Chapter 22
Alasdair managed to keep his slack jaw from smacking his knees.
Only just.
Lydia’s tiny, shocked gasp seared his heart, like a dagger’s, poisoned, piercing tip.
“Bloody, God-damned hell.”
Had he said that aloud?
What did it matter?
Alasdair couldn’t begin to imagine what she felt at this moment, and that she didn’t rail her outrage spoke of her self-control or complete devastation.
Perchance both.
The laird must be made to change his will once more, must declare Lydia the chief.
Alasdair shook his head to clear his name echoing in his ears, then faced her. Words that, Alasdair didn’t doubt for an instant, had rendered her a mortal wound.
Could Farnsworth have truly underestimated or disregarded her ability to rule?
Stone-still, as if carved from marble, she stared at her father, her lips slightly parted in bewildered accusation. Every ounce of color had drained from her exquisite, oval face, now alabaster white.
But it was her eyes that brought the scorching, damp sting behind Alasdair’s lids.
The betrayal and hurt radiating from her beautiful, wounded eyes, darkened to the deepest treacle from unimaginable pain—as if her very soul had been sucked from her by her father’s joyfully, callously uttered words.
Laird Farnsworth loved Lydia, his affection transparent and sincere. Why strike her so vicious a blow?
If you loved someone, you didn’t deliberately hurt them.
He felt Farnsworth’s keen perusal rake over him. Watchful and expectant.
By God, Alasdair hadn’t anticipated Farnsworth’s deception, and Lydia clearly hadn’t either.
How gut-wrenchingly unfair.
And damned cruel too, even if her father hadn’t intended it should be. The old, conniving coot had obviously plotted this for some time, and Alasdair had unknowingly assisted.
Perhaps changing the contest terms had forced his hand, or his increasingly failing health had precluded delaying any longer. Or maybe, asking Alasdair to train Tornbury’s men had been a test of merit, but whatever Farnsworth’s reasoning, he’d made a grievous miscalculation.
Under no circumstances would Alasdair accept the appointment.
He would never, as long as his heart pumped blood, deliberately, through actions or words, hurt Lydia.
Farnsworth simply couldn’t name him laird, and not only because a chance existed that Alasdair’s divorce might be denied.
He’d sooner rip out his heart with a salt spoon than steal Lydia’s rightful position. Whether Farnsworth realized it, or even cared, he’d jammed a large, immovable—perhaps unforgiveable and permanent—wedge between himself and his daughter.
A man soon facing death oughtn’t to have taken such a risk. He might die before she forgave him.
If she ever did.
Alasdair folded Lydia’s icy fingers in his, desperate to comfort her, to reassure her they’d wade through this mire together.
The old laird could make of that what he wanted, but instead of objecting, the crusty curmudgeon beamed wider. Then winked.
“Aye, she be a verra bonnie lass. Me most precious possession. I’ve seen the way ye look at her, Alasdair, heard the admiration in yer voice when ye speak of her.” Farnsworth bathed Lydia with a doting gaze. “Yer to have another wish granted, me boy.”
Emotion riddled his gravelly voice, and he veered his watery eyes in Lydia’s direction, but she dropped her gaze, now snapping with scornful anger, to her lap and firmly withdrew her hand from Alasdair’s.
“Another wish? Well, isn’t that interesting? Tell me, exactly how much of Da’s plotting were you privy to?” Hard and brittle, her voice crackled like old, sun-dried leather.
“Ye canna believe I planned this with yer father?” On the heels of his half-arsed proposal yesterday, it did rather look suspicious.
“Didn’t you?” Her unrelenting gaze bore into Alasdair, demanding truth.
She’d not give a jot, no mercy. No quarter. No reprieve.
God’s toes, Farnsworth had skillfully and strategically maneuvered him into a corner.
They’d discussed Lydia’s position, yes.
Several times in fact.
But no mention, not even the merest hint, had ever been voiced that Farnsworth considered Alasdair a candidate for chief.
Or her husband for that matter.
At least, not directly.
Farnsworth had asked what attributes Alasdair thought the new laird should possess and what characteristics and habits ought to be avoided. He’d asked the same about a husband for Lydia.
Damnation take it, had Alasdair subconsciously made himself seem the ideal candidate?
Because he wanted Lydia?
At any cost?
Nae.
True, he longed to marry her, more than anything, but not like this. Not forced. And, by God, not as the man who’d unintentionally stolen her rightful position.
Ironic that last night he and Lydia had eagerly intended to broach the subject of marriage between them with her father. And today under these circumstances, surely as soot was black, she found the notion abhorrent.
Head angled regally, she poked his shoulder. “You haven’t answered me, Alasdair. Did you ever have even a single discussion with my father that included the subject of my marriage or status as successor?”
“Liddie lass, leave off yer harpin’. The lad’s done nothin’ but worry about yer welfare since he arrived. And of course we had those discussions. Many times. Toward that end, and because I mean to see ye married before I die, yer to wed McTavish within the week.” He paused, wheezing, after the lengthy monologue. “Ye’ll be the grand lady of Tornbury Fortress—”
Her high-pitched laugh bordered on hysterical before she clapped a hand over her mouth and presented her profile, her posture stiff and fragile.
After an extended moment, she lowered her hand. Her eyes spitting righteous fire, she met Alasdair’s gaze before gravitating to her father’s.
“Nae.”
One syllable. Final. Unnegotiable.
And cold as death.
“Aye, ye will daughter, because it be what be best fer the clan. And ye.” A flinty gleam entered Farnsworth’s eyes, and he thrust his chin out, waggling a gnarly finger at them. “And if either of ye be thinkin’ of objectin’ or refusin’ to comply, ye should ken, I’ve made a provision to deed Tornbury Fortress to Ewan McTavish if ye dinna marry.”
The last words came out strangled and forced as a fit of coughing overcame him. He gave her a woeful look, his expression pitiable. Rather like the urchins roaming Edinburg’s streets before they picked one’s pockets clean.
Did Farnsworth hope to prevail upon her sympathy or daughterly devotion? Something, Alasdair presumed he’d done in the past with a degree of success.
Rather than respond to his blatant ploy, she lifted her pert nose in scorn. “I’m surprised you don’t just post an advert and sell the estate and position to the highest bidder. Me, too for that matter.”
Winded, Farnsworth slumped into his chair, his previous frailty enshrouding him. Defeat tinged his weary words. “I’ll see me tribe protected from the likes of the Blackhalls, MacHardys, and that craven, murderous nephew of yer mother’s, even if it means forfeitin’ the laird’s position to McTavish.”
Alasdair crossed his arms. The wily old bastart.
He’d figured out what Ross had been up to, and Farnsworth had manipulated Lydia and Alasdair. Knew that neither would permit Tornbury Fortress’s or the lairdship’s sacrifice.
Ingenious actually, except for one, small irrevocable detail known only to a half dozen people besides Lydia.
For all his clever scheming, Farnsworth’s plan would fail.
“Yes, and you don’t believe a mere woman, even your own daughter, capable of doing the same?” Dismay warred with outrage in Lydia’s eyes before shifting into defeated resignation.
Tight-lipped, probably to keep the stream of oaths that must be competing for release from exploding forth, she clasped her hands, the knuckles white, and pulled in a ragged breath. “You don’t intend to answer, do you?”
Mouth pulled into a thin line, his blue eyes sharp, yet infinitely weary, Farnsworth’s half-cocked reddish eyebrow gave him away.
It had cost him greatly to hurt her, and in his misconception that a woman couldn’t lead as well as a man, he’d alienated her. In fact, Alasdair would wager his sword, she was more put upon for the reason Farnsworth passed her over, than his failure to name her his successor.
Women had been dealt a piss-poor lot in life.
If she were his wife, he’d treat her as his equal, not as chattel or a possession.
Lydia’s rigid posture and carefully controlled breaths revealed just how distressing she found this situation.
So why hadn’t she exposed Alasdair’s marital state yet? He’d give her that small victory. At the moment, she deserved a triumph.
For certain her father would change his will in her favor. He had no recourse if he wanted to see her married and to assure the land and position remained with a Farnsworth descendent.
Change his will the seventh time in a year.
Surely that set a record of some sort.
If the situation were not so bloody distasteful, Alasdair would laugh.
“Well, know this, Da. In mere days, I’m of age, and I’ll marry whom I want, when I want. That is, if and when I decide to marry at all. After this, I owe you no allegiance. Mr. McTavish can rule Tornbury alone, for I intend to leave.”
“Nae, ye canna.” In disbelief, Alasdair swung to face her.
She snorted, flicking her fingers in his face. “Indeed, I can. And I shall.”
She mustn’t.
This was her home. The only one she’d ever known. The place was in her blood. Unlike him, away from Scotland, she’d wither and dry up.
Hell, he might too for that matter. Of late, the reckless notion of trotting off to warmer climes didn’t appeal at all. If she wasn’t with him.
Time to set things aright.
If Lydia wouldn’t, Alasdair would. He planted his palms on his knees. “Respectfully, Sir, I can—”
“Sir, Mr. Gwyers has arrived.” McGibbons stood at the threshold. “Should I show him up or would you prefer the drawing room or study?”
Given his pallor, Farnsworth didn’t have the energy to go below. He craned his neck to see around the chair’s high back.
“Aye, up here will do.” He’d never make it below, unless carried. “And ask Cook fer a tea tray too with danties. Gwyers always be hungry.”
Lydia stood, her face a polite, bland mask. “If you’ll excuse me. My presence isn’t required any longer, and I’ve a picnic planned with Esme.”
She still hadn’t refuted her father’s directive, hadn’t exposed Alasdair’s marriage. They’d planned on telling Farnsworth that very thing last night.
Why the hesitation now? What had changed?
Alasdair slid Farnsworth a covert glance.
He’d an entirely too satisfied expression on his colorless face, and exhaustion lined the sagging folds.
This trip to the solar had cost him much, and he’d pay heavily for the over-exertion.
Did worry for his health mute her?
Lydia marched to the door, her boots clacking on the stone floor between the scattered area rugs. She shot Alasdair and Farnsworth one final accusatory glance before sweeping from the room.
Bernard stood and after yawning and arching his back, hopped gracefully to the floor. Tail in the air, he delivered what could only be described as a frosty feline glare before he presented his rear and pranced from the room.
Even the bloody cat sided with Lydia.
Alasdair needed to speak with her, but not now. He’d give her time to digest this conundrum, to calm a jot so he could explain.
Ancient Mr. Gwyers gave a thin smile as he tottered into the solar, a worn, brown leather satchel tucked beneath his elbow.
At least Alasdair presumed the almost imperceptible upward curve of his almost non-existent lips was meant to be a smile. His demeanor and attire more suited an undertaker.
Gwyers bent into a brief, stiff bow and Alasdair could almost hear the old fellow’s bones creaking and cracking as he slowly straightened. The man was seventy if he was a day. Wonder he hadn’t retired to a comfortable seaside cottage by now.
Farnsworth made cursory introductions, seeming weaker by the minute. Had his sojourn from his bed simply been for show?
Shuffling to the chair beside Farnsworth’s, Gwyers scrutinized Alasdair and sniffed loftily. “Yer to be the new laird, then?”
Chapter 23
Giving vent to her battered emotions, Lydia strode along the corridor then ran down to the ground floor. Rather than collect her lunch or find Esme, she escaped the house through a seldom used side door.
She needed to be alone, Da and Alasdair’s treachery having shattered her to the core. And anger, scorching and wrenching, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, bubbled in her veins, shrieked banshee loud in her mind, drove her hurried, stamping steps onward.
How could Da?
God, how she wanted to smash and break something, to scream the oaths thrumming behind her teeth at the injustice.
It didn’t matter that she understood Da’s reasoning. That he thought his actions best for her and the clan. That he’d weighed his options, took the risk of alienating her to do what he was convinced was all-around best in the end.
Because, despite all of his preparing her, his many assurances that she’d be laird, he had, in the end, found her wanting.
Found her gender unworthy.
Unfit for such a lofty status.
And as awful a blow as Da’s disloyalty was, Alasdair’s part in the muddle . . . Well, how could she believe anything he’d said?
She didn’t want to consider he’d do something nefarious, or that he’d plotted and conspired his way into Da’s good graces.
The man she knew at Craiglocky, had come to know so much more these past weeks, wouldn’t have done something so calculating and underhanded. That man was honorable and trustworthy; a man of his word with unimpeachable character.
Which brought her ’round to the question she’d asked before.
Who was the real Alasdair McTavish?
This doublemindedness would drive her mad, as her emotions warred with logic against the evidence she’d seen and heard.
Skirting the mansion, she rapidly made her way to the oak copse, intent on the river beyond. The crystal blue sky, only disrupted by an occasional cottony cloud, hinted at spring’s early, but most welcome, arrival after an unusually harsh winter.
Overhead, birds tweeted and chirped, while in the distance, the Galanock’s soothing waters burbled and beckoned. The river still ran rapid and high, but nowhere near winter’s peak runoff.
Lifting her skirts, she ducked her head and increased her pace. Would that she could simply disappear, at least for a time.
At his first opportunity, likely the instant he escaped Da, Alasdair would pursue her, and she wasn’t ready to speak with him. She needed time to process this life-altering turn of events. Decide her wisest course of action, which didn’t include marrying him any longer.
Her vision blurred as a torrent of tears gushed onto her face. She hadn’t cried in a good while, not since Mum died, actually, but today her tears couldn’t be stayed. Sobs welle
d in her chest, escaping in noisy, raspy, wholly unladylike gasps.
Betrayed again.
Only this pain made what she’d endured with Flynn seem a mere knee scrape or a stubbed toe.
Of course, she’d leave Tornbury.
Most probably, she would accompany Esme to America, far sooner than dear Esme had anticipated, to be sure.
Lydia could act as her cousin’s companion. She’d be her ruddy housekeeper or laundress if it meant fleeing Scotland upon Da’s death.
More on point, putting distance between her and Tornbury’s newest laird.
A body could only endure so much, and she’d already been served more than her portion in her short life.
If she possessed a vengeful spirit, she’d have exposed Alasdair—his marital state—right then and there. Nevertheless, as furious as Da had made her, she feared the shock would kill him where he slouched. Still, if Da had cast her to the street or announced she was a gypsy orphan, she would’ve been less surprised than him naming Alasdair laird.
Now, knowing she wasn’t his choice, she could never—would never—assume the chief’s position, Alasdair had better accept the assignment. She’d never coveted the rank like Uncle Gordon had. Pleasing her father and honoring her brothers’ memories had motivated her.
Not anymore.
Wouldn’t Uncle Gordon have a conniption fit if he knew she had been passed over as well? The issue of whether he’d been inside Tornbury had yet to be solved too. Surely, if anyone knew whether he had, Jinnah did.
Suspicion tapped constantly. Had Gordon anything to do with the numerous accidents and deaths plaguing Tornbury’s residents?
Swiping the tears from her face, Lydia darted along the narrow, often trod path through the glen to the riverbank. A ledge, carved long ago when the water’s path had run higher, balanced above the gravelly shore.
Many an hour she’d spent secreted there over the years, especially when upset or wanting to escape her brothers’ good-natured, but frequent teasing.
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