“Was?” Cameron repeated. The bottom dropped from the pit of his stomach. Was. An infamous word. A word meaning that his natural mother no longer lived. Would he never know her? See her face? Be held by her?
His heart slowed to a dull thud.
“Aye, I regret to tell ye that yer mother passed on several months ago after a long illness.” The duke spoke with great and surprising gentleness. He blinked the water from his eyes. But sorrow and compassion remained, glimmering in their dark brown depths.
“I see.” Cameron lowered his head. He felt as if an iron blow had been dealt to his midsection. The air left him in a rush. Confusing and unexpected emotions assailed him.
Cameron did not truly know what he felt. Disappointment? Anguish? Innumerable questions flashed through his mind. Was the duke telling him the truth? But then, why would he not? Why would he create a tale? Why now?
“Anne told me about you, on her deathbed, Cameron.”
“What? Why?” Impatient and irritated by the prickling, painful inner turmoil, Cameron rose to his feet.
For years he had held the illusion he was in complete control of his life. Without meaning to, Meggie had shown Cameron how foolish he’d been. And now—this. This new evidence of his lack of control.
Casting the duke a scathing frown, he revealed the deep-seated bitterness Cameron had not realized until this moment he possessed. “Did my loving mother tell you why she gave me away?”
“Aye.” The craggy-faced Scotsman lowered his eyes and nodded sadly. “Your mother feared for your life. You see, Anne was the daughter of Mary Tudor.”
“Bloody Mary?”
“An unfortunate name. But, aye.” The older man’s kindly gaze rested on Cameron as he told the rest of the tale. “Mary gave birth to Anne in secret in order to protect her only child. The queen, your grandmother, then gave her babe to a young lady-in-waiting to care for and raise. Installed in Scotland, far from court intrigue, Sally Pickering and Anne lived in virtual isolation in Downes Castle. Your mother dinna have a happy life.”
Suddenly weak in the knees, Cameron hastily took a seat across from the duke. He felt like a woman about to swoon. His mind raced; his breath came in shallow gasps. “Are you telling me I am of royal birth?”
“Aye. You are a prince.”
“A... a prince?”
“Aye.”
The devil!
Cameron threw his head back and laughed. He laughed for all the years, ever since he could remember, that he strove to be accepted, to be favored by his peers, to be admired and respected. All those years, all the while he was a bloody prince!
The duke frowned, a concerned frown rather than one of disapproval. “Do you find your princely state amusing, me lad?”
“Nay, nay.” Cameron composed himself. Another question begged to be answered. “Your Grace, do you know who might be my father?”
The duke’s charming grin reappeared. His craggy face brightened, and the spark in his deep brown eyes returned. “Aye,” he said with a nod of his head. “’Tis I. I am your father. Cameron, and you are my son. My one and only son. My heir.”
Cameron jumped up, incredulous. “The devil!”
The duke rose as well. “I loved your mother. I courted Anne, but she wouldna marry me, wouldna even see me oft times,” he explained. “And she never told me about the children. About you and Kate.”
“Kate?”
“Your sister. In order to protect you, just as her mother had protected her, Anne chose to give her children to men and women who would give them a normal life. If she hadna done so, ye would have been raised in isolation at Downes Castle. ’Twas a great sacrifice for her to let ye go.”
Cameron paced, raked a hand through his hair. “I can hardly believe—” He stopped and stared at the duke, who stood grinning in the center of the room. “But no, it must be so. Not even an Irish bard could create a story such as this.”
“Aye. I understand this might be difficult for you to take in all at once.”
“You are my father. Princess Anne was my mother.”
“She hoped to be reunited with you one day. Anne charged the Thatchers, and Kate’s parents, to observe certain conditions. One of these being that at all times you would wear the rose-and-crown ring that identifies you.”
God’s bones. The ring I gave to Meggie.
Cameron blanched.
The duke took his hand. “Where is your ring?”
With the woman I love.
“I... I am a spy. I can wear nothing that might identify me. But do not worry, the ring is safe.”
If Meggie hasn’t thrown it in the river by now.
“Of course, of course.” The soft-spoken duke clapped a hand on Cameron’s shoulder once more, in a familiar, fatherly fashion. “I realize ’tis quite a shock and you shall require time to digest what I have told you.”
“Aye,” Cameron quickly agreed. A goodly amount of time. “Aye.”
“You’ll likely be havin’ more questions as well.”
“Aye.”
“Before sailing to Dublin, I visited the Thatchers and extended my gratitude to them. I canna tell you how knowing ye were raised in a good home lifted my spirits.”
“The Thatchers have been good to me. But I always felt... different from them,” Cameron admitted. “Even before they told me I was not their natural child.”
“You are different. Royal blood runs through your veins, son.”
Son?
Donald Cameron offered a rueful smile. “Weel na, I realize I canna be a father to you now. And I rue the days I missed seein’ you grow to the fine man ye are. But if you wouldna mind, I’d like to be your friend.”
Cameron’s heart felt as if it would break. How much more breakage could one heart stand? he wondered. Reaching out, he laid a hand on the duke’s arm. “I... I would like that as well.”
His father’s hesitant smile widened to a broad beam of light. “My thanks. We’ll make time to sort things out and get to know one another if ye like.”
Cameron had taken to the duke instantly. Oddly enough, he had felt the connection of kindred souls. “Aye. I would like that.”
He could learn much from his natural father.
“I’ve hired this house for a short spell. You are welcome to stay with me. In fact, I should like you to stay.”
After months of wandering and sleeping in trees and cold, damp chambers, Cameron could not object.
“’Twill be a welcome respite. I have been given several days before I must report and return to the field.”
“Ye might wish to resign your commission. You’ll inherit my country estate one day. Already, I am growing too tired to handle all matters.”
“Estate? In Scotland?”
“Aye, Doneval Manor lies just north of Edinburgh, still in the Lowlands we are, a spot close to heaven. You’ll find more land, cattle, and sheep than the eye can see.”
Cameron had learned a bit about cattle and sheep during his time at Dochas. He had learned about horses and farming as well, and discovered he enjoyed a farmer’s life. Now his natural father offered him that same life across the sea, “I... I think I should like to farm.”
“My lad, I dinna wish to press ye. You have time to decide what to do.”
Cameron breathed deeply, in a sigh of sorts. “I am not a true Englishman, then.”
“Son, I’m proud to say you have rich Scottish blood running through your veins. And ye have my name as weel.”
“Cameron.”
“Anne named you Cameron, and the Thatchers promised never to change your name.”
“I am not Cameron Thatcher, but Cameron Cameron?”
“A name change might be in order.” He grinned.
It would not be the first change in Cameron’s life. The past few months had brought constant change. Change that had begun the moment Meggie shot him. The duke’s news meant significant changes of a different sort.
But what Cameron wished for more than anything
else could not be changed. The Irish duchess with the red-gold hair would never be his. Even if pure Scots blood ran through his veins, he would never have the opportunity to tell Meggie. Before he could explain, she would either refuse to see him or, this time, shoot to kill.
The duke’s bushy brows knit together in a frown. “For your own safety, I should like to announce that I have found in you my lost son. My lad, stolen long ago from my wife Caragh and me. You shall be known as the Duke of Doneval one day, but I fear if you should declare yourself as Anne’s son, you may be doomed.”
“Doomed?”
“Old Queen Bess is always looking for long-lost relatives wishin’ to make a claim to her throne. She locks them up in the Tower of London.”
“And likely forgets they are there?” Cameron asked, knowing the answer. “I feel no need for such a declaration. I shall be proud to be known as your son.”
Knowing he was a prince was enough.
* * * *
Two days after the English bard disappeared, Meggie’s father rode through the gates of Dochas. Her heavy heart lifted at the sight of him.
She saw him coming from the tower window where she had taken refuge from Niall, who stubbornly remained at Dochas. He ranted at every turn, accusing Meggie of aiding the English spy to escape. He swore she had been placed under a spell. When he calmed himself, he vowed to marry her. And each time he said they would be wed by All Hallows’ eve, Deirdre’s eyes filled with tears. The girl loved Niall.
Humphrey Fitzgerald was home. Meggie need not worry about Niall now.
Flanked by two warriors, Humphrey sat as straight and tall in the saddle as a man half his age. The villagers who tended the fields had stopped their work to follow him. Dochas retainers rushed to greet him. Meggie’s heart outraced her feet as she scurried down the spiraling staircase.
“Da!” She ran to her father with outstretched arms. “Da!”
At the sight of her, he came to a stop in the middle of the bailey, dismounted quickly, and gathered her into a crushing embrace. Average in height, lean and muscular, he presented an ominous figure in his heavy sheepskin mantle that swept the ground. The sun had lined and darkened his skin to the shade of old bark. His blue eyes appeared more startling in contrast to his dark complexion.
Meggie knew her father was not a handsome man in the true sense, but she loved each aspect of him. His broad, hooked nose and the angry scar that zagged across his cheek to be lost beneath a full red beard were dear to Meggie. His rust-colored hair, sprinkled with frosty strands of white, fell past his shoulders in a thick, coarse mass. Although long in the back, no hair grew on the shiny crown of his head.
“Meggie, me love, me love. Let me look at ye.”
He set her back from him. His loving gaze skimmed the length of her with obvious pride. “Ye grow more beautiful every day. Ye’re lookin’ just like your dear mother.”
She threw her arms around him again. “Oh, Da, I’ve missed you so much.”
As she clung to her father, Niall strode from the castle. “Welcome home, Humphrey.”
“My thanks, Niall,” he said, gently detaching Meggie’s hold on him. “Are ye at Dochas especially to greet me? Or for some other reason?” His eyes twinkled as they rested on Meggie.
Meggie bit her tongue. In due time, she would confess her feelings to her father. She had no intention of marrying the one-eyed former warrior.
Niall’s somber countenance put an end to her father’s twinkle. “Humphrey, I came to rescue Meggie from the clutches of an English spy. He lived here in yer castle, right here in Dochas. Yer daughter might have been killed.”
“Pish!”
Folding his arms across his chest, her father turned to Meggie. “What say ye, daughter?”
“Pish! Once more.” Oh, how she resented Niall’s intrusion. She had precious little time with her father. To waste time with silly explanations irked Meggie. “A wandering bard came by - -”
“An English spy,” Niall interrupted.
A curse on every black hair on your head!
After silently cursing him, Meggie ignored Niall, giving her father a sweet smile. “Thinking the bard might be a werewolf hiding in the copse, I shot him. He stayed at Dochas while he healed. ’Twas not as if he asked me to shoot and shelter him!”
“The English cur bewitched her!” Niall shouted, pointing a finger at Meggie.
“What could a spy possibly learn at Dochas?” she asked her father.
“What say ye, Niall?”
“What I have to say I shall say in private to ye.”
“Come, Father.” Meggie looped her hand in the crook of his arm and very nearly dragged her father away from Niall. “This is no way to begin a rest at home. Your chamber is prepared. I shall have Cook serve your favorite mutton, and this eve I shall play the harp to soothe ye.”
“Hear me out, Humphrey.”
“On the morrow, Niall.”
Meggie did not look back as she steered her father toward the great hall. “I have so much to tell you, Da. And so much I want to hear from you.”
“Meggie. I cannot stay long at Dochas.”
“Nay! Say it is not so.” Meggie could feel hot tears gathering behind her eyes and feared she might begin to cry again.
Her father’s bright, azure eyes held regret as they met hers. He spoke softly, apologetically. “I must meet Hugh O’Neill in Dublin before the new moon.”
“Nay.”
“There is more, my lass.”
How can there be? Will my loneliness and heartbreak never end?
“We must sell all of our horses in Dublin. Funds are sorely needed for weapons. We must defend Ulster.”
Meggie sucked in her breath. Nay. Nay. She had grown tired of the fighting, the long absences. She simply could not part with the foal called Bard. But she would for her father.
“And we have meetings with the English,” her father added.
“Can the English not wait just this once, Da?”
“Nay. But we shall not be denied our time together, Meggie, me love. Ye shall come to Dublin with me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cameron resigned his commission within days of discovering his birthright. He had won promotion to captain and had no heart for further contest with the Irish. If Humphrey Fitzgerald should be harmed by anything he might be held responsible for, directly or indirectly, Cameron could never forgive himself. He would rather sleep in trees for the rest of his life than cause Meggie any further grief. Moreover, no one could fault him for wishing to return to Scotland with his father and begin a new life.
Nobility, even the Scottish nobility, lived in a far different world from what Cameron had known as he quickly discovered. From the moment he moved into the duke’s comfortable house, the changes began.
His trews, tunic, and mantle were immediately discarded. Cameron found himself being fitted and clothed in elegant English fashions worthy of his new title, the Marquis of Doneval. He wore padded breeches and satin doublets adorned with lace cuffs. Velvet canions and fringed garters replaced his simple Irish trews. After weeks wearing drab Irish garments, he felt quite the fop. Cameron took comfort in the duke’s assurances that once they returned to Doneval Manor, he might once again dress as plainly as he wished. The duke favored kilts, himself, but since he spent much of his time at the English court when away from his home, he had adopted English dress. He’d urged Cameron to do the same.
At the outset, Donald Cameron made certain that his son possessed his own resources. The generous duke presented him with more English sovereigns than Cameron thought to see in a lifetime.
“This will stake you until we return to Scotland,” the duke told him, handing Cameron a thick velvet pouch. “But if you should need more, you need only ask. Once back home, I shall settle upon you,” he paused, and with twinkling eyes grinned broadly. “A princely sum.”
Seemingly overnight, Cameron had become a wealthy man and gained a title. But not that of “prince.” To thi
nk blue, princely blood ran through his veins seemed the highest absurdity. He felt little different now than he had as a boy cleaning the Buckthorn inn’s stables.
As a prince without power, Cameron welcomed becoming the Marquis of Doneval. Having no interest in the English throne, he was content being recognized as the child of a Scottish duke and Donald’s deceased wife, Caragh. One wee - as Meggie would say - little lie seemed a small price to pay for his freedom. Cameron’s sister Kate had chosen to do the same. It made no sense to risk threatening the elderly queen. Elizabeth might still take exception to any distant relative making a claim to the throne.
If pressed, Cameron would have to admit the future never looked more exciting, that life had never been better... except for missing Meggie. The prince had been brought to his knees by the Duchess of Dochas.
After an eve of gambling with his father, he had slept late. The duke wished to teach him the pitfalls of the sport; instead, Cameron succeeded in winning several sovereigns and enjoyed himself immensely.
Rather belatedly on this morn, he joined the duke in the small first-floor chamber where they dined. Owing to the autumn chill in the air and a gloomy gray sky, a fire danced in the small fireplace, and a multitude of candles had been lit to brighten the room.
“Good day, Father.”
Cameron said the word more easily now than he had at the beginning. Father. He knew no other fellow who could boast having two fathers, both of whom were extraordinary men. Cameron attempted to console himself with the thought that while he had lost Meggie, he had gained a father. But realizing himself selfish in the extreme, he longed for Meggie as well.
“Did you rest well, son?”
“Never have I slept this late in the day,” Cameron confessed, stifling a yawn. “I am beginning to feel quite the wastrel.”
The duke chuckled. “When we return home, you’ll not have time for such pleasures as we enjoy now. I promise you. Although I shall be teachin’ you how to golf, there is work to be done. Improvements I’m certain you’ll wish to make.”
“I look forward to new tasks.”
Laboring on the land would take Cameron’s mind off Meggie, off of losing Meggie, of never seeing Meggie’s freckled face again, of never hearing Meggie’s boisterous laugh again.
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