Whence Came a Prince (11 page)

A moment in the nursery confirmed that Ian was still fast asleep on his side, his legs folded, his arms curled round his head. Rose smoothed her hand across the lad’s round bottom. Could she possibly love any bairn more than her sweet Ian? Though he was not a child of her womb, he was surely a child of her heart.

The couple left the nursery as quietly as they had entered, stepped into the cool of the bedroom, and latched the door. “ ’Tis pleasant in here.” Rose walked across the room, wondering if his gaze followed her. She drew the curtains closed and lit a single taper, turning day into night. “Upon a bonny day in June, when wearing through the afternoon …”

“Enough of that plowman’s poetry,” Jamie protested lightly. “Duncan is ever singing the man’s songs.” When she returned to his side, he gathered her in a loose embrace; “Though he does have one fine tune. ‘She is a winsome wee thing, this sweet wee wife o’ mine.’ ”

“If you say so, Jamie.” She pulled her braid round, fiddling with the ribbon. His unexpected endearments took her aback. Might he love her after all? “I met Rabbie Burns, you know. In Dumfries.”

“You were on some dubious errand with a friend.”

“My dear Jane.” Her good friend from school, lost to her four months ago. Rose had survived her bout with croup, but Jane Grierson of Dunscore had not. “She compelled me to accompany her to the Globe Inn.”

Jamie feigned shock. “My
heidie
lass frequenting public houses.”

“One brief visit is hardly ‘frequent,’ ” Rose said, swatting his chin with the tail of her braid, “though I’ve been called headstrong before.”

“By me,” he reminded her, “on several occasions.”

Rose tightened the bow on her braid, mustering the courage to ask the question that nagged at her. “Do you mind awfully much, Jamie?” She studied the half smile on his face. “I am not my meek,
bowsome
sister.”

His smile held, but just. “You are not Leana. But you are my wife.”

“And you have … come to … accept this?” She bit her lip, wanting to ask more, afraid she’d asked too much.

“I have learned to be content,” he said simply.

Precious little comfort there. Apprehension, like a thick whorl of
newly carded wool, lodged itself in her throat. “ ’Tis not what I’m asking, and you know it well.”

A shadow moved across his face, then was gone. “You are asking if I love you as I once loved you.”

“Nae, Jamie. I am asking if you love me as you once loved Leana. With all your heart, holding nothing back.”

He released her from his embrace, a faint stain on his cheeks. “ ’Tis not a fair question, Rose. You and your sister are very different women.”

Dejected, she turned away from him. “Not when it comes to whom we love.”

O
ch!” Jamie stamped about the straw-covered floor, disgusted with himself. Evening sunlight poured through the open barn doors, but his mind was elsewhere—namely, with his wife hours earlier.
I have learned to be content.
What sort of response was that? Rose—his darling, infuriating, adorable Rose—had bared her soul to him. And what had he done? “I quoted Scripture to her, Duncan. Scripture!”

The overseer nodded sagely, dragging the sharpening stone across the beveled blade of his shears in long, even strokes. “A guid source, the Buik.
Fu
’ o’ wisdom. Whan yer ain wirds canna say what ye mean, ’tis a fitting place tae turn.”

Jamie glowered at him. “And when a man cannot say what he should, ’tis a poor place to hide.”

Duncan held the shears closer to the lamplight, inspecting his work. “Aye, thar are some wha use the Buik like a
shiel.
Not tae hold back the enemy, mind ye, but tae fight the Almighty.”

Jamie dropped onto a tall wooden stool and jammed his boot heel onto one of the rungs. “It’s not the Lord I’m struggling against. Not this time.”

“So ye say.” Duncan wiped the blades clean with a rag, then hung the tool on a nearby peg, ready for Monday’s shearing. “I suppose ye think ’tis young Rose ye’re
warslin
then.”

Jamie shrugged rather than face a question he did not want to answer.

“Or mebbe ye’re warslin with Jamie McKie.” He folded his polish
ing rag and stored it on a rough-hewn shelf, then clasped Jamie’s arm, giving him a firm shake. “I’ve a notion ye’re needin’ tae fight a battle that ye can win. I ken the verra place for an evenin’ skirmish: the River Nith.”

In no mood for riddles, Jamie shrugged off Duncan’s friendly gesture. “What does the Nith have to do with me?”

Duncan’s piercing blue eyes pinned him to the spot. “Twa days o’ rain means the river’s in spate. Ideal for
nicht
anglin’. Sea trout from the Nith make a fine breakfast.”

“Are you suggesting we go
fishing
?”

“I’ve an extra rod and plenty o’ nets. If Rose doesna mind, ye’ll not be missed.” Duncan inclined his head. “Unless ye have nae skill wi’ rod and tackle—”

“I can manage.” Jamie was already ashamed of sparring with the man. Duncan was his ally, not his adversary. If he wanted a partner for angling, so be it. Jamie started for the mains, calling over his shoulder, “Allow me a moment with Rose.

“Ye’ll want tae change yer clothes,” Duncan called after him. “Dark colors so the fish willna spy ye.”

Jamie headed up the stair, certain he’d find Rose in the nursery. Their afternoon tryst had ended badly. ’Twas best set aright at once, or neither of them would sleep well. When he reached the landing, he heard her alto voice, slightly off-key, singing a cradlesong to his son.

His throat tightened at the familiar words from his Glentrool childhood, once sung by a woman with a voice much like Rose’s.
Rowena McKie.
Though his mother was demanding, she loved him completely. So did Rose.

Jamie continued up the stair, joining in the next verse, hoping his wife might hear him. And forgive him.

His words faded when he realized she had stopped singing. Disconcerted, he tapped on the nursery door before stepping into the room, lit by a single window.

Rose was sitting in the only chair, her head bowed. Ian lay curled in her arms, nigh to asleep, a linen blanket tucked beneath his chin. One small fist clasped the neckline of her gown. Her silence, so unlike his
blithesome
wife, unnerved him. Jamie dropped to one knee beside her. “What is it, Rose?”

She looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Jamie. I thought …” Her voice broke, and she tried again. “When I asked you … this afternoon …” She turned her head away, though not before he saw the first tear fall.

“Rose, look at me. Please.” He placed one finger under her chin and gently angled it toward him, lowering his head until their eyes met. “You asked me a question no wife should have to ask her husband.”

She jerked away from his touch, her braid sweeping across her back. “My question was unfair, Jamie. When you left our bedroom and then were so quiet at supper, I thought …” Rose sagged across Ian, her cheek resting on the sleeping child. “I was afraid you were … angry with me.”

“I am only angry with myself,” he confessed, meaning it. How could he have been so thoughtless to have punished her for speaking the truth? Jamie brushed his lips against her hair, still fragrant with rose water.
My fair Rose.
He kept his voice low, trying not to wake his child yet wanting to comfort his wife. “You have nothing to fear, Rose. Your sister is gone. And I am here.”

“Promise me …” He almost didn’t hear her, so soft was her voice. “Promise me you will … stay.”

“Always.” Jamie stilled, breathing in the heady scent of her, feeling the warmth of her beneath him, the silky softness of her hair against his mouth.
Dearest Rose.
Without plot or scheme, the charming lass had won his heart all over again.

He was not angry with her. He was in love with her.

Jamie closed his eyes, letting the truth sink in. After months of holding her at bay, surrender was sweeter than he could have imagined. A declaration of love waited on his lips. Only pride kept him from confessing it aloud.

Her head lifted ever so slightly. “Will you help me tuck Ian into bed?”

Jamie gathered the child in his arms, then stood and lowered Ian into his crib, careful not to wake him. Rose watched him from her low perch, drying her tears with her sleeve. “What a good father you are.”

“Would that I were a better husband.” His arms empty once more, he pulled Rose to her feet and into his embrace. “Forgive me, lass.”

“Only if you will forgive me.” She pressed her cheek against his chest. “For all of it.”

“ ’Tis behind us now, Rose.” He softly kissed her brow, then her cheeks, then her lips, hoping she might taste the words he could not quite say.

As they stood, wrapped in each other’s arms, Jamie dearly wished he’d not made plans for the evening. Yet he could not fail Duncan after all the man had done for him. Jamie vowed to make it up to her the minute he returned. “Rose …” He leaned back, wanting to be certain she saw the apology in his expression. “Duncan has invited me to join him for a spell of night angling on the Nith. We shan’t be gone but a few hours. Will you mind?”

She looked up, a ghost of a smile on her face. “My Jamie … fishing? I did not know you were a sportsman.”

“I am not, which Duncan will soon discover.” He rested his hand lightly on Ian, though he kept his gaze locked with hers. “I’ll not be long.”

“Shall I wait up for you?” The desire in her eyes was unmistakable.

“ ’Twill be well after midnight.” He berated himself the moment the words were out of his mouth. Why didn’t he say what he meant?
Yes. Wait for me.

“If I am asleep, kindly wake me so I might …” Her cheeks grew pink. “So I might welcome you home.”

Her invitation was clear. And gladly accepted. “I will indeed awaken you, Rose,” he murmured, leaning over to steal a kiss. He lingered there until he was certain she heard what remained unspoken. “ ’Til midnight then.”

Duncan met him on the lawn, two long, painted rods in hand. Neatly mended nets and a bulky angling purse hung from his lanky form. He pointed to the creel at his feet. “ ’Tis the younger man’s duty, totin’ the fish.” He strapped the long wicker basket to Jamie’s shoulders, then aimed him east toward the village. “Nae man can tether time or tide. Like Simon Peter, we go afishin’.”

Jamie could not help smiling. “Lead the way, Duncan.” Though Rose’s company was sweeter by far, he would not begrudge his friend a brief outing. They had the narrow country road to themselves, the edges lined with
dry stane dykes
—stone fences fitted together without mortar—and beyond them, grazing sheep. Bits of wool caught on the lower branches of the shrubs, giving the bushes and hedgerows fleecy skirts.

By the time the sun disappeared below the horizon, they’d be in the river casting their lines a dozen
ells
across the water. And not long after, Jamie reminded himself, he’d be home again, twining himself round Rose. His first love and his last. Tonight he would tell her so and put her fears to rest.

Duncan’s easy manner made the miles beneath their feet pass quickly. The seasoned angler knew the shortest route to his favored beat near Airds Point and the safest approach into the water.

“Get yer footin’,” Duncan cautioned as they waded into the shallow river and planted their boots on slabs of rock rather than risk the silt deposited round them. “The tide is risin’ wi’ the moon.” Though it was cooler by the river, the air was redolent with the earthy scents of summer. Fronds of wet bracken lined the shoreline. Muddy seaweed washed up from the Solway and clung to their boots. Above them, the clear, bubbling call of the whaups ushered in the night, while below, the trout ascended with the tide.

Duncan handed him a slender wooden rod twice his height, then
gauged the water with an expert’s eye. “Mend the line upstream, then sink the fly afore the current catches it. And dinna be splashin’ round. Sea trout are easy tae
fleg
, mair than yer Cree salmon.”

The sky was a velvety black, carpeted with stars, when Duncan pulled the first fish out of the rising waters. “You
niver
tail a sea trout,” he explained, breathless with exertion, plunging his net into the water. Together they lifted the stout fish and flopped it onto the riverbank. “Nigh tae half a stane.”

Determined not to be outdone, Jamie cast his line, then pulled, the fly barely skimming underneath the surface of the water. The sounds of the night settled into a low murmuring as he and Duncan exchanged shepherd lore and waited for another fish to bite. Jamie’s feet were growing numb from the cold water round his boots when his line tightened with a satisfying snap.

“
Haud
yer ground!” Duncan abandoned his own line and grabbed the net.

The sea trout, well conditioned from feeding in the Solway, fought valiantly, but Jamie did not give one inch. With Duncan’s help, the enormous fish was wrestled into the net, nearly dragging them both into the Nith before they pulled it free of the water and carried their prize to dry land.

Duncan slapped him on the back. “I’ve not seen a finer catch.”

Jamie wiped his brow with his forearm, hiding his elation at catching a far bigger fish than Duncan’s. He nodded at the creel, where Duncan’s trout was already stored. “You did all right yourself.”

The older man shrugged. “Better a
sma’
fish than an empty dish. Suppose we head hame and catch a bit o’ sleep afore the cock crows.”

“Sleep.” Jamie grinned. “Aye, there’s that.” The men gathered their belongings, then headed west, with Jamie toting the creel on his shoulders. Despite the added weight, his step was light and his spirits jubilant.

When they neared the last bend in the road before Auchengray, Duncan gave him a genial shove sideways. “Ye smell like a brackish river, and that’s nae mistake. Rose might serve
ye
for breakfast.”