Ilsa didn’t move until the boat had grown too small to pick out of the swarm of boats in the harbor. In the distance, sailors were climbing the Carolina’s rigging, setting the sails. Finally her shoulders slumped in a silent sigh.
“He can never prove his innocence now,” said Drew quietly. “He can never return to Edinburgh, if not Scotland entirely.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But he’ll be safe. Perhaps one day I’ll tire of it here and follow him to America.”
They returned to the inn and took a light dinner. Ilsa’s eyes kept straying to the window overlooking the harbor, and Drew knew she was trying to pick out the Carolina among the ships beginning the long journey to America.
“What will you do?” he asked when they had gone back to their room, which faced east—Edinburgh, not America.
It was no small question. Fletcher had made a detailed plan. He had left a letter with Mr. Lorde, professing his intention not to expose his family to the indignity and shame of a trial, which Mr. Lorde would convey to the Edinburgh authorities at an appropriate time. He would also bring Fletcher’s will and execute it, once Fletcher’s death was accepted. Ilsa would affect deep grief and astonishment, even to her aunt—for they had both agreed Jean Fletcher couldn’t keep the secret as closely as it must be kept.
“I’ll use some of his money as restitution for those who were robbed. I don’t need it or want it. If people must think Papa the thief, they can know that his family tried to make them whole.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to do about Liam. If Papa had told me before, I might have found some compassion and warmth for him. But he has caused my father’s ruin, and I cannot forgive him.” She glanced up at Drew. “But I cannot condemn him without betraying Papa’s escape. What does that make me, that I would allow such a man to go free?”
“I think it means you have a steadfast, loyal heart, full of mercy.”
She nodded. “What else can I do?”
He should reassure her that her plan was noble and decent, the best choice she could make among all the bad options. He could vow to see that Liam was punished in other ways. He could simply comfort her, now that the die was cast.
Instead he went down on his knee in front of her and took her hands. “Marry me.”
Her eyes widened.
“I know you think you’ve led me into criminal behavior and caused me to ruin my name and reputation,” he plowed on. “You did not. I did everything of my own free will because I choose to be with you and fight your battles and stand by your side. I know you dread my inheritance and believe I would do best to marry an Englishwoman. But . . . I do not. I did allow Her Grace to believe she would advise me, but I don’t need her approval—or her advice. And if you don’t wish to live in England”—he took another deep breath before breaking the solemn promise he’d given the Duchess of Carlyle—“we won’t. We can stay in Scotland. Perhaps the duchess would allow us to live at Stormont Palace if it suits you. If Stormont can be administered from England, then Carlyle Castle can be administered from Scotland. I’ll find a chaperone to take Bella and Winnie to London for a Season.” Her face was blank with surprise, no matter how he searched for a hint of reaction. “We can solve this,” he said urgently. “Together. If you could trust me enough to try . . . I would never dismiss your thoughts or concerns. I love you to distraction.”
Ilsa’s mind, which had been a maelstrom for days, seemed to pause, settle, and calm at those words. She had told herself she must give him up, but . . . he did not wish to be given up. Nor did she want to do it. Drew had been her greatest adventure, her favorite companion, her truest friend, her most passionate lover.
Was she fool enough to throw that away in a fit of pointless sacrifice?
Was she too afraid to meet the challenges she might face as his wife?
No, Ilsa realized, she was not. She was not afraid of anything when he was beside her. And she was free, after all—free to bestow her heart where she chose, free to step out of her boundaries and make a bold decision. Free to learn from her father’s mistakes and do better, as he had urged her.
She was free to decide that she would make their marriage work, no matter what was demanded of her as a duchess someday. She would fight for what she wanted, and for whom.
“You would really marry a wild hellion who keeps a pony in the house and paints the sky on the ceiling?” she asked. “A wild, wicked woman who will ride astride and seduce you in every greenhouse we spy and play ghost in your house?”
“Haunt me forever,” he whispered.
Inside her, the knot of anxiety and tension softened and dissolved. Part of it, she realized, had sprung from her dread of parting from him, on top of losing Papa. But now she wouldn’t—ever.
The first real smile in weeks, trembling but wholehearted, curved her lips. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They reached Edinburgh a week later, man and wife. Ilsa had thought he would want to wait and have his family there, but Drew waved that aside. “They’ll only insist on a delay so they can order new gowns and plan a lavish breakfast.”
She had to laugh. “Who needs all that?”
“Not I,” he declared, stroking his jaw, now covered in a dark beard. “I’m beginning to relish being an outlaw, freed of all civilizing influences.”
And so they were married in a Glasgow chapel, Drew in his now-ragged kilt and long hair and Ilsa in a hastily altered gown from a dressmaker in Trongate Street. Through it all they grinned at each other like children pulling off the greatest prank in the world, and when the minister pronounced them married, Drew lifted her off her feet for a kiss so passionate, the minister coughed and his wife giggled.
When they reached Edinburgh, his family descended on them with cries that changed quickly from alarm and curiosity to happiness. Even though they arrived late, Louisa St. James brought out a bottle of fine sherry to toast them, enfolding Ilsa in a warm embrace and murmuring how pleased she was to have another daughter.
Bella, Winnie, and Agnes mobbed her. “I knew he wanted to marry you,” cried Bella joyfully. “Thank heavens you said yes!”
“Oh, Drew, well done!” Winnie flung her arms around his neck before running back to Ilsa’s side. “And you, accepting him even when he looks like a hermit from the mountains!”
Drew struck a pose at that, stroking his beard. “Oh, Winnie, how you tempt me to worse . . .”
She put out her tongue at him. “As if you ever cared what I think! Only now you’ll have to bow to Ilsa’s wishes . . .”
“You will have your hands full, taming him,” whispered Agnes with a laugh.
I won’t tame him, thought Ilsa with a secret smile at her new husband. I love him wild.
Going home to Jean was bittersweet. The news of her marriage pleased Jean, but the rest . . . Ilsa had rehearsed her story, but when she said Papa was missing and she didn’t believe he would ever be found, her aunt gave a single heart-rending wail before collapsing in silent tears that smote her heart. Only Drew’s presence gave her the strength to keep her word, and not whisper to her aunt that Papa was safe. Instead she held her aunt and wept with her, hoping that someday it would be possible to tell her the truth.
Drew went to confront the furious sheriff-clerk and procurator-fiscal, once more respectably shaved and dressed like a proper Englishman. He put the fear of God into David MacGill, the “turncoat solicitor” as Ilsa called him, excoriating the man for his management of Stormont Palace and threatening to have him sacked. He offered one last chance for the man to win back his favor by defending Ilsa. Spurred into sycophancy again, MacGill provided a fiery argument that dissuaded the sheriff from action against Drew or Ilsa—indeed, he even wrung an apology from the sheriff for searching her house.
When Mr. Lorde arrived in Edinburgh three weeks later with the sorrowful news that a man fitting William Fletcher’s description had been hauled, drowned, from the River Clyde, the authorities were all too ready to accept it. It was printed in t
he paper, along with a smaller notice that victims of the recent robberies should apply for aid to Felix Duncan, who had agreed to handle paying out the funds Ilsa set aside from Papa’s estate.
Ilsa held Jean again as her aunt shed more tears, but this time grief mixed with relief.
“He would prefer this rather than be hanged by his neighbors and former friends,” Jean choked. “But oh! How I will miss him, my dear.”
“He is at peace this way,” was all Ilsa could say.
Mr. Lorde offered, with Drew’s strong endorsement, to spare her meeting Liam, but Ilsa refused. She had decided she must do this for herself—and for Papa. She sent for him, the half brother she’d never really known or liked, and they met in the drawing room of her house. Drew lurked outside, making sure Liam knew he was there.
“So,” Liam drawled in bitter amusement when Drew had gone out and closed the door. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your triumph. A future duchess! How pleased your father would have been. He always was one for appearances and influence.”
Ilsa regarded him steadily. “As you know, my father was discovered drowned in Glasgow.”
“Tragically,” said Liam with a cold twist to his lips.
“Thank you for your condolences.” Ilsa picked up the letter Mr. Lorde had brought. She had seen it before, that terrible day when Papa revealed the truth, and couldn’t wait to get rid of it now. “He made you a bequest in his will, which his solicitor provided to me. This was left among his papers for you.”
Looking smug, Liam took the letter.
“I know you never cared for me,” Ilsa went on. Drew had told her to leave it, but she had to know why Liam hated her. “But I always remarked Papa’s particular preference for you. It was exceptional. I’ve long wondered if there was some other connection between you and Papa.”
Her half brother leaned forward. “Never told you, did he? No wonder, given your behavior of late.”
“You know,” she said, unable to stop herself, “someone did hint to me, once, that you might be his son.”
Liam drew back, startled. “Did they?”
“Is it true?”
Some of his smirk returned. “Aye. It is.”
Ilsa nodded once. “I am sorry Papa never told me.”
“Sorry!” His mouth bent cruelly. “Were you sorry that he was in love with another woman and not your mother? Were you sorry to hear that he did have a son, the son he yearned for but was unable to claim because he was too afraid of your reaction to the news?”
So that was it. Papa had wanted a son so desperately he had let Liam believe that only Ilsa kept him from claiming him publicly. And Liam, smoldering in envy and resentment, had finally struck back at both of them.
She gave him a grave look. “No. I’m sorry for you. He was a wonderful father, tender, kind, and caring. And what’s more, I would have accepted a brother, had he come in love and friendship.” She got to her feet. “Thank you for coming today. I hope your legacy brings you fond remembrances of our father.”
Scowling Liam tore open the letter and scanned it, reading that he had been left two hundred pounds and nothing else. His face turned red. “How—this is an insult!” He leapt to his feet with a howl. “I am supposed to inherit the workshop in Dunbar’s Close! He promised me!”
“Did he?” asked Ilsa calmly. “I didn’t know that. He left that to me.”
“What will you do with a cabinetry shop?” he snarled.
“Sell it, I suppose,” she said with mild surprise. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Henderson. Papa would want it to go to another wright.”
Liam took a step forward. “How dare you,” he said, low and furious.
Ilsa stood a little straighter. “How dare I?” She lowered her voice. “I am very conscious of what you did for him—and to him. If you provoke me, I would have no hesitation in suggesting the sheriff investigate whom Thomas Browne gambled with—and how much that person lost in recent months.” She folded her hands. “I suggest you accept this with grace and take Papa’s advice to better yourself. He forgave you, Liam, but God detests a sinner.”
He breathed like a bellows. “You . . .”
“I had nothing to do with any of it. If I had, you would have received nothing.” She reached for the bell. “Good day, Mr. Hewitt. And good-bye.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Four weeks later
Carlyle Castle looked much the way he remembered it, though now tinged with the colors of winter instead of spring. Drew braced himself for a chilly reception. Not only had he missed the duchess’s six-month deadline, he’d only written to the castle after everything in Edinburgh had been resolved.
Ilsa studied the cavernous entrance hall as they waited to be shown to a room. It was the most forbidding part of the castle, in Drew’s opinion, and if it were ever his home, he would remove the arms bristling on the walls and the statue of Perseus holding the head of Medusa. “Intimidating,” his wife murmured to him.
“Ghastly,” he whispered back, making her laugh quietly.
The duchess was not pleased at their late arrival. “You were expected back weeks ago,” she snapped.
Drew laid his hand over Ilsa’s. “I had good reason, Your Grace.”
“Hmph.”
“When I left here months ago,” he said, “I had no idea what lay ahead.”
“You asked for my advice on that,” she replied tartly.
“I did.” Drew stole a look at Ilsa. “As so often happens, the best of intentions were made a mockery by Fate.”
“Fate.” The duchess looked at Ilsa. “This is your explanation, I suppose. An affair of the heart.”
“No,” said Ilsa calmly. She had shown no sign of being intimidated or cowed. “It was more than that. It was the meeting of two souls meant to be together, and all efforts to deny it were in vain.”
“All true,” said Drew with a small smile at his wife.
“You say all efforts to deny it.” The duchess stroked her fat ginger cat. “Why must this predestined match be denied?”
Drew hesitated, but Ilsa seized the bull by the horns. “Because my father was accused of being the mastermind of a ring of thieves terrorizing Edinburgh, ma’am. Because I tried to help him, against all good advice. And yet Andrew stood loyally by my side, defying every precept that would have sent him back to Edinburgh and to you. Only the deepest affection could have caused him to do that.”
“That is true.” He brought her hand to his lips. “And I would do it again in a heartbeat.”
The duchess looked from one to the other. “Thieves! You shock me, Captain.”
“I cannot regret what I did for love,” he told her.
She gave an impatient sigh. “I had such high hopes for you . . .”
“And he has not disappointed you.” Ilsa sat forward. “Would you wish your son’s heir to be a man led only by others, cowed by the opinions of gossips? No, I am sure that you would want a man of firm convictions and morals to step into the ducal title. How else can you be certain he will uphold the dignity and reputation of your family against any slings and arrows that may come? Whatever my failings, you must credit that the captain has acted in a manner that could not be faulted.”
The duchess all but gaped at her. Drew sat in tense silence, waiting . . .
“I see it is the most severe case,” said Her Grace at last. “A besotted love match.”
Ilsa beamed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I could not meet the demands of the title without the support of the woman I love.” Drew nodded at Ilsa in solidarity. “Nor am I willing to attempt it.”
After a moment the duchess sighed. “I see I have no say in the matter.”
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” But Drew bowed his head. “We would welcome your blessing, though.”
For a moment she looked between the two of them. “I have a little experience of this now, you know. Maximilian was here a month ago, also with a wife in hand, and I gave
him my blessing.”
Drew looked up in surprise. “Maximilian?”
“Your cousin,” said the duchess with a touch of droll humor. “You remember him. The one who laughed and mocked me the entire time he was here.”
“Yes,” he murmured hastily. He’d not thought much of his cousin since that brief meeting. “I hope he is well.”
“As well as you appear to be,” said the duchess, amused by his surprise. “Happily married and respectably employed. I was pleasantly astounded.”
“That is very happy news,” said Drew after a startled pause.
“Well. I wish you both happy. If that is all . . .” She started to rise, but Drew took a deep breath and raised one hand.
“There is one more thing, Your Grace.”
She raised her brows in surprise.
“I have a request,” he began. “One which will, I believe, be to the benefit of Carlyle as well as to me. I beg the grace and favor of Stormont Palace.”
“Well!” She sat back in her chair. “You astonish me, Captain. That is not what we agreed.”
“The Stormont estate is well-kept and prosperous,” he forged on. “It’s kept in readiness only for the convenience of the solicitor, but it is a very fine home. My family spent several days there, evaluating it, and all fell under its spell. My bride and I would like to spend several months of the year there, with the remainder here.”
That was the compromise he and Ilsa had reached. Nine months at Stormont in Scotland, three months at Carlyle in England. It suited them both, and he did not see how the duchess could disagree. He was sure she had no more wish to have him under her feet than he had to be here.
At least, he hoped that was so.
“But you have so much to learn,” she protested.
“And I will devote myself diligently to it,” he replied. “Running Stormont will be invaluable experience, on a more modest scale than Carlyle. It is a jewel, more valuable than Mr. Edwards believes. I submit that the duke should not sell it. Allow me to run it for a few years before any decision is reached.
A Scot to the Heart Page 29
