Claire: A Woman’s Journey – NY Heiress – Chicago Madam

A sweeping yet compact saga that traces one woman’s life from wealth and affluence to a Chicago brothel, as she learns to rely on herself in the face of numerous obstacles and challenges…Blair’s literary writing style is appealing.

Kirkus Discoveries

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She had caught him completely by surprise. What the hell was she doing here and why now? He walked into the bedroom and unfastened the tie he had had to suffer with throughout dinner. Then he drew out the sapphire links at his wrists and tossed them onto the antique dresser. He was disconcerted that she crept back into his mind. He raked his long fingers through his thick black hair in frustration.

Now that the so-called uncle was dead, he had thought she would give up on the scam, or whatever it was that they had planned. He was glad his contacts had gotten word to him of the old man’s sudden death so that he could get a close look at her during the funeral, without having to actually meet her. His reaction to seeing her had surprised him, but then he did appreciate beauty. And God knew she was a beauty. But he had thought it was over and he would never have to deal with her.

Finally able to collapse onto the feather bed, he closed his eyes and damned if he didn’t dream of her. He awoke in the morning feeling drained and aching with a reminder of the dreams.

Don’t miss other books written by Linda Rae Blair

The Chicago Trilogy

Intersections - Love, Betrayal & Murder

Where is Harry?

Claire: A Woman’s Journey - NY

Heiress – Chicago Madam

Richard: It’s in His Blood

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Elusive

By Linda Rae Blair

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The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition Published by Linda Rae Blair

This book is also available in print on Amazon or the author’s web site.

Copyright © 2010 Linda Rae Blair

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1449581358

EAN-13: 9781449581350

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the copyright owner.

Visit the author’s web site at http://lindaraeblair.vpweb.com

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Dear Readers,

Because my mother was orphaned as a very small child she knew little of her history. I shared that much with you in Part 1 of Intersections – Love, Betrayal, Murder, my Chicago Trilogy.

My paternal family’s history is deeply embedded in Scotland, Ireland and England. I was fortunate that my father’s family came from sturdy and historical stock on both sides. The history of Scotland and her people is wonderful to explore, although the Scots didn’t make that exploration easy.

My paternal grandmother was an Alden—yes, as in John Alden and Priscilla Mullens who came from England on the Mayflower. Theirs is a story very thoroughly documented and, I’m afraid, somewhat fictionalized. I had a lot of fun growing up with this background, especially at Thanksgiving. Mother had at least one conversation with a school principal over my “story telling” (I believe he called it “lying”) about my lineage at Thanksgiving. Ah…to get that apology was a victory for an embarrassed elementary school student!

Through my paternal grandfather we are descended from sturdy Scots-Irish who emigrated from Scotland to Ireland, then to America and settled in North Carolina and Tennessee. Many Scots emigrated from their homeland due to famines, disease, English persecution and the desire to make a fresh start where they could practice the religion of their choice. Some went to Ireland, some to France. I am thankful that Robert Blair brought his family, including his Irish bride, here to America where my forefathers fought in the Revolutionary War to keep the freedom they worked so hard to get.

I hope you enjoy the story of these fine, strong Scottish folk.

Linda Rae

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To the strong Scottish women of the past, I offer my thanks. It has been a pleasure finding out more about you.

To the immigrant Blairs of the 1700s, thank you for making me who I am today and for helping our fledgling nation survive with law and honor.

Once again, my thanks to Jane Vincent and Pat Borror-Stier who have diligently—with humor and patience—kept my writing efforts of higher quality. Added to their ranks on this book was Lori O’Connor who faithfully kept things rolling while Jane furthered her education. Welcome to the team, Lori! Their editing is much appreciated.

I would also like to acknowledge the wondrous tool that was not available for research during the era in which this story took place—the internet—and then there are those marvelous search engines. Thanks for taking me to Scotland now and Scotland then—for showing me how the Scots looked, how they lived, and the social issues of their time—despite the many differing opinions.

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FORWARD

Whether good or bad, family and heritage—our links from past to present—have a huge impact on our lives. No matter how much or how little of it is known to us, we must each decide whether to stay on the same path or take another into the unknown for the benefit of our future generations.

Scotland suffered through wars, famine, English rule, bigotry, and religious conflict. They were deemed to be a crude, uncivilized bunch of ruffians to be held down, controlled, and certainly incapable of ruling themselves. Thus they were forced into the Union with the English in 1707.

The final efforts of the Jacobites to reinstate the Stuarts to the Scottish, Irish, and English thrones resulted in disaster at the Battle of Calloden in 1746. After losing the battle, Scots were banned from wearing their tartans (the plaid patterns from which their clothing was made), and the clan system was disbanded (physically perhaps, but some things could not be controlled—such as the Scottish spirit). The link to one’s clan is still an important part of a Scottish heritage today. The language—which continues to be changed and disputed today—was claimed by the English to be an inferior form of the English language.

During the two-hundred years between 1700 and 1900, Scotland lost more and more of its native population due to emigration to other countries. Despite the close ties between the Scots and French, those who escaped to France found their lands and possessions confiscated. It was just one of the ways France let them down.

In America, Scottish immigrants once again had to fight for their freedom from English rule during the Revolutionary War.

By the end of the nineteenth century, Scots were almost an endangered species in their own country—approximately only one in nine actually being Scots.

Researching for this book I found that the Scots did not have a strong written history until the twentieth century. The women of old Scotland played an important role in preserving what history we do have. But if you do any research on your own, you’ll find that one expert will say this—another will say something different—a third will offer even another opinion. Even when it comes to language and clothing, there is a wide variety of opinions out there.

Women, it seems, had little value other than honoring and serving the males, and assuring that they themselves remained unseen and unheard otherwise. If they veiled their faces during one era, they must be harlots; in another era, God-fearing women were forced to stop wearing them over their heads in church because they were caught sleeping behind them during church services. Women just could not win! Their key role was having a happy husband. Scots would never have acknowledged such common terms as “mother country” since this would not apply to their male-dominated society.

I found it strange that a woman could rule Scotland (Mary, Queen of Scots) but, in most cases, were not permitted to learn to read, lest they obtain opinions from other sources than their own husbands. If a woman spent much time in Europe, she might have returned to Scotland with the ability to read and write and share that knowledge with her children but, without that advantage, she was unlikely to understand the written word.

Without written history for many centuries, women were, however, key in passing on the history of their clans and their nation through their songs, and only much later in their poetry and writing. It wasn’t until World War I that they pulled themselves out of many of the old stereotypes.

Any errors in the 1700s Scot Inglish and Scots languages used in this novel are mine and mine alone. It was fun trying, even if it isn’t perfect. Then again, since the experts can’t even agree, maybe I didn’t do so badly after all!

Any variance from history found herein is given in the true spirit of artistic license, and frankly, not knowing which experts to trust with what information! I am just thankful I write fiction.

In creating this story, I have used many words and phrases from the languages in which the characters would have spoken. To assist you in enjoying this story, I have provided the French & Scottish Terminology & Pronunciation Guide up front for easy reference. My suggestion is that you read it briefly before reading the story.

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French & Scottish Terminology & Pronunciation Guide

Absolutement (ab so LUTE moi) French; absolutely

Aiden (AE den) diminutive of Aodh, Celtic god of fire

Alban Arthuan The Light of Arthur, also called Yule, was a Celtic feast celebrated on the longest night of the year, December 21st.

Bretagne (BRIT ah nee) French; area known in English as Brittany

Caena (KEH na) fair one

Chér, Chéri (SHUR, SHUR ee) French; darling, dear

Claymore (KLEI more) Scottish Gaelic; claidheamh mòr, "great sword,” a two-handed sword with a cross hilt whose guards are usually turned down, was used by the Highlanders of Scotland. Claidheamh da laimh, “two-handed sword”; a heavier, basket-hilted broadsword adopted in the 16th Century, which is still worn as the full-dress sword in the Highland regiments of the British Army.

Dinna (DIN nah) do not, don’t

Dirk (DURK) a small thin dagger in a scabbard worn at the left hip of the kilt

Earasaid (ehr uh suhch), also arisaid; female version of the Great Kilt; a belted cloak worn in a variety of ways from a head-to-toe cloak with the extra cloth used as a hood; to a skirt with the extra cloth pinned or belted in such a way as to allow freedom of the arms; never made of clan tartan, sometimes white with lines of varying colors. As women did not wear kilts, the earasaid was worn over a dress or chemise of plain cloth.

Finnean (FIN yan) white-headed

Fiona (fee OH nah) white, fair

Flashes (FLASH ez) colorful ribbons worn at the top of the mid-calf high stockings worn with kilts

Gillie Brogues (GIL ee BROOGS) leather shoes worn with the man’s kilt

Great Kilt the historic long kilt worn by men from the 1600s until the mid-1700s when the short kilt we now think of came into fashion. The cloth was sized approximately 60” wide; hand pleated before each wearing. Belted, it could form a longer skirt with the extra cloth able to be used as a hood or, in warm weather, bustled up behind the wearer. Some experts say it would never have been of tartan plaid; others disagree.

Hae (HI) have

Hornie (HOOR nee) the devil

Iseabail (ISH uh bel) God is my oath

Je me fiche pas mal de l’argent! (ja me feesh pa mal dee LARJ an) French; I don’t give a damn about the money!”

Je t’aime (ghe tem) French; I love you

Ken know

Laird (LAYRD) lord, address used for the title of Earl; his wife would be addressed as Lady and her title would be Countess.

Macrath (mahc RA) son of prosperity

Mahoun, (ma WHUUN ) the devil

Maigny (MA nee) French; a location near Bretagne

Mairi (mah REE) Mary

Me tenir le plus, Chéri (may ten EAR le plue, SHUR ee) French; Let me hold you, dearest

Meadhbh (MAEV) she who intoxicates, Meave, Maeve

Mère (MARE) French; mother

McDonnough (Mc DUN nah) the son of Donnach (Duncan), able to defend

Mon chéri (MOAN SHUR ee) French; my dearest

Mordag (MOR dak) sea warrior

Oui (WE) French; yes

Père (PEAR) French; father

Petit ami (PA teet ah me) French; sweetheart

Ròs (ROES) rose flower

Slainte (SLAW tcheh) health

Sòlas(SOH lus) joy, comfort, solace

Taog (TOOK) poet, philosopher

The McDonnough would be used when referring to the Laird of McDonnough. “The” was used with any clan name to indicate the Laird of that clan.

Viens faire l’amour (vee en fare la mow) French ; Let’s make love.

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For my grandchildren and great-grandchildren—may you find honor in your past, joy in learning more about it, and a lifetime of pleasure sharing its stories with your children.

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As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I

And I will luve thee still, my dear

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Robert Burns

1759-96

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Prologue

Donnach Castle – 1726

They rehearsed this process three times during Caena’s (KEH Na’s) lying in, and all knew exactly what to do and when. Finally the day arrived and Caena’s pains began. Once she was close to giving birth, she drove the rest of the maids from her rooms, screaming at them, insisting that only her maid, Ròs (ROES), attend her. Not wishing to anger her and make her pain any worse, they all scattered hastily and left the pair alone.

Sòlas entered from the rear of the room, just as she had left her rooms to meet him nine months earlier. He watched her face as he walked toward her. Ròs guarded the door while he said his farewell. Despite her growing discomfort, Caena looked at peace. She smiled up at him, and he saw the beads of moisture on her forehead and above that pouty mouth he loved so much. Suddenly the pain ripped through her, and she grabbed for his hand. He was amazed at her strength and just let her hold his hand tightly as the pain rolled over her and then faded.

“Sòlas,” she whispered. “Don’t fail me, my love.”

“Never would I fail you, my dearest lass. Never,” he said, as he kissed her cheek and felt the tears now streaming down that creamy skin.

“You had best leave the room in case one of the others should decide to check in on me,” she smiled up at him as the next wave hit her.

He so desperately wished he could stay with her to help her through the pain, but he knew what was at stake. Instead, he gave in to her wishes and retreated to the chapel behind her sleeping quarters.

Minutes later Ròs rushed into the chapel where she found him pacing. She placed the small wriggling blanket into his arms. “You must go quickly before the child’s cries are heard,” she urged him. “The sounds will only be muffled by her blankets for a brief time. She will hunger immediately and then only her nursing will keep her quiet.”

“A daughter,” he smiled down at the small babe. Then, looking back up at Ròs, “Your mistress is alright?” he asked.

“Aye, Sir! She will be fine once you have taken the child to safety.”

Ròs’s widowed daughter who had given birth a few months earlier would be traveling with them and was waiting in a wagon just outside the castle gates.

As Sòlas took the child into his arms Ròs said, “Here, this is for you to read after you and the babe are safe,” and she handed him the letter her mistress had given her. She watched as his face reflected the sorrow of having to leave Caena behind.

“Go quickly!” Ròs whispered as she gave him a gentle push toward the door, and he was gone. Returning to her mistress, she took care of what was needed, and then removed all the linens, handed them off to her husband, who removed them from the castle to burn them.

Once everything was handled, Ròs left the room and went to the Laird’s quarters where she found Macrath scowling and pacing in front of his father’s fire.

“Well, woman? What news?” he demanded.

“My Lord, the child was stillborn; a wee girl, my Lord—much too small and early to have lived,” she said. Her countenance reflected how sadly she really felt while she bowed before him.

Instead of raving and sobbing in grief as one would have expected a father to behave at such a time—or expressing concern for his wife—he simply turned his back on her and quietly responded as if there had been nothing of importance lost. Her mistress had judged him accurately, it seemed. Since the child was just a girl, it was not a loss worthy of his concern.

“Well,” he said, as he poured himself another goblet of wine on the heavy table before the fire. “Another time then,” he mumbled drunkenly as he waved Ròs away and almost fell off his chair.

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Chapter 1: In The Old Tradition

Scotland - 1975

There they sat in front of her. Such a beautiful sight they were, these children of her children. They were huddled together on the floor between her and the massive fireplace with its roaring winter blaze. It was Christmas Eve, 1975, and she was well into her eighth decade.

Each year she had told the story they longed to hear. Due to their varying ages, she had always adapted it, of course, in accordance with their ability to understand its meaning. Though their parents still wished to deny that their babies were now nearly adults—they were most of them in their teens. This year, she had decided after much soul searching, she would tell it all. She would tell of even the harsher moments she had not shared previously. Yes, it was time it was all told before she was unable to do so. It was her responsibility to pass it on—even the ugliest parts of it.

She especially took note of young Fiona, or Fee as they called her. Fee reminded her of herself at that age—small but shapely, blonde, and those big gray eyes. She was a sweet girl who had always loved the castle, hearing the poems, and learning the traditions of Scotland. Fee and her parents lived in the United States but, from the time of her first visit to the castle at age four, Fee’s heart was in Scotland.

She remembered how Fee had begged and begged her parents, until she was allowed to spend each summer and—once she had gotten older—more than one Christmas vacation here at the castle, learning about Scotland and its traditions. She would be the one—yes, Fee would be the one to inherit this home that they all loved so much.

They settled down on the floor before her, wrapped in their thick, tartan plaid, woolen blankets, and fuzzy warm robes in holiday colors before the fire. Their hot chocolate was covered with the warm, melted sweetness of as many marshmallows as each could cram into a mug. Laughing to herself, she wondered why they bothered with the cocoa at all…but then, how would they melt all those marshmallows? Their eyes were sparkling with the reflection of the lights and ornaments on the twenty-foot tree that stood behind her like a sentry in its dressiest uniform.

The castle with her stone walls could be a cold, drafty old place, especially in the winter. Her many rooms were huge, with outer walls of stone and only its inner walls showing the modernization each generation of lairds and ladies had given her. Each had modernized in such a manner that the use of the old stone walls was not lost in the efforts. Ceilings here on the first level were so high she still marveled at them. Windows were tall and many, dispensing light evenly across the expanse despite the size and height of the rooms. The rooms on this west side of her walls got the advantage of the setting sun turning them such a lovely shade of peachy-grey. Her heart sighed at the very thought of the lovely evenings she and her beloved had shared here.

She had loved the castle from the first moment she saw it sitting at the base of a high green-forested hill, nestled in next to the blue-watered loch. The hill behind her held a stony cliff on its far side that, breaking loose of the forest, was a stony overlook to the loch. It was her favorite place in the whole world—and she had seen most of that world over her many years.

She looked around this, her favorite room—the Great Hall they called it. It had been thoroughly decorated for the holiday by these children and their parents the week before. There were branches of evergreen and holly. Of course there had to be mistletoe—used by each of the children to cause embarrassment to their parents at will.

There were red satin and velvet ribbons, paper chains, various lengths of ropes made from popcorn and berries. Candles as well as bright lights illuminated the huge room. Santa Clauses of varying sizes in tartan plaid as well as red velvet and fluffy white fur, miniature sleighs with their reindeer—more than one of the reindeer had red noses—set in corners, on the mantle, under the tree.

And then there were the snow globes collected from around the world. The glass balls—filled with their trapped snow falling time and time again over village scenes or racing sleighs pulled by high-stepping horses—brought delight and fascination to the tinier children that blessed the castle this season.

It was a sight to see! She grinned looking around again. Giggling to herself, she admitted that she was lucky there was no neon flashing—just the blaze of the fire and the flickering of the candlelight. Their decorating had certainly not left the room dull! Others might find it gaudy, even inappropriate for such a holy time of year—she simply adored it and the loving hearts that lay behind it.

One such heart had seen to it that there was a tiny tree in her bedroom, decorated with tiny cookies for ornaments. This, she knew, explained the hushed whispers and secretive looks between her granddaughter, Mac, and Mac’s little daughter, Brie. They had forbidden anyone to go into the kitchen for hours on end.

Poor Mrs. Poole, their cook, had raised a holy fit. Her husband, their quiet, distinguished butler for the last thirty years, had been seen escaping from their quarters, mumbling and looking very distracted, several times that day.

Well, she thought, Mrs. Poole would get over it…in a month or two. As for Mr. Poole, there wasn’t much she could do for him other than the little something extra in his stocking this year. Perhaps a long weekend off in the isles with his long-suffering wife would earn him some respite. Smiling at the memory of the tree, it was worth it!

The blazing fire in the fireplace—large enough to hold a hay wagon—certainly handled the old castle’s faults well. She giggled once more. She always thought of the castle as a ‘she’ despite the fact that this blew in the face of its history, even national tradition. The castle had been the family home for almost three-hundred years. Many of those years had been fraught with death from sickness, war, intrigue, even hatred and jealousy. The women of this castle had known great love, passion, and pain. There had also been betrayal, degradation, and, of course, murder. She caught herself shivering.

As she took one more sip of the hot tea beside her, her hands gripping the mug for warmth shook slightly—from her advanced age as much as from the memories—and she became aware that they were all looking up at her in eager anticipation. It was time to begin what had always been in their heritage—like the women of old she would share a story.

“Once upon a time, in a land not so very far away at all, there was a beautiful young Scottish lassie…”

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Chapter 2: The Life of a Scottish Lassie

Donnach, Scotland - 1725

Caena sat looking out of the window of her rooms in Donnach Castle. The castle had been her home since the day she was born, almost sixteen years before. As her mind struggled with her thoughts, her gaze went across the loch of the same name. The loch’s normally rich blue water was dark and murky this morning—mirroring her mood as well as the sky.

Under that stormy sky, the land as far as could be seen in any direction belonged to her father’s estate—the village where her father’s people lived, loved, raised their families, worked, and died.

The fields where they raised the food for the castle and village were just starting to come to life. The pastures for their herds ranged from flatland to hills—high and beautiful. Shaggy white sheep with their black faces and the even shaggier highland cattle were just starting to drop the next generation of animals prized throughout the country. They would provide food and clothing for the estate, as well as bringing in the fees for breeding services that would spread their kind throughout Scotland.

The Laird of all this, the Clan McDonnough, was Caena’s big, burly father, Finnean (FIN yan) McDonnough. He was known throughout the land as The McDonnough. It was a name uttered with the utmost respect by all who knew him, except some of his own blood. As the Earl of Donnach, he was owed respect. But, better yet, his people freely gave that respect to him for his fairness and generosity, as well as the good care he showed them.

She thanked the good Lord that the droughts of the past were over. She had heard the stories of the starvation and loss suffered throughout her country. Now they could look forward to continued prosperity, if not freedom from the dreaded English rule. The Union had been forced upon them before her birth, and she prayed that someday her homeland would be free to rule itself again.

Their clan-oriented society was being threatened. Their loyalty remained with their lairds, despite the show of loyalty they were forced to display for the English. Life in Scotland could be hard, but Scots were a sturdy, stubborn people who would resist the English or die trying—Union or no damned Union!

“Good morning to you, Caena.” There was no answer as Ròs, Caena’s maid, entered Caena’s rooms. She caught the expression on her charge’s face. The girl’s mind was far off somewhere. Knowing her mistress as well as she did, she recognized that Caena was upset this morning. Why, oh why, is so much pressure placed on such small shoulders?

Shaking her head, she quietly went about her morning duties—selecting the clothing for Caena’s day. Watching Caena out of the corner of her eye, she set out her hair brush and ribbons. She found fresh hose and assured that the girl’s slippers were clean and ready for the day—despite the fact that she herself had made sure of this the night before.

All the while she moved around the room, she watched Caena closely. How very much like her parents she was, Ròs mused. Her strength and stubbornness came from Finnean, her beauty from her dear mother. Finnean doted on his daughter–and where had that gotten her, Ròsscowled.

How much she herself loved the girl. She had tended to her with the love of a mother for her child since moments after the girl’s birth. So much joy and sadness all wrapped up in one day. Ròs sighed and went about her business.

In the meanwhile, Caena was lost in thoughts about her father. From time to time, Finnean was misunderstood by his peers for his ideas which were considered extreme. Some even thought his ideas were threatening to their way of life. Unlike other men of his time, he held the minds and wisdom of the women in his life in high esteem. He had adored his wife, the sweet Morgana, who had died when Caena was born.

Caena’s thoughts took her to the enmity that brewed beneath the surface of her family. She shuddered as she thought of it. Like so many wealthy families of their day, plots to overthrow the leader of the family were lurking in the dark corners of the estate. Power was always a temptress ready to seduce those of lesser character—which were plentiful in the McDonnough clan these days.

God forbid any outsiders tried to battle with the McDonnoughs, for the McDonnoughs would band together to fight their way through hell itself. But the McDonnoughs were, amongst themselves, a warring brood. Knowing such plots existed was only a small part of the matter. Finnean would have to outsmart all of them. She realized that he had managed to quell such plots for his twenty-two years as Laird without any help from her. After all, she was a mere female. But loving him, she could not help but worry about her father’s safety.

It was difficult for her to remain in her dark mood when she thought of her father. The thought of him always brought a smile to her face. The tale was told that when Finnean’s parents saw the mop of light hair on their new born babe, they had agreed immediately on his name which meant white-headed—she had been given the name Caena for its same meaning. The flowing, near-white blond hair she wore with such pride fell to such a length that she sometimes sat upon it—even when it was plaited.

Oh, how Caena loved her father. He was the most important person in her life—other than the man she met on the cliffs—and had been for as long as she could remember. Her protector, her teacher, her supporter, both mother and father—he had been all of them. He would give her any desire of her heart, if he could. But, sadly, there were some things even The McDonnough could not do. Caena could never inherit all that was his and dear to his heart.

Ròs watched the girl move to her dressing area. She knew where Caena’s thoughts had taken her. Ròs could always tell when the girl thought of Finnean.

As Ròs dressed her, Caena watched herself in her looking glass. Caena McDonnough strongly resembled her mother, or so she had been told as long as she could remember. Of course, she had never seen Morgana. But she often heard that—while she had her father’s pale, blonde hair—she had her mother’s fine features, huge gray eyes, and the full lips that settled in a near pout when she wasn’t smiling.

She blushed to think of her other features. With her tiny stature, narrow waist, full bosom, she had a figure different than most of the maidens in the castle. This too she got from her mother. She had seen the way some of the men in her father’s service looked at her. She shuddered again as she thought of it.

“What is the matter, child?” Ròs asked. “Would you like me to get your shawl? Are you chilled?”

“No, I’m fine, Ròs,” Caena responded quietly.

Ròs seriously doubted that. “Perhaps you would like some tea?”

“No. Thank you, Ròs.”

Ròs was worried about her mistress and dear, dear friend. The girl had been in a state for days. Something was weighing heavily on her heart, and it upset Ròs to see the pain in the girl’s eyes. Even the thoughts of her father didn’t remain on her face for long.

While Ròs worried about Caena, Caena’s thoughts returned to their previous path. She cared little of what others at court thought of her figure. Some of the women at court hid the fullness of their figures by wearing the binding undergarments of the English—copying their so-called English counterparts. While they more often wore the Scottish homespun chemises at home, they would give in to English fashion in public, especially for special occasions. They cared too much about what the English thought, in Caena’s opinion—not that anyone asked a woman’s opinion, she scowled again. Sighing to herself, she thought most of these women were probably just doing as their husbands expected them to do. That, after all, was what a Scottish woman’s life amounted to—making your husband happy!

Caena felt her temper flaring. She recognized that her temperament was like her father’s. Aye, she could be what Finnean called ‘a fiery-tempered lassie’ when pushed—some said she was stubborn. She preferred to think she was just determined! Thinking of the imagined slight, she lifted her chin in defiance as she watched her reflection in the mirror. If they did not like her for herself, then damn them all. She caught herself before she would have stomped her dainty foot on the hard stone floor of her rooms. She sneaked a peek at Ròs to see if she had noticed how close she had come to displaying that determination.

Finally, her thoughts settled back on the real reason for her dark mood. Her father had given her the worst of news. She felt her eyes starting to fill and her chest tightening. He had, despite his own heart, told her she had to make a dreaded decision. For the third day in a row it had clouded her thoughts and certainly her mood. The man, who if left to his own devices would give her anything he had, asked for a decision from her on a choice of husband. She wiped an escaping tear from her cheek, refusing to let herself break.

Seeing the tears on Caena’s cheeks, Ròs could stand it no longer. “Lassie, dinna tell me that you are alright now. Come, sit next to me.” She guided the girl to a chair, then Ròs sat beside her, holding the weeping girl’s hand. “Now tell me what is bothering you so, child.”

“Oh, Ròs, this should be one of the happiest days of my life. Just to know that I am to wed and—aye, to have any say in the matter—my heart should be bursting with joy.” She stopped to blow her nose on the little handkerchief Ròs handed her. “Father has given me a choice of husband. I should have been able to tell him, without any thought or consideration, that I chose the man I love above all—save father himself—but I could not.” She rose to pace the floor again.

“Oh child, why did you not tell me afore now?” Ròs wrapped her arms around Caena for comfort, and then she backed away again to finish dressing her.

“I needed to think this through before I said anything. But I just do not seem to be able to clear my head and make a decision,” Caena said quietly.

“Ròs, I am very fortunate that he gave me any choice in the matter at all. He knows that I love one who is, in father’s eyes, not the best choice considering all that must be considered. And God knows none of my peers would have any say whatsoever in such a matter.” She turned and looked at Ròs. “He would not force me to go against my heart, Ròs. But to be loved enough to be given the choice…” she sighed, “I must live up to such a responsibility.”

“Aye, lass, we knew this day would come, and your sixteenth celebration of birth is just days away.”

Caena knew that the law demanded estates only be inherited by men. Therefore, what was the Laird’s—his fortune, the title, the lands, and the castle—must go to a male heir. She knew that it weighed heavily on his mind and heart that he had no son. She was his only child.

For years others had pushed him to select a new wife. However, his deep and abiding love for his dear Morgana had prevented any lasting relationships with other women. Friends had thrust every available young woman into his path, but he would not be tempted to take another wife. Thus he had no male heir in his future. This decision may well have saved him from the plotting of other family members over the years. All they had to do was just wait him out and reap the rewards of patience when the Laird finally died.

“How was the choice given to you?” Ròs asked. She’d heard rumblings throughout the castle but would not take them seriously. She was not, after all, a gossip like so many of the other simpering women in the family’s service. She had waited to hear it from Caena herself.

Caena turned to look out her window again, hoping the view of the Loch would bring her some peace. “You well know that I will have to choose between the sons of my uncle.”

“Aye, it is as I feared.” Caena’s uncle—Finnean’s brother, Mordag (MOR dak)—had two sons. “Yes, those would be the only two choices…that is, if you wish to claim your father’s estate,” Ròs responded.

Caena scowled with disgust as she thought of the eldest of the two—the dark, brooding, ambitious, and hateful young Macrath (mahc RA). He made Caena’s skin crawl with discomfort especially when he cast his dark, sullen leer in her direction. His black, hard eyes gave a piercing stare. What should have been a strikingly handsome face instead held a malevolence that spoiled its beauty. It made her shiver when he settled that stare on her—and he did so often—as if for no other reason than to unnerve her. She sometimes thought he loathed her as much as she did him but, for some reason, he was willing—indeed had asked Finnean’s permission—to take her to wife. Once again she felt herself shudder.

The youngest son—the fair-haired and gentle-featured, sweet-tempered dreamer and poet, Sòlas (SOH lus)—was her love. He had been her love since he first kissed her cheek. She would not forget that kiss to the end of her days. It had been so sweet, so tender. She heard herself sigh.

He had kissed her as they sat in the shade of the huge, old gnarled tree that they considered theirs. The aged tree had tenaciously dug its roots deep into the rocky soil at the rear of the forest opening, high on the cliff above the loch. Smiling, she remembered the moment. She had been all of six—but then so had Sòlas.

The reality was that Caena loathed Macrath with a passion as deep and lasting as her love for Sòlas. Macrath had a heart as black as the hair that, held back by a leather strip, fell down his back to his waist. Macrath would never miss an opportunity to cause harm, shame, or sadness to any person in his path. She had even witnessed his cruel treatment of his own mother.

Her Sòlas’s love was as strong and sweet as the man himself. He was kind, generous and loving. Another sigh escaped her lips.

“Yes. Yes, that has always been the path ahead since your mother died,” Ròs said quietly.

Of course, if anything happened to Finnean, the estate would be entailed to his brother, Mordag first. Then in turn, the estate would go to Mordag’s sons—his heirs—in their birth order. Unless Sòlas outlived them all, he would never inherit. The only way that all her father had built would remain with his own bloodline would be for her to marry Macrath. It was a fact that burned inside her and, she knew, inside her father.

“Oh, Ròs, I know how fortunate I am. I owe my father a great deal. The women of Scotland have no rights, and so many of us receive no education whatsoever. Men want to impose their opinions on us instead of permitting us to learn and establish our own!” She scowled and her hands made fists at her sides. “Our men selfishly keep women from learning to read or write. Unless they have been fortunate enough to spend time in France or elsewhere where women are encouraged to learn, the only education they receive is from the oral stories passed on by others from generation to generation.”

“Aye,” Ròs looked down at the floor. “Had it not been for you, lass, I would not be able to read or write what little I can. You have been very kind to me.”

In secret, Caena had spent some of the small amount of time they had alone together teaching a very rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing to Ròs. Anytime the other women were present, she and Ròs concentrated on their sewing, embroidery, telling tales, or singing the women’s poems of their history—keeping any unwomanly abilities between themselves.

Yes, Caena was well aware that, had she not dared to help Ròs learn to read and write, she would be just another of the number of women of Scotland dependant on the oral tales. Caena went to this woman who had raised her from birth. She loved her and would willingly give her anything a daughter would give a mother. “No, Ròs. Although he does not know it, ’tis father to whom we should be thankful.” They could never dare make Ròs’s lessons known to others. “Despite these opinions, he insisted that I be tutored right along with Macrath and Sòlas.”

They both remembered that it had caused a great scandal in the beginning. Even the easy-going tutor had resented her, until he realized what a bright student Caena was. And then, in fear of reprisal, he had avoided letting anyone outside the castle know he was teaching a girl. He’d admitted this to her when he’d had too much whiskey at the Yule celebration at the castle last winter solstice.

She had heard her father explain his attitude in this matter to his brother, and others when the matter arose. Despite his brother’s ranting, in Finnean’s mind—frugal Scot he was—it only made sense. The teacher was there, so why not make full use of the man? Caena was, after all, no trouble to him. She took up little room and, once instruction began, she had picked things up so quickly that the tutor spent all his time working with the laddies. Finnean paid the man to teach. He was not paid by the number of students. Therefore, using Finnean’s logic, having the man teaching the laddies, but not the lassie, was just wasteful. Finnean was not a wasteful man!

Thus Finnean had justified her education to others. In his heart, and privately to Caena, his true reasons lay elsewhere. The child was bright, and he wanted her to learn everything she could so that she could protect herself in the future. Knowing their family, she would need all the skills she could get.

But, no matter how logical his justifications, this was greatly frowned upon by other members of the family. Sometimes a member of court tried to use this against him, but his many friends in court supported his quirks. As long as none of their women were affected by his views, they saw to it that no action was taken to interfere with his running of his own household. So the daughter of the popular, powerful Laird of Donnach had learned to read, write, think, and reason as had few other women in the country.

“I suppose,” Caena continued, “that I should think myself fortunate that any Scotsman would have me to wife.” She giggled, “While other women spent their entire days in wasteful, womanly pursuits, I was given a rare gift—instruction in Scots, and of course English, mathematics, and sciences.”

Learning the languages had been confusing she thought. But she stubbornly studied both, since English was rapidly pushing the Scots’ own language aside. She feared that someday, her own language would disappear completely. While many still spoke the old Gaelic, it was rapidly being replaced. How much longer Scots could hang onto their own language was a question that upset her greatly. How much more could her people lose?

“The English hornies take every opportunity to degrade us. They even use our language as an example of their English superiority,” she sneered. “They dare to think that our Scottish language is a lower form of their English—that English is being degraded by us Scots!” She laughed scornfully. Any self-respecting Scot, she thought, disagreed with this point of view. It was just one more proof of Scots being thought of as a lower society than that of their southern neighbors—just one more matter of contention between the two societies.

Caena smiled, the humor now reaching her eyes. “But Ròs, even with all I learned, I still had to learn the sewing and the embroidery,” she said, as she reached over and patted Ròs’s knee gently as they both laughed.

“Aye, I remember how you fought it for weeks until you were given the choice of doing both or getting no more tutoring.” Ròs reminded her with a broad smile on her handsome face.

Caena laughed as she too recalled it, “Yes, I can read and write better in both languages than either of my cousins, my sums are more accurate, as is my aim with a bow and arrow,” she said. Then, as she leaned close to Ròs in a posture of conspiracy, she whispered, “Much to Mordag’s chagrin!” They laughed together. Then Caena’s expression changed to a scowl as she added, “But, of course, the important thing is that I can sew!”

“Ah, Ròs,” Caena sighed, “I have never felt so trapped. All my life our society will hold me down at every opportunity. Now comes the biggest chance I may ever have to determine my own future, and it is a decision that could end any chance I have to be happy.”

Once again the tears started to flow. Ròs just held her and let her cry.

**************************

Chapter 3: Meet Blair

Paris, France - March 1912

Blair woke up pulling herself from the dream that had plagued her for as long as she could remember. While the nightmare hit her perhaps once a month as a child, now that she was full grown it had come upon her more frequently—now appearing more often than not. She never knew what it was about—it just hovered there, dark and unsettling as she awoke. It was as if it held a secret message of dark foreboding.

Refusing to give in to the mood in which the dream unvaryingly left her, she rose from her bed. She was a determined young woman. She simply made up her mind that she would not let the dream ruin her day. She threw off the coverlet that entangled her body using the same determination with which she had fought off the dream.

Reaching for her robe, she yawned and stretched her petite body, pulling out the kinks from her battle with her covers. As she donned the robe and tied it at her waist, she walked to the window of her small, cozy and—to her mind and great satisfaction—beautiful apartment.

She pulled open the dark green, wooden shutters to the window. The morning light of Paris immediately streamed into the large room that served as parlor, bedroom, and dining room. Its yellow walls brightened with the rosy sunlight of the Paris morning. The splashes of bright blue and lavender she had tossed about the room in the form of a glass-shaded lamp, pillows, vases, and the little painting she had bought from a local artist always raised her spirits.

The breeze immediately lifted the scents from the little garden below the window. It had just started coming to life the week before. She inhaled deeply, letting the wonderful scents of the morning air fill her, lifting her mood. Basking in the morning, she wondered if there was anywhere any more glorious in the spring—or any other time, for that matter—than Paris.

Behind her landlord’s quarters was a small courtyard where he had permitted her to plant a small garden that she thought of as her own. The rose bushes were just coming into leaf. It would be a few weeks before their first spring blooms would scent the air. The hyacinths and other wonderful spring bulbs she had planted were already putting their perfume into the air. Someday, she sighed to herself, someday she would have a home of her own with gardens galore. And water, she thought. Yes, she must have water—blue and peaceful water. Her sigh was one of utter peace.

Smiling, she thought of her landlord, the tiny, fragile-looking eighty-six-year-old Mssr. LeGard. So aptly named, he thought of himself as her guardian, her protector from the dangers that he felt awaited her out on the surrounding streets of Paris. He might look frail, slightly bent, and small in stature. But, she giggled to herself, the man had the heart of a feisty, young lion.

Her uncle would never have permitted her to get her own apartment if she had not found such a protective, caring landlord. Mssr. LeGard constantly urged her to eat more, get out more, and find another handsome young man. She felt her heart clutch, then put the thoughts of the past away again.

Oh well. Yawning and stretching one last time, she spoke aloud to herself. “It’s time to stop your daydreaming, Blair. Your day has begun, and…” looking at the clock on her desk, she jolted, “you are already late!” Except for the smudges of color under her eyes, the nightmare was forgotten for now.

Opting for a quick shower instead of the long hot soak she longed for, she ran to the bathroom removing her robe and nightgown as she ran. Once she was finished bathing, she wrapped a towel around her hair and went to her closet. She selected her favorite blue dress with its large buttons down the front and its collar that closed just a few inches below her chin. Taking little time for make-up, she piled her long, quickly-braided blond hair on top of her head and pinned it securely.

Once she had dressed for work, she grabbed an apple that would serve as her breakfast. Ready to start her day, she ran out her apartment door, then down the steep, narrow stairway. She quietly passed Mssr. LeGard’s door and ran out the front door of the building. She had always thought it was a sweet little building. It sat on one of Paris’s cobbled streets in a neighborhood that was centuries old. The building in which she lived had been there for at least one of those centuries. It had been Mssr. LeGard’s home for most of that century. He had married, raised a family, and—sadly, she thought—outlived them all.

As she rounded the corner of the building, she saw Mssr. LeGard returning to the house with his arms loaded down with packages from the marketplace. She would have loved to help him with his packages, but knew that he would be hurt to have her offer. He was a very proud man, and a very large part of that pride was wrapped up in his independence.

“Bon jour, Chéri,” he said in his gravelly voice, as he stood still long enough for her to kiss both his cheeks. “You are going to be late getting home tonight, Chéri?”

There was the care she had been thinking of just moments before. He would check on when she would be home—he would then wait up for her, she knew. “Oui, Monsieur, but not so very late—speaking of late,” she said, as she glanced at the little lapel watch she wore on her jacket, “I must get to the shop! Madame will be worried about me. Adieu!” she said, as she quickly turned and continued her fast-paced walk to work.

She turned around just long enough to wave to him and see him smile in return and head for home. He was such a dear man, she thought. Mssr. LeGard had spent a generous amount of time and money having the interior of his house modernized. There was a private bath for his quarters downstairs, as well as one in his tenant’s quarters upstairs. Blair almost moaned out loud when she thought of that little claw-footed tub that held enough hot water and bubbles to relax her to the bone. And then there was the little shower head that sprouted from the wall at the far end of the tub. That certainly came in handy for days like today when she was running late.

A small kitchen area was installed in the rented apartment as well. She was learning to cook but was still not very good at it. At least the little kitchen gave her the opportunity to practice. She was so thankful that she had found the wonderful apartment and so close to where she worked. It was a short four blocks to the shop.

As she passed the street-side flower stall, she smiled and waved at Claude, the vender. She made a mental note that she wanted to pick out something nice for her dinner companion. Since she was running late, she would have to do so on her way to his apartment after her day’s work. She passed the other vendor stalls, walking quickly, waving and shouting a greeting to those who knew her.

Still thinking of her dinner companion, she smiled as she scurried to the shop where she worked. Uncle Roddy was the happiest, most important part of her life. How she had missed him while he had been away. It was unlike him to go away without telling her where he was going, but she would do her best to pry information out of him tonight. He never could keep things from her for very long. She would just stubbornly and unceasingly—with love and a smile—keep working on him until he gave in and told all. How she adored him!

She continued rushing along, trying to regain some of the time she had lost day-dreaming at her window. Rushing was not something she was prone to do unless running late. She much preferred soaking up the atmosphere of Paris while leisurely strolling to and from work, but there just wasn’t time for it this morning.

Then, the results of letting her mind wander became all too real. The screeching of a horn and frantic screams reminded her that the streets of Paris were not a safe place to daydream. Bicycles and taxis—horse-drawn as well as the newer motorized ones—sped through the neighborhood with little care to lanes or people. She knew better than to walk without watching where she was going. She managed to jump to the side just as the driver of the taxi sped past her on the narrow street. Shaking his fist from his open perch, he swore in a stream of gutter French that, despite the vulgarities, still sounded like music to her ears.

Instead of being upset at the cabby’s rough language, she just smiled. Laughing to herself, she thought that the women cabbies, with their horse-drawn taxis or motorized versions, had usually been more civil to passersby. She shook her head as she continued down the road towards the shop. Ah, is this progress, she wondered?

Blair had been raised with English as her primary language, although, it was not really her native language. She used French for business and social events. Therefore, her English was spoken using few idioms and no contractions. Since she spoke fluent French the majority of her day, her English flowed with a melodic French accent.

She loved Paris, loved the language, and thought sadly…she had loved. Straightening her back with determination, no, she wasn’t going to let that memory ruin her morning. She had allowed Paris to pull her out of the mood that had struck her so early in her day, and she staunchly refused to let that black mood come back.

She entered the little shop where she worked and—panting slightly due to her rush—smiled brightly when she saw her best friend, Esmée, and the shop owner, Madame Adrienne. This bright little shop had been her way to live on her own for the past three years, and she loved it almost as much as her sunny little apartment. She also loved the two women who stood there looking very relieved to see her.

Madame, a widow for many years, owned the little shop more as a hobby than a source of revenue. Her late husband had been well off, and left her able to indulge her love of “all things French”. The shop stocked a variety of merchandise from local sources. One could find French lace, the work of local artists, soaps, perfumes, and other French products.

All the merchandise was prettily displayed on antique tables, desks, armoires or shelves, their wooden surfaces gleaming. Madame used her merchandise to sell itself. She put a great deal of time into setting up her displays. She carefully selected items to show in little grouping—reflecting how they could look in a home of distinction.

Laces and ribbons spilled from drawers in a soft flow. The drawers were left open to permit such items to escape in a flow that appeared to be a random manner—although she spent much time each morning assuring they were very carefully arranged.

Soaps sat in dainty bowls atop lacey doilies. Next to them would be a lovely antique pitcher and bowl set. Perhaps a soft robe would be draped across a ladder-back chair nearby, and a book would be found sitting on the chair’s cane seat as if the reader had just stepped away.

Art work hung in tasteful arrangements on the walls. It was rearranged often to keep the shop’s appearance a surprise for frequent patrons.

Draperies at the tall windows gave the shop the appearance of a lovely—if somewhat eclectic—parlor.

The shop was a haven for many tourists, as well as the locals looking for a lovely place to spend a little indulgent time in the morning or afternoon. Madame was known to serve tea and cookies during the day and, oddly enough, locals seemed to find themselves gravitating to the shop just as tea was being served. It was a sunny little shop, loaded with color, texture, and good smells—and lovely people. Blair adored every moment she spent working there.

“Mon chéri, we were beginning to worry about you,” Madame sighed when she saw Blair enter. She looked at Blair closely, her dark eyes scrutinizing the girl of whom she was very fond. The signs of a fitful night’s sleep were still showing on Blair’s face, despite her smile. It did not escape her notice that this had been happening more and more often of late. Madame decided she would probe more deeply later, but not now. Now was the time to soothe and allow healing—not to intrude or stir painful memories.

“I am so sorry, Madame, I seem to have overslept this morning, and my mind kept wandering...I promise to make it up to you,” Blair kissed Madame’s lightly-rouged cheeks. as was their custom each morning. “I did not mean to worry you.”

“Ah, my dear, if we did not care so much for you, Esmée and I would not worry, no?” Madame gave her a little squeeze and then turned her loose. She recognized the weariness in the girl, and it pained her. Perhaps she would rest better now that her dear uncle was back in Paris.

Esmée moved in for her kisses and hug, also noticing the smudge of color under Blair’s big gray eyes. “Blair, you did not sleep well again?” she asked her quietly as they moved to the back room where Madame’s office and storage for the extra stock was kept.

Blair had known Esmée for several years. Esmée had been dating a friend of Julien’s when he and Blair first started dating. A sweet girl, Esmée was polite, soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and beautiful. Her physical appearance was a contrast to Blair’s. Esmée wore her long sable-colored hair tied back in a knot at the back of her long, slender neck. Her green eyes, shining out from beneath dark, thick lashes, had a slight upward slant that gave her an exotic look. Her eyes always reminded Blair of the sea—a peaceful day at sea. No storms there! The girl was steady and loving. Blair loved her like a sister—Esmée felt the same about Blair.

“Now, tell me, Chéri. What is going on? You are pale, and you look as if you have not slept in days,” probed Esmée.

“It was the dream again, Esmée. I am sure some great psychologist like Doctor Freud is somewhere teaching classes on dreams to wide-eyed students who are never actually bothered by them. I, on the other hand, do not have benefit of his wisdom and opinions. I just stand here bleary-eyed wondering why I cannot just figure it out. It doesn’t feel like the good Doctor’s ‘road to the unconscious’—it just feels dark and foreboding!” Blair sighed heavily. She shrugged her shoulder and stubbornly pasted a smile on her face. “Oh well, enough of me for one day. Even I get bored with my bad dreams and moods!”

“Perhaps you read too much of Dr. Freud’s enlightening literature, Blair,” Esmée teased. Recognizing the set of Blair’s jaw, she dropped the subject of her dreams. Blair would not allow the intrusion of the dark dream upon her day. Knowing her as she did, Esmée would not argue with her on the subject.

They settled into their daily routine, setting up the displays of hand-crafted jewelry that had been put away for safekeeping overnight. Madame unlocked the front door to welcome the day’s business, while Esmée wondered why a wonderful girl like Blair would have such unsettling dreams.

The little bell, hanging on the front door of the shop, signaled the entry of the day’s first customer. So, their work day began.

***

Entering the unlocked front door of her uncle’s apartment that evening, she called out for him and headed for the kitchen in the back of the building. She knew she would find him there, humming a tune while preparing the evening meal.

She stopped at the entry to the kitchen to take in the sight of him. He was dressed casually with his little white chef’s apron wrapped around his just slightly generous waistline. His cheeks were rosy from standing over the steaming pot on the stove. His glasses had, as always, steamed up and gotten pushed up on top of his head. There they would sit until he searched for them later, and she would remind him of their location. As he became aware of her presence, he turned and smiled broadly.

“My dear girl, how I have missed you!” he said, as he dropped the large wooden spoon onto the counter and turned to hug the girl he loved like a daughter. He had gladly accepted responsibility for her years ago when he lost his dear brother and sister-in-law. They had died together, as he supposed it should be for two people who loved each other so desperately. An avalanche took them while they were on what they had called their second honeymoon.

Blair had come to live with him and she was a blessing that made all his sacrifices over the years well worthwhile. He hoped she might never know the lengths he had had to go to on her behalf. Of course, eventually, she would have to know much he had not shared with her so far. He prayed that he could continue to protect her, especially now. Oui, eventually he would have to tell her, but for now he thought it best to permit her this time of happiness and freedom. She had already suffered so much loss and pain in such a young life. With regret, he was terribly afraid that the peace she was enjoying now was likely to end all too soon. He would prevent it as long as he was able.

“Oh,” she squeezed him tightly in a hug, “I missed you too! Here, these are for you,” she said, offering him the bouquet of tulips ranging in color from bright and pastel pinks, pale and vivid yellows, and creamy whites. For scent, she had added pungent lilies of white and purple.

“Beautiful,” he smiled at her. “Ah,” he held them to his nose and inhaled with his eyes closed. “They are almost as beautiful as my precious girl! Let’s put these beauties into some water.” He reached over to the long shelf that spread over the length of his kitchen, broken only by the window that let in the Paris light. He brought down the vase that had been used on his table for more than twenty years. It had been his wife’s favorite and, in the sixteen years since she died, it had been in daily use. He loved flowers, he loved beauty, he loved to cook, and he loved this girl!

She wandered around the small, tidy kitchen enjoying the aromas she always found in his apartment. A pot of something wonderful was almost always simmering away on the stove. In season, fresh flowers sat posed beautifully in vases in every room. Out of season, they were always found in his parlor.

Then there was the scent of him—the faint but male scent of his aftershave, the cherry of his pipe tobacco, the wool of his sweaters in the winter, and his favorite linen shirts during the summer. These would forever bring him to her mind.

He had been her anchor for all the years since her parents had died when she was a small child. While she no longer could remember either of them, he told her stories, and showed her the few photos so that she never lost her parents entirely. But, when she thought of family, it was Uncle Roddy who immediately came to mind.

When Julien had died two years ago, dear Roddy had held her until her tears ran dry. Julien had gotten ill and died of pneumonia so suddenly—just weeks after he had asked her to marry him. She felt the tightening in her throat, and tried to move beyond the pain of his loss one more time.

At twenty-three, she could not imagine her life without Roddy. The fact that someday she would have to do so was something she hid from her consciousness with her usual determination.

“How was your trip?” She noticed the slight stiffening of his shoulders, then the almost immediate relaxing of them which only she, who knew him best, would have recognized. He was keeping something from her, and she had a feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

**************************

Chapter 4: Caena Must Decide

Donnach Castle, Scotland – 1725

It had been a week since Finnean asked the girl to make a decision that would change her life forever. Ròs, who had raised Caena from birth, came into her mistress’s room, and saw that she had, once again, retreated into thoughts of her upcoming marriage. “Lass, have you made a decision yet?”

“No,” Caena sighed deeply. “I know my father’s heart, but he is a practical man. Despite his wishes for my future, he has always made my options known to me, such as they are.” She knew her father loved her more than life itself, and so he always told her. But she was, after all, a girl.

“It angers me, Ròs, that despite all else I must resign myself to a woman’s fate.” She would have to live with the constraints of the society of her time. “There is only so much father can do. He was kind to honor me by permitting me to make the choice. I am determined that he will not be sorry for his effort.”

But there was so little time. She would be expected to make her decision by the time of the dreaded sixteenth anniversary of her birth—two weeks from today. If she was to remain at the castle, and have it all pass to her father’s future generations, she would have to marry one of the sons of her uncle. One would bring her joy, the other damnation. She was afraid she knew which would be her fate. All her sleepless nights, tears, pacing—there was no getting past it.

Caena began pacing around the room like a woman possessed of some devil. As Ròs prepared Caena’s wardrobe for the day, she watched the girl pace around the room time and time again.

“Macrath is the obvious choice,” she shuddered. “As Mordag’s eldest son, he will inherit before Sòlas. The estate will then pass to Macrath’s sons, unless Macrath dies childless. And even then,” she added sadly, “Sòlas can only inherit if he lives long enough to do so.” She had feared for his safety since Macrath had become old enough to understand the advantages he held over his younger brother.

“And Mordag is still able to produce more sons to inherit. My greatest fear is that Macrath would create some dark intrigue and have Sòlas killed. Perhaps,” she added almost gleefully, “something will happen to Macrath before he can act against Sòlas!”

“Quiet, lass,” Ròs whispered. “You must not let anyone hear you say such things. Macrath is as likely to have you done in as he would Sòlas.” Ròs feared for Caena. Every day she went into the chapel that sat behind Caena’s bed chamber, and she prayed for the girl’s safety. Jacobites were still practicing their Catholic faith despite the protestant demands of the English.

Caena had a moment of regret that her thoughts had taken that path. “Ah, Ròs, as much as Macrath is the old hornie himself, he is—after all—family!”

She could not really wish murder on Macrath, even knowing he was likely to eliminate Sòlas—in a fit of jealousy or fear—to prevent Sòlas from plotting against him. This, she knew in her heart, Sòlas would never do. Sòlas was not the type to join in the political plots as she knew Macrath did. To Sòlas, family was a sacred responsibility. Macrath, on the other hand, would always be wary, suspicious, looking for deceit in every corner. This, in Caena’s opinion, was as much a reflection of Macrath’s own character as that of those around him.

As long as Macrath survived his father, he was the only choice she had that would keep all that was dear to her in the possession of her father’s line. She just didn’t know if her heart was strong enough for her to do what must be done.

Her Sòlas, on the other hand, was fair of face, heart, and soul. He had been her Sòlas since their twelfth year. Their secret oath had been given and taken, as they sat together on the cliff overlooking the loch, on the warm spring day of their mutual birthday. To break that oath…once again the dreaded tears streamed down her face.

Sòlas and Finnean were the only people who understood that she hated to celebrate the anniversary of their birth, and why. The anniversary of her birth was also the anniversary of her mother’s death. Sòlas’s mother, beautiful, sweet Meadhbh (MAEV), had survived what was a common cause of death for women. Meadhbh had been much loved by Morgana and, as Morgana had wished, had become Caena’s godmother. How could such a loving woman as Meadhbh have two such different sons, she wondered.

She was so confused. One moment she was certain she could do what needed to be done. Then she would think of Sòlas, and her determination would falter. She settled again in front of the mirror, and Ròs began brushing Caena’s long, blonde hair.

“As much as I regret allowing my dark thoughts about Macrath, Ròs, it has occurred to me that even their mother prefers her youngest son.” Caena had long thought that Sòlas was his mother’s favorite. Even his mother seemed to recognize the evil that emanated from her eldest son. Although Meadhbh never spoke it to anyone, Caena was certain that Macrath felt the favoritism as well. That would make him very dangerous to Sòlas. Very dangerous indeed!

A single tear ran its course down her pale cheek. The closer she got to her sixteenth birthday, the more she struggled with the pain of making her decision. Should she marry the man she loved? That would doom them both for whatever life was left to them after going against Macrath. The other alternative was worse. To protect Sòlas’s life, it would require they banish themselves from the land they loved as they loved the air they breathed.

If she married Macrath, she would doom herself to a life without her love, her Sòlas. But perhaps she would be able, in some small way, to keep Sòlas safe from harm. As a woman, she would never be permitted to reason with Macrath on Sòlas’s behalf. Not that it would matter to Macrath at any rate. He would as likely kill Sòlas just to spite her. She could, however, enlist Ròs and her family, all of whom served in the castle, to keep their eyes and ears open for any intrigues involving Sòlas’s safety.

She’d never felt so trapped. She had no more than a fortnight to give her father her decision—a decision that would set the course for her entire future, and perhaps for her generations to come. It was a heavy weight for such a small, inexperienced girl. Once her decision was made, she would tell Sòlas first. She owed him that, no matter what else she did.

As Caena’s pacing stopped in front of the mirror, Ròs watched her mistress in the glass. She saw the pain, the conflict on her face. Poor child, she thought. She turned to go down to the kitchen. At least she could get the girl some food to keep her going. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, she would not do for Caena.

“At least I can be assured that something may change between now and the time when we wed. I can, at least, postpone that dreaded day as long as possible,” Caena said—more to herself than to Ròs—and relaxed slightly with that thought.

**************************

Chapter 5: The Old Laird is Dead

Donnach, Scotland – March 1912

The Laird was dead—long live the Laird, he snarled to himself as he took the three fingers of Scotch whiskey in one deep gulp. Oh, how he resented that the only way for him to become Laird was through his father’s death. He’d give up anything, hell everything, to have him back. His emotions were raw, his heart bruised, his very soul ached with the pain of loss. He could not imagine a more poignant loss than that of his father, unless it had been his mother. The thought sent a shiver down his long, muscular back.

His mother had been so brave throughout the funeral. Now she slept, and his hope was that the purple smudges under her eyes would be gone when she awoke in the morning. He couldn’t bear to see her in such pain, marching forward as was expected of the good Lady McDonnough, Countess of Donnach. To him she was simply his dear, sweet mother—his mère.

Sighing, he wandered across the Great Hall to the fireplace where the fire had blazed for hours to fight off the chilly evening. As it began to ebb, he stood leaning on one long, sinewy arm against the hearth and staring into the blaze below. He was lost in thought when his father’s elderly cousin, Iseabail (ISH uh bel)—Dizzy Izzy, as she was called behind doors—came into the room.

She silently watched him to gauge his mood. Deciding this was as good a time as any, she moved into the room to gain his attention.

“Alexandre, may I speak to you for a moment?” Her voice was gravelly with age, and syrupy with feigned sweetness.

Damn, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for any of his father’s cousin’s annoying conversation. She had always been a pain in his side, but she was family after all—distant, though not distant enough for his liking—but damn it, she was family, and he wouldn’t ignore her. Everyone had suffered a loss—not just he and his mother. He had to keep that in mind.

“Yes, cousin, please come in,” he answered, as he gathered his composure, straightened and slowly turned to face her. Cousin Iseabail was elderly, and her years had not done her any favors. She was the opposite of his mother. This cousin’s face was etched with lines from frowns and scowls well-played over the years. Dressed in the stark black, she appeared even more harsh than usual. Her hair had not as much grayed with the years, but had more yellowed. It added nothing flattering to her sallow complexion, nor did the stark black of her mourning attire. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, my dear. No. I just wanted to advise you of some rather disturbing news Aiden shared with me after the service this afternoon. I thought I should tell you, but I don’t wish to burden you if you need more time to yourself, dear boy.”

She was laying it on thick, he thought. His jaws were beginning to ache from clenching them. “It’s fine. What did your son have to say?” He had to admit she had piqued his curiosity. He had had little contact with Aiden or his brother, Hugh, over the years. The gods had smiled! If they’d grown into the same bent as their mother…he shook his head to clear this murderous line of thought and waited for her to continue.

As he waited for her to continue with whatever was the topic of gossip for today, he noticed Charlotte, his mother’s personal maid lurking near the entrance of the room. He wondered what the old dear was up to. What was she doing? Charlotte—dusting the items on a side table? He’d never known the wonderful old woman to dust anything in the twenty years she’d served his mother. What…? Then Iseabail regained his attention.

“Well, as you know, Aiden has been in Paris recently.”

“Yes, so I heard…somewhere.” Damned if he could even remember who’d mentioned it! So many people had been at the service to honor the beloved Laird.

“He heard a rather disconcerting rumor while he was there. It seems there is a young woman purporting to be a direct descendent of Caena and Sòlas McDonnough. You remember who they were, I take it?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He had to reign in his temper. The woman drove him crazy. She loved nothing more than gossip, and she was malicious to say the least. “How did he hear about this so-called descendent?”

“Oh, my…well, I don’t have all the details, but there was…” she paused as she waived a heavily-ringed hand in the air as if sweeping away mental cobwebs, “something… about her being in league with an older gentleman. He claims to be descended from Sòlas, and that the niece is descended from Caena.” She emitted an impolite snort of laughter. “Well, as you may recall, Sòlas exiled himself from Scotland. Caena, the Laird’s daughter, married Sòlas’s brother, Macrath. The whole idea that Caena had a child by Sòlas is ridiculous, of course.”

She let that sink in for a moment while she reached for a porcelain figure she had always coveted. Rubbing her hands across it, she continued. “He was undoubtedly lost at sea on his way to some island south of America.”

“I am well aware of the family history, Di…Iseabail,” he said, just wishing she would go away and leave him to his grief.

She waved her hand in dismissal, “But I felt you should know.” She was fairly purring at this point. “Perhaps you should check out this claim, now that you are Laird, Alexandre. It wouldn’t do to have some imposter muddying up the waters now that you are due to inherit.”

“Yes, I’ll certainly look into it.” His jaws ached from gritting his teeth while he forced himself to quietly listen to her prattle. As he glanced toward the doorway, he noticed that Charlotte was gone.

“Well, goodnight dear. Try to get some rest,” she said, as she pulled him down by his lapels to kiss his cheek, turned, and left the room.

“Old busy-body,” he snarled under his breath as he poured himself another three fingers of Scotch. Well, it was just as well that she had told him, he supposed. She was right. It wouldn’t do for his mother to be upset by some imposter trying to make claims on the estate. She had enough to deal with. He poured back the Scotch in a single swig. Yes, he’d look into it, and if this girl and her associate thought they were going to get by with doing anything to upset Lady McDonnough, he would put a stop to it quickly. If it was ever necessary, he would protect her with his very life. That’s what he would do for anyone he loved.

***

The next morning, as the dreaded cousin Izzy prepared to leave, she asked her cousin’s widow, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay to help you, dear?” Cousin Iseabail would have welcomed the excuse to stay on at the castle and spread more suspicion where she could. Watching Alexandre’s face when she had given him the news had made her absolutely giddy with pleasure. “Charles was a beloved cousin. I would be glad to be of service to you and the boy.”

“No, please!” She tried not to sound as panicked as she felt at the thought. “Don’t feel it is necessary to stay any longer. I’m sure you are anxious to get back home to Glasgow,” Lady McDonnough told her husband’s cousin. “It was most kind of you to come.” God, she hoped the woman would just leave, and do it quickly!

“Well, please let me know if there is anything we can do to help you. We are family after all and would love to be of service to you and the new Laird. Please do call on us, dear.” Dripping with sugary concern, she kissed Lady McDonnough on the cheek and reluctantly climbed into her car.

Lady McDonnough did not wait until the car was over the bridge before going back inside, where she met her son, her dear boy, coming out of his library. “Alexandre, my dear.” She raised her cheek to him for a gentle kiss. Wouldn’t he just have a tantrum over being called ‘boy’, she smiled to herself. At thirty-five he had long passed the ‘boy’ stage, she realized with both pride and regret.

He watched her face looking for signs that she had gotten better rest the night before. “We didn’t get a chance to speak in private this morning, what with all the gossiping at the breakfast table,” he growled. “How are you feeling this morning, Mère?” he asked, with his fluid French flavoring his endearment.

“I’m fine, Alexandre. Just fine,” she answered. “Now, why don’t you and I sit down for a cup of tea and some conversation while the house is quiet?” She smiled up at her son, took his offered arm, and they headed back to the Great Hall to enjoy the warmth of the dying fire while they could.

“I’ve always loved this room,” she said, looking around her. “It is one thing I shall miss a great deal.”

“You know you are more than welcome to stay on here, Mère. This is your home!” He knew she wouldn’t stay, but he was still sorry to see her planning to leave.

“Yes, well, it is for the best. I need a new start, Alexandre. There are too many ghosts here.” She tried to keep the sadness from crossing her face, but her son knew her too well. She knew she would have to stand her ground, or she would weaken and stay—she needed to go.

“What did our dear cousin have to discuss with you last night?” she asked.

“How did you know she came to me? You were supposed to be sleeping, Mère.” He smiled at her and waited for her response.

“Charlotte told me she saw the old crone waiting to pounce on you last night,” she laughed. “I wondered what mischief she was up to. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s hearing isn’t what it used to be,” she laughed.

“That explains why the old dear was hovering,” he laughed. “I was afraid she wasn’t feeling well…she was dusting! The sweet thing hasn’t dusted anything in the twenty years I’ve known her. I thought she was having some kind of breakdown.”

As he poured a white wine for each of them, he explained his conversation with his father’s cousin. “It was nothing of importance, really—some silly rumor she heard. You know her. She just loves to stir things up.”

His face had gotten grim, she thought. There’s more there than he’s telling, but she wouldn’t press him. He had enough on his shoulders these days. He’d tell her when he was ready. Why did sons always think they could keep things from their mothers—or that they should—she wondered?

**************************

Chapter 6: Hide and Seek—Tag

Paris, France - April 1912

It had been just weeks since he had returned from his journey. The knowledge Roddy had gained on that trip had shaken him. She is in danger, his precious Blair. How could he keep her safe? If they located him, they would locate her as well. He would have to take her to Scotland soon, and tell her all that he had tried to keep from her until she was ready. He could wait no longer. She had been through so much already. Julien’s death had shaken her, and just as Roddy had been about to tell her the truth. It pained him to know that he would cause her more upset, but it was better than having her die.

No, he would not permit any harm to come to her. He would tell her tonight and they would leave for Scotland in the morning. He had to keep her safe. Everything was coming together and he must not permit anything to go wrong—not after all these years when they were so close to reaching their goal—his goal, since she was still unaware of how her life was about to change.

He strolled absent-mindedly down the street, the buildings fronted with the booths of flower, fruit, and vegetable vendors. Here he knew was where locals—and tourists as well—could find the best buys.

He stopped briefly at his favorite flower vendor’s booth. As he was about to ask young Claude how his day was going, the shot rang out.

Claude saw the stunned expression hit Roddy’s face, and then the old man’s eyes went blank before he just slowly slid to the street. Claude ran to Roddy as screams went through the crowd. Passersby spread out and away from the body that now lay in the street—its life’s blood streaming down the cobblestones. While the shoppers stared in shocked disbelief, the whistles of the rushing gendarmes grew nearer.

***

Blair and Esmée sat at a little table on the shaded patio behind Madame’s shop. The building had originally been a private residence. That, as had been the case with Mssr. LeGard’s building, had been over a hundred years ago. Madame had converted it to a shop shortly after her husband’s death, but had left the lovely little patio as it had been, adding new plants in pots and containers of varying colors over the years. They were enjoying a small but satisfying lunch, giggling like little girls at a shared memory.

The sky was a shade of blue that Blair always imagined was not its color anywhere in the world other than Paris. The air was scented with early spring flowers. A soft breeze came through the hedge of blooming shrubbery that provided privacy from the neighboring buildings. Blair saw Esmée’s eyes widen. She turned to see what had caused the reaction only to find Madame stepping outside the shop with a nervous looking young gendarme following close behind.

“Blair, my dear,” Madame’s voice trembled slightly, as she approached Blair who could not fathom why Madame would look so somber. Her eyes, always bright with her enjoyment of life, were now dulled with some shock Blair did not understand.

“Madame, what is wrong?” Blair stood, and reached for the woman who only led her back to her seat and urged her down again.

“Blair, mon chéri,” Madame quietly started again. “This gentleman has come with shocking and very sad news. Please sit, my dear. Let him say what he must,” Madame patiently urged her.

The painfully young gendarme seemed very uncomfortable, and Blair could feel every muscle in her body tighten and tremble. “Please, what is it? What has happened?”

“Mademoiselle, you are the niece of one Rodée Delamare?” he asked her. Blair noticed that he had mangled his pronunciation of her dear uncle’s name.

“Yes, of course she is, you twit,” Madame responded to him tersely. “I already told you that. Spit it out, boy! Spit it out! Do not torture the poor girl.”

The young gendarme’s face turned scarlet, and he continued, “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to advise you that your uncle was killed today.” Looking at his watch briefly, he continued, “It happened about an hour ago…at the market place near his apartment. A flower vendor, he checked his notes, a Claude LeGard, told us where to find you.”

The Paris sky and all around her turned white and became silent as if she were under water, as her body simply floated to the ground.

***

She opened her eyes and could not imagine how she had gotten onto the small settee in Madame’s back office. How…then it all came rushing back. “Oh,” she cried out in grief. “Uncle Roddy! Uncle Roddy!” The cry became a keening plea as tears streamed down her face, while Esmée held her and Madame looked on with tears of her own.

Madame's heart broke for the girl. The tie between the uncle and the girl had been so very strong. She stepped forward with a small glass of wine ready for her. “Here, Blair, my dear, drink this. It will help,” Madame said, as she held the glass in front of Blair who—wondering if she would be able to swallow—did finally manage to do so.

“Madame, please tell me all you know. I must understand what has happened,” Blair pleaded when she realized the gendarme was no longer with them. Madame took the time to tell her everything the gendarme had told her. It grieved Madame to know what this slip of a girl would need to handle over the next few days.

“Do not worry, Chéri,” Madame continued, “Esmée and I will assist you in every way we can.” She looked over at Esmée’s pale face as the girl nodded in agreement.

“Blair,” Esmée said quietly, “Let me take you home now. You need to rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Later Blair did not even remember how she got back to her apartment. It would be several hours before she realized that anyone—currently Mssr. LeGard—had been hovering with tea, cookies, anything they could offer to try to get some food into her system.

Esmée had left the sweet old man in charge of watching over Blair late that afternoon, while she returned to assist Madame in closing the shop for the day. She had promised Mssr. LeGard that she would return later that evening, to take over again. He, of course, was glad to be of some service to Blair and would not rest easy until she was herself again.

As he tried once more to get her to eat something, he had to reassure himself that he had heard her speak. “What is it, child?”

“Why?” She barely whispered, with her voice scratching and raw from hours of crying. “I do not understand why. Everyone loved him. Why would someone kill him? It must have been some terrible accident—a mistake. He was such a loving, gentle, peaceful man. Perhaps they thought he was someone else?” She seemed to be pleading when she raised her chin and looked into Mssr. LeGard’s face.

“Yes, my dear, I am certain you are right,” he tried to assure her. His true opinion was very different. He had learned from his grandnephew, Claude, that the killer had been right next to her uncle when he fired the shot. No. The killer had known what he was doing and to whom he was doing it, LeGard was certain.

Unfortunately, the crowd had been thick, and Claude’s attention had been on Roddy, not the passersby. Someone did not love him, he thought. LeGard was afraid that the ‘who’ and the ‘why’ of her uncle’s death might never be known.

**************************

Chapter 7: From a Distance

Paris, France – April 1912

As soon as Alexandre got to Paris, he looked into this Roddy Delamare and his niece, Blair. He found that the man had died just the day before. No—he hadn’t died—he’d been murdered, or so his sources told him. No doubt at the hands of some other criminal sort. How—why—had such people sucked his family into their intrigues?

After unpacking, he walked outside and paced on his balcony. He kept this small, third floor apartment in Paris—overlooking the Seine—for those occasions when he needed to get away from business and rest his mind and body.

It was a nice little place that pleased him—soothed him. He didn’t need anything as large as his estate in Bretagne when he traveled here. It felt comfortable. He had had it decorated by a young student at the university who was studying design. It suited him and was close to his favorite restaurants, cafés and shops.

He watched the sun set over Paris while deciding what he should do next.

***

Three days after his death, Blair’s uncle was laid to rest in a small cemetery on the outskirts of Paris. Roddy Delamare had always been a quiet man, had often kept to himself— except for the company of an old familiar friend in the form of a book. Blair thought he would appreciate the quiet, solitary setting—if he had been able to see it. Still in shock, she almost laughed at the irony.

She noticed that there was a sweet, little bench just a few yards away where she could sit when she came to visit with him.

Roddy’s small, select circle of friends and hers were all in attendance—Esmée, Madame, Mssr. LeGard and his nephew, Claude. Few faces were strange to her, but one of those bothered her considerably.

She was not sure she liked the looks of him. Mind you, it was not that he was not handsome! She thought he was probably as handsome a man as she had ever seen. Tall, probably exceeding six-feet by at least three inches, his hair was long, sleek, shining, thick, and black as night. It flowed freely in the morning’s breeze only to settle touching his broad shoulders when the breeze abated.

There was undoubtedly a good strong build under the long overcoat he wore. The shoulders were broad. Unlike most of the men present, he was clean shaven, although the dark beard fighting its way to the surface of his smooth, creamy-colored skin could not be hidden entirely.

He had high cheeks and dark blue eyes that looked out from between thick black lashes. Those piercing eyes settled on her throughout the brief ceremony at the gravesite. The mouth was strong, and would have been very appealing if it had not been set in a sneer.

She tried to avoid his gaze, but his stare had brought her back to him more often than made her comfortable. She felt uneasy, and, because she was already in such pain, she could hardly bear to stand there under his scrutiny.

Once the ceremony was over, he simply vanished as the others came forward to offer her their condolences. She did not understand her feelings. She had wanted him gone, but once he left—she wished him back.

***

The next morning, Blair was restless and decided to go to Roddy’s apartment to pack up his belongings. This was a task she had been unable to carry out until now. She carefully wrapped the vase from the kitchen and packed it in the box of special items she would take back to her own apartment. His clothing was packed up and donated to the soldier’s home. Then, while she sorted through his many books, there was a knock at the door.

“Oui?” She said, as she greeted the stranger at the door. He was an odd, little man in a dark suit. Thick eye glasses rested on what she thought was a most generous nose, and the only hair she could see was the tiny amount sitting on his chin. He carried an attaché case in worn, brown leather.

“May I help you, Monsieur?” she asked.

“Mademoiselle Delamare?” Then he looked down at the paper in his thin hand, “Blair Delamare?” He’d been told that she spoke English at home, so he would try to oblige her.

“Yes, I am she. I am sorry, Monsieur, but I am really very busy right now. If you are selling something…” She did not realize until after he was gone that, had he been a sales person, he probably would not have known her name. Her mind simply was not functioning as clearly since…Roddy.

“No, no…” he cut her off waving his hand in the air, flustered by her misunderstanding. “My name is Pierre Bruyére. I was your uncle’s avocet…um, how you say in English…lawyer?”

“Ah, yes, please come in,” she stepped back and let the strange little man enter. “I was unaware that my uncle had a lawyer, but, of course, he would need one from time to time. Most business people do, I suppose.” Her mind was unfocused, and she tried to rein it in. She showed him into the parlor and, when he was seated, she offered him tea or wine which he declined. She sat opposite him and waited for him to continue. He was obviously here on some matter of business.

“Mademoiselle, I handled some of your uncle’s legal affairs such as his Will, which I have brought with me as well as a package he wished me to give to you in the event of his death.”

“You knew him well, then?” She dried her eyes one more time.

“In a business sense, oui,” he responded. “However, he had another…lawyer… in Edinburgh that handled his more personal affairs.” He had been forbidden by Roddy Delamare to discuss any of his business in Scotland with her, and, although he was aware of some of it, he would obey those wishes.

“I do not understand,” she blinked as she looked at the package he handed her. “What business could he possibly have had in Edinburgh? There was a Scottish heritage, of course, but he had never been to Scotland. We moved here from Cavalos, near Caen, though I don’t remember it. We moved to Paris when I was just a small child—after my parents’ deaths.”

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, I am not privy to those matters. My understanding is that there are instructions for you within the package you are holding. They will direct you to the correct person in Edinburgh.” He had avoided that issue rather well, he thought.

“As to his Will, you will see that he has left everything to you. He had a nice little account at Le Banc Royale, and those funds will be put into your name as soon as you sign the papers I have brought with me. As to the other accounts, you will need to discuss them with the party in Edinburgh. You will find that some of these documents may reflect a name other than Roddy Delamare.” He could see that she was still in shock from her uncle’s death and probably understood little of what he was explaining to her.

“I can tell you from my own family history, that many Scots who came to France in the eighteenth century used false French names so that their properties would not be seized by the French. I, for example, am—perhaps I should say would have been—a Campbell. Of course, some used French names for other reasons,” he explained. Realizing he was getting too near to a subject he should not discuss with the girl, he left it at that.

“I see,” she answered. She really did not see at all, but she supposed she would sort it all out later. Right now she was still raw from her loss. She signed the papers he held out for her and kept one copy for herself. She was slightly dazed by it all and did not really read the details. She would realize later, much later, that she should have done so.

He rose and reached for her hand, which he raised to his lips for a polite kiss. “It has been my pleasure to meet you at last, Mademoiselle. Your uncle had only the nicest things to say about you. He loved you a great deal.”

“Yes, it was mutual,” she said, as her eyes filled with tears once again.

Having the usual male response to a woman’s tears, the poor man made the quickest exit possible, and left her standing there holding both the large envelope in which, she assumed, she would find the Will, and a package the size of a small stack of books. Inspecting it, she found it wrapped in brown paper, tied with a thin cord. It was not heavy, she thought.

She folded the envelope and stuck it into her coat pocket. She’d look at the papers later, when she could do so with more understanding.

Moving toward the kitchen, she sat at the small wooden table where they had shared so many meals. She cut the cord then slowly, almost reverently, removed the brown paper that covered the package. Inside the wrapping she found an enameled box in pastel blue with purple flowers of some sort spread across the top. It was so lovely and, she thought as she lightly traced her fingers over the ornate design, obviously very old.

She carefully opened the lid, and found it was full of papers that looked like letters of various ages. Some were simply folded. Some were in their own envelopes. There were the slightest of scents of lavender and roses wafting from the box as she lifted the contents. On top of the stack was an envelope with “Blair” written in Roddy’s neat script.

What she didn’t realize was that this gift from her uncle was about to change her future, as well as unsettle everything she had thought she had known about her past—and his.

***

Instead of sleeping, he was once again pacing his apartment balcony. His hair was still damp from the cold shower he’d had at what? Yes, 3:30 AM. He’d been having some rather disturbing dreams…involving a tiny blonde with big gray eyes. They—no, he would be honest with himself, she—had him awakening, his body first…then his mind, at all hours of the night for three nights in a row. This had to stop!

He had followed his instincts and had gone to the man’s funeral to check her out. Damn the woman. What kind of game was she playing? Whatever it was, he was not about to let her get by with it. His sources had told him of her treachery, and he had to stop her somehow. He would protect what was his—his father’s—his family’s—if it took his last breath. God knew he had the resources to have her followed and to look into her background.

She had put on a good show—had seemed earnestly distressed by the man’s death. He knew the real pain of loss. How it gouged out your heart and left you an empty shell! Then, just as suddenly it filled you with anger unreasonably ready to pick a fight with the dead. Yes, he knew grief…after all he had buried his own beloved father just days ago. But this charlatan, no, she didn’t know the real pain. Perhaps she was just upset that their plans had been interrupted. She and the old man had been playing the part of a loving family, but he had been told otherwise.

Oh, she was a pretty enough little thing, with all that pale hair, those huge gray eyes, and God, that pouty mouth of hers. Her figure was exquisite, even draped in somber black. She was a picture all right, standing there in her mourning clothes, weeping into her lace handkerchief, the two women beside her practically holding her up—as if she really felt the pain of grief. It might all work on some, but he wasn’t going to let her get to him. He would do whatever it took to protect what was his from a thieving fraud, no matter how stunning she was.

He walked to his study, wrote a quick note to the man he would trust to find out what he needed. Then he would just have to be patient until he heard back. Patience was not something for which he was well-known.

**************************

Chapter 8: Dark Family Secret Revealed

Paris, France – April 1912

The stack of letters ranged from the very old to the one left for her by Roddy. While she was anxious to read her uncle’s letter, she found she could not resist the temptation of the older ones. She decided to start with the oldest and work her way toward the present. The letter was yellowed, badly faded, and bordered on being brittle, but she could still read the beautiful, flowing script, although it took her some time to decipher the old Scottish spellings.

12 Dae Aprill 1726

Ma oan wee bairn,

First ah wunt yu ti ken that ah, yur muther, luve yu maire tha lyfe, an wunt the best fer yu That is the singil reison in ma sendin yu a far waer yu ar saef, in kin grow bonnie an well caird fer.

“12th April 1726” she read aloud to herself.

“My own small child,

First I want you to understand that I, your mother, love you more than life, and want the best for you. That is the single reason in my sending you afar where you are safe, and can grow happy and well cared for.”

It braeks ma heart to lose yu so nae aftir yur first cry, neer to see yur fais, na yur first smyl, first step, first luve, but yur welfaer, aye yur vaery lyfe is the ane best gift ah kin give yu, in tis best givin soon aftir yur burth.

“It breaks my heart to lose you so near after your first cry, never to see your face, not your first smile, first step, first love, but your welfare, yes your very life is the one best gift I can give you, and it is best given soon after your birth.”

Sòlas is a gude man, an the luv of ma lyfe, in I dinna kin any wun tha wad caer fer yu with maire luve tither myne oan self. Guhen ye ar olde enuf, Sòlas wul tell yu guhy we hae bin parted.

“Sòlas is a good man, and the love of my life, and I do not know anyone that would care for you with more love other than mine own self. When you are old enough, Sòlas will tell you why we have been parted.”

I prae that yu grow strawng of mynde, bonnie of heart, in luvely of faes. I wul think of yu this wae to the end of ma days.

Yur luving muther,

Caena, Dawter of Finnean Nic a’ Donnoch

“I pray that you grow strong of mind, happy of heart, and lovely of face. I will think of you this way to the end of my days.

Your loving mother,

Caena, Daughter of Finnean McDonnough”

She found tears were streaming down her face once more. After everything that had happened in the last two weeks, she marveled that she had any tears left. How sad, she thought, that a baby would be separated from its mother immediately after birth. What, she wondered, could have driven a woman who so obviously loved her child to send her away from her? Reaching for the next letter, she hoped for more information.

**************************

Chapter 9: Caena Makes Her Decision

Castle Donnach, Scotland - 1725

Caena and Sòlas were to meet at the cliff. She had to tell him her decision, and she knew she would break his heart—just as hers was already. Once she was alone, she went to her private chapel behind her room. She closed the door between her room and the chapel, knowing that no one would dare to interrupt her during her prayers. She exited using the door hidden by the tapestry that hung on the wall behind the little alter. Quickly moving down the steep stone stairway to the exit that left her in the private garden, she made her way through the thick hedge and up the hidden path to the cliff.

As she approached the end of the path, she was able to see him standing there, his back to her, looking out over the loch. Her heart was nothing more than a thick lump in her throat as she soaked in the look of him. His fair hair, long and flowing, was blowing about him in the breeze. He was a vision standing there against the bright blue sky. The long, loose sleeves of his white homespun shirt, the scarf pinned to it at the shoulder, and his solid black kilt touched by the breeze. He seemed to sense her. Turning slowly toward her, she saw his pale blue eyes light up when he caught sight of her.

Holding that eye contact with the girl he loved more than life, he walked to her.

“Well, lass, I’ve missed you,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her so very close that she could feel the fullness of the man she knew she would love for the rest of her days. He was her own age in years, but had the old soul of a poet, and the body any man of more years would envy, and for which every maiden behind the castle walls lusted.

“Aye, my love,” she responded as she softly kissed those full lips that brought her so much pleasure. “Let’s sit down. There is something I must tell you.”

They strode hand-in-hand to the fallen tree they had so often used as a bench. It was the same old tree that had stood tall when they first kissed and stood still when they’d exchanged their oaths to each other. They had, since childhood, secretly come here to talk, to be together. This was their place.

He held her close, “What is bothering you, my love? You know you can tell me anything.” He felt her shudder and fear gripped his heart. Something was terribly wrong. She seemed frightened. If it was anticipation of his reaction that had placed this burden on her heart, he was determined to stay calm no matter what she had to say.

“My father has told me that I must make a decision about a marriage partner.” She felt his hand jerk in hers. She did not have to tell him, of course, that the choice would be between himself and his brother, Macrath.

He had feared this was what had been causing her pain. He too had heard the rumors throughout the castle. He had given her time to think things through—to make her decision without interference from him. She knew all too well how he felt about her.

“You know you have my heart, my love,” she told him as tears filled her eyes.

“Aye, and you know you have mine,” he answered. She didn’t have to say it. He knew her decision, but he would let her have her say, even if it killed him.

“I must choose Macrath, even though he is Mahoun himself. You know that. There is no other way to protect all that belongs to us. Not for myself, Sòlas, but for my father’s line and for generations to come. I have no real choice. You and I would lose everything, which means nothing to me, but so would our children and their children.”

My father has taught me that family and responsibility to family are more important than personal feelings. The welfare of future generations is a consideration over and above our own. We would never be able to give them what they deserve. Add to that, your father and Macrath would undoubtedly have my father and you killed if we wed.”

He watched her closely and saw the shudder as she spoke. She stood and faced the cliff. “I will never love him, Sòlas. He will never have my heart or my mind, only my body.”

Fury shook him down to his bones. “Only your body?” He spun her around to face him and saw that she was shattered, as shattered as he. He leaned his forehead down to rest on hers. “He may have you after you are wed, Caena, but please tell me you will be mine now. Here! Now! Only mine, Caena!”

The kiss was borne of fear, frustration, and fury at the fate that had put them in this position. Understanding that he must have her agreement, he pulled back from her mouth, despite what it cost him to do so. He watched her eyes—saw the love and agreement there. Crushing his mouth to hers again, he began the seduction that would mean their deaths, were they ever found out.

The sun was pink and purple in the sky when they returned to the castle. They both knew that it had been not only the first, but would be the last time they would be together this way. Macrath may take her as his wife, but the two of them knew that in every way that counted, she would always belong to Sòlas.

***

Fuming, Macrath had waited as long as he was willing to wait. He paced his rooms, ready to loose his temper. The knock at his door caused him to jump—his concentration on his thoughts had been so great.

“Come in, damn it all!” he shouted.

The servant slowly opened the door. Having been struck by flying objects when entering this room in the past, he had learned to be extremely cautious! Once he was certain the way was clear, he stepped into the room. “My Lord, The McDonnough has asked that you join him in the Laird’s Parlor.” Keeping his head bowed, he waited and prayed for his own safety.

Macrath’s heart jumped in his chest. At last! Keeping his voice as calm as he could, he responded with the grin of the winner of some secret game, “Tell the Laird I will join him in a few minutes.” Summoned like a servant! Well, he sneered at the thought, we’ll soon see who has the upper hand, my Lord!

When the servant left him, he swallowed another goblet of wine, slammed the empty pewter tankard down on the heavy wooden table, and went to the dressing mirror. Assuring he looked his best, he left his rooms—in his own damned sweet time—to get the Laird’s answer.

He had told the Laird a few weeks ago that he was making plans to marry, and that he wanted Caena for his wife. Grinning to himself as he continued down the stairs, he remembered the shock on the Laird’s face. Macrath knew he held the advantage, but just as surely he also knew the stupid girl would be given her choice in the matter. The Laird was a silly fool, giving any female such power. To let her be so influenced by outside forces as she was by all her fanciful reading—it was a fool’s mistake.

And, oh, he thought—she was so loved by his dear brother. Well, he’d stop all that foolishness once and for all. The only delight he looked forward to more than deflowering that insipid girl was the knowledge that his doing so would destroy his brother.

He strode into the Great Hall where the Laird awaited him, and found his palms sweating. He didn’t like being beckoned at someone else’s whim—not one bit.

“My Lord,” he bowed as slightly as he could get by with. “You asked for me?” He refused to admit, even to himself, that he had been sent for.

“Yes, Macrath, please come. Sit.” Finnean knew this boy could not be trusted and yet…what choice did he really have. “I have decided that when the time comes, you shall have Caena to wife,” the Laird told him.

He decided! Macrath knew better. The girl had more brains than he’d given her credit for. “My Lord, I am honored. However, it is my intention that we be married next week.

“Next week?” Finnean stood up, his face reddening, and his deep voice booming across the huge room. “Next week? Why so soon? Surely this can wait until she is a bit older. She is but sixteen years next week.”

“It is my wish to begin a family, my Lord. Surely you agree that it is best to assure that a McDonnough heir be ready to assume the title and responsibility for the clan when the time comes.” He nodded his head slightly in feigned politeness. “I do not wish to wait and leave our futures to chance,” he said, as meekly as he could muster. Family responsibility would, he knew, rank highly with the Laird of McDonnough.

Finnean, unfortunately, felt he had to agree. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

Seeing the look on the Laird’s face, Macrath continued, “Of course, my Lord, if she is not ready, there is young Seonaid, whose father is your wife’s cousin. She would make a good match as well, don’t you think? She has expressed quite a…willingness.”

Willing, she certainly was. He remembered bedding the beautiful, buxom but somewhat empty-headed girl three times during their visit last Yule. Of course, at eighteen years he had not been her first, he was sure—despite her screams and tears the first time. He smiled as he remembered she had been all too willing the second and third.

Inside he was clapping his hands in as near to glee as his black heart could muster, as he watched the expression on the Laird’s face.

Sighing, Finnean conceded. “No need, nephew. No need,” Finnean was boxed in and he knew it. “Next week it shall be. Your mother and Caena can make the female decisions that are needed.”

“I look forward to it, my Lord,” Macrath said, as he removed himself from the Laird’s presence. All the way back to his rooms, he laughed aloud. He had bested the Laird, and both knew it.

***

One week later, on her sixteenth birthday, Caena and Macrath were married. One more reason she would detest the date. The entire village celebrated the wedding of The McDonnough’s daughter. They wore the traditional great kilts used for formal occasions.

Caena’s hair had been prepared by Ròs, who had also helped her with the kilt pinning, and wrapping her ghillie laces. The extra length of her earasaid, the feminine version of the man’s great kilt, was brought to bustle at her waist. Beneath it she wore a homespun chemise.

Her head would remain uncovered until after her wedding day. Thereafter, she would wear a cap on her head, or the extra cloth of the earasaid would be raised to form a hood to cover her head, as appropriate for a married woman.

Due to the speed of the marriage, the traditional shearing and weaving of the wool for their wedding clothes was lost. Such traditions took a year to accomplish. Caena didn’t care.

The girl hadn’t cried nor, Ròs remembered, had she smiled in the last week. Ròs’s heart broke. She knew that Macrath would be careless with the girl. He would not be gentle when he took her for the first time. Her heart broke as she saw her little mistress walk out of the room—the saddest bride she had ever seen—a lamb to the slaughter!

It wasn’t until after the Laird’s death later that year, and Mordag’s own death during the Battle of Calloden years later, that they would realize the results of today’s celebration. It was just the preface to years of pain, death, and suffering at the hands of the man who would become the new Laird of Donnach, as well as those of his father’s descent who followed him.

***

Just weeks later, Caena and Sòlas met on the cliff overlooking the loch for what would be the last time. He’d never seen her look more beautiful. Her face was that of an angel. The long, plaited, almost white-blond hair still fell to below her waist despite the length lost to the braiding. The simple costume she wore didn’t look like a wealthy lady’s. She never did like all the trappings of her family’s status. Even dressed simply as she was, in his eyes Sòlas thought she looked like a queen.

Once she reached him, he saw the pain in her eyes, the marks from her husband’s hands on her throat and also at her wrists. He thought his heart would break. His hands fisted at his sides, and he had to strain to let go of the anger he felt toward his brother. “I’ll kill him!” Sòlas swore.

She wrapped her arms around him and hung onto the only anchor she had, “No, my love. No.”

“Caena, my dearest Caena,” he whispered into her hair as he pulled her tight against him.

“My love,” she breathed, and then she pushed him away from her. She needed to look deep into the eyes of the man she loved more than she had ever believed possible. “We must be careful. If anyone told him we were meeting like this, we would both be dead by morning.”

He knew she was right. His brother had a temper as quick and deadly as a viper’s. Sòlas would not gamble with her life.

Now standing away from him at what would be considered an acceptable distance, she told him what she had come to tell, and the telling would nearly destroy her. “Sòlas, I am with child,” she whispered. “The babe is yours.”

He started toward her, and when she held out her arms he stopped in his tracks. “Please, my love, let me finish or I may die here and now of a broken heart. I must get this said,” she pleaded.

He simply nodded at her, and she continued. “I have not yet told my husband,” her cheeks flushed at the mere mention of him. “I cannot ever let him find out that this is your child. We both know what he would do…to us…to our child,” she almost whispered as she placed her hands where the child still lay safe. Taking a deep breath, she straightened, and looked Sòlas in the eye. “I have a plan to protect the child, and I beg you, my love, to hear me out and agree to help me in this.”

“I will do whatever I can to keep both of you safe, surely you know this,” he responded in a voice that told her he was upset with her for even questioning his willingness to keep her safe.

A glance at the taught white knuckles on his hands told her that he was barely holding onto the fury he felt inside. “This will be the most difficult thing you will ever do, my love. But, yes, I know you will do it.”

She laid out her plan in detail, watching his face flush as she told him what she knew was the only way to protect their child. “This means you would be giving up everything for our child, my love.”

“None of it has any meaning without you, Caena. Surely you know that.” He turned to look out over the cliff, away from the pain in her eyes that he knew was reflected in his own.

“I’ve often thought of tossing myself over this edge, rather than live without you in my arms,” he confessed quietly. He heard her draw in a quick, shuddering breath. Quickly turning toward her, he said, “No, Caena! I know that would be a coward’s way. I may not have been strong enough to grab you in the middle of the night and take you away with me rather than allow you to marry my brother—but a coward, I’m not.”

He sighed deeply. “I’ll do as you wish, Caena. I’ll give up everything, including you, to give our child a good life away from Macrath, away from here. I will do all of it because you ask it of me. All because I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love another. Just tell me once more, please, my love, tell me!”

She knew what he needed to hear, what she would say in her own mind, every day for the rest of her life. “I love you with all my heart, my beloved, and I will with my last breath,” she said, as she turned away, tears streaming down her face, and stumbled back down the path toward the castle—toward life without her heart.

She hated the knowledge that she had ultimately caused the very things she had tried so hard to prevent—the loss of her love—his loss of the land he loved. But their child would live!

***

For months Sòlas suffered the loss of her in quiet, secret desperation. Unable to allow his father or brother to know of his desolation, he had to find ways to handle the pain, to let go of his fury. Most often this was accomplished by practicing his skills with the ax and claymore, getting into fights and, in general, being a pain in the arse of anyone who disagreed with him about most anything. He sincerely believed the entire castle would be relieved by his absence when the time came.

He was unaware that Macrath was relishing in his pain, or that his mother recognized the pain whenever he was in Caena’s presence. She knew the consequences if she spoke of it to anyone. She was not unaware of her husband’s or eldest son’s cruelty. She had lived with both for years. But, Sòlas—her Sòlas—was the kindest, most loving, young man she’d ever known. Rather than put his safety at risk, she kept her thoughts to herself, hoping desperately that his heart would eventually heal.

If she had known about the child with a certainty, she would have acted no differently. She would not have seen her beloved son destroyed by her other son’s jealousy, greed, and malevolence.

When she could finally stand it no longer, she went to him. She found him reading in the woods across the road from the castle, in the shade of a huge tree undoubtedly descended from one when Arthuan had been king, she thought. She watched him as he read. He was pale. She knew he had been practicing ferociously with his heavy basket-hilted claymore, and with the short, thin dirk that hung at his side. Despite his youth, he had grown the figure of a man. She was so very proud of him. If only his heart was not breaking.

“Sòlas?” She broke into his reverie.

“Mother,” he answered her. Looking up, he smiled without it reaching those pale blue eyes now sunken in his handsome face and surrounded by purple smudges from his lack of sleep. “Come. Sit by me.” He patted the ground near him, and she moved to sit beside him.

“Son, can you not talk to me about this weight that has been put upon you?” She watched as the pain came to his eyes, and then he controlled it. “It has to do with Caena, does it not?”

“Mother, if your other son learned of my feelings, my life would be forfeit, you know that,” he sighed.

“Sòlas, I am your mother. Aye, I am also Macrath’s mother, but I wish no harm to either of you.” She placed her hand on her son’s cheek. “I know you love the girl, Sòlas, but she has made her decision, and she is a strong lass. She will do what she must, and she will live with the choice she has made. You must learn to do so also.”

“Never,” he snarled. “As long as I live, I will never forgive my brother for this.”

“But Sòlas, as Finnean’s daughter, she was given a choice. Not all maidens are treated so generously by their fathers. If she loved you as you love her, she would surely have chosen you. How can you blame Macrath for her decision?”

“It is the estate, Mother. It is the only way she can keep the estate in Finnean’s bloodline. Macrath knows this. He covets what is mine, what is Finnean’s—damn his black soul to hell! He would have it all!” He threw the book as far as his anger would take it. “Even the woman I would have taken to wife! And…and so much more.” Then quietly, he added, “So very much more.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” now she understood. “So, she has chosen for her future generations, at the cost of what she holds so very dear to herself. She is a brave, strong lass, your Caena.”

The thought of her took the fury out of his heart and voice. “Aye, and I am not certain that I am as brave as she, mother,” he said quietly.

She took his face in her hands, “Sòlas, you are the bravest lad I have ever known. She lays this on your heart, and you survive. You will honor her love for you by living on, by finding happiness and love elsewhere. I love you, my son, and I am so proud of you. Could I only be as proud of both of my sons,” she sighed, rose, and left him.

***

Finally, the fall arrived and weeks later Caena’s confinement. Sòlas had fought off most of the mean temper. Now he just felt empty and alone. Somehow he had to pull himself together. The time was near when he would be responsible for raising their child…without her. He wouldn’t live like a brute. That was what she had feared from his brother. No, he would give her what she wanted most in this world—a loving father for their child. To the outside world, they would see him as he had appeared for all these months. Alone, he contemplated the time when he would disappear with their child, never to see its mother or his own again.

Caena had made all the arrangements with her maid. She would trust Ròs with her child’s life as well as her own. If Macrath caught them, they would all surely die. The plan was laid out. As soon as Caena’s pains began, Ròs would get a message to Sòlas. He would sneak from his quarters in the castle, and into her small chapel using the hidden stairway. Ròs’s husband and sons would be guarding the stairs from use by others—just to be safe—until the child was out of the castle.

When the time arose, Caena’s plan was executed without discovery. To Caena’s relief, Macrath accepted the child’s loss and never mentioned the matter to her again. Had he known that a mere mention of the babe would have crushed her very soul, he surely would have done so daily. No, his focus now was on having her bear him a son. This would never be. Despite the teachings of her faith, Caena saw to it very carefully and deliberately. If she was to be damned for conceiving the child out of wedlock, let her also be damned for assuring Macrath never had a child by her to be misused.

***

By midnight the next night, they were on a ship bound for France, Sòlas, his baby daughter, the wet nurse, Elaine, and her own infant son.

Not until his daughter came of marital age did Sòlas tell her the details of her birth, the reason for their exile to France, and her true name of Kenna McDonnough. He gave her the small box in which he kept the letter Caena had given him for their child.

When her daughter was born four years after Kenna’s eighteenth birthday, she wrote her own letter. In the beautiful script she learned from her tutor, she continued what would become a tradition to last nearly two-hundred years. She added it to the box, which would be given to her daughter when the time was right.

25thDay of November, 1748

Valvados, France

My dearest daughter,

The story of Finnean’s bloodline continues with thee. As I share our tale of love and protection, know that I could not share this with thee any sooner, lest ye be endangered. Keep our story safe, and pass it on, til the time is right…

And so, their tradition was set, one generation to another, protecting the family line, and the inheritance that would someday come back to Caena’s and Sòlas’s bloodline. Each generation spent nurturing the next, and then passing on the knowledge. All the while they kept their identity a secret to protect themselves from the plots, and the efforts to find and eliminate them. All was kept secret until Macrath and generations of his subsequent heirs too were gone…and good riddance.

**************************

Chapter 10: Macrath Plots

Donnach Castle, Scotland – 1729

Macrath rode his stallion hard and long that morning. He was in a fit of temper that had caused everyone in his path to scatter. He needed this time alone, controlling the powerful animal under him. God knew he didn’t get that satisfaction from his wife, even though he rode her just as hard and just as often as he did this horse.

He needed to get his life moving along the line he had planned since he could first remember. His time as the Laird of Donnach! He would be master of it all someday soon. Finnean was dead—had been for some time now. His own father was not an old man, but there were always other reasons for death to strike at one’s door. He cared, in his own way, for his father who had taught him well over the years. But he did not care about him enough to miss an opportunity that might arise, he smiled to himself. One had to be practical in these matters.

He hated his brother. He had hated Sòlas from his first memory of him—his mother holding the squirming, whimpering bundle to her breast. The longer Sòlas existed, the more potent the hatred had become. He laughed when he thought of the times he had set him up for harm. The fool was too blind to see them for what they were. But then, damn him, he had also survived them all; the near drowning in the loch when their father found him floundering; the fall down the hillside that could easily have broken his neck. But, damn his luck, that attempt had only left Sòlas bruised and battered—and being nursed back to health by their mother!

He had planted fears in Caena’s mind, and she had finally succumbed and agreed to marry him. She had chosen marrying him over the simpering brother that had run with his tail between his legs like a cur dog. What a coward his brother was, he thought. Despite all his posturing over the months after losing his love, he sneered, Sòlas had simply vanished from Scotland. Had anyone slighted Macrath McDonnough in that manner, by God, he would have murdered the man gladly!

But there was still no heir. So far, other than the still-born daughter, his dear wife had been barren. If he did not have an heir, all his plotting and putting up with a woman who scorned his touch at every opportunity would all be for nothing. Not that her struggling and resisting was unpleasant. Smiling, he admitted to himself that her protestations made his own pleasure greater than an easy roll in the hay.

He would be seen by those around him as her master! She put him off with much fighting and struggling—and, so he beat her, as she so richly deserved. She had carried the proof of his power over her time and time again. And he made sure her gowns displayed those marks to all who saw her!

He took her when he knew she should conceive—still no child. He knew his own virility—had proven it time and time again with the village women who disappeared quickly if they conceived. He would not give his estate to a bastard. Any future Laird McDonnough would be a true and legitimate heir!

Perhaps she was barren due to the first pregnancy. He had heard of such things. Damn it, he would know once and for all! If she was barren, he would see to it that he was free to marry another and produce an heir. Hum, he thought, the comely Seonaid had married two years before. Of course, she could easily become a widow and, he knew, she would welcome him into her bed. The determination to get the situation handled once and for all had him whipping the stallion back toward the castle.

Once he reached the castle, he threw the reins to a stable boy and allowed his long strides to take him quickly to his lady’s chambers. He charged into her rooms, and there she sat surrounded by servant women sewing in front of the fire. “Leave us!” he shouted at them, and they scurried like the vermin he thought them to be. He saw the fear in her eyes and it ignited the flame in him. Yes, her fear was a powerful drug and he desired as large a dose as possible this day.

“Now, wife,” he snarled at her as he pulled her braided hair until she was lifted from her chair. Then he tossed her aside and she stumbled to her knees. With his hatred of her glowing in his black eyes, he bent over her, and through his gritted teeth he threatened her. “We will try this one more time, and if you do not cooperate and prove yourself not to be barren…” he said, as he grabbed her by the shoulder of her gown, ripping it to shreds. “Well, I just may have to take a different wife, at whatever the cost to you. We wouldn’t want that, would we, Caena?”

Caena fought him like a wild animal, scratching, biting, and raking her fingernails down his face. Finally, she broke free and ran from her rooms. She heard him coming behind her, but no matter how hard she ran she could not get away. He just followed her at a leisurely pace and wore her down. Any servants that happened to cross their paths just scurried off to their duties as if the pair had never been seen.

Stumbling over her skirts and trying to hold her bodice together to maintain what little modesty she had left, she fled up the narrow steps—up, up, up to the turret over her rooms, then to the walk. He was getting closer, and she was running out of breath and energy. She’d had little to eat over the last months, had lost weight to the point of being emaciated. Her health combined with the weight and bulk of the English gown he forced her to wear had her once again tripping, and she fell to the stone of the walk.

Macrath reached her and casually stood over her, barely showing the signs of exertion that showed on Caena. He could have overrun her at any time, but preferred to watch her try to get away. Now he had her, and he would take her. As he reached out, she gained purchase, shot to her feet, and backed away from him. As he moved toward her slowly, like a spider enjoying his nasty little game, she climbed onto one of the stone benches and then to the ledge of the walk.

When he reached out again, Caena jumped.

***

The oral history of the clan would report that Macrath had been a cruel master, and a man whose first wife had died in a tragic fall. His mother suspected otherwise, although no one who had seen her fall would provide any information. His brother, when word reached France, knew for certain. Macrath had won for now, but eventually Sòlas intended for Caena’s own to win—to win it all!

The remaining McDonnoughs—those that would have inherited after Sòlas—tried in vain to locate him. If he had lived, if he had heirs, they would lose it all–the title, the castle, the fortune, the status. They could not—would not—permit it to be so.

**************************

Chapter 11: Blair Reads On

Paris, France - April 1912

Having moved to the comfort of the soft settee in the parlor, Blair read the letters, one after the other sending the message of what was to be preserved. Her heart broke for them, but she came to understand that the tie that held them together was the family estate in Scotland. She saw the secret they had kept from the world, the knowledge they only shared with one another for two-hundred years. It had all been done to keep that estate in Caena’s family line. Such love and devotion to family could be difficult to understand. Of course, she had such love and devotion for dear Roddy, so she had some feel for it.

The injustice toward women in Scotland had continued and was, even now, just beginning to be corrected. Their plan was that only when females were permitted to inherit would they consider trying to obtain their rights to all of it—only when it could be done safely without harm to Caena’s descendents.

Then she found the letter that brought her to her knees. Her grandmother wrote to her young daughter who was preparing for her marriage to the handsome young Mssr. Delamare—her father and Roddy’s brother. The family lines were coming together again, although after several generations—Caena and Sòlas’s family line through her grandmother and mother; Sòlas’s family line through his French wife and only son.

She rummaged through the stack again, looking for a letter from her mother, but found none. Sad beyond belief, at last, she came to the letter from Roddy. Her hands shook as she unfolded the letter with the care and tenderness she had felt for the man himself. He had written it years ago.

June 17, 1907

My dearest Blair,

As I write this, I am aware that you will be feeling sadness when you finally read it, for I am surely dead, and you are feeling alone. Please know that the years we have shared have been the happiest in this old man’s life. I could not have loved you more if you had been my own daughter.

It is my duty to write this letter to you, Blair, as your mother did not live long enough to write it herself. She thought she had a long life ahead of her with you and your dear father. But it was not to be.

What I am about to tell you may destroy the trust you have given me for all these years. I can only hope you will forgive me for hiding the truth, and know that my only thought was to keep you safe and to preserve what our family has been dedicated to for two centuries. Such a long time, and yet, for you, it is just the beginning…

As the tears flowed, Blair continued to read on. How could he possibly think she would love him less, no matter what he had kept from her? Laughing at her own ignorance, she remembered thinking that he could not keep a secret from her. He had been her rock.

Needing to gather her strength before continuing, she took the letter with her into the kitchen. Putting the box and letter down on the table, she put on the teakettle. Then she pulled down the biscuit tin, placed two of the crispy little cookies it held onto a plate, and waited for the water to boil.

Once she had allowed the tea to soothe her frazzled nerves, she reopened the letter and continued to read.

I will relate the story once again, since some of the letters are very old, and may be too faded and difficult to read by the time you receive this. I have also related information that has been gathered by me and others over the years.

When your great-great- great…I’ve lost track of how many greats there would be now…grandmother, Caena, found she was carrying the child of her lover, Sòlas, she told him …

“My great-grandmother?” she gasped as the reality really hit home at last. She read once again the story of Caena’s love and sacrifice.

Eventually, Sòlas, then known as Henri Delamare, married a young French woman who, ironically, bore him a son, Eduard. She raised Kenna as her own without ever knowing the child’s story. When Sòlas was near death, he gave Caena’s letter to Eduard and told him the story. Eduard swore to him that he would protect his half-sister and the letters with his life, and the journey to today began.

Your father and I were the last of Sòlas’s descendants through Eduard. The family here has always remained extremely close, with their single goal in mind; a female of Caena’s line reclaiming the estate.

From time to time as the lines became diluted, sons and daughters of the two lines have married. Your mother was the last direct descendent of Caena and your father’s very distant cousin. Thus you are truly from both their lines, and everything that would have belonged to Sòlas and Caena should now be yours.

The letters came to me as your guardian after your mother’s death. They are your story, dear Blair, your history. Now they are yours. Generation after generation, giving away to a time when you would be able to reclaim what is rightfully yours, as Caena’s and Sòlas’s sole direct descendant.

Blair, the time is now. The heirs of Macrath’s father, Mordag, still reside in the Castle. The estate is worth a fortune, and it should be yours.

I remember when you were just a little girl, you asked me why you had to learn to speak, read, and write in English and French when all your friends were doing so only in French. This is why, my dear. You had to be prepared to take on the responsibility for your people.

The fact that you are reading this letter tells me that it is possible that Mordag’s side of the family has finally tracked us down. If my death was from other than natural causes, this is most certainly the case.

The pressure to keep your identity hidden has been great over the last few years. It seems that, despite my efforts to keep you safe, they have caught up with us.

Social issues in our homeland are changing. The time is right for you to take possession of what is yours. I wish I had been able to see you have it all. It saddens me that you will have to fight them alone.

Go to Edinburgh and seek out the lawyer that has kept the family records on our behalf, Angus Ferguson. His address in Edinburgh is enclosed. He will help you in any way you need.

But, beware, my dear. You must keep your identity hidden from the rest of the family until the time is right. Your life may very well depend upon it.

Keep yourself safe, my dearest Blair. Know that I loved you with all my heart and did my best to keep you and what should be yours safe!

Rodaidh McDonnough

Uncle Roddy

She thought it strange that he had never used his Scottish name, Rodaidh (RO dee), as long as she’d known him. He had always been proud of his Gaelic heritage. Although he never talked about it in great detail, the pride when he did was obvious. And McDonnough? He had been Roddy Delamare to her throughout their time together. That meant that she too was a McDonnough—twice over, since she was descended from both Caena and Sòlas. The family lines were coming together again, although after several generations—Caena and Sòlas’s family line through her grandmother and mother; Sòlas’s family line through his wife and only son.

She was finally able to put most of the pieces together. What was it the lawyer had said? The French had been persecuting the Scots, taking their property.

So, logically, Sòlas brought his daughter here to safety. Knowing the French could take everything from them, and that the McDonnough clan might be searching for him, he changed their names. Only now in more modern times, with the persecution of Scots long in the past, could Roddy, Sòlas’s descendent, admit to his Scottish heritage. But since the McDonnoughs were still searching for Sòlas’s heirs, he still could not claim the name that was rightfully his. So many secrets—kept for so very long, she sighed.

Putting the letter down, she realized that her head was pounding. Rubbing her fingers in circles at her temples, she tried to release some of the pressure that had been growing there since she had started reading his letter.

She should be angry with him for lying to her, she thought, but how could she be when all he had ever done was protect her by maintaining the lies? Now he expected her to carry on with the lies? And to what end? To take possession of some dark, damp Scottish castle? Did she even want it? It had probably crumbled to dust in the last two-hundred years. What had he gotten her into?

Then she realized that dear Roddy had very probably given his life to give her this gift. If it was that important to Roddy, she would damned well do her part to follow through. She would be damned if she would let him die in vain! And so, the dedication to family survived.

**************************

Chapter 12: Escape to Scotland

Paris, France - May 1912

Roddy had been gone for two weeks. His apartment had been emptied out, his belongings, other than the things she prized most highly, the family photos, his favorite vase, his pipe, cuttings from his plants—everything else was gone.

She had wept until she thought she had no more tears to shed. She was small to begin with, now she was ten pounds lighter, her cheeks had hollowed out, her eyes were heavy-lidded from all the weeping. She had always hated crying, especially in front of others. She was usually a strong, young woman, usually patient, and unfailingly slow to lose her temper—though fiery when she did. Once her temper was riled, she could battle with the best.

She loved the scents of Paris, the smell of rain in the air just before it started falling, the damp air afterward, and had always enjoyed slow, quiet journeys during which she could soak it all in. She loved the breezes that swept through off the Seine, the colors used by the artists on the streets, the scents of the cafés. Everything had brought her such joy.

Now she felt shaky, unsure, weak, and alone. Her temper flared at the slightest provocation. Only her determination to avenge Roddy’s death and go after what he had given his life to protect stiffened her spine these days. Enjoyment was something she simply did not have the time for any longer.

Madame had told her to take as much time as she needed to deal with her grief. She had avoided the shop, Madame and Esmée, since reading the letters. She had been afraid she would not be able to hide her secret from them. It could not be avoided any longer.

As she walked into the shop, Madame and Esmée watched her silently before approaching with arms open to embrace her. The merchandise, which had always brought her so much pleasure, now held no interest at all. This was going to be difficult, but it had to be done. She would go to Edinburgh and find this lawyer who knew the rest of the story. Perhaps he held the key to what she would have to do next.

Madame was shocked to see the change in her. She was so thin, she looked so very tired. There was a heaviness—a weight about her spirit that had not been there before. She nearly wept, but mustered her best smile and gave her their usual greeting.

“I need to talk to you,” Blair told the women who had been the closest females to her for the last three years.

“Esmée, Chéri, please put the closed sign on the door. Then we will go out back and talk,” Madame responded. While Esmée closed the shop, Blair and Madame joined hands and walked to the back of the shop, and then they stepped outside to the patio.

Once they were seated at the table and Madame had assured they each had a glass of white wine, Blair began. “I’m leaving Paris for an extended time. I do not know when,” she added softly, “or if I will be back.”

The women both started to interrupt her, but once again quieted when she raised her hand. “Please, Madame, Esmée, let me get this out. This is very difficult for me. I love both of you so very much, and I know this hurts you, but I have to go.” Once they agreed to remain silent, she continued.

“I have business to tend to that I cannot do here. I cannot tell you where I am going. I only ask that you not tell anyone that I have gone. Just tell them I left your employment, Madame—that you have no idea where I am. Once I am able, I will write to you. But, even then, if I ask you to keep my whereabouts unknown, I must have your promise to do so.”

Madame was incredulous. “Can we not help you, Blair? There must be something we can do! Oui?”

“No, Madame,” she hadn’t wanted to frighten them, but she saw now that they would not let her go easily. “There is danger, Madame—danger for you, for Esmée, and for me if certain parties find out where I have gone, so I cannot tell you.”

“Why can we not…” Madame stopped herself, suddenly realizing that she should not be arguing with the girl’s request. “No, I am sorry, Chéri. If this is what you must do, then you must. You are a good girl, Blair. You would not leave without a very good reason.” Gripping Blair by the shoulders, “But I fear for you, little one. Is there no other way, no help we can get for you? Perhaps the police should be told?”

“No, Madame. This is a matter I cannot discuss with anyone. Please grant me this one last favor. You have always been so very kind to me. I would not do this if it was not absolutely necessary. Please know that,” she said, pleading with the woman whose eyes were now filled with tears.

“Oui, mon chéri, we will do this for you. Esmée?”

“Yes, Madame. Yes, Blair. I promise to say nothing,” Esmée promised with tears running down her flushed cheeks.

It had been every bit as difficult to say goodbye to them as she had known it would be. She had, once again, promised to write but told them that it might be awhile before she could do so. She could not tell them that her life could be in danger if her letters to them were found. It was better that they hear the whole story after-the-fact. She hoped, no—she knew—they would forgive her.

As she walked toward her apartment she saw it coming. Her mind almost did not allow it to register in time but the taxi was coming straight at her. The cabbie had his hat pulled down enough that she could not see his face. He was certainly close enough to identify when she finally snapped out of the shock and barely managed to jump to safety. But his was not a face she had ever seen before.

Other pedestrians came to her rescue, shocked at the near hit-and-run she had managed to avoid. The amazed discussion of what the others had seen confirmed her opinion. The taxi had been headed straight for her, intent on running her down. It had not been in her imagination. Someone had tried to kill her.

Her heart was racing. She would have to leave for Edinburgh immediately. After assuring the crowd that she was fine, she ran the rest of the way to her apartment. First she packed her bag, and then she braced herself for another goodbye.

She knocked on Mssr. LeGard’s door. He answered in the old silk robe he lounged in so many mornings. His face lit up when he saw her. “Chéri, please come in.”

She kissed his wrinkled cheeks and followed him to the little bench in their garden. “Monsieur, I have decided to take your advice and go on a little vacation. I may be gone for some time, and I did not want you to worry about me.”

“Oh, bien, Chéri. It will be very good for you! Where do you go?” he asked, as he patted her hands which were gently gripped in his own.

“I thought I would spend some time on the coast in Bretagne. It is lovely there in the spring,” she put her best smile on her face. If he thought she was doing something nice for herself, he would not argue with her.

“I am delighted for you, Chéri. Would you like for me to water the plants for you while you are away?”

“Oui! That would be lovely, Mssr. LeGard. Thank you!” she said, with earnest appreciation. She hated the idea of Roddy’s plants dying.

Once she had had cookies and tea, which she had always had to accept from the dear Mssr. LeGard, she made her exit and went up to her apartment. She looked around the place she loved so much. The colorful pillows tossed upon the little bed she also used for a sofa, the reading lamp with the beautiful shade of brightly colored pieces of glass, the brightly colored painting she had bought from one of the artists along the Seine last summer.

With a heavy sigh, she picked up her bags and left for what she feared might be the last time. She was able to catch the next train to the coast.

**************************

Chapter 13: The Search for Blair

Paris, France – One Week Later

Madame and Esmée were busy with customers when the man came in. He slowly walked around the shop, taking in all the details in case he had to come back later. Madame noticed the stranger as soon as he came into the shop. There was something about him she didn’t like but, a customer is a customer, she thought.

As she finished with her customer, she walked toward him. He was a shaggy sort, she thought. Disreputable would have best described him. “May I help you?” she asked in French.

“What?” Didn’t anyone here speak English, he wondered?

“Sorry, you would prefer English?” Madame asked switching easily.

“Ah, yes,” he responded with a thick Scottish accent and looked most relieved. “I’m looking for Blair Delamare. I was told she worked here.” His eyes kept flitting around the shop nervously keeping an eye out for her.

“Oh, yes, she did work here. However, I am sorry to say she left our employment a few days ago. We have not seen or heard from her since,” Madame told him.

Esmée had overheard the conversation as she walked her final customer to the door. She kept a very close eye on the man talking to Madame until he left the shop looking fit to be tied.

“Madame, he was looking for Blair?”

“Yes, Esmée, if this is the kind of person asking for her, she is indeed in trouble, I fear.” Madame felt a shiver down her back.

***

Cursing at the fates that had kept him tied up in Edinburgh until now, he managed to break into the apartment and found that the girl was not there—probably hadn’t been for several days. Her tiny refrigerator was empty. Most of her dresser drawers were empty. He moved quickly into the bathroom and saw that all her personal items were gone. She had left. “Damn it all,” he cursed as he slammed his fist on the edge of the sink. Then he froze when he heard a sound coming from the main room. Slipping behind the bathroom door, he waited.

“Blair? Is that you?” LeGard had heard the sounds of footsteps coming from the apartment. He hoped she was back. He had missed her and worried about her constantly since she left. He had not expected her to be away so long. “Blair?” he called once more as he rounded the corner to the bathroom. He knew he was old, but he had yet to start imagining things. Someone was up here.

As he turned to go back to the main living area, the blow hit him from behind. Pierre LeGard would never see another day. His head struck the table in the hallway as he fell, and he died instantly.

In a panic, the man checked the girl’s desk to see if there was anything that might lead him to her. He emptied all the drawers and tossed the fragile lamp onto the floor. He tore apart everything in the apartment, cushions, pillows, and the mattress. He dumped flower pots—just for spite. He cut the backing from the painting on the wall and slashed the painting itself when he found nothing. All was destroyed in an effort to find out where she had gone and in frustration for not finding anything to help. Not wanting to get caught with a dead man, he carefully left the house.

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Chapter 14: Blair Discovers The Past

Edinburgh, Scotland - June 1912

She had looked up the lawyer’s office as soon as she got to Edinburgh. Unfortunately, he had gone to Paris on vacation and would be gone for a month. The irony of them crossing paths was not lost on her. Since she did not dare go back to Paris, she decided to stay in Edinburgh and put the time to good use.

She found a sweet little boarding house where she had a room with a big bed so high off the floor she had to use little steps to climb up to the top of the feather mattress. She did have to go down the hall where there was a tiny bath, but she would not be inconvenienced for very long, and the rent was cheap.

She spent her days in museums, the library, visiting the cafés, some of the drinking establishments—pubs they called them here—walking the streets of Edinburgh, looking in shop windows, visiting the churches, talking to the clerks in the shops. She listened carefully to those speaking in Scots and Scots English. Once she heard a man speaking in Gaelic to a woman who must have been his wife. It was a rare gift to hear it, since Gaelic was seldom used anymore. What wonderful languages they were, and how different from the flowing French to which she was so accustomed. She was determined to learn them as soon as possible.

Scotland was not what she had imagined—it was better! She found herself steeped in history, myths, tales of heroism, kings and queens, lairds and ladies. Then there was the clothing she read about. Men in skirts—kilts—something she had never thought she would see. She giggled thinking some had much better legs than others. To be fair about it, she supposed men often felt the same way about women.

Strangely, she found them quite handsome with their hosiery and the shoes they called ghillie brogues, with ghillie laces that fastened the shoes and then criss-crossed up the hosiery to mid-calf.

The tartan scarves were attached to the left shoulder of their shirts with elaborate pins. She went to shops and asked questions about the symbols on the antique kilt pins and scarf pins and learned that they were often fashioned in their ancient clans’ emblems.

She learned about the tartans of the clans, the heraldic symbols and the differences between a claymore and a dirk.

She enjoyed the variety of hats they wore—the tams and the jaunty Balmorals, her personal favorite—some with little feathered pins on one side, some without.

The women she saw in Edinburgh tended to be more English or European in dress.

She saw the variety of sporrans worn in front of the kilt just below the waist. Some were made of leather; others were fashioned from horse hair or fur.

She loved reading about the myths of the fierce dragons that were supposed to symbolize the cosmic forces from a parallel world that would bring fertility, especially to the fields of those who believed.

Then there were the funny little gargoyles with their grimacing faces. She found she was very fond of them. They were found peering down from the buildings, sneering from their carvings in furniture, sitting menacingly atop jewelry boxes, and plopped down on all sorts of items in the shops. Perhaps when she had a permanent place, she would buy something with the creatures on it for her own home.

At the library, she found that Scottish history had not—until the last few years—been as much a written history as that of song and oral tales told, especially by the women. Only because more modern poets had begun to get the tales written down was she able to piece together her family’s tragic history. She heard the oral history available in poems and songs in the pubs where the Scots gathered after a hard day’s work. She stayed away from the English establishments, knowing the tales would not be heard there.

It was all so fascinating and Blair spent every spare minute studying it, especially anything to do with the McDonnough family. Now there was an ugly story, she frowned as she thought about it.

So—the stories told—Macrath had been a black-hearted monster. His wife, Caena, had died of a fall from the tower walk—childless at age twenty. Sadly, Blair realized, Caena had only lived for four years after she lost her beloved Sòlas.

As she read it, she seriously doubted that Caena fell. It was more likely that she left the walk with Macrath pushing at her back. Or perhaps the poor girl could not stand living with a monster anymore and had simply jumped!

The very idea of living with someone as obviously evil as Macrath made her skin crawl. Blair was beginning to really see just how protected and loved she herself had been. She could also understand how hard it would have been for someone as loved as Caena had been—by Sòlas and by Finnean—to find herself under the power of a man like Macrath.

Macrath had had a reputation for taking what he wanted, no matter who owned it. He exercised no concern over whose lives were ruined by his greed, nor his careless use of those on his estate. He had been a man of great jealousies, constantly suspecting those around him of intrigue. As hateful as he was, he certainly had reason to be suspicious. She thought sadly, what a miserable man he must have been—twisted and sad.

So had begun the reign of terror and evil that had swept into the McDonnough lands, and it hovered there raining down destruction for over a hundred years. Their affairs had taken a more secretive turn in more recent history. If what she had heard was correct, it was only under the latest two lairds that the people living on the McDonnough estate were better off than they had been in the late 1700s. She wondered if that was just a white-wash of what was truly going on in Donnach. Well, she’d see soon enough and, if there was anything she could do to help the people of Donnach, she would do it!

The more she learned the sadder she became. Then she’d think of Roddy. Her spine would straighten and her determination would take hold again. The most recent lairds had perhaps appeared to be a better sort, but someone had killed Roddy and tried to kill her. Someone somewhere was not so very innocent!

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Chapter 15: Patience Repaid

Edinburgh – July 1912

Finally, as summer was reaching its peak, Blair returned to the lawyer’s office. Walking into the quiet offices of one Angus Ferguson, her greatest hope was that she would find the man there. She walked up to the very tidy wooden desk that sat in front of a closed door.

The man seated at the desk was thin, his face rather pinched, his appearance in general was very neat, but somehow unwelcoming. “Excuse me.” She brought his attention away from the document he was reading. “Has Mssr. Ferguson returned from his trip?” she asked.

“Mademoiselle Delamare, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Oui, Monsieur. Is there word from Mssr. Ferguson?

“He will return to the office sometime in the morning. Would you care to leave a message?” he asked without any warmth whatsoever.

“Oui, please. Would you tell him that I am at this boarding house?” she said, as she handed him a card provided by her landlady. “I would like to see him as soon as possible upon his return. It is a matter of extreme importance.” She felt her nerves starting to jump. The journey into her future was about to begin, and she recognized that she was afraid. The lawyer’s assistant, Taog (TOOK), placed the card on his desk and promised to advise Mr. Ferguson upon his return.

The next morning, there was a knock at her bedroom door. Her landlady advised her that there was a gentleman waiting in the parlor, and Blair immediately went downstairs. As she entered the parlor, she recognized Taog. “Mssr. Taog, good morning,” she said, smiling pleasantly but standing far enough away that it was not necessary to offer her hand.

“Miss,” he said, without smiling. “Mr. Ferguson asked me to stop by and let you know he is back from Paris. He would like to see you as soon as you are able to come to the office.”

“Oh, oui! Please tell him that I will be there just as soon as I have had breakfast. Thank you, Mssr. Taog.” Deciding not to be rude, she started to offer her hand.

“It’s just Taog,” he said, as he turned and just left her standing there.

“Well, that man is just…” she struggled for the right word, “…unlikeable!” she said to herself, as she wondered if he was this standoffish with everyone or just her. She was not going to let the man get to her. She straightened her shoulders, held her head up high and headed for the stairs.

***

As she walked into his office an hour later, Angus thought how accurately his old friend had described her. She truly was a beauty—so tiny with such big gray eyes…and the pale blonde hair. He thought he would have known her anywhere.

“My dear lassie, how glad I am that you are here, and safe and sound,” he hugged her, much to her surprise. “Ah, lassie, you look just as your dear uncle described you! Please have a seat.” The Scottish accented English rolled off his tongue.

“Taog! Taog!” Angus shouted for his assistant. “Bring this lassie some tea. Quickly fellow!” Looking back at Blair, “Lemon? Sugar? Perhaps some cream?”

“No, please. Just a cup of tea would be lovely,” she replied.

“Now my dear, please tell me the events that have brought you to me.” His face saddened, “I hear that my dear old friend, Rodaidh, is no longer living.” He watched her as the pain crossed her face and then faded as she sat straightened in her chair. Aye, the lassie has had a bad time of it, he thought to himself.

“I had planned to see him while I was in Paris but…well, my trip did not happen soon enough.” Shaking his head in disbelief, “I was shocked, my dear. He was a very special man, your uncle.” He sighed heavily and dropped his slightly portly body into the well-worn leather chair behind his desk. It squeaked and groaned under his weight. “I tried to locate you, but now I know why I could not hae found you!”

“Yes, Monsieur, Uncle Roddy was murdered—shot to death—in Paris last May. He warned me in a letter that my safety might be…that I might be in danger from other family members. Then, when someone tried to kill me in Paris…”

“What?” he shouted rising from his chair. “The black-hearted beast! Do the police know who it was?” he asked, regaining control and sitting back down.

“No, Monsieur, I did not report it. I did not know who to trust,” she explained. “I decided I should come here to speak with you, as instructed by my uncle. You know of the letters?” she asked him.

“Yes. I read them once—years ago. Yes, he told me everything. The three of us—Roddy, your father, and I—had known each other for many, many years.” He sighed heavily and then continued. “I attended university in France, and we shared a lot of history from those days. Before your parents’ deaths…” He cleared his throat as the memories of his old friends hit him. “There were only the three of us who knew the whole story from Sòlas’s point of view. I was extremely honored that they trusted me with such an important secret—trusted me with their lives really.”

“Monsieur, it is not that I doubt anything you are saying, but why is it I have never heard of you or met you? As my uncle’s good friend…well, shouldn’t he have mentioned you to me before now?” There had been so many secrets, she thought.

The assistant came in and served tea. Somehow he seemed as gray as his suit. When he passed her the cup of tea, he smiled thinly, and then he backed out of the office and closed the door.

Angus noticed the expression on the girl’s face. Some people had this reaction to Taog. “Taog is a good man, a hard worker.” He leaned toward Blair and whispered, “A tad dull for my liking but a good man.”

Then sitting back, he continued in a normal tone. “He has been with me for fifteen years. I trust him explicitly. He knows only that you are a dear friend’s daughter, and that he should assist you anytime I am unavailable. While he knows nothing of the family intrigue in which you find yourself, he does know that he is to provide you anything you need. You may rely on him, as you can on me, my dear.”

“Now, back to your question,” he continued. “Your dear uncle felt it best to keep any connection with Scotland, with the estate…all of it…” he said, as he waved his hand in the air dismissively, “…well, away from you, my dear. He did not want his ties to me—what I knew—to be a part of your life until it became necessary. We always met in a nearby town whenever I traveled to Paris, and we spent many good hours together during those visits.”

He patted her slim hand with his own rather plump fingers. “He took every precaution he possibly could with your safety in mind.” He looked her straight in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing your uncle would not have done for you, my dear. Now that responsibility is mine, and I accept it gladly.”

“Thank you, Mssr. Ferguson,” she said in her heavily French-accented English.

“Ah, lassie, you must call me Angus. In my eyes, you are now the daughter I have never had. I will do everything I can to protect you and to help you obtain what is rightfully yours,” he told her.

She really liked this man. He was slightly round and, aside from being upset at the news of losing his old friend, a jovial man. His pale blue eyes shone with good humor. The wrinkles that deepened at the edges of those eyes when he smiled reinforced that opinion. He wore tiny square-lensed glasses that sat on the end of his prominent nose. She was beginning to understand that this feature was not unusual in Scotsmen. Once again she was struck with the memory of Roddy, and had to push down the grief.

Angus’s hair, what there was of it, was thin and sandy in color. His pink scalp parted his hair by about five inches, and the hair stuck out over his ears in wispy curls that led down toward mutton-chops that ended at his jaw line. She liked the man instantly. “Thank you, Angus. Where should I begin?” she asked.

His face grew serious. “When your uncle was here last April…”

“What?” she blurted out. “Uncle Roddy was here in April?”

“Yes, my dear. He came to see me because he was afraid he had been discovered. He wanted to know everything I had found out on his behalf. He was trying to decide whether to bring you here or take you elsewhere for safety.” Angus stood and started pacing his office.

“That explains why he would not tell me where he was going,” she said quietly, almost to herself more than to Angus.

“We talked of his predicament for hours over good Scotch whiskey.” He smiled as he thought of his old friend. Then still pacing, he continued. “He had hoped that by leaving France for a few days, they would lose the trail to you.” He stopped his pacing and looked at Blair. “Otherwise he would have just called me as he had done in the past. He felt that, by coming here, he could keep his dear little lassie safe—even if it was for just a little longer.”

Suddenly feeling very tired, Angus sank back down in his chair. “Obviously, he was incorrect. They had tracked him…and you…down. I believe that what I told him would have resulted in him bringing you back here, had they not caught up with him. The time was right for you to be brought here.”

“What do you mean, the time was right?” she asked.

“The old Laird died in March, Blair—just before Roddy’s death. There is a son who will be arriving in Scotland any time now. My understanding is that he had business to finalize before coming here to assume his duties as heir to the estate. He is almost the last of his line. There are some cousins—distant,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “They are not in direct line for the inheritance as long as the two of you live, or if either of you have children who would inherit.”

“Since your existence was unknown to the Laird’s son, he, of course, laid claim to the estate. What he did not know was that you are the rightful heir, and he will lose claim to all but the title.” Shaking his head, he continued quietly, “I fear we must assume that he now knows about you.”

He is a very wealthy and powerful man. He runs a family-owned shipping line…mmm, yes…Black Swan it is—White Star’s primary competitor for the transatlantic business!” he said, almost in awe.

He didn’t wish to frighten her anymore than she was already, but he owed her the truth. He smiled and continued, “As the only surviving male heir, he would very likely retain the title of Earl of Donnach. You would become the Countess of Donnach, Lady McDonnough, but with the rest of the estate going to you, his would be a mere honorary title at this point. He would have no control over the estate and.therefore, little power or influence at court.”

“Believe me when I tell you that this man is not accustomed to being without influence or power! You must be very careful, Blair. Now that someone knows of your existence, you are a huge threat to the new Laird’s claim to the estate.” He saw that she understood the danger and moved on.

“Now lass, did you bring the letters with you?” he asked.

“Yes, I did. I thought it best to keep them in my possession for safekeeping until we spoke. I knew that they were an important link between Caena and me.”

“Aye, indeed they are. The courts will want to see them, I’m certain. Would you like me to put them in my safe here?” he offered.

“No, thank you.” Seeing he was surprised that she would not trust him with the letters, she added, “If someone were to find the link between us, they might try to steal them. I do not want anyone else harmed, Angus—especially a friend of my uncle’s. Do you have any suggestions—ones that would not put anyone in danger?”

So, he thought, it is not a lack of trust but concern for my safety. What a sweet girl and very practical. “Now that you mention it, yes, I do. But first, there are some additional items we should discuss.” He pulled out paper and pen. “Now, let us plan your next move.”

***

After their plans had been clarified, he instructed her to take up residence in a nearby hotel. “It is the best in Edinburgh. It sits just across from the castle and was once used as a residence for some of the visiting royalty. You deserve to spoil yourself, my dear.”

“I couldn’t possibly afford such a place,” she said. Almost embarrassed to admit it, she had very little money left, except what she made from the sale of Roddy’s furnishings. It wouldn’t last long. Unfortunately, in her haste to leave Paris she had neglected to contact the French bank to find out how much money was in her account there.

“My dear, do you have any idea how much you are worth—even without the Scottish estate?” He sat back in his chair and grinned at her. Of course, he thought, she had no idea. Ah, what a pleasure it will be to give her some good news—very good news indeed.

“Well, no…I do not, but, Angus, it cannot be much. Roddy had not worked in some time, and we lived simply.” Smiling, she added, “The bookstore was his love, but it really did not bring in a large income when he owned it. I am certain that it did not bring in much when he sold it. He really ran the shop more out of his love for books than for revenue. And, of course, he had retired a few years ago, so…” Why was he grinning at her like this? She liked the man, but this cavalier attitude about her finances was beginning to fire up her temper. She found herself squirming in her chair, trying to tamp down her emotions.

Angus reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a file and, after looking for the appropriate document, placed it on the desk in front of her. “This is the Paris account as of last month.” He picked up another document from the file. Placing it alongside the first, “This is the account in the Royal Bank of Scotland.” He watched as her eyes opened wide. Oh, he was enjoying this. It was about time this bonnie lassie got some good news. “Both accounts are, as you can see, in your name, as they have been since I became aware of Roddy’s death. That would have been covered in his Will. Did you read it, my dear?”

Blair could not begin to fathom what she was looking at. These were not the accounts of a retired book shop owner. “I…I do not understand.” She looked up at Angus with utter amazement. “Ah, the Will—no, it made me so sad to even think of it that I packed it away to read later. The lawyer had told me that I inherited everything, so I really did not think it necessary to read it right away since I assumed there was so little…” She was stunned! “I had no idea…” She was absolutely speechless.

“Then let me enlighten you…” and he gave her some very good news, indeed!

**************************

Chapter 16: Sòlas Plans for the Future

Donnach Castle, Scotland – 1726

“Sòlas?” His mother had received word of the child’s death and immediately sought out her youngest son.

He heard his mother’s voice and had to brace himself. He owed her a personal goodbye. The child and the wet nurse had been taken directly to the ship in Edinburgh. He would be right behind them on horseback as soon as he said his goodbyes.

“In here, Mother,” he said, as he put the few remaining items of his belongings into his small traveling bag.

“Sòlas?” She was behind him now. “What are you doing?” Looking around his room she recognized that his personal belongings were all gone.

He turned and saw before him the woman who had borne him. He was going to break her heart, he knew. But he had to go—quickly. “Mother, please sit.” He led her to the chair near the fire. “I am leaving mother. I will not be back.”

“Where do you go, Sòlas? And why? Why do you not stay here with me? With those who love you?” she pleaded.

“Those who love me?” He sneered, “There are only two who love me here, Mother. One I cannot have. The other will mourn the loss of me but will have others to console her.” He saw the look of utter devastation on her face and knew he should not be loosing his anger on her.

He knelt before her and held her hand. “I am sorry, Mother. I leave because I must. I cannot live here and watch her with my brother—watch what he is doing to her.”

“Do you think my loss of you will so easily be dismissed, Sòlas?”

“No, I was wrong to say that to you. Please forgive me.” He kissed her cheek softly. She had no idea how much he would miss her.

“You are forgiven,” she responded somewhat petulantly. Then smiling at him, “Now won’t you tell me why it is you really leave, Sòlas? I know there is more to it than that.”

“Is it the loss of the child?” She noticed that he barely controlled his smile at the mention of the child. Ah, it is as I suspected, she thought. “Caena’s maid told mine that the babe was stillborn.” She watched his face carefully. “Sòlas, I have never asked you until now. I have watched you when you were watching her. Was…is the child yours?”

He thought his heart would break. She was so clever, this mother of his. What a wonderful example she would have been for his child. “Mother, do not ask what you should not know.”

She understood completely. If Macrath ever found out the truth, his wrath would rain down on all of them. And she knew it would be murderous!

Standing, he took her hands and helped her rise from the chair. “Now, say goodbye to your son and wish him well. I must leave quickly.” He kissed her cheek, wet from her tears.

“Take this.” She pulled her hand from her skirt pocket and placed the heavy, little bag she carried into his hand. She had guarded it by carrying it with her everywhere she went. It was never entrusted out of her possession.

When he saw the gold and gems inside, he looked at her in amazement. “Mother, where did you get this?”

“Ah, Sòlas. We women are so easily dismissed and ignored. I have watched you, watched Caena, for months. What others do not see, I do. Let us just say that some of the things that belong to me have somehow been misplaced. Use this for the child.” She held him close for one last time. “I wondered how long your love for her could be shoved aside, and feared this day might come.”

“Go now. Do not stand here with an old woman any longer. Your future is out there with your child,” she said, looking toward the doorway.

She humbled him. Without a word from him, Meadhbh McDonnough had figured out everything. He could only pray that Macrath was not so bright. Looking at the bag he held, he thought that, with what he had stashed away in the trunk already on its way to Edinburgh, this would make a lovely addition to what he hoped would keep his child and her children safe for a good long time. “Goodbye, Mother, and thank you!” He walked backward watching her face, then turned and left quickly, never to see her again.

His mother sat again near the fire, looking at what had been her son’s room since he was just a small boy. She knew she would never see him again. She wiped the last tear she would permit herself to shed for the son who was so very brave and strong. He needed no tears, this brave son of hers. She knew that somehow Macrath, and to some extent Mordag, had been responsible for her loss.

How did a mother choose between her sons? No, she had not chosen. The choice had been forced upon her.

She would keep her knowledge to herself for the rest of her days. Perhaps she could give him even more help. She remembered hearing about the islands south of the American colonies. Many were going there, as well as the American colonies, for a new start. It would not harm him, if they thought he had gone there. Yes, that sounded good. After all, she had always been a very good story teller.

She sighed heavily. Men really do not give us enough credit, she smiled. She would go to Caena, she thought. Caena could read and write. Together they would do what they could to protect him.

Then she rose and left his room for the last time.

**************************

Chapter 17: The History of Money

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 1912

Angus continued telling Blair the story as he knew it. “Sòlas made certain that, when the time came, the proper heir of the estate would have…shall we call it a nest egg?” He sat back in his chair and watched her as he continued. “He recognized that fighting for the estate in court could cost a small fortune, as would the upkeep on the castle—even if the estate had not been misused. So he assured that the heir could act when the time was right.”

He watched it all registering on her face. Oh, he really liked this girl. “When he left Scotland for France, Sòlas took a lovely little amount of gold and silver with him—all of it was his to take, mind you. He left a note for the family, telling them that he was unhappy, and he intended to emigrate from Scotland to one of the sugar producing islands south of the American colonies.”

“So many Scots did emigrate over the last two-hundred years...no one questioned it.” Angus reached over and refreshed her tea and continued his story. “He was very vague about his plans or destination, so they were unable to track him. All their efforts to find and eliminate him or his heirs over the years were to no avail.”

Angus let out a hearty laugh. “Of course, we now know that he never went to the islands at all. He had gone straight to France. It really was quite a smart little bit of misdirection.”

“Once Macrath was dead, of course, the family’s efforts increased, but they were never able to find Sòlas. Settled in France under the cover of the French name of Delamare, he invested what he had and lived modestly, as have his subsequent generations. He was able to purchase art, more gold and silver, and, with Caena’s wishes in mind, passed the accounts on to the next generation.”

“Of course, Sòlas’s life there is much better documented than his years in Scotland—he saw to it! He didn’t marry until after he received word that Caena was dead. I think he always hoped she would somehow break free of Macrath and join him in France. It must have been a horrible blow to him to find out about her death…so young!” he said sadly.

“Only Caena’s maid, Ròs, had known the entire plan. She was faithful to her mistress to the very end. After Caena’s death, she and her entire family disappeared from Scotland. We know now that they went to Sòlas seeking their own freedom from Macrath.”

“They managed, with Sòlas’s help, to buy a little piece of land where they grew fantastic grapes. Their descendents now have quite a nice little winery where some of the best wine grapes grow. They have been very wealthy themselves for several generations now.” He sat silently for a moment, then sighed and continued.

“Each male guardian since Sòlas has held these accounts on the female heir’s behalf. Two-hundred years, Blair, these accounts have been growing to include land—here in Scotland, in the United States, France, and England. All of these are now in your name. And, of course, they do not include the estate in Donnach, for obvious reasons!”

“Oh, my God!” Her face flushed, and he rushed to her side fearing she would faint.

“There, there, lassie,” he said, as he patted her on the hand and used his other hand to push her head down until she could regain her strength. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I…it’s just so hard to take in.”

“Well, I’m sure a little champagne, a nice bubble bath, a fine meal, and a good night’s sleep will help you get a grasp on it,” he smiled. “Pamper yourself, my dear. Go shopping tomorrow. Buy some pretty things to wear. You’ll feel better right off!”

When he saw her color improve, he continued. “As to the letters, my dear, I suggest that you purchase a safe deposit box for their safekeeping.”

“Oh, that is a good idea!” she agreed.

“The Royal Bank is on the way to the hotel. I’ll have Taog take your bags to the hotel while you stop at the bank to deposit those letters into their safekeeping. Ask for Mr. Dougall McPherson,” he said, as he wrote down the banker’s name for her. “He’s my sister’s husband and is familiar with your accounts. He will take good care of you.”

“Oh, yes…have him give you some cash, while you’re at it. Taog will give the hotel the necessary information to cover your bill there. Now go along, my dear. Stay at the hotel as long as you wish.”

As she slowly made her way to the office door, he stopped her. “My goodness, I almost forgot…your name at the hotel will be Rachel Wallace. You should also use that name when contacting the bank for funds once you leave Edinburgh. Dougall will watch for such transactions and cover them from your account under the name of Blair McDonnough. I contacted him as soon as I heard of your uncle’s death, so he has taken care of everything at the bank for you. Can you remember that?” he asked.

“Yes, I can remember that. Thank you, Angus,” she said, in a voice that told him that the shock of her finances had not subsided. Well, he thought, it will take some time, I suppose. He thought of his old friend and promised him, in his mind, that he would look out for his lass as his own.

“Be careful, Rachel! These are very dangerous people indeed,” he added as she walked away.

**************************

Chapter 18: Macrath Moves On

Donnach – 1729

Macrath didn’t wait to put his plan into action. He didn’t need time to mourn Caena, and he took none.

The week after Caena’s fall, the castle was full of friends and family who had come to mourn her loss. Macrath never missed an opportunity to have Seonaid close enough to romp in his bed. So, he went along with the farce of mourning his good wife.

He had enjoyed Seonaid before but now his time with her had new…depth. Despising any weakness, he staunchly refused to permit himself to actually love her. His interest in Seonaid had always been very practical. She was comely to look at, did anything he could imagine in his bed, and never made demands. Now there were other possibilities…she had proven herself not to be barren.

As he rolled off of the comely Seonaid, instead of dropping off into sleep he weighed his options. He did want her, and what Macrath McDonnough wanted, he would damned well have.

“What has your mind so occupied so soon after we have pleasured ourselves?” she asked him.

“Matters of business…nothing to worry that pretty head of yours about, Seonaid,” he said, dismissing her concerns.

After sending Seonaid on her way, he sent for William Aitkin. His family was linked to Macrath’s by marriage, and the two had grown up together in the castle. Since William did not have the advantage of having the Laird as his uncle, he had calculated early in their youth that Macrath was the dark horse on which he would place his bets. He never turned down an offer from Macrath to line his purse with some extra coin.

“You called for me, Macrath?” William said, as he entered Macrath’s parlor. He wasn’t as handsome as Macrath by a long shot. But he had a way with the ladies and was often paired up with Macrath on a night of debauchery.

“Yes, William. I have a little something I need taken care of, and I would prefer that it be resolved within a fortnight,” Macrath told him.

“Certainly! I’m always at your service, you know that, Macrath! Who…what do you need done?” he asked, as he smiled and took the pewter goblet Macrath handed him.

“I want you to arrange a little hunting trip. You will need to invite young Allan MacDiarmid to join you,” Macrath advised him. “You’ll want to be careful though, William. I understand Allan has a rather poor seat and has been known to fall from that sweet little row-jumper of his,” Macrath smiled.

“Too bad! Allan and Seonaid have a small son. He really should be careful not to leave a pretty young widow and child without a protector, don’t you think?” William all but licked his lips in anticipation of what this would earn for him.

Macrath looked William in the eye, smiled and answered, “I think she would need a new, stronger protector…don’t you?”

A week later, Allan MacDiarmid was dead. It was rumored that he fell from his horse during a hunt and smashed his head open like a ripe melon. His widow and young son, Donald, were now under the protection of the Laird.

The next month, Macrath married the comely Seonaid—who seemed a little too pleased for a mourning young widow—and looked forward to a fruitful marriage.

***

Winter came and it was a harsh one, bringing with it a sickness that took its toll on the McDonnough estate. Mordag’s wife, Meadhbh, who had deeply mourned the loss of her youngest son, and later the death of Caena, fell ill shortly after the Yule celebration.

Macrath made certain that his bride kept a close eye on his mother during her illness. Seonaid tenderly cared for her husband’s mother but, despite her efforts, Meadhbh died before spring. Some said she no longer had the desire to live. Others said Mordag had set his eyes elsewhere. No one would ever know the truth of it.

By that summer, Mordag had married again and his bride, a young noblewoman, promptly produced a fine healthy son they named Fergus.

A drunken Macrath was heard screaming in his rooms the night of his new brother’s birth, damning the fates that brought a son to his father before himself.

**************************

Chapter 19: Dark Stranger in Edinburgh

Brest, France - July 1912

He arrived in Brest early in the morning and went straight to the docks. He strolled onboard the liner, Le Avignon. There was no need for him to identify himself to anyone. The crew all knew him by sight. His suite was always kept ready for him, as he frequently traveled between Brest and Edinburgh.

He took great pride in the ship with her long, sleek lines, and her two stacks reaching into the sky above her. She was a delight to him—a reminder of his dear father. She had been the last ship commissioned by his father before he left to assume his duties as Earl of Donnoch.

She was a good ship but likely to be retired a few years from now. The thought saddened him but business was business. Big changes were taking place in shipping and their line would have to keep up once the dust settled.

White Star had built gargantuan ships like Olympic and their lost Titanic. Money was being spent in huge amounts on their sister ship, the Britannic. With their four stacks and enormous tonnage, ships like these would soon make Le Avignon and her sisters nothing more than quaint little day cruisers. Le Avignon would soon be unable to pull in the first-class customers she was accustomed to now, reduced to being not much more than a large and luxurious ferry.

But with the Titanic disaster in April, he was in no hurry to try to build one of these monsters-of-the-sea. Too many had been lost. White Star was under the worst publicity any line could suffer. It was a shipping line’s worst nightmare. There was talk of replacing Ismay who, as their managing director, was being held responsible for Titanic’s loss. No, he had no desire to get caught up in the rush for the bigger ships. He had stuck to the decision he had made several years earlier—best to wait and see.

“Well, old girl…” he spoke to her quietly, as he moved to her rail. Looking out over the Atlantic, he continued, “…for now you are still a queen.” He’d see to it that she served her passengers as one of the best of the Black Swan line until she was retired. She would go out proudly. In the meanwhile, Black Swan Lines would not start building her replacement until he was certain he could build a ship that was safe.

All the propaganda White Star had spit out and all the money they spent on the first two would likely come down to a battle for the line to even survive. Oh, he didn’t doubt they would survive. He wasn’t entirely sure he thought they should. All their efforts to compete with Cunard’s Mauretania and Lusitania had come to naught. Cunard had been the line that managed to win back the Blue Riband from Germany’s clutches, and theirs were still the safest of the leviathans of the sea.

While White Star was being very closely watched by the Maritime Commission, he’d decided not to spend the money on unproven designs. His engineers were currently looking at designs that would improve on the Le Avignon—much larger but not as big as Britannic—but without what he saw as the flaws in the White Star plans. Time would tell, and he was in no hurry. He might not display a great deal of patience in his private affairs but, when it came to business, he didn’t gamble.

He looked up at the sky and saw the storm clouds gathering. It was going to be a rough trip. Dreading rough seas, he went to his suite for a nap before sailing. As he lay there trying to get to sleep, his thoughts took him back to his father—back to the time when, as a young graduate of the university he had taken over the shipping business for his father who had gone to Donnach a few years earlier.

His father had continued to run the business until he was satisfied that Alexandre could handle it on his own, and it had only taken three years for him to prove himself. He was so glad that his father had lived long enough to see his business grow into a highly respected cruise line—slightly larger than the White Star line—with a freight business that serviced Europe and the Americas.

His mother would never have a financial worry. He had assured her financial security with accounts in Scotland, France, and Switzerland, as well as properties in America, Canada, Australia, and several other countries with good stable governments. She was a very wealthy woman; and he was a very wealthy man at age thirty-five.

He didn’t need the Scottish estate or the Earldom that went with it. But, he would, by God, honor his family and assume the responsibility. As for his business, he could make do with a once-a-month trip to Brest to oversee the Black Swan Line and his estate in Bretagne. It would take a lot of work, but it was doable.

There would have to be an occasional pleasure trip to Paris, of course. He would need the respite of Paris, especially in the spring when everything was so fresh and the air filled with fragrance. As he lay there thinking of Paris, the steady, soft sway of the ship finally lulled him to sleep. He didn’t awake when, an hour later, Le Avignon left Brest headed for Edinburgh.

***

Alexandre Eduard Maigny arrived in Edinburgh late on a Wednesday. While he wasn’t usually bothered by ocean travel, the crossing from France had been especially rough this time. A summer storm had arisen—so had the bile in his gut. Not in the best of moods, to put it mildly, he stormed into the elaborate, old hotel near the Edinburgh Castle. He purchased a suite and ordered a bottle of their finest French champagne to be sent up to his room. When he got his stomach calmed, he would go down to the hotel restaurant for a good dinner, but right now he needed a bath and good wine to calm him.

By the time the marble tub filled and he shut off the steaming water that had been rushing out of the gilded faucet, the waiter had brought the champagne. He waited until he heard the waiter leave the suite. Then, naked as the day his mother gave him life, he strode into the parlor, uncorked the bottle, filled the fine crystal flute with the bubbling wine, and took both the flute and the bottle into the bathroom. He climbed into the large tub that accommodated even his height. As he lowered that long, sinewy body into the heat, he sighed deeply. He enjoyed a good soak in the hot bath to help his system settle, downing half the bottle of champagne before the water turned tepid.

He dried his hair with one of the thick towels, reached over to wipe down the gold-framed mirror over the marble sink. The color under his eyes was fading, and his color in general was better than it had been an hour ago. He didn’t find green complimentary. He groomed his long black hair, shaved away the day’s stubble, and splashed on his favorite cologne, grimacing when his newly shaven face stung. The deep blue eyes that looked back at him still looked tired, but he felt more human.

He dressed in his European clothing for dinner, shot his cuffs, and went downstairs to get a light meal so that he could collapse in bed shortly after he was finished. He preferred dining with people around him. Few knew what an introvert he truly was. His business acumen required that he fight that tendency, so it pleased him when he could just relax and enjoy being around others without having to converse with them. His business affairs in France had taken a toll on his nerves, and then there was the nasty business he was here to resolve. Damn, he wasn’t usually so easily disturbed. Since his father’s death, he had felt just a little…lost.

As he dined, he mulled over the last few months. It wasn’t that he was unhappy about relocating to Scotland. He loved it here—always had. His business affairs didn’t require that he continue to live in France. It was all the legal hassles—no, the damned lawyers—and the family intrigues that drove him crazy. His cousins were a greedy bunch of bastards, and he didn’t trust any of them any further than he could throw the ship he had sailed in on. Why had his life become so complicated?

Then there was the matter of the girl. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Of course, he knew from his sources in Scotland that she and her uncle were out to try to wheedle their way into the family’s inheritance. But, dear God, she was a beauty! He felt his blood rush at the very thought of her. There was something about her that didn’t fit the picture of a con artist. But, then he supposed that was why they were so often successful—especially if they were blonde, tiny, shapely and had huge gray eyes.

He would have to be very sure he stayed away from that one. She was pure trouble. But, if she persisted in her plan, he would take care of the problem and, if necessary, squash her and that plan like a bug.

***

The letters were in her safe deposit box. The bubble bath had brought her exhausted body back to life, at least long enough to dress and go down for dinner. She could have had them bring the meal to the room…rooms, actually…she thought again. As tired as she was, she would probably have been asleep before her meal got to her, and she knew she needed nourishment. She was just starting to gain back what weight she had lost since Roddy’s death.

The suite in which she found herself was so beautiful and spacious that she felt guilty just leaving her shoes on the bedroom floor while she bathed. She felt slightly giddy about all the luxury that surrounded her. She guessed she’d just have to get used to a little luxury.

Giggling, she spun around in circles just looking at everything. Giggling was something she tended to do when she was exhausted, or energized, or happy, or…well, she admitted to herself, she just tended to giggle like a schoolgirl.

Feeling much better than she had an hour ago, she put on a little lipstick and just the smallest bit of her favorite French perfume. Once she dressed, she picked up her handbag and went downstairs for dinner.

The restaurant was exquisite. As Angus had told her, the hotel was an old, historic building, with very high ceilings and dark, aged beams high overhead. The restaurant décor was pure Scotland. Heralds, family crests from various clans surrounded the room. Suits of armor polished to a pewter-like sheen were placed in all the corners. Swords—claymores—she corrected herself, were hung on the walls in pairs. Candlelight gleamed from the tables, and the dark iron chandeliers that looked as if they had come from an old castle hung high overhead. They were suspended far enough from the tables below that their light was dim and seductive. The tables were set with the finest linens, silver, and crystal.

Somehow, surrounded by the historic décor of Scotland, she felt more at home than she ever had. It was so strange to her that, for all her love of Paris, this place—so different from Paris—should feel so very much like home.

The waiter seated her and provided a menu. She didn’t think she was ready for Scottish fare quite yet. From what she had heard, she thought it would take some getting used to. She shivered at the thought of trying haggis. Maybe someday…not now! She was pleasantly surprised to see that the chef offered a variety of international cuisine. Able to order a meal that she thought would sooth her weary system, she just enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere.

After she had eaten, she reached once again for her wine flute and suddenly became aware that someone was staring at her. It started out as it usually did, first just the awareness that she wasn’t alone, then the itch under the skin that told her she was being watched.

When she finally dared look up, there he was—dark, brooding, scowling at her with those deep blue eyes—one brow raised as if he was surprised by what he saw. He didn’t approach her, but signed for his meal, rose, and—after giving her one more hot, glaring look—abruptly left the room. He moved like the sleek black panther she had seen at the Paris zoo, she thought.

It was a good thing she had already eaten. Seeing him had unnerved her completely. Her stomach was clutching, her knees were shaking. Blair, she thought to herself—no, Blair…start getting used to it—Rachel, get a grip on yourself. Get back to your room and figure out what has you so shaken. Just get to your room! She motioned for the waiter, signed her tab and shot out of the restaurant as fast as her shaking knees would take her.

She made no stops, and went straight to her room where she almost slammed the door behind her and stood there leaning against it until her system leveled. What is he doing here? No, surely he could not be the same man she saw at Roddy’s funeral. Just as quickly as she thought it, she knew she was wrong. How many dark, handsome, brooding men with gorgeous blue eyes—and that mouth—could cross her path? She didn’t know what it meant, that she would run into him in Paris and now here in Edinburgh. Who is he? She was very afraid she was going to find out, and she wasn’t going to like it.

***

She had caught him completely by surprise. What the hell was she doing here and why now? He walked into the bedroom and unfastened the tie he had had to suffer with throughout dinner. Then he drew out the sapphire links at his wrists and tossed them onto the antique dresser. He was disconcerted that she crept back into his mind. He raked his long fingers through his thick black hair in frustration.

Now that the so-called uncle was dead, he had thought she would give up on the scam, or whatever it was that they had planned. He was glad his contacts had gotten word to him of the old man’s sudden death so that he could get a close look at her during the funeral, without having to actually meet her. His reaction to seeing her had surprised him, but then he did appreciate beauty. And God knew she was a beauty. But he had thought it was over and he would never have to deal with her.

Finally able to collapse onto the feather bed, he closed his eyes and damned if he didn’t dream of her. He awoke in the morning feeling drained and aching with a reminder of the dreams.

**************************

Chapter 20: Alexandre To The Rescue

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 1912

She awoke groggy from the dream and the loss of deep sleep that came with it. Then she realized that she remembered it—at least some of it. She had been sad, so very, very sad. Then fear had gripped her heart. She was being chased by the faceless monster, and just as he was about to grab her he changed form. He was now the dark man who grabbed her so tightly she had been unable to get away. When she twisted in his grip, she had seen the dark blue eyes and the sneering mouth. As he had lowered his face to hers, she woke up shaking and damp with perspiration.

Letting the memory sink in, she wondered why now? Why did all the fear, pain, and sense of loss in the dream stay with her now? And why had the man inserted himself into her dark fantasy?

As always, Blair put everything she had into pushing aside the mood invariably caused by the dream. She took her time preparing for her day. First a nice long soak in that marvelous tub which brought memories of her apartment and Mssr. LeGard. How she hoped he was well. She missed him terribly. By now he would have realized that she was not just on vacation. He must be so worried about her. There was nothing she could do to ease his mind. She refused to drag him into the nightmare.

She climbed out of the big marble tub and wrapped the thick, luxurious towels around her hair and body. Then she moved to the closet where she selected the silk blouse and the tailored slacks she had bought at the little shop across from the hotel. It had cost a fortune, but it seemed she didn’t have to worry about that any longer. It still felt like a dream.

She took extra time with her hair and make-up, dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast. She would indulge in having some coffee which she usually avoided due to its effect on her nerves. Today, she thought, she was going to need to be wide awake. She would be making plans to go to the village that was part of the McDonnough estate. She would meet the people of the village to find out what she could about the old Laird as well as the new.

She entered the restaurant, was seated, and put all her concentration on the menu.

“Mademoiselle?” The voice was deep, thickly accented with French, and had her system unnerved immediately.

Startled, she looked up from her menu. That face, those blue eyes, that mouth…she was looking into the face of the mysterious man.

“Oui?” she responded automatically. Even with the single word of response, she recognized that her voice was shaky.

“Do you prefer to converse in French or English?” he asked.

“English is fine, Monsieur.” She held out her hand which he raised to his mouth for a polite touch of his lips to her knuckles. The shock struck her immediately. Her whole system was vibrating. I must stay away from the coffee, she thought to herself. She took note of his hand, its wide palm and long, slender fingers. His were beautiful hands. She wondered if he played the piano. He certainly had the hands for it, and one of them had yet to release her own.

“Let me introduce myself. I am Alexandre Maigny, from Bretagne. We seem to keep running into one another, and I thought perhaps we should meet,” he explained. Realizing he still had her hand captured in his and had been rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, he quickly released it.

Thinking that he sounded friendlier than he looked, she wondered if he ever smiled with that marvelous mouth. Feeling herself start to blush, she hesitated just slightly as she remembered her need for secrecy, “Rachel Wallace. Please, Mssr. Maigny, join me,” she invited. Why she did so, she couldn’t say. Everything in her told her she should get away from him.

“Thank you, I will,” Alexandre responded. He didn’t know what had possessed him to approach her but now, he thought, perhaps he could find out what the hell she was up to and why she was here in Edinburgh. The waiter approached and took their orders. Then Alexandre turned to her and let his gaze settle on her face. Once he got close she was even more striking than he had given her credit for. The gray eyes had little blue flecks. The light hair that from a distance he had credited to an expensive salon was, undoubtedly, her own natural color—an amazingly pale blonde. Her mouth—well, he found he didn’t dare let his mind go there for long.

“Please call me Alexandre. Tell me, Rachel Wallace, what brings you to Edinburgh?”

She loved the familiar French accent and felt herself start to relax just slightly. “I am here on holiday. I think it is a lovely country—all the historic buildings, the lovely woolens, the tartans. I find myself very glad I came, and I am hoping to see much more. And you, Monsieur?” she asked.

“Ah, I am here on family business. Very dull, I’m afraid, but trying to make it more enjoyable by spending some time seeing the sights.” She was so easy to talk to. He would have to be careful around her, but he needed more time with her to find out what he needed. “Perhaps you could join me after breakfast. I planned to visit the Royal Museum.”

“Oh …oui, that would be lovely,” she agreed, hesitating slightly. Surely being with him would be safe enough as long as they were in public during the daytime, she thought. “I had planned to see it today or tomorrow.” She had saved that one museum as a treat for a time when she could spend the whole day.

Over breakfast Alexandre decided that, if she hadn’t been an imposter, he would have really liked her. However, since he knew she was up to no good, he remained on guard. Gradually, he got her to talk about herself, although she was obviously holding back, he felt he was getting some idea of her real opinions. By spending the good part of the day with her at the museum, he hoped he would be able to get a better idea of what the real girl was like. Since she was using a second name, Blair Delamare in France, now Rachel Wallace here, he knew he would have to be very selective in what he believed.

For Blair, she was so lost in the moment that she completely forgot to find out why he had shown up at Roddy’s funeral.

***

As they walked toward the museum, enjoying the displays in the shop windows, and the lovely weather as they walked, he noticed the oddly familiar face in the approaching crowd. He was uncertain about where he had seen the man before, but his reaction was one of instant wariness. Then he saw the knife.

He grabbed the girl and pulled her out of the way just as the blade quickly rose upward toward her chest. Instead, it caught Alexandre in the right arm from wrist to bicep. The girl screamed, and passersby stopped to help Alexandre, during which time the man disappeared easily in the mayhem.

His head swam as he dropped to his knees on the walk. The pain in his arm told him that it wasn’t just a scratch. Then he saw her leaning over him.

“Alex, are you alright? Someone went for the police. We’ll get you to the hospital right away,” she assured him.

He had never permitted the familiar shortening of his name until now. He found he liked the way it sounded when she said it. Then he realized that she was more shaken than he was. “I’ll be fine, Rachel. Are you hurt?” His head was spinning and she sounded as if she was far away, and yet those gray eyes were close and focused sharply on his.

“No, I’m fine. I think you may very well have saved my life. Alex, thank you. Thank you,” she said. Her eyes were filling with the dreaded tears again. Once again, she didn’t seem to have any control over them.

“It was the least I could do,” he replied, hoping she wouldn’t look so helpless and lost. Damn, she played a good game. It was going to be a challenge finding out her secrets, but he thought he might just enjoy the effort—if his head would just stop swimming. Then he heard the annoying whine of the ambulance and all went black as he slid the rest of the way to the street.

***

There she was, standing over him again. Her face was so pale he wondered that she was still able to stand. If he hadn’t known better, he would have believed the concern in her eyes. “Well,” he said, quietly looking around the room and then up at her as he realized he was in a hospital room. “I seem to have missed the museum.”

“Oh, Alex, please do not joke about this. You could have been killed. I would never have forgiven myself,” she said, as the tears overflowed. The doctor had told her that, if the knife had struck him less than an inch to the left it would have hit an artery, and he surely would have bled to death.

“Rachel, please don’t cry. I’m fine, really.” Why was it that women could turn on the tears and rip a man apart at the drop of a hat? One tear from a woman and a man was useless and left with his pride blowing in the wind. It was a reality that had him feeling much more vulnerable than he had on the street earlier.

Just then, the doctor came into his room. “Aye, he’s fine, lassie.” The doctor smiled at Blair and continued in his Scottish brogue, “Two hours of my superior skills in the surgery has him on the road to good health. He passed out from loss of blood, but the injury did nae permanent damage. As I explained earlier, it could hae been much worse.”

Looking down at Alexandre, “The arm must remain in the sling for a week or so. Now that we hae him back in one piece, we will get a couple of good meals into him and watch him for the next few hours. He should be able to leave tomorrow morning.”

Why did doctors always talk about you instead of to you, Alexandre wondered in a fit of piqué?

“No!” Alexandre said, as he rose a little too quickly. To his surprise, his head swam briefly, and Rachel caught his good arm and hung onto him. “I’m fine, really. Please get my clothing, and I’ll take a taxi back to the hotel.

“Alexandre, are you sure you should do this?” Blair asked, hoping he would listen to the doctor.

Well, now I’m Alexandre again, he thought. Somehow he felt a little saddened by it. “Yes, Rachel. I’m certain. Doctor, please have my clothes brought to me.”

It was obvious that his patient was not going to cooperate and, since he could not force him to stay, he cautiously gave in. “Alright. We’ll let you go, but I want your promise that at the first sign of any fever you will return immediately. An infection could undo all my superior surgical work.”

Turning to Rachel, the doctor continued. “Young lady, I will release him into your care. His bandage should be changed three times a day for the next two days and daily thereafter. Understood?”

“Yes, I’ll see to it,” she promised. After all, the man had saved her life.

“When the police return to speak to you, I’ll send them over to the hotel,” the doctor continued as he strode out the door.

“Rachel, I do not want you bothered with this. I’m sure that I can change the bandages myself,” he was almost growling at her. He was uncomfortable with her so close, and he had yet to figure out what she was up to. And then there was the attack. Why was someone trying to kill her? Perhaps it was just some street thug, but then why had the attacker seemed so familiar? His arm ached, his head pounded. He was in no condition to think about her or the attack any longer.

“If you are going to argue with me, Alexandre, perhaps I should call the doctor back. Perhaps he can just knock you out to keep you down for awhile,” she said, with her arms folded in front of her and her expression set in determination. “Perhaps a nice big needle filled with some magical potion…?”

“Well, if you’re going to be nasty about it,” he said, tentatively rising from the bed as the nurse brought in his clothing. His jacket and shirt were ruined, but they would at least get him back to the hotel.

“You have yet to see me get nasty, Monsieur!” Blair turned on her heel and left the room—leaving him to dress with the nurse’s assistance.

As she waited outside the door, Blair felt her knees start to buckle. Alexandre’s doctor had been approaching his room, and he grabbed her in time to prevent her falling on her face.

Holding onto her he said, “Are you alright, lass? Here, let’s get you to a chair. You just lean on me for a moment.” He took her to the chair across the hall and lowered her into it. “Let me check you out,” he said, as he looked into her eyes, listened to her heart beat, checked her pulse. No doubt about it, she was simply having a reaction to being attacked earlier and to her companion’s injury.

He wondered how she had managed to stay alert until now. Sometimes people didn’t react to trauma until after all the excitement was over. Watching her he determined that, yes, now that his patient was doing well and she no longer needed to remain in control, the poor girl was finally letting loose of all the nerves that had built up.

As Alexandre came out of his room, he saw the doctor kneeling in front of the girl. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt? Damn it, did that son-of-a-bitch hurt her?” Suddenly he found that both the girl and the doctor were just frozen. The girl’s pouty little mouth stood open in shock as she stared at him until the doctor snapped out of it and spoke.

“She’s fine, lad—just fine. She’s just reacting to the shock of everything that’s happened,” the doctor told him.

“Oh!” Now in addition to all his other pains, he really felt like an idiot! Covering for his gaff, he rationalized aloud, “I thought perhaps she had been injured, and she hadn’t realized it until now.” He cleared his throat and tried to think quickly. “Delaying treatment could have been very serious, could it not?” he asked the doctor.

“Aye,” the doctor replied, smiling at the poor sucker who didn’t even realize he’d gotten hooked just like those delicious trout he intended to catch in the loch this weekend. “Aye, that’s perfectly logical.”

Helping the girl to her feet, the doctor continued. “Now you two move along. And you lad,” he said, pointing his finger at Alexandre, “You go to bed as soon as you get back to the hotel.” In his opinion, if the lad was smart, he would take the beautiful lassie with him.

“Yes, I will. Thank you, doctor. Rachel, are you feeling well enough to go now?” She still looked a little pale to him.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” As she slowly turned to leave, Alexandre grabbed her arm with his good one and led her to the exit.

***

Damn the woman, he was drowning in her—her sweetness, her kindness, her nearness. Pushing that aside, he let his temper reign. Why wouldn’t she just go to her room and let him be? Not that he minded being pampered, mind you. But did she have to take her nursing duties so damned seriously? She had ordered room service—soup, tea, toast—for God’s sake. He wanted a good cut of beef! Not that he could have cut it one-handed, he realized as he tamped down his temper again.

She was just trying to repay him for being the one to take the cut earlier. Well, he decided he would let her—for now. Maybe she would relax enough to slip up and tell him something that would shed some light on why she was here.

In the meanwhile, he realized his room smelled of her. That faint scent she wore permeated his brain as though he were drowning in it. Shaking his head, he wondered what was wrong with him—other than his arm?

“Alexandre?” Blair came into the room after tapping gently on the door. “It is time to change your bandages.”

She helped him into the suite’s large bathroom where he sat on the straight-back chair near the sink. She gently removed the shirt she had helped him into when they got back to the hotel.

Once again she was struck with the beauty of his build, the strong cord of muscles that stretched across his back, the curling black hair that traveled from his chest to somewhere—she dared not think of where—below his belt buckle. She busied herself removing the bandage and felt the blood drain from her head when she saw the wound.

“Now, don’t pass out on me!” Alexandre shouted, grabbing her with his good arm.” I could hardly pick you up with only one arm!”

She looked at him expecting to see that stern expression he had when he was angry with her, which for some reason seemed to be often. Instead she found him smiling at her, those blue eyes just staring at her from between the thick, black lashes. His mouth was just inches away from hers and, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he lowered his to kiss her so gently she was unsure at first that he had indeed touched her. After pulling back, he looked at her again, and this time she knew she had been kissed. Her head was spinning, but now it wasn’t from seeing his wound.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” he said, as he backed away from her again, gripping her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have done that. After all, you hardly know me.” At the moment, he hardly recognized himself.

She backed away from him and moved to the table across the room to get the scissors. I am just sorry that you regret it, she thought to herself without uttering a sound. Returning, she finished rewrapping his arm. “I will let you get some sleep now. I will stop by in a few hours to rewrap it.” Backing away, she turned and walked out of the room. He stayed put until he heard the door to his suite close behind her.

He had watched her during the process of changing the bandage. She was distant—cold—not speaking to him unless he asked her a question. Damn it all, he had apologized for kissing her! Why was she still so angry? He was far from naïve; he recognized her response—didn’t he? He’d step back, be sure he didn’t touch her again. He didn’t seem to be able to control his urge to touch her.

He rubbed his face with his hand and felt the thick stubble of the day’s beard. Hum. And I’m going to have to trust her to shave me? I’ll be lucky to get out of it in one piece.

Shaking his head, he arose, and returned to the bedroom feeling completely drained. He was still unable to shake her and her scent from his mind—from his senses.

Blair continued to tend to his injury for the next two weeks, until his arm needed very little care and the stitches had been removed. She spoke to him as little as possible throughout the process. He would just watch her with an interest she did not understand, but he didn’t try to kiss her again. She found that that left her more unsettled than the kiss itself.

Finally she decided she had to move on with her plans, and she checked out of the hotel early in the morning without saying goodbye to Alexandre. He had all but shut her out since he had kissed her. Obviously he was not interested in her, and her pride was more badly wounded than his arm.

Even with her dear Julien, she had never felt the tug of attraction that she felt when she was around Alexandre. He unnerved her by simply looking in her direction. She thought it best that she just cut the ties cleanly, before she ended up in more pain than she was in already.

Sadly, she looked around the elaborate lobby and tried to memorize everything about it, so that she could look back later on her memory of these weeks and see something besides those blue eyes.

There was heavy, plush, upholstered seating set on the wooden floors covered in lush, thick carpets in rich colors. The dark, wooden tables gleamed with lemon wax that wafted on the air. They held fresh floral arrangements that were reflected on the shining surface of the wood, thanks to the lovely glow from the chandeliers high above.

The walls held gilded mirrors and paintings of monarchs and dignitaries of the distant past. Heavy draperies surrounded the large windows that reached from just above the floors to a height of ten-feet or more. There were two large fireplaces on opposing walls. Glass sconces on each side of both mantles held candles that still flickered in the faint early morning light.

She sighed as she stepped through the door to the outside. The doorman helped her into a taxi, and she left for the train depot determined not to give Alexandre Maigny any more thought.

Despite her intentions, all the way to Donnach, she thought of little other than Alexandre. Finally, as they pulled into the station later that morning, she once again pulled herself together with determination. She would never see him again. There was no use in spending any more of her time feeling sad about it. She exited the train, gathered her baggage and set off to find lodging in the village.

**************************

Chapter 21: Fruitless

Donnach, Scotland – 1733

It seemed that Macrath would have no heirs, at least by Seonaid. Unfortunately, Seonaid suffered three successive miscarriages within the next two years. She died giving birth to a stillborn son in their fourth year of marriage.

Seonaid had been the only woman to claim even a small portion of Macrath’s black heart. Her loss, however, was mourned no longer than that of the stallion whose fall had broken his fetlock the year before.

***

Macrath no longer believed in fate—only in his own determination. He married again the next year. Margaret MacMillan was a handsome. young redhead whose father pushed her into Macrath’s path, despite his reputation. But the sweet, milky-skinned Margaret also proved to be barren, and Macrath still had no heir. It was as if God himself was conspiring against him.

In the meanwhile, young Fergus McDonnough, the young son of Mordag, grew into a teenager with a personality, selfishness, and innate deceit that exceeded that of his eldest half-brother. Had Macrath been able to read Fergus’s mind, he would have recognized the cunning and deceit. Fergus watched and learned from his half-brother—set him up as an example. But Fergus wanted more—he wanted it all. What he didn’t want was Macrath in his way! He would bide his time—for now.

***

Macrath saw the writing on the wall. He’d heard that Bonny Prince Charlie was planning a return to Scotland. As certain as he was that the prince would return, he was just as certain that the prince was not going to win his fight for the crown. Oh, no doubt the Jacobites would give it a good try, but ultimately they would fail. They needed the support of the French. But the French couldn’t be trusted to keep their promises—he never trusted the damned French.

Some fools would gamble everything on the prince, but Macrath was determined to protect all that was his. As the years preceding 1746 wore on, Macrath secretly rode to Edinburgh where he made his feelings known to those who could protect him. If the prince ever made an attempt to return to Scotland to reclaim the crowns of Scotland, Ireland, and England, it would be reported that Macrath was not a Jacobite.

Let his father hang—Macrath McDonnough would not tie himself to a loser! If Mordag wished to fight alongside the other Jacobites, let him. Macrath would not join those forces. If Mordag didn’t get killed in battle, the Crown would see him dead for his treachery. With his own feigned loyalty to the Crown clearly defined in the eyes of his supporters, Macrath sat back and waited.

**************************

Chapter 22: We Meet Again

Donnach, Scotland – July 1912

When Alexandre arrived at the castle, he was taken to the Laird’s Suite. He had hesitated to move into that particular suite of rooms, but his dear mother had insisted. As Laird, it was his now and should be used by him, he had been told. He didn’t know where his mother got her strength, but he had seen her in a whole new light over the last few weeks. He had always admired her, but now she simply amazed him.

He walked into the suite and the memories flooded him. The sadness became a physical reality in the form of a lump in his throat and tears threatened to fall. Despite the fact that his parents’ personal effects had been removed from the dressers and armoire, his father was everywhere here. He had yet to allow himself to fully grieve the loss of his father. There was so much to be done. Now was not the time, he thought.

He forced himself to put away the sentiments and try, once again, to accept the loss—as difficult as it was, he had to do it. Making an effort to look at the suite dispassionately, it was a tad dreary for his taste, but he could certainly change everything to suit him later.

He smiled as he recognized his mother’s humor. She had left behind what she knew would affect him the most. Well, all the damned gargoyles his father had been so fond of would have to go, he thought, grinning.

Slipping easily into a memory he hadn’t thought of in years, he’d never been comfortable with their sneering little faces hiding there in the dark. He could remember crawling into bed with his parents during a storm. Already frightened by the lightening, its illumination of the little grimacing creatures had frightened him half to death.

He smiled again as he remembered his parents holding onto him in the dark to ease his fears, his mother singing softly to him until his fears subsided and he slipped into sleep. The memory brought him a degree of peace and the lump in his throat lessened its grip ever so slightly.

There stood the custom-made, four-poster bed he remembered from their home in France. In the tall headboard, the dragon, the symbol of Celtic fertility, was carved. Its wings were spread as it breathed its fiery breath and spanned the full ten-feet of the bed’s width. Ironically, only this one son had resulted from their many years of nights in this bed.

His arm was feeling almost normal, so he required no additional treatment. There was still some pain, but as long as he didn’t overuse it, he was alright. He reached for a fresh shirt which a servant had already unpacked for him. Thinking of her, he slammed the armoire door shut. She had snuck out of the hotel without telling him she was leaving.

Obviously, he reasoned, she was off somewhere working on another scam. Then he was hit with sadness. When had he gotten fond of her? When had he started looking forward to seeing her when she came to check on him? Well, she was gone now. Whatever she was up to, it no longer mattered—except, apparently, to him.

Feeling wound up and much too restless to sit still, he took a car, left the castle and headed into the village. He parked and then strolled around town enjoying seeing the people—his people—and their enterprises. There was a sound of joyful singing coming from a little pub as he strolled by. People were eating their noon meal at a little café. Then he spotted the bookstore and decided to go in. He wanted to be around people right now, but he didn’t want to get into any conversations quite yet.

The bell on the door rang as he entered. The clerk was a round-faced lassie with spectacles sitting on a pert, freckled nose. That nose peeked out from under a head of curly, brown hair that shone of red in the light from the window. She looked up and smiled broadly. “Welcome, Sir. May I help you?” She knew this was the new Laird but she didn’t want to embarrass herself or him by making a to-do about it. She all but drooled—he was even more handsome than she remembered.

“Thank you, no. I’d really like to browse. You have a lovely shop here,” he said, as he rubbed his index finger over the row of leather and clothbound books. “Lovely indeed,” he said, more to himself than to the clerk as he found a rare copy of Burns complete with a red leather binding.

He felt her first, smelled the faint fragrance she wore, before he saw or heard her. She turned the corner of the bookshelves where he stood frozen in place.

“Alexandre?”

“Rachel? What are you doing here?” he asked. “More holiday?” he added with mockery in his voice.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked.

“Should I be?” he answered in a mocking tone.

“I know of no reason you might have.” The nerve of the man! He’d had no use for her, now he acts wounded for some reason. “You needed no further treatment. I had served my purpose and decided it was time to continue my journey. Surely you are not angry that I did so? You barely spoke to me for days!”

“Again, I ask—why would I be angry?” he countered.

“Indeed, I do not know why you should! Since you did not need any more help with your arm, there was nothing more between us. I am a free person to do as I please! Why should you be upset with me?” Her temper was now in full bloom.

“Nothing more…” he stopped himself. Perhaps he should retreat, and start again, he thought. He gritted his teeth and countered more calmly, “I was simply disappointed that you didn’t stop by to say goodbye. Of course, you are free to go when and where you choose. I would just have liked to take you to dinner before you left. You were very kind to me.” Get angry with that, woman, he thought to himself. It shouldn’t have surprised him when she did just that!

“Kind to you? You saved my life, Alex! Kind to you? I would have done anything to repay you! There is no way I can ever repay you, but…” lowering her voice which she now realized was bordering on shrill, she continued more calmly, “Every time we were together, we fought—just as we are now, I might add.” Gritting her teeth to maintain some slim degree of control over her temper, she said, “I prefer spending my time with those who are less combative, thank you very much!” She put down the book she had been perusing when he arrived and slammed out the door.

“Damn the woman,” he snarled, and shot out the door after her. She was the most irritating female he had ever had the misfortune to meet. And, damn it, they hadn’t fought every time they were together. No, by God, they had not!

The clerk in the bookstore just stood there with her mouth open. She would have a very interesting story to share with her mother that night.

His stride was one to her two, so it didn’t take him much effort to catch her, even though she had a real head of steam going. “Rachel!” She ignored him. “Damn it Rachel, stop!” he said, as he grabbed her with his bad arm. He sucked in his breath as the pain shot up to his shoulder, and his face flushed as he cursed colorfully.

Hearing the pain in his voice, she stopped and spun around and saw the grimace on his now very pale face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, damn it, I’m fine.”He took a deep breath trying to wait out the pain. “Just put a little too much pressure on the arm,” he winced.

“Well, that’s what you get for trying to strong arm me,” she pouted and turned to walk away.

“Strong…” Damn it all, he thought as she strode away. “Rachel, please!” he called after her. He saw her stop, then turn to face toward him. “Please, Rachel. Let me take you to dinner, and let’s try to spend a few moments in each other’s company without snarling at each other.”

“Why?” she said, crossing her arms in front of her she shot out a shapely hip.

He recognized the now-familiar challenge. He’d seen it when she threatened him with a big needle in the hospital and a couple of times when he had snarled at her about soup vs. steak while he was recuperating.

“Why?” he asked, trying his damnedest not to smile. When she simply stood there waiting, he took his life in his own hands and gave her the only reasons he was willing to admit. He cleared his dry throat and dove in.

“Well…I enjoy our conversations—when we’re not yelling at each other that is,” he was grinning at her now. “I think you are uncommonly beautiful!” He thought the fire in her eyes might have tamped down just a wee bit with that one. “I enjoy having you around…” Uh oh, he realized he was losing ground when he saw the expression on her face, and he shut up immediately.

“Well, aren’t you full of yourself,” she huffed. When he continued to just stand there grinning at her, she sighed deeply. “Alright, then. Dinner it is. I am at Fergus House. You may pick me up at seven.” She turned on her heel and just left him standing there in the street.

He watched her walk away and, feeling just a little perverse, he shouted after her, “Would six-thirty be alright?”

“Seven or not at all, Alex,” she shouted without turning back to him and kept walking away.

He realized as he watched her storming away from him, that she was even more beautiful when her color was up and she was ripping into him. Grinning to himself, he turned and walked back to his car. She had called him Alex!

***

If he was going to show up at all, he would be here any minute. She had just finally decided which of her new outfits she should wear to dinner with an overbearing beast of a man. Her bed was strewn with her discards. She couldn’t imagine why she had agreed to this. Fastening the last button on the silk blouse, she heard him knock on her door.

He was almost struck dumb when she answered the door. The deep, rich blue silk she wore turned her already beautiful complexion to peaches and cream. Her hair was curled high on top of her head, her mouth—that gorgeous mouth—was in a pout. He thought angels must look like this.

She stood there looking at him. He was in full Scottish garb. The kilt, the sporran made, she thought, of horse hair; the stockings and black leather ghillie brogues, the black dirk at his side, the raven black hair streaming behind him under the feathered tam—the whole Scottish garb. He was the most stunning sight she had ever seen.

He just stood there staring at her.

She came to her senses first. “Well? Are you going to say anything?” she asked.

Instead, he just lifted her chin with his finger and lowered his mouth to hers. He heard the little sound she made as he took the kiss deeper and then pulled himself back and away from her. Once he saw her relax, he released her and stood before her smiling. “I think that says it all. Are you ready to go?”

She could not focus her mind on what he was saying. Thankfully he didn’t wait for an answer but grabbed her handbag from the table next to the door, turned her around, and escorted her out of her room.

With a quick glimpse of her room, he gently led her out. Alexandre wondered at the heap of clothes on the bed. He hoped the inn had good maid service.

“Where are we going?” she was finally able to ask.

“I have a very exclusive place in mind,” he helped her into the big black car waiting out front and then walked around to the other door and got in himself. The driver did not need any instructions. He just drove off without a word. She assumed he had been given the destination before Alexandre picked her up.

Moments later they were driving at a leisurely pace into the countryside in the open car, and then they came to a clearing along the loch. That’s where she got her first sight of it—the castle—Castle Donnach. Her castle! She was awestruck. It was beautiful!

With delight, he heard her gasp of appreciation when she first laid those beautiful gray eyes on the castle. It stood at the far end of the long, narrow, stone bridge they were now crossing, along the edge of the loch.

Blair noted how the gray stone of her walls caught the reflection of colors from the setting sun and how she glowed. Yes, Blair thought, the castle was a she—standing there beautiful, haughty, and proud surrounded by the green of the trees of the forest behind her and the deep blue of the water on three sides.

Behind the castle was a high hill covered by dark, thick forest. She thought there must be beautiful views from the high walkway and from the narrow turret windows—or from somewhere high on that hill. Perhaps that is where the cliff is, she thought. Yes, it had to be the site of Caena and Sòlas’s cliff.

It was everything she had ever imagined. Soon, very soon, this would be her home. But why was he bringing her here? She remained confused. He remained quiet, until she could stand it no longer. “Alex, what are we doing here? Isn’t this Castle Donnach?”

“Yes, it is. This is my home now,” he said, as the car stopped in line with the front door.

It was the most enormous door she had ever seen. It must weigh a ton, she thought. “What? Your home?”

“Aye,” he loved the bewildered look on her face.

“But, Alex…”

He was starting to like the way she called him Alex when she was unnerved. Once she caught up with her nerves, he knew he would be Alexandre again. He wondered how long he could keep her using the short form. “Not now, lassie,” he interrupted her. “We’ll talk during dinner,” he said, as he held out his hand to hers and guided her into the huge foyer.

The stone walls in the castle were nearly the same shade of gray as her eyes, he noticed. He watched as she just took it all in. The very size of the place could be intimidating, and then there were the suits of armor, the heavy beams, and the iron chandeliers.

“Oh, Alex, it’s wonderful! It reminds me of the restaurant in the hotel. I thought it was the loveliest place I’d ever seen,” she said, as she turned in circles to observe everything. “I was wrong. This is.”

“Well, actually I believe the restaurant was decorated to resemble the old castles,” he responded, smiling at her with those deep blue eyes. “The hotel building was from about the same era, so it suits.” He turned, looking at it from her point of view—that of someone who had never been here before. “I do have some changes in mind, but they are very superficial,” he commented. “My father and grandfather accomplished most of the modernization.”

He noticed that she tensed up at the mention of his family. Determined to keep her just ever-so-slightly-rattled—and to avoid all arguments tonight—he took her hand, kissed her palm, and watched as the confusion moved over her face. Then he continued.

“My grandfather added the indoor plumbing and some really lovely baths, complete with claw-footed tubs large enough for two.” He watched her blush. “My father…had electricity brought in a few years ago.”

She heard the slight break in his voice. He was still mourning, as she was. She felt herself soften slightly. The pain of loss was something she understood all too well.

“Come with me, Rachel. I’ll show you more of the castle.” Gripping her hand, he took her on a tour starting with the Great Hall.

It was an enormous room that was certainly appropriately named. It had probably once been used for formal social gatherings of lords and ladies wearing their finest clothes. Perhaps even the royals had spent time here. The fireplace was so huge she could not even fathom what it would be like to have a blaze going in it. It would not be used to burn the usual fireplace logs, she was certain. It would take entire tree sections.

Many rooms later she realized that she still had not seen it all. He took her up, up, up the stone stairs. She thought how difficult it would have been to negotiate these stairs in the long, full skirts worn a century or more before. Just as she thought her legs were going to give out, they stepped into the turret room.

From there he took her out to the walk that circled the castle walls between the turrets. There were ancient stone benches sitting against the low walls that kept one from strolling off of the walk and falling to the rocks below. She immediately thought of Caena and a chill went down her back.

“Are you chilly?” he asked. “Perhaps we should go back inside.” He took her hand in his and guided her back to the top floors and then back down the stairs to the main floor. Finally things looked familiar again.

He led her into the dining room. She was aware that her mouth dropped open and she quickly tried to hide her amazement. The table could easily have seated thirty people. The two side tables that could be used for serving were each at least twenty-feet long. The chandeliers were reflected in the highly polished wood of the tables, and there was again the lovely scent of lemon oil.

The only two places set for this meal were at one end. They were set with the finest bone china, heavy silver table settings, and crystal stemware—all prepared for at least five courses. A bouquet of local flowers had been arranged in a huge tankard of pewter etched with Celtic designs. It was all a lovely mix of the past and present. Candlelight flickered over the settings as he guided her slowly across the huge room.

After pushing her heavy chair toward the table for her, he sat at the table’s end with her at his right. He poured her wine. “I’ve asked the servants to give us as much privacy as possible during our meal. I hope that is alright with you?”

“Yes. Fine” She was still awestruck. “Alex, I don’t understand. How can this be your home? I thought your name was Maigny. The castle belongs to the McDonnough family, does it not?”

“Yes, it does. It’s a really long story—two-hundred years long—and I’m going to tell you as much as I can while we dine. Some of it is sad, some wondrous, some deadly, but I do want to share it with you, Rachel.” He found the truth of that caught him by surprise.

The shock suddenly hit her. How dense could she be? This is the very man she was supposed to avoid! He was the man who they said wanted her dead. She had walked right into the trap. Just as her side of the family had become ‘Delamare’, his had become ‘Maigny’. Before she could bolt, he reached for her hand and held it so gently that she just stayed put.

He saw her nerves, almost panic. It saddened him that he didn’t know why she was using the name Rachel Wallace. He decided he just did not believe that she was the evil, plotting imposter his cousins had told him about. If she was a phony, why were people trying to kill her?

Perhaps if he shared some of his story, she would share some of hers. He was fairly certain that most of what she’d told him so far were lies. Why she had felt she had to lie to him, he didn’t know, but he would damned well find out.

**************************

Chapter 23: Watch Your Back

Scotland – 1746

As Macrath had suspected, the Bonny Prince sneaked into Scotland, gathered what forces he could and, forced to advance without the promised help of the French or retreat to France, he pushed forward. Some might think him overly confident, others would suspect that poor advice had caused his downfall, but either way…the cause was lost.

Mordag died at the final Jacobite battle at Calloden in 1746. The number of dead was staggering. When Mordag didn’t return home with the few stragglers that eluded the English forces, Macrath was certain he was dead. He gave instructions that, if Mordag was found dead on the battlefield, the body should be buried there instead of being taken home for burial at Donnach. This was more than just an effort to reaffirm to the English where his allegiance lay. It was a very purposeful slight to his father who had shown weakness by joining the Jacobite cause and risking the estate.

As expected, Macrath was allowed to hold onto the McDonnough estate as a reward for his loyalty to the Crown. Eleanor and Fergus were spared due to their family connection to Macrath, not due to any direct efforts by Macrath on their behalf. Happy to be spared, they hid well their fury at the slights and treachery from Macrath. In their hearts, they raged!

However, as usual, Macrath’s focus was on Macrath. While all across the country the wives and children of other lairds who had fought on the side of the Jacobites were being mercilessly slaughtered—in their homes, in the fields, in caves where they hid, wherever they were found—Macrath’s family sat safe and sound inside Castle Donnach. Macrath completely overlooked the hatred that was building within the castle walls.

After Calloden, the wearing of the tartan had been banned! The clans had been forcibly disbanded, although the people stubbornly remained loyal to the lairds that took good care of them. It was another thing altogether in Donnach. It would take a great deal of fear and intimidation to keep the villagers from revolting against the laird they hated. Of course, Macrath was also resented for not supporting the Jacobite rebellion.

Fergus, despite his youth, had long been plotting to remove his half-brother and replace him as laird. He had always played Macrath well. He fed his ego, pretended to kowtow to his demands and drunken tempers—pretended to fear him which fed Macrath’s confidence. Macrath should have paid more attention, for Fergus had learned well from his older brother—too well.

The ever-opportunistic William tried to warn his old friend, Macrath, that Fergus might be a danger to him. Apparently Macrath, so certain of his own power, felt Fergus could not be a viable threat at his tender age. If he had believed what William tried to tell him, he certainly would have had Fergus killed. That was a huge mistake on Macrath’s part.

Fergus’s allies spent months at court spreading word, secretively and very, very cautiously, that Macrath had used them in regard to the prince’s efforts. Slowly and without alarm being raised to Macrath, word spread that it was indeed Fergus that had supported the Crown and that they had been used by Macrath.

With the boy still in his teens, supported by allies gained at court and distant but influential family members, Fergus slipped a slow-working poison into Macrath’s whiskey during an evening in front of the fire in the Great Hall. While Macrath was still in the throes of the pain caused by the poison, Fergus dragged the screaming Laird to the castle courtyard.

There, in front of all the villagers they could fit in the castle courtyard, he had Macrath disemboweled. Then, where everyone in the castle could watch, the body was burned. Thus was taught the lesson of what would happen to any who opposed the new Laird, Fergus McDonnough—disbanded clans or not!

**************************

Chapter 24: Alexandre’s Story

Donnach, Scotland – July 1912

“This castle has been the home of the McDonnough clan for well over two-hundred years. In the old days, there were many intrigues. You have probably read enough of our country’s history by now to realize that family ties could be as dangerous as they could be loving and strong. It just depended on the person’s temperament,” he grinned as he spoke.

She noticed the broad smile had brought with it a dimple in his left cheek, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

“Many years ago there were two brothers in love with the same girl, a sweet, young lassie named Caena. One was a young, romantic boy—a poet of sorts—a kind, loving soul from most accounts. The other was a mean-spirited, conniving man who would have killed the other for no less reason that just to watch him squirm.”

From what she had already learned, Blair certainly thought this an apt description. Understanding much more than he realized, Blair sat listening to the story from a different perspective. As the servants continued to refresh their wine, bring in the varying courses, and remove the plates from the previous courses, Alexandre continued with the story.

“Macrath, the mean-spirited cad, somehow won the girl. No doubt through some nefarious means.” Alexandre had been joking but he saw her face flush.

“No doubt,” she agreed quietly.

“Later Sòlas, the fair young poet, left Scotland never to be heard from again. It is said that various family members tried for years to find and kill him and his—thus guaranteeing that neither he nor any of his heirs would come forward to take over the estate once Macrath was dead.” He saw her shiver.

“Mordag, Sòlas’s and Macrath’s father, married a young girl, Eleanor, who bore him another son, Fergus. That son turned out to be Macrath’s downfall. A black-hearted demon was young Fergus.”

“The greedy Fergus McDonnough wanted everything for himself. When he was about sixteen, Fergus waited until the devil—Mahoun, so they called Macrath behind his back—had his back turned and then slipped poison into his whiskey. What they did to him next should not be discussed over dinner,” he said, smiling at her. “Unfortunately, that black-hearted demon was my many-times-over great-grandmother’s son. I am descended from Fergus.”

When Blair sucked in her breathe, he smiled. “Yes, Rachel. We were a bloodthirsty bunch, we McDonnoughs.” Laughing at her expression, he continued with the story. “All of that was long, long ago! We are, I assure you, a much more peace-loving bunch these days.”

Tonight was the first time she could remember him really laughing. It was a deep, rich laugh that lit up his entire face and went all the way to his eyes. And, damn him, it was very appealing.

“Over the years there have been many attempts by some to locate any possible heirs from Sòlas’s line, but none have ever been found. If they exist,” he said, as he watched her face closely, “the estate would be entirely theirs.”

As the last of the plates were taken away, she asked, “And how would you feel about that, Alexandre?” She found herself holding her breath.

Ah, we’re back to the reserved Rachel now, he thought somewhat sadly. “Ah, lassie, that is something I am not likely to ever have to deal with. It has, after all, been two-hundred years.” He sighed, knowing that he would gladly relinquish it all to the rightful heir, and that no such person likely existed…unless…what if she really was a McDonnough? Damn it all, why didn’t she just tell him the truth!

Sitting back in his chair, the story now over, he asked, “Did you enjoy your meal, Rachel?”

“Yes, it was wonderful. Thank you. Thank you for the meal, and the story,” she responded, as she placed her napkin on the table. “I think I should go back to the hotel now, Alexandre. I am very tired.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you back. Let me have someone get the driver and car.” He started to rise from his chair.

“No, really,” she answered, as he pulled out the heavy dining chair for her. “You must be tired too. It has been a long day. Please do not put yourself out. Just ask your driver to take me back to the inn.” She needed to get away from him—to think without him being so near.

“If that’s what you want, Rachel,” he agreed, though he was disappointed. He had looked forward to the ride back with her, but he wasn’t going to push her.

***

During the ride back to the village, she thought through the things he had told her. The stories were much the same as she had learned, and he confirmed that his ancestors had not been of the best character. Did that mean that he disagreed with their methods and was unlikely linked to the attempts on her life?

If he was trying to have her killed, why did he take the cut himself instead of letting her die right there in Edinburgh? She wanted to believe that he was not aware of the plot against her—did not know who she was. She would have to sleep on this and figure out what to do next.

***

While Blair returned to the village, Alexandre paced the walk. The wind was blowing his hair, clearing his head of her, of the scent of her perfume, of the confusion he had felt when she insisted on going back alone.

He’d noticed that her hand shook as she held her wine flute during dinner. Surely she wasn’t afraid of him! Why would she fear him, unless she saw her plans coming apart at the seams?

He didn’t want to believe it, found himself trying to talk himself out of believing it. Needing to work off his frustration, he went to his rooms and changed. Then he went into the field where he worked himself into a sweat with a small sword.

Had it not been for the injury to his arm, he would have used his claymore. It was a bloody heavy weapon and made for great exercise. Even in France he used it to stay in good shape. The thing weighed a ton, he thought. He wished he could have wielded the heavier weapon to rid himself of the frustration of all the days and, yes, the nights he had fought his feelings for her. The sword just wasn’t getting the job done. He knew he would dream of her again tonight.

**************************

Chapter 25: The Village Gets an Earful

Donnach – The Next Day

As she sat in the café having breakfast after a bad night’s sleep, she looked up and there he was—striding down the road at a quick pace. He was all but snarling as he approached the café. Passersby were stepping aside to give him a wide berth. He was dressed in slacks, shirt, tie, and jacket today. No kilt. She thought it was too bad. He had cut quite a fine figure in his Scottish garb. Maybe, if she kept her face down, he would not see her. No, it was too late.

As he passed the café, he spotted her sitting inside. She smiled, and he caught himself going in the door. Swallowing the anger—at what, he didn’t know—he approached her table.

“Rachel! Good morning.” What was he doing? He was an adult who ran a huge corporation and yet he had lost all control when it came to her.

“Alex, please join me,” she offered. Why, oh why, did she say that?

“I’m on my way to the depot. I have business in Edinburgh this afternoon, but I can spare a few minutes.” He sat across from her, trying to remain distant. His temper was on a very fine edge after his workout followed by a sleepless night. He was also angry with himself for being here.

He had been restless even as he rose from his pillow. Deciding that he needed to do something, he had chosen to go to Edinburgh personally rather than telephone his investigator. Now, here he was surrounded by the soft, faint scent of Blair…ah…Rachel. The frustration simply overwhelmed him.

“Well, I hope you have a good trip,” regretting that she had invited him to sit. “You seem a little grim this morning, Alex. Is everything alright?”

“Is everything alright? No, I don’t think it is…Blair.” He’d finally done it. He had just blurted it out and let her know he was onto her scheming. He sat back and watched her as she realized he had used her other name.

“What?” she stammered.

“Which is it—Rachel Wallace? Blair Delamare? And why the lies? Just what is it you are after?” He was wound up now and ready to unload, whether it was wise or not.

The other patrons had all stopped eating to listen—discretely, of course. This, after all, was their new Laird, and they all took great interest in his affairs. They’d only read reports in newspapers until now. Most had not believed the outrageous stories. But now they could see him for themselves.

“Just what little scam are you trying to run here? Did you hope to pass yourself off as a McDonnough? Whatever it was that you and the old man were up to, it’s over now! I’m on to you.”

The tears flooded her eyes as soon as he mentioned Roddy. “You black-hearted beast, you!” she yelled back at him. “How dare you? Oh, I do not know why I put up with this as long as I have.”

She rose from her chair, threw down her napkin as if challenging him to a duel. “You are so wrong about me—about poor Uncle Roddy. He was the dearest, kindest man who ever lived. He did not have a dishonest bone in his entire body. He was murdered by someone who is now trying to kill me! Is that your doing, Alex? If the money is all you are worried about…”

In his fury, he interrupted her in French, “Je me fiche pas mal de l’argent! I don’t give a damn about the money!”

“Maybe oui—maybe no! Using another name was supposed to keep me safe, but that has not worked so very well either. Are you so hateful that you have to murder women and old men to keep your pockets full of money? Are you more like Macrath and Fergus than you claim?”

He sat there with his mouth open, waiting for his blood to come back into his head. The other patrons had gone absolutely silent as they watched their new Laird, to see what wrath he would throw at her. When he burst into laughter, they were uncertain whether to stay put or run for cover.

“Oh, you…” she could not think of a name bad enough to call him, so she just shut up, stomped her foot, and tried to run out of the café.

He grabbed her arm to stop her, and when she jerked it away from him, he almost whispered. The laughter gone from his face, “You thought I needed the money? Please, Blair…it is Blair, isn’t it?”

“Oui,” was all she could say without bursting into tears—and she knew she was close—so she let it go at that one word.

“Please, Blair. Forgive me. I’ve made a real mess of this. My logic just shatters when I’m near you. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk quietly and clear up all of this. I think we have a great many things to talk about.” He saw the pain on her face, he felt like the monster she thought him to be for putting it there. “Please? I promise to behave.”

Damn his black-hearted soul, she thought. Why does he have to look so handsome standing there with his apology on his face? “Alright,” she agreed, as she tilted up her chin.

He pulled her out the door. “Alex, where are we going?”

“We’re going to take a train ride together,” he said, pulling her along.

“To Edinburgh?” She was now running to keep up with him.

“Yes, mon chéri, to Edinburgh.”

Inside the restaurant, the patrons were all abuzz. If he was as experienced with woman as his reputation said he was, surely he could have handled this tiny blonde better. It seemed to most of the onlookers that their Laird was unused to females and the tears that even they had seen in the girl’s eyes.

It would be interesting to see how things turned out between these two. The villagers hadn’t seen this much excitement in years. The new Laird was providing a great deal of entertainment!

***

In a private compartment, Alexandre started from the beginning. “Right after my father’s death, a distant cousin approached me with information about someone trying to pass herself off as a direct descendant of Caena and Sòlas.”

“Me.” She said, so quietly he could barely hear her.

“Oui. While they had yet to locate her…you…they felt they were getting very close. They asked me to be careful with anyone who approached me claiming to be an heir.”

“My father died in March,” he said, as the sadness swamped him once again.

“Just before…Roddy,” she said, quietly.

“Oui.” He reached for her hand and held it while he continued. “They came back to me to tell me they had found you and a man claiming to be your uncle, living in Paris. By the time I was able to get away and I arrived in Paris, your uncle had died and was being buried.” He watched her eyes fill with tears again and squeezed her hand.

“I went to his funeral to get a look at this vixen who was trying to pawn herself off as an heir.” When her hand jerked in his, he just held on, and smiled at her.

“I’m so sorry this is upsetting you, Blair,” he found himself desperate to soothe her.

“Go on. I need to hear it all,” she urged him.

“While I quite liked the look of you,” he said, again squeezing her hand, “I knew I had to be very careful. Fortune hunters can cause no end of legal battles and expense, as you can imagine. I was determined to avoid getting involved in such a scam. I hired an investigator in Edinburgh to check into you a few weeks ago.”

“You did what?” The color was rising in her cheeks again.

“Blair, please realize I didn’t know you then. Not like I’m beginning to now. I had to be careful, and I continued to receive warnings from relatives who I thought were looking out for the estate.”

“Of course, you had to be careful,” she said, calming slightly but turning her head to look out the window at the rapidly passing countryside. Common sense didn’t keep it from hurting. Why should she care what he thought of her? Of course—she did.

“I was so torn, Blair. I was getting all this information, then I would spend time with you, and you seemed so sincere, so innocent…” he lifted his finger to her cheek when she turned back toward him, “…so dear.” His voice was husky now with the emotion that was sweeping through him. “I didn’t know what to believe.”

When the brief tension in the air cleared, he continued, “Finally, I decided to go to Edinburgh to get the investigator’s report,” he hesitated briefly. “I wanted to put some distance between us. You were driving me just a little mad, I think.” His confusion showed on his face.

She decided to let that last comment go, since she suffered from the same condition and did not wish to reveal it. “Is that where we are going? To find out whether or not I am real?” she asked him with her temper on its very edge.

“No, Blair. I am certain you are real. I just need to find out what he discovered. Someone is trying to kill you. This attack…,” he said, rubbing his arm absently. “It was entirely too close. We’ve got to figure out who is doing this. I believe we both know why. They have to be stopped.”

“Alex, it was not the first time someone tried to kill me,” she confessed quietly.

“Blair, why didn’t you tell…?” Damn, he knew why she didn’t tell him. The woman didn’t know who she could trust! He closed his eyes while he pulled in the fury that had assailed him. Then he opened them again and looked deep into hers.

“Won’t you tell me your story now, Blair? In the old Scottish tradition, trading one oral story for another?” He smiled at her, and he suddenly knew that what she had to say was going to change the rest of his life. And he was surprised to discover that it frightened him.

She told him everything, except about the letters. She recounted Sòlas’s move to Paris and how the passing of the tradition Sòlas had begun, the first attempt on her life, and Angus’s warning. By the time she finished, they had pulled into the Edinburgh station.

**************************

Chapter 26: Just the Facts Please

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 1912

They arrived in Edinburgh in time for Alexandre to surprise her with the noon meal at the hotel where they had stayed when she first arrived there just a few short weeks before. It seemed so long ago. So much had happened. He contacted the investigator and, after their meal, they went to his office.

The investigator was introduced to Blair as an old friend of Alexandre’s from his college days—Bill Campbell.

“Please sit,” he guided them to the two stiff, straight-backed chairs on the other side of his heavy wooden desk. This was an office designed for business with no thought of comfort. Blair noticed that there was a real lack of style, but she supposed the man spent little time actually in his office anyway.

“Mademoiselle Delamare, it is a real pleasure to meet you. I found out so many really nice things about you in Paris. It’s a pleasure to meet the real lady,” he told her with obvious delight.

“I just got back from Paris yesterday,” he said, looking at Alexandre. “While I was there, my inquiries led me to the lawyer who had worked for Mademoiselle Delamare’s uncle. He turned out to be a relative of mine. Distant, but family—a Campbell,” he explained shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well,” Alexandre said, smiling, “I won’t hold that against you.”

“Thanks!” Bill Campbell responded with a quick laugh. He was used to Alexandre’s sense of humor and the old Campbell jokes. The Campbells had been in some rather heated disputes with other clans over their existence. He and Alexandre had moved far beyond all that. God knew there were a lot of folk who thought less than good about the old family name.

“I was quite shocked by what he shared with me.” Turning to Blair, he said, “In fact, I believe it was only the knowledge that someone had been attempting to kill you that led him to confide in me. He recognized that you needed all the help you could get.”

“I remember him,” Blair said. “He brought me my uncle’s legal documents as well as some very old letters, from Caena, Sòlas, and the generations since, proving my link to Caena and Sòlas McDonnough. He was very kind.”

She heard Alexandre gasp. “Letters? You have letters? Do you know how rare such old documents are here?” he asked.

“I did not then, but I do now, yes,” she answered.

“By the way, Mademoiselle,” the investigator continued gravely. “He informed me of the death of Pierre LeGard. My condolences on the loss of your old friend and landlord. It is my understanding that you were very close.”

“What?” Blair asked. “What are you talking about? What has happened?”

Alexandre saw her face drain, and he grabbed her hand and watched her carefully as the investigator continued.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought by now you would have been told! My sincerest apologies, Mademoiselle.” Looking at Alexandre, he said, “I feel terrible breaking this to her this way.” Then he looked back at Blair. “Your landlord was murdered by someone who broke into your apartment shortly after you left Paris. Whoever it was completely destroyed everything in your apartment and killed Mssr. LeGard. I am sure this is what convinced my relative that you were in dire danger.”

As she gasped, Alexandre held onto her tightly, until he felt the shock ebb. “Oh, Alex! Who would do such a terrible thing? He was eighty-six years old. He could not have harmed them.”

“I know, Chéri. I am so sorry!” He looked back at the investigator, “Campbell, I want these devils stopped. Stopped now!”

“Alexandre, I don’t know how much she has already told you, but, in my mind, I believe that she may well be the actual McDonnough heir.”

“I’m sure she is, Campbell. Now tell me everything you were able to find out about the men that are trying to kill her.”

Alexandre had a look of determination that told Campbell that those men were in deeper trouble than they could possibly imagine. He’d known the man for many years. This was a very dangerous man to anyone who threatened those he cared about. And he could see from the looks that passed between his friend and the tiny blonde that he cared about her—perhaps more than he knew.

***

Their next stop was the office of Angus Ferguson. Once again, Mr. Ferguson was delighted to see Blair. However, when he found out that her companion was the Earl, Lord McDonnough, Blair thought the poor man might faint.

“Please, Mssr. Ferguson, sit down. This time it is you who needs to put his head down for a moment, oui?” She gently patted the dear man on the shoulder.

“Aye. I’m afraid you gave me quite a shock, Blair. How much have you told…Lord McDonnough?” He was almost afraid to hear her answer.

“Alexandre knows everything, Angus.” Seeing the shock on his face, she interrupted before he could say anything. “Angus, please hear me out. Lord McDonnough saved my life. Whoever has been tracking me tried to kill me here in Edinburgh before I went to Donnach.”

Again she saw he was going to interrupt, but she stopped him. “Lord McDonnough was badly injured in the attempt. Indeed, if his injuries had been any worse he may well have died. Surely you do not think men hired by the Earl would cause him harm of that kind in their efforts to do his bidding? Or that he would permit it to happen?”

Angus mulled this over for a moment and looked at Alexandre. He decided he liked what he saw. The man was standing there under suspicion of the most despicable acts, and yet he let her take the lead, and did nothing to defend himself, just held her hand waiting quietly for Angus to accept him or throw him out. Yes, he liked this man.

“Lord McDonnough…” Angus began.

“Please, call me Alexandre.” Alexandre leaned over the desk and, relinquishing his hold on Blair’s hand, held out his arm to shake the lawyer’s hand.

“I’m relieved to see that Blair has someone other than me looking out for her interests. It would seem that I’ve done a rather poor job of it myself.” Turning to look in Blair’s direction, Angus said, “I’ve been so very worried about her.”

“She told me that she was staying in Edinburgh for a couple of weeks to help an injured friend, but she had not told me that it was Lord McDonnough!”

“She did not know at the time,” Alexandre explained.

Looking back at Alexandre, Angus offered, “Yes, well, please call me Angus. Now I believe we must try to find out who these men are and how much they know. Don’t you?” he asked.

“Actually, Angus, I think I may know who is behind this. If I am correct, they will pay, and pay dearly,” Alexandre replied. There was a set to his jaw that told Angus that this was not a man to be crossed.

“How would you like to proceed, Alexandre?” Angus asked, as he straightened out in his chair and pulled himself together at last.

“First, I think that Blair and I should stay here in Edinburgh for a few days. It’s easier for us to fade into the background in a large city than it is in the village. I want to discuss this with Blair, and once we have a plan laid out we’ll be back in touch. Please do not tell anyone we are here.”

“Of course,” Angus agreed.

“In the meanwhile, Blair, if you don’t mind, I would really like to read the letters,” Alexandre saw the concern on her face. He walked to her, took her hand in his, “Blair, we have to start trusting each other. I want to help, if you’ll permit me.”

“But, if you believe me, why do you want to see the letters?” She desperately wanted to trust him.

“I want to know the other side of the story in full—Sòlas’s side. I want to touch the actual documents. Chéri, this is our history! Do you realize how rare such documents are? We Scots have so few written historical records from those times. To just hold them would be such an honor. These letters are my history too, don’t you see?” He waited for her to show his trust returned.

“Yes, I do. We still have time to go by the bank before it closes. Let us go, shall we?” She smiled at him and felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Once inside the bank vault, Blair opened the box and inside it was the enameled box that held the letters—the same box in which she had received them. She and Alexandre sat next to each other at the wooden table provided, and one by one Alexandre gently unfolded and read the messages from the past—their past.

When he read the last, the one from her uncle, Roddy, he sighed deeply and placed the documents back into their container. “Ah, Chéri, when I said we McDonnoughs were a bloodthirsty lot, I believed that to be in our distant past. Little did I realize—we still are.”

He looked into her eyes, “I am so very sorry for everything you and yours have gone through. If I could change it…” sighing again, he continued as he looked down at the letters “…but nothing I say or do can make up for all these years.”

Blair reached over and laid her hand on his. “Alex, I believe you had no part in this. You may have the McDonnough temper,” she grinned at him, “but I do not believe you have it in you to kill.”

“I wish I were as certain of that as you, Chéri. If they were to harm you…let’s get out of here.” He rose from his chair and waited for her to place the container back into the box and turn the key.

***

He got a suite in another of the finer hotels under an assumed name in an attempt to prevent them from being found, at least for now. They needed time to think, to talk. Alexandre realized he wanted time alone with her—needed time alone with her.

When they went to the suite, Blair noticed that there were two bedrooms separated by a large, luxurious parlor. She did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved—perhaps a little of both.

As they closed the door and moved to the center of the parlor, he saw her confusion. He could sense her nerves and understood immediately.

“Blair.” He waited for her to turn toward him. “Did you think that I would be careless with your feelings? That I would take for granted that you would let me make love to you?”

She felt the color rise to her cheeks. “No, Alex. No, I…” how could she tell him? She had never…”Alex, I don’t know how to handle this. I’ve never…” she looked up at him as he moved closer to her and tilted her head upward with his finger under her chin. “It is not that I do not wish to…I do…oh, Alex, I do…”.

“Mon chér,” he whispered to her. He understood and knew he would need to go slowly. “Me tenir le plus. Let me hold you.” He held her hand and walked with her to his room. Then he kissed her and when he felt her shudder, he lowered her to the bed and lay down beside her, stroking her arms and replacing his hands with his lips.

“Viens faire l’amour, mon chéri. Let’s make love, my dearest” he whispered in her ear. He never knew he had that much gentleness in him. He took his time and brought them both more pleasure than they had ever known.

***

Later, after they had dinner in their suite, he made love to her again, and again. When he thought about it later, he marveled that he hadn’t frightened her to death. They had ordered dinner in their rooms. Before they had eaten their salads, he had grabbed her and kissed her. Her response had driven him beyond his control, and he had picked her up in his arms and taken her back to his bed. And, God, he had taken her. Now as she lay in his arms, he wondered why she hadn’t beaten him away.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked her quietly.

“Oh, Alex, no! You did not hurt me. It was wonderful. You were wonderful,” she said, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. Giggling, she added, “We were wonderful together.” She would always remember the endearments he had whispered to her in French while he had made love to her. “I did not disappoint you?” She was afraid of his answer.

How could he possibly make her understand? “Blair, you could never disappoint me.” He kissed her, and the seduction began again.

They spent a glorious night together during which Alexandre came to a frightening conclusion. He had fallen in love with her. Not here in his bed, but it had been a slow tumble from the moment he first laid eyes on her. Now, he would just have to deserve her. After all she had been through, he wasn’t certain he ever could.

**************************

Chapter 27: Ah, Family

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 1912

The next morning, he had let her sleep. He sat at the breakfast table that had been brought up with room service. As he downed more hot coffee, he kept mulling over what he’d heard from the investigator, and then from Angus.

A man doesn’t want to admit that his own relatives could be bloodthirsty heathens out to harm an innocent, young woman. Nor did he want to admit that they could be capable of killing a kind man like her uncle or an old man like Pierre LeGard. But some things could not be avoided.

He was certain he knew who was at the heart of this. Aiden and Hugh, his distant but greedy cousins, had lusted for the wealth and status the estate brought with it, since they were small children. His father’s cousin, Iseabail, had always been greedy—for gossip, for money, for power—her children were even greedier. But murder?

Now greed was one thing. He could almost understand a person within reach of such a large fortune becoming greedy, feeling a degree of jealousy. They were human, after all. Quite frankly, if they had asked Alexandre, he would gladly have shared his own good fortune with them. But, no—the brothers and their mother had been too dishonest to ask. He could have provided them with positions that would have, through their own hard work, provided them a wealthy lifestyle. But they were more interested in the scheming, the taking. That was something he would never understand—or forgive.

They had gone too far! They had endangered Blair—murdered the man who had raised her, loved her. They had tried to have her killed right there in Edinburgh—murdered an innocent old man. And for what? Money! Power! As much as family meant to him, these three had to be stopped. Family ties or no, he thought, Blair was wrong—I would kill them with my bare hands to protect her.

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt her arms come around his shoulders as she leaned down behind him. Releasing the tension that had built up in his shoulders, he set down his cup and swung her around to sit on his lap. “Good morning, lass. Did you sleep well?”

“Should not the question be, did I sleep?” she giggled.

He loved that sound. It was the giggle of an innocent school girl. He hoped to hear a lot more of it. But, to do so, he would first have to keep her safe. Nibbling on her ear, he whispered, “I have to go out on business for awhile. Can I trust you to stay here where it is safe and not go out?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, as she pulled back and looked up at his face. Beneath the smile, there was a feeling of tenseness about him. “Alex, what is bothering you?”

“Not now, Blair. I’ll tell you about it when I get it all worked out in my head. For now, please just humor me and stay here where you’re safe?”

“Alright,” she agreed. She had to admit that it was a relief to be able to just stay put without having to worry about the next possible attack.

Alexandre lifted her off of his lap, kissed her gently, and then he returned to the bedroom to dress. A short while later he left to track down his cousins who were now in dire danger of being on the receiving end of his full wrath.

Three hours later, unable to get any leads, he decided to go back to the hotel. He supposed he would be wiser to let Bill Campbell do the investigating. He would concentrate on keeping Blair safe.

***

In Alexandre’s absence, Blair sat down to finally write to her friends in Paris. She had missed them all so much. She knew by now they would all be very worried about her. She briefly explained what had happened, and that she was alright.

Blair carefully answered the knock at the door and found a bellman holding out an envelope with her name on it. After closing the door, she opened the envelope, pulled out the note, and read the tiny, scrawling handwriting.

Blair,

My meeting will be over by noon. Please meet me at the Fox & Hound for lunch. I’ll wait for you there.

Alexandre

Blair did not remember ever seeing his handwriting. She had to admit it was not exactly what she’d expected from such a powerful personality. She just thought a strong man like Alex would have a strong, bold hand with big, sweeping letters. This was…different somehow—surprisingly hard-to-read lettering. Well, that didn’t matter. She pushed her thoughts aside. She would have to hurry to get there on time.

***

He had hoped to get back to the hotel in time to take her to lunch, but, as he walked toward the entrance, he saw two men pushing her into a car. He recognized his two cousins. Running for the car, he missed them by inches. Hailing a taxi in front of the hotel, he followed them to the warehouse district near the pier. The cab pulled up behind the car, and he saw them up ahead dragging her away. The third man in the car sped away.

“Go get the police and get them back here fast. They are going to kill her if I don’t stop them,” Alexandre yelled to the cabbie as he slammed the taxi door and ran after them.

“Aye, I’ll get them, Sir” the cabbie hollered to Alexandre who was already turning the corner after the two men and the girl.

Alexandre heard the taxi speed away behind him, and he just kept running. He had to catch them. If anything happened to her…

Finally, he lunged and brought the three of them down, including Blair. As he struggled with the two men, Blair got to her feet. She started beating Hugh with her handbag. Alexandre finally got in a good blow at Aiden. Then he struck Hugh so hard he heard the man’s nose break and felt the concussion up his good arm. He managed to get Blair out of Aiden’s grip while Hugh was still picking himself up. Alexandre recognized that he was at a disadvantage with his right arm still not back at full strength. He grabbed Blair’s hand and they ran.

Alexandre held her hand so tightly she felt pain up to her elbow, but she knew she had to hang on. He was desperately trying to get them to safety. He heard her heavy breathing and realized she wouldn’t be able to run much further. He had to get her to safety soon. “Just a little further, Blair.”

They ran into the warehouse at the end of the street, trying to find a hiding place. Once inside, they realized too late that there was nowhere to go. The huge gaping warehouse was all but empty. Spinning around, they saw the two brothers come running in the door and then close it behind them.

“I think it’s time our little Lady McDonnough gets lost for good, don’t you, Brother?” Aiden said to Hugh.

“Aye, Bruddah, I do,” Hugh said, holding his handkerchief to staunch the blood spilling from his broken nose.

“Blair, quick! Get behind me,” Alexandre called to her, but before she could move Aiden grabbed Alexandre by the shirt and tried to spin him around. But the heavy hammer Hugh had just picked up from the floor swung down in an arch hitting Alexandre’s right shoulder. Alexandre’s world started to go white as the hammer traveled on to slam into the side of Aiden’s head.

As Alexandre fought the pain and nausea that slammed into him with the hammer’s blow, he managed to keep from passing out. All his practice with the claymore and his swords was going to come in handy, he thought. The pain shot through him as he grabbed the hammer with his bad arm and hung on for dear life, as he knocked out Hugh with a solid slam to the solar plexus and a solid uppercut to his chin. In the process, the hammer’s handle had struck Blair in the head.

As he slumped to the floor, he knew he had stopped the attack. He saw Hugh unconscious and Aiden lying next to him—dead, on the floor, his skull broken. Quietly, as everything went black, he joined them.

Alexandre awoke to find Blair too had lost consciousness. Kneeling down beside her, he begged her to be alright. He could not bear to see her harmed.

The police and the ambulance arrived at about the same time. Alexandre had heard the sirens and, struggling to his feet, he managed to open the warehouse door so they could find them. Then he promptly fell to his knees in pain.

His cousins were removed from the scene—Hugh was carted off to jail; Aiden to the morgue.

Blair was gathered up gently onto a stretcher, and Alexandre, who had told the police what had happened, was allowed to ride in the ambulance with her. The steely look he gave the doctor told the man he had best not try to stop him.

Later that evening he was still with her when she opened her eyes. “Blair, can you hear me?”

“Oui, Chéri. Where am I?” she asked so quietly that his heart clutched in panic.

“You are in the hospital, Blair.” He dared to ask, “Are you alright? Are you in any pain?”

“My head hurts and my mouth is dry. Is there any water?” she asked weakly.

“Yes, here let me help you,” he said, as he gently lifted her forward to drink. He held the glass in his aching arm and refused to give in to the pain it cost him.

“What…what happened?”

“My damned cousins tried to split your skull with a very big hammer. Fortunately, your head only got the handle. My arm got the peen…just before Aiden’s skull caught the brunt of it,” he explained.

As she focused on him, she lurched forward, grabbing her head when the pain made her head swim. “My God, Alex, your arm again? Are you alright?”

Finding the humor in a bad situation, Alex laughed, “Yes, I do seem to have a target on this arm, don’t I? The blow wasn’t really solid,” he tried to reassure her, “but the doctor does seem to be getting a great deal of pleasure out of making me wear this damned sling again. Do you think you will be well soon enough to tend to me again?” He smiled at her, watching for her reaction.

“If you will get my aspirin, I will tend to your arm,” she smiled back.

“That sounds good to me,” he smiled at her. “Blair, did you see the driver of the car? He got away.”

She rubbed her aching head, and then the memory shot back to her, “Yes. I did see him. I knew him! Oh, Alex, it was Mssr. Taog from Angus’s office!”

It made sense. No matter where she went, they were right there behind her. Taog had been reporting to them as she contacted Angus—but why? “Cheri, I have to leave for an hour or so, but I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said, as he raised her hand and kissed the palm of her hand. She was so pale and obviously in pain. He saw her close her eyes and drift off immediately. Another few hours of rest would do her good, and Alex had things to tend to.

Outside the hospital, he hailed a cabbie and during the drive he tried to get a grip on what had happened. What was Taog’s link to Aiden and Hugh? When they arrived at the police station, he jumped out of the taxi, jarring his arm against the door and receiving a sharp reminder of his injuries. Gritting his teeth and waiting for the pain to settle—it wasn’t going to go away, he knew—he strode into the building. Passersby were only glad the man with the clenched jaw who looked fit to kill was not headed for them!

From his jacket pocket he pulled out the card the police inspector had left in his hospital room. He slammed it down on the front desk. “Is this man here?” he growled at the poor policeman manning the desk.

Looking down at the card, the policeman responded. “Yes, Sir. He’s in his office. And you are?”

“Tell him Lord McDonnough is here, and I want to see him now!” Besides the pain in his arm, he was a man on a grim mission and his mood was as black as his hair.

“Yes, Sir. Just a moment. Please, Lord McDonnough, have a seat. It won’t be long, I assure you.” He’d heard the story of the arrest the day before and was amazed the man was in any condition to be storming into their office so soon. As he quickly picked up the telephone to let the inspector know that Lord McDonnough was waiting for him, he took a deep breath and thanked God the man wasn’t here to see him. From the looks of the man, he was fit to kill.

Within just moments of the desk sergeant’s call, Inspector Innis came through the doorway and immediately strode toward Alexandre. "Lord McDonnough, it’s good to see you up and about. Should you have left the hospital so soon?” He offered his hand in greeting, but Alexandre was in no mood for formalities. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

Finally getting a grip on his anger, Alexandre’s manners kicked in by the time they reached the inspector’s tiny office. Seated across from the man whose upper lip was starting to sweat, Alexandre took a deep breath to further calm himself. “My apologies for my poor manners, Inspector. The last few days have, I fear, undermined all my dear mother has ever taught me.”

Relaxing a little, the inspector responded, “Lord McDonnough, you have been through a bad couple of days and are undoubtedly still in a great deal of pain. You owe no apologies, I assure you. Now, how may I help you?”

“My cousins,” he snarled, “may have had their own devious reasons for their recent behavior, but Mademoiselle Delamare has identified to me the driver of the car that took her to the warehouse district. It was a Mssr. Taog—an employee of Mademoiselle Delamare’s attorney, Angus Ferguson.”

“Ah hah,” the inspector responded, as he pushed back in his chair, lifted his hand to his chin to stroke his thumb and index finger across his jaw line while he thought this through. “And you are undoubtedly wondering how these three men are linked.” Sitting forward again, he continued, “So am I, Lord McDonnough. So am I.”

Again, he pushed back in his chair in thought. “Of course, we will need to talk to Miss Delamare.”

“She is in pain and will undoubtedly sleep for another few hours. I would prefer that she not be disturbed until she has had time to rest,” Alexandre insisted.

“Aye, that is best, I’m certain. But we will start looking for Mr. Taog right away. I’ll go to see Mr. Ferguson immediately to see what we can find out about Mr. Taog.”

“I understand your need to talk to Mssr. Ferguson,” Alexandre said, “but I would ask that you permit me to tell him of Taog’s involvement in this matter. He is a very special friend of Mademoiselle Delamare’s and mine. He has worked with Taog for many years and the news of his involvement will come as a huge shock to him.”

The Inspector was hesitant at first. Thinking about the pros and cons, he made a quick decision. “Lord McDonnough, I understand your wish to share this information with Mr. Ferguson. However there is a matter of obtaining information about Taog from him. We do not know whether or not Mr. Ferguson may have had some…involvement…”

Alexandre interrupted him, “Inspector, Mssr. Ferguson has worked for the Delamare family for over thirty years and was a very dear and trusted friend of Mademoiselle Delamare’s uncle. I assure you, Mssr. Ferguson will be devastated to hear that his judgment of Taog has been so faulty. I really must insist that you permit me to break this news to him.”

Inspector Innis had had to deal with the aristocracy in such matters for years. He knew the possible ramifications to his career if he crossed the wrong person at the wrong time. Working in the capitol city, it had been ingrained in him since his days on foot patrol. Standing, he faced Alexandre and held out his hand, “Agreed, Lord McDonnough. I will accompany you so that, once you have broken this news to Mr. Ferguson, I can get some background information from him.”

Standing and shaking the inspector’s hand, Alexandre agreed and they immediately left for Angus’s office.

On the way to Angus’s office, Alexandre thought about Angus and how difficult it was going to be for the kind, gentle man to find out he had been betrayed in such a cold-blooded manner. He would explain everything to Angus, and then Angus would give the police the information they needed to track down Taog. He couldn’t hide for long and, if the police didn’t find him, Alexandre, with Bill Campbell’s assistance, surely would.

**************************

Chapter 28: Snake in the Grass

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 1912

When they arrived at Angus’s office, as they had expected, there was no sign of Taog. When Alexandre entered, Angus was standing at the man’s desk in the outer office with a confused expression on his face. When he looked up and saw Alexandre, he put down the file he held, smiled broadly, and reached out to greet him.

“My boy! It’s good to see you. How is our girl?” Then taking in the fact that Alexandre’s arm was in a sling, he asked, “What has happened, laddie?”

“Angus, there has been another attempt on Blair’s life,” Alexandre started to explain. Seeing the shock on the older man’s face, he quickly added, “She will be fine as soon as the headache goes away, Angus.” Alexandre braced himself for a difficult conversation.

“Something’s bothering you! Something more than this latest attack, I fear. Come into my office, lad. Let’s have a drink of fine Scotch whiskey and talk it out. What say you?”

“Yes, Angus. Let’s do that.” Alexandre responded, as they moved into the lawyer’s office. “Where’s Taog this morning?”

“Damned if I know, lad. He hasn’t been in the office since before lunch the day before last. He’s always been as reliable as could be. I’ve been to his apartment, but no one has seen him. I’m getting quite worried about the man. This is not like Taog! I’m afraid something may have happened to him.”

Indeed, something might yet, Alexandre thought to himself. “I have some bad news, Angus.”

Angus’s hand shook as he handed the whiskey glass to Alexandre. “God, lad! Not our lassie!”

“No. No, Angus, not Blair. I promise you, she will recover from this latest attack.” As he watched the poor man’s face relax, he continued. “No, I’m afraid it’s Taog, Angus.”

“Taog? Something has happened to him, hasn’t it?”

“No, but something soon will, I assure you,” Alexandre said, with a determination that had the hair on the back of Angus’s neck standing up.

“What are you talking about, lad?”

“Blair identified Taog as the driver of the car in which she was abducted, Angus. He’s been feeding my dear cousins information he learned here. He has to have been going through your files, messages, correspondence, and then going straight to my dear cousins, Aiden and Hugh Owen. Damned their black souls! The two of them have been behind the attacks on Blair.” Alexandre had been pacing the whole time he laid this out for Angus.

“And I trusted him,” Angus said, dejectedly. “I was such a fool. I’ll never forgive myself for putting her in danger. And, oh, laddie…poor Roddy! He was the dearest friend I’ve ever had or ever will have,” he said, as tears welled up and blurred his vision and a lump gathered in his throat.

Alexandre felt bad for the man. He had done everything he could to protect Blair, and his own faith in others had put her in their path. “Angus, you must know that this is not your fault. Not any of it! Taog and my cousins were determined to take Blair’s life to ensure they got their hands on the estate. That means that I would have been next on their list.”

“Angus, the police inspector on the case came with me. He needs information about Taog. I’d appreciate it if you would talk to him right away so that they can start the search for Taog and find out why he took part in this.”

“Of course, please bring him in. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Ah, laddie, I would do anything for our lassie, you must know that.”

Alexandre patted the man on his shoulder, “I do know that, Angus. I do.” Turning, he left the room to get the inspector.

***

After another twenty-four hours of observation, Blair was released and the pair returned to the hotel. Once he returned to the hospital, Alexandre had not left her again. He slept in the little chair across from her bed, waking in the morning feeling like he had been put through torture.

They planned to return to Donnach the next day, but Alexandre wanted to see Angus once again. He and Blair had both been very concerned about their friend. He was finally able to talk Blair into staying at the hotel while he went to check on Angus. With her head still pounding, she wasn’t able to deny that it was best for her to stay behind.

When Alexandre arrived, he passed through the outer office where the assistant’s desk still sat empty and moved to the doorway of Angus’s private office. He found the man sitting behind his desk, staring out his window. The sadness of the man permeated the room. “Angus?”

Angus started at the sound of Alexandre’s voice. “Oh, laddie, you startled me. Please come in. Have a seat.”

Alexandre noticed that the smile the man offered didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you alright, Angus?” Alexandre walked over to the cabinet where he’d seen Angus get his whiskey, found two glasses and poured them each three fingers of the golden liquid. Walking over to Angus’s desk, he put one of the glasses down in front of the man. “Here, Angus. Have a little of your fine whiskey. It’ll help.”

“Aye,” he said, softy, picking up the glass and downing the entire three fingers in one gulp. Angus looked up and saw Alexandre looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “You are right laddie. That helped.”

Alexandre took the empty glass and refilled it. “Here, I think another will help even more.” He waited for Angus to talk to him, but when the man just sat there looking sad, he waited no longer.

“Are you alright, Angus?” He downed his own drink and, still standing, set the glass down on Angus’s desk.

“I dinna ken if I will ever be alright again, laddie.” Angus said, so quietly that Alexandre could barely hear him. Sighing deeply, Angus continued. “Roddy was my dearest friend, and I hae, though unwittingly, played a part in his death. But for you, they would hae killed his dear Blair. How could I hae been such a fool, Alexandre?”

Leaning down to look the wretched man squarely in the face, “Angus, this was their decision, their responsibility, and the damage done will lie on their shoulders, not on yours!” Alexandre waited to let what he’d said sink in.

“Aye, you’re right, I suppose. It doesn’t make me feel any better that they almost succeeded in killing her…” looking up at Alexandre, he added, “or you. Then there’s poor Roddy. The man was like my own brother. And our girl needs you. Blair needs you. She’s been so alone since she was just a wee bairn. First her parents, then Roddy.” Angus saw the distance grow in Alexandre’s eyes. He wondered what torture the young man was putting himself through while standing here trying to help him.

“She’ll be fine, Angus. She’ll have the estate and the peace of mind she deserves. I’ll leave it all behind and go back to Bretagne as soon as we can close out these affairs in court.” Angus watched the torment on Alexandre’s face and just sat quietly letting him have his say.

“I have to go, Angus. Our train to Donnach leaves in an hour. My attorneys will be in touch with you soon. Rest assured, Angus, Blair will have everything to which she is entitled. I’ll see to it before I return to France.” Alexandre shook his hand with his own left, due to the sling, and then walked out the door.

“Oh, laddie!” Angus smiled sadly. “You are a wise young man, but you’ve got many surprises coming to you yet. I doubt you’ll be going anywhere—not for long.”

***

Taog was located in Glasgow. While it was unknown why he had sought cover there specifically, it was suspected he may have been attempting to obtain assistance from Alexandre’s cousin, Iseabail. The police had Taog in custody a week after the attack and brought him back to Edinburgh. Angus finally had the opportunity of telling him, in no uncertain terms, just what he thought of his behavior.

Taog had had a friend with him when he was picked up. It was Aiden’s brother-in-law. He was the man with the knife in Edinburgh. After interrogating the pair, Inspector Innis phoned Lord McDonnough with the information he had obtained.

Alexandre took the call in the Laird’s Parlor. As he listened to the story unfold, he realized he had met Aiden’s brother-in-law once at a party given by his cousin. That explained why he had seemed so familiar during the attack.

Taog had gotten involved due to the promise of money and position once the cousins had taken over the estate, which, of course, would have necessitated their killing Alexandre. They had planned for him to have an accident the next time he was in France visiting his mother. Dear God, he thought, they might have killed her as well. There didn’t seem to be any limit to what they were willing to do to get their hands on the estate.

The police had picked up his cousin, Iseabail, and she was being detained until her involvement in all the scheming could be determined. Alexandre had no doubt he would never have to deal with her again, and neither would Blair.

Hugh finally confessed to the killing of Mssr. LeGard and he was immediately turned over to the French police. He was put in a French prison where he would spend the rest of his life.

Aiden was buried in a pauper’s grave in unconsecrated ground. Despite Iseabail’s pleading, Alexandre refused to pay for the man’s funeral. He had gotten all he was going to get from the McDonnoughs.

**************************

Chapter 29: The Castle Holds More Surprises

Donnach, Scotland – July 1912

Now that the legalities were underway and the threat to Blair had been eliminated, Alexandre knew the time was right. There was one last piece of information he had neglected to tell her. He hoped she would understand his reasons. It had had to be done.

Alex asked Blair to come to the castle the next day for lunch. As the car pulled up in front of the castle, she found her nerves tied up in knots. There had been a tension in his manner when he asked her to join him. She was also aware that he had not come to pick her up himself. Something wasn’t right.

What could be worrying him, she wondered? It wasn’t the inheritance. He had assured her time and again that he was glad it would be hers. Why then? Was he still hiding something? She hoped not. They had shared so much with each other; surely he hadn’t still held back anything of great importance. Well, there is no sense sitting here driving myself crazy, she thought, as she reached for her coat and handbag and exited the car. I’ll soon find out.

Alexandre was waiting for her at the door, dressed in European trousers with a pale blue silk shirt opened to the third button. “Blair,” he said, kissing her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

He was so handsome; she found it difficult to speak. As they walked toward the Laird’s Parlor, he stopped, and turning to her he said, “Blair, there was one part of my story that I didn’t tell you.” He saw her tense up ever so slightly. God, he didn’t want to blow this.

“It had nothing to do with my trust in you, Blair. It was just something so important—so personal—that I wanted to wait until we knew each other better. There is someone I would very much like you to meet.” He took her hand in his and led her into the room.

As she glanced around the room, she spotted the woman sitting on a deep-cushioned chair near a reading lamp and table that she thought must be Louis XIV. It should have seemed out of place in this place, but it was just right for the woman sitting near it. She was a slight woman of about sixty years, with black hair laced with just enough silver that it caught the light. Her face—well, it was a very female version of Alex’s face. On him it was strikingly handsome; on this lovely woman it was almost breathtakingly beautiful—she must have been even more breathtaking in her younger years.

“Blair, let me introduce you. Mairi (mah REE) Fiona McDonnough, this is Blair Delamare. Blair, this beautiful creature before you is my mother,” he said, as he bent over to kiss his mother’s cheek while still holding onto Blair’s hand.

“Blair, my dear. Please call me Mairi. I’ve heard so many lovely things about you,” she smiled up at the young woman who had her son quite tied up in knots. Yes, she thought. The resemblance is there, even after all these years and the many generations between. She is Caena’s.

Alexandre had moved to a larger table where the wine and flutes were ready for use. He poured three flutes of the frothy champagne and moved to the ladies with two of them.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Madame…Mairi,” she answered, as Alex handed his mother the first glass of wine. Then he led Blair to a seat near his mother.

“Alexandre, my dear, have you told Blair about your more recent family yet?” she asked.

“No, Mère. I thought I would save some of our history for you to share. After all, it involves you, no?” He had slipped into flowing French without even realizing he was doing so. Blair now recognized that he did so when his deepest emotions were involved.

“Oui,” his mother answered. “That it does. Would you like to hear it now before lunch, or should we dine first?” she asked Blair.

“Oh, tell me now, please, Mairi,” Blair replied enthusiastically.

“Alright, my dear. Let’s see…where shall I begin?”

Blair could all but feel the woman slip into the past. Then the story began.

“Many years ago, I met a handsome young man, not at all unlike this scamp sitting beside you.” She grinned broadly at her son whose face was just ever so slightly showing a degree of embarrassment. “His name was Charles Eduard Maigny. He was bright, accomplished in business, as well as a lover of history and books…as is this one,” she looked again at her son.

“We met in Paris, he was in university. I was on vacation with a dear friend…” She shared their beginnings, their courtship and subsequent marriage. She shared the birth of their son of whom she was then—as now—very proud. Finally, she touched upon being told that, “…the Laird of the McDonnough estate had died of a sudden illness, and that my dear Charles was now to become the Earl of Donnach.”

“Imagine what it was like for a family that had always lived in France to suddenly be uprooted and deposited in a drafty old castle across the sea!” She laughed when she saw the expression on Blair’s face. “It was magnifique!” Her laugh reminded Blair of Alexandre’s. Bold, open, nothing held back.

“Charles loved this country and its people. Like those before him who had lived through the bad times in France, he had used the Maigny name, passed on to him by his parents and theirs. Charles great-great-grandfather had escaped the family machinations in Scotland by going to France. His grandfather, Eduard, had been brought back to Scotland to take over the estates early in the 1870s. He died just a few years later.”

“Charles’s parents had stayed behind in France, aware that someday it would be their duty to take over for Eduard, and someday Charles’s to take over for his father.” She sighed and continued.

“Eduard was simply not very good at running things here. The previous lairds had dealt poorly with their people. They had been selfish and cruel, and he was much hated as the people didn’t trust him. It would take time for them to learn to trust again. The villagers had yet to believe that it would be any different under the new Laird.”

“When Charles’s father, also named Alexandre, finally took over, he instituted as many changes as he could and gradually the trust began to return. The politicians here made it difficult. Change is not something that comes easily to Scotts, my dear,” she smiled at Blair.

“Once it was Charles’s turn to become Earl, we moved here gladly. We were very proud of his heritage and had only the best wishes for his people. We had known it was coming. His father had never been a strong man.”

“Unfortunately for a mother’s heart,” she raised her flute to him, “Alexandre, had decided, and quite firmly I must add, that he would continue his education in France. My family was in shipping and Charles had been running the business since my own dear papa’s death. Once Alexandre was ready, he took over that responsibility for Charles and freed us to take care of our responsibilities here.”

“What with one thing and another, over the years he has spent much time with us here, learned the language, as we all did—there are still a very few of our people who are diehards and still speak the old Gaelic—some speak the modern Scottish language which the English have always disparaged. I fear that will also fade into the past, eventually,” she sighed, “but our people still honor their roots.”

“Alexandre met the people, learned about their traditions, their likes and dislikes. He too learned to love the history of our country and has spent much of his spare time researching the family.”

“He tells me you have shared some fascinating letters with him recently, much to his delight,” she smiled at her son before continuing. “I would very much like to read them sometime—but I have gotten sidetracked.”

“As you must know by now, Blair, Scottish history comes mostly from an oral tradition. Only most recently have writers shown any concern for putting these stories in writing. Much of that is because of the man who sits beside you. It has been a hobby for him since he was a young man in his early university days.”

“Alexandre knew from an early age that the responsibility of being Laird of Donnach would someday fall on his shoulders. Now it seems we were all incorrect, and that this responsibility is to be taken on by a mere slip of a girl. A beautiful girl, I see.” Once again Lady McDonnough’s eyes brightened as she smiled at Blair and then her son.

“I just want you to know that we, Alexandre and I both, are at your service, whether from here or from France. Once the estate is settled upon you, which will be very soon, we will remove ourselves from the castle immediately and support you in any way we can, my dear. If you feel we interfere, please just say so. We offer this assistance with open and willing hearts.”

Blair was so touched that she hardly knew how to begin. “Madame—Mairi— that is the kindest, most generous offer ever made. I assure you that I have no intention of throwing you out of your own home!”

“Ah, my dear, please do not concern yourself with that at all. It has been, and still is, my intention to return to France where I shall catch up on my reading, do some painting, visit museums, and enjoy my retirement from being the Countess of Donnach.”

“No…” she said, as she recognized that Blair was going to argue with her on this point. “Please be assured that this is not a hardship, but a blessing, my dear. I have had my turn. This is your time, Blair. Enjoy all life here has to offer. Be kind to your people and they will return that kindness many times over.”

“Now, since we have had our story-telling for today, let’s have some lunch, shall we?”

Lady McDonnough rose from her chair, Alexandre took his mother’s arm with his left, nodded to Blair, and he led two remarkable women to dine.

***

As he rode with her back to her hotel later that afternoon, Blair sighed, “Oh, Alexandre, she is wonderful!”

“Yes, I’ve always thought so,” he smiled. “She and father were very much in love—very much a pair in the truest sense of the word. She’s doing her best to move on without him. Like you, she is a very determined woman when she sets her mind to something. She’ll do fine in Paris again.”

“Are you very certain that she does not wish to stay here, Alex?”

“Oui. Absolutement!” he said, slipping into French. “She’s been adrift here without father. Everything reminds her of him every day. She is strong, but even the strongest needs time to heal from such a loss. Surely you know this? The new surroundings will be very good for her. And she and father maintained a small circle of close friends there over the years.”

“Oui, I am sure you are right. I like her a lot, Alex.” Her heart was tied up in knots. She sensed they would both go back to France and she would remain here without them—without him.

“She likes you too, Blair. Not everyone receives a gift of one of father’s gargoyles,” he said, grimacing as he looked down at the jewel box topped with what he thought was the ugliest gargoyle he had ever seen.

Blair looked down at the box on her lap. “I think he is quite lovely. I think I shall call him Pierre.”

“Lovely? You, Chéri, have either a very generous mind or very poor eyesight!” They were still laughing together when the car pulled up in front of her hotel.

***

Once again, he found himself pacing—he’d done quite a lot of pacing since he met Blair, he realized! What in God’s name was he doing?

He had taken an innocent young woman to his bed. His family had tried to kill her time and time again. How could he ever expect to have a life with her? No, he had to give her time to heal, time to realize that his own family had caused the death of her dear uncle, her close friend and landlord, and had put her in the hospital.

Oh, no doubt he recognized the irony, having assured Angus that he should feel no guilt over Taog’s involvement, but this was different. He could live with their guilt…but Blair had no experience with the world. How would she be able to come to grips with his family’s involvement? They had caused her such pain and heartbreak. Surely, she would eventually put the blame for all she had lost right where it belonged—with his family.

Then there was also the fact that she really didn’t know him very well. His past had been filled with newspaper accounts of his affairs and womanizing for the last ten years. He had ignored them, really. He hadn’t felt them worth denying. In fact, he had spent so much time building his father’s business that he really hadn’t had much of a social life. Oh, there had been a few sweet, young women over those years, but nothing even closely resembling the rumors and stories that went around.

Now he realized that he should have taken some kind of action against these lies. How could he possibly connect himself to someone as innocent as Blair and expect her to live in the shadow of such rumors and innuendos?

He never should have kissed her, loved her—he had done her no favors, and he didn’t know what to do now.

He paced his rooms until three the next morning and then only slept fitfully for a couple of hours. Finally, he stumbled bleary-eyed downstairs to breakfast with his mother at six, as was their habit.

“Good morning, dear,” Lady McDonnough said, as she saw him come into the breakfast room. Under his eyes he had the dark bruises of a sleepless night. My, he’s had a rough night, she thought. I wonder what set this in motion?

“Morning, Mère,” he mumbled, as he dropped a kiss on her cheek. Then he quickly turned to grab a cup and as much black coffee as it would hold.

“Did we have a bad night, my dear?” she smiled sweetly at her son.

“I didn’t sleep well.” Looking up he saw the soppy sweet smile on her face and, if she had not been his dear, beloved mother, he would gladly have snarled at her. What was she up to, he wondered? “What?”

“Well, I don’t know why you would not sleep well,” she said, as she forked a nice tender potato. “We had such a lovely time yesterday. Blair is an absolutely lovely girl, isn’t she?”

“Yes, lovely.” He found himself snarling anyway. Maybe if he got up to get some meat and potatoes, she would leave him alone. He rose and turned his back to her while piling food onto his plate. He really didn’t want to hear about Blair this morning. He’d made a firm decision at 3:00 a.m. and he didn’t want anything or anyone making him waiver.

“I’ve decided it’s time for us to return to France,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “I thought we would take the evening train to Edinburgh. You can stay with me in Bretagne until you find what you are looking for in the way of living accommodations, or you can use the Paris apartment if you wish. The servants can pack up the rest of our belongings and ship them to me. Any furnishing belonging to you can be brought to you once you are settled.”

Well, she thought, my son is not usually a coward. He’s fighting his feeling for this young woman harder than she would have thought. Men can be so foolish sometimes. Especially, she sighed again, in matters of the heart. She had thought that living in France all those years would have taught him more about romance, about love. Oh my, there is some real work to be done here.

“Well, my dear, you seem to have thought everything through quite thoroughly. If that’s what you’ve decided, that’s what we shall do. Have you plans to see Blair before we go?” She thought a little gentle shove wouldn’t do any harm.

“No. There’s no need. The lawyers and the courts are handling everything. We’re not contesting. The…relatives…are out of the picture. She should be just fine. She’ll move in here soon, and her new life will begin.” Something about that had his gut churning uncomfortably, but he refused to think about it in any depth right now—about what his family had tried to do to her. The guilt of his family’s involvement weighed heavily on him.

“I see. Well,” she said, rising from the table, “I suppose I had best go upstairs and see to getting some of my things packed.” With that, she walked over to where he sat, bent over him, and gently kissed the top of his head. He had always been a stubborn boy, even as a small child. Oh well, she sighed, as she walked to the staircase, there’s still hope. Perhaps Blair isn’t as blindly stubborn as her son. Dear God, it does seem to run in the family, she thought. Then she silently smiled to herself, as she continued slowly up the stairs to her quarters.

**************************

Chapter 30: Woman Scorned

Donnach, Scotland – August 1912

She had not seen him for weeks. The lawyers had kept her in meetings for hours at a time, and she was weary down to her bones. Blair would not understand why Alexandre had been so distant, not only in attitude, but literally. He had spent three weeks in France now without so much as a word before he left, and no letter since. Had the estate meant so much to him that it had driven a wedge between them?

Who was she kidding? He had had her in his bed, had enjoyed her while he could, and now he was done with her. She felt that clutch in her stomach at the thought that he might have used her. No, she wasn’t going to let herself go there. It was too humiliating to bear. She had felt the closeness between them. There had been the intimacy of their shared thoughts, stories about her past and his, his obvious desire to know her so much better. Perhaps he did not like what he had found? Then why had he introduced her to his mother?

She knew nothing about his business in France. For some reason, Blair had been embarrassed to just come out and ask him. She prayed that the loss of the estate, and the wealth that came with it, was not going to cause him, or his dear mère, any hardship. Surely the shipping business Mairi had spoken of would support them well. What if the business hadn’t done well? There had been scandals in shipping throughout the year. What if Black Swan was suffering losses?

More reflection on his financial state had her questioning that he would miss the money. After all, he had stayed in that same expensive hotel in Edinburgh. But back then he had thought he was going to inherit the estate, so perhaps he had simply put his finances aside and splurged.

Thinking about that in more depth, she didn’t quite believe that was the case either. He obviously had had a very fine education. He dressed impeccably and his manners, when he was not snarling at her, were those of a gentleman. He had not asked for any money in the settlement of the estate. Why, oh why, did he not just talk to her about himself? She was wearing herself out just going back and forth trying to figure him out.

Then the unthinkable came to her and had her heart crashing in her chest. Perhaps she would never see him again…a knock at the door stopped her train of thought. She opened the door, and ….

“Cousin,” he said, taking in every inch of her with those eyes.

“Alex, you are back,” she said, as she tried to smile up at him. The pain of the truth struck her so suddenly that she found her knees were weak. She was in love with him. Oh, God, what would she do? He so obviously didn’t want her.

Alexandre saw the shock on her face when she opened the door. He was unsure whether she was glad or sorry to see him there. She was so pale, and the color under her eyes told him she had not been sleeping well. Well, they did have that in common. While one hand held onto the door so tightly that her knuckles went white, the other was fitfully playing with the ruffle at the front of her blouse. “Blair? May I come in?”

“Oh, yes. I am sorry. Do please come in,” she backed up and gave him room to enter. “Would you like something to drink? How was your trip?”

He thought of the desolate weeks since he had seen her. “Some wine would be nice.” The hell he had put himself through—and for what? One look at her and he was right back where he’d been before he left. He was done in, and he knew it. Damn, how had she done this to him? “Business is doing well.”

Blair was aware that his mouth had tightened, and his brows were pinching together in the way they did when he was mulling over something that displeased him. She was terribly afraid that he was angry with her about something, but she could not imagine what it could be. Did he resent her now that she was inheriting? Why was she being such a coward?

“Alex, what is wrong? You are obviously upset about something. Why not just say what is on your mind?”

“May I sit?”

“Of course!” Now her temper was in full swing. “Alex, do not be so foolish. I have been in your bed! You think you must still be so formal with me?” She was now pacing back and forth in front of him, unsure in her own mind of the real source of her anger.

“Perhaps I should not have come!” he snapped at her.

“Perhaps not!” she retorted, still pacing.

“Damn it, woman! Can’t we spend five minutes together without scratching at each other like alley cats?” He grabbed her, and the kiss was less than polite. As soon as he tasted her, he was lost. He’d been hungry for her since he had last left her. Finally getting a grip on himself, he gently pulled back from her. “Well, that was better than fighting,” he said quietly, as he watched her beautiful face. Her eyes were blank, and that pouty mouth was still slightly open.

What was he saying? She could not focus. “I am sorry, did you say something?”

“I was saying that I would like to take you to dinner tomorrow night.” He didn’t even know when the idea had struck him. He really should stay away from her, but he just didn’t seem to be able to do it.

“Dinner? I think that would be lovely.” She really should stay away from him. It would only hurt more when she lost him, but perhaps this one last time. “Oui.”

***

Later in his rooms, he would curse himself for his weakness. The best thing he could do for them both would be to go back to France and stay put.

She was an innocent in so many ways, and he knew that was the last way anyone had felt about him for a very long time. A man of thirty-five years, who had led a formidable business for more than ten of those years, and with his reputation—deserved or not—had no business seducing her, hurting her. He had seen it on her face when she opened the door, the pain and confusion. He was driving them both crazy.

**************************

Chapter 31: Cupid Strikes

Donnach, Scotland – August 1912

Pacing in his rooms at the inn, Alexandre was relieved that all the legalities were finally over. He had no need for the estate as far as money was concerned. God knew he was wealthy in his own right, as was his mother. He was just glad that Blair, at last, was safe from harm and would receive everything that should have been hers from birth. She loved the castle as much as he did, he knew. Now it would be hers along with enough money for its upkeep, which he knew from personal experience would cost a fortune, and a lifestyle that would afford her every luxury. She would have the opportunity to travel and experience the world. There was so much life in store for her.

As for himself, he was only missing the one thing he needed more than air. He needed Blair, and he could deny it no longer. He had been arguing both sides for weeks, getting nowhere. He had to take his chances. He wasn’t going to let her slip out of his hands so easily.

She hadn’t even asked him about his plans, and that had hurt him more than he would have believed. Well, if she didn’t love him yet, he would just have to work harder to earn her.

With grim determination on his face, he left his rooms to go get what he needed—her.

***

She had, at last, heard from Madame and Esmée both. She had cried for days thinking of poor old Mssr. LeGard. Esmée was coming for a visit in the fall. Madame was, Blair felt certain, sending her to check on Blair.

With her, Esmée was bringing the vase Blair had so lovingly packed up from Roddy’s apartment. She had been so certain that she had lost everything that remained of his belongings. Then Esmée wrote that, once the police released access to the apartment, she and Madame had gone through her belongings to gather together what few items remained intact.

Esmée had found the beloved vase which had landed on a rug and rolled under her bed, where it had been saved from the killer’s search and destruction. There were also her books, the few that were not damaged. They had also dug up a few of her spring bulbs so that she could start a new garden with some of her favorites.

The lawyers and courts had done their jobs, the banks had done theirs. It was all hers and all now in her name. Somehow she felt a sadness that it was all over. She would move into Castle Donnach by the end of the week.

With all the issues resolved, Blair feared that Alexandre had no reason to come again to Scotland—no, to her. He would always love and need Scotland. As the tightness in her throat spread slowly to her stomach, she refused to cry. No, she would put a smile on her face, and she would wait for him to destroy her heart without putting him through a scene. It was the least she could do for the man she knew she would never get over—nothing more than Caena had done for her Sòlas.

As she pinned the little silver brooch shaped like a Celtic knot onto the lapel of her jacket, she heard the knock at her door. She stiffened her spine and, with complete determination to enjoy and remember every moment of the evening, she walked to the door. When she opened it she found him standing there, and the sight of him took her breath away.

He looked so male, so strong standing there in his kilt and the stockings that rose almost to his knees. The plaid of the kilt was of their tartan. She knew instantly that she would think of him every time she saw the pattern or its colors for the rest of her life.

“Well, my beautiful lassie,” he said, smiling at her and bowing slightly before her. “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Aye,” she responded. “I am, kind sir.” She smiled, curtseying deeply as they mimicked the old ways. Laughing, they left her rooms—together for what she feared might be the last time.

***

Dinner had been lovely. Candles burned, and the flickering light caused crystal to twinkle and pewter to glow like moonlight. The food was exquisite. The chef had done wonderful things to the beef grown on the estate. The sauces made in French style had their mouths watering for more. Neither of them would ever forget the meal set before them.

Blair felt herself softening to the sweet glances he sent her while they ate. She didn’t want to soften toward him. She didn’t want to hurt even more desperately when he went his own way.

He had been unusually quiet during the meal. As she sipped on her wine, she noticed that he was watching her in that unnerving way of his. The eyes locked onto hers, the mouth set with stubborn determination.

“Alex, tell me how it is that a small village like Donnach has such fine restaurants? The chef here must have had formal training. The food is wonderful, but how does a small village warrant this?”

“It’s our proximity to Edinburgh. As you know, we are but a short train ride away. We get a fair amount of tourist trade here, have for many years. My mother saw to it that some of our local lads and lassies were sent to Paris for their culinary education, as well as other trades. The agreement with them was that, once their training was completed, they would open establishments here in Donnach to help the local economy,” he explained. “Our fine bookstore is another example, and there are several others.”

“It seems I have a great deal to learn,” she admitted.

“Scotland got a great deal of its wealth from its shipping—importing tobacco from America and sugar from the islands for sale to the English. Donnach has been a beneficiary by way of its proximity to Edinburgh’s ocean access. Added to our Black Face sheep and shaggy Highland cattle, Donnach is much better off than many villages. My parents did what they could to build the local economy without losing the ‘village’ atmosphere. I think they were very successful at it over the years.”

“Yes, I believe they were.” Once again, their conversation lagged. Her nerves were as taut has she had ever experienced.

“Blair,” he began, with every muscle in his body tensed, as he tried desperately to maintain control, “are you not going to ask me of my plans? Have you no interest in where we go from here?”

He knew he had said the wrong thing the instant he saw the fire in her eyes ignite. Silently, he cursed himself for being so awkward about this. He simply couldn’t think straight with her sitting there, so beautiful, so sweet, so near. He seemed to make one misstep after another where she was concerned.

“Your plans?” she asked in utter frustration. Did the man think he was the only one that could make plans? “Your plans?” she asked again as her temper finally took over. She had held on as long as she could. Throwing down her table linen and gritting her teeth, she charged forward with her tantrum. If she was going to lose him, she was going to at least have her say. All her determination to let him go without a scene blew right out the window!

“Are your plans the only ones that are important, Alex? Are you the only one whose future is about to change? You will head back to France; take up where you left off before this journey of ours began. I will be left here alone with a broken heart! Don’t you know how much I love you? Are you so self-centered that you have no concern for me and the loss you leave behind you?”

As the stir spread around the dining room, he was certain the whole village would know by morning that the wee lassie with the pale hair had ripped into the Laird once again. My, she was a beautiful sight when she was in full temper.

He was so humbled by her declaration of love, and yes, as any man would be, he was so unnerved by the tears streaming down her face, that he was unable to speak for a moment. Then he rose from the table, went to her, and knelt beside her chair.

“Blair, do you really not know how very much I love you? If all my discomfort and fumbling the last few months have not shown you, I must admit to being a miserable failure. Je t’aime. Je t’aime, petit ami. Marry me, Blair, and I swear I will spend the rest of my life showing you how much I adore you. Just tell me what you need, and I will give it to you. I have no need to do more than travel to France occasionally for business, but here is my heart, here in Scotland with you.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “Oh, Alex, all I need is you. You are all I have ever wanted or needed. Yes, I will marry you.”

“We will have the biggest wedding the village has ever seen,” he smiled up at her.

“Alex,” she whispered, now recognizing that every face in the restaurant was watching them, “can we afford that big a wedding?”

He laughed that deep, hardy laugh she loved. She still hadn’t come to grips with her own wealth—let alone his! Rising to bend over her and whisper in her ear, “My darling Blair, we can afford to invite the whole damned country if that’s what you want.”

“Oh!” She gasped. “I don’t think it has to be quite that big, do you?”

“It will be exactly what you want, Chéri!” he promised, as he pulled her into a kiss that left her knees weak and trembling.

Then he pulled her to the door. “Alex, where are we going?”

“To get you a ring, my love. I’ll not let you back out on me now!”

“But, Alex, the shops are all closed. It’s late,” she laughed.

“I have just the thing in mind, my love. It’s in Paris,” he said, still dragging her along with him,

“Paris? Oh, Alex! We can’t go to Paris tonight…can we?” she asked.

“Darling, you must get used to the idea that we can do whatever your heart desires. Now, get into the car…we’re off to Edinburgh to catch the next ship to Paris where I will buy you the biggest, best diamond any woman has ever had.”

She faced him, put her hand on his cheek, “Alex, you must get used to the idea that you are all I need!” Then looking down at her empty ring finger, she added, giggling, “Not that I mind the idea of a beautiful ring.”

“God, I love you, Blair,” he said, as he pulled her to him for another of those kisses that melted her bones and left her weak. “Now, get into the car, my love. I’m taking you to Paris.”

Inside the restaurant, the crowd erupted in cat calls and applause. They would all go home tonight to share the tale of the Laird and the Lady—their Laird—their Lady. There was to be a wedding!

**************************

Chapter 32: The Wedding

Donnach Castle – December 21, 1913

Preparation for the ceremony had included all the normal things that European brides and grooms considered traditional; the many-tiered wedding cake, twelve huge rings in all, with the bride and groom topping it; the garter sitting snuggly waiting for Alex to remove it; something old, new, borrowed, blue.

It also had all the Scottish twists, some modern, some from Caena’s time added in. Blair and Alex had decided that their wedding was going to be as much a celebration of the love shared by Caena and Sòlas as it was of their own. In that vein, they had decided to go with all the ancient bridal traditions for their wedding costumes. It would take time but would be worth it to both of them. Had it not been for Caena and Sòlas, Blair would never have existed.

The wedding date had been set for December 21st, Alban Arthuan, the Celtic winter solstice festival, now blended into the Yule celebration held at Christmastime. The ceremony would be held in the Great Hall of the castle, the reception would spread from the Great Hall throughout the lower level of the castle with the entire village invited to join them. These were their people, and Blair and Alexandre wanted to share the celebration of their marriage with all of them.

Woolens for the fabrics used in their wedding clothes were, in the ancient tradition, fashioned from wool sheared from the estate’s own sheep. Since the marriage was so important to the entire community, there had been a great celebration made of the shearing. Blair and Alex both took turns helping with the shearing, with laughter and great shouts of encouragement from the villagers.

The village had come together for the event and followed it with a picnic attended by everyone for miles around. Blair and Alex had been toasted by their people. The love given them had been accepted and returned.

Children had given Blair flowers picked from their own gardens and fields. The women shared songs of the past in a mutual celebration of their forefathers. There had been folk dancing and drinking of good Scotch whiskey well into the night, as bonfires lit the countryside.

Over the next few months, the local women had spun the wool into yarn, some of which was dyed in the colors of the McDonnough tartan; some left white for Blair’s earasaid. The dried wool was then lovingly woven, by the most experienced weavers in the village, into the cloth for the bride and groom’s wedding clothes.

This shearing and weaving process alone had taken almost a year to accomplish. The earasaid, kilts, scarves, and Alex’s balmoral were completed a mere two weeks before the ceremony.

Alex wore a tribute to their modern Scottish tradition. He would wear the modern kilt of their clan tartan. There was great pride in their tartan, since the number of colors in a clan’s tartan had always signified the wealth and power of the clan. Theirs, with its sapphire blue and emerald green blocks, lined by red, black, and white stripes that formed the plaid, was a powerful tartan. Indeed, it was very similar to the national tartan.

Blair’s outfit was a tribute to Caena, as well as her French upbringing. She would wear a version of the ancient earasaid, the female version of the man’s great kilt. Finely woven, soft white wool would be used for the earasaid—the head-to-foot cloak belted at the waist. She would wear a floor-length chemise of white silk with French lace at her wrists. The silk chemise was an exception to what would have been worn by Caena whose own chemise would have been from homespun cloth.

On their special day, Blair’s pale, pale blonde hair, now reaching her waist in length, was parted down the middle. It was then separated into three sections of long locks, one falling loosely at each shoulder, one down her back. Each section was then tied at shoulder length with a ribbon of the same blue as that found in their tartan. From the ribbons to their ends, each section fell in gentle curls. Then around her head, like a ribbon crown, was a matching piece of the ribbon fastened over her left ear with a pin shaped like heather. She had given the pin to Esmée for her birthday—now it was Blair’s something-borrowed.

In tradition, the earasaid’s extra length would not be raised to cover her head since she was an unmarried woman. Her hood was pinned to her long-sleeved chemise, with an eternity knot pin that Alex’s mother had given her, and left draped in soft folds over her back. The pin had been a gift to Mairi from her Charles when they married—Blair’s something-old.

The earasaid was belted with soft leather and a chain of gold eternity knots made by the same French jeweler who had made their rings. Under her chemise, next to her heart, she wore the necklace given to her by Alex. It bore the same eternity knot design—her something-new.

The bouquet she carried was a simple clump of lavender and thistle tied in the same blue ribbon as used in her hair—her something-blue.

Her wedding hosiery was white and rose from her soft black leather slippers, similar to Alex’s ghillie brogues, to her mid-calf where her right stocking was topped with a garter.

Standing in front of the mirror, she saw what she imagined Caena would have looked like, had she been a happy bride, marrying her Sòlas. She closed her eyes and quietly spoke to Caena. “I hope you are with us today and know that you and your beloved Sòlas are honored.”

Mairi watched her in the long mirror, smiled, and let go a deep sigh. “Blair, you are so beautiful. You make me think of her—Caena. I just know that somehow she is watching and is so very pleased today.”

“I hope so, Mairi. I do hope so.”

***

While Alex’s mother was helping Blair dress in her rooms, Alex was pacing back and forth in the master suite. The main room was large enough that the huge canopied four-poster bed, across from the large marble fireplace, was dwarfed by it. There was a large seating area, a table where he and Blair often ate breakfast together. Mirrors caught the light from the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. Blair had told him that this room was larger than her whole Paris apartment had been.

The bathroom was enormous and held a huge claw-footed tub especially made for his grandfather. The tub was so deep they had nearly drowned trying to make love in it one night. He laughed out loud remembering how they had had to give up and wound up on the marble floor, sliding around the wet surface like seals. He’d never made love laughing before that night. Before Blair, he hadn’t known it was possible. He hadn’t known any of what he felt now was possible for him.

He smiled, thinking of the hours they had spent together planning the changes in this suite. Now it was completely redecorated to his and Blair’s taste, without the dammed gargoyles, except, he laughed to himself, for the one Mairi had given Blair. He had loved his father, but his fascination with those damned things had always been over the top, as far as Alex was concerned. A moment of sadness swallowed him as he wished his father could be here today—gargoyles and all.

Angus burst into the suite carrying two flutes of champagne. “Come now, my boy, what’s that sadness I see on your handsome face? This is your wedding day! Let’s see a smile, lad!”

Taking the flute, Alex smiled at the jolly man dressed in formal Scottish attire. Angus had been the best substitute for his father that he could possibly imagine. “No, Angus, I’m not sad. I was just thinking of my father. He would have loved Blair. It’s too bad they never had any time together.”

“Aye, it is that, laddie. But Blair and your mother could not possibly be closer. That must do!” Angus slapped him on the shoulder, and Alex let the mood slip away.

“Well, Angus. Do you think she’ll have me?” he said, standing in front of the cheval mirror that matched the dark wood of the other furniture in their suite.

“Aye, lad. You are a picture of the old clansmen, short of the beard, of course. You do your heritage proud.” Looking at the lad in the mirror, he didn’t think he had ever seen a more handsome young lad.

“I just could not handle the beard,” Alex laughed. “Though I tried it briefly—very briefly! Blair was glad to see it go as well.”

Angus inserted Alex’s sapphire-studded links of gold shaped thistle. Alex stood proudly in his tartan kilt, the formal kilt shirt with its winged collar and French cuffs, and, Blair’s favorite, his horsehair sporran—complete with its black tassels—rode in front of his maleness. He smiled at the memory of the first time Blair had seen him wearing this sporran.

The thistle-patterned plaid-brooch Blair had given him as a wedding gift, sat on this left waist near the leather belt holding together the hand pleated, wrapped kilt. His white hosiery, with the blue flashes rose from the shining, black leather ghillie brogues. Ghillie laces, with their black tassels, ran up to mid-calf. Alex fastened his hand-carved, Makassar ebony dirk on his hip, after which Angus helped him into his Prince Charlie jacket.

“Do you have the rings, Angus?” Alex asked, as he donned his tartan-patterned Balmoral with its jaunty tilt and blue feather pin atop his sleek black hair, which was now long enough to be tied back in a ribbon of his tartan’s blue.

“Yes, lad, I have them.” He opened the box to assure they were both still in it. There they were. Two matching gold bands carved with the Celtic eternity knots all the way around.

“Do you think she’ll be happy with me, Angus?” One brief moment of panic struck him. Was Blair going to be happy with him for the rest of her life? He was, after all, just a man, and he had his faults.

“Oh laddie, I dinna think the lassie could hae done better,” Angus responded in full Scottish brogue.

They laughed together for just a moment, Alex poured the rest of the champagne down in one big gulp, and they headed to the Great Hall.

***

Esmée was a vision in her sapphire blue gown of silk with its sash of emerald green. Her long, sable-colored hair flowed down her back. A crown of heather woven around a blue ribbon perched prettily on top of her head, the streamers of the ribbon trailed down her back. Her green eyes shone with tears of happiness for her friend. As she walked down the aisle toward Alex, on Bill Campbell’s arm, she saw Madame with her French lace handkerchief wiping away a steady stream of tears that had started early this morning. Mairi McDonnough sat on the groom’s side doing the same.

Once Esmée was in position at the altar, Bill took his place beside Alex. The pipes began humming as Blair started her walk toward Alex on Angus’s arm. She saw nothing but Alex. Alex saw nothing but Blair.

***

The reception was wonderful. The whole village was there including the little bookseller who had latched onto one of the pipers.

Esmée danced with a fine, young lad she had met in Edinburgh when she and Blair had been shopping there the previous summer. They had been seeing quite a bit of each other whenever Esmée came over to visit Blair, which over the year of wedding planning had been more and more often.

Madame spent most of the evening with dear Angus. He blushed like a school boy when he was near her. They were very taken with each other, and Alex and Blair both hoped to be attending another wedding sometime very soon.

Finally, it was time to toast, and the first was to be from Angus. Angus stood before the room, signaling for quiet by lifting a flute of champagne. “Tis my pleasure to toast this lovely couple. However, I find that I hae a graaaaaave responsibility afore me,” he slipped into the brogue with jowls shaking as he stressed the gravity of his position. He set down his glass as did the rest of the room. Blair and Alex looked at each other questioningly.

“As the stand-in for my dear friends—the bride’s father, Fheargus, and uncle, Rodaidh—I must first assure that the groom is worthy of her.”

The room burst into “ahhhhs” of sudden understanding.

Blair looked up questioningly into her husband’s face and saw that it was reddening. This was a tradition that had not been shared with her. She couldn’t imagine what kind of proof he would be asked to provide. She felt his hand tighten around hers. “Alex?”

Alex didn’t answer her. He just shook his head, and despite his blush, his smile brought forth the dimple in his cheek that sent her system churning. She stood still and waited with the rest of the room.

“In our time-honored tradition, and as decreed by old King George IV, I demand that the groom prove himself to be dressed as the True Scotsman he claims to be!

“Angus…” Alex started to argue but was cut off by the cat calls of all the men in the room. Recognizing that he was not going to win in the matter, he just closed his eyes and shook his head, then raised his hand to quiet the room.

“Aye, then ‘tis proof ye shall have,” he responded playing along but now earnestly in full blush. The women all backed away pulling Blair along with them. All the men tightly circled around Alex. With wild hoots of manly camaraderie, they watched as Alexandre Eduard Maigny McDonnough, Laird and Earl of Donnach, raised his kilt to all those who could see in proof that there was nothing on under it.

Once again, Angus raised his wine flute and shouted, “Slainte!” (SLAW tcheh).

“Slainte!” repeated the whole wedding party.

**************************

Epilogue

Donnach Castle – Christmas Eve 1965

“And they all lived happily…” she stopped as she saw him come into the room. After all these years, he was still an impressive sight in that tartan kilt he wore each Christmas.

“Well, lassie, are you finished with your story?”

She looked into the eyes of her love, now the hair turned to a beautiful, shining silver, the eyes perhaps a lighter shade of blue, but still the handsomest man she had ever known. The melodic French accent still influenced his speech after all these years; hers as well, or so she was told.

“Aye, I am, my love,” she smiled, as he lifted her hand from her lap where it lay upon the enameled box with its purple heather spread daintily across the lid. He took the now-frail, little hand gently to his mouth for a sweet, soft kiss on her knuckles.

“I just came from our rooms,” he said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Some imp has draped tinsel over your gargoyle collection.”

“Well, if you have any nightmares, my love, just snuggle closer. I promise to keep you safe,” she whispered in his ear.

***

Just outside the huge arch leading to a foyer as large as most of the houses in the village, stood the children’s parents. Many had tears in their eyes. They had stood silently, listening to the tale she wove in the tradition of the Scottish women before her.

While the McDonnoughs amongst them had all heard the story at about this same age, it still held their attention and touched their hearts. The spouses had all heard it as their children were raised. Each was aware of the additional information she had given in this latest telling. They had not known of the attempts to kill her, nor had they known of some of her personal hardships along the way. The greedy cousins were long since dead—Dizzy Izzy shortly after Blair and Alexandre’s wedding, Hugh as an old man in a French prison during the bombings of World War II.

Now they knew it all. As was their duty, they would all keep the story alive long after Blair and Alexandre were gone and, as the family had agreed, little Fee inherited the castle. It was their responsibility to do so and their pleasure to honor their family’s traditions.

There was no greed among them. Each had a life filled with love and caring for one another. Blair and Alexandre had raised their family with love, duty, honor, and family as its core. Each subsequent generation had done the same. Despite any distance of geography, they had always shared and shared alike. Each took part in the running of the now enormous shipping company and its offices around the world.

The doctors among them set up practices where their spouses worked for the family; or worked as shipboard physicians when needed. The lawyers took care of the company’s legal affairs. One grandson was a pastry chef who saw to it that the cruise ships had the best pastries in the world. Each played his or her part in keeping the family tight. They would continue to do so as they had been taught by their parents and grandparents.

During World Wars I and II, Alexandre had moved the shipping base from Brest in France to Scotland. Black Swan’s ships were used the business to smuggle weapons, food, and other supplies to the Allies. His beloved Le Avignon had served as a hospital ship during World War I. She was sunk off the coast of France, still the queen in his heart.

The village had continued to prosper. Blair had expanded the library that Mairi had started all those years ago. Her own love of books had her actively helping out there until she was well into her seventies. Her love of flowers had been shared with the village by creating the Donnach Gardens. They were a steady source of delight to tourists and income to villagers over the years. They were famous all over Europe and her pride and joy. Alexandre had assured the quality of the herds of cattle and sheep which were prized around the world. Their latest champion bull was getting the highest stud fees in Scottish history. They didn’t do any of these things for their own profit or aggrandizement. It was for their people—only for their people.

Here was the source of that love and caring—in the home of Blair and Alex—the home of Caena and Sòlas.

***

“Great-granddad,” said Fiona, who at fifteen was the youngest in the group, “you should have heard the beautiful story great-grandmother told us. It was as if we were really there, all those years ago.”

“Yes, my dears,” he smiled down at the group, “I’m sure it was. After all, it is our story.”