Whence Came a Prince (12 page)

Jamie rolled his eyes in mock disdain. “I hear Neda has a pan waiting for your sorry hide as well.” Once inside Auchengray’s kitchen, they
lit a taper at the hearth, then found the necessary tools. After filleting the fish, they washed them in cold water and doused their dark olive green skins with salt.

“Me wife will handle the rest,” Duncan said, leaving his fish beside Jamie’s on the kitchen dressing table, where meat was dressed for cooking. “They’re none too appealin’
noo
, but come the
morn’s morn
, the aroma o’ trout rolled in oatmeal and fryin’ in butter will call ye tae a
gustie
breakfast.” He pointed in the direction of the well, less than a furlong from Auchengray’s door. “Let us see tae our ablutions, Jamie. Then I’ll bid ye guid nicht.”

After borrowing a cake of heather soap from the stillroom, the men headed back out of doors. Stripped down to his
sark
, Jamie scrubbed hard, one thought on his mind.
Rose.
Moments later, still drying his face with the tails of his shirt, he strode through the house, propelled by desire, recalling his vows twice spoken.
I, James Lachlan McKie, do take this woman.

When he unlatched the bedroom door, he heard a slight stirring.

“Jamie?” Rose called out softly. “Come to bed, for I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Too long.” He reached for the flickering candle on the high dresser and carried it to their bedside table. Needing to see her. Wanting her to see him. She made room for him as he climbed inside the shadowy confines of their wooden bed.

Tentative fingers touched his damp cheek as her gaze searched his. “You look like a man bursting with news. Did you catch something?”

“I did.” A sense of peace washed over him, more cleansing than the well water. He kissed her soft cheek. Then the other, just as soft. “I caught a beauty. With long hair and dark, sparkling eyes.”

“Jamie!” Those very eyes widened in horror. “A fish with
hair
?”

His laugh was low, his gaze focused on her mouth. “ ’Tis not a fish I’ve caught but a
loosome
wife.” He kissed her thoroughly, meaning to steal her breath, losing his own instead. “My lovely Rose,” he murmured, sliding his hands down her back, inching her closer, burying his face in her unbound hair. “For an impatient woman, you’ve been most patient with me.”

“Jamie …” He heard the smile in her voice, felt her heart beating against his. “Did you
eat
that heather soap or only bathe in it? For I fear the lye has gone to your head.”

“Nae, lass.” Jamie leaned back, just far enough to meet her gaze. “ ’Tis
you
who have gone to my head. And to my heart. I love you, Rose.”

“Oh, Jamie!” Her eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Can you possibly mean what you say?”

He kissed her tears away, tasting their salty sweetness. “I do.”

“ ’Tis too much to hope for,” she whispered before his mouth found hers.

O
ch, poor Leana!” Aunt Meg’s hand gripped the wheel spokes of the chaise. “Are you certain of this? ’Tis an
unchancie
venture. Traveling with a stranger. Arriving where you’re not expected. Telling your father news he will not care to hear.”

Leana eyed the driver, who stood some distance away bargaining with a traveling packman. She leaned over the side of the hired chaise and motioned her aunt closer. The pocket full of coins tied round her waist bolstered her courage. “God has provided more than enough silver for my fare.” Her thoughts settled on the treasured bairn inside her. “And he’s given me good reason to return home.”

“The best of reasons.” Every line in Meg’s pale face was visible in the bright morning sunlight. “Though I cannot help feeling anxious.”

Leana tipped forward to plant a kiss on the woman’s cheek. “Auntie, however can I thank you?”

“The blessing was mine, lass.” Meg’s chin began trembling in earnest. “Agness loved you dearly. As much as you love your Ian. She’d be proud of the
grade
woman you’ve become.” Her aunt reached inside the chaise and squeezed Leana’s gloved hands. “Write me the minute you alight at Auchengray, or I won’t sleep a wink for worrying.”

The driver, Mr. Belford, a stick of a man with straight legs and crooked teeth, ambled up to the chaise, then climbed in effortlessly and landed on their shared seat with a bounce. “Ye ready, mem?”

“Almost.” Leana gazed fondly at her aunt, who’d backed a few steps away.

“God be with you, dearie.” Meg pressed a handkerchief to her nose.

Leana could only nod, so tightly closed was her throat. As the two
wheeled chaise lurched away from Burnside Cottage, she turned to watch the silver-haired woman slowly disappear from view. “And God be with you, Auntie,” she finally called out, waiting as long as she could before settling back on the thinly padded seat. The chaise had seen better days; the open vehicle’s stiff bonnet was worn thin, and the springs beneath them complained when the wooden wheels hit a rut in the road. But the weather was dry, and their horse had a lively gait. And she was going home.

Mr. Belford gestured toward the appealing prospect at the high crossroads. “Have ye a leuk.” Rolling green countryside unfurled in all directions beneath a gentian blue sky. “ ’Tis a fine Friday we’re havin’,” he said as though testing her, seeing if she were the sort of passenger who’d pass the hours in spirited discourse or a quiet fare who preferred to ride in solitude.

Leana hoped she would not disappoint the man by being the latter. She had much on her mind and no energy for discourse. Nor was the hearty breakfast Meg had insisted she eat—fresh trout from the burn—sitting well on her stomach. Leana aimed her gaze at the distant hills. “ ’Tis a lovely day indeed.”

She’d traveled the same road the week before
Pasch
—Easter, the English called it—on a cold and rainy Sabbath eve. How different things looked riding in the opposite direction on a sunny June morning. A flock of redpolls flew overhead, too high to be seen but easily recognized by their loud, twittering song. All through the hedgerows grew red campion, its deep pink leaves showy against the green foliage. Fingers of light penetrated the chinks between the stones of the dry stane dykes that divided the pastures. And round the tree trunks climbed yellow honeysuckle. Hadn’t she gone for a walk each evening to drink in the sweet scent?

The chaise continued its steady pace as the road began to undulate across the countryside. Whitewashed stone farmhouses came and went, each one a poignant reminder of home. What would be blooming at Auchengray now? Sweet cicely by the roadside perhaps, but nothing in her gardens, of that Leana was certain. She’d left the household without a bit of instruction during the most critical gardening months. Eliza had
probably inherited the task. She might welcome the return of her mistress if it signaled an end to her weeding duties.

Her father’s reception was the one that worried her. Lachlan McBride did not like surprises or anything that might bring reproach upon his household; before the day ended, Leana would accomplish both. Would he accept the situation? Or close the door in her face?

She had considered writing her father, alerting him of her plans. But that meant explaining on paper what compelled her to come home.
I am carrying Jamie’s child.
Far better done in person. It would have taken days for the letter to arrive and another week for a response, if she’d even received one. Every hour between letters would have been agony—envisioning his face, fearing the worst. This was the best way, the only way.

She would, however, send a letter to Glentrool. Jamie must know the truth. Rose, who wanted a child so badly, would be crushed. And Jamie—
oh, dear Jamie!
Would he be angry with her? Hurt? Or might he no longer care?

Grief came over her like a fever, heating her skin, twisting her stomach. Though she was returning to Auchengray, she would not find Jamie shepherding his flocks. Or Ian waving his arms, asking to be held.
Mama-ma-ma.
It might be years before she saw her son again. Unless Jamie brought Rose home for a visit, and then it could never be long enough.

Ian, my Ian.
Leana pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, holding back her tears. She never should have left him, not for any reason, however noble it might have seemed. Would he ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself?

She imagined the nursery at Auchengray—empty, silent—and prayed she might still find a remnant of Ian’s clothing or some lingering scent in the air. Anything to remind her of the son she could no longer claim. Two bedrooms would be vacant on that floor as well. Might she be given the box bed she’d slept in as a girl? Or the bed she’d once slept in as a wife? With Jamie.

Feeling ill, she gripped the driver’s arm. “Please … please, might we stop?”

He brought the Cleveland bay to an easy halt. Leana alighted from
the chaise and left her breakfast in the shallow ditch by the side of the road. She knew the trout was not to blame; ’twas fear, well warranted.

Leana stood, weaving a little. At least she’d managed to spare her green gown—her only gown at the moment. Mr. Belford offered his clean handkerchief, then lifted her back into the chaise. Mortified, she looked down at her feet and prayed she would not embarrass herself again.

They were on their way a short time later, the dry road hastening their progress. “Keltonhill approaches,” he said pleasantly as if nothing had happened. “Four hours to Newabbey, mem. We’ll stop at Carlinwark for dinner.”

Dinner? She couldn’t imagine anything less appetizing. Perhaps she might remain in the chaise while he took his meal.

They soon clattered across the Brig o’ Dee, aimed for the quiet village of Rhonehouse on Keltonhill. A fortnight hence the handful of inns they passed would overflow with revelers from Ireland, Cumberland, and beyond as they gathered for the annual horse fair. She’d never attended—Father would not allow it—but Duncan would no doubt spend a long Tuesday among the avenue of tents.

The terrain flattened as they neared Carlinwark, which appeased her churning stomach. It also meant they were closer to home. Mr. Belford brought the chaise to a jarring stop at the Three Thorns Inn. “
Wull
ye be havin’ dinner, Miss McBride? ’Tis included in yer fare, ye ken.”

“Tea would be lovely.” She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. “And toast.”

Above the door swung a battered sign with three hawthorn trees carved into the wood, the paint lost to the elements. Sunlight gave way to a dim interior of scarred tables and peasant faces. Leana sat by herself while Mr. Belford, obviously a frequent patron, chatted with the scullery maids loitering near the kitchen door. The smell of bacon grease made Leana’s stomach rise and fall like a jolly boat lowered into a tempestuous sea. An indifferent serving girl presented her with a dinner plate before she could refuse. Leana was grateful for the lukewarm tea but left the kale brose uneaten. She took the small portion of cheese with her, lest her appetite reappear during the second part of their journey.

They would not be stopping again; her next meal would be taken
at Lachlan’s table. As they climbed back into the chaise, she prayed for strength.
Thou art my father, my God, and the rock of my salvation.
No other foundation had proved so trustworthy.

Mr. Belford seemed eager to be rid of his
fauchie
passenger, urging the horse to lift his feet. Or perhaps the man had another fare waiting. They would arrive at Auchengray with many hours of daylight left. Too many. She was already weary, and the day held far greater hurdles.

With each mile, Leana’s trepidation increased. She tried to order her thoughts, to plan what she might say, but her mind was unfocused and her pulse fluttery. Who might greet her at the door? Would she spill out her news at once? And what would they say?
We missed you, Leana! Why are you here, Leana? Begone with your fertile belly, Leana.

As they descended the steep road approaching Haugh of Urr, she presented her square of hard cheese to Mr. Belford, doubting she would ever eat again.

The chaise halted at the crossroads as they waited their turn. A shepherd and his dogs were herding a flock of sheep across the road that led to the Urr parish kirk and, farther south, to Dalbeaty. Leana gazed after them, reminded of her father’s winter jaunts to a widow’s farm in the neighborhood, and wondered if anything had come of his visits. “What do you know of Edingham?” she asked her driver.

“Owned by a wealthy widow,” Mr. Belford was quick to answer. “House sits on the spur of a hill. Nice bit o’ land with cattle. Three sons, not a wife among them.” His brown eyes assessed her. “Mebbe a husband at Edingham for ye, Miss McBride?”

A tightening round her heart, no more. “I … do not wish … to marry.”

The truth, Leana.
No gentleman would choose a wife with another man’s seed growing inside her. Her only hope had been Jamie. And Jamie was gone.

She pressed her hand to her waist. Not entirely gone. Her hands would still be busy; her life would still be full. A child offered hope enough for any woman’s future. The thought of bearing Jamie’s son or daughter comforted her, calmed her. Reverend Gordon would baptize the bairn, then see to his or her
kirkin
on that first, important Sabbath visit to church.

But when Reverend Gordon came to mind, the dreadful words he’d spoken one dark March night came too.
The sole responsibility of caring for the boy will fall to his father, James McKie, and to his stepmother, Rose McKie.
Leana gasped aloud, forgetting where she was, seeing nothing before her but the stony faces of the kirk elders.

“Miss?” The chaise driver gripped her elbow, as if he feared she might tumble onto the gravel when they jolted forward. “Are ye feelin’ poorly again?”

“I am … fine.” She forced the words from her lips, reminding herself that Jamie and Rose had already left the parish. Giving them custody of
this
child would not be so easily accomplished. Nor would Leana allow it. Not for one moment.