“I didn’t believe her,” Deborah told him.
“You should have,” Neil replied. “She spoke the truth.”
“Why?” Deborah demanded. “Other married men keep mistresses, why should you be any different?” She nearly screamed in frustration. In moments she’d have to change partners and when that happened she knew Neil would have her escorted off the premises. Thinking quickly, she let go of Neil’s hand, heaved a dramatic sigh and sank to the floor in a graceful swoon that would do justice to any actress on the London stage. Neil made no effort to catch her as Deborah slid to the floor at his feet and lay amid a puddle of pale blue satin. Several onlookers let out a cry of alarm as the music came to an abrupt halt and the dancers spun to a stop in an effort to keep from trampling her.
“This melodrama is extremely bad form, Deborah,” he muttered beneath his breath, loud enough for Deborah’s ears but not loud enough to be overheard. “Even for you.”
“Neil?” Jessalyn rushed to his side. “What happened? Is she all right?” She started to drop to her knees, but Neil reached for her arm and kept her from attending to the fallen woman. “Neil! Let go. She’s …”
“She’s fine,” he answered. “Aren’t you, Deborah?”
Jessalyn looked up at her husband, pinning him with her gaze. “Did you say Deborah?”
He nodded.
“Your mistress?” Jessalyn asked.
“My former mistress,” Neil replied. “Our intimate association ended before I left for Scotland.”
“It did not!” Deborah opened her eyes and shot into sitting position.
“Of course it did,” Neil told her. “Because I take my marriage vows seriously. Because I love my wife with all my heart and because I would never knowingly do anything to hurt her.”
Jessalyn’s eyes sparkled with emotion.
“You continued to support me. Even after you married her.” Deborah practically spat the word.
Jessalyn stared at Deborah, then looked at Neil. “Did you?”
“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “I asked the marquess to handle the details of ending my association with Deborah and to make certain she was well provided for until she settled on a new protector. I gave the note to Ranald when you sent him to Edinburgh.”
Jessalyn beamed at her husband. “That’s as it should be. I wouldn’t want it said that you were miserly to your mistress or allowed her to suffer until she could find a new man.” She looked down at Deborah. “My husband has a deep sense of duty that extends to everyone he knows. Now, get up, Madam. You shame yourself by lying on the floor.”
Deborah pushed herself to her feet. “How dare you dictate to me!” She glared at Jessalyn. “I’m an Englishwoman while you’re nothing but a highland savage!”
“Aye,” Jessalyn agreed. “I’ll not deny that I’m Scottish by birth or that some might call me a highland savage. But I’m also the English countess of Derrowford and I outrank you in society and in my husband’s heart. Go home, Madam. You do yourself no good here. Your presence is an insult to me, to my husband, to my family and to the gentleman who brought you.”
“But …” Deborah protested.
“Cut your losses,” Neil advised, turning away from his former mistress and offering his arm to his wife. “My patience and my generosity has ended.”
“Come, Deborah, do as the earl says.” Viscount Hamilton put an arm around her waist and steered her away off the dance floor. “My deepest apologies, sir. I had no idea …” He nodded to Neil. “And to you, milady,” he turned to Jessalyn. “Only a misbegotten fool would mistake you for a highland savage.”
* * *
“Well,” Jessalyn sighed as she snuggled close to her husband. “It’s been quite a day.”
“That it has,” Neil agreed. “And I fervently hope never to have another like it.”
“It wasn’t all bad,” Jessalyn reminded him. “I did become a beloved ally to a king. And I did manage to keep from taking my dirk to Deborah.”
Neil laughed. “I was quite impressed with your restraint and very grateful that you didn’t take your dirk to Deborah or to me—especially in light of what you did to Spotty Oliver.”
Jessalyn pushed herself up on her elbow so she could look at him. “Oh, Neil, I don’t blame you for Deborah’s appearance at the party.”
“It might have been avoided if I had spoken with her in private when we arrived in London.”
Jessalyn was thoughtful. “I dinna think so.”
“Do ye not?” He mimicked her burr.
She shook her head. “To think I was jealous of her once.”
“No longer, I hope?” He pulled her closer and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose.
“No,” Jessalyn said softly. “Now, I feel sorry for her.”
Neil was surprised. “You can’t possibly …”
“Oh, but I do.” Jessalyn was serious.
“Why?”
“Because she lost you, Neil. Because she’ll never share your kisses or hold you deep within her. Because I couldna imagine how I could live without them.”
Her words embedded themselves deep within his heart and tears of gratitude shimmered in his eyes as he rolled her to her back and began to show her how very much he loved her.
Ten days later Jessalyn stood at the window of the breakfast room over looking the marchioness of Chisenden’s formal gardens.
“You’re up very early, my dear. Is your wound bothering you?”
Jessalyn turned to find the marquess of Chisenden standing by her side. He had dark, almost black eyes, thin lips, an aquiline nose and lively dancing eyebrows. He wasn’t as classically handsome as Neil, but Jessalyn knew that in his own day, he had left a trail of broken hearts behind him. “No, my lord. It’s completely healed.”
“What do you think of my lady’s garden?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful.”
“But …”
“It’s truly beautiful,” she answered.
“But not as lovely as the purple and white heather blooming on the hills around Glenaonghais, is it?”
She looked up at him, questions in her eyes.
“We’ve been on such a whirlwind of soirees and balls and official functions that I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to spend as much time getting acquainted with you as I’d like.” He smiled. “I suppose Neil is in his studio?”
“Yes,” Jessalyn nodded. “He wanted to take advantage of the morning light.”
“What’s he doing up there?” the marquess asked. Jessalyn wrinkled her face. “Painting a portrait of me.”
“And Charlotte?”
“Grandmère is still sleeping,” Jessalyn replied, addressing the marchioness in the manner Lady Chisenden preferred.
“Then you won’t object to indulging an old man for a moment?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for my dowry and for all you’ve done for me and for Clan MacInnes.”
“No thanks are necessary,” he said, firmly.
“But, sir …”
The marquess offered Jessalyn his arm. “Come with me and I’ll explain.” He led her into his study, ushering her into the room before closing the door behind them. “There,” he said, looking up at the mantel.
Jessalyn gasped as she gazed up at the portrait hanging above the massive marble fireplace. It was like looking in a mirror. The woman in the portrait looked enough like her to be her twin. They shared the same eyes and hair and complexion. The same bone structure. It was uncanny.
“She was the first Scottish countess of Derrowford. My wife, Lady Helen Rose MacInnes.” He smiled at Jessalyn. “She was your grand-aunt. Your grandfather’s youngest sister and your father’s aunt. I believe you carry a part of her name.”
“Yes,” Jessalyn said. “But I didn’t realize …”
“She’s been dead a long time.” The marquess sighed. “Fifty-two years ago this past March. She died giving birth to our son. He survived
her by a fortnight. I’m sure your father didn’t remember her. He was a baby when she died and most of the members of Clan MacInnes had no knowledge of my connection to it. But Callum was Laird so he had been told. He knew.” He turned to Jessalyn. “I had been waiting fifty-two years for the opportunity to repay my debt of gratitude to Clan MacInnes for giving me Helen Rose. I was thrilled when Callum wrote and asked me if I could help save his clan and even more thrilled with the prospect of wedding Neil to you. I wanted to be a part of Clan MacInnes again. Everyone else may have forgotten Helen Rose, but I never have.” His black eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I loved her with the full passion of youth and I treasure the memories of our time together even now.”
“Did she like it here in London?” Jessalyn asked.
“She was happy when we were together. But I was young and terribly ambitious and often away from home. I think she tried very hard to like London, but she longed for Scotland. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.” He turned back to the portrait. “I should have taken her home. But Scotland was so wild then, much wilder than today and I worried about her …” He let his words drift off. “Most of the furniture and the household goods, paintings, candlesticks, tapestries, and dishes I sent to you belonged to Helen Rose. They were her dowry. You thought I was being exceptionally generous, but I was really paying a debt by returning to you what belonged to Helen Rose’s family.”
“Louis?” The marchioness of Chisenden opened the door to her husband’s study. She expected him to be alone and she nearly retreated when she heard him speaking to someone, but his words compelled her to stay and listen even if it meant the pain of hearing aloud just how much he had loved his first wife.
“Having you here is almost like having Helen Rose back again. You have her beauty and her courage and her loyalty and her heart. I’ve watched you for a week now and sometimes I forget that you’re Jessalyn. I expect you to look at me with love and passion in your eyes the way Helen Rose did, but then I remember that I’m an old man now and that you’re in love with Neil, that you’re Neil’s wife and I realize that no matter how much I loved her, it’s time—past time—for me to let her go.” A sound caught his attention and the marquess glanced over to where the door of his study stood open. He stared at it and caught a glimpse of Charlotte hovering beside it. He focused his attention on her. “I have a wife who looks at me with love and passion in her eyes—even after fifty-one years. And it’s time that I let her know that I love her every bit as much as I loved Helen Rose and more. We had a son and we have a grandson and we’ve built a wonderful life together. And although it took me a while to realize it, I’ve loved her for fifty-one years.” The marquess walked over to his desk and removed a teak box from a drawer and handed it to Jessalyn. “These belonged to Helen Rose,” he said. “Take them and wear them in remembrance with the knowledge that someday they’ll belong to your daughter.”
Jessalyn took the box. “I’ll cherish them.” She walked over and kissed the old man’s cheek.
Outside the study, the marchioness of Chisenden quietly closed the door. A flood of tears cascaded down her face. In the fifty-one years they had been married, he had never hinted that he loved her except in moments of great passion. Today, he’d told her aloud.
Epilogue
“Are you going to leave me now that you’re a wealthy woman?” Neil watched as his wife opened the teak box once again and studied the small fortune in jewels his grandfather had given her.
“Of course not.” She lay on the sofa in his studio, modeling while he sketched.
“Then what are you thinking?”
“I was thinking about London and wondering how long it will be before I learn to enjoy it.” She glanced at the wood and paper model of a cathedral Neil had made.
“Don’t learn to enjoy too much of it,” he said, “because you won’t be seeing it that often.”
“I thought you wanted to build palaces and cathedrals and rows of affordable houses for the working people. I thought you loved the idea of rebuilding London.”
“I do,” he said, quietly. “But I’ve learned that I can build something so much more important in Scotland.”
Jessalyn sat up and looked at him. “What’s that?”
“A home and a family and a country and a life with you.”
“Oh, Neil …” She began to cry. “You hate Scotland.”
“I did once,” he admitted. “But that was before I married you. London doesn’t hold the allure for me that it once did because now my home is in Scotland.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because I’m certain that I can learn to like London if I try hard enough.”
He smiled. “I’m sure. I resigned my commission in the army, but I agreed to work with General Wade on the completion of Fort Augustus. And once that project’s done, I intend to finish this portrait of you and hang it above the bed in the Laird’s Trysting Room. Then I intend to concentrate on Castle MacAonghais. I’ve a lot of work to do if we’re to have it ready for the king’s visit next summer. I’ve designed a system of bells to be used to summon the servants that I’d like to try and …”
“The king is visiting Castle MacAonghais? Next summer? But I’ll be …”
“Well recovered, I hope,” Neil leaned over and kissed her. “From the birth of our first child.”
“You knew?”
“I guessed.”
Jessalyn took his face in both her hands and stared into his extraordinary green eyes. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Neil grinned. “Verra sure,” he growled in his Scottish burr. “I love being husband to the MacInnes. I’ve come to love and treasure the people of Glenaonghais. I’ve earned my place in the clan and I’m looking forward to helping the highlands grow.”
“How do ye intend to do that?”
“Weel,” he teased. “We’re going to have lots of babies and I’m going to go into business with the Munro.”
“The Munro?”
“Aye,” he told her. “We’re going to bottle and sell the finest whisky in all of Scotland.”
“Scotland’s a poor country. Who are ye plannin’ to sell it to?”
“England and France and the rest of the world.” His eyes lit up with excitement at the idea.
“It’ll never work,” Jessalyn said. “No one but Scots have ever liked the stuff.”
“No one outside of Scotland has ever tried it,” Neil replied. “But once they get a taste of that tiniest hint of heather mixed with honey, they’ll buy it by the barrels. By the time we have grandchildren, Glenaonghais Scots whisky will have made you a very rich laird.”
“Are ye sure?” she teased.
“Verra sure,” he said. “Wait and see.”
And she did.
Author's Note
The history of Clan MacInnes or Clan MacAonghais in A Hint of Heather is fictional. There was an actual Jacobite Clan MacInnes living near Loch Ness in 1716 and I have made use of its clan motto, badges, lament, traditional holdings and parts of its history to lend authenticity to my Clan MacInnes, but the allegiances and political history of the clan is entirely imaginary.
While I’ve made every effort to remain true to the actual history of the region by keeping traditionally Whig clans Whig and traditionally Jacobite clans Jacobite, the characters in this story and the allegiances and political histories of these particular clans and the military personnel and accounts of the construction of Fort Augustus are entirely my own invention or have been altered to fit the story.
Turn the page for a preview of
A Rogue’s Pleasure
by Hope Tarr
Coming in November from Jove Books!
Anthony dozed. When he awoke, it was dark. Still slouched against the seat, he looked across to Phoebe and Lady Tremont. Heads pillowed on each other’s shoulder, they appeared to be sleeping soundly.
He shut his eyes and willed himself to drift off. If only his fatigue, his omnipresent ennui, were t
he sort that slumber could sate. Still, sleep could be a beautiful escape. Sometimes.
Horses—two of them, he thought—thundered toward them. He bolted upright.
“Halt! Prepare to stand and deliver!”
Seconds later, the coach shuddered to a standstill, pitching Phoebe and her mother forward. Anthony threw out an arm to keep them from falling onto the floor.
Lady Tremont shook him off. “Lord Montrose, whatever is going on? Why have we stopped?” She drew back the window curtain and squinted outside.
Anthony reached for his carriage pistol. He unbuttoned his jacket and slipped his pistol into an inside pocket. “Ladies, I believe we are about to be robbed.
The carriage door flung open. Seconds later, they were staring down the butt of a pistol.
A bald head and a set of massive, crooked shoulders filled the narrow doorway. A black patch covered the intruder’s left eye.
“Out ye go, if ye please. Me master, One-Eyed Jack, craves a word wi’ ye,” the aging cyclops informed them cheerfully, his index finger poised on the trigger of the cocked pistol.
“My fiancée has a delicate constitution.” Anthony shot Phoebe a look, warning her to silence. “I will go with you, only permit her to remain here to look after her mother.”
The hulk shook his head. “ ’Er too.” He studied the thankfully unconscious Lady Tremont. “She can stay.”
This fellow is more intelligent than he appears. Hovering between outrage and amusement, Anthony disembarked and helped a shaking Phoebe down the carriage steps.
The moon slipped free of a bank of clouds, silhouetting a slight figure in a slouched hat holding Anthony’s driver, Masters, at gunpoint. One-Eyed Jack? The second highwayman turned toward them, and Anthony saw that he also wore an eye patch.