Whence Came a Prince (23 page)

Peter’s eyebrows arched. “Does Mr. McBride approve of card playing?”

“As long as we keep our silver in our purses and only tally points, he will have no cause for complaint.” Rose looked round the room, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “But you won’t mention our playing to him, will you?”

Peter chuckled. “No, Mistress McKie. ’Twill be our secret.”

Rose cast her smile, bright as starlight, on Leana. “Dearie, you must play. We need four.”

Jamie saw her hesitate before answering, “Whatever you say, Rose.”

He followed the others into the parlor, where Hugh had already set up a square table with four hard-backed chairs. Not a spontaneous notion, then; Rose had something up her sleeve, and it was not a playing card. She seemed intent on presenting Peter Drummond—eligible bachelor that he was—in the most flattering light. For whose benefit? Surely not Leana’s.

“Round games are better suited for parties,” Rose declared, locating the cards in the sideboard, “but whist is the perfect game for partners. Shall we find our seats?” She took her place facing the door, as any hostess would, then nodded at the seat opposite her. “Would you be good enough to sit there, Mr. McKie? I believe Mr. Drummond and my sister make a fine pair, don’t you?”

Peter coughed. “I beg your pardon, but …” He fiddled with his cravat, as if his neckcloth had grown too tight since supper. “Husbands and wives are not usually permitted to partner for whist. ’Tis considered an unfair advantage. At least, those are the rules at Glensone.”

“Are they really?” Rose looked crestfallen. “Would that mean you are …
my
partner?”

“Aye.” Peter sat down across from her, his discomfort obvious. “And your husband … eh, Mr. McKie must partner with … Miss McBride.”

Leana took her seat, the rustle of her silk gown the only sound in the room. Jamie pulled out his chair as quietly as he could and sat facing her, gazing at her bowed head across the felt-topped table. Whatever foolishness Rose planned was not working.

True to form, his wife’s zeal did not flag. “Jamie, you shall be our first dealer.”

He shuffled the cards. Anything to move the evening forward and bring it to a swift end, if only for Leana’s sake. Rose cut the deck, as was customary, then he distributed all the cards evenly, turning over the last one from his own hand to show the others the trump card.
Hearts.

While Jamie eyed her over his handful of spades and clubs, Leana rearranged the thirteen cards in her keeping, her slender fingers moving them from here to there with studious intent. The others did the same, then Peter began the first trick of the game.

“I’ll not be much help to us,” he alerted Rose, playing a four of diamonds.

“And I have nothing but honors,” Rose replied airily, laying down the queen of hearts when it was her turn, taking the trick for them. Cards landed on the felt, circling the table like a clock. Peter. Leana. Rose. Jamie. Suits were matched, trump cards were played, worthless cards discarded, and still little was said beyond the occasional, “Oh.”

When all thirteen tricks were played, Rose reached for her scoring sheet. “So … shall we play short or long whist?”

Three voices answered in unison, “Short.”

Jamie stretched out in the box bed with a weary groan. “Whatever were you thinking, Rose?”

She rolled onto her side to face him, her unbound hair falling round her shoulders. “Peter Drummond needs a wife,” she said firmly, “and Leana needs a husband.”

“And you need to leave such decisions to your father.”

“My
father?
” Rose sat up, tossing aside the sheet, clearly unhappy with him. “Do you think Lachlan McBride cares one whit about my sister’s happiness?”

“Nae,” he admitted. “But he does care what his neighbors think of him.” Through the open window the churr of a nightjar rose and fell, filling the weighty silence. “Mr. Drummond of Glensone is not about to marry his only son and heir to … a woman like Leana.”

Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he saw the spark of anger in her eyes. “To what sort of woman are you referring?”

He sat up as well, hoping to make amends. “Rose, you ken what I mean—”

“You mean a woman who loved God enough to sacrifice
everything.
” He heard her tears and sensed her temper rising. “A woman who spoke the truth. A woman who gave up her son. A woman whose only sin was
loving you.
”

“Rose!” He grabbed her wrists and gently shook her. “Beloved, keep your voice down. Your sister is in the next room.”

“So she is.” Rose sniffed, wiping her nose with her nightgown sleeve. “Alone. While I am here with you.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Does that distress you … being here with me?”

“You know better.” Her head drooped. “But it grieves me to think of Leana. When she was not here at Auchengray, when I did not have to see her suffer daily, I could convince myself she was happy in Twyne
holm. Now I know the truth.” She looked up, beseeching him with her dark eyes. “Why can’t my sister marry Peter Drummond?”

“Because, much as you might wish it so, Peter will not court her.” Jamie kissed her brow, smoothing back her hair. “His father would ne’er allow it. If and when Lachlan seeks a husband for Leana, ’twill be a second or third son with no claim on his sire’s estate. Someone from another parish, not privy to Newabbey gossip.”

“A … stranger.” Her voice broke on the word.

“I’m afraid so. Were Leana still a maid, gentlemen would vie for her hand and pay handsomely for the privilege of claiming it. Instead, your father is the one who must do the wooing, offering potential suitors a sizable dowry for taking Leana off his hands.” Jamie shuddered, imagining the riffraff Lachlan might court on his daughter’s behalf. Older men with little money and limited prospects. And few moral scruples.

Rose sank against him, drying her wet cheeks on his nightshirt. “Poor Leana.”

Aye.
Jamie shut his eyes, but the truth remained. He could not love her. He could not help her. And he could not look at her without regret.

H
uddled in her box bed, Leana tried not to listen. But words and phrases penetrated the walls of her room, seeking a willing ear.

“… gave up her son.” Rose’s voice, heated with ire. Was the lass angry with Jamie? Or disgusted with
her
? Ashamed of herself, Leana inched closer to the wall that joined their two bedrooms.

“… loving you.” Leana heard that phrase distinctly, and her heart sank. It seemed her efforts to conceal her feelings for Jamie had failed.

“Rose!” Jamie’s voice. Sharp, a warning. And then he spoke again. Not so sharply. “Beloved …” Leana pressed her hand to her mouth. Jamie had once honored her with that endearment in the same tender voice.
Beloved.
Though he still spoke kindly to her, there was no longer any mention of love.

Leana sat up, her nightgown twisted round her legs, and prayed she’d not hear another word. But a snippet of conversation still found her. “… marry Peter Drummond?”

Oh, Rose.
Her sister’s naiveté was showing. Jamie would set her straight. There would be no suitors knocking on Auchengray’s door, least of all Peter Drummond. Persuaded to stay for supper and then for a game of whist, all because Rose thought he might make a suitable husband for her wayward sister. A woman no longer welcome in polite society. A woman only God could love.

Leana’s breath caught. Was that true?

She gathered the sheets round her, staring into the darkness. Jamie,
the only man she’d ever loved, no longer loved her. There was no one else, could never be anyone else. No one except the Almighty.

Could he fill all the empty places where Jamie’s love once lived? Would he mend her heart, shattered when Ian was taken from her arms? Was the love of One she could not see or hear or touch … was it enough?

“Nae!” she whispered into the hollowness of her box bed, tears pooling in her eyes. She touched her lips with trembling fingers, remembering the feel of Jamie’s mouth on hers. Was he kissing Rose now, as he’d once kissed her? How unfair, how cruel to have come home to this! Could the Lord not have intervened, not have spared her? She had given up Jamie, would give up Ian a second time. Had she not sacrificed enough? Would her pain never end?

“
Why
, Lord?” The words were squeezed from her heart. “Why must I be alone?”

No answer came.

Even the nightjar ceased its churring.

Leana sank onto her pillow, ashamed of her questions. How dare she speak of sacrifice to One who had sacrificed his life? Or complain of suffering to One who had suffered on her behalf?
Forgive me. Lord.

Seeking comfort where she might find it, Leana rested her hands over the roundness of her belly. In a few weeks she would feel the first flutter of movement. A tangible reminder that God’s blessing on her life remained. She was far from alone.

“This child will always be mine, Lord.” Leana gazed at the moonlit window. “And always be yours.”

“Leana, I don’t know when I’ve seen you look so …” Jessie Newall narrowed her bright blue eyes, assessing her across the kitchen parlor table. “So
bien
, my mother would say. Comfortable. As if you’d just finished eating a dish of fresh strawberries and cream.”

“That’s odd.” Leana looked down at her empty plate, the food reduced to crumbs. “I thought it was shortbread.”

Jessie laughed and ran a hand through her marmalade-colored curls.
“You’ve not lost your sense of humor, I see.” She draped her son over her shoulder, rubbing his back to help his milk settle. “Is there some blithe news you’d care to report, lass? A suitor in Twyneholm, perhaps …”

Leana ducked her head, feeling her cheeks warm. “You know there isn’t a suitor in Twyneholm or anywhere else.” Jessie Newall was as plain speaking as any woman in the parish. And the most perceptive. Care needed to be taken, or Jessie would winkle out the truth.

Leana had taken advantage of the fine weather that Saturday morning, bringing Ian along for a neighborly visit. With Midsummer approaching, warmer days were ahead, but this one was breezy and pleasant, perfect for a stroll up Troston Hill. The sky was washed in blue, the sparse clouds the color of newly shorn fleece. Atop the hill sat a one-story farmhouse surrounded by a tidy steading and a small flock of blackface sheep.

Jessie had greeted her with a broad smile and shortbread fresh from the oven. In her kitchen parlor, a small nook separate from the cooking area, the two of them had swapped stories from the last several months, stitching together their friendship with tautly woven threads. When the time came to share her secret, Jessie Newall would be one of the first to hear it. But not today.

Leana stood, Ian still wrapped round her. “Shall we take the children out of doors?”

“First we’ll have to talk my daughter out of her game.” The redheaded child sat nearby on the floor, surrounded by several horn cups that were easily stacked, then knocked over, making a cheerful clatter. “Annie, if you’ll put them on the table, you can play with them again later.”

Leana admired the kind, straightforward manner in which Jessie handled her children, neither berating nor spoiling them. Now that Ian was crawling, he could get into a great deal more trouble. Any advice Jessie might offer her about handling older bairns would be welcome, not only for Ian’s sake, but for the child to come.

Jessie led the way, a child on each hip, as they strolled into her garden. A profusion of vegetables awaited them with a few poppies for color. “Colin Elliot takes some of my fancier cabbages to market for me
in Dumfries,” Jessie explained when Leana complimented her abundant crops. “The Dutch red, the sugarloaf, the yellow savoy. Those are the ones folk in the royal burgh seem to favor. Come sit beneath the rowan tree where the sun won’t burn us.”

A few white petals remained scattered beneath the branches full of berries, which would ripen to a bright red come August. They settled on the dry ground, spreading their skirts round them. Ian was content to sit by Leana’s side and play with the string of colored beads she’d brought for him, while Annie went off to investigate the kitchen garden, poking a stick in the soil round each plant. “ ’Tis good for drainage,” Jessie noted with a wry grin. She settled Rabbie on her lap, a thin blanket across him. “He’ll be asleep before Annie finds her first worm.”

Leana smiled at the boy, remembering when Ian was that small. “How are you faring with two bairns?” she asked, being careful not to seem too curious. Though Ian would depart well before her new child arrived, she would always be the mother of two.

“They’re a handful.” Jessie adjusted her son’s blanket. “Each one verra different. With Rabbie I felt as if I started all over again as a mother,
spleet-new.
Was it like that for you with Ian after a few months away?”

Leana confessed the truth. “I did not realize until I arrived that Ian was still at Auchengray.” As Leana described her homecoming and its many entanglements, Jessie listened without comment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

“I am glad Rose is so generous,” Jessie finally said, “allowing you to spend time with your son.”

Knowing Jessie would speak honestly, Leana voiced a question that weighed on her. “Have you seen Rose … with Ian? Does she … manage well?”

Jessie did not respond at once, pursing her lips as she gazed up into the rowan tree’s sturdy branches. “I have only seen your sister with Ian at kirk or in the village. Alan and I …” A faint blush stole across her face. “We’ve not called at Auchengray in some time.”

“Hardly anyone has,” Leana was quick to say. “ ’Tis … difficult for people. Though Peter Drummond came Thursday and stayed for supper and whist.”

“Did he?” Jessie gazed toward the lane that led downhill to Glensone. “Fine neighbors, the Drummonds.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” Leana reminded her. “About Rose. And Ian.”