by Karen Ranney
Elsbeth turned slightly and smiled at the portrait. Maybe at another time he wouldn’t have understood so quickly, but he did now.
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “He was my best friend in the whole world. I could tell him anything and I did.”
Her smile was tinged with sadness, but he was glad for it all the same. Her love for Gavin and his for Graham linked them, the knowledge of that connection right for this moment and this place.
“I’m glad you were the one to show me,” he said, realizing it was the truth.
He wouldn’t have been able to hide his shock from his aunt or his cousins. Now he realized he didn’t have to. Yet revealing himself to her didn’t disturb him as much as it probably should have.
She was Elsbeth, and that simple statement explained it all, even though he’d known her for less than a day.
“Did he ever talk about my father?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, startling him. “He often did.”
She was still looking at the portrait, and when he glanced at her, she turned and smiled.
“He told me that he wrote to Graham years ago, but never received an answer. He said that he knew Graham was still alive. He would have felt it, otherwise.”
If his father had ever received a letter from his brother, Graham had never said.
“Why did he leave?” he found himself asking.
Had Gavin told her? Had there been a rift between the brothers? Had his father been disappointed that his twin became the duke? He couldn’t reconcile that idea with the man he’d known. His father had accomplished what few other men had in building the XIV Ranch.
Elsbeth didn’t say anything for a moment and for the first time since he’d met her, the silence wasn’t comfortable. He wanted to draw back the question or reframe it. Or simply turn and walk away. He would go and visit with Glassey once again, do what he could to expedite finding a buyer for Bealadair and the land.
He didn’t need to know the reason why Graham had created his own dynasty in America.
But the war had taught him the true meaning of courage: to stand your ground even when everything in you was fighting to flee.
He didn’t move and he didn’t speak.
She took a few steps to the right, looking at a small portrait he hadn’t seen. This one was half the size of Gavin’s and positioned slightly lower than his.
The woman bore a slight resemblance to Elsbeth, but he couldn’t say why he thought that. They didn’t look like each other. The woman had brown hair instead of black and her eyes were a soft shade of blue.
Perhaps it was something about her pose, seated and facing the artist, her hands folded calmly on her lap, her smile causing the corners of her eyes to crinkle. Perhaps it was her air of studied calm or something more, a sense of peace he got when looking at her.
“This is Marie. She was Gavin’s first wife and Lara’s mother.”
He didn’t say anything, waiting.
“She died in childbirth.”
She glanced over at him and he returned her look.
“A story as old as time itself, Gavin said. Two men in love with one woman. In the end, she chose Gavin. He said your father left Scotland shortly before they were married. The last time he heard from him was when he let Graham know that Marie had died.”
He found himself nodding again.
“You were going to show me the oldest wing,” he said, determined to get back on an even keel.
The reason why his father had left Scotland forty years ago didn’t matter in the end. The lingering sadness of Elsbeth’s words shouldn’t affect him. Nor should he feel this discordance, trying to equate the young man he imagined with the strong, able father of his memory.
Elsbeth nodded, turning and leading him back to the stairs. He followed, wondering if Graham had felt any emptiness in his life. Had he ever thought of Marie? Had he felt envious of his brother, the duke? Not because of his title, but because Gavin had married the woman he loved.
He would never know and maybe that was the source of his discomfort.
The discovery that his father had been Gavin’s twin had evidently shocked Connor. How odd that he’d never known. Would it be helpful to tell him how many times Gavin wished that their estrangement had ended? Especially toward the last, when he’d grown weaker and weaker. He’d talked about Marie, then, and how much he’d loved her.
“She had a voice like bells,” he said one day. “I used to sit and ask her to speak, simply because I loved the sound of her voice so much.” He’d smiled, then. “She laughed at me, but I didn’t mind. I can hear the sound of her laughter even now.”
He had brought her to tears more than once with his words.
She wanted to know about Graham’s life in America. Why had he decided to go to Texas? Had he been happy? Had he loved Connor’s mother or was she only a replacement for Marie?
None of those questions would be proper, however.
“I like that you’re not a chatterbox,” he suddenly said.
“You say the strangest things, Your Grace. Connor.”
“I’ve been told that I’m too direct. Do you think so?”
Rather than answer that question, she asked one of her own.
“Who said that to you?”
“One of my sisters,” he admitted.
“You have five, Mr. Glassey said.”
He nodded. “Alison, Barbara, Constance, Dorothy, and Eustace.”
“They have alphabetical names,” she said, smiling. “Why doesn’t your name begin with an F? Or with an A as the only boy?”
“My father put his foot down,” he said. “I understand Connor is a McCraight name.”
“It is. Two of the previous dukes were named Connor.”
By the time they reached the old wing, Elsbeth was wishing she hadn’t taken him to the portrait gallery. Connor McCraight had changed from a charming, fascinating man to a truculent one. He didn’t speak. He only nodded when she showed him the armament the McCraights had carried into battle hundreds of years ago. The colorful rendition of the clan badge, mounted over the massive fireplace, didn’t seem to interest him. Nor did the various artifacts lovingly and carefully restored over hundreds of years.
Gavin had been most proud of the display case he’d had made for the Bible belonging to the third Duchess of Lothian. A devout and religious woman, it was rumored that she was responsible for the clan motto: God guides our endeavors.
He didn’t say anything to that, either.
“Do you know anything about the McCraight clan?”
At that, he turned and faced her directly. She was an inch from apologizing for the presumptuous nature of her question and its curiosity. Who was she to want to know such things?
“No,” he said, his gaze direct and unflinching. “I thought I knew something about the clan history in Scotland, but I realize I don’t know anything about my own heritage. At least not that from Scotland. In Texas, you don’t have to ask a man about his past. If he wants to tell you, he will. If he doesn’t, you just simply forget about it.”
She tried to reconcile the image of Graham with his brother. Had the younger twin simply walked away from Scotland, erasing everything about his heritage? It sounded like it.
“The laird is responsible for the clan’s well-being. In turn, the clan is responsible for supporting the laird, granting him fealty and loyalty. One doesn’t exist without the other.”
“That really doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he said. “I’m an American. I was born there. Even more important, I’m a Texan. My father might have grown up here, but I didn’t.”
Nor would he feel any kind of kinship to the family who was waiting, almost breathlessly, for him to indicate by word or deed what their future might be.
It wasn’t, after all, her task to educate him. Yet she could almost hear Gavin whispering in her ear. She turned and walked to a bench located some distance away. She heard Con
nor’s boots on the stone floor behind her.
This particular section of Bealadair was a long rectangular structure constructed of stone two stories high. The rest of Bealadair had been added on to this original part of the house. Although it was cool and pleasant in the summer months it was difficult to keep warm in winter. The windows always seemed to have a draft no matter how many times the glaziers worked to seal them. Here, the air was chilled, the fireplace not normally lit. Few people ventured to the old wing in the depths of winter.
A house was only a structure unless the people within warmed it with emotion, laughter, and conversation—the daily business of living. No one warmed this place.
He came and sat beside her. For five minutes, perhaps more, they sat together silently. Finally, Connor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, looking out at the display cases and framed artifacts.
“Mr. Glassey said you came here as an orphan.”
“When I was eight,” she said.
“What happened?”
With anyone else she would probably have demurred or changed the subject. She strangely wanted to tell him her story.
“My parents and I were traveling somewhere. I don’t know where and I can’t remember why. Only that I was excited to be on a train again.”
She shook her head, not telling him how many times she had tried to unearth the memory. Or how many times she had buried it on purpose.
“The train was on a bridge and the bridge collapsed. All I can remember after that is darkness and screaming. I felt this sense of separation.” She stared off into the distance. “I’ve never been able to explain that to anybody, but it’s as if I knew that my parents had died, that they’d left me alone.” She shook her head. “The next thing I knew I was on a cot along with hundreds of other people. I was freezing and shaking. I couldn’t stop shaking. Someone kept asking me my name and I kept telling them. I wanted my mother and father, but that’s the one thing they couldn’t give me.”
She took a deep breath. When he remained silent, she kept talking.
“I don’t remember how many days passed, but all of a sudden there were people there, then a man. Everyone seemed very impressed by him. But all I can remember is that he told me he was my father’s friend.”
She could remember that moment like it was yesterday. Gavin had bent down and looked directly in her face.
“‘I know you are hurting, my dear child, and I understand. William was my friend and I will miss him as well.’ He told me that he had agreed that if anything happened to my parents, he would be responsible for me. I don’t remember having any say in the matter, but the next thing I knew, I was here at Bealadair.”
In the past minute, he’d turned and was looking at her. She glanced in his direction and then away.
“I’d gone from not having anyone to having a family and a home.” She glanced at him again. “It’s the same for you. I understand if you feel like you don’t belong. But that’s not true. The family needs you. The clan needs you.”
“I’m not a Scot,” he said. “This isn’t my country. This isn’t my land.”
He looked around him, his gaze finally returning to her.
“You aren’t staying, are you?” she asked.
He didn’t fit here. Nor did he seem to want to. This was his ancestral home, but he rejected it with every step, every breath, every glance.
She knew they were in peril, the three girls she had considered almost sisters and Gavin’s wife. She felt as if she owed it to Gavin, if no one else, to try to protect them. Not for their sake, but for his, because of all the kindnesses he had extended to her.
“As soon as I can sell Bealadair, I’m leaving. Maybe my uncle wouldn’t understand, but my father would. A man needs to create his own destiny, not depend on those who came before him.”
She had a feeling that rugged individualism had probably marked the very first Duke of Lothian. He, too, had carved his destiny, but in Scotland not Texas.
“Thanks for the tour,” he said, standing. “I won’t take up any more of your time. There’s no need.”
She watched as he crossed the floor, the sound of his boots on the stones sounding like heartbeats.
She gripped the material of her skirt, realized what she was doing and released it, smoothing the wrinkles out with her fingers. She forced herself to remain seated until she calmed, until her pulse was once more normal, and she could breathe easily.
The family was not destitute. Gavin had gifted them each with enough funds to live a modest life. But when had the McCraights ever lived modestly?
Money had never been an object at Bealadair. It wasn’t that anyone ever talked about it. Such things were considered crass. Jewelry was commissioned from the finest London firms. Felix had gunsmiths at his beck and call. Anise loved shoes and had standing orders for the newest fashions to be sent to her. Muira loved confections and received monthly orders from Edinburgh.
The only time there was an attempt at economy was once a quarter when the duchess was forced to look over the household expenditures. Those times passed quickly. All too often everyone was back to buying what they wanted.
Now the future was there before them, written out for all of them to see. There would be no more jewelry, shoes, chocolates, or guns. Anise would not have another season and Muira would not have her first. As for the duchess? She would not be able to rule like a queen. And, if Connor was serious about selling Bealadair, Rhona wouldn’t even be able to live at the Dower House.
Connor had brought disaster with him, just as she had feared. Someone needed to tell the duchess, and she fervently prayed it would be Mr. Glassey.
She wasn’t brave enough for that task.
Chapter 12
Connor hadn’t seen Sam since the night before. Sam wasn’t known for getting up with the dawn, but he should have been up and about by now. Connor knocked on the door of the room Sam was occupying, only for his knock to go unanswered.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” a voice said.
He turned to find a short maid with curly red hair bobbing a curtsy at him. That’s another thing he didn’t think he would ever get accustomed to, people bowing and scraping in front of him.
“I believe Mr. Kirby is taking lunch, Your Grace. He went down with the rest of the family a few minutes ago.”
He nodded and thanked her.
“Would you like me to show you the way, Your Grace?”
“Thank you, no.”
He wasn’t in the mood for the rest of his newfound family. He was out of sorts and irritated and he knew why, but the knowledge didn’t matter. It didn’t make him any less angry or confused.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here more than at any time since he left Texas. He felt sick to his stomach, the kind of sickness that has nothing to do with physical symptoms and everything to do with one idea colliding against another.
In the last months of the war he’d come to grips with the realization that he didn’t want to be where he was. It had nothing to do with cowardice or courage and everything to do with the fact that he didn’t believe in the cause for which he was fighting. He’d fought for the South because Texas was part of the Confederacy. Yet everything in him believed in keeping the Union together.
He was feeling the same conflict right now.
He couldn’t imagine walking away from his home and never seeing family or friends again. Or having a twin yet turning his back on the man for forty years. He couldn’t understand why Graham had never mentioned the home his ancestors had built. Or why he’d never commented on the history or the heritage about which they’d evidently felt great pride.
The man he’d always respected was fading, to be replaced by a cipher, a shadowy figure he realized he might never have truly known.
He thought about changing his mind and going down to the dining room again, but the idea of being around his aunt and his cousins kept him from following through with that
thought. He didn’t feel like being companionable at the moment.
Instead, he made his way to the duke’s suite again, walking into the sitting room with its blue-and-gray upholstery, then to the small library with its oversized desk. The desk sat out in the middle of the room so that anyone sitting at it would have his back to the window. It struck Connor as a deliberate act, one he didn’t understand.
If he’d designed this room, he would have turned the desk around, faced the view and Bealadair land.
Graham had taught him pride and stewardship of his heritage. Even though Sam had been his partner, over the years, he’d sold his half—in parcels—back to Graham. The purchase had made the McCraights land rich but cash poor.
His inheritance from his uncle, plus selling Bealadair, would provide for the future of the XIV Ranch and the American McCraights.
Of course, the only person who knew that was Sam. He hadn’t even confided that information to Glassey. The less the solicitor knew the better. Otherwise he had a feeling that everything he told the man would go straight to the duchess.
He sat on the chair behind the desk, then turned it so he could put his boots up on the windowsill and survey the view. He had to admit that the scenery of the hills and rolling grass was pretty even buried under snow. But it didn’t matter if it was the most beautiful place on earth. In a contest between Bealadair and the ranch, the ranch would always win. His father was buried there. His mother was there and not far away his five sisters, four of them married with their own families.
He’d wanted to go home ever since he left Texas, a fact that he didn’t try to hide from Sam, who occasionally teased him about it.
“Somebody would think that you’ve never been outside of Texas,” Sam said.
He’d gone to college and had gone to war. The former had been a hell of a lot easier than the latter. Yet he’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d come home with all his limbs as well as his mind. He wasn’t like those poor souls he’d met who cringed at any loud sounds. He’d seen one man who sat in the corner of the medical tent rocking back and forth with his arms over his head, his eyes closed tight as if he were hiding in a small dark place in his soul. He wasn’t like that man, but he understood the need to go away for a little while, to escape.
