Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  “Yes, it does. It’s a really long story—two-hundred years long—and I’m going to tell you as much as I can while we dine. Some of it is sad, some wondrous, some deadly, but I do want to share it with you, Rachel.” He found the truth of that caught him by surprise.

  The shock suddenly hit her. How dense could she be? This is the very man she was supposed to avoid! He was the man who they said wanted her dead. She had walked right into the trap. Just as her side of the family had become ‘Delamare’, his had become ‘Maigny’. Before she could bolt, he reached for her hand and held it so gently that she just stayed put.

  He saw her nerves, almost panic. It saddened him that he didn’t know why she was using the name Rachel Wallace. He decided he just did not believe that she was the evil, plotting imposter his cousins had told him about. If she was a phony, why were people trying to kill her?

  Perhaps if he shared some of his story, she would share some of hers. He was fairly certain that most of what she’d told him so far were lies. Why she had felt she had to lie to him, he didn’t know, but he would damned well find out.

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  Chapter 23: Watch Your Back

  Scotland – 1746

  As Macrath had suspected, the Bonny Prince sneaked into Scotland, gathered what forces he could and, forced to advance without the promised help of the French or retreat to France, he pushed forward. Some might think him overly confident, others would suspect that poor advice had caused his downfall, but either way…the cause was lost.

  Mordag died at the final Jacobite battle at Calloden in 1746. The number of dead was staggering. When Mordag didn’t return home with the few stragglers that eluded the English forces, Macrath was certain he was dead. He gave instructions that, if Mordag was found dead on the battlefield, the body should be buried there instead of being taken home for burial at Donnach. This was more than just an effort to reaffirm to the English where his allegiance lay. It was a very purposeful slight to his father who had shown weakness by joining the Jacobite cause and risking the estate.

  As expected, Macrath was allowed to hold onto the McDonnough estate as a reward for his loyalty to the Crown. Eleanor and Fergus were spared due to their family connection to Macrath, not due to any direct efforts by Macrath on their behalf. Happy to be spared, they hid well their fury at the slights and treachery from Macrath. In their hearts, they raged!

  However, as usual, Macrath’s focus was on Macrath. While all across the country the wives and children of other lairds who had fought on the side of the Jacobites were being mercilessly slaughtered—in their homes, in the fields, in caves where they hid, wherever they were found—Macrath’s family sat safe and sound inside Castle Donnach. Macrath completely overlooked the hatred that was building within the castle walls.

  After Calloden, the wearing of the tartan had been banned! The clans had been forcibly disbanded, although the people stubbornly remained loyal to the lairds that took good care of them. It was another thing altogether in Donnach. It would take a great deal of fear and intimidation to keep the villagers from revolting against the laird they hated. Of course, Macrath was also resented for not supporting the Jacobite rebellion.

  Fergus, despite his youth, had long been plotting to remove his half-brother and replace him as laird. He had always played Macrath well. He fed his ego, pretended to kowtow to his demands and drunken tempers—pretended to fear him which fed Macrath’s confidence. Macrath should have paid more attention, for Fergus had learned well from his older brother—too well.

  The ever-opportunistic William tried to warn his old friend, Macrath, that Fergus might be a danger to him. Apparently Macrath, so certain of his own power, felt Fergus could not be a viable threat at his tender age. If he had believed what William tried to tell him, he certainly would have had Fergus killed. That was a huge mistake on Macrath’s part.

  Fergus’s allies spent months at court spreading word, secretively and very, very cautiously, that Macrath had used them in regard to the prince’s efforts. Slowly and without alarm being raised to Macrath, word spread that it was indeed Fergus that had supported the Crown and that they had been used by Macrath.

  With the boy still in his teens, supported by allies gained at court and distant but influential family members, Fergus slipped a slow-working poison into Macrath’s whiskey during an evening in front of the fire in the Great Hall. While Macrath was still in the throes of the pain caused by the poison, Fergus dragged the screaming Laird to the castle courtyard.

  There, in front of all the villagers they could fit in the castle courtyard, he had Macrath disemboweled. Then, where everyone in the castle could watch, the body was burned. Thus was taught the lesson of what would happen to any who opposed the new Laird, Fergus McDonnough—disbanded clans or not!

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  Chapter 24: Alexandre’s Story

  Donnach, Scotland – July 1912

  “This castle has been the home of the McDonnough clan for well over two-hundred years. In the old days, there were many intrigues. You have probably read enough of our country’s history by now to realize that family ties could be as dangerous as they could be loving and strong. It just depended on the person’s temperament,” he grinned as he spoke.

  She noticed the broad smile had brought with it a dimple in his left cheek, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

  “Many years ago there were two brothers in love with the same girl, a sweet, young lassie named Caena. One was a young, romantic boy—a poet of sorts—a kind, loving soul from most accounts. The other was a mean-spirited, conniving man who would have killed the other for no less reason that just to watch him squirm.”

  From what she had already learned, Blair certainly thought this an apt description. Understanding much more than he realized, Blair sat listening to the story from a different perspective. As the servants continued to refresh their wine, bring in the varying courses, and remove the plates from the previous courses, Alexandre continued with the story.

  “Macrath, the mean-spirited cad, somehow won the girl. No doubt through some nefarious means.” Alexandre had been joking but he saw her face flush.

  “No doubt,” she agreed quietly.

  “Later Sòlas, the fair young poet, left Scotland never to be heard from again. It is said that various family members tried for years to find and kill him and his—thus guaranteeing that neither he nor any of his heirs would come forward to take over the estate once Macrath was dead.” He saw her shiver.

  “Mordag, Sòlas’s and Macrath’s father, married a young girl, Eleanor, who bore him another son, Fergus. That son turned out to be Macrath’s downfall. A black-hearted demon was young Fergus.”

  “The greedy Fergus McDonnough wanted everything for himself. When he was about sixteen, Fergus waited until the devil—Mahoun, so they called Macrath behind his back—had his back turned and then slipped poison into his whiskey. What they did to him next should not be discussed over dinner,” he said, smiling at her. “Unfortunately, that black-hearted demon was my many-times-over great-grandmother’s son. I am descended from Fergus.”

  When Blair sucked in her breathe, he smiled. “Yes, Rachel. We were a bloodthirsty bunch, we McDonnoughs.” Laughing at her expression, he continued with the story. “All of that was long, long ago! We are, I assure you, a much more peace-loving bunch these days.”

  Tonight was the first time she could remember him really laughing. It was a deep, rich laugh that lit up his entire face and went all the way to his eyes. And, damn him, it was very appealing.

  “Over the years there have been many attempts by some to locate any possible heirs from Sòlas’s line, but none have ever been found. If they exist,” he said, as he watched her face closely, “the estate would be entirely theirs.”

  As the last of the plates were taken away, she asked, “And how would you feel about that, Alexandre?” She found herself holding her breath.

  Ah, we’re back to the reserved Rac
hel now, he thought somewhat sadly. “Ah, lassie, that is something I am not likely to ever have to deal with. It has, after all, been two-hundred years.” He sighed, knowing that he would gladly relinquish it all to the rightful heir, and that no such person likely existed…unless…what if she really was a McDonnough? Damn it all, why didn’t she just tell him the truth!

  Sitting back in his chair, the story now over, he asked, “Did you enjoy your meal, Rachel?”

  “Yes, it was wonderful. Thank you. Thank you for the meal, and the story,” she responded, as she placed her napkin on the table. “I think I should go back to the hotel now, Alexandre. I am very tired.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll take you back. Let me have someone get the driver and car.” He started to rise from his chair.

  “No, really,” she answered, as he pulled out the heavy dining chair for her. “You must be tired too. It has been a long day. Please do not put yourself out. Just ask your driver to take me back to the inn.” She needed to get away from him—to think without him being so near.

  “If that’s what you want, Rachel,” he agreed, though he was disappointed. He had looked forward to the ride back with her, but he wasn’t going to push her.

  ***

  During the ride back to the village, she thought through the things he had told her. The stories were much the same as she had learned, and he confirmed that his ancestors had not been of the best character. Did that mean that he disagreed with their methods and was unlikely linked to the attempts on her life?

  If he was trying to have her killed, why did he take the cut himself instead of letting her die right there in Edinburgh? She wanted to believe that he was not aware of the plot against her—did not know who she was. She would have to sleep on this and figure out what to do next.

  ***

  While Blair returned to the village, Alexandre paced the walk. The wind was blowing his hair, clearing his head of her, of the scent of her perfume, of the confusion he had felt when she insisted on going back alone.

  He’d noticed that her hand shook as she held her wine flute during dinner. Surely she wasn’t afraid of him! Why would she fear him, unless she saw her plans coming apart at the seams?

  He didn’t want to believe it, found himself trying to talk himself out of believing it. Needing to work off his frustration, he went to his rooms and changed. Then he went into the field where he worked himself into a sweat with a small sword.

  Had it not been for the injury to his arm, he would have used his claymore. It was a bloody heavy weapon and made for great exercise. Even in France he used it to stay in good shape. The thing weighed a ton, he thought. He wished he could have wielded the heavier weapon to rid himself of the frustration of all the days and, yes, the nights he had fought his feelings for her. The sword just wasn’t getting the job done. He knew he would dream of her again tonight.

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  Chapter 25: The Village Gets an Earful

  Donnach – The Next Day

  As she sat in the café having breakfast after a bad night’s sleep, she looked up and there he was—striding down the road at a quick pace. He was all but snarling as he approached the café. Passersby were stepping aside to give him a wide berth. He was dressed in slacks, shirt, tie, and jacket today. No kilt. She thought it was too bad. He had cut quite a fine figure in his Scottish garb. Maybe, if she kept her face down, he would not see her. No, it was too late.

  As he passed the café, he spotted her sitting inside. She smiled, and he caught himself going in the door. Swallowing the anger—at what, he didn’t know—he approached her table.

  “Rachel! Good morning.” What was he doing? He was an adult who ran a huge corporation and yet he had lost all control when it came to her.

  “Alex, please join me,” she offered. Why, oh why, did she say that?

  “I’m on my way to the depot. I have business in Edinburgh this afternoon, but I can spare a few minutes.” He sat across from her, trying to remain distant. His temper was on a very fine edge after his workout followed by a sleepless night. He was also angry with himself for being here.

  He had been restless even as he rose from his pillow. Deciding that he needed to do something, he had chosen to go to Edinburgh personally rather than telephone his investigator. Now, here he was surrounded by the soft, faint scent of Blair…ah…Rachel. The frustration simply overwhelmed him.

  “Well, I hope you have a good trip,” regretting that she had invited him to sit. “You seem a little grim this morning, Alex. Is everything alright?”

  “Is everything alright? No, I don’t think it is…Blair.” He’d finally done it. He had just blurted it out and let her know he was onto her scheming. He sat back and watched her as she realized he had used her other name.

  “What?” she stammered.

  “Which is it—Rachel Wallace? Blair Delamare? And why the lies? Just what is it you are after?” He was wound up now and ready to unload, whether it was wise or not.

  The other patrons had all stopped eating to listen—discretely, of course. This, after all, was their new Laird, and they all took great interest in his affairs. They’d only read reports in newspapers until now. Most had not believed the outrageous stories. But now they could see him for themselves.

  “Just what little scam are you trying to run here? Did you hope to pass yourself off as a McDonnough? Whatever it was that you and the old man were up to, it’s over now! I’m on to you.”

  The tears flooded her eyes as soon as he mentioned Roddy. “You black-hearted beast, you!” she yelled back at him. “How dare you? Oh, I do not know why I put up with this as long as I have.”

  She rose from her chair, threw down her napkin as if challenging him to a duel. “You are so wrong about me—about poor Uncle Roddy. He was the dearest, kindest man who ever lived. He did not have a dishonest bone in his entire body. He was murdered by someone who is now trying to kill me! Is that your doing, Alex? If the money is all you are worried about…”

  In his fury, he interrupted her in French, “Je me fiche pas mal de l’argent! I don’t give a damn about the money!”

  “Maybe oui—maybe no! Using another name was supposed to keep me safe, but that has not worked so very well either. Are you so hateful that you have to murder women and old men to keep your pockets full of money? Are you more like Macrath and Fergus than you claim?”

  He sat there with his mouth open, waiting for his blood to come back into his head. The other patrons had gone absolutely silent as they watched their new Laird, to see what wrath he would throw at her. When he burst into laughter, they were uncertain whether to stay put or run for cover.

  “Oh, you…” she could not think of a name bad enough to call him, so she just shut up, stomped her foot, and tried to run out of the café.

  He grabbed her arm to stop her, and when she jerked it away from him, he almost whispered. The laughter gone from his face, “You thought I needed the money? Please, Blair…it is Blair, isn’t it?”

  “Oui,” was all she could say without bursting into tears—and she knew she was close—so she let it go at that one word.

  “Please, Blair. Forgive me. I’ve made a real mess of this. My logic just shatters when I’m near you. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk quietly and clear up all of this. I think we have a great many things to talk about.” He saw the pain on her face, he felt like the monster she thought him to be for putting it there. “Please? I promise to behave.”

  Damn his black-hearted soul, she thought. Why does he have to look so handsome standing there with his apology on his face? “Alright,” she agreed, as she tilted up her chin.

  He pulled her out the door. “Alex, where are we going?”

  “We’re going to take a train ride together,” he said, pulling her along.

  “To Edinburgh?” She was now running to keep up with him.

  “Yes, mon chéri, to Edinburgh.”

  Inside the restaurant, the patrons were all abuzz. If he was
as experienced with woman as his reputation said he was, surely he could have handled this tiny blonde better. It seemed to most of the onlookers that their Laird was unused to females and the tears that even they had seen in the girl’s eyes.

  It would be interesting to see how things turned out between these two. The villagers hadn’t seen this much excitement in years. The new Laird was providing a great deal of entertainment!

  ***

  In a private compartment, Alexandre started from the beginning. “Right after my father’s death, a distant cousin approached me with information about someone trying to pass herself off as a direct descendant of Caena and Sòlas.”

  “Me.” She said, so quietly he could barely hear her.

  “Oui. While they had yet to locate her…you…they felt they were getting very close. They asked me to be careful with anyone who approached me claiming to be an heir.”

  “My father died in March,” he said, as the sadness swamped him once again.

  “Just before…Roddy,” she said, quietly.

  “Oui.” He reached for her hand and held it while he continued. “They came back to me to tell me they had found you and a man claiming to be your uncle, living in Paris. By the time I was able to get away and I arrived in Paris, your uncle had died and was being buried.” He watched her eyes fill with tears again and squeezed her hand.

  “I went to his funeral to get a look at this vixen who was trying to pawn herself off as an heir.” When her hand jerked in his, he just held on, and smiled at her.

  “I’m so sorry this is upsetting you, Blair,” he found himself desperate to soothe her.

  “Go on. I need to hear it all,” she urged him.

  “While I quite liked the look of you,” he said, again squeezing her hand, “I knew I had to be very careful. Fortune hunters can cause no end of legal battles and expense, as you can imagine. I was determined to avoid getting involved in such a scam. I hired an investigator in Edinburgh to check into you a few weeks ago.”

  “You did what?” The color was rising in her cheeks again.