Highland Tides (20 page)

Charlotte worried about her sister’s increasing penchant for drinking earlier in the day. “But I like to say goodbye before I go out,” Charlotte whined, aware she was too protective of her son. But he was all she had of Braden. At five he was a replica of his sire. It brought great consolation, though longing swamped her whenever she looked at him.

He was a good child, strong and courageous. Such a boy deserved a father, and John Reade had offered to take on the role often enough. But her heart belonged to Braden. Marrying John wouldn’t lead to happiness for either of them. He claimed he was willing to take the risk, but she wasn’t.

Since his discovery two years ago of Braden and Callum’s names on the guest list at Queen Mary’s wedding he’d spent endless hours in libraries and repositories throughout Scotland trying to trace the two men. To no avail. Tears threatened. Why not face the truth? Braden was never coming back.

She was taken aback when John hurried in, his face uncharacteristically flushed.

“My goodness,” Augusta exclaimed with a hiccup.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked, terrified something had happened to Fraser.

John held on to the doorframe, gulping air. “They fished two people out of Leith Water near Canonmills at dawn this morning,” he gasped.

Panic gripped her. If Fraser had been swept away surely she would have known? “What?”

“A man and a woman,” he explained.

Relief swept over her. “What do two drowned souls have to—?”

He mopped his brow with a kerchief. “No. They’re alive. Barely, but still breathing. Ironically, it was the water wheel of my mill saved them. Apparently the man was clinging onto the frame for dear life, his other arm around the woman.”

She glanced at Augusta who looked as befuddled as she.

John took hold of her hands. “The man claims his name is Callum Ogilvie.”

It was as well John held on to her when the room tilted. A thousand thoughts assailed her. Callum, not Braden; but if Callum, then perhaps Braden, though John said the other person was a woman.

She wished whoever was wailing insistently would cease, but then realized the wretched sound was coming from her own throat. “Callum Ogilvie, gentleman of Oban,” she said woodenly as John helped her to the settee and Augusta fussed.

“I’ve cancelled your reading this afternoon,” John said. “We’ll go to Canonmills directly.”

His strength calmed her. “We should take Fraser,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Let’s wait,” he replied. “No use getting the boy’s hopes up.”

“No,” she agreed, savoring the first glimmer of hope she’d tasted in five long and lonely years.

~~~

Callum was grateful to the miller who’d pulled him and Lexi from the river with the help of a laborer and brought them to his cottage. He’d been ready to give up the struggle to stay alive. He had no memory of how they’d ended up on the wheel, nor how long they’d hung there.

At first the miller and his wife fussed and made much of them, asking their names, where they were from, how they’d come to be in the river. However, they exchanged strange glances when he explained how the Earl of Bothwell had pursued them right after his marriage to Queen Mary, and his wedding armor prevented him jumping in to rescue Lexi.

The solicitous questions stopped abruptly.

Mayhap he shouldn’t have mentioned the Earl. He’d ascertained they weren’t far from Edinburgh and hoped the miller didn’t send a message to inform Hepburn where they were.

Lexi had lain in a stupor for a while, but the broth spooned into her mouth by the miller's wife had brought color back to her cheeks. They sat side by side on the edge of a pallet, wrapped in plaids, holding hands. He hoped once their clothing hanging near the hearth was dry they could be on their way. To where he didn’t know.

He grew nervous when a gentleman entered the cottage. He put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders, sensing from the sudden bowing and scraping on the miller’s part that this man had power over them. He certainly looked powerful, and wealthy. His clothing was richer than anything Callum had ever seen before, even at Queen Mary’s court. Some sort of military uniform he’d guess. The man wore a peculiar gray wig.

Lexi snuggled closer.

Callum patted her hand and came to his feet, feeling at something of a disadvantage draped only in a plaid. Nevertheless… “If ye’ve come to take her back to Hepburn, ye’ll hae a fight on yer hands,” he declared.

A trace of amusement played at the corners of the man’s mouth. He folded his arms across his chest, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You claim to be Callum Ogilvie,” he said.

Callum tightened his grip on the plaid. “I am Callum Ogilvie, from Oban, and this is my wife, Alexandra Hepburn that was, now Ogilvie.”

Crivvens
! He was talking like an imbecile.

“Hepburn, as in James Hepburn, Fourth Earl of Bothwell?” the man asked.

Callum had no notion of how many Earls of Bothwell there had been, but Lexi murmured. “Aye. My uncle.”

To his surprise the man grinned. “Are you the same Callum Ogilvie who drowned in Corryvreckan over three hundred years ago?”

He shifted his feet, feeling his wits had deserted him. This was a difficult question to answer. “I did drown in that cursed whirlpool, but three hundred years?”

“I am John Reade,” their interrogator said, still smiling, “and it’s my pleasure to tell you this is the year One Thousand Seven Hundred and Fifty-Two.”
 

Callum racked his brain. Reade. Reade. Where had he heard the name?

Lexi struggled to her feet. “You’re a friend of Charlotte’s.” She turned to Callum, her eyes wide. “We’ve travelled to where Braden desperately wanted to be.”

A well-dressed woman entered the cottage, stepping cautiously over the threshold. Callum had never met Charlotte, but knew her instantly. His heart grieved for what he must tell her.

“Where is your brother, Braden?” she asked, her eyes full of expectant hope. “Did he travel with you?”

It was Lexi who came to his aid. “We don’t know what happened to him, Lady Charlotte. We drowned together, at Dean Village, but—“

Charlotte exchanged a puzzled glance with Reade. “Dean Village?” she gasped.

In the blink of an eye, they were in a mighty fine carriage, hurtling along at break-neck speed. He and Lexi still wore plaids, their damp clothes hastily stuffed in a sack by the miller’s wife at the urging of John Reade.

“I dinna understand,” he said to Charlotte.

“My home is in Dean Village,” she whispered. “My son is there. Braden’s son.”

“I have a nephew?” he croaked.

“Aye,” she said, making an obvious effort to smile, though worry haunted her eyes.

“Charlotte, I canna tell ye how much my brother loves ye. He’ll do anything to get back to ye.”

“Thank you, Callum,” she said. “I’m very glad he’ll have you here. We saw your names on the guest roll at Queen Mary’s wedding and knew you were together. John has tried to trace Donal, without success.”

Callum tightened his embrace around his wife. Lexi cuddled into him. He had a strange feeling all would be well, if they found Braden.

Braden’s hopes that Charlotte would rush down the steep hill to the riverbank and into his arms once Fraser gave her the amber had fizzled hours ago.

He worried mayhap the lad had kept the jewel, but then remembered his words.

I’m nay a thief.

It was more likely she had come to rely on
Uncle John
and realized a better future lay with an established man. A man of her own century. She and John were probably trying to decide what to do with him now he’d returned.

Recalling Lexi’s observation about Charlotte being from a titled family he recognized bitterly he’d been a fool to suppose she’d still care for him.
 

Although the lad had said his mother wished for his father’s return.

She was a famous author now, apparently. He chuckled. Evidently she’d taken to heart his advice to reveal her identity.

His clothing had dried remarkably quickly, but his disappointment had robbed him of the will to act. He’d had naught to eat or drink, and noon had long since passed. He’d survived in this century before, but only with Charlotte’s help. Without her…

Worry for Callum and Lexi gnawed at him. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the bank. He wasn’t sure how long he’d dozed when he heard a bairn’s voice. “Mister.”

He opened one eye and sat up straight when he espied his son standing atop the bank. A boy’s first glimpse of his father should be…

But then he remembered the lad had already set eyes on him before in a less than inspiring position and he doubted the now bedraggled pink pansied slops were still in fashion.

“Fraser,” he said. “Did ye give the jewel to yer mother?”

The lad patted his jerkin. “Nay, but ’tis safe. She’d already left with Uncle John.”

Braden’s spirits lifted. Mayhap hope still lived. “To her reading?”

Fraser examined the end of his line. “Nay. Aunt Augusta said they’d gone to Canonmills. Somebody drowned.”

Braden’s gut tightened. “Did she say who?”

Fraser dropped his line into the river and sat down on the bank. “Nay.”

The urge to take the lad in his arms and hug him to his chest was overwhelming. If Charlotte no longer wanted her husband, his son had a right to know his father loved him. “Did ye say yer name was Ogilvie?” he asked, his heart in his throat.

“Aye.”

“’Tis a strange thing,” he said. “That’s my family name too.”

Fraser kicked his feet back and forth, but didn’t take his eyes off his line. “Huh!”

“Do ye want to ken my Christian name?”

When the lad didn’t respond, Braden took a deep breath. “’Tis Braden.”

After a moment or two, Fraser yanked his line out of the water and lay his rod down on the bank. He clasped his hands together on his lap then fixed his gaze on Braden. “That’s my father’s name.”

Braden came to his feet. “Aye, Fraser. I’m yer da.”

Fraser stared at him for interminable minutes, then got up, walked to where he stood and hugged his leg, snuggling his forehead against the ridiculous slops. “My mother said ye’d come back. She’ll be happy to see ye.”

Choking with emotion, Braden scooped up his son and hugged him. “I didna ken I had a son, Fraser, but if I had to choose one, I’d pick ye. Ye make a man proud.”

Fraser put his hands on Braden’s shoulders, his eyes roving over his face and hair. “Ma says I look like ye.”

Braden laughed. “And so ye do, but ye’ve yer mother’s green eyes.”

“Would ye like to come to the house?” Fraser asked. “Ma doesna like to walk down to the river. I think she’s afraid of water.”

Braden lifted his son onto his shoulders, suddenly filled with renewed strength. “I can understand that,” he said.

~~~

Despite a determination not to get her hopes up, Charlotte hopped from the carriage before it had come to a full stop. John suggested he take Callum and Lexi to purchase clothing. As the carriage rolled away she took a deep breath, put her hand on the front door knob and paused. Elation or despair awaited and she was strangely relieved to be facing whatever lay ahead alone.

To her surprise, the door opened slowly and Augusta appeared, a finger pressed to her lips. “Quietly,” she whispered, beckoning Charlotte inside. Grinning, she led the way to the parlor.
 

What Charlotte saw when she tiptoed inside would be forever engraved on her heart.

Braden sprawled on the upholstered sofa, long legs hanging over the end, one hand tucked behind his head, the other cradling his son who lay atop him. Both slept soundly.

“They wore each other out with their chatter and chasing each other through the house, then wrestling,” Augusta whispered. “I never heard Fraser giggle so much.”

Unbridled joy blossomed in Charlotte’s heart. Laughter gurgled up from deep within. They looked comical, her softly-snoring husband dwarfing the elegant settee, wearing an outfit two hundred years out of date. Her son drooling on the father she feared he’d never know or feel estranged from if ever they did meet.

Unrestrained silent tears followed. She had her lover back and her son had a father. The prospect of years of lonely longing disappeared in the blink of an eye. She wept for what Braden had endured to return to them.

Tears flowed down Augusta’s face too, prompting Charlotte to finally laugh out loud.

Fraser stirred but didn’t wake. Braden opened one eye, smiled when he saw her, and moved the hand behind his head to beckon her to his side. He inched over, leaving room for her to squeeze in beside him. The strength of his arm holding her pressed safely to his body released years of wanting, of needing, of frustrated hopes and dreams, of worries. She curled into him, savoring his scent, nuzzling her nose into the warmth of his neck.

She lay with the two men she loved, listening to their breathing as they slept.

Braden startled awake at the sound of voices and footsteps outside in the street, unsure where he was. The warmth of the little body sprawled atop him brought quick reassurance. He was home. His beloved wife lay tucked into his side.

He wallowed in contentment, until it came to him one of the voices was Callum’s.

His sudden movement awoke Charlotte.

“’Tis my brother, I’m sure of it,” he said.

She lay a comforting hand on his chest as she sat up. “Aye. I met him before, at Canonmills. He told me you had drowned at Dean Village. I came rushing back, afraid I’d missed you.”

Fraser had said someone drowned at Canonmills. If Callum lived, Lexi must not have made the journey. His heart went out to his brother.

His son awoke and sat up on Braden’s belly. After rubbing his eyes, he stared at his father, then at his mother. “Papa came back,” he said with a naughty smile.

Relief flooded Braden. He hadn’t dreamt the shenanigans they’d gotten up to before falling asleep. He tousled his son’s blond curls.

Charlotte beamed a grin that lit a fire in his already pleasantly aroused tarse. He couldn’t wait to get his wife into bed. He’d known she was an independent, capable woman, but now she had an aura he supposed public recognition had brought.