Lucian prayed to the heavens that was so. He also wished he could spare his already beleaguered people the terrible days before them, a nightmare period sure to be filled with endless questions, intrusive probings, whispers and gossip, and – of course – seeing his father laid to rest, whatever his sins.
Stepping closer to the window, he stared out at the wind-tossed waves, feeling colder, more numb, than ever in his life. He also hoped that his new title and Lyongate Hall, along with his black hair and blue eyes, and his fierce love of the land, would prove all that he’d inherited from the man he thought he’d known so well, the father he’d admired so much.
The man he’d loved and trusted, believing in his honor for the entirety of his days.
Now…
He shuddered, disbelief washing over him, horror coiling inside him. How he wished he could wake up again, this time discovering not Budge knocking on his door, but that he’d only had a dreadful dream.
Sadly, he knew better.
~*~
Lucian stood straighter, searched deep for the strength that ran in the blood of all MacRaes. Much as he’d prefer to shrug off the family curse, he couldn’t.
It was real, he knew.
He’d just always hoped it would fade away. Now it appeared to have returned.
Was this the payment for the transgressions of his ancestors? Punishment for his father’s villainy?
Both?
All these questions burdened him, so he flattened his hands on the broad stone ledge of the tall, arch-topped window and again inhaled deeply, grateful for the night’s cold. The brisk air helped chase the last dredges of sleep from his mind and the gods knew he needed a clear head to think… to plan… to wrest some sense of normalcy back into a world gone so bad, so dark and utterly mad.
“What of the woman? The one who came here some years ago, all agitated?” He turned at last to face the steward, dread already chilling his marrow. “What was her name?”
“Eh?” Budge angled his head, a crease appearing in his brow. “A fashed lassie?”
“Aye. She showed up not long after Uncle Alastair left us.” Lucian frowned, trying to recall what the Aberdonian actress had called herself. “Scarlett? Serena? Something with an ‘S.’”
For a long moment, the room went silent, even the wind and the sea quieting.
Budge’s brows drew together, the furrow on his forehead deepening. “I be thinking. It’ll come back to me.”
“She claimed my uncle was her lover and that he’d been murdered,” Lucian reminded him.
“Oh, aye.” Budge nodded.
“As proof, she cited the cessation of his visits, the breaking of a promise to take her to London, to start a new life there.”
Budge pulled a breath in through his teeth. “That was the way of it, true enough.”
“So it was.” Lucian remembered…
His father had seen the woman shunted off Lyongate lands, telling her that his brother, the then-laird, had fled Scotland. He’d absconded to the Caribbean, choosing to live there, in the lush heat of tropical climes, rather than remain in the rugged wilds of the northern Highlands, watching Lyongate crumble around his ears. He’d had enough of freezing every winter, and walking around wet through the rain-drenched, mist-hung summers.
The sad truth was, Uncle Alastair hadn’t known much joy as laird.
His father, Lucian’s grandfather, had loved Lyongate as much as any MacRae laird, but he’d also had a weakness for women and whisky. So much so that he’d slid into a spiral of vices, including visits to gaming houses. His years as the Black Lyon of Lyongate plunged the estate into towering debt.
Uncle Alastair, upon assuming lairdship, spent his days bent double trying to repay his father’s loans. So no one wondered when he disappeared, leaving only a letter behind, saying he saw a new life as his only escape.
He truly had despised Scotland’s cold, wet climate. The mist and rocks and long, dark winter nights. He yearned for sun and warmth, and above all, no cares.
Now…
Lucian clenched his fists, frowned at the wind racing past the windows. Obviously, Uncle Alastair never made it to Jamaica.
