Elusive (10 page)

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.

25
^th
Day 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.