Chapter One
Spring 1814, Maidstone Hall, Kent, England
Lucy FitzHarris tested her bowstring once again. What was it her instructor, Stevens, had said? Relax your mind and body. The only thing that should be tight is your bowstring. She selected an arrow and inspected the fletching. Satisfied, she whispered to herself, “Nock…draw…loose.”
A short ffftss sound and then a soft thunk.
“Bulls-eye.”
Lucy smiled down at her tiny white-and-brown spaniel whose tail was waggling. “Come along, Hercules.”
She walked across the practice field toward the straw bale target, with Hercules bounding along at her side. Five of her six arrows had struck center. Lucy had proven herself a far better archer than her brother or his friends, yet they had never allowed her on a hunt. “Hunting is for men,” George had said. “The sport is too rough for girls.”
“One day, Hercules. One day we will take down a stag with a single shot. That will wipe the sneer off George’s face once and for all.”
Hercules broke into wild barking at an approaching threat—Lucy’s maid, Nounou Phillipa, puffing and grunting up the hill, her wide frame swaying from side to side. Merde. She must have run all the way from the house to the shooting range. She had her skirt hitched up to her knees with one hand, and the other hand waving madly.
“Viens. Viens.”
Lucy met her half way. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Votre père veut vous parler.” Phillipa bent over to catch her breath.
“What does Papa want to talk to me about?”
“Oh mon Dieu.” Even Phillipa’s wheezing sounded French.
“Tell me. Is it Langley?” Lucy gave her shoulder a quick shake. “Has George brought Lord Langley home to Maidstone with him?”
“Je ne sais pas.” Phillipa gasped and fanned herself with a free hand.
Lucy started for the house, calling over her shoulder, “Hurry. I can’t receive him in my morning gown. Hurry, I say.”
Triumph swept Lucy along the gravel path through the gardens toward the house. She had been waiting for this day for many months. Viscount Langley was the son of the Earl of Bromley, and he had finally come to ask for her hand.
A schoolmate of her brother’s, the handsome and charming Langley had visited Maidstone many times. Although he had never professed his love, she was certain of his affections. He had kissed her in the garden. Everyone knew a gentleman never kissed a lady unless he intended to marry her. No doubt, he’d been waiting for her to turn eighteen. Now that she had, they would be married, and she would be a viscountess.
“Remember to act surprised when you see him, Hercules. We don’t want Langley to think we’re too eager.” She lifted her skirts and took the back staircase two at a time. She paused at the top to call down. “Phillipa, where are you?” No answer. She let out a growly huff. “I have to do everything myself.”
Lucy pawed through her gowns hanging in the wardrobe. A look of casual perfection would be most appropriate. She held the blue satin to her body, consulting Hercules. “Too fussy?” Rejecting the blue, she tried the green velvet. “Too formal?” The tiny spaniel cocked his head, confirming her assessment. Lucy swiped past two more. “Definitely not the pink or the burgundy. Far too frivolous.” She needed something sophisticated. A gown that conveyed effortless grace.
At last, Phillipa appeared at the bedroom door, red-faced and winded.
“Where have you been? I have nothing to wear.” Lucy pointed to the offensive wardrobe, her voice teetering between a whine and a wail.
“Le jaune est parfait.”
“Of course.” Lucy wanted to collapse with relief. “The yellow muslin. Merci, ma chère. But hurry. Vite. Vite.”
After a flurry of fluttering shifts and stays followed by fastening, brushing, pinning, and draping, Phillipa held up the glass for inspection.
“Voilà.”
Lucy touched the small cameo tied around her neck. It had belonged to her mother, Genevieve, a French noblewoman whose family had been displaced during that awful business in France. She had died of fever soon after Lucy’s birth. It would have been nice to have her here today, the biggest day of her life. Langley had come to propose. In a matter of minutes, she would be engaged to the future Earl of Bromley. Her life would never be the same.
“Suis-je prête?” Lucy asked.
“Oui. You are beautiful,” Phillipa said in her halting English. “You look so like your mother.” She was the only person who ever spoke of Lucy’s mother. The only person to keep Genevieve alive in George and Lucy’s memories. “Je t’aime, ma petite.”
“I love you too,” Lucy said.
Hercules bounded off the bed.
“Non, mon cher. Not this time. You stay here with Phillipa.”
Lucy stepped lightly down the hall with Lady of the Lake in hand, a recently published poem popular with London Society. Evidence of her sophistication. Spotting her brother below, she arranged her composure into what she hoped looked like pleased indifference. She took a breath, and floated down the grand staircase as she had practiced many times.
The viscount was not present to witness her entrance.
“Where’s Langley?” she asked, her voice airy, careless.
George shrugged.
George lived to make Lucy’s life difficult. Or at least that’s what it seemed like to her. She tried a different tack. Sweetness. “Did he come home from school with you?”
He shook his head. She could tell he was being deliberately obtuse. Patience, she reminded herself. To show frustration would fuel her brother’s mischief. “Is he arriving later?”
“Father awaits you in the library.”
George gave her the look he often wore when he was about to spring an especially nasty trick on her, but she refused to fall prey to his nonsense today. She lifted her chin, picked up her skirts, and swooshed into the library.
“Lucy. You’re looking lovely as ever.” Her father favored her with his best smile. The one she knew he saved only for her.
He kissed her on the cheek and motioned for her to sit. She chose a place on the loveseat where her gown might be best displayed. The library was Lucy’s favorite room in the house. Small compared to what had been her mother’s parlor, yet warm and welcoming. Tall shuttered windows, comfortable leather chairs, shelves overflowing with books, papers, and oddments. A decorative reflection of the duke—stately, elegant, masculine.
“Ah, Lady of the Lake,” he said, seeing the book. “Like it?”
“Oh yes, indeed.” She loved Scott’s poetry. So romantic. So heroic. “I didn’t care for the ending. I would have preferred Lady Ellen marry King James and live happily ever after as queen.” She handed her father the small leather bound volume, and he frowned at it.
“Not every story has a happy ending, my darling.” Is he thinking of Mother? Everyone said he grieved like a madman when she died. If he loved her so much, why didn’t he marry her?
A moment later, her father’s face cleared. Setting Walter Scott aside, he moved a mahogany bergère close to Lucy and sat. Taking both her hands in his, he leaned in and said, “I have momentous news.”
Lucy tilted her head, a coquettish look she had practiced. “Really? How wonderful.”
“News I am certain will make you very happy.”
“Don’t tease me, Papa. Tell me.”
“You, my beauty, are to be married.”
Lucy inhaled her joy. “Oh, Papa. I am so, so happy. I am glad you approve.” Lucy gave her father’s hands a squeeze. “Did he write to ask you, or did he meet you in London?”
The duke rose and crossed to the spirits trolley. “I made arrangements with his father by messenger. But I assure you, your fiancé is most in favor of the union.” He poured them both a finger of brandy. Handing her a glass, he said, “Lucy, dear, you haven’t even asked me whom you are to marry. Don’t you want to know?”
She could barely contain the giddy sensation rising in her chest. “Stop your teasing. Did he say when the wedding would be? Will we hold the ceremony here at Maidstone Hall or in London?”
“At his father’s estate, of course.”
“I see.” The disappointing news dampened her spirits. She had hoped for a London wedding. With renewed enthusiasm, she asked, “Did Langley say when he will arrive? I mean, he should ask me himself, oughtn’t he?”
“Langley?”
She rolled her eyes. Her father was such a tease. “Yes, silly. Who else?”
Her father looked blank. “Langley who?”
Lucy’s heart began to beat faster. Her casual tone faltered. “Lord Langley. The Langley I am to marry.”
“Lucy, dear, what makes you think Lord Langley asked for your hand?”
Her attention sharpened on her father. “He…he didn’t?”
“No, dear.” The duke shook his head. “You are to marry Alexander Sinclair of Balforss.”
She dropped her glass of brandy on the carpet and bolted to her feet. Blood pounded in her head, the cameo tied around her neck now strangling her. “What? Who?”
“Alexander, the son of my dear friend, Laird John Sinclair.”
“I don’t know any Alexander Sinclair. I’ve never heard his name before in my life. Papa, how could you?” Her hands curled into fists.
The duke chuckled. “Of course you know him. You met him when you were a little girl. You liked him very much as I recall. Insisted he was your protector. Don’t you remember?”
Why on earth would she remember some dirty little Scottish boy? “This is your fault!” she shouted. How could her father do this to her? Ruin her life without a care. Not a trace of remorse on his face. “It’s because you never married our mother. We’re an embarrassment to you, I suppose.”
At last, she saw a crack in her father’s impenetrable facade. “Darling, if it had been possible, I would have married your mother. I loved her very much.”
The room began to spin, and she clutched the back of the bergère to keep her balance.
He started toward her, a conciliatory gesture she staved off with a hand. “I’m doing this for you. You’re miserable here. London Society is cruel, and I can’t bear to see you hurt.”
She shook her head. A few pins fell out of her hair and pinged on the floor. “Stop it! Stop talking.” Lucy straightened and lifted her chin. “I’m supposed to marry Langley. I can’t marry someone else. I won’t.” She stormed out of the library before her father could say anything else to upset her.
Lucy collided with George in the hallway. He was stuffing a chunk of cake in his mouth and laughing.
“What’s the matter, Lucy Goosey?”
She despised the pet name, one he had tortured her with since childhood. “Shut up.”
“Did you think the future Earl of Bromley would marry the illegitimate daughter of a duke?” George coughed and pounded his chest with a fist.
“I hope you choke on that cake and die.” She ran up the stairs to her room, flung herself onto her bed, and screamed into her pillow.
“Ma chou chou. Ma chère. Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Phillipa sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back.
Coming up for air, Lucy wailed, “He’s a monster.”
“Langley?”
“No. Papa. He’s making me marry some horrible man.” She took a breath to yowl, “From Scotland.”
Insisting the bedroom door remain open so her father could hear the full measure of her misery, she shrieked and howled and wept while Phillipa did her best to console.
She must marry Langley. London Society barely tolerated the illegitimate sons and daughters of nobility. As such, she had no real title. She’d learned to deal with the ugly remarks made behind pretty fans, never allowing people to see how their words wounded her, what their nasty comments cost her. But a title, especially the title of viscountess, would stifle all such remarks for good. It was essential she marry Langley.
“Oh, Hercules. How could Papa do this to us? Scotland. Of all the detestable places on Earth.” Even worse, he was sending her to live in the Highlands.
She’d heard her father’s guests speak of the Highlands at parties. “Untamable,” one man had said. “Savages incapable of civilized behavior.” Lawless was another term bandied about. Lucy shuddered. How could her father send her somewhere so vulgar?
She heard a light rapping and lifted her face from the soggy pillow. George stood in her bedroom doorway, the look on his face apologetic, rather than his usual sneer.
He swallowed hard. “Lucy, Langley was engaged to Miss Whitebridge two weeks ago.”
She sat up straight. All the crying had left her ears plugged. She hadn’t heard her brother properly. “What?”
“Sorry. I thought you knew. There’s been talk of nothing else. You know, the sea of broken hearts he’s left in his wake, and all that rubbish.”
“You’re full of rubbish. Langley plans to marry me.”
“Did he tell you so?” George asked, his voice uncharacteristically sympathetic.
“Yes.” Lucy swallowed a gulp of air. “No. Not in words. He kissed me. Everyone knows a gentleman doesn’t kiss a lady if he doesn’t intend to—”
George shook his head. “No, Lucy. You misunderstood. I’m sorry.” George left, closing her bedroom door behind him.
She sat motionless, numb, wanting to believe George was playing another one of his childish tricks, yet knowing he told the truth. She felt broken inside, her dream of becoming Countess of Bromley shattered. Langley’s kiss had been a lie.
She gasped as another thought, more horrifying than the last, hit her square on. She had told Caroline Humphrey of Langley’s kiss. She’d told Caroline, the most notorious gossip in London, that Langley intended to ask for her hand. How could she have been so stupid?
Oh God, everyone must know.
Everyone must be talking about foolish Lucy, the silly girl who misinterpreted a kiss. She was ruined. She dropped her face into her pillow and wept, and wept, and wept.
Exhausted and congested, she lay on her back, hiccupping, one arm draped over her eyes, the other cradling her only solace, darling Hercules. Phillipa removed Lucy’s boots, pulled the drapes, and left her to wallow in the very worst kind of unhappiness, self-pity.
Her life in London Society had come to an end. She could never show her face again, doomed to a lonely life at Maidstone Hall. As the years passed by, she would watch her brother marry and have children. She would become the sad aunt who was never loved and lived the life of a spinster. Over time she would slowly become invisible, forgotten, like an old shoe.
Or she could go away. Far, far away.
Lucy uncovered her eyes and stared at the pleated pink canopy above her bed. With this new perspective, the arranged marriage her father had foisted upon her so rudely didn’t seem as awful as it had earlier.
Lucy had told Papa a fib. The Scottish boy had made a deep impression on her at the time. His strange Highland costume and his fierce behavior had frightened her at first.
“Bonnie wee thing,” the boy had said.
He was referring to the yellow ball her father had given her. George had tossed her gift into the duck pond, but the Highlander boy had rescued her ball. He’d waded back to shore, smiling, unperturbed at having soaked his clothes to the waist. He had handed her the ball and said, “It’s a bonnie wee thing.”
Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake was the most romantic poem she’d ever read. He made Scotland and its people sound exciting. Would the Highlands be like the poem? Full of heroic princes and dashing knights?
No. Scotland was no place to live. It was a social wilderness, a cultural desert. Her father’s friends had called it the land of the barbarous tongue.
Lucy scooped Hercules into her arms. “He was a nice boy,” she whispered. The dog’s floppy ear twitched. “No doubt he’s grown into a beastly man. We can’t let Papa send us to Scotland.”
…
Late Summer 1814, Balforss, Caithness, Highlands of Scotland
Alex stretched out on the summer grass and watched the fickle Scottish sun disappear behind a grey cloud. He pulled the painted miniature from his pocket and examined it again. If the artist was true, Lucy FitzHarris was a real beauty. Raven curls, alabaster skin, blue eyes. She looked defiant. Her brows and chin lifted as if she challenged the looker to doubt her loveliness.
When the duke’s letter had arrived five months ago, memories of the day he’d spent in the gardens of Maidstone Hall had come to him quick and vivid; the pretty little girl he’d showed off for, thinking that he was very grown up, smacking her brother in the nose and wading into the pond to rescue her wee ball, expecting a tawsing and instead, making an oath to His Grace to serve and protect his daughter for life. Even now, nine years later, remembering the pride shining in his father’s eyes made him flush with happiness.
A similar look had appeared on his da’s face when he had agreed to the duke’s proposal. Reminding him of his oath, His Grace had offered Lucy’s hand, a substantial dowry, and the duke’s added promise that Balforss be the exclusive wool provider for his two mills in Leads, a contract that would ensure the financial stability of Alex’s family for years to come.
“Are you sure?” his father had asked. “The duke willnae hold you to an oath you made when you were eleven.”
“At what age is a man obligated to abide by the oaths he makes?” Alex had smiled.
“I see your point. You are an honorable man and one who doesnae shirk his duty. Ever. But marrying for duty alone willnae make for a good marriage,” his father had warned.
True, yet, how could he let his father down? Balforss needed this union. With the wool contract, his father could buy more land, more sheep. As the oldest son, he would be laird one day. If he could make this union work, he could prove himself ready to take on the yoke of responsibility. If not, if he failed, then… Well, he wouldn’t fail.
His decision to marry Lucy had been difficult. At the time, he had been in love with Elizabeth Ulbster, the daughter of a distant cousin. Elizabeth had not, however, returned his affections. Even so, he had been reluctant to walk away, certain he would never love another woman as much as he loved Elizabeth.
He was surprised, therefore, at his eagerness to meet Lucy FitzHarris again. As much as possible, he maintained an appearance of relaxed indifference. Inside though, he battled with his twin demons, self-doubt and uncertainty.
The sun came out from behind the cloud. Within seconds, he was sweating. He got to his feet and replaced the miniature in his pocket. In less than two weeks, he’d look upon the real thing—real woman, he corrected himself. Alex felt a hard thump in his chest. A real woman. A wife. Bloody hell. Now that the day of reckoning was nearly upon him, doubt niggled at the back of his mind. Would they make a happy life together? Would they, over time, come to love each other? Or would Lucy, like Elizabeth, reject him?
He’d known more than one man who, after making an arranged marriage, found life with his spouse unbearable. The unhappy man often found the love he craved in the bed of a mistress. He didn’t find that prospect appealing. He wanted the kind of loving marriage his parents shared. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage, according to his father, he had fallen in love with his mother the instant he saw her. Even now, after being married twenty-five years, Alex would often catch glimpses of the passion his Da had for his Ma. Would he find that kind of love with Lucy?
Probably not. She was, after all, English. She was English and nobility, albeit illegitimate. He would most likely be saddled with an opinionated, spoiled, and selfish wife. So used to a large household staff of servants, Lucy FitzHarris would expect to be waited upon rather than contribute to the running of Balforss. His new wife would have a rude awakening. She was about to be introduced to the Highland way of life.
…
Late Summer 1814, Maidstone Hall, Kent, England
Lucy tried everything to change her father’s mind during the months following his horrifying announcement. Tears, tirades, tantrums, declaring she would as soon throw herself into the sea than set foot in Scotland. She even tried sweetness. But nothing worked. Her father kept repeating nonsense about familial bonds, political ties, and duty.
Duty. How she hated that word. Ridiculous people were always talking about duty like it was some holy act of sacrifice. Merde. Duty simply meant having to do something you didn’t want to do.
She retreated from London Society, refusing to attend public events, accepting no invitations to social gatherings. There would be talk, of course. Her appearance at such affairs would rekindle gossip. Perhaps, after a suitable length of time, people would forget her blunder, and she might gracefully re-enter Society. But until then…
Lucy secretly hoped Langley would appear at Maidstone Hall, declare his love, and carry her away to Bromley. Surely, when he heard of her forced marriage, he would break his engagement and save her from the savage Scot. She fantasized how Langley might rant and rail like a man possessed, then jump on his horse and ride to Maidstone Hall to rescue her just like in romantic novels. Just like James in Lady of the Lake.
But Langley never appeared.
A week before she was to leave for Scotland she tried one last gambit. Lucy marched into the breakfast room and announced to her father she was on a hunger strike.
She shook her head. “I would rather starve to death than move to the Highlands and marry a Scot.”
Refusing breakfast, she retired to her bedroom where she ate nothing all day. Well, she ate a little, but not much—only a few crumbs of this and that, and some hot chocolate, for medicinal purposes only. After eight hours, weak from starvation, she came down to her father’s study. He was relaxing on the settee, reading the paper. A kind father, an understanding father, a merciful father would see her pitiful condition and beg her forgiveness.
But no, the duke lifted his nose from The London Times and smiled. “Lucy, darling, if you’ve finished with your amateur dramatics, would you please sit down and talk to me?” He patted the spot next to him.
She was tempted to storm away, but something about her father’s demeanor made her obey.
He folded his paper and set it aside. “Do you think I don’t know how painful it is for you when people say unkind things?”
She shook her head slightly, her curls bouncing on her shoulders.
“I would do anything to take away that pain, to shield you from those who would harm you for sport. I know it’s my fault. I should have married your mother.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He took her hand in his. “I wanted to, but your mother refused me.”
“She didn’t love you?”
“She wasn’t a member of the peerage and she thought our marriage would harm me socially. You see, darling, that’s what people do when they love each other. They put the needs of their loved one before their own.” He swallowed hard. “I thought in time she would change her mind, but then…we ran out of time.” His eyes had become watery. He put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “One day, when you have children, you will understand how much it hurts my heart to see you go.”
“But why Scotland? It’s so far away.”
“I’ve been told the Scots judge a person by his actions, not by his pedigree. I’ve known Laird Sinclair for many years. He’s a good man, and I think his son is equally as honorable. I believe you will be happy at Balforss.”
Lucy sniffed. “What if I’m not?”
“All I ask is that you give it a try. If you don’t like it there, you can come home. You can always come home, darling.”
She wiped her eyes.
“What do you say? Will you try? For me?” he asked.
Lucy mustered a smile and nodded. “I’ll miss you, Papa.”
“And I will miss my little girl, but you, my darling Lucy, are a woman now.”
…
Balforss, Caithness, the Highlands of Scotland
The night before Alex was to leave Balforss to collect his bride he paced in front of the peat fire in his father’s library. He and his cousins, Declan and Magnus, were discussing the risks involved with the journey over a dram or two or three of whisky.
“We’ll have no difficulty in Inverness or Caithness. But traveling through Sutherland is another matter,” Alex said. “The county is rife with highwaymen.”
“Displaced crofters, most of them,” Magnus said. “You can thank Lady Sutherland’s factor for that.”
“Patrick Sellar, ye mean?” Declan asked.
“Aye. He’s run most of her tenant farmers off Sutherland land to make way for pasture.” Magnus shook his big head of black hair and made a grunt of disgust. “Greedy bastard.”
“It’s rumored Sellar burns cottages to the ground and leaves the families to starve,” Declan added.
“Not rumors. Fact.” Alex struggled to keep his temper in check and his voice low. “Sellar’s treatment of his tenants is criminal. If we find further evidence of the man’s cruelty on our journey, there’s a chance we can bring the man to justice.”
“What about the British soldiers?” Declan slumped down in his chair, hands clasped around his belly, his long legs stretched out, and ankles crossed. “Sellar’s established a garrison in Golspie to protect Sutherland’s land. We’d do best to avoid them. I hear the soldiers get bored and harass residents for entertainment.”
Redcoats. Nothing more dangerous than soldiers drunk on power and whisky. “Dinnae fash. Between Uncle Fergus and us three, we’ll keep Miss FitzHarris safe. Just be sure to wear your uniform. I ken Redcoats and highwaymen alike will be less inclined to trouble a party accompanied by three soldiers of the 42nd Highland Regiment of Foot.” He raised his glass to Declan and Magnus.
They toasted in unison. “Slainte.”
The golden liquid made a slow voyage down to Alex’s belly where it lit a small fire. “Miss FitzHarris will arrive aboard the Arbroath. Uncle Fergus will meet her at the dock in Inverness with the wagon while we wait for them on the road outside Inverness.”
Magnus, well named for his size and appetite, released a soft belch. “But why wait outside the city? Why not meet her at the dock with Fergus?”
“Never mind why.” His nerves bubbled up from his stomach and burned the back of his throat.
“I ken why.” Declan pointed his empty whisky cup at Magnus. “He’s waiting to see if she’s an ugly cow. Aye, you’re a canny one, Alex.”
“Shut up. That’s not—” He held back an overwhelming urge to smack Declan. “She’s no’ a cow.”
“How do you know? You’ve never met her.” Magnus poured the last of Laird John’s good whisky into Declan’s cup.
“Look.” He pulled the ivory miniature from his pocket and handed the tiny painted portrait to Magnus. “See for yourself.”
Declan dislodged his backside from his chair for a keek over Magnus’s shoulder. Their appreciative whistles pleased him.
“Oh, aye. She’s a beauty all right.” Declan giggled like a girl, as he always did when he was soused.
A stab of possessiveness sank into his right side. “Enough.” He snatched the miniature from Magnus, rubbed away his cousin’s grimy prints, and returned the treasure to his pocket. “And I have met her before.” An unreasonable need to defend what wasn’t even his yet pecked at his liver. “She was only nine, but she was pretty even then.”
“I still dinnae ken why you willnae meet her at the dock,” Magnus said.
He hedged for a moment, not wanting to reveal his plan. “I want to…see what she’s like. Get to know who she is from a distance…before—” Alex ground his teeth. “Bloody hell. It’s my business. Just do as you’re told.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Magnus said.
They fell silent, lost in their own thoughts, staring at the dying peat fire for several minutes.
Magnus scratched his head. “I ken your da is pleased with the match. Illegitimate or not, Miss FitzHarris brings much to the union. But why is the duke so keen to give his daughter to a Scot?” He squinted like the question hurt his brain.
Irritation with his cousin dissolved instantly when he recalled the duke’s letter. “His Grace believes Lucy—Miss FitzHarris—will be better off away from the stress of London Society.”
“No doubt her illegitimacy has made her an easy target for wagging tongues,” Magnus said with no lack of sympathy. The big man’s most appealing quality was his kind heart.
“The whisky’s gone. We drank it all. You best get to bed. We’ll have an early start tomorrow.” Alex said his good nights and went upstairs.
But he couldn’t sleep. He kept picturing what Lucy’s face might look like when he met her. Dismayed, disappointed, disdainful?
Early the next morning, he stood outside the stable, anxious to be underway. He had taken leave of his mother after breakfast. Flora Sinclair, more than anyone, was enthusiastic about his impending nuptials. With his sister Maggie married and gone to live in Edinburgh, and his brother Ian away in the army, his mother was thrilled at the prospect of having someone new to blether with.
Peter, the newest and youngest groom, led Alex’s horse from the stable, a huge chestnut gelding named Goliath. Alex checked the girth. Loose again. Small for a groom, Peter didn’t have the strength required to pull the strap as tight as it needed to be.
“Sorry, Mr. Alex,” Peter said, seeing him tighten the strap.
He placed a big hand on the dejected looking boy’s narrow shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. Remember, asking for help doesnae show you’re weak. It shows you’re canny, aye?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Go and have your breakfast, man.” He gave Peter a gentle shove toward the kitchen and the boy dashed off.
Alex joined his cousins in front of the house and waited for his Uncle Fergus to bring the wagon around. John Sinclair appeared at the door. His father would want a private word with him before their departure. This was an important mission. No doubt his father was worried he might cock things up.
“Are you ready, son?”
Alex attempted to make light of his serious business. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He rested a hand on his horse’s rump, assuming a casual pose.
“You mind what we talked about. Make your way through Sutherland with caution. Dinnae bring attention to yourselves. And guard Lucy with your life.”
“Aye. I will.”
“There’s still time to change your mind.” His father was dead serious. “If you like, we can postpone the wedding until spring. You would have more time to get acquainted with your bride.”
As usual, his father had no confidence in him. “No need. I have a better plan for getting to know her.”
John swiped a hand over his face. “Son, your ideas, although creative, have on occasion, ended in calamity. What exactly do you have planned?”
“Nothing but an innocent diversion. Dinnae fash.”