White Regency 03 - White Knight

by Jaclyn Reding

  Sir Roger MacRath’s display was situated beneath the window. He had been a fourteenth-century poet whose lyrical verses were scribbled upon everything, from parchment to several window panes. A portrait of Sir Roger’s only child, his daughter Mhairi, hung nearby, her thoughtful expression framed by a linen caul. Mhairi was one of Skynegal’s most noteworthy residents, for she had made it her life’s work to preserve the legend of the “winged” castle and its foundation in the myth of the goddess Cliodna. Some said it was Cliodna herself who had charged young Mhairi with the duty in a dream when she’d been only twelve. Whatever it had been, for the eighteen years afterward, Mhairi had passed every night weaving a tapestry from the finest threads of gold and silver into an image of the castle with the goddess Cliodna watching over from above while her servant birds soared around the castle towers.

  According to the legend, on the night Mhairi had fixed the last thread, completing the tapestry, she had gone to her bed never to rise again. That same tapestry stitched by her dedicated hands now hung in a place of honor beside her portrait. It was alleged that as long as the tapestry was kept at the castle, the people of Skynegal would remain under the protection of the Celtic goddess and her mythical birds, safe against any threat of invasion, destitution, or plague. Indeed, thus far, the prediction had held true.

  Up in the tower this morning, Grace set aside a small costumed fashion doll that had once been her grandmother’s and peered inside the trunk to see what else was contained inside. A small book of sonnets with an embossed cover lay tucked away near the bottom. Grace took it up, reading the inscription inside.

  For Grace of Skynegal, you shall forever be the only lady of my heart. Your Devoted Knight, Eli 1768.

  Grace drew up, reading the inscription again. Eli? But her grandfather’s name had been William. Surely this was her grandmother’s book, for it had her name inscribed inside with the date that would put her near her sixteenth year.

  As she turned to the first page, something slipped from inside the back cover. They were letters addressed to her grandmother at Skynegal, several of them, tied together with a ribbon. Grace unfolded the first of them, dated April of the same year inscribed in the book.

  My love, I find myself counting the days until we might see each other again. I long for the slightest glance from your eyes, the softest touch of your hand. I am sending this book in the hopes that someday I might hear your sweet voice reading from it to me. I am lost without you… Your Adoring Knight, Eli.

  The next letter, dated six months later, seemed to indicate that some sort of response had been sent from her grandmother. The script of this letter was decidedly more formal in tone.

  I will not, it seems, be able to travel to the Highlands as I had planned. Family matters have developed which will require my presence in London. It is, unfortunately, beyond my control. Know I am thinking of you and hoping your are well. I will count the days until I can see you again. Devoted and Frustrated Knight, E.

  The next letter was dated early the following year. The handwriting, while still that of the previous author, was less elegant, more of a scrawl.

  It is with great regret and a heavy heart that I must inform you of my inability to continue our relationship. Circumstances have arisen that prevent my pursuing anything more than an acquaintanceship with you. My happiest days will always have been during our time together for despite the duties I must assume, my heart will forever remain yours alone. Your Knight, Now and Always, E.

  When she reached the final letter in the stack, Grace saw that it was not a letter after all, but a page from a London news sheet. It was dated April of 1769. She scanned past the events of that year, noticing nothing of significance until she reached the very bottom of the column where an announcement had been printed.

  It is hereby announced that on Saturday last, the 2nd day of April at St. Paul’s, the heir to the Duke of Westover, Elias Wycliffe, Marquess Knighton, did wed Lady Lydia Fairchild, eldest daughter to the Marquess of Noakes.

  Grace looked again at the inscription in the book and the name written there.

  Eli.

  The truth came suddenly clear. Through all the years Nonny had spoken of her “one true knight,” Grace had always believed him to have been her grandfather. But it had been Christian’s grandfather, the duke, all along. So many things made sense to her then—the duke’s lifelong bitterness, his preoccupation that first day in her uncle’s study with her grandmother’s portrait. Had they planned to marry? Had his family prevented it?

  Grace struggled to her feet, taking up the book of sonnets and the letters as she hurried off to find Christian. She wanted him to know the truth about his grandfather so that perhaps he might find some way to better understand.

  As she skipped down the tower steps, Grace nearly collided with someone climbing up in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, goodness—Eleanor.”

  Eleanor’s eyes were red from crying, her cheeks stained from her tears. The moment she saw Grace, she collapsed against her, sobbing into her shoulder.

  “What is it, Eleanor? What has happened?”

  It took her several moments to respond. “Oh, Grace, it is Christian. He has forbidden me to wed Lord Herrick. He refused to listen to reason.”

  Grace tried desperately to calm her, patting her gently on the shoulder as Eleanor leaned against her. “What do you mean? Lord Herrick has asked you to marry him?”

  Eleanor nodded. “Before we left London, he indicated he had something of importance to discuss-with me. I received a letter from him just this morning formally proposing marriage. I took it to Christian, but he has refused to give his consent. And Mother has said she will not oppose his decision. I knew Christian and my mother had held some reluctance toward Lord Herrick, but I thought with his proposal, they would see that his intentions are only honorable. No, there is some other reason for their refusal. The worst of it is, Christian won’t even tell me why. I know I have not known Lord Herrick long, but I can only think that were we to have more time together, my regard for him would only grow. Christian had promised me, Grace, that I would be given my choice to marry freely. Why would he do this to me now when I have already made my choice? Why?”

  Grace shook her head, clasping Eleanor’s hands in hers. She looked at her closely. “I don’t know, but if you would like, I will see if I can talk to Christian.”

  Eleanor sniffed into her handkerchief. “Would you?”

  “I will go to him right now.”

  A small smile broke across Eleanor’s teary face. “Thank you, Grace. Perhaps he will listen to you.”

  Grace squeezed Eleanor’s hands reassuringly. “You go to your chamber now and lie down. I will come to you there after I have spoken with Christian.”

  Lady Frances was just leaving as Grace approached the door to the office. The dowager marchioness looked to have been crying as well, but she smiled softly to Grace before continuing out of the room.

  Inside, Christian sat alone.

  Grace closed the door behind her. Christian looked up at her, his expression stricken and pained. It was killing him to make Eleanor so unhappy. Surely he must have a reason for his refusal. Perhaps Herrick was a blackguard and Christian was simply trying to spare his sister the heartache. Whatever his reasons, Grace decided not to come at Christian about Eleanor immediately, but instead approached the subject from a different perspective.

  “I found something in the garret that I thought you should see.”

  She placed the book of sonnets and the letters she had found on the desk in front of him. She watched as he took them up and read through them, allowing him time to come to the same conclusions she had.

  When he was finished, he looked at her. “Where did you find these?”

  “They were in a trunk with some of my grandmother’s things. I think she might have left them for me to find one day.” She paused. “It is your grandfather’s handwriting, is it not?”

  Christian nodded. His
expression was troubled as his lifelong opinions about his grandfather were suddenly challenged.

  “Perhaps now you can understand some of the reasons for his bitterness.”

  “Perhaps. But what I fail to understand is why—if he was made to marry someone other than your grandmother, whom he clearly loved—would he then repeat that by arranging a marriage for me?”

  Grace came to stand beside his chair, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I wondered that same thing. Perhaps, in his way, he was seeking to right the wrong he had done my grandmother in abandoning her by bringing us two together.”

  “Perhaps.” Christian was still staring at the letters, no doubt thinking about the man—so different than the grandfather he had known all his life—who had written them so long ago.

  Grace knelt before Christian. “Christian, can I ask why you have refused to consent to a marriage between Eleanor and Lord Herrick?”

  Christian’s expression grew clouded. Grace carefully pressed on. “I know you love her very much and would never do anything to hurt her. Is there something more? Something about Lord Herrick you are not telling me? Is he a blackguard?”

  Christian sat forward in his chair, raking his fingers through his hair as he rested his elbows on his knees. He was extremely troubled, more so than Grace should have thought.

  Finally he looked at her. “Do you remember when I told you about my father’s death?”

  She nodded.

  “I told you how my father had fought a duel against a man whom my mother had pursued a relationship with. Grace, the reason I cannot give my consent for Eleanor to wed Lord Herrick is because he is the son of the man who killed my father. He is the eldest and legitimate son of the man my mother had a liaison with.”

  It only took Grace a moment longer to realize the import of what he was saying. “Good God, Lord Herrick is Eleanor’s half-brother.”

  Christian nodded, closing his eyes. “So now you see why she cannot marry him. The worst part of it is I must tell her my reasons. I must tell Eleanor of her illegitimacy and the circumstances of her birth. If I don’t, she might decide to run off and wed him without my consent. My mother already suspects as much, so she has asked me to tell Eleanor everything. There is no other choice. I will have to tell my sister that I killed the man who was her true father.”

  “You did not kill anyone.”

  Neither Grace nor Christian had heard the duke come into the room.

  “I should have told you the truth long ago, Christian. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was so broken after Christopher’s death. I wanted you to hate your mother, blame her as I did. It took me twenty years to realize it wasn’t her fault. Your father knew Frances didn’t love him when he asked her to marry him. Her family was in financial straits. They needed her to marry well. Christopher convinced her that she would grow to love him one day; he thought he could love enough for both of them.” He shook his head. “He only smothered her.”

  Christian looked at the duke. “But what does that have to do with the fact that I shot Lord Herrick’s father?”

  “Your shot went wide that morning, Christian. I saw it strike the tree behind. It was my shot that killed him.”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed on the duke with loathing. “You allowed me to believe all these years that I had

  killed him. You are a bastard.”

  “I will not deny that, Christian. My biggest regret is that it took me twenty years to tell you the truth. I can’t expect that you would understand. I was an angry, bitter man. Losing Grace’s grandmother was the biggest mistake of my life. Then I lost Christopher, and with him any chance to really know him. We had spent so long fighting each other over his marriage to your mother. I never found the time to tell him that I loved him. One can never know what it is to lose something precious until it is gone.”

  “You…” Christian suddenly said, stunned. “You left that message at the door, didn’t you?” The duke nodded.

  “I thought it was Herrick, that he knew that I had killed his father. In fact, I was convinced he was courting Eleanor in an effort to exact some sort of revenge.”

  The duke shook his head. “No, that message had nothing to do with Herrick or his father. I was trying to tell you not to throw away the chance you had for happiness. I have made many mistakes in my life and I am ashamed of most everything I am. I am stubborn and proud and arrogant. I am also a fool. But there is one thing I am not ashamed of, the one thing I did right in life—bringing you and Grace together.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  By the time the following morning dawned, Eleanor was gone.

  She had slipped away some time during the night, going unnoticed by her maid or anyone else in the great hall. She had taken a small bag with some of her things and Christian’s horse, leaving him with only the slower Highland ponies to go after her.

  “I should have suspected she would do this,” Christian said as he stalked about the stables, saddling the largest of the ponies, a bright bay named Torquil who was just under fifteen hands. “She has several hours lead on me. She could be halfway to Edinburgh by now. I will never catch up to her on this nag.”

  Torquil quirked his ears at the insult. Grace tried to give Christian hope. “These are the Highlands, not the grasslands of England. Torquil has a surer foot than Eleanor’s mount on this terrain and you are more familiar with the landscape than she.”

  Christian barely heard her as he slammed a fist against the stall post, causing the ponies to jerk up their heads and nicker in alarm. “Damnation! I should have known this would happen. She was too quiet last night when I talked to her, too accepting of the circumstances of her birth.”

  “You don’t think she has gone to Herrick, do you?” “No. I destroyed any thought she had of that last night when I told her the truth about my father’s death. Good God, what have I done? I took away her identity. I blithely informed her she is not the person she believed she was all her life. Why did I leave her alone last night? Why didn’t I have my mother stay with her?”

  Grace touched him gently on the arm. “You could have no way of knowing she would run.”

  “I should have realized it, Grace. I told her she is for all intents and purposes a bastard and she never so much as shed a single tear. She just looked at me as if to say I was the one who was supposed to have protected her from all this. I’ve failed her.”

  “No, Christian, you did not fail her. You gave her a life and respectability she would never have otherwise known. If not for you she would have suffered the judgment of society.”

  Christian stood a moment at the stable door, staring out at the hills in the distance. He turned to Grace, taking her by the arms. “I have to try to find her, Grace. If something happens to her, I will never forgive myself.”

  Grace wished she could do something to ease the burden of guilt that was so obviously consuming him inside. “I know, Christian. And you will find her.”

  Less than an hour later, Grace stood in the courtyard with Frances, Deirdre, Liza, and the duke watching as Christian hoisted himself into the saddle.

  The duke went before him. “Whatever it takes, Christian, we will find her. I’ve already sent off to Bow Street.”

  Christian added, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Grace reached up to him, giving him a farewell kiss. “We will postpone the ceilidh until you return with her.” Christian spurred the pony around and headed off at a canter across the courtyard. How long would he be gone? A day? A week? Would he search the ends of the earth until he found her? Grace did not look away until he had vanished into the morning mist. In the moment he was gone, she was seized by a feeling of utter emptiness. Already she wished him back.

  Liza must have sensed her despondency because she came to Grace and set her arm around her shoulder. “Don’t you fret a bit, my lady. The laird will be back with Lady Eleanor very soon. You’ll see. All will be well.”

  Grace looked at her, this woman who was more friend than maid, a
nd smiled with a flagging optimism. “I truly hope so, Liza.”

  As they turned to head back inside the castle, Grace noticed Liza staring across the courtyard to where Andrew MacAlister was chopping wood, bare-chested with only his Skynegal kilt to cover him. His sinewy arms flexed and moved as he lifted the axe high above his head, pulling it down to split the helpless log cleanly in half. Andrew caught the maid’s stare and gave her a grin that could have melted the mist off the mountains.

  “I believe I may have to forbid Andrew from working out in the open like that. Either that or you’ll have to start mending my stockings out here!”

  Liza blushed at having been caught so obviously appreciating the Highlander’s physical charms. Grace smiled. “Perhaps you should see if Andrew would like some cold ale. He looks as if he could use some.”

  Liza started off across the courtyard and Grace watched as they chatted together. The attraction between the stalwart Highlander and the maid had blossomed into a sweet romance. Andrew brought out a femininity in Liza that she had previously kept hidden behind talk of planting “facers.” Liza softened the loneliness Andrew had had to confront after his family had immigrated to America. Most in the castle thought it only a matter of time before the two were wed. Given the fact that Liza had recently posted a letter to her mother asking for “bridal night” advice, Grace would think a proposal very near indeed. As she turned, she saw Alastair strolling past holding a bunch of wildflowers as he whistled a happy tune. Grace wondered whether he and Flora just might manage to see to the task of getting wed before the other two.