Samantha James (2 page)

“My lady,” he said, “I have examined the earl to the best of my ability. I wish I could help him. I truly do. But I fear there is nothing I can do, for I do not know what illness plagues him. All I know is that he is sick.” There was a long drawn-out pause before he gently added, “Deathly sick, I fear.”

Jen let out a wail.

Maura braced herself inwardly. “How long?” she asked evenly.

He hesitated.

She pressed on. “How long, if you please?”

“I cannot say.”

No, Maura thought. He would not say. But there was pity in his eyes. Even he knew.

Superstition, some might have called it. Nonsense. But deep in her soul she knew it was the curse. The curse that had plagued the McDonough since the night the Black Scotsman—the scoundrel pirate who hid his real identity from both Scots and Irish—had sailed away into the night with the Circle of Light in his possession. They all knew.

Before the day was out, the earl of McDonough would be dead.

She inclined her head. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Murdoch, will you please escort the doctor to the door and see to his payment?”

Maura let herself back into the bedroom. Her insides twisted in sick dread. A sharp, tearing pain split her heart in two. Her father lay weakly against the pillows. She was stung by the change in him, in but the short time she had been outside in the hall. His cheeks were sunken, the bones of his face taut, his skin almost papery thin. With a finger he beckoned her near.

“He comes, Maura. He comes again.”

She drew up the chair beside the bed, then leaned close. “Who, Papa?”

“The Black Scotsman.”

Fire raged inside her. “That bloody pirate!” she cried. “He is dead and I pray that he has burned in Hell these many years! I curse him as we have been cursed!”

A fit of coughing seized the earl. Maura held a glass of water to his lips and made him drink.

“It will do no good to curse him,” he rasped when he was able. “He is already cursed. By the old earl of McDonough, Randall O’Donnell himself, who saw his ship disappear into the night.” He began to wheeze again. “But you can save us, Maura. You are the one.”

A wave of despair broke over her. If only it were true. If only there were some way she could save them! But with every year that passed, a few more tenants moved away. Those who remained eked out a living.

Throughout the rest of the day and into the evening he railed. “Maura,” he whispered again and again. “You are the one. The only one who can save us. The only one who can save our people and our lands.”

For a time her father was quiet. Maura was dimly aware of Murdoch and Jen hovering behind her. She thought he was sleeping—a restful sleep, a healing sleep, she prayed. Just when hope unfurled in her breast, he coughed anew—it sounded
like the scratching of winds across a field of straw bleached dry and brittle by the sun.

It was almost as if she could see him shrinking away before her very eyes. She tried to soothe his wild ramblings, but all at once he heaved himself up with a strength that astounded her. His eyes opened and fixed straight upon her.

“The Black Scotsman,” he whispered again. “Did you not hear me, child? He has returned. He is in Ireland. In Ireland, girl!”

He was hallucinating, surely, for nothing he said made any sense now.

“Papa—” She tried to press him back, but he reached out and seized the paper he’d been reading when he fell ill; Maura had tossed it aside, onto the bedside table. He thrust it into her hands, then collapsed back upon the pillows. “Read,” he commanded in as stout a voice as ever. “Read!”

As if guided by some force from above, her gaze homed in directly on the line that read:

Stunned, Maura went very still. The paper slid from her hands onto the floor. A strange sensation seized hold of her.

“You see, Maura? You understand now, don’t you? The Black Scotsman has returned. He has returned!”

Maura shook her head. “Papa, this man…this duke…”

“I see it, Maura. I know it. Promise me you will find him.”

His breath grew heavy and labored. She almost hated herself for thinking it, but he had not long to live. She could almost see him slipping away.

Tears filled her eyes. “Stay, Papa. Stay.” It was a cry of outrage, a desperate plea, as if she could stop the inevitable.

There was a suffocating tightness in her chest, as if her heart was being chipped away, piece by piece. She battled to hold back tears. It was useless. A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another. She didn’t want to promise. She didn’t want to let go of him. She didn’t want to lose him.

She gripped his hands. He held tight—so tight it was as if lightning flashed inside her brain, her very blood—as if a current of some strange unknown energy passed from his body into hers.

It was believed by many that her father had the sight. It was true things often happened as he said they would. He often dismissed this belief in his usual, jovial way. Yet now Maura realized for the first time—and with an unswerving certainty—that it was the truth.

Some might have argued there was no reason to believe that this man whom the newspaper called the Black Scotsman could possibly be related to the pirate of yesteryear, the Black Scotsman who stole the Circle of Light. Yet, with an uncanny certainty, Maura felt the truth to the core of her being. This man, Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden…carried the blood of his pirate ancestor, the Black Scotsman.

Her father cried out, “I see in your eyes that you feel it, too. That you understand. That you know it as I do. Oh, aye, girl, it was his ancestor who stole from us, stole everything. Go to him, Maura. Seek him out. Go to Lord Preston’s and find this Black Scotsman and follow him to his home—to his lands, for it is there you will find the Circle. Find it and bring it home, child. Take
back what is ours. End this curse, that our lands and people will again be blessed with good fortune. Promise me, Maura. Promise me you will find this man. Promise me you will find the Black Scotsman.”

Her throat was so raw she could barely speak. “Papa, I do not know—”

“You will find a way, my child. You are the one. The only one who can save us. I feel it here.” He thumped his heart. Tears filled his eyes.

Just as tears filled hers.

“Promise me, daughter. Promise me you will bring the Circle home, home where it belongs.”

Her voice was but a shred of sound. “I promise, Papa.”

Relief flooded his eyes. Then all at once he tipped his head to the side. “Listen,” he whispered.

A sound echoed eerily through the night.

The howl of a wolf.

And there were no wolves left in Ireland.

An odd shiver filled her heart. It was a sign, she realized. A sign that transcended belief and reason and explanation. A sign of all that had been…

And everything to come.

He squeezed her fingers. “All will be well, my darling Maura. All will be as it should be.” A faint
smile graced his lips. Her promise had given him peace, she decided vaguely.

The thought came the instant his grip slackened. The very instant she was aware of life draining from his body.

Downstairs the clock tolled midnight.

Now she knew what was different about this day, for it came to her then. Her father, the earl of McDonough, chief of the Clan McDonough, had died on the very day the Black Scotsman had stolen the Circle.

Two hundred years earlier.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Maura kissed his brow. “I will not forsake my promise, Papa,” she whispered. “I will not.”

She rose to her feet, a determined resolve beating in her blood, her very heart.

She would honor her promise to him. She would bring the Circle home to their lands.

She would not fail him.

Go to him, Maura. Seek him out
.

And she had. She could scarcely believe it. She was here. In the home of Lord Ellis Preston, Baron of Killane. In a lovely, damask-papered room, with a round-cheeked maid named Eileen assisting her as she readied herself to attend the masquerade given in honor of the Black Scots—Good heavens. She must stop thinking of him that way. He had a name, a title…She fought to remember it, for already she’d grown accustomed to thinking of him as the Black Scotsman.

Alec. Yes, there it was. Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden.

Besides, as she and Murdoch had discovered,
the Black Scotsman was a name given him by the debutantes in England, who apparently considered him quite the catch.

A faint bitterness filled her. Less than a fortnight had passed since her father’s death. Less than a fortnight before the Black Scotsman departed Ireland. Her father was scarcely in the ground after the wake before a straggling line of tenants gathered before the stone steps of the castle. There had been no time to waste, to grieve or to mourn.

She had bid good-bye to each of them. She cautioned Daniel the Swift that he must keep his hands from the neighbor’s sheep and gave a tug to Patrick the Woolly’s beard. He grinned in return.

When it came to Jen, Maura had hugged the housekeeper very hard. Releasing her, feeling as if her heart would break at any instant, she’d glanced toward the churchyard, high on the hill. She thought of her father then—his stanch pride—his love of his home and land.

Before she even thought about it, she’d reached for the small velvet pouch inside her purse and dumped the coins it held into the bottom of the bag. Her emotions ran rampant as she bent low and scooped a handful of dust and stones into the now empty pouch. The move was sudden, unex
pected, and appeared to startle Murdoch, who stepped forward.

“Lady M—”

He stopped short. Rising to her full stature, Maura’s chin came up and she defiantly yanked the strings of the pouch closed. Her best pair of white gloves was now ruined. She gave not a whit. If she must leave her home and lands, by heaven, a piece of McDonough land would always be with her. Murdoch’s expression changed from puzzlement to something else as he helped her into the carriage. Maura deliberately glanced away. When she turned back, she could have cried.

She saw Murdoch kiss his wife, and Jen cling to him a moment longer, as long as she could. She had looked on with a sensation so painfully acute she could have cried out. Then Murdoch stepped into the carriage and sat down across from her, his hands settled on his knees. Maura had almost hated herself for what she was doing—in all the days of her life, Murdoch and Jen had never spent a night apart.

She’d almost been relieved when the driver gave a crack of the whip. She waved to the assemblage. Patrick swept off his hat and offered a swaggering bow. Toothless Nan gave her a wink. Her pulse speeding up, she in turn gave Nan a tiny little nod.

And then they’d set off, en route to the Baron of Killane’s estate.

Almost from the night her father died, Maura’s mind had been working furiously. Somehow she had to get to Scotland—to the Duke of Gleneden’s estate. She weighed several possibilities. What if she were to pass herself off as a distant relation? Too risky, she decided, for several reasons. He might not believe her. Plus she had no way of making certain she could manage an invitation. Even if she did, it would likely be for only several days, at best, and she had no idea how long it might take to find the Circle.

What if she landed a position in his household staff? Ah, but what if there were no positions available? Provided she did manage to secure one, what if she ended up as a scullery maid? But such a post would doubtless offer no chance for her to search for the Circle. Even a position as a housemaid might not give her the opportunity she needed.

And what she needed was the ability to roam about freely, wherever she wished. Whenever she wished.

Maura recalled what the newspaper had stated:
One cannot help but wonder if the dashing Black Scotsman will capture the hearts of our Irish
lasses as surely as he has captured many a heart in his homeland.

It simply would not leave her mind. And with that in mind, she had conceived her plan…

Her first obstacle was getting herself into the Baron of Killane’s masquerade. The second—and this the hardest!—would require boldness and daring. It involved a very great risk.

A very great deal of luck, for everything had to fall perfectly into place!

A very great deal of boldness and daring.

She was prepared to take that chance. Within her breast beat an unwavering resolve.

She would do whatever she must to find and bring home the Circle of Light.

With a stash of funds from her father’s room, she and Murdoch had taken modest lodgings at a hotel not far from the baron’s estate. During the journey, she had purchased several new gowns, and saw to it that Murdoch was fitted with several new suits of clothing as well. For her plan to succeed, Murdoch had to appear a proper gentleman. Luckily, he needed little training in manners and the like. Though Maura’s father did not insist on formality, both Jen and Murdoch were familiar with the proper deportment when needed. Their first position before being hired by Maura’s parents had been with the Earl of Rawlins in County Cavan.

“Murdoch!” she’d chuckled after commanding him to show her one of the new suits. “Oh, if Jen could see you now! I vow you’d take her breath away as you did those many years ago!”

“It is indeed my breath that causes me worry,” he’d grumbled, running a finger between his stock and his throat. “It reminds me most heartily that if your father had insisted I dress like this day in and day out, my time in his employ might never have landed beyond a week!”

“Oh, cease!” Maura had given him a mock frown. Both Murdoch and Jen were more family than servants. “I,” she said rather airily, “maintain that you look quite handsome”—she pretended to flick off a wad of wool from his sleeve—“my dearest uncle.”

It was crucial that they arrive early so they might ferret out what information they could about the Baron of Killane. It was Murdoch who discovered at a pub in the next village that the baron was elderly; his wife, Lorraine, had been dead for nearly a decade.

Perhaps it was rash. Perhaps it was foolish to think that she could gain entrance to the ball. But by Jove, she would sneak in if she had to.

They had taken lodgings not far from the baron’s home. Several days after their arrival, Maura sat down at the wooden desk in her room, her
heart thumping madly, her mind running wildly. Yet slowly, ever so slowly, she reached for quill, paper, and ink, and began to write.

A coin was pressed into the hand of the innkeeper’s house boy and the letter dispatched. The
baron might call her bluff. He might call the authorities, Murdoch warned, were he to know her claim was untrue.

Instead the baron called on her…at tea, the very next afternoon in the inn’s tiny dining room.

“Your mother,” he observed, casting her a look beneath the bushiest pair of white brows she’d ever seen in her life. “Gone, too, I gather?”

“Aye,” Maura said earnestly. “I was but a girl when she died.” She had lowered her eyes, as if it were painful for her to think about. “But, oh, how she loved the rolling hills and masses of flowers in County Clare!”

Another fact that Murdoch had unearthed.

“Oh, aye, that she did, my Lorraine!” the baron had replied. He scratched his great droopy moustache. “I must say, I’ve always found the weather in Clare a wee bit wet for m’taste.”

Maura laid her spoon upon the saucer. “Well, perhaps Uncle and I should journey to the south and east,” she said brightly. “My father was not one to travel far from home. But Uncle Murdoch and I have not yet decided precisely where our journey will lead us. Perhaps as the wind takes us, as they say.”

“When do you leave?” the baron had asked.

“We thought to leave tomorrow.” Murdoch spoke before Maura had a chance to.

“Tomorrow! Oh, but you cannot leave so soon! Your journey—you travel at your leisure, do you not?”

Maura cleared her throat. “Yes, but—”

“Then stay! I have a masquerade planned tomorrow night,” declared the baron. “It would please me to no end if the two of ye would attend. It would please me even more if you would come stay at the manor with me now! I have a house full of guests already—and room for more.”

This was exactly what Maura had wanted. Exactly as she hoped. But the baron was clearly a man of great, hearty, and welcoming demeanor, and she winced inside at her deceit. She liked him, she truly did, and lying to him was like the scraping of tooth upon stone.

But then she thought of the Black Scotsman.

She bit her lip. “I’ve never been to a masquerade before, Uncle.”

Murdoch was frowning. Pretending to consider, as she well knew. “Well—”

“Come now,” said the baron. “Never been to a masquerade! Why, almost a sin, it is, for our lovely Lady Maura to miss such an event! I implore you, stay, the both of ye now! I’ve a room full and more of costumes that you may choose from.”

Murdoch arched a wiry brow and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Ye know I cannot refuse ye, girl.”

The baron had let out a laugh. “Then do not, man!” He clapped Murdoch on the shoulder. “I shall send a man over for yer things as soon as I arrive home—”

“Oh, but we are quite comfortable here for the night, are we not, Uncle?”

Murdoch nodded. They both knew better than to appear too eager.

It was perfect. So very perfect.

“At least for the night of the masquerade, then,” the baron had insisted. “Please, you will offend me deeply if you refuse.”

Murdoch extended a hand. “Then we have no choice but to accept your gracious offer. But we will be off, bright and early, the morning after.”

So it happened that she was here, in the baron’s home.

Beneath the same roof as the Black Scotsman.

The sound of Eileen’s cheery voice brought her back to preparations for the masquerade. “Shall I tighten the back laces of your vest, my lady?”

Maura clasped her hands around the bedpost.

“Goodness, my lady, never before have I tended a lady with so tiny a waist!” the girl marveled as she began her task. Maura scarcely heard.

Knowing the Black Scotsman—she might as well leave off trying to think of him otherwise—was here, somewhere, sent a skitter of anxiety all through her.

Eileen guided her to the dressing table, chiding her. “Do not frown so, my lady. A woman’s brow must be smooth as a baby’s bottom. Can ye imagine that? I never believed it until I tended a lady from England. Beautiful she was, with nary a wrinkle. It was achieved, she informed me, by neither frowning nor laughing. And if a smile must be displayed, it must be done only with the most demure sense possible.” In the mirror behind her, the girl demonstrated. “Her face was wooden. She even walked about as if she had wooden sticks for legs!” She started to laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Oh, forgive me, milady—”

But Maura was laughing along with her. She realized it was the first genuine laugh she’d had since Papa’s death nearly ten days ago. Perhaps, she decided cautiously, the luck of the Mc
Donough had already begun to change…for the better.

“The baron,” said Maura. “Does he entertain often?”

“Oh, two or three times a year.” Eileen picked up a hair brush. “A house party later in the summer. It’s lovely then, milady, ye should see it! All green and bright with flowers. He keeps the garden exactly the same as when his dear wife was alive, ye know. And usually another house party during hunting season.”

Eileen ran the brush through Maura’s hair. “Such lovely hair ye have, milady,” said the girl. “So thick and dark and shiny. Will ye be leaving it loose beneath yer scarf?”

Maura nodded. Eileen had already proved to be a font of information. Her father was the head groomsman for the baron. She was the eldest of eight children and had been in the employ of the baron for three years.

“And this party? The masquerade?” Maura edged her back to tonight’s event. “Will there be many guests?”

“A fair amount. The baron’s friends from Dublin and neighbors mostly,” Eileen supplied. “And the masquerade is in honor of the duke. His father and the baron were great friends, ye know.
The duke’s father often came to fish, and the duke has continued the tradition every few years, I’m told.”

The girl already knew how she and her “uncle” had met the baron, because of Maura’s letter regarding the baron’s late wife. Maura feigned innocence. “The duke?” she queried. “I wasn’t aware there would be a duke in attendance.”

“Oh, aye.” Eileen’s eyes began to sparkle. “The Duke of Gleneden. Scots, he is. I heard Mrs. O’Hara say at luncheon today that when she was in England last, she heard that every young miss in England and Scotland longed to become his duchess—and not only for his money and title. I should imagine it’s surely the same for any woman in our fair isle! The Black Scotsman, he’s called.”

“Really.” Maura feigned indifference. “And what other reason would these women have for wanting to marry the man other than his wealth and title?”

Eileen fairly giggled. “Ye will know when you see ’im, milady.”