“Maybe later.” Trick gave her a shaky smile, handing his reins to an Amberley outrider.
A few curious glances were focused their way, but no one made a move to greet them. Shrugging, Trick instructed his staff to find the stables and settle the horses, then took Kendra’s elbow and headed inside. Worn stone steps rose to a landing and a small, arched door that stood open, allowing more laughter to drift out into the cool early-evening air.
Beyond the door, a short tunnel led through the twenty-foot-thick wall. At the far end of the passageway they stepped into the first towering keep.
It was every bit as dark and cold as he’d remembered. Iron chandeliers dripped with candles struggling vainly to brighten the great hall, a vaulted chamber of ancient gray stone.
He stood stock still while memories flooded back: having lessons at the old oak desk with his tutor; taking meals at the long trestle table with his mother; playing at her feet while she sat with her embroidery at the far end where flames roared in the immense canopied fireplace, his toy soldiers lined up on the scarred wooden floor. The Cavalier soldiers had always won, of course, since his father had been away fighting among them.
The chamber was teeming with people, and two children chased around him, but he barely took notice even when one bumped his knees. “I remembered it larger,” he told Kendra. “It’s not nearly the size of Cainewood’s great hall.”
“It’s large enough.”
“I recall thinking as a child that it was so big and high a man on horseback could turn a spear in it with all the ease imaginable.”
“He’d have to get through the door first,” she said with a grin.
Indeed, the entrance they’d just ducked through was shorter than Trick by a head or more—precisely to stop raiders on horseback from entering. Even on foot, a grown man couldn’t enter without stooping, therefore hampering his ability to attack. He remembered asking about that short doorway as a child, over and over, as children were wont to do.
“You look pale,” Kendra said.
“Memories.” He shrugged, looking around. “I believe there’s a painting of Queen Mary of Scots under there,” he said, indicating a rectangle draped in black.
“Why is it covered?”
“To prevent the spirit going in the wrong direction.”
Trick blinked, wondering who had answered.
“You look oddly familiar,” he heard Kendra say, and turned to see the man she was addressing.
He could only stare. Several heartbeats passed while all around them people cheered on their favorite of two men playing jump-the-stick.
“I’m Niall,” the blond young man introduced himself, bewilderment clouding his golden eyes. “And I thank you for attending my dear mother’s wake.” He paused expectantly and then added, “Whoever you may be.”
“Patrick Caldwell, the Duke of Amberley,” Trick replied. “And my wife, the Duchess. And I’m looking formymother.”
“Crivvens.” Niall visibly paled. “I should have guessed. She always said we looked like twins.” And he launched himself at Trick, wrapping his arms around him and letting loose a deep, shuddering sob. “You came,” he blubbered. “You’re a wee bit late, but you came, after all. I told her you would.”
At a loss, Trick let the young man hang on his body, wetting his surcoat with heartfelt tears. Hesitantly he placed his hands on the lad’s back and gave him a couple of awkward pats. His mind swimming in confusion, he looked to Kendra, sending her a silent plea for help.
She tapped Niall on the shoulder. “Who are you?” she asked.
The young man stilled and pulled back a bit, a frown creasing the forehead above his red-rimmed eyes. He looked to Kendra and blinked hard, swiping a hand under his nose. “I’m your husband’s brother,” he said slowly.
Feeling blank-headed, Trick gingerly extricated himself. “I have no brother.”
“Aye, you do.” Niall’s gaze trailed to the center of the chamber. “And our mother is in that coffin.”
Thirty-Four
ROBBED OFbreath, Trick woodenly followed Niall to the open coffin. He wanted to protest—in his head, he was screaming this couldn’t be his brother, it couldn’t be his mother in that box—but words wouldn’t come. Words were beyond him just now. Stepping closer, he peered inside.
It was she.
She appeared older than he remembered, though her gown looked as though it would befit a younger woman. Herdeid-claes, he realized—the first duty of a new Scottish wife was to sew the funeral clothes for herself and her husband. She’d obviously followed the custom. Beneath the gown, her legs were encased in the traditional white woolen stockings, and upon her feet were sturdy shoes, symbolic of the thorny path she was about to journey.
He’d traveled all the way here to make his peace with his mother, but that was never to be. His mother was dead.
