Alanna (When Hearts Dare Series Book 2) (26 page)

Aiden winced. “If it gives ye any peace, yer parents are together in Dunlichity. ’Tis the MacGillivray cemetery. The name Wolford Archibald Gray was given to ye when ye was three. ’Twas done to protect ye, to protect the lot of ye when ye fled to Boston. But I’m sorry to say, it didna keep yer mother alive.”

Wolf sat on the bed as a gush of air left his lungs. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My parents fled to Boston? Because of Grimes? I thought he found us in Boston?”

“Yer mother’s body was secreted here after her death, to be with her people. Yer father died in India and was brought home to lie beside the woman he dearly loved and lost. There is a place there for ye, as well, when the time comes. But as for now, ye still have a grandfather—”

“You didn’t answer me.” Wolf’s shoulders gave a shudder, but his eyes remained shut.

“He’s not well, lad. Cannae speak no more, or walk. But he’ll know ye. He’s The MacGillivray.”

Wolf’s eyes shot wide and he stared blankly at Fraser.

“In case ye canna figure things just right yet, Wolf, ye’re the next in line. Ye’re to be The Mor—the MacGillivray chief, when yer grandfather makes his way to the pearly gates.” He paused, giving his words time to sink in.

“Ye need time to get used to things, to adjust to all ye’ll be told before ye meet him. We protect him in his auldness, just as he protected us in his vigor. I’ve been acting guardian of the lairdship until ye’d a mind to show yerself. But this’ll be yer burden now, to keep the fine points of order and structure intact for yer kin and clan.”

Wolf leaned back in a defensive gesture and shook his head slowly back and forth. He hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t have.

“Ye canna refuse, lad. I know Scotland isn’t like it used to be, but we still need our lairds. The clan needs you.”

Wolf stood, ice water running through his veins. “Take me to my parents’ graves, Aiden. Now.”

Alanna wandered aimlessly through her Brookline home. After asking Old Chinese’s permission to check on the pipes for her father, she’d spent five days alone, in weather so dreary as to make even the most optimistic feel half dead.

Reading books meant paging through them impatiently until she flung them down in frustration. She’d dug through her father’s desk, but Wolf had swept its secret compartments clean.

She missed Wolf with a vengeance, and would give anything to be held by him, to press her cheek against his chest and feel his living warmth. More and more, she was becoming a stranger to herself. The carefully cultivated self-control that gave her a sense of security and order seemed to slip away daily under her dismal circumstances.

The old steamer trunk full of scarves lay open where Alanna had casually flipped the lid in passing earlier in the day. Pausing in front of the chest, she picked up one of the scarves and buried her face in it. Memories of Wolf dressing her in them, of the lovemaking they’d shared, cleaved a path through her heart. Tears spilled from her eyes once more.

“Oh, God help me.” She sat in a heap on the floor and for a long while, leaned her head against the hard wood of the trunk. Numb from weeping, she sorted through the scarves for no particular reason, pulled them out one by one, and grouped them in colors. Reaching deeper into the trunk, Alanna’s hand struck a long tubelike object. She sucked in her breath as she brought the object to the surface. “My kaleidoscope! So that’s why it went missing, Mother.”

She held Wolf’s gift to her breast, and rocked back and forth. “And just what else might you have hidden since I was here last, you wicked woman?” Setting the kaleidoscope aside, she dug through to the bottom of the trunk, haphazardly flinging the brightly colored pieces of silk onto the floor as she went.

Her hand struck another object. She pulled the flat, narrow container from its hiding place, not recognizing its green leather covering etched in gold. Locked. “Damn you, Mother.” She scrambled to her feet and fairly flew to her father’s study, where she retrieved a letter opener from his desk. Working its point into the lock, she twisted until the latch gave way.

A flat piece of paper lay folded on top, part of it charred, as though someone had tried to burn it and failed. Alanna opened it, but was unable to read all of its scorched contents, only able to make out a partial birth date and the partial name of a male—Malco . . .

The Malones were listed as the boy’s parents.

With trembling fingers, Alanna laid the paper aside and picked up a round brooch. She dropped it like a hot poker when she realized the tiny flowers and scrollwork woven into the lace backing were made of human hair, golden in color. Another pin, similar in design and made up of a darker color of hair, rested on the emerald velvet inside the box. Even though wearing mourning jewelry made from the hair of a deceased loved one was a popular way of showing respect, the idea repulsed Alanna, and she refused to touch them. Instead, she focused on another box, about two inches square.

She lifted the lid of the smallest box. “Oh, dear God!” Her eyes closed for a long moment while she gathered her wits about her. She could barely catch her breath as she snapped the box shut and replaced it inside the larger one. Gingerly, she lifted the breast pin she’d dropped on her father’s desk, replaced it in the box as well, then picked up the birth certificate, and studied it for a long while before returning it to its resting place.

What else
? Carrying the box with her, she returned to her mother’s trunk and emptied all the scarves into a heap on the floor. She pressed at the corners of the empty trunk. One corner gave way. “I thought so, a false bottom.”

Working the sharp point of her father’s letter opener underneath the corner, Alanna eased it up until she could slip her fingers beneath the wood, revealing a shallow compartment.

“Mother!”

With trembling fingers, she gathered the contents scattered about the bottom of the trunk. She couldn’t move fast enough as, breathlessly, she placed all of her findings in a carpetbag and headed for the stables. And back to Old Chinese at the farm.

“I found this hidden in Mother’s old steamer trunk at Brookline.” Alanna waved the kaleidoscope in the air. “The one in the hallway with all the scarves I used to play with.”

Old Chinese gave a nod. “I see.”

“And this.” Alanna pulled out the green leather box. “Do you know of this?”

Old Chinese shook his head. Alanna opened the box and pointed to the mourning brooches. Old Chinese looked at them and then into her eyes.

“And these.” She opened the remains of the birth certificate and handed it to him. Then she emptied the carpetbag. “Who is that boy?” Her voice rose hysterically as she pointed to the miniature.

“Alanna—” Old Chinese reached a hand out to her.

She waved him off. “And this.” She opened the small box and shoved it under his nose.

“Oh!” he let out. His eyelids swept shut for a brief moment before he met her gaze, his head slowly shaking back and forth. “I am so sorry you had to find this.”

She snapped the box shut and pointed to the miniature. “Who is that boy?”

Old Chinese remained silent.

Alanna’s panic lit to full flame. “Tell me, for God’s sake! Is this a miniature of Wolf? Is he another brother like Winston?”

“Alanna.”

She fell in a heap at his feet, her body racked with sobs. He knelt in front of her and, grasping her by the shoulders, shook her. “Alanna, stop this.”

She raised her head, tears streaming down her face. “Is that why Wolf and I have exactly the same kind of eyes, Old Chinese? Are his the eyes of my father, too? Oh, God forbid,” she wailed.

He held her tightly by her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye as he demanded her answer. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

“I carry Wolf’s child,” she sobbed, disintegrating in the old man’s arms. “Oh, God, I carry his child.”

It was the fatherly Old Chinese who swept her up in his arms, the role of master forgotten. “Oh no, dear child, no,” he murmured as he rocked her back and forth. “He is not your brother.” He sighed as he tilted his weary head to stare out the window at nothing.

“You are certain?”

He reached into his pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and stuffed it in her fist. “Quite certain. You see, Wolf does not know this, but I have known him for a very, very long time.”

She lifted a finger to his chin and urged him to look into her eyes. “Tell me. I need to know everything.”

Old Chinese pulled away and stood. “You must return to Boston and pack your things without your parents knowing. I’ll be taking you to Wolf.”

 

Wolf had no idea how long he’d sat beside the pond watching the swans glide about. He’d yet to meet his grandfather. He needed time to adjust to the heady sensation that he actually belonged to a large, connected family. Most of all, he wanted to be well away from the curious clansmen whose presence exposed the enormity of what a clan chief faced. Christ, he’d lived alone and lonely most of his life, and suddenly he had so many cousins he couldn’t keep track of them.

He’d spent three bitter days at Dunlichity, hunched over his parents’ graves. The chill wind had blown cold rain off the brim of his hat and sent rivulets of icy water down his spine. Again and again, he’d traced the names Glenda Mary and William Duncan carved in cold granite, searching for something to fill his empty soul.

No one would tell him—but he suspected Aiden Fraser knew—why his parents had fled Scotland in the first place. That secret lay with his grandfather, who could no longer speak. Wolf stood, brushed off the seat of his trousers, and headed for the castle. Putting off meeting his grandfather had grown damned uncomfortable.

When he stepped to the foot of the old man’s bed, Wolf encountered a mere suggestion of the handsome and fiery-eyed Scot displayed in proud portraiture on the second-floor landing. As he gazed into his grandfather’s ancient, milky blue eyes, Wolf’s insides withered.

He had trouble keeping his eyes on The Mor, on his hollow cheeks, his bony fingers clawing the air in a feeble attempt to grasp the hand of his prodigal grandson. The old man’s arms, once sturdy enough to swing a six-foot claymore, were now rail-thin. The flesh of his upper arms sagged against the bed linens like a turkey’s loose neck. Bile rose in Wolf’s throat when his grandfather moved his toothless mouth in a vain attempt to speak with a voice that had gone silent.

Anger, unexpected and profound, permeated Wolf. Damn it, he’d missed out on a life with this man as well. Despite the compassion that flowed through him with regard to his grandfather’s condition, he wasn’t about to forgive him, or his father, much less God, for the three having deserted him. Nor was he about to attach himself to a man with so little time left in the world.

He turned on his heel and made for his room to pack his saddlebags. He paused at the sound of footsteps. Aiden.

“Where do ye think to be off to, lad?”

The saddlebags slid off the bed and scattered Wolf’s belongings on the floor. “Fuck!” Swearing seemed a safer outlet for his rage than slamming his fist into his cousin’s face. “You can keep your MacGillivray chief crap, and the whole goddamn village that goes with it.”

“Whether ye like it or not, ’tis what ye sought when ye went looking for yer mother’s killer.” Aiden said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off.

“Bullshit!” Wolf slapped the empty saddlebags back onto the bed, stepped over the mess he’d made on the floor, and stormed to the balcony. “I’m looking for answers, not some half-dead, old crippled man who threw me to the dogs years ago.” A vein throbbed wildly alongside his neck. He rubbed at it. “And I sure as hell wasn’t looking for a slew of people expecting me to be some goddamned Highland shepherd herding a bunch of brainless bastards.”

He caught sight of the scruffy boy who’d peeked through the back gate of the castle when he’d arrived. The six-year-old’s hair blew wild in the stiff wind as he struggled toward the barn with a bleating lamb in his arms. The lamb’s mother, still bloody-rumped from giving birth, waddled behind. “Christ Almighty, why doesn’t someone help that kid?”

Fraser followed Wolf onto the balcony. “Have ye thought of seein’ to wee Jamie yerself?”

“Go to hell.” Wolf shoved a hand through his hair and turned his back to the scene below. “I want to know why my parents left the Highlands.”

“Ye’ve got to cut me some slack, lad. Yer grandfather kept things to himself. The fewer people who knew the details the better, he said. He kept the door of this room locked. We tacksmen only knew what was in it when The Mor had his seizure and couldn’t fend fer himself.” Fatigue carved deep shadows beneath Aiden’s eyes. “That’s when I knew ye had to return one day.”

Wolf stomped back into the room and paced. “I guess I never figured on having the truth come with so many strings attached.” He kicked at a fallen pillow and sent it flying. “I thought things would be a helluva lot simpler.”

“The only thing that comes with no strings attached, lad, is our commitment to you.” Aiden’s voice softened. “And that we give ye, free and clear.”

Wolf didn’t know what the hell to do with that remark. He turned his face to the ceiling and fought the urge to destroy everything in the room with his bare hands. “How can I be so damned confused, and at the same time feel . . . I don’t know . . . comfortable here? Something I don’t remember knowing since my mother died.”

“Feeling the peace of something doesna mean ye won’t feel the pain of it as well.” Aiden hesitated a moment. “I’ve been keeping a few things for ye. Of yer father’s. Would ye care to have a peek? Mayhap ye’ll have recollections that’ll awaken more memories.”

At Aiden’s words, Wolf’s mouth went dry. He nodded. Silently, they made their way down to the second level of Dunmaglass, to the room he’d thus far avoided—one he’d been told had belonged to his parents before they’d left the Highlands.

The room faced the rear of the castle. A large accoutrement bed draped in blue tapestries was centered on a wall across from a stone fireplace that jutted to the high, bold rafters. Heavy blue velvet drapes flanked leaded-glass doors that led to a large balcony. Twin wardrobes stood at attention against opposite walls like sullen, brown sentries. There was a scent in the room that rattled him—violets and fresh air.

Aiden led Wolf to the right of the fireplace, to a door that opened into a small room stacked high with personal items. “It used to be a nursery. When ye were a weean, yer father saw to it ye were as close to yer mother as would satisfy her.” Aiden swept up a length of red plaid, the same print as the one he wore. “Yer father’s kilt.”

He laid the bright length of wool across Wolf’s forearm, then bent and raised the lid of a heavy trunk. Folded inside was his father’s Highland dress, both casual and formal—a badger-skin sporran, shirts, jackets, knitted knee-length stockings, and beneath that, muted green and brown hunting plaids and several heavy knitted sweaters.

Wolf’s heart thundered in his ears. A hunting rifle stood at an angle against the wall beneath a shelf holding dirks and
sgian dubhs
. An array of hunting gear hung at the ready, as if the owner might reappear momentarily.

“Would ye have them?” Aiden asked. “Yer parents would have wanted it just so.”

Wolf surveyed the room again, his insides trembling. “I . . . I had no idea . . . no memory of my father like this. I only remember him as a staid businessman.”

“Ye were barely three when ye left, and the mind has a queer way of rememberin’ things. Perhaps using his things will help fill that big hole in yer heart.”

Wolf wanted Fraser gone—and fast—before he lost control of his emotions. He turned his back on his cousin.

“Aye,” Aiden said softly, and left the room.

Wolf dragged the trunk into the cavernous bedroom. Slowly, he examined each article of clothing, buried his nose in some. The lavender that kept the moths at bay had long ago replaced his father’s scent, but somehow he muddled through his memories and rescued a hint of musk, fresh air, and Marseille soap. A sob hitched in his throat, but the damn tears he wished would fall to relieve his pain wouldn’t come.

“Christ Almighty.” He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm for a long while. He needed a drink—some good Scots whisky. He stood to leave, but at the sight of his father’s things, a bit of rebellion, mixed with a whole lot of curiosity, moved through him.

He stripped naked and went about dressing himself in the inherited Highland clothing. Oddly enough, he liked the feel of the kilt, the sensation of the
sgian dubh
tucked in the top of his right stocking, the sporran hanging loose from his waist and draped low across his pelvis. Even the shoes fit. He glanced in the mirror. Damn if he didn’t resemble the men in the portraits lining the staircase.

His stomach growled. Food. And whisky. That’s what he needed.

He left the room and trotted down the stairs. The sun, once shining golden on one side of the manse, now thrust long purple shadows across the silver pond on the opposite side. He made his way to the kitchen, intending to make off with whatever he could carry. A woman standing in the kitchen beside Aiden knocked any notion of a stroll in the quiet wood right out of him. He stumbled to a halt.

Mrs. Guthrie, the servant who’d pulled him from under his mother’s deathbed, stood before him. Except for her snow-white hair, she hadn’t changed much.

All desire for food vanished.

The urge for some good whisky increased.

Mrs. Guthrie’s face paled. She clutched the front panels of her sweater together. “I’d know ye anywhere, lad.”

“And I’d know you too, Mrs. Guthrie,” he hoarsely replied. Damn it, was his chest going to cave in altogether?

She shook her head. “Ye have the look of yer father. Like a mirror, it is.”

A good swallow and he managed to settle his voice. “Except for my mother’s mouth.”

“Aye. But ye have more than that, lad. There’s a kind of fire burning in ye that she had. Ye’ve turned into a fine-looking man. And not one who can verra well hide in a crowd.” Her glance touched briefly on the garnet earring at Wolf’s ear, then shifted back to his face. Her cheeks flushed, the only sign of having recognized the ear bob.

He didn’t know quite what to say next. He took in a slow breath and let it out just as slowly. “The years have been good to you, Mrs. Guthrie.”

Her mouth moved, but no words came forth. She stood there, staring at Wolf for a long moment. And then she opened her arms wide.

He went to her, just as he’d done so many times in the past. But now there was a difference—the six-year-old had disappeared, replaced by a man who towered head and shoulders above her. It was Wolf who enfolded
her
in
his
arms. She buried her face in his chest and muttered something unintelligible through muffled sobs.