“So,” she declared when a clansman brought their horses to the dock. “’Tis settled that we’ll meet here again on the morrow, in the afternoon.” Phrasing the words as a statement rather than a question would prompt Seth to agree and make it easier for Marshall to do so as well.
“Aye,” her brother said, shaking hands with Marshall who then came to assist her to mount as she put a foot in the stirrup and grasped the pommel.
“I look forward to it,” he rasped, his hands on her hips. She missed the warmth seeping into her body when he boosted her into the saddle then stepped back.
She looked into his eyes. “How long before the expedition returns from Scandinavia?” she asked reluctantly.
“Two, maybe three weeks,” he replied with a shrug.
Not long enough.
Leaning towards him and confident Seth was out of hearing, she murmured, “Then I relish the prospect of at least a fortnight of thrilling adventure.”
“Aye,” Marshall replied softly, though there was a hint of regret in his eyes that echoed in her heart.
Equally reluctant to leave, Bo whined as she set off behind her brother. On the way home, she decided to concentrate on Seth’s proposal. The first step in finding male clothing to fit her would be to speak to the resourceful Katie.
*
Teagan and her brother crested the hill and rode out of sight.
“Nay so bad, them MacCrays,” a member of Marshall’s skeleton crew stationed in Wick observed from nearby.
He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Away, there’s work to be done on the sails. I noticed a few tears.”
“Aye,” came the reply.
He and three clansmen spent two hours hauling the heavy sail onto the dock and completing repairs. It took another hour to reattach the rigging. MacCray clansmen working further down the dock on their clan’s birlinns shouted a few jocular remarks about the quality of their work, but there was no malice in the jibes. They laughed and jeered when the Robson men hurled back the insults.
Satisfied with the job and confident he’d be too exhausted to do anything but sleep when he arrived home, he set off for Castle Robson.
“I’m fooling myself,” he admitted to Beau when his home came in sight. “She’ll haunt my dreams as weel.”
Aunty Moira was leaving the dining hall when he entered in search of a quick meal.
“Did ye read yer da’s journal, Romeo?” she asked.
Irritated the woman couldn’t seem to stop harping on about it, he shook his head. “On the morrow, perhaps. And my name is Marshall.”
“Pish. Ye think I dinna ken yer name? I’m nay that daft. Read it,” she insisted before flouncing off.
He wolfed down the fish broth and fresh bread a maidservant brought him, perturbed by a glimpse of worry in his aunt’s eyes. “There’s a reason she’s so adamant I read my father’s entries,” he mused, “but, for the life of me, I canna guess what it is.”
An hour later, after a bath that would have been soothing had he not worked himself up dreaming of sharing it with Teagan, he sought his bed. He resolved to search out his father’s journal on the morrow, after he’d been up to the battlements.
*
A Son of My Blood
Upon returning home from Wick, Teagan summoned Katie and confided everything about the adventure. The lass might be young, but she’d keep Teagan’s secret. “I ken ’tisna proper, but I dinna care. Marshall and I have just a fortnight to enjoy each other’s company. And he’s teaching me all about sailing.”
Katie squealed with delight but when Teagan asked about male attire, her bottom lip quivered.
“I’m sorry. ’Twas thoughtless of me to expect ye’d want to part with yer brothers’ belongings.”
Katie sniffled. “Aye, some things are precious and I’d ne’er part with them. But clothes dinna have any importance. I think there’s one or two things of wee Jamie’s in our cottage that might fit ye. I’ll fetch them on the morrow.”
“I hadna realized the cottage was still empty,” Teagan said. “Ye have yer own chamber in the castle.”
“Aye. And I’m grateful. Too many ghosts, ye ken. But Laird Beathan let it be kent ’twas to remain untenanted until I was ready to let it go. And he has waived the rent.”
This was a compassionate side of her eldest brother Teagan hadn’t known about. She was grateful, too, that Seth made no mention of the afternoon’s activities during the evening meal. She sought her bed early but spent most of the night tossing and turning, dreaming of meeting Marshall again—this time, dressed in boy’s clothing. He’d be surprised. Pleasantly, she hoped.
Awake before dawn, she rushed to the door when Katie tapped, pleased to see her maid laden down with garments. They spent an hour togging Teagan out in various articles of clothing, finally settling on a pair of woolen trews held up by braces and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. “I’ll wear my riding boots, and tuck in the trews,” she declared, pleased with her appearance in the mirror. “The jacket of my riding habit will finish off the outfit nicely.”
Bo sniffed the borrowed clothing suspiciously.
Clad once more in her riding attire, she repaired to the hall to break her fast. None of her brothers appeared until she had almost finished her oatmeal, which was a boon. She was sure excitement about the upcoming afternoon’s tryst was written all over her face and they’d be certain to tease. Seth might jump to her defense and reveal the secret. No one said anything when she left for her usual morning ride.
Elated when Marshall once again waved as she rode along the cliffs, she shouted to the winds, “Until this afternoon.”
Upon returning to the castle, she hied back to her chamber to change and await Janie Tailor. Master Halkirk had been informed she wouldn’t be attending lessons because of the appointment with the seamstress.
Bo skulked out of the chamber, tail between his legs when Janie arrived right on time and gave him the evil eye. Her arms were laden with bolts of silk—not all green. “I got to thinking, ye perhaps dinna like green,” she declared, dumping the fabrics on the bed. “Pink would be better, perhaps,” she suggested, unfurling a bolt of the most garish pink Teagan had ever seen.
“I dinna think ’twill suit my coloring,” Teagan replied, holding on to her patience. “I’m set on green. This one,” she suggested, pointing to a green close to the predominant one in the Robson plaid.
“How about this red, then?” Janie insisted. “’Twill match the colors in the MacCray tartan better.”
Ignoring Katie’s snort of laughter, Teagan picked up the green. “This one.”
Pouting, and clearly put out, Janie rolled up the remaining bolts. “If ye wish, though…”
“Green,” Teagan repeated, folding her arms across her bosom.
She unfolded them, satisfied she’d won the argument when Janie pursed her lips and proceeded to drape the bolt of green silk over her shoulder and across her body. “Ye might be right,” the seamstress conceded wistfully. “It goes weel with yer eyes—hazel, just like yer mam’s.”
For the next hour, Janie took measurements and explained what she recalled of Teagan’s mother’s wedding gown and the minor changes she might make in order to make this gown more modern.
By the time the woman left, Teagan was confident the dress would turn out to be wonderful, and the fitting had at least consumed some of the endless morning.
*
Whistling jauntily as he descended the stone steps from the battlements, Marshall grabbed a quick bowl of oatmeal from the servery in the dining hall, then made his way to the library.
His intention was to spend as little time as possible glancing at a few entries in his father’s journal, just to satisfy Moira.
As he expected, the tome was easy to find, right where it should be at the end of a long shelf. He noticed the wood was bending slightly in the middle with the weight of at least twenty volumes, some securely bound, earlier ones just sheaves of brittle yellowed parchment. He swa
llowed the lump of pride in his throat. Here was proof of the long history of his clan. Once he’d looked through his father’s log, he thought he might search for the years when the feud had first begun. He chuckled, suspecting whatever was recorded by the Robson chieftain at the time was likely different from the version to be found in the MacCray journals.
He was blowing the dust off his father’s log when Moira poked her head in the door. “Dinna fash,” he said, holding up the journal. “I have it here. Ye might want to get the maids to dust all these. And a carpenter to make a new shelf.”
She frowned as if he’d spoken in Greek, then left, leaving him with the distinct impression he’d have to resolve the problems himself. Moira had never been one to take charge even before she started acting strangely. Teagan, on the other hand, would have the entire library back to rights in no time. “Ye’re a fool, mon. She’s to be Elgin’s wife. Nay yers.”
He eyed the crinkled leather, then opened to the first page. “At least this will help pass the time until I set off for Wick.”
He read over the usual preamble found at the beginning of every log, experiencing a rare pang of regret. He’d never been close to his father, but here was the man’s name, Broderick Robson, inscribed by his own hand. He wished they’d had a more loving relationship, but the whisky had put paid to that notion.
Deciding he was getting too maudlin, Marshall leafed through the first few entries. Some he read in detail, while others didn’t hold his attention. There were tallies of goods imported from Scandinavia, accounts of items exported, complaints about the dock in Cèis, details of men drowning, the occasional cottage fire, a lot about the weather and reports from the Council of Elders. All in all, it was what he expected. The poor handwriting became more illegible as the years passed. “Too much whisky,” he muttered. There was just enough detail to satisfy the requirements of recording clan history, but Marshall liked to think his own entries were more informative. “What’s the purpose if no one ever reads these books?” he mumbled.
He came across a brief note of his parents’ marriage, though his father had written nothing about his bride other than her name. “Typical,” he growled, tracing his finger over the name and murmuring, “Jocelyn.”
A couple of pages further on, he found an intriguing annotation. “Elgin, a boy. Red hair!”
“Dinna show too much enthusiasm, Da,” he growled, though he shouldn’t have been overly surprised. Their father had never shown either of his sons much affection. But the entry prompted a search for the record of his own birth. “I wouldna be shocked if he didna even…”
The words died in his throat when he read, “At last. A son of my blood. Marshall Broderick Robson. Looks just like me.”
Conflicted
“Seems Marshall isna coming,” Seth remarked.
Standing on the dock in Wick, Teagan shaded her eyes and looked up the hill. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Ye said that a half-hour gone. He’s responsible for clan business in his brother’s absence. Something must have delayed him. Let’s take one of our birlinns out for wee while.”
It would be churlish to refuse. Seth enjoyed spending time with her, probably because she was the only one of his siblings who didn’t treat him like an idiot. It was painfully obvious Marshall hadn’t considered the tryst as important as she had. In fact, he probably hadn’t thought of it as a tryst at all. “Aye. Ye have as much to teach me as Marshall Robson.”
Grinning broadly, he puffed out his chest and climbed aboard, shouting for a couple of MacCray clansmen to crew for him. One of them assisted her to board, ogling her male attire when she stepped over the side.
As they got underway, there wasn’t time to dwell on the reasons for Marshall’s failure to appear. The trews made hoisting the sail and helping with the rigging much easier to accomplish. She began to feel like a true deckhand as the wind filled the sail and Seth nodded his approval of her efforts. Once out of Wick Bay, they headed south. The sea was calm, the wind balmy for the time of year. She had no trouble making her way to join Seth at the tiller when he beckoned.
He leaned close to her ear. “Ye look like ye’re enjoying yerself.”
She held her windswept hair off her face. “Aye,” she replied truthfully.
“Ye’ve the makings of a good sailor.”
“That means a lot coming from ye.”
“Ye ken, Teagan, I can teach ye how to sail a boat, but I’m nay Marshall Robson.”
She shrugged. “It doesna matter that he didna come.”
He shook his head. “Ye ne’er were a good liar, Sister. Now, back to yer post so I can bring her about. Ye ken what to do.”
Buoyed by his confidence in her, she took up a position by the sail and stared off into the distance, determined not to shed a tear. Marshall had decided to forego the brief time they might have together. It was the honorable thing to do, and she didn’t doubt he was a man of honor, but it hurt just the same.
*
Marshall stared at the cryptic journal entry for well over an hour, trying to fathom what it meant. The stark difference between the record of his birth and Elgin’s was puzzling, to say the least. His father’s joy shone through in every word of Marshall’s birth entry.
“Ye thought I looked like ye when I was born,” he rasped. “Ye ne’er told me that.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he traced a fingertip over the most loving thing his father had ever said to him, albeit from the grave.
He burned to keep his tryst with Teagan but seemed unable to move out of his chair. If he went to Wick, she’d sense something was playing on his mind. What could he tell her?
My brother might be a bastard.
That would unleash all kinds of repercussions and he was probably jumping to the wrong conclusion. It could be his father had just been in a better mood the day he was born. Heaven knew Broderick Robson was prone to frequent fits of rage.
However, Marshall had often found it curious that two brothers were so very different in temperament and appearance, and he’d never understood why he’d been given his father’s name.
His innards knotted. If he gave voice to his suspicions, he’d be accused of trying to usurp the chieftaincy. There was no telling how Elgin would react to the entries if they were shown to him.
But, if Elgin wasn’t his father’s son…
A thought penetrated the thousand and one conflicting notions swirling in his brain. Moira had pushed him to read the journal. Were these the entries she wanted him to see? Did she know something no one else did? He raked both hands through his hair, tempted to bellow his frustration. Even if she’d been privy to long ago events, there was no guarantee she could explain them coherently now. Nevertheless, he had to speak to her.
Relieved to have decided on a course of action, he left the library in search of his aunty.
*
Despite Marshall’s disappointing failure to turn up, Teagan enjoyed sailing with Seth. She decided to make a point of telling the rest of the family about their adventure while they dined at the supper table. Her sweet brother didn’t get praised often enough. They tended to think of him as the slow one in the family. “Seth and I spent a wonderful afternoon sailing,” she announced between bites of the over-salted pork.
Cooper sniggered. “Did ye now.”
“Aye. He’s taught me how to hoist the sail, and take it down.”
“Next, ye’ll be wanting to go out on the water by yerself,” Finlay quipped sarcastically. “Captain Teagan.”
“She’ll be a better sailor than ye by the time we’re done,” Seth countered with uncharacteristic confidence.
Finlay gaped.
“That willna be difficult,” Cooper jested.
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Finlay replied, scowling at Cooper.
She grinned when Seth winked at her, glad he wasn’t the brunt of jests for once. She cringed when he added, “We had a grand time, even though Marshall Robson didna show up.”
/> Squirming when all eyes turned to her, she tried unsuccessfully to control the heat flooding her face. “Aye. We met him in Wick yesterday. He mentioned he might be there again this afternoon.”
“I see,” Cooper said cryptically.
“Ye do recall ye’re betrothed to his brother?” Finlay asked, his voice laden with censure.
“Of course I ken it.”
Finlay wagged a finger. “Beathan willna be pleased.”
Frustrated her intention to brag about hers and Seth’s skills had gone awry, she stood. “Beathan will have naught to be concerned about, because there’s naught to it.”
The three brothers scoffed. “Yer blush says otherwise, Sister,” Cooper shouted as she fled the hall, Bo hard on her heels.
*
Marshall grew increasingly frustrated when Moira was nowhere to be found. Her lady’s maid claimed to have no idea where she had got to. “Who kens these days?” the woman asked with a roll of the eyes.
He was therefore exasperated to enter the dining hall where he found her seated at the servants’ table sipping a bowl of broth. Tightening the rein on his annoyance, he took the empty place next to her. “Aunty,” he said softly.
She turned to study him and he wasn’t sure if she knew who he was. Relief swept over him when she replied, “Marshall.”
He took hold of her hand. “Ye shouldna be sitting here. Ye have a place at the head table.”
She looked over to where he pointed. “On the dais?”
“Aye.”
“I forgot,” she admitted, looking sheepish.
“No matter,” he assured her.
“I’ll stay here for now,” she replied.
He filled his lungs. Questions were burning a hole in his brain but he was reluctant to embark on an inquisition in the middle of the hall where anyone might overhear. “I read my father’s journal,” he said softly.
She lifted the spoon to her mouth and slurped as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said.
Two maidservants sitting at the other end of the table giggled, until he glared at them and they hastily excused themselves.
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