Whence Came a Prince Read online

“See if I don’t.” Gavin elbowed his older brother, grinning outright.

  Jamie bristled at the lad’s impertinence. Or was it Rose’s familiar tone, sweet as treacle, that disturbed him? The Douglas brothers were young—none more than twenty—and green when it came to matters of the world. A slight breach in manners could be overlooked. And there were three of them; he would not soon forget that.

  “Gentlemen.” Lachlan’s voice was as smooth as linseed oil. “You’ll remember Jamie, my nephew and son-in-law. Heir to Glentrool.”

  Malcolm Douglas jutted out his chin. “And heir to Auchengray as well?”

  Jamie bit back a response. The subject of heirship had not been broached since that fateful March night with the kirk session. Would Auchengray be his someday through his marriage to Rose? Or might Lachlan’s forthcoming wedding change all that?

  Before Lachlan could respond, Neda appeared in the doorway, bobbing her coppery head with its starched cap. “Mr. McBride, we’re prepared tae serve dinner at yer biddin’.”

  His uncle offered a brief nod to Malcolm. “We’ll discuss such details another time, lad. For now, our meat beckons.” Not one to keep hot food waiting, Lachlan swiftly led the way across the entrance hall and into the dining room, then seated them round the cloth-draped table. The polished silver gleamed in the candlelight. A vase filled with lilies of the valley scented the air. Morna Douglas, Rose, and Jamie sat on his left and the brothers on his right, oldest to youngest. Satisfied with the arrangement, Lachlan took his seat at the head of his table, and the meal service commenced.

  Lachlan steered the conversation along a predictable route: the upcoming Keltonhill Fair, which interested the Douglas lads greatly. The largest fair of any in the South West, the one-day event drew horse dealers and buyers, chapmen and hawkers, Gypsies and tinklers, gentry and peasantry alike. After a bit, their conversation moved further afield to the opening of the Forth and Clyde canal that would connect Glasgow and Edinburgh.

  “The canal opening is scheduled for late June, though I’ll not be traveling to Bowling Bay for the festivities,” Lachlan said with a nod toward his intended bride. “I’ve more important matters to attend to closer to home.”

  Jamie could not help noticing Morna Douglas’s heightened color. “Tell me, Uncle, have you chosen a date?”

  “I have.” Lachlan cleared his throat with some ceremony. “The sixteenth of July. ’Tis a Friday, which bodes well, the moon will be waxing, and ’tis my sixtieth birthday.”

  Wanting to include Morna, Jamie asked the widow, “Will your vows be exchanged at our kirk in Newabbey or in Urr parish?”

  Lachlan answered for her. “Reverend Muirhead will marry us at the Urr kirk. My family has given the parishioners of Newabbey enough to blether about of late.” His pointed gaze, aimed at Jamie, drew every eye round the table.

  “A fine plan,” Jamie said smoothly, ignoring their curious stares. “I am certain you have many acquaintances in Dalbeaty and its environs who’ll be glad to be in attendance.”

  From the periphery of the room several maidservants stepped forward to remove the dinner plates in anticipation of the final course. “I hope you and your pretty wife will come,” the widow said, offering them a tremulous smile. “And your cousin … ah, Leana, isn’t it? She will join us as well?”

  Beneath the table Rose touched his hand, whether approving or opposing her sister’s inclusion, Jamie could not decide. “What say you, Uncle?” he asked. “Shall we write Leana in Twyneholm and encourage her attendance?”

  Lachlan glowered at him but did not have time to answer before the door leading to the kitchen creaked on its hinges and Neda entered bearing his favorite pudding. The man’s sour mood seemed to sweeten when she placed the dish before him. “A fine meal, Neda. We’ll have tea in the spence after a bit. In the meantime, serve my guests your good pudding.”

  The notion of Leana’s attending the wedding was not mentioned again that afternoon. Not at table nor later in the spence. Both families gathered in the cramped study, holding their teacups, while Lachlan expounded on the virtues of Auchengray. His money box was prominently displayed on his desk, though the lid remained locked. Leather-bound ledgers stood guard, their worn spines a testimony to how often their greedy owner’s hands had caressed them.

  Jamie did what he could to engage Malcolm in conversation. As the oldest of the three brothers, Malcolm must have considered how his mother’s impending marriage would affect both properties. If he had an opinion, Malcolm did not offer it. Instead he listened, nodded, and said little. Judging by the hard look in his brown eyes, the prospect did not please him.

  When the mantel clock chimed thrice, the men put aside their saucers and ventured out of doors for a tour of the farm, leaving the widow and Rose behind to fend for themselves. Lachlan led the party, gathering his future stepsons round him while Jamie followed a step behind. It proved an enlightening vantage point as he heard Lachlan take sole credit for Auchengray’s vast flocks and congratulate himself for everything his nephew had accomplished.

  Jamie listened in disgust. Only a week ago Lachlan had insisted the Lord had blessed his flocks because of his hardworking son-in-law. Now Jamie’s contribution remained unmentioned as his uncle stood at the top of Auchengray Hill, waving his arm in a slow arc to indicate all the lands and flocks that belonged to him.

  Heir to Auchengray as well? Malcolm’s question still taunted Jamie, a charge for which he had no good answer. He would inquire the same of Lachlan as soon as the sons of Edingham Farm found their way back home.

  “Jamie?” Lachlan turned round and folded his arms across his chest, clearly put out with him. “You have not said two words since we left the mains.”

  “But, Uncle—”

  “I presume you’d rather be marking lambs than listening to me.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Off with you, then.” Lachlan jerked his head toward the hills, making his intentions clear. “Do not fear. I’ll see our guests well provided for.”

  Jamie felt at loose ends, being so abruptly dismissed. He took a few steps, then turned back. “Will the three of you be heading to Urr parish this evening?”

  Malcolm started to respond, but Lachlan was too quick for him. “Their mother will return home in the morn. As to her sons, they’ll stay for supper, then be bound for Edingham before nightfall since they’ve livestock of their own that require attention.” He rested his hands on two broad shoulders, giving Gavin and Ronald each a firm shake. “Best see to your lambs, Jamie, or ’twill be difficult to tell which are yours and which are mine.”

  Seven

  Wickedness is always easier than virtue;

  for it takes the short cut to every thing.

  SAMUEL JOHNSON

  Lachlan McBride pinned a hard gaze to the lad’s chest, daring him to stay. Did he enjoy being humiliated, this nephew of his?

  “As it happens, Uncle, my lambs are all marked.” Jamie’s jaw clenched as he spoke.

  Ah, but his fists were not clenched, Lachlan noted. Jamie lacked the smeddum for fighting. Lachlan released his grip on the two brothers, ne’er taking his eyes off his nephew. “How many sheep are yours? Or have you not counted?”

  “I have.” Jamie’s tone had a sharp edge. “Twenty score lambs bear my keel mark.”

  “Four hundred, eh?” Lachlan took care not to smile as he pointed to a nearby pasture. “The ones that look like their necks are bleeding?”

  “You ken the paint will wash out with hot water and lye soap.” Jamie jerked his chin at him. “I’ve chosen the smaller of each twin, as I promised.”

  He acknowledged Jamie’s words without agreeing to them, lest his future stepsons leap to the wrong conclusion. Lachlan fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and flipped open the gold case. Nearly five. Enough dallying. “With Duncan away to Kingsgrange, there must be tasks in the steading that require your attention.”

  His nephew glared at him. “There’s always work to be do
ne at Auchengray.” Jamie spun on his heel—though none too effectively on the soggy ground—and headed downhill toward the farmyard, his polished boots covered with mud.

  Lachlan watched the departure without comment. Let him muck out the stables if his muscles needed flexing. Jamie McKie, born to a wealthy laird, had yet to learn the meaning of hard labor. Did the gentry ever grasp those truths? They did not. Not like a man who’d worked all his life.

  A yellowhammer flitted past, catching his eye for a moment with its bright coloring and musical call. He scanned the brightening skies, inhaling the rain-freshened air. “Our afternoon will be more pleasant without my nephew’s sullen countenance, wouldn’t you say?”

  The Douglases laughed—uneasily, he thought—then quickly fell silent. After a lengthy pause, punctuated only by the bleating of sheep, one of them spoke up.

  “Mr. McBride, my brothers and I have been wondering …” Ronald shifted his weight, exchanging glances with his older siblings. “Will Edingham Farm be sold, sir? When you’ve married our mother, that is?”

  A bold question for a lad who’d seen only seventeen summers. Lachlan gave Ronald his full attention. “Have you an interested buyer?”

  “Nae!” Gavin blurted out. “But if it were sold, would the proceeds be split evenly among us?”

  “Or will I inherit the whole,” Malcolm countered, “as the eldest son?”

  Lachlan locked gazes with each of them in turn. Malcolm was the oldest and the strongest. Only a daft man would challenge him to a fight. Gavin, the middle son, often seemed rash and impulsive. Harmless, though quick to speak. Ronald, the youngest, was also the canniest, Morna had warned him. Tenacious. Hard to fool. Of the three, Ronald would bear the most watching.

  “Your father was a generous man,” Lachlan admitted, “bequeathing Edingham solely to your mother. Verra unusual in Scotland for a woman to own property. Perhaps she might answer your question about who will inherit Edingham.” Certainly he would do no such thing. Lachlan smiled, hoping to put them at ease. “Rest assured, nothing will happen in haste. You will remain comfortably at home at least until Lammas, when there will be more … ah, more room available at Auchengray, should lodging be required.”

  Malcolm grimaced. “With due respect, sir, Edingham may not be as vast a property as yours, but … to be frank, our farm is better tended.”

  “If we lived here,” Gavin said, “there’s no telling how much work ’twould take to make this place presentable. The steading alone—”

  “My brother means no offense,” Ronald interjected smoothly, touching Gavin’s sleeve to silence him.

  “Nor am I offended,” Lachlan said just as smoothly. “There is much room for improvement here. Jamie has done what he could, but …” Lachlan shrugged, letting them fill in the rest. “Perhaps the greater question is, what will become of Auchengray when the time comes? For this corruptible body must put on incorruption, aye? And this mortal must put on immortality. My holdings will no longer matter to me then, but they might matter verra much to you.”

  Ronald’s brown eyes glowed like a candlelit turnip on Hallowmas Eve. “Have you no proper heir, sir? None who might rightfully claim Auchengray upon your death?”

  Lachlan left the question unanswered for the moment, directing their attention to the westward pastures with a proffered hand. “Come, enough of this morbid subject. We’ve barely started our tour.” He sighed expansively, striking out across the rise. “I wish the weather were more congenial, but ’tis a farmer’s lot to accept what the heavens send.”

  His words, it seemed, struck the proper chord. All four of them, he and the Douglases, were the same, were they not? Honest men braving the elements, eking out a living from fields and pastures, ever at the mercy of rain, seed, and stock. As a bonnet laird, naturally he’d moved beyond daily duties in the steading. The filthy byre, the stinking midden were no longer his domain. All the more reason to gather round him young men such as these—not one of them a laird’s heir who fancied himself a master breeder, but strong, capable lads unafraid of hard work.

  Genuine farmers. Laborers. Sons.

  Glancing over his shoulder at the three of them discussing the merits of Auchengray, Lachlan smiled to himself. Aye, Ronald. Edingham will be sold. Thomas Henderson of Dalbeaty stood ready to buy Edingham Farm—the house, the steading, the fields, the cattle, the lot of it. Lachlan pictured his thrifite, already packed with silver coins, soon overflowing with gold ones. As gold as the knotted cord that lay hidden among his shillings. A gift from Lillias Brown, the local wise woman, meant to bring riches to his doorstep. ’Tis working, Widow Brown.

  Lachlan stepped closer to the lads, pointing them toward Dumfries. “To the north you’ll find untamed moorland with stands of oak and ash and the royal burgh beyond it. My neighbors are the Newalls of Troston Hill Farm and the Drummonds of Glensone. Fine families, however modest their holdings.” He swerved about with a broad sweep of his arm. “My tups come from Tannocks Farm east of here. And, as you ken, there’s naught to the south but Criffell and the Solway.”

  The young men craned their necks to take it all in, turning at last to admire the heather-covered slopes of Criffell. The summit, draped in mist, stretched nearly two thousand feet above the shoreline of the Solway Firth, the western waters of which mingled with the Irish Sea. The brothers seemed impressed. Perhaps the time had come to answer Ronald’s question about heirship.

  Lachlan touched the lad’s elbow to catch his attention. “A moment ago you asked who might rightfully claim this land.” Ronald’s brothers swiveled in his direction, the view forgotten. “The truth is I have no sons or male relatives whom I wish to see inherit Auchengray.” He lifted his shoulders slightly as if to shrug off the sympathy he saw in their eyes. “Of my two daughters, the older one has produced a son. A bystart.”

  He let the word hang in the air like a disagreeable smell. It produced the reaction he expected. Shock. And, judging by the look on Malcolm’s face, aversion. The Douglases were a respected family, proud of their standing in society and unacquainted with scandal.

  “Due to the shameful circumstances of his birth, I refuse to claim Ian McKie as a grandson. He will depart with his father at Lammas, and any ties to Auchengray will be severed.” The relief on their faces was obvious.

  “As to the child’s mother, Leana,” he continued, “no honest man would have her for a wife. The woman spent three weeks on the stool of repentance for the sin of … hochmagandy. Pardon me if the term offends you, lads, but that’s the sorry truth of it.”

  Gavin’s eyes widened. “Will she … that is …”

  “Have nae fear,” Lachlan assured them, bending to pluck a sprig of yellow broom. “Leana will not be welcomed back to Auchengray. As to my younger daughter, you’ve already seen the sort of man she married.” He glanced down the hill toward the mains, letting his contempt show. “My nephew is weak, easily manipulated by the women in his life, starting with his mother.”

  A momentary light flickered in Malcolm’s eyes, though nothing was said.

  “When he landed on my doorstep, looking like a gaberlunzie without penny or purse, I took him in, dressed him hat to boots, and gave him a home.” Lachlan exhaled with a weary sigh. “You can judge for yourself the respect it has earned me.”

  Gavin curled his lip. “We’ll not be sorry to see him leave.” Judging by the disdain on their faces, all three brothers were viewing Jamie in a new light. One that cast a murky shadow across the heir of Glentrool.

  Lachlan clapped his hands together, eager to press on while the stage was set. “I’ll not bore you with the rest of it. We’ve more important things to discuss before our growling stomachs demand supper.” He guided them down Auchengray Hill, directing them toward a stone bothy in the glen below. Little more than a rough shelter from wind and rain, the small building had recently been put to rights, with the sagging walls shored up and the dirt floor swept clean.

  When they stepped inside, Lachlan took adv
antage of the privacy afforded them, lowering his voice to enhance the sense of secrecy. “Here’s the worst of it, gentlemen: Jamie thinks he is the one responsible for the fruitfulness of my flocks.” He grunted, nodding at their astonished faces. “ ’Twas my silver that bought the tups. And I believe they did most of the work.” A ripple of male laughter echoed against the stones, just as Lachlan had hoped. Before it subsided, he held up a cautionary hand. “The next is no laughing matter: Jamie has announced his intentions to claim half the lambs for himself and take them to Glentrool at Lammas.”

  “What?” Malcolm’s gaze grew hard. “Who does this nephew of yours think he is? Taking all the glory and the lambs as well?”

  Lachlan nodded grimly. “That’s the way of it.” He fixed his eyes on Malcolm. “What makes this especially disconcerting, lad, is that I intended you to be my heir.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Aye.” Lachlan reveled in their startled faces, now certain of how they would respond to his proposal. “If, heaven forbid, something should happen to prevent you from claiming Auchengray, your brothers would inherit in your stead.”

  Gavin swallowed with some effort. “Wh-what are you saying, Mr. McBride?”

  “I’m saying that I’ve chosen you as my heirs. Though I can ne’er replace your father, I will gladly see to your well-being and protect your fortune as if Were my own.”

  Disbelief gave way to amazement. “Can you mean this?” Malcolm stared at him, then at his brothers. “ ’Tis more than we could hope for, with no claim on our mother’s land and no land of our own.”

  “It’s settled then.” Lachlan’s chest swelled with pride at his own benevolence. “We should commit the details to paper as soon as possible. If I allow this nephew of mine to swick me out of half my lambs, he will in fact be stealing a large portion of your inheritance.”

  “Nae!” Three voices rang in anguished chorus, Malcolm’s the loudest. “Is there nothing we can do to stop him, sir?”

  “Well …” Lachlan paused, as though considering his answer. Never mind that he’d rehearsed this speech for days; he meant his plan to seem newly hatched, formed at their bidding. “There is one thing that might be done.” When he leaned forward, the brothers followed suit, their heads drawn together like Gypsies huddled round a campfire. “Duncan Hastings, my overseer, is away this evening. The timing is … ah, providential.”