Whence Came a Prince (47 page)

When your time comes.
The words sank into Rose’s heart like a stone. Frightening enough to think of giving birth to one child. But
two?

Like smoke from a smoldering fire, another woman’s prediction circled back to haunt her.
Ye must have twa sons tae win Jamie’s heart.
Lillias Brown’s words, spoken on a Sabbath morn, offered with a green knotted cord.
’Twill save ye from barrenness and bring ye twa bairns.

But Rose did not take the cord. The twins she bore were not a gift from a witch but a gift from God.
Bethankit!
Rose looked at Leana and Meg. “Promise me you will not speak a word of this to anyone. Not our maids, nor the herds, and definitely not Jamie.”

“A wise decision,” Aggie agreed. “Such news is better heard from
the birthing bed rather than from a howdie months in advance, only to be proven wrong.”

Rose had yet another reason: She’d done enough to threaten Jamie’s future. If she dared not tell him dreadful news, then blithe news was best kept a secret as well. At least until the gold was gone and Jamie was safe.

“Rose …” A cloud seemed to cross Leana’s face. “What of the pain you’ve been having?”

The midwife eyed her. “In your lower back, I’ll warrant. ’Tis not unusual with twins. Your body is making room for two. Fear not.”

Almost giddy with relief, the three women started back to Burnside, heads together, whispering about the glad tidings, when Aunt Meg chanced to look up. “Who is that standing at my cottage door? He is your Ian from head to toe.”

“So he is.” Rose sighed as Jamie turned toward her. “But bigger.”

F
rom the moment he met Rose, Jamie had realized whom she might favor in her later years: her Aunt Rowena. Dark hair streaked with silver. Sparkling eyes, deep as onyx. A clever tongue, barely tamed. Now he had a fine notion of whom Leana might resemble: her Aunt Meg. Silvery hair like a halo. Pale gray eyes, glowing like beacons. A kind face, full of wisdom.

“James Lachlan McKie, at your service.” He bowed to the three women approaching him.

“And I am Margaret Halliday.” The older woman curtsied, then cocked her head. “Aunt Meg to you, lad.” She slipped her hand round his offered arm and directed him across the threshold of Burnside Cottage with a sweep of her plain cotton gown. “The lasses tidied up the place, I see. Will you be needing some breakfast?”

He ducked beneath the doorframe and entered her two-room home. “The herds and I have eaten, though we’ll not refuse a bannock for our pockets.” Jamie eyed the cramped cottage with its flagstone floor and rough beams. He imagined Leana seeking refuge within these humble walls, sleeping in the small hurlie bed. If not for the bairn she carried, might she still be here?

As if drawn by his musings, Leana hurried through the door, eyes shining, arms outstretched. “Here’s the lad I’ve longed to see.” When she breezed past him, headed for Ian, Jamie nearly bit his tongue.
What did you expect, McKie?

Rose came in next, reaching toward him for certain. “My husband.” She slid her arms round him and rested her head on his chest with a
blithe sigh. “And the father of my children.” She hesitated for a moment, then simply added, “I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you,” he said, pulling her closer still. Sleeping beneath the stars with his flock had little to offer except peace of mind. Perhaps different arrangements might be made for this evening. They only had a few miles to cover, and the destination had promise: a comfortable coaching inn surrounded by a vast estate.

Since Rab and Davie had already started west with the lambs, farewells were brief, with Jamie promising to bring the sisters back to Burnside for an extended visit.

“Not until their bairns are well delivered,” Aunt Meg insisted, helping them pack the wagon. Curious neighbors leaned against their opened doors to watch. Twyneholm was a quiet village; a wagon full of visitors sufficed for entertainment.

The maids found their places and kept Ian out of trouble while Jamie strapped the crib to the back with a stout rope, then lifted Leana into the driver’s seat. Rose sat next to a cradle full of blankets, draping her arm across it perhaps to keep it from rocking.

“Here, lass.” Jamie climbed in next to her. “Let me move that cradle for you.”

“Nae!” She quickly pushed a basket of linens against the rockers. “ ’Tis fine where it is.”

“What a
kittlie
wife I have,” he teased her. Rose smiled up at him, though her eyes conveyed something else. Surely not fear?

“Pardon me, Jamie. I confess, I’m tired of traveling.”

He did not tell her they had nearly forty miles of hills and moors yet to cover. “I’ll see that you sleep in a comfortable bed tonight.”
And join you, if I can.
He bent down to kiss her brow, then vaulted over the wagon side, anxious to be off. ’Twas Tuesday. The farther away from Auchengray, the easier he, would breathe.

Jamie mounted his horse and led them out of the village, casting a troubled glance at the changing skies above them. An hour ago thin clouds had stretched across a watery blue horizon, boding a hazy but dry day ahead. Now thicker clouds were moving in from the west at a steady clip, piling up like waves approaching the shoreline. Someone on horse-
back or on foot had little to fear from a rainstorm, but wagons were a different story.

As they climbed toward the crossroads, Jamie watched Leana out of the corner of his eye, relieved to note her confidence with the reins and her quiet strength. If a hard rain turned the roads to mud, Leana would know to seek stony ground and wait out the storm.

She caught him looking at her. “Something concerns you, Jamie.”

He lowered his voice, lest he frighten the others, Rose in particular. “ ’Tis only the skies that worry me. Stay to the graveled military road, and maintain a brisk pace. You’ll find a shelter of trees at Littleton Farm, should you need to take cover.” Judging by her calm expression, none of his words alarmed her.

Leana tugged on her kid gloves, gazing at the road ahead. “Kindly tell me where I am bound.”

“Follow the signposts for Gatehouse of Fleet, then watch for the Murray Arms. ’Tis the only inn the village boasts, built round the old gatehouse of Cally Park. I’ll ride ahead and arrange lodging, then see to the lambs.”

Leana’s smile was like sunlight on a gray day. “You make a fine tops-man, Mr. McKie.”

He tipped his hat, pleased by her words. “And you, Leana, a fine wagon master.”

Bidding her Godspeed, Jamie galloped ahead, his scabbard slapping against his thigh. He had yet to reach for his sword. Or his dirk. The only time he’d brandished his useless pistol was the dark morning he’d found Rose leaning over the wagon. What
had
the lass been doing? She’d never bothered to explain.

The road from Twyneholm followed the swift-flowing burn for a mile or so. Low hills rose and fell on both sides, covered with heather in muted shades of purple and brown, framed against the darkening sky. At the spot where the stream meandered north he found Rab and Davie waiting for him.

“We’ve stopped tae water the flocks,” Rab told him. “Though by the leuk o’ things, they’ll be wet suin enough.”

Jamie watched the lambs for a moment. Instead of calmly drinking
at the burn, they were leaping about, butting one another with their woolly heads—a certain sign of a change in the weather. His mount was unsettled as well, pawing the ground. Growing along the roadside was the poor man’s weatherglass, scarlet pimpernel, with its red petals closed tight. Aye, rain was on the way.

“Drive the lambs straight on from here without stopping,” Jamie directed, “then let them graze on Mr. Murray’s pastureland this side of the Fleet. The old Castle of Cardoness looks down on the vale below. ’Tis a meikle landmark you’ll have no trouble spotting. I’ll meet you there later, aye?”

Water of Fleet, yet another river to be crossed, would wait until tomorrow. They would use the bridge in the village; Jamie refused to have another lamb lost in a swollen stream. Gazing north toward faraway New Galloway, he wondered how the bulk of his flock was faring under the guidance of Nicholas Donaldson. He’d provided the topsman a letter of introduction and detailed instructions for his father to accept the lambs as his, pay the men accordingly, and send them on their way.

If all went according to Duncan’s plan, the shepherds and flocks taking the northern route would arrive at Glentrool on Saturday. Jamie envied them that. He would not see home until the Sabbath.
Aye, but you will see home.
Would he be welcome, though? Would he find his brother there? And would Lachlan McBride offer any protest across the miles? Those were the unanswered questions looming over him like the thickening clouds above.

Leaving Rab and Davie in charge of gathering the sheep, Jamie charged ahead, tossing up bits of gravel as he rode. If thunder rumbled overhead, he did not hear it for the pounding of Hastings’s hooves against the hard-packed military road, steadily climbing, mile after mile. The air was thick with moisture but not yet with rain as he crossed the burn at Littleton Farm, the ground rising beneath him, the mountains ahead stirring a longing for Glentrool.

A massive stretch of woodlands, still dressed in the many greens of summer, forced the road to veer north. It could only be Cally Park, a thousand acres of gardens and orchards surrounding Cally House, home to the man who owned Girthon parish and all it contained: James
Murray of Broughton, a member of Parliament. Years ago Jamie had met the gentleman on a visit with his father to Cally House; if time allowed, he would bring Murray greetings from Alec McKie. For the moment, more pressing matters required attention.

Skirting the northern border of the park, he passed the entrance drive to the Grecian-styled house—not as old as Glentrool but more palatial in scale—and rode up to the inn, horse and rider both breathing hard. The clouds hung low to the ground, like pewter buckets preparing to tip. He said a prayer for the lasses and lambs both trailing far behind him as he found a stable lad to care for Hastings. Brushing the dust from his riding coat, he strode across the street and into the Murray Arms.

Cobbled together from an old gatehouse and a newer addition, the two-story inn of whitewashed stone seemed well plenished and the proprietor accommodating. Aye, they had two rooms available. “For two nights?” Jamie asked, a sudden inspiration. Why not stay and catch their breaths? The lambs already looked thinner; a day of grazing would do them good. And Gatehouse of Fleet was a thriving village, many times the size of sleepy Newabbey. Annabel and Eliza would be pleased to wander up and down the town’s three streets, while their mistresses enjoyed hot baths and soft beds.

“Two nights it is, sir,” the proprietor said, then directed him to the estate office where Jamie arranged for grazing land.

In less than an hour Jamie was astride Hastings once more, retracing his route. A strong wind with the scent of rain threatened to steal his hat. The rain would not be long in coming. When he spied the wagon at the eastern edge of Cally Park, he rode harder, elated to find them so near their destination.

“You made excellent time,” he told Leana, bending down to clasp Rose’s hand and ruffle Ian’s hair. “Come, before the skies split open.” He escorted the wagon round the park boundary and into the village, then carried whatever they might need for two days up the steep stair to their rooms. Leana lay down for a nap at once, while the maidservants took Ian with them on a brief tour of the village, prepared to dash back to the inn at the first drop of rain.

Rose, the happiest he’d seen her in days, twirled round the spacious room with its painted walls, sturdy furniture, and two broad windows facing the street. Jamie caught her in midspin and wrapped her in his embrace. “After several nights of shared beds and rustic cottages, I thought a quiet room to ourselves would be …”

“Wonderful,” she finished for him, welcoming his kiss.

Several kisses later—and with much regret—Jamie reminded her that Rab and Davie were awaiting him with the lambs. “I’m sorry, lass. Duty calls.”

“Suppose I walk out with you and explore the village.” Rose preceded him into the corridor and down the stair, talking over her shoulder. “Jamie, where might the Girthon parish kirk be?”

“A good bit south of here. On the far side of Bar Hill, well beyond Cally Park.”

“Will we not … pass it?” She sounded genuinely dismayed.

“Nae, we’ll be heading west from here, I’m afraid.”

When they reached the street, Rose clung to his arm as thunder rolled through the valley. “To think we’ve come all this way only to be trapped inside by the rain.”

“Better to be here than at Auchengray.” He could not keep the grim note out of his voice. “Your father should be arriving home shortly. When he discovers Leana gone as well as you.

“And Neda gone as well as Duncan.” Rose looked up at him, more wistful than he’d ever seen her. “At least Father will have his new wife and sons to keep him company.”

“And
his thrifite full of gold,” Jamie reminded her, then felt Rose shiver beneath her plaid.

W
alloch was foaming at the mouth, sweat pouring down his flanks. Lachlan drove him still harder, using his riding crop as a weapon, his spurs as punishment. “Worthless beast,” he grumbled as the horse pounded down the road south of Dumfries. Ominous clouds, thick with rain, hung overhead as a blur of familiar properties swept past him.

The farm names barely registered.
Cargen. Gillfoot. Whinny Hill
None of them mattered. Auchengray was all he needed to see. His land, his sheep, his servants, his daughters. The property of Lachlan McBride.
That
was all that mattered.