by Anita Mills
Fiona’s smile was bittersweet, and she nodded. “A MacLean, then. Welcome, Lily, to Blackburn Keep.”
“Let’s do sit.” Hugh escorted them to a pair of benches near the fountain, the setting for the painting of Fiona and Hugh that Lily had seen inside. Their affection for each other was genuine, and familiar, as if they were old friends as well as siblings.
When they were seated, Hugh leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his hat in his hands. “Lily and I met because of the flowers. She swears there’s a grave on Arran where someone planted one of your roses.”
Hugh related the story of Lily’s long mission to retrieve the roses and put them on the grave. Like a compass needle swaying north, Fiona’s attention kept returning to Lily. When he’d finished, Fiona said, “How old are you, Lily?”
“Two and twenty.”
Lightly, Hugh said, “’Tis a coincidence that I delivered your roses on her birthday all these years, is it not, Fiona? You’ve always been adamant about the day.”
Fiona’s mouth tightened and her eyes grew luminous with tears. Tiny lines framed her mouth, but she did not look her age, Lily thought. She looked heartsore and long suffering, as Grandpapa would have said.
Eager for an answer, Lily also leaned forward. “Who is buried in the grave?”
Covering her mouth with a graceful hand, Fiona shook her head. “I can—I cannot say just yet. Tell me, Lily, has your father wed since your mother’s death?”
“Nay. He told me that he loved her well and would claim only her in heaven.”
Fiona made a choking sound.
Hugh grew alarmed and knelt at his sister’s feet. “Come, I’ll take you inside. We can talk later.”
“Nay.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her gardening apron and wiped her eyes. “The truth must out now.”
Still, she watched Lily, who anticipated her long-awaited answer.
“When I was six and ten, the Hamiltons raided our Ardrossan home. I was taken hostage.”
Lily’s heart went out to her, for she suspected that the people of her clan had not treated this woman kindly. Yet Fiona did not seem especially sad, now that she’d begun to speak.
Sighing, Hugh’s sister stared at the wall of roses. “I thought I would be ransomed right away, but I was not. Months passed, and rumors spread that the clans were yet again rallying behind our king, who was exiled at the time. Oliver Cromwell ruled our land. I thought the royalist cause was the reason my father had not bought my release.
“I came to know your father well.” Again her tear-filled gaze strayed to Lily. “He was barely twenty at the time, and not at all pigeon-faced or angry, as they style him now.”
Hugh stiffened. Lily’s stomach grew queasy.
Her eyes closed, Fiona rubbed her temple. “As many other Scots, the Hamiltons were hiding a Catholic priest at the time.” She looked up. “In November of fifty-seven, in a secret ceremony, I married your father, Lily. The next May I gave birth to you.”
“Nay!” Hugh sprang from the bench and clutched his sister’s shoulders. “Sweet God in heaven, nay. Say it isn’t so, Fiona.”
Her uncle. Lily’s head spun. Hugh was her uncle. They had committed the blackest of all sins: incest. She shivered with revulsion and hugged her stomach to keep from shaming herself.
Tears spilled down Fiona’s cheeks. “There’s more, Hugh.”
“More?” His shock-filled expression must have mirrored Lily’s own. Releasing his sister, he paced the pebbled path, never looking at Lily. Too ashamed, she knew.
“Please hear me out,” said Fiona. “Lily was but three months old when my clan raided the Hamiltons. Your father and I thought that perhaps we could bring peace between our families. But when the MacDonnels stormed Hamilton Castle, your father bade me take you up to the mountain and hide in the woods. Unfortunately my father and his men saw me running away and gave chase.
“I made it as far as the high glen.” Her voice dropped. “I had not fully recovered from the birth, and you were a healthy, fat babe. And the bonniest child in the world.”
Her mother. Through a haze of guilt, Lily understood what else Fiona was saying. She was Lily’s mother. “Why did you leave me there?” She couldn’t say the word “mother.”
Fiona’s tears now streamed down her face. “I was weak from running. One of my uncles carried me, another carried you, but we were put upon by Hamiltons and separated. Later they told me there was an accident. They said you died there and swore they buried you in the high glen.”
Lily felt hollow inside. In the same breath, she had gained a mother and lost the man she loved. Hugh still paced, his body rigid with anger and heaven knew what other torments.
“After I returned to Ardrossan,” Fiona said, “I paid a man to go to Arran and find your grave. When he told me of the cairn there, exactly where my kinsmen swore they buried you, I sent him back with the roses.” Fiona stood and held out her arms. “Oh, my darling Lily, you’ve been tending your own grave all these years.”
Better she were in it, Lily thought morosely. Her only consolation stemmed from the knowledge that she would never have to visit the grave again or worry over the roses. She would never go to the Virginia Colony, either. She glanced at Hugh, and found him looking at her, his eyes filled with misery.
Sobs choked her. If she ever needed a mother, Lily decided, it was now. She rose, and on shaky legs, stepped into Fiona’s embrace. Loving hands soothed her, rubbing her back, and a mother’s voice whispered endearments Lily never thought to hear.
At the sound of retreating footsteps, Fiona held Lily tighter. “Don’t go, Hugh,” she called out. “There’s no reason to walk away.”
The garden was silent, save the chirping of birds and the bubbling of the fountain. Who would comfort Hugh?
“I’ve every reason to walk straight to hell, Fiona. I love Lily. I have loved her.”
Against Lily’s cheek, she felt Fiona smile. “Then look past that Stewart nose of yours and grasp the truth.”
“You talk nonsense.”
She gripped Lily’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Fret not, my dear. All will be well.”
Into the emptiness of Lily’s soul poured a mother’s love. Staring into Fiona’s face, she understood why the painting had seemed so familiar, and she now knew why she did not favor her clan. But resemblances mattered not.
“Nothing can be well, for Hugh and I have—” Lily couldn’t voice the horror of her sin.
Fiona lifted her brows in query. “You have anticipated your wedding vows?”
“God, Fiona,” Hugh cursed. “Must you torment her so?”
Moving to Lily’s side, Fiona held out her free hand to Hugh. “You are not my brother, and if you but think on it, you will see the truth.”
He had crushed his hat, Lily noticed. The brim was curled and ragged from the force of his anger, and the exotic plume lay in shreds. Now, hope moved him toward them. “I will see what truth, Fiona? Do not cloak what you have to say. Tell it to me straight out.”
“I did, Hugh. But you were not listening. Better I show you. Here, take Lily’s hand. She needs your comfort, and I won’t be long.”
Her gaze still fixed on his hat, Lily watched him move close. Through a cloud of confusion, she saw her hand being placed in his. His skin was cold, as cold as her own.
Skirts flying, Fiona raced into the castle. The moment she disappeared through the door, Hugh dropped Lily’s hand.
“She’s your mother,” he said without emotion. “I should have noticed. I think I did…see the resemblance…when I first met you. But nothing came of it, of course. I was consumed with—oh, God, Lily, I’m sorry.”
She felt like a pillar of salt.
“Say something, Lily. Please. I’ll go mad do you not.”
Insecurity didn’t suit Hugh MacDonnel. MacDonnel. The man she loved. “Fiona says you are not her brother.”
“Pray God she speaks the truth.”
; Weakened, Lily leaned against him. He started, then wrapped an arm around her. She breathed in his clean, familiar scent, and wanted to embrace him but thought better of it. They would first hear what Fiona had to say.
When she returned, Fiona carried a large gilt frame, the subject of the work hidden. On the back of the painting, Lily saw spider webs and frayed edges of the canvas.
“Here.” As excited as a girl, Fiona put the painting on one of the benches and turned it around.
It was a likeness of the king, Charles II. Captured in his voluminous Garter robes of royal blue velvet and white taffeta, the cross of St. George emblazoned at his left shoulder, the handsome Stewart monarch wore a mustache and a full wig of jet black curls.
“Well?” Fiona said.
The king’s eyes and the slender, yet elegant nose caught Lily’s attention. She looked at Hugh, who was frowning. On the king, that same look bespoke power and privilege.
“You do look like him, Hugh,” she said.
“But not enough to declare him my father.”
Most people would rejoice to claim such a relation. Only Hugh would think twice about affirming a monarch for his sire.
“You’re certainly arrogant enough,” Lily murmured. “And I seem to remember saying how handsome you look in a wig.”
He scowled at her, but she knew his displeasure was feigned. His color was returning and his hands no longer worried the brim of his hat.
“Don’t you see?” Fiona said. “You were his firstborn. He fled to the continent in 1651 to escape Cromwell. ’Twas the year after you were born. Your mother was dead. At the king’s request, my father took you in and, for your safety, raised you as his own.”
“I’m illegitimate?” he said, sounding as if it were a curse.
Like a gale wind, relief swept over Lily. She looked at her mother, who was trying not to laugh. She stared at the elegantly handsome man in the portrait. The humor of it struck her. Gazing up at the man she loved, she said, “You’re angry?”
He bristled, looking very kingly. “I’m a bloody royal bastard!”
Lily hugged him. “Praise God and his angels that you are.”
Into the trees, he shouted, “I’m a bloody royal bastard!” A family of nightjars took flight. Hugh’s heart followed suit, and he swept up his darling Lily and squeezed her until she protested.
She was not his niece. Looking down into her lovely face, he said, “You will bear my children.”
“Aye.” Shyly, she added, “God willing.”
Hugh intended to praise God every day for the rest of his life. “You’ll go home with me to Virginia.”
“Aye.”
“We’ll build a life together.”
“Aye. But—”
As Hugh watched, she saddened. “What is it, my love?”
“What of Fiona?”
Offhandedly, he said, “She’ll come with us, of course.”
“You needn’t speak about me as if I’m elsewhere or incapable of governing myself.”
“My father thinks you’re dead, Fiona,” Lily admitted.
The damned Hamiltons, Hugh thought. “Your father is a bloody—”
“Be silent, Hugh!” Fiona commanded. “I’ll not have you disparage him to me. ’Tis why I left the MacDonnels and came here to live.”
“I’ll curse him as I may, Fiona. He’s a damned Hamilton—sorry, Lily.”
But Fiona wasn’t done. “Be that as it may, I loved him, and no matter what you or my father say, I will always love Edward Hamilton.”
Hugh hadn’t considered this turn of events; he’d been too caught up in his own near catastrophy. “Lily, did you say your father hadn’t wed?”
“Nay, he chose not to take a second wife.”
Turning his attention to Fiona, Hugh saw her grow sad again. “Will you have him back as your husband, Fiona?”
She stared at her hands, which were knotted together. “I doubt he’ll have me. I’ve passed my prime.”
Hugh felt her pain and knew he had to end it. “You’re as bonny as a day in May, and as your future son-in-law, ’tis my responsibility to see to your welfare.”
Lily poked him in the ribs. “What mischief are you about, Hugh?”
Striving for innocence, he said, “No mischief. I’ll simply send a message to your father asking him if he wants his woman back.”
Fiona brightened. “But you won’t tell him which woman.”
Feeling happier than a lark in spring, Hugh resisted the urge to shout. “A clever ploy, if I do say so myself.”
To his surprise, Lily said, “Then you’d better ask your father to send his army to keep the peace.”
A fortnight later, Lily paced the floor of the common room of Blackburn Keep. Hugh was attending yet another meeting with the dukes of Ross and Argyll. After sending three messages to Edward Hamilton and receiving back three condemnations to hell, Hugh had written to his father. By royal summons, the two peers of the realm, Ross and Argyll, had come to negotiate between the Hamiltons and the MacDonnels.
Lachlan MacDonnel, Fiona’s father, the man who had raised Hugh, had come at her bidding. Upon arrival, he confirmed her story, and in his blustery manner, confessed that he loved Hugh as his own. When introduced to Lily, the chieftain of the MacDonnels had flown into a rage. Fiona had shown her mettle by stepping between them, dirk in hand, and breaking up the ruckus.
By order of the king, a man-of-war was anchored in Wigtown Bay, ready to defend the port should the Hamiltons disobey his direct command and attack by water. A full complement of armed Stewart clansmen had also been sent to Blackburn Keep and now surrounded the estate, should Lily’s father attack by land.
She pitied him, for he did not know that Fiona lived, and Hugh refused to tell him. “Let him be as surprised as I was. He deserves the shock,” Hugh had said in defense of his omission.
Now, Lily waited to learn the details of her father’s latest communique.
A door opened, and the sound of male voices drifted from the hall. Lily relaxed, for the men were not arguing. She turned and saw Hugh and Fiona enter the common room. He looked happy. Fiona looked like she had swallowed a frog in mixed company.
“What’s happened?” Lily asked.
Hugh kissed her cheek. “Your father’s ship just entered the bay. The dukes have gone to meet him.”
Small wonder Fiona was nervous. To distract her, Lily said, “Perhaps you should wear the pink silk, Mother.”
She threw up her hands and left the room, saying, “I knew this yellow linen was all wrong. I look sallow in the face and as old as Methuselah’s dog.”
“You’re cruel, sweetheart.”
“Quite the contrary. I gave her something to do, save worry over my father’s arrival. What do you think he’ll do?”
“Past demanding I return you, I cannot say.” His arms surrounded her. “I do suspect we’ll see a bit of Hamilton ire.”
“A bit” turned out to be an understatement, for the moment Edward Hamilton saw his daughter on the arm of Hugh MacDonnel, his face turned as red as the stripes in his tartan plaid.
“What have you done, lass?”
Although her stomach did somersaults, Lily stood her ground. “I’ve fallen in love, Father. Hugh has done me the honor of asking me to marry him, and I have accepted.”
Her father went for his dirk. It took the pair of dukes to hold him at bay. “You cannot, Lily.” When she refused to budge, he blustered, “For the love of God, Lily. Hugh MacDonnel is your uncle.”
His abhorrence was expected, but Lily was prepared. “No, Papa. He is not. My mother told me so.”
His eyes grew dim with sorrow. “Your mother is dead, God rest her soul. These people have tricked you.”
“I’m not Hugh’s sire,” Lachlan MacDonnel declared.
Her father looked to the dukes for confirmation.
“He speaks true,” said His Grace of Ross, stepping away.
His Grace of Argyll also relinquished his hold on Edward.
“Hugh’s the king’s get. ’Tis why that man-o’-war sits in the harbor.”
Scanning the face of every man in the room, her father relaxed. He’d always been stern and distant, but Lily now understood that a broken heart had made him so.
“I’ll not argue when the banns are read,” he conceded. “But you had no right to tell my Lily that her mother lives.”
The room had gone unnaturally quiet, for everyone except her father knew the truth. Suddenly calm, Lily reached for the door handle. “You are speaking of Fiona Margaret MacDonnel. You named me for her.”
Squaring his shoulders, Edward looked Lachlan MacDonnel in the eye. “Aye, and a bonny lass my Fiona was.”
The MacDonnel chieftain rocked back on his heels and glanced at the ceiling, at his hands, and at the mirrors on the wall—everywhere except at Edward Hamilton.
“Then we have a surprise for you, Father.” Lily opened the door, and the expression on her father’s face brought tears to her eyes. Edward the Angry, the notorious warlord of the Hamiltons, stood frozen, his mouth slack, his weathered complexion as white as his fancy silk neck cloth.
Fiona stepped cautiously into the room. “Hello, Edward.”
Lachlan MacDonnel threw back his head and laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day when a Hamilton had nothing to say to a MacDonnel.”
“Lily has changed all of that,” Hugh said, drawing her to his side.
Arm in arm, they watched Edward Hamilton approach the wife he thought long dead. The embrace that followed was lengthy and punctuated with whispered words and heartfelt sighs. Edward cupped Fiona’s cheeks in his hands and drank in the sight of her. In response, she blossomed like a maiden with her first beau.
Hugh interrupted the reunion. “I believe a toast is in order.”
Just as the wine was poured and glasses raised, a signal horn blared.
“Hamilton, what wickedness have you brought?” demanded Lachlan MacDonnel. Although stern, his voice held no rancor.
Her father shot to his feet, but did not reach for a weapon. “Me? I wasn’t allowed to bring so much as a servant to shine my boots.”