Whence Came a Prince (29 page)

Leana stepped into her room and lit a few candles to dispel the gloom before she began unlacing her gown. She’d stitched it soon after Ian was born, practically living in the dress those first few months. Since it laced up the front, rather than in the back, it made nursing her son much more manageable. Now she was grateful to wear it because she could dress herself without calling Eliza to help her. Regrettably, none of her other altered gowns were so designed.

After slipping off her soiled dress and loosely laced corset, Leana pulled a linen wrapper from her closet. ’Twould do for a quiet afternoon in her room. She tied it round her waist, dismayed to watch the belt inch up. Was there no hope of hiding this dear child?

“We will read,” she said aloud as though her bairn might behave himself, then dug through her small cupboard full of books. She chose
Sutton’s Meditation on the Sacrament
—a sober book for a sober day—then settled into the upholstered chair and drew the candle closer. Freed of her restrictive clothes, she read in blessed comfort. When occasional flutters distracted her, she pressed her hand over the spot as if to comfort David.
Or Davina.
The thought brought a smile to her lips.

The supper hour was drawing near when a soft knock at the door announced Eliza. “May I come in, mem?”

Leana was on her feet at once, her book forgotten. Since lady’s maids were accustomed to seeing their mistresses in every state of undress, Eliza might think it odd if she asked her to wait. But wait she must. “A moment, please.” Leana tossed aside her wrap and grabbed her corset, the lacing still threaded but quite loose. She wriggled into it headfirst and pulled it in place just as Eliza slipped through door.

“D’ye not want me help wi’ that, mem?” The maidservant wrinkled her brow at the sight of her, then hurried to be of assistance. Her
experienced hands made short work of the laces, drawing the edges of the corset closer. “ ’Tis not sae
het
today. Shall I
pu’
them tighter?”

Leana exhaled, making as much room as she could. “Only a little.” When Eliza yanked the laces, Leana gasped, her vision clouding for a moment. “Too … much.”

Eliza quickly loosened them with profuse apologies.

“ ’Tis not your fault, lass.” Leana took the deepest breath she could, grateful Eliza was standing behind her, where she could not see her expanding stomach. “I’ve been eating too well, I fear.”

Eliza finished her task without comment, then helped her into a clean gown for supper. It was only when the last button was finished that Eliza stepped in front of her. “Beg pardon, mem, but ye hardly eat
oniething
.” Though she was five years younger than Leana, the maidservant’s eyes shone with understanding. “Perhaps ye’re growin’ for anither reason.”

Tears welled in Leana’s eyes. Any pretense was over. “Does the whole staff know as well?”

“Nae.” Eliza offered Leana a fresh handkerchief from the dresser. “They’d have come tae me or tae Neda, and none have.”

“Oh, Eliza.” Leana dabbed at her nose, gazing at the maidservant all the while. “Can you possibly keep my secret? ’Tis not a matter of shame. I will gladly confess it after Lammas. But I fear it would … complicate things for Mr. and Mistress McKie.”

Eliza was quick to agree.

Leana grasped the girl’s chapped hands and squeezed them. “Will you promise to tell no one? And help me conceal the … evidence?”

“Ye can be sure I will, on
baith
counts.” Eliza stepped back to appraise her. “We’ll trim ane o’ yer corsets and tie yer apron higher. I’ll dress yer hair sae folk willna bother tae leuk below yer bonny face. As tae yer gouns, lighter colors are best. Might ye let oot yer seams a bit mair?”

“After supper,” Leana promised. “Eliza, I realize the burden this puts on you, keeping my secret.”

“ ’Tis nae burden, mem.” She blushed and curtsied. “I’m blithe tae ken ye’ll be a mither again.” Eliza turned and hastened out of the room,
leaving the door open for Leana to follow, for the supper bell was already ringing.

Leana started down the stair, steadying herself on the handrail, her heart lodged in her throat. First Father, now Eliza. Who else in the household had jaloused her secret? Neda seldom missed such things. Nor Annabel. But it wasn’t the servants knowing that made her knees weak and her steps unsure. It was Jamie. And Rose.
Three weeks to Lammas.

I
f you plan to storm the Bastille, you’re a twelvemonth late.”

Jamie looked up to find Lachlan looming over him, his expression arrogant, his frame outlined by the slanted afternoon light that filled the entrance to the barn.

Keeping his gaze as even as his blade, Jamie drew the whetstone the length of his sword and imagined thrusting the weapon into the man’s gullet. Every hour he lived under Lachlan McBride’s roof was more intolerable than the last. The uncle who’d once credited him with blessing his flocks seemed bent on destroying whatever kinship they might have known.

Lachlan picked up the dirk, examining the broad blade. “ ’Tis badly nicked.”

“That only means the dagger served its former owner well.” Jamie sheathed the sword within its worn scabbard, pleased with the heft of it in his hand. “As long as the point is sharp, ’twill do its duty.”

Lachlan snorted. “Surely you don’t envision needing to defend yourself?”

“ ’Tis a long journey home to Glentrool. With a wife and child to protect and my flocks to watch o’er, I’d rather be armed than foolish.” Jamie reclaimed his dirk from his uncle’s grasp and began to polish the gemstone-studded grip. Though the hilt was ornamental, the lethal blade was anything but decorative. The dagger would remain hidden in his boot until needed. Silent. Ready. A man could not be certain who his enemies might be—a thief, a Gypsy, a scoundrel. Or a brother.

Have your dirk where you can reach it.
John McMillan’s words, well marked.

Except Jamie could never kill his own brother. He would defend himself if necessary, but he would not strike the first blow. A fortnight had passed since he had written Evan. Jamie wondered if his letter had softened his brother’s heart … or hardened it.

Lachlan eyed the all-metal pistol on the bench. “That flintlock must be twenty years old.”

“ ’Twas made by Murdoch of Doune.” His
pensie
uncle could not help being impressed by the celebrated pistol maker. When the man offered no further comment, Jamie realized he’d at least won on that score. Lachlan did not need to know that the mainspring was deemed defective by the Dumfries merchant who’d sold it for a price well below its value. Jamie did not intend to fire the single-shot pistol; simply wielding such a weapon would subdue most blackguards.

He slipped the polished dirk into his boot, then began cleaning the pistol, a more tedious task than mere sharpening or polishing. His efforts were eased with a timely reminder: Lachlan’s wedding was two days hence. The man would disappear for a sennight with his bride, and peace would reign at Auchengray. “What time will we be leaving on Friday for Edingham?”

“Edingham?”
Lachlan’s voice raised a notch. “You’re to go straight to the Urr kirk, where the Douglases will meet us.
Not
to Edingham.”

Odd, his brusque response. Jamie had already visited the farm several times that spring. Was he no longer welcome? In truth, Jamie had no desire to see Edingham again and would gladly take the chaise directly to Urr. “What time shall we arrive at the kirk, then?”

“No later than half past eleven.” Lachlan tapped the watch in his pocket for emphasis. “My bride insists the ceremony begin at the stroke of noon, whether any witnesses are present or not.”

Jamie could not help but feel sorry for Morna Douglas, a woman destined to live in misery. Her sons, on the other hand, merited no pity whatsoever. They were cut from the same flawed bolt of broadcloth as his uncle, worshiping property over charity and silver above all else.

“I assume you came out here for a reason, Uncle,” Jamie muttered, intent on using the clever tool built into the butt of the pistol to clear
the fouling encrusted in the vent. When there was no response, he looked up. “Some … favor perhaps?”

Lachlan’s expression darkened. He did not like being seen through. “I need you to ride Walloch home from the kirk Friday. Morna and I shall press on to Moffat in the Douglas carriage. The Hastingses will escort Rose home in the chaise.”

“Fine,” Jamie said, already dreading the affair. Perhaps Leana was the fortunate one, spending a quiet morning alone with Ian.

Lachlan took a turn round the barn interior, inspecting his holdings. “Where is Duncan? I’ve not seen the man all day.”

“Visiting his daughter at Kingsgrange. He went byway of Dalbeaty.”

“Really?” Lachlan abruptly stopped, and a faint shadow moved across his features. “When is he expected home?”

Jamie peered out of doors, judging the hour to be no later than six. “I’d look for him by the gloaming.” Feeling a need to defend his friend, Jamie added, “This
is
his monthly Wednesday off.”

“Do you think I’m not aware of that?” Lachlan abruptly turned and marched toward the house while Jamie considered aiming his pistol at the man’s back. No gentleman pointed a gun at someone in jest, not even an unloaded one. But Jamie was tempted; aye, he was that.

He returned to his task as his thoughts drifted back to Leana. Now that he’d grown accustomed to the idea of her carrying his child, he took pleasure in it. What man would not welcome another son or daughter? Yet it grieved him too, for he would leave behind not only Leana but also his child.

Rose’s response was unpredictable. Would she be happy for her sister? Indeed, it might ease her guilt about departing with Ian. Or would his wife feel threatened by the news? Rose might fear he’d decide to remain at Auchengray, though Jamie could never do so. Leana understood that better than anyone.

When she told him—and it would be soon, for Leana could not hide her secret behind her apron much longer—he would assure her the child’s needs would be well met.
And yours, dear woman.
He would not abandon Leana or his child to Lachlan’s dubious provision.

A half hour passed while he cleaned his firearm. A futile effort, really, since he didn’t intend to load it. Who would risk firing a defective weapon? The pistol was simply for show. He’d seek out a gunsmith in Monnigaff and have it repaired. In the meantime, his dirk would suffice for any minor threats and his sword for more serious ones. Evan was far superior with a bow and quicker with a dirk, but Jamie had honed his swordplay skills in Edinburgh. If his brother truly intended to kill him, he’d have to get past the point of his blade first.

Jamie unsheathed his sword with a ringing
swish
, reveling in the solid feel of it in his hand. He moved away from the bench to claim an unoccupied corner of the barn, then positioned his feet for a proper salute, saying aloud the commands his fencing instructor had drilled into his head. “Stand on your guard in tierce. Make three beats of the foot.” As he went through the familiar steps of the five positions, he couldn’t help smiling, even though Monsieur Fréron would not have approved. “Extend your right arm in a line with your eye, James,” he said, mimicking the sword master’s affected speech, “and fix the point of your sword in a line with your adversary.
Oui
.”

“Bien.” Rose stepped into the barn, laughing as she did, her sweet face aligned with the tip of his sword. “Well done, Monsieur McKie.”

He lowered his weapon at once, still maintaining form. “Begging your pardon, madame.”

She remained a safe distance away, but he could still see the twinkle in her eye. “Show me what you were doing.”

Jamie dispensed with his smile at once and moved through the salute with more care, keeping in mind his master’s requirements: a genteel deportment and a graceful air. When he finished, Rose showed her delight, clapping as if she were at an entertainment. He swept an imaginary hat off his head and bowed low before her. “James Lachlan McKie of Glentrool at your service, madame.”

Rose held out her hand, beckoning him forward. “Kindly sheath your weapon, sir, and come dress for supper.” She offered him a coy wink. “That smile of yours is dangerous enough.”

Lachlan McBride was a trickster and a knave, but he had fathered the most charming daughters.

The last hour before darkness was Jamie’s favorite, particularly in the summer. He stood on the lawn, watching the sunset paint the sky in colors only the Almighty could name. After singing all evening, the birds had grown quieter, making way for the tawny owls to take their turn.

Rose had retired early, complaining of stomach pains yet assuring him it was nothing a good night’s sleep could not cure. He’d tried to read, but the fine weather beckoned, and so he’d closed his book and ventured out to the edge of the lawn.

“May we join you?” Leana glided toward him with Ian in her arms, a tentative expression on her face.

Her hair was styled in a most becoming way—Eliza’s handiwork, he supposed—and she’d added a lacy ruffle to the neckline of one of her old gowns to good effect. Despite such efforts, her condition was poorly masked; her radiant skin alone gave her away.

She reached his side slightly out of breath. “ ’Tis such a lovely evening.”

“So it is.” He watched her shift the child in her arms, trying to conceal the one not yet born.
Come, lass. Why not tell me?

“Look, sweet boy.” She swept one arm across the sky. “Have you e’er seen such a brilliant shade of orange?”

Ian wiggled and bucked, apparently more interested in the bright green grass below. Leana kissed his cheek, then lowered him to the lawn. “Eliza will be fash when I bring you back to the nursery with green knees,” she cautioned him, smiling as she said it.

The lad crawled a short distance, then stopped to yank out a blade of grass, then turned round to wave it at them, then took off again on a meandering route without straying too far from his mother’s skirts.