Alanna (When Hearts Dare Series Book 2) (30 page)

 

The Mor passed away one month after Old Chinese.

Bells tolled his death at the top of each hour for three days and nights. Young boys, paid sixpence apiece, fanned out far and wide to spread the word of the laird’s passing. Clansmen took turns sitting day and night with the corpse in lyke wake, comforted by their
spirit refreshments
—good Scotch whisky.

The funeral for The Mor was a weeklong celebration of his life, filled with food, drink, and music. Wolf recalled little of it. His mind was too blurred by the amount of whisky it took to keep from feeling much of anything. Sleep—rare and in snatches—wreaked havoc on his numbness. Slumber was where he couldn’t escape Alanna’s soulful eyes staring at him in wretched sadness.

When the celebrating was over, Wolf withdrew from everyone. Even Aiden’s visits grew infrequent as Wolf’s self-imposed isolation stretched from days into weeks.

One lonely night after another, Wolf woke in the outline of his own sweat, his hand grasping empty air in search of his beloved. He began to exist on the castle’s supply of whisky. Steadily, he grew numb to the world around him until the only sensation he experienced was that of the amber liquid swirling about in his mouth before it ran a harsh course down his throat.

At dusk, Wolf wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Not bothering to sit, he picked up a knife, sliced at a leg of lamb, and popped the pieces into his mouth.

Mrs. Guthrie closed the pages of her book and eyed him with a stern, tight-lipped regard. “Would ye mind putting on a pot of tea?”

Wolf looked around for the teakettle. “I give up. Where the hell is it?”

“ ’Tis the ninth of October. Ye’ve lived here alone since yer grandfather passed away and ye don’t even know where the bloody teakettle is?” She walked across the room, opened a cupboard, retrieved the kettle, and set it on the counter with a bang. “Ye can fill it. That is, if ye’ve any idea where the water is.”

Wolf shot her a dangerous look.

“The day ’tis near gone and yer just now showing yer face,” she grumbled. “And ye look as though ye haven’t slept at all. Not that it’s anything new.”

He wasn’t about to admit she was right. “Have you seen what it looks like out there?” He jerked his head toward the window and the wild weather hammering at the glass. “Why bother?”

“Because ye’ve a destiny, that’s why. And ’tis nae a destiny of drinking yerself blind and not showing yerself until right before nightfall.”

“Enough,” Wolf growled.

“No,” she snapped. “’Tis time ye took responsibility for yer position. I willna run this place any longer for ye, nor will Aiden act as guardian for the lairdship. Ye are not missing from the land, a youth, or infirm, so he doesna have the right.”

Wolf slammed the kettle on the stove. “I’m not staying.”

“Och, been hearing that from ye for about as long as I care to.” She waved him away with her hand. “If ye were truly of a mind to go, ye’d be gone already. Yer playing insignificant doesna serve ye well. And shrinking from life and yer duties with drink doesn’t make me proud of ye, either.”

A rapping at the door behind Wolf’s shoulder sounded like the back end of an ax being used.

“Who in God’s name is that?” He opened the door with a wild jerk.

A tiny, gray-haired woman held an old cane in the air with one gnarled hand and held a basket of wet eggs in the other. A faded brown shawl over her head and shoulders acted as feeble protection against the rain. He stepped aside for her to enter, but she stood in place and shoved the ragged basket at him.

“Me roof’s beggin’ a fixin’, sir. ’Tis taken to leakin’.”

He glanced at the mound of eggs, some cracked, all unclean. “So what do these have to do with a leaky roof?”

In the dim light, Wolf caught her look of confusion. “Why they be fer ye, Laird. Fer . . . fer fixin’ me roof.”

Wolf heaved a sigh, grabbed the basket, and plopped the flimsy thing on the edge of the table, where it teetered. Mrs. Guthrie dashed to catch it before it fell. One egg crashed to the floor with a slimy splash.

The old lady stared at the egg. Her frail fingers trembled as she clutched the tattered shawl tighter and backed off into the cold night. “I’ll be goin’, then.”

Wolf’s heart constricted in his chest. “Damn it.” He stepped into the rain after her, but when he reached her, she paused and turned at the shoulder, her eyes glistening with pride. “One day ye’ll be auld and alone and nae able to see to things on yer own, sir. Mayhaps ye’ll only have eggs to give, as well. What then?” She turned and disappeared into the night.

“That’s enough!” Mrs. Guthrie screeched when Wolf returned. “I’ll take no more of yer rudeness and self-pity. ’Tis a pathetic thing yer doing to yerself, Wolf.”

She stood and headed for the door. “Yer just like yer father, with all yer drinking and such. And the way ye deserted that poor girl. Left her as miserable as yer mother. I wash my hands of ye.”

Mrs. Guthrie’s words cracked through Wolf’s head like a rifle shot. “What do you mean, my mother was miserable?”

She stepped back into the room. “The way ye drink, ’tis like yer father. And it’ll get ye in as much trouble, as well.”

“My father drank?”

“Aye, yer father drank! Enough for an entire Highland platoon. Just like ye be doing. ’Tis what caused all the trouble in the first place. ’Tis the cause of why yer mother sat in this very kitchen crying and carrying on like Alanna Malone did. They sounded just alike, they did.”

Stunned, Wolf leaned against the kitchen counter for support. “What . . . what the hell are you saying?”

“Stop yer cursing in front of me,” she snapped. “I’ll hear no more of it!”

Wolf made his way to a chair. Emotion, for the first time in weeks, washed through him. He looked around.

“Don’t be lookin’ for another drink to put in yer belly. It sickens me.”

“My mother cried a great deal?” He pressed his fingers to his pounding temples.

“Do ye think she wanted to leave her people? People who were a comfortable and happy lot?” Mrs. Guthrie’s eyes filled with tears. “Do ye think she wanted to hide ye away in America for them to never see yer wee face again?”

Something sacred crumbled inside Wolf. He shook his head to clear it. His father was a drunk? His mother miserable?

“Ye had no right to force the sins of Alanna’s father on her.” Mrs. Guthrie reached for her cape. “Not when yer own father was about as guilty as he in the tragedy.”

“Hold on.” Wolf clutched Mrs. Guthrie by the shoulders. He set her in a chair and dragged another in front of her. Blood ran hot through his veins once again. “Tell me.”

Mrs. Guthrie’s shoulders slumped. “Yer mother didna stop her weeping ’til we were well out in the Atlantic. That was when she pulled herself together and became yer sweet mother once again. And by the way, I didna want to leave my home much, neither. But we went along, Mr. Guthrie and I, God rest his soul, to see to yer needs.”

“What happened?” Wolf closed his eyes to the pain he saw in hers.

“Ye had a brother.”

Wolf’s eyes flew open and his heart hammered in his chest. “A brother?”

“He died of the grippe, and Mr. Malone, living in Ireland, heard of it. ’Twas when he came to the Highlands with his wife and son.”

“His son?” The boy in the picture? He’d forgotten.

Mrs. Guthrie nodded. “His family was banished to Ireland by citation of the clan chief generations back and ordered not to return until yer generation. If not for that, he believed his son would’ve been in line for the lairdship all along instead of ye.”

She sniffed and straightened her back. “When yer brother died, that placed Malcolm Malone, who was but a month older than ye, in line after yer father. Malone petitioned Lord Lyon, a close friend of yer father’s, to restore his status, but the petition was refused. And so, he went back to Ireland, more bitter than ever.”

Wolf opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Guthrie shook her head. “Shortly thereafter, Lord Lyon died, and a new heraldic authority was appointed, one unknown to yer father. Malone returned to Scotland, petitioned the new King of Arms, and settled in Inverness to hover like a hawk. It set yer father to drinking heavy, it did. He went to Inverness filled with whisky and threats. Malone, drunk as well, went looking for yer father, but he had his son in tow.” She shook her head back and forth. “Only three years old and frightened out of his wits, poor thing.

“The innkeeper put them in the street, tired of their quarrelling and drunkenness. Yer father climbed into his buggy cursing and threatening Malone with the horsewhip. When Malone tried to grab the whip, the boy set to wailin’ and the horses took a fright. They reared and the lad went under them. When it was over, Malone’s only child was gone—crushed beneath the great thundering hooves of those two huge beasts.”

“Oh, God.” Wolf bent forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped. “That’s why Malone came looking for me the night after Alanna was born—a daughter, not the son he needed.”

“Aye,” she said softly. “He vowed to yer father back in Scotland that he would find ye and throw ye under a team of horses—an eye for an eye, he called it. Someone he’d hired told him of yer whereabouts not a week before yer mum’s murder.”

“That would’ve been Grimes.” Wolf sat back. “If I look so much like my father, why didn’t Malone recognize me when we traveled together aboard ship?”

“Likely because yer father was heavy bearded and Malone had never laid eyes on him afore that night. Dark as it was, and drunk as Malone was, ’tis easy to see how he’d miss ye.”

Wolf swiped his hand over his eyes and heaved a sigh. “Don’t you see why it wouldn’t have worked with Alanna and me?”

“I told ye, don’t be accusing her of her father’s sins.” Mrs. Guthrie stood, gathered her cape, and settled it over her shoulders. “I’m tired of finding ye every morning asleep in the chair before a cold fire with an empty whisky bottle and no one but that dog lying at yer feet.”

“You can’t go out in this storm.”

“Weil, it’s a sight better out there than being in here with the likes of ye.”

 

 

 

Wolf sat before the fire with Bear curled on the hearth, his head on his paws and brown eyes staring sadly at his master. “Don’t tell me you’ve had enough of me, too?”

The dog’s ears pitched forward.

“Humph.” Wolf propped his booted feet atop an old wooden chest, hunkered down in the leather chair, and took another pull off the whisky bottle. He should have left Dunmaglass long ago. He sure as hell didn’t want the burden of a lairdship. But no matter how many times he packed his saddlebags, he couldn’t bring himself to ride off. Besides, where the devil would he go? St. Joseph was a distant memory, and he wasn’t about to set foot in Boston again.

Could she be having the baby about now?

What if it was happening this very day?

Christ, he wished the pain would subside. The thought of going after her played about the periphery of his mind at all times, shot to the surface when he wasn’t careful. She hated him, had said so in the note. Well, he didn’t blame her—he didn’t much like himself either. And for the love of God, he might look in his own child’s eyes and see Malone. No, Wolf couldn’t take that. What if he ended up resenting the child? He or she was better off without him.

Wolf’s heart was sliced open again, spilled new blood. And here he’d thought it was empty. He took another slug of whisky and set the bottle on the table beside him. Firelight wavered through the glass and gave the contents a warm, honeyed glow. Whether it was the firelight or the amount of drink, he was having trouble focusing on it.

An echo of heavy footsteps rang out.

Who the hell could that be at this hour?

Silence.

The heavy cadence of boot heels against hard stone resumed, grew louder until the sound resonated directly in front of him and halted.

Wolf looked up into the blazing eyes of Trevor Andrews. “What the hell are you doing here?” Damn, he could barely get the words past his numb lips.

Trevor leaned over, gave Bear a pat on the head and glanced around at his surroundings.
“Merde.
Here you mocked me for having grown up on a plantation with a few emancipated slaves, and look at your roots.
Tsk
.
Tsk
.”

“You look like hell. Who sent you?”

“No one. I came for a certain horse you never bothered to return, and to give you some information.” Trevor made his way to the fireplace, picked up an andiron, and poked around at the burning log. “Do you ever wonder whatever became of Alanna? Or to the child she carried?”

A sharp pain lanced Wolf’s heart. He refused to ask the obvious. “Is that what you rode all this way to say to me? Best get back on your horse.”

“I spent months in hell when I thought Celine was dead,” Trevor continued as if Wolf hadn’t said a word. “And I never had a clue she carried my child since we both thought she was barren. Had I any inkling she might be alive or that there was a child, I would’ve turned Hades upside down to find her.”

When Wolf said nothing, Trevor threw the andiron down with a clang against the stone. Setting his elbow on the mantel, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Wolf curled his lip sarcastically. “Alanna will do all right. She’s not out in some snow-covered teepee like Celine was. Her father agreed to deed the farm to her when the child is six months old.”

Trevor turned and cocked a brow. “How do you know that?”

“She wrote back after I sent her the news about Old Chinese. In between the nasty things she called me, she said she didn’t need my offer to take care of her and the child—not in such nice words, I might add.”