Blue Bonnets (19 page)

Not for the first time since riding out of Porthaven that morning, doubt gnawed at her. Perhaps she'd been wrong to leave Wallace behind and come here alone: it might have been safer to go to his farm and wait there for Lord McGunn. She'd had to turn back on herself several times since the morning, and now it looked like she'd taken the wrong road once again.

Then she spotted the stone figures that stood on top of the high stone wall running alongside the track and her heart beat faster – half lion half bird. Griffins! So she had reached Westmore at last.

Now all she had to do was find the main entrance, slip into the park unnoticed by the gatekeeper and make her way to the hunting lodge where she planned to talk to the dancers and musicians. This time luck was on her side. Just as darkness stifled the last glimmers of daylight, she came across a small opening in the wall with a wrought-iron gate flapping in the wind with a squeaky noise.

Still pulling the mare behind her, she pushed the gate open and started onto a lane winding its way between the trees and their wide, sweeping branches. The snow had melted in patches and her feet crushed a thick carpet of pine needles, releasing a scent so strong it was as if Bruce were here, right next to her.

She swayed against the horse and leant against its comforting warmth. Where was
he
this evening? Probably on his way to Wallace's farm. He could hardly stay at Westmore after issuing threats to destroy the
Sea Eagle
. She didn't want to think about the way he'd react when he found out that she wasn't there. Would he worry that she'd been hurt in the riots and look for her in Porthaven, or would he guess that she'd come here despite his instructions?

She let out a long sigh. Suddenly it wasn't just doubt, but guilt as well, niggling at her. Well, it was too late for either. She was here now, ready to confront Cameron about his lies. Strange how it didn't seem so important now she realised she did not love the man, and probably never had. What was important, though, was to find out what had happened to Malika…

She tossed her head back, gave the reins a sharp pull, and walked out of the woods.

The sight of the castle made her draw breath in awe.

With its tall spires and dozens of towers darting towards the sky, with fountains and statues lit by coloured lanterns and the main road lined with blazing torches, it looked like a fairytale castle…and a far cry indeed from Wrath Lodge.

She followed the lane towards another copse. Soon lights glowed through the trees and the outline of a large two-storey stone house appeared. As she got nearer, echoes of a music she recognised only too well drifted towards her – the high-pitched
gisba
flute, accompanied by the dull rhythms of
bendir
drum and melodious chords of a
luth
. Suddenly she wasn't in the far North of Scotland anymore, but home in Bou Saada.

She approached the house with caution, but there were no guards at the front door. Just to be on the safe side, however, she tiptoed around the back. After tying the mare to a post, she paused to listen to the music again. It came from one of the downstairs rooms.

Creeping close to the window, she peered inside. The three musicians she remembered from Algiers sat on large cushions on the floor. They were alone. Rose tapped on the glass, and the
luth
player turned to her. His eyes opened wide in shock. He dropped instrument to the floor, jumped to his feet, and ran to the window.

He lifted the window sash up and leant out.

‘
Ourida? hl htha hqyqi؟'

She couldn't help but smile. It was good to hear her name in Arabic,
Ourida
, ‘Little Rose' – the name her father, family and friends called her back at home.

‘
Salaem'alekoum
.' She bowed her head. ‘Yes, it's me, and no, you're not dreaming,' she whispered in Arabic.

‘
Wa'alekoum salaam
,' the musician replied, bowing in return, his greeting echoed by his companions who had rushed to his side.

When she raised her hand to silence their questions, she wasn't smiling anymore. ‘I need your help, my friends.'

‘My clerks will work on the documents tonight, my Lord, and I'll have a draft agreement ready by tomorrow,' Charles Longford gathered a pile of papers into a black leather portfolio before rising to his feet.

‘That soon?'

Two faint pink spots appeared on the old man's cheeks and there was a flicker of unease in his pale blue eyes.

‘With all due respect, my Lord, we have been preparing for this eventuality for a while.'

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

‘You have?'

‘Well, it's no secret that your estate is in a delicate financial situation and that you are not in the best of health…'

This time Bruce had to make a conscious effort to retain his calm.

‘I had no idea my health – or lack of – was worth gossiping about.'

The lawyer had the decency to look embarrassed. He coughed to clear his throat, smoothed his thinning grey hair with a shaky hand and tucked the portfolio under his arm.

‘I can assure you that my associate and I do not gossip,' he replied stiffly.

Bruce walked to the window. He had been given a room on the second floor at the front of the castle with a good view of the grounds and of the stream of elegant carriages that queued in front of the porch steps, waiting to disgorge their well-dressed, perfumed and bejewelled occupants.

He had bathed and shaved, and now wore his spare black jacket, trousers and a crisp white shirt a maidservant had pressed for him. His lip curled as he looked at his reflection in the window. If it weren't for his hair, far too long for the prevailing fashion, and the cuts and bruises on his face, he could almost pass for one of McRae's cronies.

He turned to face Charles Langford and crossed his arms on his chest.

‘Enlighten me, Langford, what exactly is wrong with my health?'

The two pink spots on the man's cheeks deepened to dark red. He coughed again.

‘We heard my lord suffered from… I mean, there have been rumours that my lord was afflicted with…' He paused, drew in a deep breath. ‘…an incurable illness.'

Bruce arched his eyebrows.

‘Is that so? And you carried draft sales documents with you just in case I happened to stop by at Westmore before I dropped dead?'

Looking even more agitated, the lawyer shook his head.

‘No. Of course not. My associate and I were going to travel to Wrath this very week to put to you a purchase offer from Lord McRae. Your coming here today saves us a long and uncomfortable journey.'

‘I'm glad to oblige,' Bruce replied pleasantly, but inside he was seething.

Someone from Wrath had talked. Someone who knew about his debilitating memory losses, his headaches and the nightmares that had these past few months kept him from sleeping at night – someone who had noticed his slow descent into insanity. Who could it be?

However infuriating, there was no time to dig deeper right now.

‘Will that be all, my lord?' Charles Langford looked at him in earnest.

‘What do you remember about a French officer, a man named Pichet who paid you a visit about Niall McRae in August 1815?' Bruce asked abruptly.

He had intended to take the man by surprise. He had succeeded.

Charles Langford's face drained of all colour, his mouth opened on a silent gasp, and panic flickered in his eyes. The portfolio slipped from his grasp and fell on the floor with a loud noise.

‘Well?' Bruce asked again.

The old man bent down and picked up the leather wallet with trembling fingers.

‘Thirty years ago? I am sorry, I don't recall ever meeting this gentleman.'

Bruce stared at him. He was lying. The question was why.

‘The McRaes being your most important clients, I would expect you to remember everything about them, especially something as unusual as Pichet's visit.'

The old man closed his eyes briefly.

‘Pichet, you said? Now that you mention it, I do vaguely recall a Frenchman visiting our offices.'

‘What do you remember about him?'

Langford shook his head.

‘I am afraid my memory is hazy. I shall have to confer with my associate – it was a long time ago.'

‘Nonsense. There's nothing wrong with your memory! You just gave me a list of most of my assets without even reading your notes, so surely you can remember the Frenchman who brought you Niall McRae's last will and testament.'

Bruce walked towards him. Langford stepped back, a terrified look in his watery blue eyes. Damn it, did the old man think he was going to hit him?

‘How do you know about that?'

‘Let's say I came upon some papers – some very interesting papers. So what changes did the new will make to McRae's succession?'

‘You must realise I cannot discuss any confidential matters regarding the McRae family affairs with you or anyone not related…' he coughed, and spoke the rest of the sentence so fast his words seemed to stumble over one another, ‘not related to the family of the deceased, my Lord.'

Bruce shrugged, impatient. ‘I know Pichet was carrying three letters. One for you, one for Lady Patricia. Did he tell you about the third letter?'

His hand clutching the portfolio tightly, the old man took another step back towards the door.

‘I don't recall the man Pichet mentioning another letter, my lord.'

It was plain Langford wasn't going to say anything more. Bruce took a deep breath. He had to try something else.

‘It must have been very upsetting for Lady Patricia to receive her husband's letter as well as his personal items – his flask, tobacco case and gloves, and I believe an embroidered handkerchief… Anything else?'

The old man's shoulders seemed to lose their stiffness and he let out a shaky breath. He must have thought he'd better answer at least some of Bruce's queries because he was more accommodating suddenly.

‘Once again, I fail to understand how you can be in possession of such detailed personal information, sir, but…ahem…you are right. Monsieur Pichet did entrust me with Lord Niall's letter and personal effects, which I took to Westmore. There wasn't much, just the items you mentioned.'

‘Nothing else, you are quite sure?' Bruce frowned, pensive. So the medallion wasn't destined to Lady Patricia.

‘Positive. I will never forget how upset poor Lady Patricia was to receive her husband's monogrammed handkerchief, stained with his own blood. It was part of a set she had embroidered herself and given him as a wedding present, only six months before.'

This time, Bruce's heart flipped in his chest. ‘They'd been married only six months?'

‘That's right, they were married in March 1815, only a couple of months before Lord McRae's regiment was dispatched to Belgium. It was a terrible ordeal for her, in her…ahem… delicate condition.'

‘What delicate condition?' Bruce repeated without understanding.

Charles Langford nodded. ‘At the end of August, she was only half-way through her pregnancy of course. It was all very, very sad…'

It suddenly hit him. Of course! What a fool he'd been not to see what had been staring him in the face all along. Niall McRae was desperate to provide for his son and the woman he loved, but Cameron wasn't born then, and that could only mean one thing. The son he was referring to wasn't Cameron, and the woman he so wanted to protect and care for wasn't Lady Patricia.

That was why Langford hadn't mentioned the half medal. McRae didn't send it to Lady Patricia, but to that other woman – the mother of his son, and the woman he loved – together with the third letter.

No wonder Lady Patricia was so eager to get her hands on Colonel Saintclair's diary, and Cameron was ready to go to any length to acquire, and destroy it. What Colonel Saintclair had written in his diary changed everything.

He remembered Niall McRae's portrait in the library – a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. His throat tightened and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Could it be that…?

‘Will that be all, my Lord?' Charles Langford stared at him, an inquisitive look in his blue eyes.

‘Yes, Langford, that will be all,' he answered absent-mindedly. ‘Thank you.'

He had some thinking to do, all he wanted now was to be alone. He hardly noticed when the old man bowed and let himself out.

‘What do you think of the party so far? It's rather splendid, isn't it?'

McRae handed him a champagne flute. Bruce drank a sip and winced. He didn't care much for fizzy wine at the best of times, but that one left a foul taste in his mouth.

He surveyed the ballroom, magnificent with its crystal chandeliers, gilded wall mirrors and shiny parquet flooring and the couples dancing to the orchestra's waltzes, cotillons and quadrilles. There had been rousing polkas and mazurkas, the latest dance crazes to sweep across the ballrooms of Europe, or so an elderly gentleman had informed him a few moments before.

Women, dressed in delicate pastels or deep, shimmering blues or crimsons, swirled past on the arm of their dance companions, their jewellery dazzling under the lights.

‘Aye, it's very impressive,' he replied at last, turning to look at his host.

They were the same height, McRae a slighter built, probably because he'd never had to train hard or fight. Nevertheless Bruce had to admit the man cut a dashing figure in a sober black suit, his shirt and silk cravat gleaming white against the dark wool, and shiny gold-coloured buttons shaped like griffins adorning its jacket.

It was no wonder he had dazzled a naive young woman like Rose. In fact he must have looked like a fairytale prince charming, the man every little girl dreamt of. Watching McRae earlier on as he paraded in the ballroom's extravagant decor as if he didn't have a care in the world was enough for Bruce to feel the urge to smash his fist in his face all over again.