The Heart Queen (16 page)

Louisa had spent much of her day in the kitchen, a rarity, although one of her finer points was a knowledge of food. They had prepared a feast for Braemoor, including the last of his brother’s finest wine. Enough food and wine, and perhaps the oaf would go home and take care of his own business.

His motives were still unknown. Did he want Lochaene, or did he have an interest in the widow? He’d certainly shown no sign of the latter, and Janet was not very appealing. She was far too thin, her face too austere. So it came back to the land.

Mayhap, Louisa prodded, he could discover more if Braemoor were to partake liberally of the wine.

It was the only hope he had, unless he wished to live the rest of his life as a supplicant and poor relative with no funds of his own. His wife had hoped to be countess one day. He doubted if that would happen now, but at least he might loosen some funds. Some new dresses, a carriage, a trip to Edinburgh might make her loss less severe.

He went to oversee the preparations.

Even Braemoor’s best clothes were severe, Janet noticed. He wore dark blue except for a linen shirt and plain neckcloth. They were like crows next to parrots. Both Louisa and Reginald were dressed in the finest clothes, which meant a red gown for her sister-in-law and a bright green waistcoat for Reginald. The dowager countess, Marjorie, was still in black mourning, but she wore family jewels that were dazzling. They were all obviously trying to impress their visitor.

The smile inside her, however, quickly dissipated. She’d been surprised at learning of the banquet tonight, since she had not ordered it. She’d also heard from Clara about the fit Louisa had had when Braemoor had announced he’d been named guardian.

But then, Louisa had always been a bit on the sly side. It was obvious they had harnessed their resentment long enough to try to impress Braemoor. For a moment, she had worried about that, but then she knew in some corner of her heart that Braemoor would not fall for such a ploy. If he had demonstrated anything in the past few days, it had been a confidence he’d not had years ago, and determination to follow through on his word. He’d shown that last night when he’d traveled into a village to get oats for the horses.

He would see through them
. She kept telling herself that. Nonetheless, she was surprised at his cordiality toward her brother-in-law, and obvious deference to Louisa. Mayhap he did not see the edge of contempt in their eyes.

Louisa had been very careful with the seating. She had taken away the chair at the head of the table so they sat two on one side, three on the other. She placed herself next to Braemoor. Wine was poured immediately.

“I hope you enjoy the wine, my lord,” Louisa said. “It was Alasdair’s best.”

“I’m sure it will be satisfactory,” he said, taking a sip, then returning the glass to the table.

Janet badly needed a sip. She needed a gulp, and yet she knew she could not afford that. It was quite obvious that Louisa and Reginald had a plan tonight. She hoped it was as obvious to Braemoor as it was to her. But he did not know them as she did. And neither, she reminded herself, did she know him now.

Everything he had done puzzled her. She had expected nothing but greed when he had shown up at her door. Why else would he take on such a position? She had asked for his help because she’d had nowhere else to turn. She had meant for him to talk to Cumberland. She had meant a tiny boon.

She had not meant for him to take over her life, or that of all of Lochaene.

Had she created a monster that would devour her and hers?

He was quiet and watchful, which he always seemed to be. He was as polite to them, as he had been to her. He kept every feeling, every emotion, to himself.

A pox on him.

She only knew she had to keep her own feelings every bit as private. She’d learned to do that as wife to Alasdair Campbell. He had quashed what joy of spirit she had. She had learned to measure every word, every action, and still she had incurred his wrath. She swallowed now, wishing she was not so timid, that she had not learned so many lessons so well.

But she had. So she sat and observed, uncertain as to whether those scenes today with the children reflected Braemoor’s true character. Or had his character been in that note he’d written her years ago? It had been curt, unkind. She remembered every word. It was ingrained in her mind.

I withdraw my suit. Your father as well as my uncle are opposed to the match. There would be no dowry or inheritance. I am sure you understand.

When she had asked to see him, she’d discovered he had left for London on some errand for his uncle.

She had
not
understood. She had not understood anything at all. He had declared his devotion, had said he did not care about a dowry. Lies. All lies. He
had
cared about the dowry. Janet had lost her faith that day. She had lost it in love, in hope, in her own judgment. Her marriage to Alasdair had been yet another mistake, another blind step.

“And you, my lady—what do you think?”

Janet jerked upright in her chair at Braemoor’s question. She had missed the previous conversation, lost as she was in her brief unhappy visit to the past. “Of what?”

“That sheep would be more to our advantage,” Reginald said with an exaggerated patience as if repeating the conversation showed her inadequacy.

“More to whose advantage?” she said, wondering whether he was aware of Braemoor’s promise of seed.

“To Lochaene, of course,” Reginald said. “All our neighbors are turning over the land to sheep and cattle. Tis the wise and frugal thing to do,” he added, casting a quick look toward Braemoor.

“And our tenants?”

“They can find work in the cities,” he said, obviously confident that he was gaining Braemoor’s ear.

“I do not think it is that easy,” she said. “And they have children.”

Reginald stiffened. “So do we, my lady, and we must ensure that they, too, have a future.”

“Not at the expense of others,” she snapped back.

“Those are words of... a sentimental woman,” Reginald said, his face reddening. It was obvious that he wanted to say something more.

Braemoor, as usual, was silent. His face did not, by so much of a twitch, betray the slightest indication of approval or disapproval. She wanted to hit him.

“They are the words,” she said, “of the Countess of Lochaene. I have talked to some of the tenants. They are receiving seed for their planting.”

Reginald’s face turned white. “You did not consult me.”

“ ‘Tis no need,” she said.

Reginald turned to Braemoor. “Surely, you do not approve?”

“Aye, but I do,” he said calmly. “I advanced the necessary money. It appears that Lochaene has been neglected ... or mismanaged these last few years. The books are dismal. I hardly think the countess can do any worse.”

“You malign my son,” Marjorie said, rising from the chair. “And he recently dead. Perhaps by foul means.” Her gaze rested on Janet. “Surely, you cannot...”

Braemoor looked at her with a steady gaze and said nothing for a moment. Janet tensed. She did not know what he had heard, what he suspected. Her husband’s family had been spreading suspicions. She shouldn’t care what he thought... she shouldn’t. But she did. She looked down at her hands. They were like marble, stiffened and unmoving.

“By foul means?” Braemoor said.

“Aye,” Louisa said eagerly. “ ‘Twas unexpected and without warning. A stomach ailment. The physician said ...” She hesitated, leaving the words lingering with all their implications.

“Said what?” Braemoor asked.

Had he really not heard? Was he deliberately tormenting her?

“It could be ... poison,” Marjorie said with some satisfaction.

Braemoor’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did the authorities investigate?”

Janet’s heart pounded faster. Could he actually believe ... ?

“Ah ... there was no ... proof...”

“Surely Reginald would not... do such a thing,” Braemoor said calmly.

The room stilled. Janet’s heartbeat slowed, almost stilled. Bewilderment, then anger, flitted over the faces of others in the room.

Reginald pulled away from the table and half-rose in indignation. “Surely, sir, you are not accusing me.”

“Of course not,” he said blandly. “I just said so, did I not? But he would be the only one to benefit.”

“How so?” Louisa said. “His wife threatened—”

“She did? And why was that? Surely he did not mistreat her? And Reginald, I suppose, expected to be named guardian. ‘Tis simple deduction.”

Three outraged faces stared at him. He sat back, a guileless smile on his face, his gaze going from one to the other, studying each one. He had quite neatly outfoxed them. Unless they said Alasdair had mistreated her, they indeed became the prime suspects. And yet nothing he’d said was defensive of her.

Braemoor had changed in the years since she had met him. One of the qualities that had attracted her as a girl was what she believed was his blunt honesty. Had she been that big a fool? She was finding him far more complex than she had ever thought possible. It was not a thought that comforted her. The thought continued to nag her: what did he want from her?

“Let us speak no more of poison,” he said. “The wine is too fine to ruin it with such unpleasantness.” He lowered his gaze to his food and started to eat again, completely oblivious to all the stunned reactions around him.

And hers, Janet knew, was no less troubled than those of the others.

The Marquis of Braemoor was playing all four of them against each other.

The question was why.

Neil looked over at Lochaene’s manor house from astride his horse. A full moon rode the sky behind the bleak stone edifice, and he could see the flickering of lamps inside several windows. He saw one flicker in what must be the nursery and he knew in his heart that Janet was there.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her bending over each girl, pulling a cover over her, giving a light kiss.

He closed his eyes against the scene, against the bitter longing inside him, the ache that deepened every moment he stayed at Lochaene. He wanted so much and could have so little.

After the dreadful supper had ended, Janet had quickly left. He had changed clothes, then gone out to the stables and saddled a horse. He needed to get away from the prying and greedy overtures of the Campbells. He needed the fresh, stinging air, the uncluttered skies, the purity of the Highlands. He needed it to clear his mind and cleanse his soul.

He had done what he could for Janet this evening. He had purposely been silent this day, wanting to determine how much she could handle by herself, whether she could indeed manage Lochaene on her own. How much did she actually need him—or, more accurately, his skills? She had made it quite clear she did not want any more from him, that, in fact, she wanted him gone as quickly as possible.

And now he would be. He’d put the Campbells on notice tonight. He would establish credit with the local merchants, but only if items were ordered by Countess Lochaene. He would also send several reliable people from Braemoor. It was all she needed. She had the strength to do what needed to be done, and the ability, he thought, to work with the tenants. The best thing he could do now was leave her and return to Braemoor, follow through with his own plans and his own life.

He would remember every moment here—with the possible exception of supper tonight. He’d even savored being wet upon by puppies and bairns. There was something truly pitiable about that, that he needed personal contact so badly that he would enjoy such indignities. The simple fact was that he was nothing—not even an uncle or godfather—to anyone, and for a few moments he’d been included in a family outing, even if the family had been somewhat reluctant.

There had been few family intimacies at Braemoor. His uncle had been a rough, intolerant man who had virtually imprisoned his wife and doted on only one thing: his son who was little more than a bully. Neither had known how to love. They only knew how to conspire against others.

Just as the Campbells conspired.

All except Janet and the children. The girls were not hers by blood, but he’d noticed the gentle affection—love—between them.

He was a lord. He’d once thought that would be enough. That security and riches would be enough. It was ironic that none of those things was more than a willow branch in the wind. No substance. No meaning.

Neil reached in his pocket where he kept the deck of cards he’d taken from the cottage at Braemoor. For the life of him, he didn’t know why he kept them, nor why he kept the heart queen at the front of the deck and the spade jack—the black knave—at the bottom. He did not gamble. He’d never had enough funds as a lad, or even a young man, and he’d thought other pursuits more important. For instance, being the best at arms. It had been his only worth to Braemoor.

Mayhap he kept that deck to remind him of his past, of Rory’s redemption, and of those few glorious days with Janet when he’d thought all things possible. But he was not Rory. He had not his cousin’s verve or skill or recklessness. He wondered how many people Rory had actually saved from the gallows or imprisonment. The legend he had become placed the number in the hundreds. But then the myth, as myths do, had grown and facts were exaggerated. Although the Black Knave had not been seen in months, he was still rumored to be secreting Jacobites from the country.

Rory had masterminded his own death by the Black Knave; no one realized they were one and the same. A body thought to be Rory’s had washed ashore, and many whispered that the Knave must have died also. But rumors of the Black Knave persisted, and Cumberland continued to keep a price on his head.

His cousin must laugh every time he thought of outwitting Cumberland and keeping the Knave alive as a symbol of hope. Neil had only come to know of his cousin’s dual identity in the last days of the deception, and he’d been both stunned and awed at the audacity of a man he’d despised as a fool and rogue.

“Ah Rory,” he said to the harsh wind blowing down from the mountains, “I hope you and your bonny Bethia are well in the new world.”