Whence Came a Prince (6 page)

She colored slightly, turning her face to the side. “I’ve started a letter to my sister. Many letters, really. I cannot seem to find the words. I fear
the truth may break her heart.” Rose glanced up at him as though testing the waters. “Perhaps it would be better to wait. At least ’til I’m three months—”

“Nae.” He stopped at the edge of the farm steading, one forearm blocking Ian’s flailing arms before they connected with his chin. “You cannot wait until July. What if Leana should come home to attend Lachlan’s wedding and find you blooming with child?” Seeing her expression, Jamie softened his tone but not his words. “ ’Tis unkind to keep this from her. Leana deserves to know.”

“
You
write her, then.” Rose turned away, her shoulders sagging.

Hadn’t he written Leana dozens of times, if only in his mind? Yet he dared not put his thoughts to paper, let alone post them. When he was certain his voice would not give him away, he admitted, “ ’Twould be cruel for me to write your sister, and you ken it well. She has suffered enough.”

“I, too, have suffered. For I, too, love Leana.” Rose slowly turned round. Tears shone in her eyes. “When I can find the strength to write her, I will do so. I promise.”

Chastened, Jamie lightly touched her cheek. “I believe you, lass.”

C
ome, Rose.” Jamie nodded toward the mains. “We must darken the door before our guests do.”

He led her round the U-shaped farm steading, watching where his boots landed. Though it had stopped raining altogether, a gray mist still hovered near the ground. Sounds came at them from every direction. Doves cooed in the
doocot
, clucking arose from the henhouse, and the lowing of cows rumbled in the
byre.
Ian crowed along with the farmyard chorus, turning this way and that to get a glimpse of his noisy surroundings.

“Easy, lad, or you’ll land in the midden.” Jamie tightened his grip and swung away from the odoriferous dunghill in the center of the steading. “Though it might be worth a soiled shirt just to agitate your stepmother, aye?” Jamie hoped Rose was listening, for he meant to lift her spirits. Instead she walked on without comment.

He should not have been so insistent about her writing Leana. The envious Rose he’d once known would have written her sister at once, boasting of her good fortune. The pensive Rose now beside him was not the same girl he’d met two years past. Had a woman’s tender heart bloomed inside her while he was busy tending his lambs?

Eliza stood on the broad stone step outside the back door, motioning them toward her. “Mr. McBride is pacin’ aboot the hoose, waitin’ for ye tae join him. Says the Douglases are expected
onie
minute.”

Jamie held out his son. “See that Ian is scrubbed clean and dressed. Are Hugh and Annabel in our room?”

Eliza deftly lifted Ian from Jamie’s arms, her white cap bobbing up and down. “They’re awaitin’ yer arrival, sir, wi’ hot water and the like.”

Jamie deposited his muddy boots inside the door, while Rose lifted her skirts to spare the freshly scrubbed floors and hurried up the stair. He followed close on her heels, observing the busy kitchen staff in passing. Dinner smelled promising. Horseradish tinged the air, mingled with milder scents. Leeks. Cloves. And the unmistakable aroma of bacon frying. Neda could be counted on to serve her best fare—fish, flesh, fowl, and a fine pudding—to impress their guests and appease her master.

Jamie had no doubt Neda Hastings would do Auchengray proud. Now it was his turn to do the same. Four months ago the sons of Morna Douglas had escorted him round Edingham with blatant conceit. Once he’d shown them the pastures and gardens of Auchengray, the healthy flocks and neatly planted fields, their arrogance might come down a peg or two.

The gray-haired valet Jamie shared with Lachlan stood at the ready in his bedroom. Hugh shaved Jamie’s chin, then dressed him in a neatly ironed shirt and clean breeches. At university, Jamie had worn the powdered periwig of a gentleman. Among the
kintra
folk of Galloway, such pretensions were unnecessary. Hugh smoothed Jamie’s hair into a sleek tail and tied it snugly at the nape of his neck. “Guid as new, Mr. McKie.” He brushed the sleeves of Jamie’s jacket once more for good measure. “Ye’re both wanted in the parlor.”

Jamie and Rose hastened down the stair, headed for the front room of the house. Square in design, the parlor faced west, inviting the afternoon light through its two tall windows. The room contained a half-tester bedstead, a sideboard, and a mismatched assortment of basket chairs and small tables—a cluttered place for entertaining their infrequent guests. Jamie and Rose arrived with no time to spare and were greeted by a grim-faced Lachlan and the sound of carriage wheels rolling up the drive.

Lachlan glowered at them. “Finally.” He was well turned out for the occasion; his silvery gray coat and scarlet waistcoat were the best in his clothes press. “Jamie, I’ll count on you to make her sons feel at home. Rose, a reminder that you serve as mistress of Auchengray now.”

Her posture stiffened. “What would you have me do, Father?”

“Listen at all times, speak only when necessary, and see that the
servants keep our plates filled with food. Your husband and I will manage the dinner conversation.” His gruff instructions delivered, Lachlan marched from the room as though headed for battle, head thrown back, chin leading the way.

Jamie resisted the urge to salute his departing back and instead offered Rose his arm and escorted her to a spot by the hearth where they might stand together and welcome their guests. They did not wait long. Lachlan returned shortly with Morna Douglas in tow and steered her in their direction. Jamie had met her twice before at Edingham and so greeted her as warmly as he could. She was perhaps forty, a good deal shorter than Lachlan, and a good bit rounder. Her face was the color of
hindberries
, as if she remained perpetually embarrassed, and her movements hinted at a fidgety discomfort.

“Good to see you again, James.” Her voice was high, birdlike. Morna fawned over Rose, pronouncing her “fair as any flower in the garden.” At last the widow allowed Lachlan to guide her to a nearby chair before he turned to introduce her sons, who hovered just inside the door.

Lachlan cupped Rose’s elbow, sweeping his free hand in the direction of the newcomers. “Mistress McKie, kindly meet your future stepbrothers: Malcolm Douglas, Gavin Douglas, and Ronald Douglas.”

Three strapping lads—nigh identical in appearance and close in age—bowed as one while Rose offered them a low curtsy. Their muscular backs were hidden beneath English broadcloth coats; their hands, no doubt roughened from working their late father’s land, remained clasped behind their backs. Clay-colored hair had been combed back, revealing ruddy complexions freckled by the sun and only the faintest of beards. To a man, their appreciative gazes were focused on the bonny lass before them.

“Mistress?” Gavin, the middle son, breathed the word on a tenor note. “Since you are to be our sister, might we call you Rose?”

Jamie noted the smile that played about her mouth and the way her lashes fluttered across her faintly pink cheeks. “When I am truly your sister, you may call me whatever you please.”

“See if I don’t.” Gavin elbowed his older brother, grinning outright.

Jamie bristled at the lad’s impertinence. Or was it Rose’s familiar
tone, sweet as treacle, that disturbed him? The Douglas brothers were young—none more than twenty—and green when it came to matters of the world. A slight breach in manners could be overlooked. And there
were
three of them; he would not soon forget that.

“Gentlemen.” Lachlan’s voice was as smooth as linseed oil. “You’ll remember Jamie, my nephew and son-in-law. Heir to Glentrool.”

Malcolm Douglas jutted out his chin. “And heir to Auchengray as well?”

Jamie bit back a response. The subject of heirship had not been broached since that fateful March night with the kirk session. Would Auchengray be his someday through his marriage to Rose? Or might Lachlan’s forthcoming wedding change all that?

Before Lachlan could respond, Neda appeared in the doorway, bobbing her coppery head with its starched cap. “Mr. McBride, we’re prepared tae serve dinner at yer biddin’.”

His uncle offered a brief nod to Malcolm. “We’ll discuss such details another time, lad. For now, our meat beckons.” Not one to keep hot food waiting, Lachlan swiftly led the way across the entrance hall and into the dining room, then seated them round the cloth-draped table. The polished silver gleamed in the candlelight. A vase filled with lilies of the valley scented the air. Morna Douglas, Rose, and Jamie sat on his left and the brothers on his right, oldest to youngest. Satisfied with the arrangement, Lachlan took his seat at the head of his table, and the meal service commenced.

Lachlan steered the conversation along a predictable route: the upcoming Keltonhill Fair, which interested the Douglas lads greatly. The largest fair of any in the South West, the one-day event drew horse dealers and buyers, chapmen and hawkers, Gypsies and tinklers, gentry and peasantry alike. After a bit, their conversation moved further afield to the opening of the Forth and Clyde canal that would connect Glasgow and Edinburgh.

“The canal opening is scheduled for late June, though I’ll not be traveling to Bowling Bay for the festivities,” Lachlan said with a nod toward his intended bride. “I’ve more important matters to attend to closer to home.”

Jamie could not help noticing Morna Douglas’s heightened color. “Tell me, Uncle, have you chosen a date?”

“I have.” Lachlan cleared his throat with some ceremony. “The sixteenth of July. ’Tis a Friday, which bodes well, the moon will be waxing, and ’tis my sixtieth birthday.”

Wanting to include Morna, Jamie asked the widow, “Will your vows be exchanged at our kirk in Newabbey or in Urr parish?”

Lachlan answered for her. “Reverend Muirhead will marry us at the Urr kirk. My family has given the parishioners of Newabbey enough to blether about of late.” His pointed gaze, aimed at Jamie, drew every eye round the table.

“A fine plan,” Jamie said smoothly, ignoring their curious stares. “I am certain you have many acquaintances in Dalbeaty and its environs who’ll be glad to be in attendance.”

From the periphery of the room several maidservants stepped forward to remove the dinner plates in anticipation of the final course. “I hope you and your pretty wife will come,” the widow said, offering them a tremulous smile. “And your cousin … ah, Leana, isn’t it? She will join us as well?”

Beneath the table Rose touched his hand, whether approving or opposing her sister’s inclusion, Jamie could not decide. “What say you, Uncle?” he asked. “Shall we write Leana in Twyneholm and encourage her attendance?”

Lachlan glowered at him but did not have time to answer before the door leading to the kitchen creaked on its hinges and Neda entered bearing his favorite pudding. The man’s sour mood seemed to sweeten when she placed the dish before him. “A fine meal, Neda. We’ll have tea in the spence after a bit. In the meantime, serve my guests your good pudding.”

The notion of Leana’s attending the wedding was not mentioned again that afternoon. Not at table nor later in the spence. Both families gathered in the cramped study, holding their teacups, while Lachlan expounded on the virtues of Auchengray. His money box was prominently displayed on his desk, though the lid remained locked. Leather-bound ledgers stood guard, their worn spines a testimony to how often their greedy owner’s hands had caressed them.

Jamie did what he could to engage Malcolm in conversation. As the oldest of the three brothers, Malcolm must have considered how his mother’s impending marriage would affect both properties. If he had an opinion, Malcolm did not offer it. Instead he listened, nodded, and said little. Judging by the hard look in his brown eyes, the prospect did not please him.

When the mantel clock chimed thrice, the men put aside their saucers and ventured out of doors for a tour of the farm, leaving the widow and Rose behind to fend for themselves. Lachlan led the party, gathering his future stepsons round him while Jamie followed a step behind. It proved an enlightening vantage point as he heard Lachlan take sole credit for Auchengray’s vast flocks and congratulate himself for everything his nephew had accomplished.

Jamie listened in disgust. Only a week ago Lachlan had insisted the Lord had blessed his flocks because of his hardworking son-in-law. Now Jamie’s contribution remained unmentioned as his uncle stood at the top of Auchengray Hill, waving his arm in a slow arc to indicate all the lands and flocks that belonged to him.

Heir to Auchengray as well?
Malcolm’s question still taunted Jamie, a charge for which he had no good answer. He would inquire the same of Lachlan as soon as the sons of Edingham Farm found their way back home.

“Jamie?” Lachlan turned round and folded his arms across his chest, clearly put out with him. “You have not said two words since we left the mains.”

“But, Uncle—”

“I presume you’d rather be marking lambs than listening to me.”

“That’s not—”

“Off with you, then.” Lachlan jerked his head toward the hills, making his intentions clear. “Do not fear. I’ll see our guests well provided for.”

Jamie felt at loose ends, being so abruptly dismissed. He took a few steps, then turned back. “Will the three of you be heading to Urr parish this evening?”

Malcolm started to respond, but Lachlan was too quick for him.
“Their mother will return home in the morn. As to her sons, they’ll stay for supper, then be bound for Edingham before nightfall since they’ve livestock of their own that require attention.” He rested his hands on two broad shoulders, giving Gavin and Ronald each a firm shake. “Best see to your lambs, Jamie, or ’twill be difficult to tell which are yours and which are mine.”