Whence Came a Prince (33 page)

Morna’s neighbors headed off in various directions on foot or on horseback, while both families walked the few steps to the manse. A simple, two-story building with little adornment other than its shuttered windows, the minister’s house was even plainer withindoors. And, with only two rooms on the ground floor, entirely too small.

Counting the Douglas brothers, all of a fair size, the stout reverend, tall Jamie, Duncan, and himself—never mind the four women—the room suddenly felt overcrowded. Jamie and Malcolm were sniffing round each other like dogs working up to a
collieshangle.

Mistress Muirhead, an affable woman with fair hair and colorless features, invited her guests to the dining table. Perhaps sensing the tension between the families, she seated the Auchengray household on one side, the Edingham contingent on the other. “A most unusual manse, this,” she explained as they took their seats. “We have two stairs but only one door. If dinner catches on fire, kindly run out the way you came in.”

Her lighthearted comment was well timed, Lachlan decided. A few smiles were exchanged as chairs were pulled to the table. Although Jamie and Malcolm remained sullen, they had not come to blows. Not
for the moment anyway. Lachlan knew once he made his announcement, it would take more than a genial remark to keep his nephew’s temper in check; it would take three braw young men.

Lachlan unfolded his table linen, the scent of roasted moorhen tickling his nostrils. At least Jamie hadn’t discovered the truth about his missing lambs. Their daft neighbor Peter Drummond had nearly ruined everything. Fortunately Jamie was too distracted with his wives and his bairns to sort out what had happened that June night.

As Reverend Muirhead stood to bless their meal, Lachlan bowed his head, a different prayer in mind. He needed to keep the stolen lambs a secret until Lammas, a fortnight away. The lad would leave with his remaining flocks and think no more of those that were lost. Wouldn’t they fatten nicely in Edingham’s rich pastureland? Duncan would be angry with him, of course. But the overseer was not a fool; he knew which side of his bannock was buttered and who held the knife.

Heads lifted, and the light dinner commenced. Fowl only—no fish, no flesh—a summer salad, cold vegetables. A meal as plain as the house. Their final course would be the bride’s pie, prepared by her parish friends and baked in the manse oven. Already the sweet aroma of cinnamon, apples, and currants had set his mouth to watering.

Morna stood for the informal ceremony. “For you, Reverend Muirhead, a small token of appreciation.” She blushed like a woman half her age. “From the bride.”

The minister unwrapped his gift—a pair of gloves—offered his thanks, then stood to cut the bride’s pie. At her request, he cut a diminutive piece for her and then a much larger slice for Lachlan. “Will you serve your laird and master?” Reverend Muirhead asked in mock sternness, handing her the sweet on a small china plate.

“I w-will s-serve my husband,” she promised, hands shaking as she took the plate and turned toward Lachlan. All at once it slipped from her grasp. The moist pie landed on his lap, soiling his best gray trousers. But the china plate reached the uncarpeted stone floor, where it shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

The assembly gasped as one before the room fell silent. Even the least superstitious among them could not deny what they had seen and
heard: a bride breaking a dish on her wedding day. A very ill omen indeed.

Mistress Muirhead was the first to speak, directing one of her servants to fetch a damp cloth for Lachlan’s trousers, while another swept up the remains of the plate. “Now, Morna,” the minister’s wife said, “do not fret. Only auld wives worry o’er such things, and you’re a
new
wife, are you not? Come, let my husband finish serving your pie, and we’ll think no more about it. We have many more plates, I assure you.”

Lachlan dabbed at the stain, trying to contain his displeasure, reminding himself it was an accident. Morna would never wish him ill; she was a nervous sort, prone to dropping things.

After the last of the pie was served, Rose stood, garnering everyone’s attention. “Father, we have a gift for you. To commemorate your wedding and the anniversary of your birth.” She walked round the table and presented him with a box. “ ’Tis from Jamie and me. And Leana.”

He’d hoped the whole day might pass without a mention of his other daughter. But Rose being Rose had ruined that plan. Lachlan opened the box and smiled before he caught himself. “A quaich.” He turned it over for the smith’s mark. “Sterling, I see. And engraved.” It truly
was
a fine gift. Wherever did the three of them find sufficient coins for such a purchase?

Lachlan held it up for all to admire, then tucked it back in the box. “Please be seated, Rose, for I, too, have a gift to bestow. An announcement, really.” He stood, smoothing his waistcoat over his full stomach. “ ’Twill not be news to those of us on this side of the table. As for the rest of you, I hope you will celebrate my … ah, good fortune.”

W
hen Rose sank into the chair beside him, Jamie took her hand, disturbed by the gleam in Lachlan’s eye and the glibness of his tongue. Bad enough that Rose had endured the evil mutterings of a witch that morning; Jamie would not allow her father to fill her ears with more venom.

Lachlan clasped his hands behind his back, thrusting his chest forward. “When I began to court my new bride, I could not imagine the opportunity that awaited me. Not only to claim the hand of this good woman …” He nodded to his right without looking at her. “But also to welcome Malcolm, Gavin, and Ronald into my family as my own sons.”

“Stepsons,” Jamie corrected him, feeling Rose bristle.

“You are wrong, Nephew.” Lachlan’s smile was ugly. “Not stepsons. True sons by law. Adopted into my family.”

Rose gasped. “
Adopted?
You mean—”

“These are your brothers now.” Pride rang through every syllable of Lachlan’s words. “Malcolm McBride. Gavin McBride. Ronald McBride. Heirs to my fortune.”

Jamie shot to his feet.
“Heirs?”

“But, Father … what of Jamie?” She pressed her hand to her throat. “What of our children?”

Reverend Muirhead cleared his throat rather loudly. “Perhaps my wife and I might step into the next room—”

“That will not be necessary, sir.” Jamie shoved back his chair, fighting the urge to dash it against the floor or heave it across the table at his
uncle. “ ’Tis clear whom Mr. McBride has chosen to bless. And whom he has not.”

Lachlan glared at him. “Sit down, Nephew.”

Morna’s frightened gaze darted from one face to the other. “Please do.”

Instead, Jamie bowed to each end of the long table. “Reverend. Mistress Muirhead. Please excuse me for disrupting your fine meal.” He rested his hand on Rose’s shoulder. Much as he hated leaving her, he had to ride to Edingham now. Had to know if Lachlan had robbed him not only of his inheritance but also of his lambs.

Jamie refused to look at his uncle. “As it appears I am no longer worthy of this family, I will take my leave. Duncan?”

“Aye, lad.” The overseer was already on his feet. “What may I do for ye?”

“You will do nothing for him,” Lachlan protested, “for you are in my employ, not his.”

Duncan and Jamie both ignored him. “See that my wife has an uneventful journey home. This day has been most difficult for her.” Jamie felt Rose tremble beneath his touch. Was she weeping as well? God help him, he would kill the man! He bent and clasped her hand, kissing the back of it firmly enough so she might be certain of his love and assured of his protection. “Duncan and Neda will take good care of you, lass. I fear I must away.”

“Jamie …” Her voice broke.

“Forgive me, love. I will not be long.” He kissed her hand again, then quit the room. He did not look back as he marched through the single door of the manse or bother to latch it behind him. The others would follow sooner than he wished.

Four horses remained tied to the hitching post outside the kirk: three chestnut French Trotters belonging to the brothers and Walloch. Jamie mounted the black gelding with a speed fueled by rage, then pointed his mount toward Edingham and hung on. “Like the wind, Walloch. We’ve no time to waste.”

He’d needed an excuse to leave early. Lachlan had given him one.
The churl.

Signs for the Redcastle estate came and went as Jamie bent closer to his mount. He was soon riding parallel with the river, barely glancing at the flat-topped
mote
standing guard over the Urr from its west bank. Hills and rolling farmlands went by in a green blur. Northbound travelers were shown naught but a brief touch to the brim of his hat and a cloud of dust kicked up by Walloch’s hooves.

No horse, no chaise, no carriage could hope to overtake him now.

Jamie was a quarter of an hour from the kirk when he turned north toward Dumfries, his gaze fixed on the farms to his left. The Douglas property was by far the largest; he would not miss it, not even coming from a different direction.

There.
A carved wooden sign by the gate.
Edingham.
The ruins of the old castle stood not far to the east. But it was the lambs he wanted to find.
In the field tae the west o’ the mains.
Jamie brought Walloch to a stop at the gate, shading his eyes as he stared at the gable-roofed house on the spur of the hill. He could not count the sheep from here, nor identify them, but he could see them: blackface lambs.

His chest tightened. Were they his? The lambs he thought had fallen beneath the flesher’s blade weeks ago? Jamie aimed Walloch through the open gate, moving at an easier pace. He did not want to upset the black cattle that grazed in the nearby pastures or draw too much attention to himself. Reaching the western fields would mean passing farm laborers and house servants alike. Surely someone would stop him and demand to know his business.

Jamie sat up straighter, buttoning his coat and knocking the dust off his new hat. He was dressed like a gentleman, was he not? Some at Edingham might even recognize him from previous visits as the laird’s nephew. He would approach the mains as though he were here on behalf of his uncle, sent to inspect the lambs. Nae, on behalf of his
cousin
; he’d come at Malcolm’s bidding. Let them dispute that.

He nodded at the few hinds who doffed their caps at him from a distance and returned a greeting to one laborer close enough to hear him. The tidy steading, with its cobblestone yard, doocot and granary, barns and byres, was situated to the east of the house; most of the work
ers would be there. When no one appeared at the corniced entrance door inquiring after him, he headed straight for the lambs.

As he neared the pasture, he noted the mottled markings on their faces and legs, the familiar sound of their bleating. Yet didn’t all lambs bleat so? He dismounted by a watering trough near the pasture, allowing Walloch a much-deserved drink. Only a dry stane dyke stood between him and Edingham’s flock.

Jamie easily climbed over the wall, frightening a few lambs when he landed. He stood still so they might accept his presence among them. A quick tally answered his first question.
Nigh to a hundred.
They were the right size and age to be his. All that remained was to find some remnant of his keel mark. He crouched beside one of the calmer lambs, keeping his voice even. “That’s a good lass. Let me have a look at your neck.”

He ran his hand over the wool, turning the animal toward the light to be sure, to be very sure. At the base of the fibers, against the pale skin, a faint red stain remained.

Tears stung his eyes.
My lambs.

He had only to study those nearest him to be certain. There was the one with the hock-kneed legs. And that smaller one, with the swayed back. He’d seen them all being born. Held them in his arms while he cut their cords. Docked their tails when they were but days old. Watched them being tenderly nursed by their mothers.

His lambs.

Not Lachlan’s. And not Malcolm’s.

“How dare you.” He spat out each word, as if the men were there to hear them.
Let all mine enemies be ashamed.
Jamie stood, his righteous anger hardening into resolve. He would steal them back.

Taking a long, slow breath to steady his pounding heart, Jamie looked at his flock. “I have not forgotten you, little ones.” He moved slowly among them, his voice low. “You belong to me. And you belong at Glentrool.” The lambs drew closer, gathering about his legs, bleating as if they understood him.

Duncan’s words echoed inside him.
Ye’re a guid shepherd, Jamie. Yer sheep ken yer voice.

Pierced to the core, Jamie bent to reach as many lambs as he could, rubbing their heads and fondling their soft ears, letting them sniff his hands and touch him with their noses. All the while, his mind was spinning. If he left Edingham without his flock, the Douglas brothers might move them. Sell them at market. Butcher them. Yet he could hardly gather up five score lambs and herd them through the farm gates without being stopped by every hind and servant of Edingham.

He’d have to come back. With Duncan.

But first he would confront Lachlan. The man who’d put this vicious plan in motion.

Jamie eased toward the dyke, taking a last look at his flock before turning his gaze on the gelding waiting for him. “We’re away, Walloch,” he called out. The horse whinnied at him, striking the ground with his foot. Jamie had no sooner mounted than another welcome sound met his ears. Two dogs. Barking.

When Jamie called their names, the collies from Auchengray came dashing round the corner of the house and tore across the lawn, their barking exuberant. Jamie praised them, leaning down to scratch their heads. “Come, lads, for we’ve five miles to cover and little time.” He could not take the lambs just yet, but he could take the dogs. As surety. As proof.