Still, the rumors persisted. Janet knew that many believed her guilty because she would have the most to gain from the earl’s death. She wondered whether it was only a matter of time before her husband’s family convinced the authorities to do more than question.
Because of the inheritance laws, her son inherited. Alasdair had made no provisions for a guardian and thus she gained control of Lochaene. It was a control she hadn’t sought.
Yet on the day Alasdair was buried, she’d never felt such a sense of freedom. Guilt warred with relief. She was free. The lasses were safe. Her son would grow up with love.
Neighboring lords—either out of curiosity or loyalty—had been arriving for the past two days. She had ordered food and drink prepared after a battle with Marjorie.
“You should be hiding in your room in shame,” Marjorie had said.
“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Janet retorted.
“My son was in good health.”
“Your son ate and drank too much.”
“You were a poor wife.”
“I gave him an heir.”
“Then poisoned him?”
Janet forced herself to stare into Marjorie’s glittering eyes. “I am Countess of Lochaene now. I will not tolerate those kinds of accusations.”
“I am not finished with you,” Marjorie said. “I told my son not to marry a Jacobite.”
“But he did, did he not? That there was no inheritance is no’ my fault. Complain to his grace, the Duke of Cumberland.”
“Whore.”
“Say that once more and I will force you to leave Lochaene. And now I go to see about the arrangements.”
Keeping her head high, she marched to the kitchen. Once out of Marjorie’s sight, she slumped against the wall. She did not like confrontations. But she’d known in that moment that Marjorie was her enemy and would do everything she could to destroy her. She would not let it happen. She had four bairns to protect. That would make her strong.
She’d been weak for so long.
No more.
Neil called himself every kind of a fool. He probably wouldn’t even reach Lochaene before the rites. But he had heard the rumors and he hadn’t been able to help himself.
If there was one thing he knew, the girl who had touched him so tenderly years ago wouldn’t, couldn’t, be capable of murder.
He also knew that, coming from a Jacobite family, she would have precious few friends these days. If he couldn’t do more, at least he could offer friendship. He didn’t let himself believe he meant anything else, considered anything else. Nothing had changed. He could never marry. The taint was still in his blood. But he knew what it was like to be alone in a hostile household.
And Rory had taught him something about honor. So he had ridden over to his tacksman, Jock, and asked him to assume authority at Braemoor while he was gone. Jock had looked at him with amazement but had agreed.
Then Neil had saddled Jack.
He knew Janet would not welcome him. But the rumors worried him and instinct told him Janet may need help. She may well refuse his, but he had to extend an offer. He wondered whether Cumberland would be there. Neil detested the man, but he had been the recipient of his goodwill, mainly because of Rory. That small advantage might also help Janet.
It brought a rare smile to Neil’s lips every time he thought of the irony of it. Rory had flummoxed Cumberland so well and thoroughly that the king’s brother never realized how he had been taken, that the man he’d rewarded was the man who’d been a thorn in his side for more than a year.
And now Rory was probably somewhere in the colonies, flummoxing someone else. His cousin had done something fine. Neil, on the other hand, had become a mole on his own property.
It was time to emerge.
The great hall filled on the day of the funeral. Janet bore the ceremony and draidgie with the stoicism she’d learned in the past few years. As was the custom, she did not attend the burial. Wives did not. Instead, they stayed at the manor house and prepared the food and drink for the draidgie that followed burial.
But she grieved. She grieved for what could have been and was not. She grieved for her hopes and dreams.
She even grieved that Alasdair’s life had been so wasted.
And she grieved for the lasses, for the expected mourning that would eclipse their lives even further. She had a black mourning dress she’d made when her father died, and plain black dresses had been hurriedly stitched together for the three little girls. She hated to see them in the dark clothes, for they looked sad and lost and uncertain.
Thank God all the visitors would be gone soon.
She went out to get some fresh air. The great hall smelled of stale ale and sweat and unwashed bodies. The lasses were back in their nurseries. One of her first acts would be to replace Molly.
Mourners—or curiosity seekers—were still approaching. She watched one small group come in, and she bade them welcome then invited them in for food and drink. A lone rider followed them.
She smiled automatically, then started. Memory prodded her. Her heart started to pound.
It could not be.
He was bareheaded, his hair dark as a raven’s wing even in the late afternoon sun. His seat was easy, his posture comfortable, his large but hard body familiar. It had been in her dreams often enough.
She wanted to run inside. She didn’t want him to hear the rumors. She didn’t want him to see the paleness of her face, nor her too-thin body.
He rode straight up to her and dismounted. A boy who had just taken the other horses into the stable for food and water appeared to take the reins.
“I’ll do it,” he said in the deep rich voice Janet remembered so well.
She curtsied. “Welcome to Lochaene, my lord.”
“Countess,” he acknowledged, then softer, “Janet. Are you all right?”
He was so big, so tall. Overwhelming. But it was the softness in his voice that disarmed her. For the first time in days, she felt tears gather behind her eyes.
His hands remained at his side, and yet she felt a warmth she’d not felt since she left her father’s house.
She looked up at him. “We did not expect you,” she said with what she hoped was a cold, detached voice.
He hesitated, then said awkwardly, “I thought to pay my respects.”
She wanted to turn away but she felt transfixed, as if rooted to the ground. She remembered the last time she’d seen him. He’d leaned over to kiss her, then promised to meet with her the next afternoon. He hadn’t.
He looked travel-worn now. His hair fell over his forehead and his face had turned dark with bristles. His dark eyes were tired and his mouth looked as solemn as it ever did. It was difficult to think of him as cruel, but the end result of their meeting had been cruel. Cruel beyond bearing.
She looked beyond him. To the left. To the right. Anywhere but into his eyes.
“You are welcome,” she said. “Some guests are staying in the great hall. There is food and drink.” Hospitality demanded the words, but her heartbeat became irregular.
“My thanks,” he said softly.
Her fingers bunched into fists. She couldn’t find words, nor could she move. Why did he affect her this way after so many years?
“I am sorry about your husband,” he said.
Her gaze was drawn back up to his face. It was granite. But then it had always been hard to read. It had relaxed only when her fingers had touched it. Her body quaked at the memory. She’d been so bold then. So reckless. She didn’t think she would ever be reckless again.
“I am a mother now,” she said. She had to say something to interrupt the intensity of his gaze.
“I ha’ heard.”
“Then you must also have heard the rumors.”
“Aye, I’ve heard some. But I do not put credence in them.”
“Then you are among the few.”
“Mayhap there are more than you believe.”
She hesitated, finding word
s difficult. The chill had left her. She felt only heat. Heat from regret. Heat from embarrassment. Heat, God help her, from a desire that apparently had not dimmed over the years.
And on the day of her husband’s funeral. She was damned for sure.
Suddenly blinded by the first tears she’d shed since her father died, she whirled around. She did not care if he noticed, nor if he thought her rude. She just had to get away.
She went inside, past the hall where she could hear the ongoing revelry, up the stone staircase to the first floor where her chamber was, then up to the second where the nursery was located.
Alasdair’s brother Reginald and his wife also had rooms on the first floor, as did Archibald, the third brother. Marjorie had a small cottage house away from the tower.
She went up to see the bairns. The nursery consisted of a small room where her son stayed except when she took him down to her own room, a sitting room that doubled as a play room, a bedchamber the lasses shared, and a tiny anteroom where Molly stayed.
Grace, the quiet one, was reading a book Janet had borrowed from the vicar. Her husband had not approved of lasses receiving an education. In truth, he had little himself, and there were no books at Lochaene. Janet was teaching her daughters to read with what books she could borrow.
Rachel was gazing out the window at the rare activity in the courtyard and Annabella was playing with a doll. They all looked up as she entered the room, Annabella getting up from a chair and scampering over to her.
“Where is Molly?” Janet asked. She’d told the girl to stay with the children. She should have known better. One more reason to discharge her.
“She leave us,” Annabella said forlornly. “I doan think she likes us.”
“Did you get something to eat?”
Annabella shook her head.
“Would you like some meat pies?”
“Aye,” Rachel said.
“And some pastries?” Annabella said hopefully. Then her face fell. “Father would no’ like it.”
“Your father has gone to heaven,” Janet explained for the sixth or seventh time in the past four days. She sincerely doubted it, but she hadn’t wanted to scare the children with visions of another place. A small lie. A kind lie.
After her much greater sin of wishing her husband dead, she dinna think God would be too outraged at this small one.
“Will we go there, too?” Rachel, the curious one, asked.
“Not for a very long time, love.”
Janet looked toward Grace. “Will you look after your little brother?”
A smile lit Grace’s face. She loved nothing better than to be asked to do something. “I will,” she said.
Janet knelt and held out her arms. The three girls crowded inside them, the small bodies warm, their arms clinging. They’d all been starved for love when she came to Lochaene. She hadn’t been able to spoil them while their father lived. He’d seemed to object to every small gift or gesture. She would make up for it.
But now hugs were important to them. And to her.
Neil’s appearance had opened a wound that ran deep and wide.
It was all she could do to keep the tears banked behind her eyes, to hold in the hurt she thought she had conquered.
A few kind words had torn down all the barriers she’d so carefully constructed. She didn’t know why he had come, but she knew she had to be careful.
She also realized Neil Forbes was now a marquis, a higher rank than that of her husband, but he didn’t look like a marquis. But then he never had, and she recalled that his indifference to clothes was one of the things that attracted her. He’d worn saffron shirts open at the neck and a great tartan plaid that was now outlawed. He’d looked rugged and handsome.
And now? Though his clothes were stained with travel, she’d noted they were of good quality. He wore a dark blue waistcoat over a linen shirt with blue trousers tucked into dusty boots. Unlike most of the other lords, he did not wear a wig. Instead, his own hair was a little shaggy, as if he couldn’t be bothered with it.
Neither had there been any softening in his face despite his kind words.
She steeled herself against seeing him again. She would endeavor to stay away from him. Surely he would not stay long, especially since it seemed he’d brought little with him.
Janet slowly untangled herself from the children. “I will be right back,” she promised.
She made her way down the stairs. All the servants had been recruited to help with the food and drink for the many guests. Molly, she thought, was probably servicing one of them, or one of their servants, in the barn. Another problem to be solved.
The great hall was more boisterous than ever. She hesitated. She did not have to pass it to go into the kitchen but her eyes were drawn to it. Not it it, she knew, but to one of the newly arrived guests.
The Marquis of Braemoor was talking to Marjorie. He happened to look up then, as if he expected her. His gaze met hers, and for a moment she thought her legs would give way. The intensity in his eyes reached across the room. Voices in the room seemed to slow, and she wondered whether it were just the effect he had on her or whether her presence had actually lowered the amount of conversation.
She turned and left, wondering what Marjorie was telling him, what others were saying. A poor wife. A bad marriage. Poison. She could almost hear Marjorie’s sharp words.
Why did she care what he thought? He hadn’t wanted her years ago and it had broken her heart. He was a very wealthy man, according to rumor, a favorite of Cumberland who had little use for most Scots. That reminder should dampen any warm memories. She despised Cumberland. So why was she reacting like this?
The unexpected kindness? God knew it had been a long time since she’d known any.
The kitchens were full of workers, most of them hired only for this day. The food costs alone would mean she would have to be careful the rest of the year. She hadn’t seen the books yet, but she suspected that her husband had spent more than the revenues.
Pies were coming out of the ovens. She took one along with three meat pastries and a crock of milk. She hadn’t eaten this day, and she did not think she could. Surprisingly, the Marquis of Braemoor was at the stone steps, looking as if he’d been waiting for her.
“Can I be helping you with the tray?” he asked.
Nay. “Aye,” she said, leaving pride behind for a moment. She hadn’t realized how much she needed a kind word, nor someone who had known her father. “If you can take the crock of milk.”
She led the way. The wall sconces had been lit and they spread shadows on the stone. She stumbled once, her foot catching on an uneven piece of stone, and she felt the strength of his arm steadying her.
It’s the day of your husband’s funeral. She kept reminding herself of that.
They reached the top of the second set of steps and she led the way to the nursery. He had one hand free and he opened it.…
“Ma …”
The exclamation stopped suddenly as three pairs of light blue eyes looked at the Marquis of Braemoor. He was taller than Janet’s husband and solidly built. Annabella dove behind a chest, Rachel ducked into the room next door. Grace paled. Only Colin was undisturbed, and that was because he was sleeping.
Janet looked up at Neil. He had a panicked look on his face as well.
Janet put the tray loaded with pies on a table, then held out her hand to Grace.
“Grace, this is the Marquis of Braemoor.”
Grace took a few faltering steps, hanging back as much as she could.
“He won’t hurt you, love.”
Grace did not look convinced.
Then he knelt and held out his hand. “I am Neil.”
Grace curtsied but remained at a distance. Neil rose, looking as uncomfortable as a man could. “I had best leave.”
“Thank you for helping me,” Janet said.
He nodded and disappeared out the door.
“He’s verra’ big,” Grace said.
“
I know, love,” Janet replied, “but …” She had started to say “he’s not like your father.”
But she did not know that. He had betrayed her once before. And certainly her husband had not been what she’d thought. How could she be so foolish again. It had just been his sudden appearance …
And the only kindness she’d known in far too long. But he’d been kind before. It meant nothing.
Nothing.
Neil felt like a monster. He’d not been around children since he was a child himself, if indeed he had ever been a child. But he’d never considered himself a frightening figure, or that children would hide from him.
Feeling their fear, he’d tried to extricate himself from the room as quickly as possible. But not before he saw a glimpse of sympathy cross Janet’s face.
By the devil, he never should have come here. He’d known it all the way here, and yet something had pulled him like a puppet master pulled strings. He’d especially known it when he’d seen her lean against the gray stone of Lochaene.
She’d looked drawn and tired. Her eyes were circled with dark rings. And yet she’d drawn herself up with that same grace and dignity he’d remembered. A spark flashed in her dark blue eyes, but then it had fled, leaving dark, unfathomable pools. There was no hint of the laughter he remembered, the tenderness. Her face was handsome, though. The high cheekbones and fine delicate lines made it one of those faces that improved, rather than deteriorated, with years.
Anger had flickered in her eyes when she’d recognized him. He was sure that were it not for the rules of hospitality she would ask him to leave. Instead, she’d straightened her back, and defiance and pride shielded her face. The hint of tears, though, almost undid him.
He’d hoped she would be happy, that she would make a good marriage. The night he’d heard of her marriage, he drunk himself into a stupor but he’d wished her well. He’d heard stories of her husband, and they had not been pleasant ones.
Still, he’d hoped, and yet the moment he’d seen her face, the spirit drained from it, he’d known it had been false hope. His … sacrifice had been in vain.
It had been all he could do to keep from taking her into his arms. But nothing had really changed. Oh, he was a wealthy man now, and he bore a title, but the madness still haunted his past, would always do so.
The Heart Queen Page 3
