Pettercairn, Scotland
Tavish waited until after dinner to corner Lord Northcairn in his study.
Tavish’s pulse had been drumming at the base of his tongue for hours. He prayed Isla was safe, that Gray had raged but not harmed her.
After much thought, Tavish realized that their plan remained the same—secure the funds of his inheritance and rescue Isla.
It was merely a wee bit more complicated now.
But once he had Isla free, they could decide together where to go. Only then would Tavish tell his father about their marriage. At themoment, he needed his father’s unwitting support. Forgiveness would be easier to receive than permission.
An affectionate man, Lord Northcairn doted on his children and usually excused their foibles. For example, Callum had a knack for trouble—namely gambling, ladies of ill repute, and acts of daring-do—and Da’ had regularly brushed off his exploits.
So Tavish assumed that his father would eventually come around to the idea of a Kinsey as a daughter-in-law. But he wanted to ease into telling him.
“Ah, Tavish.” His father beamed, waving him into his study. The fire in the hearth cast shadows along the wooden paneling on the walls and decorative plaster overhead. “Come to join me for a spot of whisky, lad?”
“O’ course.”
Alcohol would only help this discussion.
They sat before the fire, sipping at their tumblers, speaking of inanities—the chance of some fishing later on in the week, Mr. McKay’s prized hound who had just whelped a litter of auspicious puppies.
Finally, Tavish found his opening.
“So, Da’, I turned eighteen this month, and thoughts of my future have been circling in my head. I know that Mamma left me a wee inheritance. I have begun thinking of how I can best use those monies for my . . .”
Tavish trailed off. The longer he spoke of his inheritance, the darker his father’s expression became until it resembled a funerary shroud.
“Da’? What is it?”
Lord Northcairn sat forward, skin suddenly haggard and gray.
“I . . .” He swallowed, as if some ghastly truth were stuck in his craw. “I am so sorry, son. There is no inheritance.”
“Pardon?”
His father ran a shaking hand over his face. “Just that. The money is gone.”
“How?! It was set aside for me. Legally, it is mine.” Tavish could hear the panic in his voice.
“Aye. And ye can take me to court and demand I pay it, but I’m telling ye lad, there is no money to be had.”
“But . . . ye be an earl? Our lands and tenants bring in regular revenue.”
“Aye, but that merely supports us day-to-day at present. There be no excess.”
Tavish lurched to his feet, desperate to move, hopeful that simply shifting positions in the room might afford a solution. “But what about Mariah’s situation? She won a large settlement for breach of promise from Lord Stafford at the last Court of Sessions.”
“Gone.”
Tavish stared down at his father, noting the hunch in the man’s shoulders, the bleak anger in his gaze.
“How? How can all that money be gone?”
Lord Northcairn sighed. “That bastard Grayburn.”
“Grayburn?”
