“The shop will be open on the morrow,” Sarah added. “We’re newly wed just yesterday.”
The man fidgeted with the hat in his hands. “I know, and I apologize, but Mr. Addison suggested this would be a good day to come. I’m Thaddeus Baxter.”
The name stirred a memory.
Munro bristled, but locked the door after she beckoned Baxter into the shop.
“We’re already late for an appointment,” she said. “What is it you want?”
Baxter turned to Munro. “I’ve a proposition to make,” he said. “To buy the shop.”
“Then ye’d best speak to my wife,” he replied.
Baxter was clearly surprised that a man would defer to a woman, but Sarah was tempted to fling her arms around Munro’s neck and rain kisses on his scowling face.
“I already own an apothecary shop, in Deritend. I’ve wanted to expand into this part of Birmingham, and Mr. Addison—”
“Deritend?” Munro asked.
“The other side of Digbeth,” Sarah explained, understanding now why the man seemed familiar. Reginald had once brought him to the shop after the annual Guild meeting. “Mr. Addison gave you the impression I want to sell?”
Baxter’s eyes darted to Munro then back to her. “I understood you intend to move to Scotland. Perhaps Addison is mistaken.”
“We’d consider offers, but my husband is quite taken with Birmingham. He’s a history buff.”
As she’d hoped, Munro kept silent.
“I see,” Baxter replied, scratching his chin. “Well, I thought to offer a hundred guineas.”
It was more than she could have hoped for in her wildest dreams but, if he wanted the shop badly enough…“Are you in good standing with the Guild?” she asked.
“The Beadle will vouch for me. The missus is also an apothecary and she helps in the shop. I’ve two keen apprentices as well.”
Evidently, Baxter ran a successful enterprise.
“What about my apprentice?”
“To be honest, I’d prefer just to bring one of my current lads.”
She made a show of slowly tapping the heavy black key in her palm. “And how soon would you want to take over—if we can agree on a price? You understand that moving to Scotland takes some preparation. We cannot simply leave at a moment’s notice.”
Munro coughed into his fist and wandered off into the workroom, whistling.
Baxter drummed his fingers on the countertop, gazing around at her well-ordered domain. “I was here once before,” he said. “I’ve thought about it ever since. I mentioned it to Addison when I heard of Mr. North’s passing.”
Sarah shuddered. If he’d come then she would probably have sold him the business for a song. She might never have met Munro.
“How does one hundred and ten guineas sound? And I take possession in a fortnight.”
* * *
Munro sat on the pallet he and Giles had made for Luke, testing its manufacture. Most men would think he’d lost his wits, leaving negotiations up to his wife, but he felt completely at ease doing so. Then again, few men had a mother who was a national heroine.
Sarah was astute, and knew the value of the shop better than he did. If it was up to him, they could leave the business behind and never look back.
Nevertheless, he quickly got to his feet and hurried into the shop when he heard the front door close. “I couldna keep my face straight any longer,” he explained. “What did ye decide?”
Frowning, she put the key on the counter. “I’m sorry you won’t have the opportunity to explore the historical treasure trove to be found in Birmingham.”
He put his arms around her waist and arched a brow. “Are ye saying—”
She smiled smugly. “One hundred and fifteen guineas and we leave in three weeks.”
He pecked a kiss on her nose. “Scotland has no idea what’s she’s in for. Ye’re a canny lass, Sarah.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” she replied.
He gathered her into his arms, wishing they had time to go back upstairs and make love, but…
“Mayhap ye willna be satisfied with the son of an earl now ye’re a wealthy woman,” he teased.
She shook her head. “I’ll never be worthy of you, Munro.”
He tilted her chin to his gaze. “I dinna wish to hear such nonsense again.” He proffered his arm. “Now, wife, our bairns await.”
* * *
Munro’s words echoed in her heart as Sarah followed him up the stairs to his room at The Swan.
Our bairns.
Two boys who desperately needed someone to love and care for them had come into their lives and brought the promise of a future she’d never imagined possible.
Munro was right that she had to banish the old, insecure Sarah from her life. She’d been given a new role to fulfill—wife, viscountess and mother. They were awesome responsibilities, but she was the daughter of intelligent, brave and loyal parents who’d persevered through trials and tribulations she’d never had to face.
Her husband was the son of two people who’d been tested in the fire of Civil War and triumphed.
The long-ago strife that had resulted in the execution of a monarch had shaped her life and Munro’s. They seemingly had nothing in common, yet they had everything in common.
They looked into each other’s eyes, inhaling deeply as he put his hand on the door handle.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Aye, more than ready,” she replied.
Epilogue
Kilmer, Scotland, One year later
Munro gazed at the new born babe curled up asleep on his wife’s chest. “I hate to disturb him,” he whispered, “but my mother’s getting impatient to meet her first grandson.”
Sarah patted her son’s bottom. “Just a little while longer,” she replied.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Ye look radiant. How are ye feeling?”
“Overwhelmed,” she admitted. “Even when the physician confirmed I was with child, I scarcely believed it.”
Munro stroked their babe’s head. “Aye, ’tis a wonderful gift ye’ve given me.”
She put her hand atop his. “You’re the one responsible for this miracle,” she replied with a smile.
He kissed her forehead. “The first of many, we hope.”
A kerfuffle outside the door caught their attention. The midwife was arguing with Munro’s mother.
“Any wagers on who’ll win that argument?” he asked.
Laughing, she shook her head. “Not likely.”
As expected, Hannah Pendray swept into the chamber, obviously having overcome the midwife’s objections. “Morag may have helped bring ye into the world, Munro,” she declared, “but the woman willna keep me from seeing this bairn.”
She plucked the babe from Sarah’s bosom and cradled him in her arms. “What a handsome laddie. Lots of dark hair, like his daddy,” she said to Sarah.
“Aye,” she replied. “Mayhap, the next one will have red hair, like me.”
“Munro Pendray,” his mother said sternly. “I hope ye ken how lucky ye are to have found a wife like Sarah. Only recently delivered, and yet she looks as beautiful as ever.”
“I ken only too well,” he replied, grateful, too, for the warm welcome his parents had given his new family when they’d first arrived, weary and travel-worn from Birmingham.
His father poked his head around the door. “Can we come in?”
Everyone knew who had probably accompanied him. Morgan Pendray had taken Giles and Luke under his wing from the outset and become their personal tutor. He told anyone who would listen it had given him a new lease on life. Both boys were proving to be adept students, though they now spoke like Scots, with a curious Welsh twang.
Giles walked confidently to Sarah. “Congratulations,” he said. “I’m glad ye’re all right.”
She reached up to touch his face. “Thank you, Giles.”
Munro wasn’t surprised his wife would be the lad’s primary concern, jus
t as he knew the shyer, more cautious Luke would come to him first and take his hand. “I’ve never seen a wee one afore,” he whispered.
His father took the babe from his wife and sat in the upholstered chair so the lads could get a good look at their new step-brother. “Wait until Jewel and Grainger see this babe. They should be home any day now.”
Munro regained his spot on the bed beside Sarah, and took her hand. “And what shall we name this new member of the Pendray family?”
She hesitated, then said, “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind, but would you consider calling him Marten?”
Glad she’d come to recognize her father’s rightful place in her life, he wasn’t as surprised as she might fear. However, he wasn’t sure how his parents would feel about their grandson bearing the name of a regicide, though they’d made it clear Sarah’s parentage was of no concern to them. “Marten Pendray?” he replied. “Hmmm.”
“No. You’re right. Perhaps if we called him Marty.”
“Or we could add a middle name. Like Addison.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
“Aye, well, the mon did a lot for us. The journey home was shorter and more comfortable, thanks to his provision of a luxurious carriage, as well as horses and men.” He arched his brows. “He’s supported efforts to improve working conditions in the Birmingham foundries. Who knows the extent of his largesse when he finds out we’ve named our son after him.”
She reached for her babe when Munro’s father brought him back to the bed. “What’s the general opinion? Marten Addison Pendray.”
The wee one chose that moment to grin at his mother, little legs kicking.
“Sounds very English to me,” his grandmother remarked, “but he seems to like it.”
* * *
Did you miss Book One of the series, Highland Betrayal?
Here’s a wee excerpt:
Captain Morgan Pendray took up his usual post on the winding path that eventually led to the fortress gates. Once he’d given the order to load he preferred not to stand too close to the cannon. It had proven impossible to shake from his memory the tale told him as a lad by his Welsh grannie about a Scottish king blown to bits when his favorite Mons Meg exploded next to him.
It made no difference that the saker cannon was a vast improvement on the bombard that had severed King James’s legs nigh on two hundred years before.
The boom of the explosive charge was intolerably loud in any case, and he wouldn’t be surprised if eventually his hearing became impaired. Better to leave the cannon to the gunners. They were used to it. Most of them were losing their hearing and sometimes didn’t hear his command to Fire. He hadn’t reported their impairment, aware that doing so would result in dismissal. Even their uniforms would be confiscated. A bleak future awaited English lads stranded in the wilds of Scotland. They repaid his silence with unswerving loyalty. The youngest gunner was trained to keep a keen eye out for the exaggerated arm movement he made when he barked the order. Smythe was a willing lad who also served as his batman.
He’d grown supremely bored in the ten long days since he and his gunnery crew had arrived to bring about a speedy end to the siege. Cromwell was becoming increasingly impatient. Morgan privately thought the Protector’s obsession with the destruction of the Scottish crown jewels somewhat indecent. Provisioning an army fighting far from London was expensive and there was widespread opposition in England to already high taxes imposed to finance the Dutch War.
The nerve-wracking experience of transporting artillery, gunpowder and ammunition from Edinburgh to Dùn Fhoithear had necessitated changing the team of six horses every hour in the rocky terrain. The last stretch up the steep path to get within range had resulted in the loss of two valuable steeds, shot when their legs became entangled in the wheel spokes. The small garrison would have capitulated eventually, but now the proud old castle would be left in ruins, its defenders torn to shreds.
The tedious days consisted of repeating the same orders over and over under the watchful eye of General Abbott. Morgan’s presence was in truth superfluous, though he hoped the notion never dawned on his commanding officer. The gunners could likely load and fire the cannon in their sleep. The castle wasn’t a moving target. Once he’d calculated the angle of trajectory, and used the trunnions to raise or lower the barrel, the scything down of walls and men was relatively easy. Not that the brutality sat well in his gut. War was a ghastly business, but what was a landless Welsh nobleman to do in order to make his way in the world, especially with his wife dead and gone.
He supposed he should be grateful his older brother had obtained a commission for him. Aneurin had inherited the small family estate and was glad to see the back of him, but at least he wasn’t destined to be cannon fodder in Cromwell’s infantry. There was a faint hope his service would lead to some reward from the Protector and his parliament—if he gave a good account of himself. A man could only tolerate so many taunts from fellow junior officers about a Welshman fighting in Scotland for an English army.
When the latest round of shot chewed into the wall, he deliberately averted his gaze from the cloud of yellow dust to the distant cliff path. He narrowed his eyes against the late afternoon sun, startled by the unexpected sight of a raven-haired lass struggling up the steep slope from the beach. She was bent double under the weight of a basket she carried on her back. The checkered shawl most women wore around their shoulders was tied around her hips.
She paused at the top, slid the basket straps from her shoulders, straightened and stretched to touch the sky. It was a vision of innocent beauty amid the sickening slaughter. He sucked in a breath as the sight of her proud breasts and shapely figure stirred the interest of his tarse. In a trice she evoked wants and needs he thought grief had drained out of him.
He was tempted to rush over and offer his help when she crouched to lift the basket back onto her shoulders, but that was out of the question.
She’d likely taken advantage of the unusually warm weather to minimize the risk of injury on the rocky shore. He wondered idly what there was to collect on such an inhospitable beach. Seaweed mayhap?
He thought the lass was barefoot. He was too far away to tell properly, but most of the folk in nearby villages seemed to have no footwear.
His mind wandered. Surely they didn’t go barefoot in winter? What would they use seaweed for? Was it the girl’s flowing black hair that had caused the inconvenient arousal that swelled despite the notion tugging in the back of his mind that she was probably a camp follower. A laundress, mayhap, or a cook, or—his gut clenched—more likely a whore.
Shouts penetrated his reverie and drew her attention to him. The gunners had reloaded. Still fixated on the girl, he slowly raised his arm. She stared back, a stunning silhouette against the backdrop of the sea—a scene an artist might capture on canvas. For a moment he was afraid she might think he was waving, but she looked away and hurried off on the path to the south.
He thought it curious since Stonehyve lay a half hour walk to the north and Dunnottar an even greater distance to the west. If she was a camp-follower she was headed in entirely the wrong direction. He avoided the civilian encampment at the base of the hill, having seen enough of them to know they were controlled by unscrupulous sutlers. Soldiers’ wives and children often lived in wretched conditions with barely enough food to survive. This one had burgeoned into a sprawling conglomeration of tents and wagons over the eight months of the siege. Morgan preferred to rely on Smythe to deliver his laundry and procure any provisions he needed.
He risked a glance at the gunnery crew, but it was unlikely they could see the girl from their position, and they seemed to have noticed nothing untoward. Only the lad watched him expectantly, waiting for his signal to unleash mayhem.
Curious to read about Jewel and Grainger? Highland Jewel is Book Three of The House of Pendray series.
Kilmer, Ayrshire, Scotland, Spring 1681
“Dinna misunderstand me,” Jewel Pendray
assured her brother. “I love our home here in Kilmer, but…”
Gray stooped to pick a snowdrop peeking out between blades of grass and presented it to her with a courtly bow. “Ye’re restless after hearing Munro’s endless accounts of his adventures in Birmingham.”
She inhaled the flower’s fragrance. “Ye canna blame our older brother for being excited about his journey. I suppose being cooped up all winter has made me fidgety.”
Arm in arm, they walked on through the meadow beyond the stately mansion where they’d been born. Close in age, they’d always been good friends.
“I understand what ye’re saying,” Gray said at length. “We’re fortunate Mama inherited this dear old estate from her uncle, although, strictly speaking, that isna true. Kilmer would have gone to a male cousin if General Abbot hadna awarded it to Papa.”
“Yet another example of unfair rules about females,” she replied.
“Life does sometimes seem dull compared to the perils our parents experienced during Cromwell’s invasion.”
“True,” Jewel agreed, twirling the snowdrop ’twixt finger and thumb. “Not that I want to risk life and limb like they did. I’m sure Munro felt the same ennui. That’s the main reason he insisted on detouring to Wales instead of coming straight home from Westminster with us last year.”
Gray chuckled. “I’m still nay sure how he ended up in Birmingham, but he managed to find himself a wife in the process.”
“And two foster sons.”
They shared the humor as they continued their walk.
“’Tis ridiculous,” Jewel lamented, pausing to pick more snowdrops. “I’m named for the Scottish crown jewels our mother stole away from under the noses of the British army—”
“—Of which Papa was a member,” Gray added with a wry grin.
“Every Scot kens the tale of how our mother saved Scotland’s Honors, yet I’ve never even been to Dunnottar Castle.”
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