She looked so vulnerable lying there, so defenseless, her belly round just like last summer when she carried Ian. Jamie laced his hands together, resisting the strong urge to touch her, to protect her.
No wonder you came home, lass. An unmarried woman with a bairn would not be welcome in Twyneholm parish or any other. Though she’d kept her secret well hidden beneath her apron, it appeared she’d been carrying the child for several months.
One thing was certain: The child was his.
He bent forward, pressing a fist against his mouth, lest he groan aloud. Oh, Leana. A moment of anger quickly passed. She’d not meant to deceive him; she’d meant to spare him. I ken more than that but am bound to silence. Lachlan knew, it seemed. Yet she’d clearly begged her father to keep her secret.
The woman he’d once loved with all his heart would never lie. If he asked her, Leana would confess the truth at once. But Jamie trusted her instincts; she was concealing her child for some very good reason. Rose. There could be no other explanation. Leana meant to keep this news to herself rather than wound her sister. Rather than devastate him.
“Och, lass,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
Her scent rose to greet him. Lavender and soap and Leana. Overcome, he leaned back, catching his breath. Should he leave? Should he stay and voice his suspicions? He watched her turn onto her side again, wondering if she’d heard him.
“Did my father win the skirmish?” she asked softly, opening her eyes. “Or did you?”
There was no leaving now. He met her gaze, still clouded with sleep. “No one did, I’m afraid.”
“But you tried, Jamie. You spoke on my behalf, and I’m grateful.” She drew up her knees, pulling her gown round her, covering what she could. “Have you been here … long?”
“Not long.” Long enough. “Rose asked that I put your mind at ease about … what happened in the dining room.”
“Did Father … say anything … in particular?”
Jamie hesitated, longing to expose her secret, wanting to hear her confession: I am carrying your child. But that was unfair and unkind. When she was ready to tell him, she would. “Lachlan and I exchanged very few words,” he finally admitted. “We talked about my stolen lambs.” Well, they had, hadn’t they?
“Your precious flocks.” She lifted her hand as though she might brush his cheek, then laid it across her bodice instead. “ ’Twas unthinkable what those men did.”
“Whoever they were.” When Ian stirred in his crib, Jamie realized his visit to the nursery was nearing an end. He stood, looking down at her all the while. “I am verra sorry about your father’s decision. About the wedding.”
“It matters not, Jamie.” Her words sounded genuine. Leana had yet to meet Morna or her sons. Perhaps she truly did not want to go. “With the house to ourselves, Ian and I will have a fine day.”
“But our gift …”
She lifted her hand, gently stopping his words. “I’ll not begrudge my father a wedding present simply because I won’t be there to hear the marriage vows.” Her gaze shifted away from his. “I have heard them spoken before.”
“So have I.” And have said them. Twice. “I’ll leave you to Ian, then.”
Jamie bowed, then quit the room and bounded down the stair more quickly than was prudent. Running from the house. Running from the truth.
Thirty-Three
The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Three weeks to Lammas.
Leana could think of little else this Sabbath day, even while the notes of the closing psalm rang round her head and the words of Reverend Gordon’s sermon beat upon the doors of her heart. “Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts.” That was precisely where the truth could be found. Yet all she could offer was a timorous smile while her mind turned the pages of a calendar.
The first of August would find her in this very pew with only Neda and Duncan to keep her company. A day she both longed for and dreaded. Though her hidden child could at last be revealed, Ian would be taken from her arms. Though her heart could begin to mend, the loss of Jamie’s company would render it irreparable.
Three weeks to Lammas.
“Dearie,” Rose whispered in her ear, “the benediction is finished.”
Leana lifted her head like one grateful to be awakened from a sad dream. Some parishioners stood among the pews, others milled in the aisles, loath to face the downpour that waited for them beyond the kirk doors. All through both services the rain had pounded on the slate roof and drummed against the windowpanes.
“Miss McBride.” Reverend Gordon greeted her at the end of the pew. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”
Leana turned aside as the rest of the household squeezed past her. The air smelled of mildew and damp linen, and the gray light cast a pallor on every face. Rose gave her a furtive glance, and Jamie eyed her with genuine concern. Her father, who held the truth in his hand like a trump card, looked the other way as his coattails brushed her skirt.
Giving the minister her full attention, Leana did what she could to appear calm. Reminding herself to breathe. Offering a silent prayer. Thou art my hiding place. She intended to tell Reverend Gordon her news but not yet. And not here.
“A certain matter has come to my attention.” His solemn features gave away nothing. “ ’Twould best be discussed … elsewhere. What day this week might I call at Auchengray?”
A certain matter. She squeezed the cotton gloves in her hands until her fingers ached. “You are welcome any day, of course.” Ministers were free to knock on parishioner doors whenever they pleased. How else might a shepherd discern the goats among his sheep? “Perhaps Friday would be best. Some of the household will be away at Father’s wedding in Urr parish.”
Reverend Gordon’s thick gray eyebrows arched. “And will you not be in attendance?”
“I am not invited.”
His look of surprise gave way to irritation as the minister stared at her father’s departing back. “I’m sorry to hear it. Expect me for tea at ten.” After a moment his features softened. “I’ll hope for better weather by week’s end.”
“As shall I, sir.” She curtsied, then hastened to catch up with her family. A certain matter. What could it be but her bairn? Pausing in the doorway to pull on her gloves with trembling hands, she spied the chaise parked near the kirk gate. Rose was already seated, clutching Ian, while Jamie stood waiting in the deluge, holding out his hand toward her.
Leana hurried across the muddy kirkyard. Holding her hands over her head made little difference; she was soaked through within seconds. “Sorry to have kept you,” she shouted above the din, breathless from running. “Has Father gone ahead?”
“Aye, astride Walloch.” Jamie practically lifted her into the two-wheeled vehicle, then helped her get settled. “ ’Tis good we brought the chaise. No woman should be forced to walk in a plumpshower like this. Especially one who bears a babe.”
Jamie looked at Rose when he said it, but Leana thought he’d glanced at her in passing. Might he suspect something? Or was he merely being polite, including her? On several occasions of late, she’d caught Jamie studying her, a pensive look on his face. She ate as little as she could to keep her figure in check, but her babe was not so easily contained. Perhaps she was fooling herself to think the child well hidden. Or had her father disclosed her secret for some ill-kindit reason?
She gripped the soggy leather reins while Jamie made his way to the other side and climbed onto the seat beside Rose. The chaise, one of the few wheeled conveyances in the parish, was meant for two. Three adults and a child in arms taxed the narrow, padded seat to its limits.
“On with you, Bess.” Jamie took the reins, and the chaise lurched forward. The auld mare knew the way, leading them safely through the village, then across the arched stone bridge and westward. The movable bonnet above them provided minimal protection from the elements,
and the open sides, none at all. Huddled together, their hats dripping, the sisters did what they could to comfort Ian, whose plaintive cries were muffled by the rain. At least the temperature was warm. They would arrive home drenched but not shivering.
Though Leana kept a wary eye on the flooded ditches, Reverend Gordon’s visit was foremost in her mind. That morning the precentor had announced the kirk session would meet on the second of August. Please God, that Monday evening would not find her in the dining room of the manse before a formidable assembly of men demanding to know the particulars of her condition. Insisting the child should be raised by his father and stepmother. Nae. She was innocent before God and would not let the elders decide otherwise. Let thy mercy be upon me.
Once they arrived at the mains, getting Ian dry and fed was Leana’s primary mission. Exhausted and irritable, he refused to cooperate, swatting his food away. “All right then, laddie. We’ll see to a nap.” Leana walked with him in the second-floor hall as she had when he was a newborn, holding him close, hoping the rhythm of her steps and the warmth of her body would help him drift off to sleep. “Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,” she sang softly, watching his eyelids droop. “How I wish I’d not weaned you, little one,” she murmured. “A few minutes at my breast and you’d be fast asleep.”
Ian finally drifted off, drooling across the bodice of Leana’s gown. She smiled as she tucked him in his crib, then released him very slowly lest she jostle him awake. She eased out of the nursery and tiptoed down the corridor toward her bedroom. Sunday supper would be light—day-old bannocks, Dunlop cheese from Ayrshire, cherries and summer pears from the orchard—but until then, her time was her own. She’d change her gown and see if she might find a book to read, something worthy of the Sabbath.
Leana stepped into her room and lit a few candles to dispel the gloom before she began unlacing her gown. She’d stitched it soon after Ian was born, practically living in the dress those first few months. Since it laced up the front, rather than in the back, it made nursing her son much more manageable. Now she was grateful to wear it because she could dress herself without calling Eliza to help her. Regrettably, none of her other altered gowns were so designed.
After slipping off her soiled dress and loosely laced corset, Leana pulled a linen wrapper from her closet. ’Twould do for a quiet afternoon in her room. She tied it round her waist, dismayed to watch the belt inch up. Was there no hope of hiding this dear child?
“We will read,” she said aloud as though her bairn might behave himself, then dug through her small cupboard full of books. She chose Sutton’s Meditation on the Sacrament—a sober book for a sober day—then settled into the upholstered chair and drew the candle closer. Freed of her restrictive clothes, she read in blessed comfort. When occasional flutters distracted her, she pressed her hand over the spot as if to comfort David. Or Davina. The thought brought a smile to her lips.
The supper hour was drawing near when a soft knock at the door announced Eliza. “May I come in, mem?”
Leana was on her feet at once, her book forgotten. Since lady’s maids were accustomed to seeing their mistresses in every state of undress, Eliza might think it odd if she asked her to wait. But wait she must. “A moment, please.” Leana tossed aside her wrap and grabbed her corset, the lacing still threaded but quite loose. She wriggled into it headfirst and pulled it in place just as Eliza slipped through door.
“D’ye not want me help wi’ that, mem?” The maidservant wrinkled her brow at the sight of her, then hurried to be of assistance. Her experienced hands made short work of the laces, drawing the edges of the corset closer. “ ’Tis not sae het today. Shall I pu’ them tighter?”
Leana exhaled, making as much room as she could. “Only a little.” When Eliza yanked the laces, Leana gasped, her vision clouding for a moment. “Too … much.”
Eliza quickly loosened them with profuse apologies.
“ ’Tis not your fault, lass.” Leana took the deepest breath she could, grateful Eliza was standing behind her, where she could not see her expanding stomach. “I’ve been eating too well, I fear.”
Eliza finished her task without comment, then helped her into a clean gown for supper. It was only when the last button was finished that Eliza stepped in front of her. “Beg pardon, mem, but ye hardly eat oniething.” Though she was five years younger than Leana, the maidservant’s eyes shone with understanding. “Perhaps ye’re growin’ for anither reason.”
Tears welled in Leana’s eyes. Any pretense was over. “Does the whole staff know as well?”
“Nae.” Eliza offered Leana a fresh handkerchief from the dresser. “They’d have come tae me or tae Neda, and none have.”
“Oh, Eliza.” Leana dabbed at her nose, gazing at the maidservant all the while. “Can you possibly keep my secret? ’Tis not a matter of shame. I will gladly confess it after Lammas. But I fear it would … complicate things for Mr. and Mistress McKie.”
Eliza was quick to agree.
Leana grasped the girl’s chapped hands and squeezed them. “Will you promise to tell no one? And help me conceal the … evidence?”
“Ye can be sure I will, on baith counts.” Eliza stepped back to appraise her. “We’ll trim ane o’ yer corsets and tie yer apron higher. I’ll dress yer hair sae folk willna bother tae leuk below yer bonny face. As tae yer gouns, lighter colors are best. Might ye let oot yer seams a bit mair?”
“After supper,” Leana promised. “Eliza, I realize the burden this puts on you, keeping my secret.”
“ ’Tis nae burden, mem.” She blushed and curtsied. “I’m blithe tae ken ye’ll be a mither again.” Eliza turned and hastened out of the room, leaving the door open for Leana to follow, for the supper bell was already ringing.
Leana started down the stair, steadying herself on the handrail, her heart lodged in her throat. First Father, now Eliza. Who else in the household had jaloused her secret? Neda seldom missed such things. Nor Annabel. But it wasn’t the servants knowing that made her knees weak and her steps unsure. It was Jamie. And Rose. Three weeks to Lammas.
Thirty-Four
Skilled in every trick, a worthy heir of his paternal craft,
he would make black look white, and white look black.
OVID
If you plan to storm the Bastille, you’re a twelvemonth late.”
Jamie looked up to find Lachlan looming over him, his expression arrogant, his frame outlined by the slanted afternoon light that filled the entrance to the barn.
Keeping his gaze as even as his blade, Jamie drew the whetstone the length of his sword and imagined thrusting the weapon into the man’s gullet. Every hour he lived under Lachlan McBride’s roof was more intolerable than the last. The uncle who’d once credited him with blessing his flocks seemed bent on destroying whatever kinship they might have known.
Lachlan picked up the dirk, examining the broad blade. “ ’Tis badly nicked.”
“That only means the dagger served its former owner well.” Jamie sheathed the sword within its worn scabbard, pleased with the heft of it in his hand. “As long as the point is sharp, ’twill do its duty.”
Lachlan snorted. “Surely you don’t envision needing to defend yourself?”
“ ’Tis a long journey home to Glentrool. With a wife and child to protect and my flocks to watch o’er, I’d rather be armed than foolish.” Jamie reclaimed his dirk from his uncle’s grasp and began to polish the gemstone-studded grip. Though the hilt was ornamental, the lethal blade was anything but decorative. The dagger would remain hidden in his boot until needed. Silent. Ready. A man could not be certain who his enemies might be—a thief, a Gypsy, a scoundrel. Or a brother.
Have your dirk where you can reach it. John McMillan’s words, well marked.
Except Jamie could never kill his own brother. He would defend himself if necessary, but he would not strike the first blow. A fortnight had passed since he had written Evan. Jamie wondered if his letter had softened his brother’s heart … or harden
ed it.
Lachlan eyed the all-metal pistol on the bench. “That flintlock must be twenty years old.”
“ ’Twas made by Murdoch of Doune.” His pensie uncle could not help being impressed by the celebrated pistol maker. When the man offered no further comment, Jamie realized he’d at least won on that score. Lachlan did not need to know that the mainspring was deemed defective by the Dumfries merchant who’d sold it for a price well below its value. Jamie did not intend to fire the single-shot pistol; simply wielding such a weapon would subdue most blackguards.
He slipped the polished dirk into his boot, then began cleaning the pistol, a more tedious task than mere sharpening or polishing. His efforts were eased with a timely reminder: Lachlan’s wedding was two days hence. The man would disappear for a sennight with his bride, and peace would reign at Auchengray. “What time will we be leaving on Friday for Edingham?”
“Edingham?” Lachlan’s voice raised a notch. “You’re to go straight to the Urr kirk, where the Douglases will meet us. Not to Edingham.”
Odd, his brusque response. Jamie had already visited the farm several times that spring. Was he no longer welcome? In truth, Jamie had no desire to see Edingham again and would gladly take the chaise directly to Urr. “What time shall we arrive at the kirk, then?”
“No later than half past eleven.” Lachlan tapped the watch in his pocket for emphasis. “My bride insists the ceremony begin at the stroke of noon, whether any witnesses are present or not.”
Jamie could not help but feel sorry for Morna Douglas, a woman destined to live in misery. Her sons, on the other hand, merited no pity whatsoever. They were cut from the same flawed bolt of broadcloth as his uncle, worshiping property over charity and silver above all else.
“I assume you came out here for a reason, Uncle,” Jamie muttered, intent on using the clever tool built into the butt of the pistol to clear the fouling encrusted in the vent. When there was no response, he looked up. “Some … favor perhaps?”
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