Once Upon a Tartan mt-2

by Grace Burrowes

  “My thanks, though you might want to save your whisky when you hear why I’m calling upon you.”

  “Anybody going about in such a deluge needs at least a tot.” A tot of common sense, perhaps, though Spathfoy’s features were so utterly composed, Ian poured the man a drink with a sense of foreboding.

  “To your health.” They drank in silence, Ian sizing up his guest and assuming Spathfoy was sizing up his host. “You’ve the look of a man with something serious on his mind. My royal neighbor frowns on dueling, and while I’ve the sense you could hold your own in a bare-knuckle round, my countess frowns on violence in the house. This leaves a man few options outside of unrelenting civility.”

  While Ian watched a bead of moisture trickle from Spathfoy’s hair onto his collar, Spathfoy grimaced and stared at his drink. “Civility.”

  “Shall we sit? The fire’s throwing out a little heat, thank God. And do I assume her ladyship’s presence will not be needed for this tête-à-tête?”

  Ian moved to the sofa, while Spathfoy lowered himself to a wing chair. The man’s boots squeaked, which more than anything announced that Spathfoy’s errand was not a social call. No English gentleman would jeopardize the welfare of his favorite riding boots had he any alternative.

  “No, we will not need to bother her ladyship.” Spathfoy fell silent then met Ian’s gaze with a glacial green stare. “Fiona is my niece.”

  “She’s my niece too, and a lovely little girl if I do say so myself.”

  “I’m to bring her back to England with me.”

  A shaft of pain lanced Ian’s chest, pain for the child mostly, at being ripped from her home and family—if Spathfoy had his way. So many Scottish children had been uprooted at the behest of English convenience. The clearances had gone on since time out of mind, into Ian’s infancy, but his own niece…

  And pain for Hester and Ariadne, who had cobbled together a household around the child’s routines and joie de vivre. Ian had done likewise almost since Fiona’s birth.

  And then there was Mary Frances’s pain, should her own child be lost to her. This pain was too great to contemplate at any length.

  “And why will you be taking Fiona from the only family to love her?”

  Spathfoy rose and braced one arm on the mantel. “You’re not going to argue?”

  “Answer the question.” Ian kept his seat, the better to watch his guest.

  “Familial duty. The marquess has said it should be so, and I’m the logical one to retrieve the girl.” Spathfoy contemplated the fire as if he’d prefer leaping into it to this familial duty.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Spathfoy? Quinworth forgets about the girl for years, all but denies her patrimony, and now he wants to reave her away from home the first time her mother isn’t on hand to go with her. Even an English marquess wouldn’t take that queer a start without some provocation.”

  “I wish to hell I knew what the old man’s game was.” Spathfoy threw himself back into the chair. “When I came up here, I thought I’d simply collect the child, leave a bank draft with her mother, have a brandy with Altsax, and promise them they could visit her while she was with us. Altsax has a title, and nobody winters up here if they have a choice.”

  “I winter up here. Fiona has spent every winter of her life up here.” Something wasn’t making sense. Spathfoy looked not chagrined, but rather, miserable.

  Torn.

  “I know that, Balfour. I know now that Fiona is well cared for here, and I know her mother and stepfather aren’t on hand to prevent me from taking the child. I did not know these things when I left England.”

  “So your own dear papa is not showing you all his cards, and you’re his son and heir. How can you speak for his intentions toward Fiona?”

  Spathfoy ran a hand through his damp hair, suggesting Ian’s question had hit a tender spot. “My father has assured me it was Gordie’s express wish, conveyed in his last will and testament, that any of Gordie’s children be raised by Gordie’s surviving family. My father would not lie about such a thing.”

  Ian had read law. There was lying, and then there were the English versions of the truth, which were many, varied, and often grossly inaccurate without being what English barristers would call lies. “Have you seen your brother’s will?”

  The knuckles on Spathfoy’s hand, the hand holding his drink, were white. “I would not insult my father by demanding such a thing.”

  “Ah, but he’d insult you by sending you up here to steal a child without giving you the lay of the land. He’d insult me by sending you to do it without contacting me first as head of Fiona’s family and the man who has been writing to the marquess regularly regarding the child, and he’d insult Lady Mary Frances by failing to extend an invitation to the child’s mother to visit the almighty Flynn family seat with her daughter.”

  Ian did not raise his voice, though the urge to shout and break things—Spathfoy’s handsome head included—was nigh overpowering.

  “Let me be clear, Balfour.” Spathfoy didn’t shout either. “I am not borrowing Fiona for the rest of the summer. I am taking her to place her in the sole care and custody of the Marquess of Quinworth, her paternal grandfather. That is the purpose of my visit.”

  “You will be sure Quinworth’s affairs are in order when you head south, won’t you?” Ian took a sip of his drink, needing spirits to calm his heart as it pounded slowly against his ribs.

  “Quinworth’s affairs are always in order.” Spathfoy replied with such assurance, Ian concluded it was Spathfoy’s responsibility to ensure those affairs remained in order.

  “That’s just fine then, for Mary Fran will kill your father, Spathfoy. Altsax will load and reload her gun for her if necessary. Fiona’s mother would consider it worth her life to keep Fee safe from Gordie’s family, and particularly from her grandfather. More whisky?”

  Spathfoy had the sense to cast a wary glance at Ian’s offer of more drink. The threat to Quinworth’s life if Fiona were kidnapped was far from a jest.

  “The whisky would be appreciated, and I will consider that your description of your sister’s behavior is mere dramatics.”

  “Laddie, that was not dramatics. That was a promise.” Ian went to the sideboard and brought the decanter to the coffee table. “Help yourself.”

  He wasn’t trying to be rude, but he wanted to note whether Spathfoy’s hands shook when he poured himself a drink. “I have to wonder, Spathfoy, why you didn’t simply ride out with Fee, bundle her onto the train in Ballater, and send us a wire she’s being held for ransom.”

  “Ransom?” Spathfoy set the decanter on the table—his hands were steady, damn the man. “That is a ridiculous notion. Quinworth’s finances are quite sound. My mother and I have both seen to it.”

  Ian would bet his horse Spathfoy hadn’t intended to make that disclosure. “Well, then your dear papa has gone daft, perhaps. I’ve yet to meet an English marquess who ignores his own granddaughter for years, only to demand possession of her with no warning or explanation. Does your father know how much trouble young females can be?”

  Spathfoy studied the decanter. “Likely not. He’s turned my sisters more or less over to me, and never had much to do with them when they were younger.” He tossed back his drink and reached for the decanter.

  “Then Fiona will at least have the company of some doting aunts, if you take her south?”

  “I shall take her south, Balfour. I know my duty, but no, her aunts do not reside at the family seat.”

  “Married, are they?” Ian put the question casually while Spathfoy poured himself his third whisky. This was beyond chasing the damp away, past the medicinal tot, and fast approaching manly indulgence. Spathfoy was a big bastard, but he was drinking aged Scottish whisky like it was water.

  Or like he was Scottish.

  “Not a one of them is married. Not yet, which is the entire—” He fell silent, his drink halfway to his mouth. “They are lovely young women who enjoy the hospitality of
various aunts and cousins for the summer. This is very good whisky, Balfour.”

  “It is. When are you supposed to take Fiona into the loving arms of that stranger known as her grandpapa?”

  Spathfoy stopped staring at his drink to peer at Ian. “Oh, yesterday, of course. With his lordship, everything is yesterday if not the day before.”

  Which explained a few of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies. “I can’t allow that. I need time to wire Fee’s mama at least. They will very likely head directly home by way of London, and Hester and Ariadne will need time to pack up Fee’s effects. I’ll want some assurances in writing regarding Mary Fran’s right to visit, as well as my own, Connor’s, Gilgallon’s, and Asher’s.”

  “Who?”

  “My brothers. With the exception of Asher, they’ve had as much of the raising of Fiona as I have.”

  Spathfoy nodded. Being in anticipation of a title, he would comprehend a need to document any understandings. “You’ll draw something up?”

  “Give me a week. This will require communicating with my men of business in Aberdeen, and they are not the most responsive bunch.” It would require no such thing, but Spathfoy was hardly going to deny Ian a week’s grace.

  The English were stupid that way, though they called it being sporting.

  “I’ll write to my father that we’ve had this discussion.” Spathfoy rose, and he did not weave on his feet in any manner.

  Ian rose as well. “That’s all we’ve had, Spathfoy. This is discussion on my part, not agreement. I have one demand, though.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’ll be the one to explain to Fiona what’s afoot, if and when the need arises. You’re not to be enticing the girl with fairy tales about golden coaches and spun-sugar castles.”

  “Fair enough. You have a week, Balfour, and then I’ll be taking my niece south.”

  “Our niece.”

  They shook hands, and then Ian watched while his guest departed to once again get soaked to his English skin in the bone-chilling Scottish downpour.

  * * *

  A mean Scottish rain was sufficient to clear Tye’s head in short order, that and the sloppy lanes, which would have Rowan bowing a tendon if Tye weren’t careful. He brought the horse back to the walk and resigned himself to again getting thoroughly drenched.

  Balfour had reacted with surprisingly good manners to Tye’s announcement, which pointed to two conclusions.

  First, the man was up to something. At the end of a week, Tye would very likely have to snatch the child and make a dash for the south.

  Second, Balfour had not, in the years of Fiona’s life, done a thorough enough investigation of the legalities involved in Fiona’s situation, or he would have known about Gordie’s will and possibly even sent the girl to her paternal relations. As head of the MacGregor family, particularly as the head of the local branch of the clan, Balfour would have had that authority.

  This suggested Quinworth was up to something as well, which made Tye positively grind his teeth with frustration.

  Rowan shied hugely at a bush swaying and bowing against the increasingly stiff wind, bringing Tye’s focus back to his horse.

  “Settle, young man.” He ran his hand down the horse’s wet crest. “Nobody’s going to eat you until I’m safely out of Scotland.”

  The horse walked on, though it managed to do so with a put-upon air. Tye was as relieved as the beast must have been to spot the stables when they trotted up the lane toward their temporary home.

  And yet, guilt and resentment colored even such a simple emotion as pleasure at being warm and dry. Perhaps guilt and resentment were the dark twins of duty and honor. Tye put up his horse, discussing that very notion with the only being on earth who even appeared to care.

  When Tye squished and slogged his way to the house, he went in by the kitchen entrance, finding Fiona sitting at the worktable doing sums.

  “You should take your boots off, Uncle. The aunties will be wroth if you track mud on Mama’s carpets.”

  “Oh, and what do the aunties look like when they’re wroth?” He peered over the child’s shoulder, but was careful not to drip on her.

  “You’re cold,” Fiona said, shifting away from him. “Did you rub Rowan down before you put him up?”

  “I rubbed him down, picked out his feet, sang him a lullaby, and listened to his prayers.” As the horse had so often listened to Tye’s. “Are you adding these?”

  “I am. You can check them when I’m done.”

  “Lucky me.” He moved away from the child, and finding the kitchen undefended by the indefatigable Deal, tossed some kindling under a burner, lit it, and took the kettle from the hob.

  While the water heated, he went to the raised hearth and sat to remove his boots, which took some struggle. He didn’t have his boots made so tightly they cut off his circulation, but they were snug and wet, and had Fiona not been sitting several feet away, the occasion would have served nicely for a bout of swearing.

  Fiona picked up her paper and eyed it, as if admiring a piece of artwork. “I’m done. Will you read me another story?”

  “I am soaked to the bone, about to catch my death, and I have no doubt you can read every story in the library on your own. I will decline the proffered honor.” He put his boots in the back hallway, away from the damaging heat of the kitchen fire, then set about making a tea tray.

  “I can’t read the French ones. We have the fairy tales in French and German. I like the German.”

  “How is it you know the German?”

  She shrugged. “The neighbors. When I go to Balmoral Castle to play, we sometimes speak German, though I don’t know all the words.”

  The kettle started to whistle, and while Tye poured water into a teapot, he considered that perhaps his father knew of this too, and was having him kidnap—retrieve—Fiona because she counted princes and princesses among her playmates.

  “Would you like some tea, Fiona?”

  “If it’s after lunch, I have to have nursery tea, but yes, please. Are you going to check my sums?”

  “You can’t possibly have gotten them all correct if you did them this quickly.”

  She pulled the end of a braid from her mouth. “I can possibly too. There are scones with raisins in the bread box.”

  “You may have no more than one, or the aunties will be wroth with me.” He added a few scones and the tub of butter to the tray and took a seat across from the child. “Let me see your sums.”

  She passed over the paper and regarded him solemnly. “The subtraction is on the back. I like the subtraction better because it’s not as obvious.”

  “Give me your pencil.” She passed it over too, the brush of her little fingers making Tye realize how cold his hands were.

  “Are you going to make my tea, first?”

  “No, I am not. You can butter me a scone, since it’s a lady’s responsibility to preside over the tea tray.”

  Her eyes began to dance as she picked up the butter knife and a scone. Tye went back to checking her sums. When he looked up, Fiona was holding out a scone liberally slathered with butter.

  “Fiona, you took a bite from it.”

  “Because we’re family. Uncle Ian says food tastes better when you share it, and Aunt Augusta says Uncle is never wrong.” She winked at him and waved the scone for him to take.

  “Your sums are all correct, as is your subtraction.” He traded her the paper for the scone, when he should have lectured her on the inappropriateness of Uncle Ian’s poor manners when displayed before a guest.

  A guest who was family, and who would soon be taking her from everything and everybody she knew and loved. He took a bite of the scone.

  “That’s why I don’t like the math.” She set about buttering a second scone. “I never get anything wrong, and so the aunties hardly spend any time with me on it. Aunt Hester has started teaching me the piano though, so I can play for Mama and Papa when they come home.”

  “
I’ll pour your tea.” He moved away from the table, lest he have to look at her innocent, happy countenance, knowing she wouldn’t be here when her parents came home. She wouldn’t play for them; she wouldn’t give them her sums to check.

  He poured hot water into a mug, added a tablespoon of his own tea, a generous splash of cream, and a few lumps of sugar from the tea tray, and set it down before his niece.

  “Did my papa drink nursery tea?”

  “I think every English child drinks nursery tea, at least in the colder months. Your grandmother is quite competent with arithmetic.”

  “My grandmamma?”

  “The Marchioness of Quinworth. Her given name is Deirdre. She has red hair just like you, and you might meet her one day.” Except Quinworth and his lady were estranged, leaving Tye to wonder how the hell Quinworth expected to manage his granddaughter’s upbringing. Seeing to a young lady’s happiness involved a great deal more than hiring a governess and paying the dressmaker’s bills. A great deal.

  “Do you know any stories about my grandmother?”

  The hope in her eyes slew him. This child subsisted on stories, on rambles to the burn, on the company of gentle women and doting uncles. She made friends with trees, and she was entirely, absolutely, and utterly too trusting for her own good.

  Like another lady in the house.

  “Fiona, dear, are you—Oh. You’re back.” Hester stood in the door to the kitchen, looking lovely and comfortable in a worn dress of light blue velvet. Inside Tye’s chest, emotions collided and drew apart, then collided again.

  “Miss Hester, good day. Fiona and I were sharing an early tea.”

  “Mine’s plain,” Fiona interjected from her place at the table. “I got all my sums right, and my subtractions too. Do you want to share a scone with me?”

  “That would be delightful.” Hester advanced toward the table, and it seemed to Tye as if she might have been blushing. “How do you know your maths were correct, Fee?”

  “Uncle Tye checked them. He said my grandmamma likes to do math too.”

  And rather than meet his gaze, Hester took a place across from the child and started buttering a damned scone. The bossy cows of Scotland could be assured long and happy lives at the rate butter was consumed in this household.