The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  He certainly had made himself at home in eight months. He terrified the other servants, or at least they claimed so, even as a twinkle sparkled in their eyes. Everyone seemed to like the gruff, good-hearted Torquil, who had taken his new responsibilities very seriously.

  She scrubbed a little harder.

  “Where did he find you?”

  “At ’is old home on the sea.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “No’ much tae tell. It was a great, dark place. ’Tis falling apart.”

  “My lord told me his family had all died.”

  His brows knit together. “Aye. His mother died when he was but a wee lad. But he had already been taken away. Her father, the old lord, died shortly after.”

  “And no one inherited.”

  “’Twas nothing tae inherit. The castle was falling down, the lands played out. The old master was in debt. ’Twas taken over by the crown for taxes, but no one wanted it. ’Twas cursed, everyone said.”

  “Why?” She tried to keep her voice level.

  His face worked and his eyes clouded. “The lady threw herself from the tower.”

  His lips clamped shut then, as if he had said too much.

  “My lord told me about his mother,” she said gently.

  Torquil’s eyes narrowed, and he regarded her warily.

  “He said she had been sick.” It was both a comment and a question.

  Torquil bent back to the spot he was scrubbing. She wondered about that. He could have called in one of the maids, but he seemed to take a proprietary interest in every aspect of Braemoor. He had, in fact, been given the power to make payments while Neil was absent. The trust obviously went two ways.

  Janet thought he was not going to answer. But after a moment’s silence, he did. “She was a bonny lass. Kind … and trusting. Everyone loved her.”

  So had he, she knew suddenly.

  His mouth clamped shut suddenly.

  “What happened?” she asked, prodding him as gently as she could.

  “Gaston Forbes visited,” he said bitterly. “He told her he loved her, and she thought she loved him. He … seduced her, then left. The bastard had offered for the hand of another woman wi’ a larger dowry and it was accepted. She wrote him when she discovered she was with child but he never answered.”

  “Her fa was furious. Although she had only a small dowry and the land was poor, he had depended on a good marriage. His only hope was tae keep the matter quiet. He dinna want anyone to know of her disgrace and told everyone she was visiting relatives. But he had no heirs and when the young master was born, her father claimed the child had been orphaned, and told the world he’d legally adopted him. His mother …”

  He stopped. “I should not be talking of these things.” He stood, but he was trembling, and she would have sworn he was fighting back tears.

  She put a hand on his sleeve. She hesitated. One did not confide in servants. But she must know. “It is important, Torquil. The marquis was told by his uncle that his mother was mad, and so was her mother. He believes his blood is tainted.”

  “Nay,” he said as he slowly got to his feet. “Tha’ canna be right. I remember her mother dying of a cancer. She died the year before the Lady Johana met the man who betrayed her.” His anger was obvious.

  “She was not mad?”

  “Nay.”

  “Would the family try to hide the real cause?”

  “I was a groom, my lady, and servants talk. I heard nothing about madness.”

  “But Johana?”

  His eyes flickered and he turned away. She saw a glint of tears in them. She realized he had cared far more for his mistress than he would probably ever admit.

  “When she refused tae deny her son, her father kept her imprisoned, hoping to bend her tae his will. It was foolish. Too many people knew, but the earl was desperate. I … agreed to help her escape. She wanted tae take Neil with her. Her father caught her on the steps after a maid let her out of her room. One of the servants told me he took the boy, who was no more than two, and hit her. She fell down the steps and hit her head on the stones. She was never the same again.”

  “She never spoke again. She just … sat. She did not even know me. She stayed that way for years. Then one day the lad was taken away, and I dinna know then what happened tae him. Several days after he left, Lady Johana fell from the tower. Three months later, the earl died.”

  “And the castle?”

  “All the furniture was sold. The servants were discharged.”

  “And you?”

  “I couldna leave,” he said, lifting his chin defiantly. “Someone had to see tae her grave.”

  “And now?”

  “My lord employed someone to see tae it. He said he needed me.” The last was said proudly. “He has even taught me tae do sums, so I could be of more help.”

  More likely, Braemoor knew Torquil needed him. She was learning that Braemoor’s acts of kindnesses were always hidden under some pretext.

  “Would anyone know anything about Johana’s mother?” she asked.

  “Her family was English. I think … it may ha’ been Wadsworth.”

  “And the marquis never asked you about her?”

  “Nay,” he said.

  Because he thought he knew.

  A lump as large as a piece of coal lodged in her throat. What if he had been wrong? What if his uncle had lied to him? Then she could have married him years ago. It would not have mattered if they had little.

  But then she wouldn’t have Colin and the lasses.

  God took away, and He gave.

  But perhaps it had not been God at all. It had been the late marquis. A pox on his soul.

  “My lady?”

  “We must find out more,” she said. “Mayhap hire a solicitor to make inquiries.”

  Torquil shook his head. “No’ without my lord’s approval.” He started to back out. “I should no’ have said so much.”

  She watched him disappear. He left, his head high.

  She remained there a moment. She wanted to go after him, but she knew he would say no more. Not tonight. His loyalty to Neil was complete. As it had been to Neil’s mother.

  Janet went up the stairs, the story echoing in her mind. Her heart hurt for the woman who had been hidden away, the mother whose son was stolen. But now she had hope. Neil’s mother had apparently been badly injured. Johana had not been mad, at least not before hitting her head, and that had a physical cause, not a hereditary one.

  But would it be enough for Neil, especially after he had lived these past eight years under the cloud?

  She did not think so.

  If only they could find out.

  She had the control of Lochaene funds. She needed only to find a solicitor. She did not trust the one that served Lochaene and she had not yet found a new one. The village nearby had none. Again she knew the hopelessness that had too often filled her. Other than Neil, she knew no one she could trust.

  But Braemoor must have a solicitor.

  And Torquil would know who it was.

  But would Torquil help her?

  Alexander Leslie tied the mask around the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes revealed. A shock of russet hair covered the only visible part of his scar.

  He had a jack of spades with him, the one Braemoor had given him. Burke, on the other side of the road, was also masked. He had been in the village when he had seen a fancy coach stop at the inn. He’d soon discovered it was an Englishman recently gifted with Scots land. For services to King George, no doubt.

  The village was three miles from Lochaene.

  Mayhap they would fetch enough to repay Braemoor at least part of the sums the man was spending. Despite his words to Braemoor, it galled Alex to take so much from any man, much less one who had fought with Cumberland. Only the children had made him do so.

  They were his one reason for living now. He had lost everything else. His family’s land. His clan members. His legacy. Even the face h
e’d grown up with. But the old woman who had saved his life had harbored five of the bairns. She had begged him to help them find a way to France, where she hoped other Scottish refugees would care for them. The others … well, they had come one by one.

  He’d been hesitant to roam far from the cave, because he was all they had. But now he had a reason. He could do this to help his sister. That was very important to him.

  They had already felled a log across the road. Now they waited and hoped there would be no British patrols.

  It was several hours later when Fergus, one of the youngsters, came riding toward them. He had been watching the road from a vantage point. Thank God they still had Braemoor’s mount from their unfortunate—or was it fortunate—original meeting. The man had said nothing about it on his subsequent visits. Alex was not sure whether Braemoor had forgotten about it or thought Alex needed the horse more than he did. He now suspected the latter.

  The man confounded him. Confused him. But by God, Alex hoped he was no more than a very odd angel.

  He and Burke mounted their horses. They were just around a curve, and the tree would keep the carriage from going forward. It would be nearly impossible to turn it on such a narrow road.

  They heard the hooves, the jangling of harnesses, the turning creak of wheels, and then it was in sight, a great lumbering, ostentatious coach drawn by four matched black horses.

  The driver’s eyes had been on the road and started to slow the coach when he saw the log in the road. Then he saw Alex and Burke and frantically tried to hold back the horses.

  A head popped out of the window, then back in. Time enough to aim a pistol, Alex knew. He pointed his pistol at the man. “Stand and deliver,” he said.

  The driver lifted his hands and the horses stood nervously. Burke, on the other side, slipped off his horse and went over to the door on the opposite side of the coach. He jerked it open.

  “Get down,” Alex ordered the driver.

  The man stepped down, and Alex swung one leg over the saddle and slipped down. He flipped the man’s coat with his pistols. “No weapons?”

  The driver shook his head, his eyes pure fright.

  “Go toward the back of the coach and stand where I can see you.”

  The driver did as he was told. Alex then approached his side of the coach, hoping that any pistol inside the carriage had been taken. It had been. A stout man dressed in velvet finery sat inside, Burke’s gun aimed for his sizeable stomach. A pistol lay uselessly beside him. Alex leaned over and took it. “My lord, I thank you for another weapon. And now your purse and jewelry, if you please.”

  “Blackguard, you will pay for this. The Duke of Cumberland—”

  “The butcher, you mean,” Alex said. “He will be able to do nothing. Has he not already tried to take the Black Knave? ’Tis impossible, my lord. I am like the Scottish mist. I will plague you until you leave Scotland. And you can tell your grand duke that. And now you are wasting my time. If you wish to keep that waistcoat without a hole through the center, then I will take the purse and those rings. The belt buckle, too, I think. Gold, my lord? Paid for by the blood of good Scots?”

  The man was shaking now. He handed Alex a fat purse attached to his belt, then reluctantly undid the gold belt. Burke reached out and took it.

  “Now your rings, my lord—and hurry. I am getting impatient and might well cut off your fingers to get them.”

  The Englishman yanked at his rings. Three came off. The other did not. Alex played with his knife.

  “I beg you,” the Englishman said.

  “I do like to see an Englishman beg a Scot,” Alex said. “In truth, I enjoy it so much, I will leave you the ring as a memento. Along with this.” He flipped over a card. “And tell your lord Cumberland that the Black Knave has enjoyed his holiday but now intends to make the English pay.”

  “You will never get away.”

  “Oh I have friends, my lord. Important friends. And now I leave you to contemplate your transgressions against my countrymen.” He nodded to Burke, whose one foot was inside the carriage. “Cut the traces.”

  The Englishman came halfway up on his feet before Alex shoved him back down. “I would not do that. My friend cares for the English even less than I do.”

  “But you cannot leave us here.”

  “Of course I can. You can walk, my lord. You look as if you need activity.”

  Burke cut the traces, then headed for his horse. Alex closed the coach door and glared at the driver. “Do not do anything foolish.” Then he sprinted several steps to his horse, mounted, and dug his heels into the horse’s sides.

  Neil stood on the beach, his hands tied behind him and six burly and surly smugglers surrounding him. He hoped like hell that the Frenchman was a reasonable sort. He watched as a longboat neared the shore. Eight men handled the oars and Neil saw casks piled in the middle. A second boat was also appearing out of a mist.

  For a while, neither he nor his captors believed contact would be made. The mist obscured the flashes of light. The smugglers had been swinging lanterns from three parts of the beach, and an hour passed before Neil had seen the bare glimmer of light from sea and alerted the others.

  And now he was wondering whether he should have been so accommodating.

  A man in a dark blue coat jumped out of the longboat and approached Neil and the smugglers. The lantern had been dimmed, but Neil saw a handsome man with a dark beard. “Mon ami,” he said with great good humor. “And who do you have here?”

  “I found him spying on us. He said he was looking for a Frenchman.”

  The captain looked him over, completing the survey by taking the lantern and holding it up, looking straight into Neil’s eyes. “Monsieur?”

  Neil studied him just as obviously. The man was lean but Neil had the impression of power. The man’s eyes looked as cold as the sea he’d just left. “I have two adults and ten children who need passage to France. I will pay any amount you ask.”

  “You are that wealthy?”

  “More like desperate,” Neil admitted.

  “And how can I trust you?”

  Neil looked at the men around him. “May I speak to you alone?”

  Still holding the lantern, the Frenchman nodded and took his arm, guiding him a distance down the beach as the smugglers started to unload casks. “My cousin was Rory Forbes,” he said.

  “Should that mean anything to me?”

  “I had hoped so. I believe he had some transactions with a French captain.”

  “There is more than one smuggler, monsieur.”

  “Ones who like gold, I hoped.”

  “Your name, monsieur?”

  Neil did not want to give it. And yet he had already admitted his relationship to Rory. It would not take the authorities long to make the connection. In for a pence, in for a pound, he thought, thinking that cliches were cliches for a reason. They were too often true. “Braemoor,” he said. “The Marquis of Braemoor.”

  “Ahhhhh,” the Frenchman said, his face clearing. “But you do not resemble him.”

  “Nay,” Neil said, confident now he had met the same man who had served Rory’s needs.

  “He did not mention you.”

  “We were not friends,” Neil admitted honestly.

  The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

  “As I said, I have friends who wish to leave the country.”

  “Enemies of the crown?”

  “If one could call a child of six or ten that.”

  “And your interest in them?”

  “Only to find them safety.”

  The Frenchman’s eyes seemed to pierce him, then he took out a knife with his free hand. “Turn around,” he said.

  Neil did so and felt the knife slicing the ropes binding him. Gratefully, his hands massaged his wrists for a moment. Then he turned his attention back to the Frenchman. “You will do it?”

  “The price is a thousand quid.”

  “Five hundred,”
Braemoor said.

  “You offered any price,” the Frenchman reminded him.

  “Aye,” Neil said. “But I thought the French liked to bargain.”

  “For Rory’s cousin, I agree,” the Frenchman said with a grin.

  Neil hesitated, then said, “He is well?”

  “Well and free with his lovely wife,” the Frenchman said and held out his hand. “I am Renard.”

  Neil took it. “No more questions?”

  “Mon ami, if anything were to happen to me, your life would not be worth a pence. I have friends.”

  It was a clear warning, one he believed.

  They returned to the smugglers, who had already unloaded the first boat and had nearly finished with the second. The casks were piling up on the beach.

  “When can my friends expect you?”

  “The next new moon,” the Frenchman said. “Twenty days from now. I like the dark.”

  “They will be here.”

  “And the money?”

  “It will be here, too.” He reached down into the purse contained in his cloak. “Here is fifty quid,” he said, tossing the purse to the Frenchman. He had already given half of its contents to the smugglers.

  “Bon,” the Frenchman said. “Send your amis to Jack. The owner of the Pelican. He knows the signals. And he hates the English. He will not betray them.”

  “Merci,” Neil replied.

  The captain grinned. “I enjoy outfoxing the damned English.” Then he turned away and talked to Jack for a moment. Money was exchanged. Then the tall Frenchman jumped into the boat and it pulled away.

  Janet looked through the ledger on Braemoor’s desk in his office. Torquil, she knew, was in the kitchen. She did not have much time.

  She knew that he would never countenance what she was about to do. It was the marquis’s business, he would say.

  But now it was hers, too. After the night in Edinburgh, it most definitely was her business.

  She found what she wanted. The name of his solicitor in Edinburgh. She quickly wrote it down, then closed the journal and made her escape.

  Edwin Prentis, Esq.

  She sat down at the table in her room; one eye on Colin who was now careening from one fixed object to another. He had discovered that legs were faster than knees.