The Pursuit

by Johanna Lindsey

  “Nervous?” Kimberly interrupted. “Our daughter is excited about this trip. She’s not the least bit nervous. If anyone’s nervous, it’s you, and you and I aren’t even going until later in the summer. Is that it, then? You’re letting your worry for her override your better judgment?”

  “Nae, I just dinna want her feeling she has tae find a husband afore she comes home. That’s too much pressure tae be putting on her at her young age. You have assured her…?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve assured her she can be an old maid if she’d like.”

  “Och, this isna funny, Kimber.”

  She tsked at him. “You’re the one making too much out of it. Most young girls her age go through this—I did myself. Now, I might have been nervous about it, but Meli really isn’t. She plans to have fun, to make some new friends, to be awed by such a big town as London is, and she even figures she’ll probably find a husband while she’s at it. But that’s not at the top of her list by any means. She thought we wanted her to make a concerted effort to get affianced, but I’ve assured her if she does, that’s fine, and if she doesn’t, that’s fine, too. Maybe you should tell her the same before she leaves, so she can just relax and let happen what happens. Now, have we covered all your last-minute doubts?”

  “Nae, ’tis still a huge undertaking tae be putting on the duchess on our behalf.”

  “Would you like us to go as well for the whole summer, instead of just a few weeks as we planned?”

  He looked appalled as she expected. “You said that wouldna be necessary.”

  “Nor is it, so don’t backtrack. We covered Megan’s willingness already. And furthermore, she isn’t planning any events herself, she merely has invitations lined up that she was no doubt going to accept anyway. Besides, she adores Meli and is an old hand at this sort of thing. She sponsored me, didn’t she? And had a hand in matching you and me to wedded bliss.”

  That distracted a grin out of him. “Is that what we’ve been having, darlin’? Wedded bliss?”

  She quirked a golden brow at him, asked, “You don’t think so?”

  He pulled her to her feet, then meshed her hips to his. “I’d be calling it heaven m’self.”

  “Would you, now?” She grinned back at him, then made a face, “Bah, you’re not going to get out of this subject that easily. Why are you really having doubts now? And no more of these lame reasons that don’t wash.”

  He sighed. “I had the hope remaining that our lass would end up wi’ a fine Scot brave enough tae ignore the legend and trounce any o’ your brothers that think tae bully him.”

  “What an unkind thought,” she said, and smacked his shoulder before she moved away from him. “I love my brothers—”

  “I know you do, Kimber, and I even tolerate them m’self, but you canna deny they deserve a trouncing or two for scaring off all o’ Meli’s suitors. If we didna have friends in England willing tae sponser her for a season there, the poor lass could end up permanently unwed, and I want m’daughter tae be as happy in wedlock as I’ve made you.”

  She chuckled. “Listen to that bragging.”

  “True nonetheless,” he said with complete confidence.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed with a teasing grin, but then she got serious again. “As for Meli and her future happiness, is the nationality of the man she loses her heart to really of importance to you? And before you answer, keep in mind that if you say yes, your English wife will be insulted.”

  He laughed at the warning. “Half-English wife, though one could wish your Scottish half didna come from the MacFearson himself.”

  She ignored the reference to her father this time. “Answer me.”

  “Nay, darlin’, the hope was no’ that her husband be Scottish exactly. It was more that he just hail from closer tae home than England is. I’m no’ looking forward tae our lass moving far away, is all,” he ended with another sigh.

  She moved closer again to cup his cheeks in her hands. “You knew that would be a distinct possibility.”

  “Aye.”

  “You knew also that her prospects in our neighborhood were very slim. We don’t exactly live near any towns up here, and the other clans nearby don’t have any sons of an age appropriate for our lass. And being the MacGregor’s daughter limits her choices even further.”

  “Aye, I ken that as well.”

  “So this is all just a father bemoaning the loss of his only daughter in marriage, even before she’s married?” she asked in exasperation.

  He nodded with a sheepish look. She decided not to scold him for such silliness, said instead, “Lach, I’ll be just as unhappy to see her go, but we knew from the day she was born that she would be leaving us one day to start her own family, and even then we didn’t expect her to start that family near to Kregora Castle. Granted, we weren’t thinking as far as England, but still—”

  Kimberly amazed even herself when she suddenly burst into tears. Lachlan gathered her close, made all the soothing sounds appropriate to comforting. She finally pushed away from him, annoyed with herself.

  “Don’t ask where that came from,” she mumbled.

  He grinned at her, though it was obvious he was still remorseful. “I’m sorry, Kimber. I didna mean tae refresh all your own misgivings.”

  “You didn’t. Unlike you, I’m delighted Meli has this opportunity for a season in London. I just…” She paused for a sigh of her own. “Just had the same hope as you still lurking, though I thought I had given up on that long ago. And it is pointless. Even those few young lads who did come to call on her live miles away, which is probably why you weren’t all that displeased when they got run off.”

  “Miles away is no distance a’tall up here. They just didna impress me too much is all, and rightly so as it turned out. Look how quickly they turned tail when your brothers started in on them. That last one made his excuses after one wee warning from Ian Two that he’d be displeased if his niece was e’er made unhappy.”

  “I think it was Ian Two’s tone, and possibly because he had a fistful of the poor boy’s shirt when he said it.”

  They both laughed for a moment, remembering how quickly the suitor had departed for home. He’d practically run for the door the moment after he’d made his excuses. The laughter eased their misgivings, or at least put them back in perspective.

  “Och, well, this trip canna be avoided, I suppose,” Lachlan conceded.

  “No, it can’t.”

  “Speaking o’ which, is Meli done wi’ her packing?”

  “She’s not leaving for three more days, so there’s plenty time to finish that up. She’s gone to see my father, probably will be spending the night. Actually, I think her intent was to assure my brothers that she forgave them for ruining her prospects here at home—a few of them have been quite guilty over that, if you didn’t know, even though the lads who came to call this last year she wasn’t much interested in—so no harm was done as she sees it. She was also going to assure them that when the right man for her comes along, she’ll know it herself, so they needn’t worry on that account.”

  “She actually thinks saying so will assure them of anything?”

  “Well, she’s hoping.” Kimberly grinned. “My brothers can be reasoned with—some of the time.”

  Lachlan snorted. Kimberly had met her brothers late in her life, had grown up thinking she was an only child and didn’t learn about them until Lachlan brought her to Scotland as his bride. They’d shown up on his doorstep—or, to be more exact, crossed his drawbridge en masse, all sixteen of them. But they’d merely been the vanguard for her real father, whom she’d never met before either, a legend in the Highlands, and not a favorable one.

  Ian MacFearson. It was a name mothers used to admonish their children into behaving. He was reputed to be a blackhearted rogue of the worst sort, so mean he’d sit back and laugh while his sons tried to kill each other—which he encouraged. Others insisted he was just an old recluse who hadn’t left his home for over forty years—but w
hy do so, when he had his own harem there? Still others maintained he’d been dead for years and his ghost now haunted the old ruined fortress he’d secluded himself in all those years ago. None of which was true, but then not many people had ever met Ian MacFearson to find out otherwise.

  He had been a recluse, and he left his home these days only to visit Kimberly and her family at Kregora Castle, though, as was more often the case, she had to do the visiting instead. She never minded. She rather liked the fancy surrounding his home, the gloomy atmosphere, the barren trees, the hovering dark clouds usually present, reminding her of a witch’s castle high up on a cloud-covered mountain, rather than the old fortress-converted-to-manor set on a rocky promontory that it was. And there was nothing gloomy on the inside, with her boisterous brothers in residence.

  Nor was there any truth to the legend that her brothers were always trying to kill each other, though some of their fights might make it seem otherwise. They merely fought as brothers will, not with any deadly intent. If anything, they were fanatically loyal—insult one and you’d have the whole pack to deal with.

  The harem tale was also silly, though understandable considering the number of sons Ian had sired. Although they all shared the same father, only a few of them shared the same mother, and all of them were bastards. Ian had never married. He’d wanted to, had loved Kimberly’s mother most of his life, but her parents had forced her to wed the earl of Amburough instead, the man Kimberly had thought was her father until he drunkenly confessed that Ian had that distinction.

  Ian might not have married, but he never denied any of his children either. He brought them all into his home, even those sired as far away as Aberdeen—at least, all that he knew of. The harem aspect of the tale might have arisen because he’d allowed a few of their mothers to abide in his home as well, even after he had no further interest in them personally. Whichever woman he favored at the time, he was usually faithful to her. Or so he assured anyone who bothered to ask him about it.

  It made for a very…odd family relationship, to be sure, and Kimberly might have been glad that she’d grown up elsewhere—if the man who’d raised her hadn’t been such a tyrant and unloving parent. A few of her brothers had other sisters, but she was the only sister they all could claim as theirs, so she was included in their sphere of loyalty. If anything, being the only female among them, and despite her being the oldest of them, she was more protected than the rest. That protection had extended to Melissa when she was born. Since they’d all been there for her birth, they considered her theirs.

  Lachlan had had a bit of trouble with that over the years. If he and Kimberly had a spat or if he simply frowned at her wrong, he was likely to get trounced by the lot of them, if even one was around to see it. And heaven forbid if he ever attempted to scold Meli when they were visiting. It was a wonder he did tolerate them, as many times as they’d attacked him first, without asking what the trouble might be. Must be a Scottish thing, that he found their attitude acceptable and as it should be, and never held it against them.

  But Kimberly loved her brothers dearly, all sixteen of them, and she was quick to make excuses for their shortcomings, which they did happen to have in abundance. They were an argumentative, hot-tempered bunch. It was surprising, really, since Ian had raised them, and he had a more mellow temperament. At least, he had prior to returning to Scotland to nurse his broken heart. And he’d been nothing but mellow since Kimberly had joined the family.

  Three

  IT was an old home, maintained extremely well. Donald Ross had borne no title—wasn’t even considered gentry by English standards—but he was rich due to a hefty inheritance that, like the house, had been passed down through numerous generations and was still intact. He had surprised one and all by winning for himself the daughter of an English viscount, but it was reputed to be a love match, so those of a romantic nature were charmed by the tale.

  Lincoln’s memory of his father was of a tall, strapping man, robust, hearty, good-natured, always with a smile on his lips, always there when Lincoln needed his attention. He had died when inspecting one of his mines in the lowlands. A tunnel had collapsed, crushing him so severely that he lived just a few days after being dug out of it. Lincoln had no memory of that, hadn’t been allowed to see his father after the accident, which he’d resented at the time but over the years became grateful for, since it left him with only the good memories.

  Lincoln had often wondered why his mother, Eleanor, had stayed in Scotland after her husband died. It certainly wasn’t so Lincoln could remain in the only home he’d known, because she’d sent him away quickly enough when the trouble began. He’d never understood why she hadn’t gone with him, though. A caretaker could have been left with the house if she hadn’t wanted to sell it. With Donald’s death and Lincoln sent away, she had no family left there, but she did have family in England. Richard had said they’d never been close, but still…

  Lincoln’s only conclusion, when he was older and could think of more possibilities, was that she had stayed behind to look after the inheritance. It was supposedly vast, including many properties and businesses that required close attention. One of her letters had dealt with the subject, said that when he came of age he should take over the management of it.

  That was another letter he’d never answered. The inheritance was his now, but he’d wanted nothing to do with it if it meant dealing with her, an easy enough choice to make, since he didn’t need the money. His Uncle Richard’s entailed estate, which had been left to him the year before he’d come of age, was quite lucrative as well.

  Lincoln was home now—the home he’d been born in, the home he’d spent his first ten years in—and his fears had been realized. The rage was back, came the moment he laid eyes on her, standing there alone in the doorway as they piled out of the carriage. Many another time Eleanor had stood there just so, waiting anxiously for him to come home. The sight and memories it brought back should have given him a smile, rather than the bitter taste of bile he was feeling.

  It had been ten years since he’d last seen her, on one of her many visits to England. He’d been unable to avoid her that time. As he got older, more excuses occurred to him, excuses that had worked well enough—until now.

  She looked old, and not just her age accounted for it. She was almost fifty, true, but she looked much older than that. Her hair was completely gray now, though it had shown signs of turning the last time he’d seen her, when she was only thirty-nine. She looked tired. She looked as if life was a burden to her, rather than a joy to be savored.

  She wore black, as though she were in mourning. She was rich, could have traveled while she was still young, could have remarried, could have done anything she liked. Instead she had elected to stay here and live her life alone, and perhaps she was now regretting it.

  Lincoln felt no sympathy for her. No kinder emotion would get through his rage, and, in fact, it took all the willpower he could muster not to get back into the coach and drive away. He knew he wouldn’t be able to contain his rage for very long. They had planned to stay at least a week here before the start of the London season. He’d be lucky if he could last a few days in her company without the bile’s spilling forth.

  Henriette had had to prod him into the house. He’d merely nodded at Eleanor in passing, spoken the single word “Mother,” and moved on into the parlor without glancing her way again. He was amazed he’d been able to do even that. His aunt, with her usual prattle, had filled in the awful silence that had followed his cold greeting.

  And he couldn’t get his anger to calm down. He stood now at the window in the parlor that faced north, the direction where they lived, and his rage just got worse, thinking of the savages as well. Thirty minutes passed with him standing there alone, while his aunt and cousin were being settled in upstairs. He honestly didn’t know what he was going to do if Eleanor joined him in the parlor without either his aunt or his cousin present as a buffer between them.

  It was
n’t her voice, though, that disturbed him finally. “’Tis grand indeed, tae be seeing ye again after all these years, young master. D’ye remember me, then?”

  Lincoln glanced around. It was Mr. Morrison, offering him a cup of tea. Out of all the servants in the house, only Eleanor’s maid was English, brought with her when she married Donald. She’d brought with her also her English habits, and having tea served every afternoon was one of them. Morrison had been the butler there even before she arrived, and apparently he still was.

  Lincoln didn’t recall the man as being so little, though. Of course, Lincoln hadn’t reached his full height of six feet four before he’d been sent off to England, had been missing a good seven of those inches at ten, so Morrison had seemed much taller then.

  “Indeed, Mr. Morrison. You haven’t changed all that much.”

  The little old Scot laughed—actually, it was more like a cackle. “Och, but ye hae, and aplenty. I wouldna be recognizing ye if I didna ken ye were expected.”

  Lincoln didn’t think he’d changed all that much in appearance, other than adding the extra height. Of course, living with his face every day of those years made a difference, he supposed, different than not seeing someone for nineteen years. His hair had been just as black when he was younger, his eyes just as common a brown. His face had filled out some, was more defined. Women found him handsome, though he imagined his title was just as attractive to them as his looks.

  Lincoln took the cup, but he didn’t drink from it, set it on the window ledge. He would have much preferred something more mind-numbing than tea at the moment.

  He nodded out the window. “Do the savages still live there?”

  “’Tis doubtful, since they’re all as grown as ye are. But they dinna exactly socialize, so nae gossip comes oot o’ there tae say one way or t’other.”

  Lincoln hadn’t had to explain whom he was referring to. He wasn’t the only one who called those particular Scots “savages.” They’d made that distinction for themselves on a grand scale, even when they were children. They lived nearly four miles north, far enough away that he might never have met them, if he hadn’t wandered far and wide as a child.