his tray beside him, and then grabbing a thick corner post, he made to leave the bed.
“Hugh Ferguson, stop this instant! If you reinjure your leg, you’ll be stuck in bed that much longer. You’d be utterly unbearable then, non?” Mother pointed to the bed, her tone and demeanor formidable. “Be sensible and lie down, or I swear, I shall tie you to the posts.”
At Mother’s firm command, he grudgingly complied. “I’ll have the trow dragged from the village by his ballo—er throat. How dare he accuse my daughter of such evilness? And he a holy man, at that.”
“Ewan already said as much to Fletcher.” Clasping her hands in her lap to still their sudden shaking, Seonaid lifted her chin. “I want to rid myself of the second sight.”
Puzzlement creased her mother’s forehead, pleating the outer corner of her eyes. “What have your visions to do with a hasty marriage? Ma chére, if you choose the wrong man, you might be miserable for the rest of your life.”
“I’m miserable now.”
Stark, painful silence met her words, and similar shocked expressions etched her parents’ faces.
Rot, she hadn’t meant to blurt that.
“Lass, why didna ye say anythin’ before?” Father’s gentleness nearly unraveled Seonaid.
Swallowing the lump climbing her throat, she blinked away the fierce stinging behind her eyelids. The raw anguish etching their faces pierced her core, and rather than burst into tears, she focused her attention on the fluffy flakes drifting beyond the beveled diamond-shaped panes.
“Everyone has been fascinated by my second sight, and I suppose you assumed I was content with the unusual gift. But the truth is, I loathe being an oddity. I don’t want to see and sense events before they happen. I’m weary of being the bearer of dire warnings or awful tidings.”
A tear leaked from her eye, but she dashed it away. She didn’t want pity. None of this was her parents’, her family’s fault, or their doing. Nevertheless, she wanted done with the an dara shealladh, once and for all.
What if I lose my innocence and still—
No.
S
eonaid checked the wayward thought before it had a chance to finish forming. It must work. It simply must.
Mother gathered her near and gave her a ferocious hug. “I wish you’d mentioned something earlier, though I don’t know how we can change anything.”
“I’ve heard . . .” Seonaid cleared her throat. Rather awkward with Father sitting there, eagerness engraved on his rugged face. “Grandmother had the gift too, erm, until she married.”
“Ach, that be the direction yer mind be takin’.” Father rubbed his chin. “Aye, it might work.”
“But, Hugh, married to a stranger. A man who doesn’t love her to eliminate the fey?” Shaking her head, silver peeking from the raven strands, Mother’s mouth swooped downward mutinously. “Non, I won’t have it.”
Leave it to Mother to kick up a dust.
Since Seonaid wasn’t of age, they could prevent her marrying. Unless she eloped or found an agreeable chap to compromise her.
Jacques’s chiseled features sprang to mind.
She choked on a sad laugh. Ewan would force Jacques to marry her, and then he’d lose his beloved estate. Not the makings of a contented husband.
She mentally crossed him off the list of potential candidates. The remainder of the imaginary page remained starkly blank.
“I’m determined in this, although I’m sure you’re opposed. Nonetheless, as much as it grieves me, I must insist.” Attempting to lighten the moment, yet perfectly serious, a wry smile curved Seonaid’s mouth. She’d have an affair if she couldn’t quickly acquire a husband. “I’m so desperate, I might do something drastic, perhaps enter into an illicit liaison.”
“Yer talkin’ pure foolishness now, lass.” Looking huge and helpless, Father implored Mother. “Tell her, Giselle. She nae ken what she be sayin’.”
Mother flapped her hand at him. “Shh, I’m thinking, ma chère.”
Time to leave.
Mother proved dangerous when she possessed that determined countenance. No telling what manner of ridiculousness she might scheme.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 10