Elusive (6 page)

As long as Macrath survived his father, he
was the only choice she had that would keep all that was dear to
her in the possession of her father’s line. She just didn’t know if
her heart was strong enough for her to do what must be done.

Her Sòlas, on the other hand, was fair of
face, heart, and soul. He had been
her
Sòlas since their
twelfth year. Their secret oath had been given and taken, as they
sat together on the cliff overlooking the loch, on the warm spring
day of their mutual birthday. To break that oath…once again the
dreaded tears streamed down her face.

Sòlas and Finnean were the only people who
understood that she hated to celebrate the anniversary of their
birth, and why. The anniversary of her birth was also the
anniversary of her mother’s death. Sòlas’s mother, beautiful, sweet
Meadhbh (MAEV), had survived what was a common cause of death for
women. Meadhbh had been much loved by Morgana and, as Morgana had
wished, had become Caena’s godmother. How could such a loving woman
as Meadhbh have two such different sons, she wondered.

She was so confused. One moment she was
certain she could do what needed to be done. Then she would think
of Sòlas, and her determination would falter. She settled again in
front of the mirror, and Ròs began brushing Caena’s long, blonde
hair.

“As much as I regret allowing my dark
thoughts about Macrath, Ròs, it has occurred to me that even their
mother prefers her youngest son.” Caena had long thought that Sòlas
was his mother’s favorite. Even his mother seemed to recognize the
evil that emanated from her eldest son. Although Meadhbh never
spoke it to anyone, Caena was certain that Macrath felt the
favoritism as well. That would make him very dangerous to Sòlas.
Very dangerous indeed!

A single tear ran its course down her pale
cheek. The closer she got to her sixteenth birthday, the more she
struggled with the pain of making her decision. Should she marry
the man she loved? That would doom them both for whatever life was
left to them after going against Macrath. The other alternative was
worse. To protect Sòlas’s life, it would require they banish
themselves from the land they loved as they loved the air they
breathed.

If she married Macrath, she would doom
herself to a life without her love, her Sòlas. But perhaps she
would be able, in some small way, to keep Sòlas safe from harm. As
a woman, she would never be permitted to reason with Macrath on
Sòlas’s behalf. Not that it would matter to Macrath at any rate. He
would as likely kill Sòlas just to spite her. She could, however,
enlist Ròs and her family, all of whom served in the castle, to
keep their eyes and ears open for any intrigues involving Sòlas’s
safety.

She’d never felt so trapped. She had no more
than a fortnight to give her father her decision—a decision that
would set the course for her entire future, and perhaps for her
generations to come. It was a heavy weight for such a small,
inexperienced girl. Once her decision was made, she would tell
Sòlas first. She owed him that, no matter what else she did.

As Caena’s pacing stopped in front of the
mirror, Ròs watched her mistress in the glass. She saw the pain,
the conflict on her face. Poor child, she thought. She turned to go
down to the kitchen. At least she could get the girl some food to
keep her going. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, she would
not do for Caena.

“At least I can be assured that something may
change between now and the time when we wed. I can, at least,
postpone that dreaded day as long as possible,” Caena said—more to
herself than to Ròs—and relaxed slightly with that thought.

**************************

Chapter 5: The Old Laird is Dead

Donnach, Scotland – March 1912

The Laird was dead—long live the Laird, he
snarled to himself as he took the three fingers of Scotch whiskey
in one deep gulp. Oh, how he resented that the only way for him to
become Laird was through his father’s death. He’d give up anything,
hell
everything,
to have him back. His emotions were raw,
his heart bruised, his very soul ached with the pain of loss. He
could not imagine a more poignant loss than that of his father,
unless it had been his mother. The thought sent a shiver down his
long, muscular back.

His mother had been so brave throughout the
funeral. Now she slept, and his hope was that the purple smudges
under her eyes would be gone when she awoke in the morning. He
couldn’t bear to see her in such pain, marching forward as was
expected of the good Lady McDonnough, Countess of Donnach. To him
she was simply his dear, sweet mother—his mère.

Sighing, he
wandered across the Great Hall to the fireplace where the fire had
blazed for hours to fight off the chilly evening. As it began to
ebb, he stood leaning on one long, sinewy arm against the hearth
and staring into the blaze below. He was lost in thought when his
father’s elderly cousin, Iseabail (ISH uh bel)—Dizzy Izzy, as she
was called behind doors—came into the room.

She silently watched him to gauge his mood.
Deciding this was as good a time as any, she moved into the room to
gain his attention.

“Alexandre, may I speak to you for a moment?”
Her voice was gravelly with age, and syrupy with feigned
sweetness.

Damn, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for
any of his father’s cousin’s annoying conversation. She had always
been a pain in his side, but she was family after all—distant,
though not distant enough for his liking—but damn it, she was
family, and he wouldn’t ignore her. Everyone had suffered a
loss—not just he and his mother. He had to keep that in mind.

“Yes, cousin, please come in,” he answered,
as he gathered his composure, straightened and slowly turned to
face her. Cousin Iseabail was elderly, and her years had not done
her any favors. She was the opposite of his mother. This cousin’s
face was etched with lines from frowns and scowls well-played over
the years. Dressed in the stark black, she appeared even more harsh
than usual. Her hair had not as much
grayed
with the years,
but had more
yellowed.
It added nothing flattering to her
sallow complexion, nor did the stark black of her mourning attire.
“Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, my dear. No. I just wanted to advise you
of some rather disturbing news Aiden shared with me after the
service this afternoon. I thought I should tell you, but I don’t
wish to burden you if you need more time to yourself, dear
boy.”

She was laying it on thick, he thought. His
jaws were beginning to ache from clenching them. “It’s fine. What
did your son have to say?” He had to admit she had piqued his
curiosity. He had had little contact with Aiden or his brother,
Hugh, over the years. The gods had smiled! If they’d grown into the
same bent as their mother…he shook his head to clear this murderous
line of thought and waited for her to continue.

As he waited for her to continue with
whatever was the topic of gossip for today, he noticed Charlotte,
his mother’s personal maid lurking near the entrance of the room.
He wondered what the old dear was up to. What was she doing?
Charlotte—dusting the items on a side table? He’d never known the
wonderful old woman to dust anything in the twenty years she’d
served his mother. What…? Then Iseabail regained his attention.

“Well, as you know, Aiden has been in Paris
recently.”

“Yes, so I heard…somewhere.” Damned if he
could even remember who’d mentioned it! So many people had been at
the service to honor the beloved Laird.

“He heard a rather disconcerting rumor while
he was there. It seems there is a young woman purporting to be a
direct
descendent
of Caena and Sòlas McDonnough. You
remember who they were, I take it?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He had to reign in his
temper. The woman drove him crazy. She loved nothing more than
gossip, and she was malicious to say the least. “How did he hear
about this so-called
descendent
?”

“Oh, my…well, I don’t have all the details,
but there was…” she paused as she waived a heavily-ringed hand in
the air as if sweeping away mental cobwebs, “something… about her
being in league with an older gentleman. He claims to be descended
from Sòlas, and that the
niece
is descended from Caena.” She
emitted an impolite snort of laughter. “Well, as you may recall,
Sòlas exiled himself from Scotland. Caena, the Laird’s daughter,
married Sòlas’s brother, Macrath. The whole idea that Caena had a
child by Sòlas is ridiculous, of course.”

She let that sink in for a moment while she
reached for a porcelain figure she had always coveted. Rubbing her
hands across it, she continued. “He was undoubtedly lost at sea on
his way to some island south of America.”

“I am well aware of the family history,
Di…Iseabail,” he said, just wishing she would go away and leave him
to his grief.

She waved her hand in dismissal, “But I felt
you should know.” She was fairly purring at this point. “Perhaps
you should check out this claim, now that you are Laird, Alexandre.
It wouldn’t do to have some imposter muddying up the waters now
that you are due to inherit.”

“Yes, I’ll certainly look into it.” His jaws
ached from gritting his teeth while he forced himself to quietly
listen to her prattle. As he glanced toward the doorway, he noticed
that Charlotte was gone.

“Well, goodnight dear. Try to get some rest,”
she said, as she pulled him down by his lapels to kiss his cheek,
turned, and left the room.

“Old busy-body,” he snarled under his breath
as he poured himself another three fingers of Scotch. Well, it was
just as well that she had told him, he supposed. She was right. It
wouldn’t do for his mother to be upset by some imposter trying to
make claims on the estate. She had enough to deal with. He poured
back the Scotch in a single swig. Yes, he’d look into it, and if
this girl and her associate thought they were going to get by with
doing anything to upset Lady McDonnough, he would put a stop to it
quickly. If it was ever necessary, he would protect her with his
very life. That’s what he would do for anyone he loved.

***

The next morning, as the dreaded cousin Izzy
prepared to leave, she asked her cousin’s widow, “Are you sure you
don’t want me to stay to help you, dear?” Cousin Iseabail would
have welcomed the excuse to stay on at the castle and spread more
suspicion where she could. Watching Alexandre’s face when she had
given him the news had made her absolutely giddy with pleasure.
“Charles was a beloved cousin. I would be glad to be of service to
you and the boy.”

“No, please!” She tried not to sound as
panicked as she felt at the thought. “Don’t feel it is necessary to
stay any longer. I’m sure you are anxious to get back home to
Glasgow,” Lady McDonnough told her husband’s cousin. “It was most
kind of you to come.” God, she hoped the woman would just leave,
and do it quickly!

“Well, please let me know if there is
anything we can do to help you. We are family after all and would
love to be of service to you and the new Laird. Please do call on
us, dear.” Dripping with sugary concern, she kissed Lady McDonnough
on the cheek and reluctantly climbed into her car.

Lady McDonnough did not wait until the car
was over the bridge before going back inside, where she met her
son, her dear boy, coming out of his library. “Alexandre, my dear.”
She raised her cheek to him for a gentle kiss. Wouldn’t he just
have a tantrum over being called ‘boy’, she smiled to herself. At
thirty-five he had long passed the ‘boy’ stage, she realized with
both pride and regret.

He watched her face looking for signs that
she had gotten better rest the night before. “We didn’t get a
chance to speak in private this morning, what with all the
gossiping at the breakfast table,” he growled. “How are you feeling
this morning, Mère?” he asked, with his fluid French flavoring his
endearment.

“I’m fine, Alexandre. Just fine,” she
answered. “Now, why don’t you and I sit down for a cup of tea and
some conversation while the house is quiet?” She smiled up at her
son, took his offered arm, and they headed back to the Great Hall
to enjoy the warmth of the dying fire while they could.

“I’ve always loved this room,” she said,
looking around her. “It is one thing I shall miss a great
deal.”

“You know you are more than welcome to stay
on here, Mère. This is your home!” He knew she wouldn’t stay, but
he was still sorry to see her planning to leave.

“Yes, well, it is for the best. I need a new
start, Alexandre. There are too many ghosts here.” She tried to
keep the sadness from crossing her face, but her son knew her too
well. She knew she would have to stand her ground, or she would
weaken and stay—she needed to go.

“What did our
dear
cousin have to
discuss with you last night?” she asked.

“How did you know she came to me? You were
supposed to be sleeping, Mère.” He smiled at her and waited for her
response.

“Charlotte told me she saw the old crone
waiting to pounce on you last night,” she laughed. “I wondered what
mischief she was up to. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s hearing isn’t
what it used to be,” she laughed.

“That explains why the old dear was
hovering,” he laughed. “I was afraid she wasn’t feeling well…she
was
dusting
! The sweet thing hasn’t dusted anything in the
twenty years I’ve known her. I thought she was having some kind of
breakdown.”

As he poured a white wine for each of them,
he explained his conversation with his father’s cousin. “It was
nothing of importance, really—some silly rumor she heard. You know
her. She just loves to stir things up.”

His face had gotten grim, she thought.
There’s more there than he’s telling, but she wouldn’t press him.
He had enough on his shoulders these days. He’d tell her when he
was ready. Why did sons always think they could keep things from
their mothers—or that they should—she wondered?