Whence Came a Prince (8 page)

“Rose!” Spoken like a bark. “Where have your thoughts wandered off to this time?”

“Nowhere, sir.” Rose turned toward her father as she gathered her wits. “That is …” She looked round the table, aware of their curious gazes. “I’m … not quite myself of late.” At least that was a half truth; she could not seem to concentrate on any one thing for long.

“Do not concern yourself, Rose.” Morna Douglas offered a slight smile. “I know how tired you must be. Neda has promised to serve the pears from Edingham’s orchard, and then my sons will take their leave. Despite the lingering light, the hour grows late.” Batting her lashes even more than usual, she added, “Your father has kindly invited me to stay ’til the morn.”

The widow twittered on while the servants placed dishes of sliced fruit at each place, the creamy flesh pale against the patterned china. Picked at the end of the season and stored in a dry, cool spot, the bergamot pears still had a pleasant flavor, despite their wrinkled flesh. No doubt the widow was emptying her store before the early summer varieties yielded their harvest.

Rose ate her dessert in silence, watching the others. Her father looked pleased with himself, gazing toward the dining room window and ignoring Morna, who rested her hand on his sleeve in a proprietary manner. He’d wooed her with a gift of five milk cows last winter, an appropriate gesture from so
glaumshach
a man, knowing the cows would be his again someday. The brothers had been quiet through dinner, exchanging covert glances but little else. Their tour of
Auchengray—most of it conducted without Jamie—had stretched nigh to the supper hour. Were they duly impressed, or was Edingham a grander property? After his first visit there, Jamie had pronounced their Urr parish farm merely “tidy.” But then, Jamie had no interest in cattle. All he cared about were his lambs. And Ian. And her perhaps.

Jamie leaned back from the table without tasting his dessert, his features resolute. “I believe one member of the family has yet to be introduced to our guests.”

Rose closed her mouth, lest it fall open in astonishment. Surely the man did not intend to bring his illegitimate child to table!

“Mistress McKie, if you might present my son to the Douglases.”

Jamie, whatever are you thinking?
There was naught to be done but obey his bidding. She curtsied to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze, then quit the room and headed up the stair, her heart beating faster than her footsteps.
My son.
Did he mean to conceal the true mother’s identity? Pushing open the door to the nursery, Rose forced herself to smile and was greeted with two genuine grins in return—from Ian, dressed in a fresh gown, and from Eliza, her cap knocked askew.

“Look who’s awake.” Rose gathered her stepson in her arms and hugged him close as his bare feet kicked about.
Sweet Ian.
One chubby fist grabbed her braid and tugged hard until she bussed his neck, causing him finally to let go. Her smile fading, she turned toward the door. “Come, Eliza. The lad is to meet the Douglases.”

Agog at the prospect, the maidservant followed her like a shadow down the stair. The unlit hall, grown dim in the twilight, still bore the scents of a long day of cooking. Neda’s work was far from over, now that the widow was spending the night. The bed linens and towels in the parlor had just been changed; Annabel’s red hair was visible above an armload of laundry that sailed past the foot of the stair.

When Rose reached the threshold of the dining room, she came to an abrupt stop. Her father and the Douglas brothers were nowhere to be seen. The table was already cleared, the family Bible in place for their nightly hour of worship. Only Morna Douglas and Jamie remained in the room, standing by the hearth. The widow looked exceedingly uncomfortable; Jamie’s face was a mottled red.

Hoping to fill the silence, Rose turned the boy so he was facing them. “Ian, can you smile for Mistress Douglas?”

The older woman stared at the child. “Whose son did you say this is?”

“My firstborn, Ian McKie.” Jamie’s words were even, belying the firm set of his jaw. “The future heir of Glentrool.”

The woman’s lips twitched as if she were silently calculating the boy’s age. Morna knew the couple had wed in late March; clearly the child had been born well before their marriage. Had Lachlan told her naught regarding his ill-begotten grandson?

Diversion was their only recourse. “Where have the men disappeared to?” Rose asked brightly, looking round as if they might crawl out from under the table.

Morna merely blinked—unable, it seemed, to form a coherent response.

“The Douglases have taken their leave,” Jamie explained smoothly, moving toward her. “Your father escorted them to the gate.”

Rose turned toward the window, only now hearing the soft murmur of male voices on the misty lawn. “They’ll have a long walk home.”

“A good two hours.” Jamie sounded glad to see the young men gone. “Eliza, kindly attend to Ian for us.” As Rose handed the wiggling boy to the maidservant, Jamie tousled the child’s hair in passing. “A good night to you, lad. Your stepmother and I will visit the nursery later.”

Stepmother.
At least he’d clarified that point for the widow’s sake. Knowing that Leana was settled in Twyneholm, would Morna Douglas jalouse the rest of the sordid details? Or assume that Jamie had been married before and was a widower?

The front door opened, then closed with a bang, heralding her father’s return. Thank the heavens above, Eliza had already started up the stair with Ian; Lachlan McBride would not want the child included in their worship. He strode into the room and took his place at table once more, bidding them sit as he opened the thick, leather-bound
Buik.
It fell open to Psalms as if it, too, jumped to do the man’s bidding.

Rose pulled her chair closer to Jamie’s, longing to reach for his hand under the table. Longing to capture his heart as well. Might the warmth
of her touch melt his resistance? Would he clasp her fingers and gaze fondly at her from the corner of his eye? Or would he simply ignore her? The risk was too great; she folded her hands in her lap and contented herself with a last look at his masculine profile, bent for prayer, before she closed her eyes as well.

Rose tried to follow all that her father said, yet her greater concern was keeping her lowered forehead from touching the table.
I will not give sleep to mine eyes, or slumber to mine eyelids.
Of all the psalms she’d been required to memorize, that one had proved the most useful, especially of late when she could barely stay awake past supper. Tonight of all nights she wanted to remain alert well after bedtime. For Jamie’s sake.
And for mine.

The prayer concluded, Rose lifted her head in time to see Lachlan jab his finger at a spot on the page. “Two passages command our attention this evening.” He droned on and on, expounding on the verses, his words as monotonous as the tick of the mantel clock above the cold hearth. Although the kitchen fire was never extinguished, even on the hottest days, the hearths throughout the rest of the house had been swept clean for the summer at her father’s insistence. Peat and coal required silver he was unwilling to spend. As the gloaming lingered, Rose felt the cooler night air creeping through the house. Jamie would keep her warm in their bed. Though he had yet to give her his heart, at least he’d not withheld the rest of him.

When Lachlan closed the Buik with a bang punctuating his last word, bringing their time of worship to a long-awaited end, even Morna looked relieved. Rose was doubly so and gathered her skirts to stand. “I beg your pardon, Mistress Douglas, but I must retire or chance falling asleep in my chair. Will you excuse me?”

Though Father glared at her, Morna was quick to set her free. Perhaps the woman wanted her future husband to herself for a quiet hour. Whatever would they talk about, different as they were? Ian would be one topic of discussion, of that Rose was certain. Wouldn’t she love to hear her father explain
that
situation!

“Come, dear husband,” Rose beckoned him, “for I dare not risk the steps alone.”

Jamie dutifully guided her toward the second floor, saying nothing as they climbed the stair. A wise precaution with Lachlan and Morna just below them walking arm in arm to the parlor. Rose paused briefly at the nursery, satisfied to find Ian fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. How she wished she might sing to him now, as Leana often had.
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing.
But Rose knew her voice was neither sweet nor low and might wake the child besides. “Good night, precious boy,” she whispered, closing the nursery door.

Moments later when Jamie followed her into their dimly lit bedroom, Rose spun about and wrapped her arms round his neck. “At last I have you all to myself.”

“You’ve been most patient with me this evening, Rose.” She did not see a spark of passion in his eyes to match her own, but his words were sincere, even contrite. “With guests beneath our roof, I should have been especially cordial. Instead I was—”

“Churlish?” she finished for him, winking as she said it. “Rude?
Ill-fashioned
?”

“All of those things, I’m afraid. Your father’s behavior has grown more
hatesome
of late. As to the Douglas lads”—his sigh was heavy with regret—“I cannot bring myself to trust them.”

“Jamie McKie, you’re cannier than the three of them put together.” She drew him closer, inhaling the scent of him. “Do not lose a moment’s peace on their account, my
cliver
husband.”

Her praise had the desired effect: The crease in his brow disappeared as he circled his arms round her waist. “I’m glad you find me clever, lass. Will you forgive me then?”

“I already have.” Rose leaned into his embrace, nuzzling the curve of his neck. She was grateful for Hugh’s expert hand with a razor; Jamie’s skin was still smooth and tasted of heather soap. When she sensed him warming to her, she slowly turned in his arms, presenting him with a row of tiny buttons. “Can you manage, or shall I summon Annabel to help me dress for bed?”

After a moment’s hesitation he began unbuttoning her gown, then paused at the plaintive cry of sheep bleating in the distance. Louder than usual, Rose thought, and greater in number. Perhaps it was noth
ing more than the moist evening air carrying the sound across the pastures. “Good night to you as well, lassies,” she called toward the casement window as Jamie unfastened the last of her buttons. “May heaven watch o’er you ’til the break of day.”

H
ave you forgotten what day it is?” Aunt Meg inclined her head toward the door “You know how folk will wag their heads if we don’t appear at the stroke often.”

Leana brushed her hands over the claret gown hanging from the cottage beams, smoothing out the last of the wrinkles. The women of Twyneholm parish were gathering in the parlor of the manse, as they did on the first Wednesday of every month, to share a plate of biscuits, ply their sewing needles, and join the minister in offering prayers for the congregation. By one o’ the clock they would head for home, bits of gossip tucked in their pockets like pilfered sweets.

“Almost ready.” Leana eyed the embroidered silk, looking for any blemishes she might have missed. A small dot of ink marring the right sleeve had come out with a dab of lemon juice. The streak of grease on the hem had proved no match for ground sheep’s hooves, Neda’s oft-tested remedy. Yesterday Leana had hung the dress outside to air, then carefully pressed it with a tailor’s goose—a heavy iron with a gooselike neck—borrowed from Mr. Purvis. Leana smiled, satisfied with the look of it. No gown she’d ever owned meant more to her.

Aunt Meg stilled her hand. “Enough brushing, dearie. ’Tis ready to wear the Sabbath next.”

Nae, Auntie.
Leana would not feel the claret gown on her shoulders again. Though she had indeed worn it every Sunday in Twyneholm and many days in Newabbey, please God, it would soon serve a different purpose.

“The hour beckons, lass.” Aunt Meg yanked open the painted door,
then added in a stage whisper, “You look the same as the day you arrived. None will be the wiser.”

Leana followed her out of doors into a thick morning mist. “I pray you are right.”

Busybodies were the same in every parish, able to spot a guilty face and invent the rest. On the Sabbath last she’d slipped inside the kirk door at the second bell, then made a hasty exit when the service ended, hoping to keep her expanding waistline to herself. That morning her aunt had laced her cotton stays with care, giving her more room to breathe, though the whalebones still pinched in tender places. Would the ladies of the parish mark her discomfort and come to the same scandalous conclusion?

Leana took a deep breath of moist air and exhaled it with a fervent prayer.
I will trust in the covert of thy wings.

Aunt and niece made their way across the graveled roadway constructed by English soldiers decades earlier, then joined arms to navigate the slippery path leading to the front door of the manse. The nicest home in the village, the minister’s house was built of dark whinstone with sandstone dressings, freshly painted white. Despite her misgivings, Leana was ready to be inside and dry again. Warm, wet air, like suspended rain, clung to her clothes. Her unbound hair had expanded to a billowy cloud round her shoulders. More time dressing her hair and less time brushing the claret gown might have been prudent.

The door swung inward at the first tap. Lydia Scott, a tall woman of sixty years with fawn-colored hair and warm brown eyes, beamed at them from her threshold. “Here they are,” the minister’s wife called over her shoulder, then waved them inside. “We thought we’d lost you in the mist.”

Leana followed her aunt into the manse, self-consciously touching a hand to her hair. The front rooms were already filled with women—sitting on straight-backed chairs, convening by the empty hearth, balancing china teacups on saucers, nibbling crisp lemon biscuits. And talking, all of them at once, their high voices like tinkling cymbals.