Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  “Mademoiselle, I handled some of your uncle’s legal affairs such as his Will, which I have brought with me as well as a package he wished me to give to you in the event of his death.”

  “You knew him well, then?” She dried her eyes one more time.

  “In a business sense, oui,” he responded. “However, he had another…lawyer… in Edinburgh that handled his more personal affairs.” He had been forbidden by Roddy Delamare to discuss any of his business in Scotland with her, and, although he was aware of some of it, he would obey those wishes.

  “I do not understand,” she blinked as she looked at the package he handed her. “What business could he possibly have had in Edinburgh? There was a Scottish heritage, of course, but he had never been to Scotland. We moved here from Cavalos, near Caen, though I don’t remember it. We moved to Paris when I was just a small child—after my parents’ deaths.”

  “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, I am not privy to those matters. My understanding is that there are instructions for you within the package you are holding. They will direct you to the correct person in Edinburgh.” He had avoided that issue rather well, he thought.

  “As to his Will, you will see that he has left everything to you. He had a nice little account at Le Banc Royale, and those funds will be put into your name as soon as you sign the papers I have brought with me. As to the other accounts, you will need to discuss them with the party in Edinburgh. You will find that some of these documents may reflect a name other than Roddy Delamare.” He could see that she was still in shock from her uncle’s death and probably understood little of what he was explaining to her.

  “I can tell you from my own family history, that many Scots who came to France in the eighteenth century used false French names so that their properties would not be seized by the French. I, for example, am—perhaps I should say would have been—a Campbell. Of course, some used French names for other reasons,” he explained. Realizing he was getting too near to a subject he should not discuss with the girl, he left it at that.

  “I see,” she answered. She really did not see at all, but she supposed she would sort it all out later. Right now she was still raw from her loss. She signed the papers he held out for her and kept one copy for herself. She was slightly dazed by it all and did not really read the details. She would realize later, much later, that she should have done so.

  He rose and reached for her hand, which he raised to his lips for a polite kiss. “It has been my pleasure to meet you at last, Mademoiselle. Your uncle had only the nicest things to say about you. He loved you a great deal.”

  “Yes, it was mutual,” she said, as her eyes filled with tears once again.

  Having the usual male response to a woman’s tears, the poor man made the quickest exit possible, and left her standing there holding both the large envelope in which, she assumed, she would find the Will, and a package the size of a small stack of books. Inspecting it, she found it wrapped in brown paper, tied with a thin cord. It was not heavy, she thought.

  She folded the envelope and stuck it into her coat pocket. She’d look at the papers later, when she could do so with more understanding.

  Moving toward the kitchen, she sat at the small wooden table where they had shared so many meals. She cut the cord then slowly, almost reverently, removed the brown paper that covered the package. Inside the wrapping she found an enameled box in pastel blue with purple flowers of some sort spread across the top. It was so lovely and, she thought as she lightly traced her fingers over the ornate design, obviously very old.

  She carefully opened the lid, and found it was full of papers that looked like letters of various ages. Some were simply folded. Some were in their own envelopes. There were the slightest of scents of lavender and roses wafting from the box as she lifted the contents. On top of the stack was an envelope with “Blair” written in Roddy’s neat script.

  What she didn’t realize was that this gift from her uncle was about to change her future, as well as unsettle everything she had thought she had known about her past—and his.

  ***

  Instead of sleeping, he was once again pacing his apartment balcony. His hair was still damp from the cold shower he’d had at what? Yes, 3:30 AM. He’d been having some rather disturbing dreams…involving a tiny blonde with big gray eyes. They—no, he would be honest with himself, she—had him awakening, his body first…then his mind, at all hours of the night for three nights in a row. This had to stop!

  He had followed his instincts and had gone to the man’s funeral to check her out. Damn the woman. What kind of game was she playing? Whatever it was, he was not about to let her get by with it. His sources had told him of her treachery, and he had to stop her somehow. He would protect what was his—his father’s—his family’s—if it took his last breath. God knew he had the resources to have her followed and to look into her background.

  She had put on a good show—had seemed earnestly distressed by the man’s death. He knew the real pain of loss. How it gouged out your heart and left you an empty shell! Then, just as suddenly it filled you with anger unreasonably ready to pick a fight with the dead. Yes, he knew grief…after all he had buried his own beloved father just days ago. But this charlatan, no, she didn’t know the real pain. Perhaps she was just upset that their plans had been interrupted. She and the old man had been playing the part of a loving family, but he had been told otherwise.

  Oh, she was a pretty enough little thing, with all that pale hair, those huge gray eyes, and God, that pouty mouth of hers. Her figure was exquisite, even draped in somber black. She was a picture all right, standing there in her mourning clothes, weeping into her lace handkerchief, the two women beside her practically holding her up—as if she really felt the pain of grief. It might all work on some, but he wasn’t going to let her get to him. He would do whatever it took to protect what was his from a thieving fraud, no matter how stunning she was.

  He walked to his study, wrote a quick note to the man he would trust to find out what he needed. Then he would just have to be patient until he heard back. Patience was not something for which he was well-known.

  **************************

  Chapter 8: Dark Family Secret Revealed

  Paris, France – April 1912

  The stack of letters ranged from the very old to the one left for her by Roddy. While she was anxious to read her uncle’s letter, she found she could not resist the temptation of the older ones. She decided to start with the oldest and work her way toward the present. The letter was yellowed, badly faded, and bordered on being brittle, but she could still read the beautiful, flowing script, although it took her some time to decipher the old Scottish spellings.

  12 Dae Aprill 1726

  Ma oan wee bairn,

  First ah wunt yu ti ken that ah, yur muther, luve yu maire tha lyfe, an wunt the best fer yu That is the singil reison in ma sendin yu a far waer yu ar saef, in kin grow bonnie an well caird fer.

  “12th April 1726” she read aloud to herself.

  “My own small child,

  First I want you to understand that I, your mother, love you more than life, and want the best for you. That is the single reason in my sending you afar where you are safe, and can grow happy and well cared for.”

  It braeks ma heart to lose yu so nae aftir yur first cry, neer to see yur fais, na yur first smyl, first step, first luve, but yur welfaer, aye yur vaery lyfe is the ane best gift ah kin give yu, in tis best givin soon aftir yur burth.

  “It breaks my heart to lose you so near after your first cry, never to see your face, not your first smile, first step, first love, but your welfare, yes your very life is the one best gift I can give you, and it is best given soon after your birth.”

  Sòlas is a gude man, an the luv of ma lyfe, in I dinna kin any wun tha wad caer fer yu with maire luve tither myne oan self. Guhen ye ar olde enuf, Sòlas wul tell yu guhy we hae bin parted.

  “Sòlas is a good man, and the love of my life, and I do not know anyon
e that would care for you with more love other than mine own self. When you are old enough, Sòlas will tell you why we have been parted.”

  I prae that yu grow strawng of mynde, bonnie of heart, in luvely of faes. I wul think of yu this wae to the end of ma days.

  Yur luving muther,

  Caena, Dawter of Finnean Nic a’ Donnoch

  “I pray that you grow strong of mind, happy of heart, and lovely of face. I will think of you this way to the end of my days.

  Your loving mother,

  Caena, Daughter of Finnean McDonnough”

  She found tears were streaming down her face once more. After everything that had happened in the last two weeks, she marveled that she had any tears left. How sad, she thought, that a baby would be separated from its mother immediately after birth. What, she wondered, could have driven a woman who so obviously loved her child to send her away from her? Reaching for the next letter, she hoped for more information.

  **************************

  Chapter 9: Caena Makes Her Decision

  Castle Donnach, Scotland - 1725

  Caena and Sòlas were to meet at the cliff. She had to tell him her decision, and she knew she would break his heart—just as hers was already. Once she was alone, she went to her private chapel behind her room. She closed the door between her room and the chapel, knowing that no one would dare to interrupt her during her prayers. She exited using the door hidden by the tapestry that hung on the wall behind the little alter. Quickly moving down the steep stone stairway to the exit that left her in the private garden, she made her way through the thick hedge and up the hidden path to the cliff.

  As she approached the end of the path, she was able to see him standing there, his back to her, looking out over the loch. Her heart was nothing more than a thick lump in her throat as she soaked in the look of him. His fair hair, long and flowing, was blowing about him in the breeze. He was a vision standing there against the bright blue sky. The long, loose sleeves of his white homespun shirt, the scarf pinned to it at the shoulder, and his solid black kilt touched by the breeze. He seemed to sense her. Turning slowly toward her, she saw his pale blue eyes light up when he caught sight of her.

  Holding that eye contact with the girl he loved more than life, he walked to her.

  “Well, lass, I’ve missed you,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her so very close that she could feel the fullness of the man she knew she would love for the rest of her days. He was her own age in years, but had the old soul of a poet, and the body any man of more years would envy, and for which every maiden behind the castle walls lusted.

  “Aye, my love,” she responded as she softly kissed those full lips that brought her so much pleasure. “Let’s sit down. There is something I must tell you.”

  They strode hand-in-hand to the fallen tree they had so often used as a bench. It was the same old tree that had stood tall when they first kissed and stood still when they’d exchanged their oaths to each other. They had, since childhood, secretly come here to talk, to be together. This was their place.

  He held her close, “What is bothering you, my love? You know you can tell me anything.” He felt her shudder and fear gripped his heart. Something was terribly wrong. She seemed frightened. If it was anticipation of his reaction that had placed this burden on her heart, he was determined to stay calm no matter what she had to say.

  “My father has told me that I must make a decision about a marriage partner.” She felt his hand jerk in hers. She did not have to tell him, of course, that the choice would be between himself and his brother, Macrath.

  He had feared this was what had been causing her pain. He too had heard the rumors throughout the castle. He had given her time to think things through—to make her decision without interference from him. She knew all too well how he felt about her.

  “You know you have my heart, my love,” she told him as tears filled her eyes.

  “Aye, and you know you have mine,” he answered. She didn’t have to say it. He knew her decision, but he would let her have her say, even if it killed him.

  “I must choose Macrath, even though he is Mahoun himself. You know that. There is no other way to protect all that belongs to us. Not for myself, Sòlas, but for my father’s line and for generations to come. I have no real choice. You and I would lose everything, which means nothing to me, but so would our children and their children.”

  My father has taught me that family and responsibility to family are more important than personal feelings. The welfare of future generations is a consideration over and above our own. We would never be able to give them what they deserve. Add to that, your father and Macrath would undoubtedly have my father and you killed if we wed.”

  He watched her closely and saw the shudder as she spoke. She stood and faced the cliff. “I will never love him, Sòlas. He will never have my heart or my mind, only my body.”

  Fury shook him down to his bones. “Only your body?” He spun her around to face him and saw that she was shattered, as shattered as he. He leaned his forehead down to rest on hers. “He may have you after you are wed, Caena, but please tell me you will be mine now. Here! Now! Only mine, Caena!”

  The kiss was borne of fear, frustration, and fury at the fate that had put them in this position. Understanding that he must have her agreement, he pulled back from her mouth, despite what it cost him to do so. He watched her eyes—saw the love and agreement there. Crushing his mouth to hers again, he began the seduction that would mean their deaths, were they ever found out.

  The sun was pink and purple in the sky when they returned to the castle. They both knew that it had been not only the first, but would be the last time they would be together this way. Macrath may take her as his wife, but the two of them knew that in every way that counted, she would always belong to Sòlas.

  ***

  Fuming, Macrath had waited as long as he was willing to wait. He paced his rooms, ready to loose his temper. The knock at his door caused him to jump—his concentration on his thoughts had been so great.

  “Come in, damn it all!” he shouted.

  The servant slowly opened the door. Having been struck by flying objects when entering this room in the past, he had learned to be extremely cautious! Once he was certain the way was clear, he stepped into the room. “My Lord, The McDonnough has asked that you join him in the Laird’s Parlor.” Keeping his head bowed, he waited and prayed for his own safety.

  Macrath’s heart jumped in his chest. At last! Keeping his voice as calm as he could, he responded with the grin of the winner of some secret game, “Tell the Laird I will join him in a few minutes.” Summoned like a servant! Well, he sneered at the thought, we’ll soon see who has the upper hand, my Lord!

  When the servant left him, he swallowed another goblet of wine, slammed the empty pewter tankard down on the heavy wooden table, and went to the dressing mirror. Assuring he looked his best, he left his rooms—in his own damned sweet time—to get the Laird’s answer.

  He had told the Laird a few weeks ago that he was making plans to marry, and that he wanted Caena for his wife. Grinning to himself as he continued down the stairs, he remembered the shock on the Laird’s face. Macrath knew he held the advantage, but just as surely he also knew the stupid girl would be given her choice in the matter. The Laird was a silly fool, giving any female such power. To let her be so influenced by outside forces as she was by all her fanciful reading—it was a fool’s mistake.

  And, oh, he thought—she was so loved by his dear brother. Well, he’d stop all that foolishness once and for all. The only delight he looked forward to more than deflowering that insipid girl was the knowledge that his doing so would destroy his brother.

  He strode into the Great Hall where the Laird awaited him, and found his palms sweating. He didn’t like being beckoned at someone else’s whim—not one bit.

  “My Lord,” he bowed as slightly as he could get by with. “You asked for me?” He refused to admit, even to himself, th
at he had been sent for.

  “Yes, Macrath, please come. Sit.” Finnean knew this boy could not be trusted and yet…what choice did he really have. “I have decided that when the time comes, you shall have Caena to wife,” the Laird told him.

  He decided! Macrath knew better. The girl had more brains than he’d given her credit for. “My Lord, I am honored. However, it is my intention that we be married next week.

  “Next week?” Finnean stood up, his face reddening, and his deep voice booming across the huge room. “Next week? Why so soon? Surely this can wait until she is a bit older. She is but sixteen years next week.”

  “It is my wish to begin a family, my Lord. Surely you agree that it is best to assure that a McDonnough heir be ready to assume the title and responsibility for the clan when the time comes.” He nodded his head slightly in feigned politeness. “I do not wish to wait and leave our futures to chance,” he said, as meekly as he could muster. Family responsibility would, he knew, rank highly with the Laird of McDonnough.

  Finnean, unfortunately, felt he had to agree. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

  Seeing the look on the Laird’s face, Macrath continued, “Of course, my Lord, if she is not ready, there is young Seonaid, whose father is your wife’s cousin. She would make a good match as well, don’t you think? She has expressed quite a…willingness.”

  Willing, she certainly was. He remembered bedding the beautiful, buxom but somewhat empty-headed girl three times during their visit last Yule. Of course, at eighteen years he had not been her first, he was sure—despite her screams and tears the first time. He smiled as he remembered she had been all too willing the second and third.