Chapter Four

Time had stood still in this little corner of Scotland. In a village as old as Cragian, ten years was a pittance. A new blacksmith worked at the corner smithy, but Donahue was still the butcher. Maxwell couldn’t believe the old man could still handle the hulking sides of meat, but he appeared as spry as ever.

After wandering down the lane and through his memories, Maxwell climbed to the rectory. Perched atop a rise, the church made a pretty picture standing vigil above the little village, spires reaching for the low, misty clouds. Not much had changed here either. Perhaps the ivy stretched higher upon the stone walls, moss grew thicker around the sides, and more headstones littered the churchyard.

Was old Mitchell still the vicar? Their last communication had been about his mother’s death. By the time the crumpled, dirty letter had found him on the Continent, his mother had been dead for months. He’d sent money for a proper headstone but never received word confirming his money had been well spent. If she had been buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave, forgotten forever, he would never forgive himself.

Maxwell came across old Cadell’s grave, well tended and marked with a large, flat headstone. A bundle of dried heather tied with a purple ribbon lay upon the gray, pitted stone. The stableman had been one of the few who had been kind to him. In fact, he’d always wondered if Cadell had a hand in the life-affirming baskets full of food that had magically appeared on his doorstep, but they’d continued even after his death.

The inevitable waited. He took a bracing breath, the cold air a welcome burn in his lungs. Spying a group of modest stones in one corner, he decided it a likely place to start. Not finding her name on any of the small markers, he gazed over the tall, imposing stones of the gentry to the pauper’s graves.

The hollowness was back, threatening to swallow him. His mother was insignificant in the grand scheme of the world. Insignificant to everyone but him. She’d been his world and he hers.

He trudged closer, his gaze flitting over the rich stones like a moth. He almost missed her. The large stone was set among the gentry of Cragian, surrounded by those who’d done their best not to acknowledge her in life. Eden Drake, 1767–1807. Fare thee well, thou best and dearest.

A bundle of dried heather tied with a blue ribbon leaned against the expertly carved stone. Squatting on her grave, he braced hands on either side of the stone and laid his forehead against her name. Damnable tears gathered. She hadn’t been forgotten.

The crunch of leaves broke his solitude. Vicar Mitchell approached with slow, hesitant steps. The vicar’s white hair was a bit sparser, his wrinkles and crinkles more abundant, but a familiar twinkle lit his blue eyes as if there was a bawdy joke he desperately wanted to tell but knew he shouldn’t.

Clearing his face of emotion, Maxwell rose and swept his hat off. Would the vicar recognize him after so many years?

“A brisk, good morning to you, sir. Have you interest in a cup of tea?” The vicar sidled closer, squinting at the grave behind Maxwell. The vicar’s gaze darted back to his face. “Maxwell Drake?” A welcoming, happy smile accompanied the incredulous words.

“Aye, it’s me.” Maxwell’s voice was rough. He’d come home to bury his past, but instead he found it difficult to keep his emotions from welling up and swamping him.

“My boy. It’s a shock to see you after so many years but such a pleasant one. Goodness, you’re looking well. You’ve come to see your mother.” The vicar stood next to Maxwell, both of them looking at Eden’s grave. Vicar Mitchell communed with the dead with ease. There were no eerie undertones, only a comfortable friendship. “It’s hard to believe she’s been gone six years. Time flows too quickly.”

“Did you receive the money?” It was hard to believe the meager coins he’d managed to spare had wrought this stone. He had only been in the army three years when his mother died. His plans had been mere seeds and hadn’t had time to flourish.

“I did, son, but by the time your letter arrived, Miss Bryn had already erected your mother’s marker. I used your money to purchase books for the children. I thought you would approve.”

“Miss Bryn…” The name lit a faint path through his memory.

“Brynmore McCann. A fine lass. She and your mother became fast friends after you left. Bryn took good care of Eden in her last years, Maxwell. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Your mother often told me how proud she was that you had escaped the legacy of your birth.”

Dammit. Maxwell looked to the slate-gray sky and beat the burning sensation back down his throat. “Brynmore McCann was a child when I left.”

“Not so young. Ten and five, perhaps?” He clapped Maxwell on the back. “Come inside and visit awhile. I’m freezing my arse off out here. The dead may not mind, but I do.”

Maxwell ducked under the low door and entered a room untouched by time or a duster. Motes hung like smoke in the air, tickling his nose. As a child, he hadn’t noticed how cramped the rooms were. He’d just remembered them being a safe haven.

“Sit while I fetch some tea.” The vicar bustled out, leaving Maxwell to choose between a sagging settee and a lumpy chair. He fingered a leaflet of puritanical essays lying on the table and sank into the settee’s cushions.

The vicar backed into the room with a tray laden with two cups, a teapot, and a handful of dry, crumbling biscuits. “You’ve acquired a limp, I noticed. Were you injured on the Continent?” Anticipation colored the question. No doubt, there weren’t many visitors through Cragian to liven up his days.

“Yes, sir. I was wounded while running coded messages in Spain. A musket ball hit me above the knee.”

“Were you captured? Did you manage to deliver your dispatches?”

“I wasn’t captured. My horse saved my hide actually. I never forgot what old Cadell taught me. I took care of my horse, and when the time came, he returned the favor. Got me back to a regiment of British soldiers, and they sent the dispatches on. The physician traveling with them patched me up, sent me back to England, and I sold my commission.”

The vicar spooned copious amounts of sugar into his steaming cup of tea. “Fascinating.”

“Vicar. My commission. Is it you I need to repay?”

The vicar rubbed over his jaw and averted his gaze. “Not me. No.”

The day the vicar had pressed the papers detailing his commission into his hand, Maxwell had known. The vicar’s eyes had begged him not to ask the question. Pride had urged him to throw the papers in Ian MacShane’s face. Common sense had told him to take the papers and run. He’d chosen the latter.

His mother would have had him believe fairy folk dropped him in her lap. But as he grew older, the taunts from the village boys and men became more pointed and cruel, and he came to understand what he was—a bastard.

“MacShane?”

“Dead not three months past. Isn’t that what brought you home?” The vicar tilted his head and pursed his lips.

Maxwell was sure his eyes reflected back an equal amount of confusion. “I had no idea. Why would his death bring me back?”

“For your inheritance, of course.”

“My what?” Maxwell asked on a harsh exhale.

“Didn’t Lady MacShane or that pompous Edinburgh lawyer contact you?” The vicar shifted and stirred his tea.

“I’ve been in London the past three years. No one has been in contact with me. Tell me everything, Vicar Mitchell. No more lies or half-truths. I’m a man grown.” Maxwell’s voice dropped in timbre, the revelations shearing away any soft edge.

The vicar flushed and set his teacup on the tray with a betraying rattle. “It would be a sin, for it was a deathbed confession between MacShane and me. I can’t countenance my indiscretion.”

“Sir, you’ve already mentioned it. What harm would it do?” Maxwell forced gentleness back into his voice, as if he were coaxing a horse. “I’d rather not find out from Lady MacShane.”

The vicar swallowed hard, but nodded. “He’s gone now, and Lord knows, you have a right to know. He told me his one regret in life was not taking care of you and your mother. He bought your commission so you’d have the chance at something else. After you left, he dropped in occasionally to ask if I’d received a letter from you. I believe he was truly remorseful.”

“He showed no remorse when he threw Mama out, penniless and round with his babe.”

“I think Lady MacShane bears the brunt of the blame. Nevertheless, he didn’t contradict her orders when it mattered. He vowed to leave you a bequest. That’s really all I know. I assume he followed through with his intentions.”

“I came to hate the man. Sitting in his fine house while Mama and I near starved to death.” Maxwell took a deep breath to stem an old bitterness that felt fresh. “Vicar, did you discover who left us the baskets? I’d like to thank him, if I can.”

The vicar’s cup rattled against the saucer. Hot tea sloshed, and he leaped up, brushing at his breeches. “How clumsy of me. Pardon me while I change.”

The vicar knew. Whether Maxwell could ferret out all his secrets over one pot of tea was debatable. And did it really matter now?

Restless and armed with new, significant information, Maxwell paced from the sitting room into the chapel through a narrow, connecting hall. He hadn’t attended services since he’d left Cragian, but he found comfort in the familiar stone chapel.

Swaths of white silk draped the pews and columns, and orchids drooped their white petals in every window. Against the old stonework and colorful tapestries, the decorations made a pretty picture. It was no tenant farmer getting married. Hothouse orchids, indeed.

Vicar Mitchell joined Maxwell in the chapel in a different pair of worn, patched breeches. “When’s the wedding?” Maxwell asked.

“On the morrow,” the vicar said as if he were being asked to perform burial rites instead of binding a man and woman in blessed matrimony.

“I take it you disapprove?”

“It’s hardly a love match.”

“Who’s the unfortunate pair?”

“The bride is Brynmore McCann. The groom is Dugan Armstrong. He’s from the neighboring valley.”

“As I recall, he enjoyed strutting through town and throwing his weight around.” Maxwell traced a finger over his bottom lip, a picture coming to mind—a ham-fisted bully joining in with the local lads to hurl epitaphs at him. That sort of thing had stopped bothering him long before that particular incident.

“Sounds about right. It’s unchristian, I know, but I don’t like the man.” The vicar sounded mutinous. “Not nearly good enough for our Bryn.”

“She should have told him no when he asked for her hand.” Maxwell was unable to muster much sympathy. His own worries burdened him.

“I’m not sure she was given a choice. That sister of hers has kept her close since the announcement. Mary Craddock is a damn menace.”

A blade that had been in place for nearly ten years twisted. Something on his face must have reflected his inner disquiet.

“I’m sorry, son. I remember you and Lady Mary—”

“It was years ago, sir. She threw me over quite handily in favor of Craddock. And why wouldn’t she? I was destitute with the merest wisp of prospects. Status and money were more important.” Drawing from the cold wind whistling past the windows, ice dripped from his words. “Is it truly any different for this sister of hers?”

The vicar huffed a laugh, surprising Maxwell. “You must not recall Brynmore.”

Vague recollections of Mary’s half sister hovered on the edges of his consciousness like shadows. His only vivid memory had been at Cadell’s funeral. The sight of the weeping girl had swelled his heart. He had been reluctant to interrupt her grief to pay his own respects to the man. Instead of embarrassment over her tears, she had welcomed him and offered comfort in return. The skinny girl’s tight hug had imparted a measure of solace he hadn’t expected. Then, like a wraith, she’d disappeared into the fog.

She had been bundled up with a mannish hat low over her brow, but he recalled being taken aback by her warm, brown eyes. So different from Mary’s duplicitous green ones.

Big, luminous, chocolaty eyes that reminded him of…

The world tipped, his hangover coming back to call. His heart pounded his head with a mallet. “What color hair does Brynmore McCann have?” The question clawed its way out of his throat.

“An unusual shade. Not really red but not golden either. Somewhere in between. And such lovely brown eyes. She’s a bit freckly, but I’ve always thought it added to her charm.”

Why in bloody hell would highborn Brynmore McCann wait in his bed and pretend to be a whore mere days before she was due to wed? Did she think he wouldn’t discover her little charade? Or wouldn’t care if she tried to pass his babe off as another’s? She had taken him for a fool.

His life was growing more complicated by the minute. His plan upon leaving London had been to pay his respects to his mother, make sure she had a proper headstone, repay the vicar for his kindness, and put the village firmly in his past, never to return.

Now he had a possible inheritance from a father who had never acknowledged him, and he’d ruined the sister of his first love. A woman who even now might be carrying his bastard babe. If he hadn’t been in a house of the Lord, he would have unleashed a curse-filled tirade sure to call forth a deadly lightning strike.

There was nothing for it. If Brynmore McCann was to marry on the morrow, Dugan Armstrong wouldn’t be the bridegroom.

* * * * *

Bryn sat on her bed, biting her thumbnail. There’s too much riding on your marriage to Dugan. There were factors at play she didn’t understand. Factors that made Mary and Craddock desperate for the marriage to go forward. As desperate as she felt to stop it.

She didn’t even know what was in the blasted marriage settlement. Every time she’d asked to read it, Craddock had put her off with excuses. Mary’s latest ambitions had to do with getting Craddock elected to Parliament. Her tastes had grown too sophisticated for provincial little Cragian. London called. But how did Bryn’s marriage to Dugan help move Mary closer to her goal of shaking Scotland’s dirt off her feet?

Would Vicar Mitchell bless the vows if she stood silent at the altar? He might not have a choice, considering Mary’s threat of withholding much-needed funds from the church. Bryn refused to force him into a moral dilemma.

She faced two options she’d hoped to avoid. Accept her fate and marry Dugan or escape the match and grapple with an unknown, dangerous future.

Her decision made, she stripped off her woolen dress and pulled her buckskin breeches and boots out of the back of the wardrobe. They were snugger than the last time she’d worn them. The cloth strained across her backside and hugged her thighs.

A simple white shirt and study brown waistcoat came out of hiding as well. The waistcoat was especially tight, and she had to leave the top two buttons undone. No matter, her coat would cover her well enough.

Her only items of any worth had been her mother’s—a pair of gem-encrusted combs, a gilded looking glass, and a few pieces of jewelry containing semiprecious stones. Bryn would hate to part with them, but she would if necessary. She wrapped them in a length of plaid and put them into the bottom of her small satchel.

She added her brown woolen gown still warm from her body to the pack along with stockings, underthings, and gloves. Her life packed away in one small satchel. The room barely bore a mark of her existence. Blinking back a fog of tears, she pulled her beaten, brimmed hat down on her head. She needed to be far away by the time Mary came to check on her. Time was her enemy.

She rattled the door, hoping the lock was rusty enough to give way, but it held fast. Her gaze fell on the window. Climbing down would be foolish and dangerous, but it was her only choice. If she broke her neck? Well, she would be out of this mess one way or another.

She tied her sheets together in a makeshift rope. The rock face was rough and would supply footholds. While her immediate destination was in question, Edinburgh was her ultimate goal. It was her best chance of escaping Mary’s plans. Plus Bryn wasn’t without friends there even if they were the common sort.

Bryn opened the sash and shivered as the brisk wind invaded her now defenseless room. Her window faced the gardens, but the weather was keeping the guests inside. The heavy gray clouds portended a snowfall before the day was over. Sunny blue skies would have been a better omen.

She secured one end of her sheet rope to her heavy, ornate bedpost and threw the rest over the sill, checking the length. The wind whipped it around, making it difficult to gauge how close to the ground it would get her.

She heaved a deep, nervous breath, hitched her satchel over one shoulder, and scanned the gardens. It wouldn’t do to have anyone alert Mary before she even made it to solid ground. She threw a leg over the sill, held tightly to the sheet, and glanced down. The ground seemed infinitely farther away than it had at her first check. Heaving in a shuddery breath, she said a little prayer and went over the edge.