the border.
Alexander always thought his mother was pretty enough that his father should have wanted Finella for herself, not for any land that came attached to the match.
She peered solemnly from the small canvas, her gray eyes serene, her mouth just a little tight. Had she ever smiled? Alex had no recollection of it.
He shook off the memory and scrubbed a hand over his head, standing his hair on end like a startled hedgehog. He didn’t have time to fret much about the past. Especially one as shadowy as his. The present gave him enough to worry about.
With any luck, he’d see the MacOwen sisters to Dalkeith Palace. Lucinda would find another beau among the Christmastide revelers and he’d be free of this unexpected encumbrance.
Alex had no clue what would free him from Sir Darren’s weeping woman.
Moving Lucinda MacOwen and her sisters to Dalkeith Palace turned out to be as complicated an enterprise as organizing the flight of the Hebrews from Egypt. Clarindon, the turncoat, had made good his escape to the palace, which was located some miles south of the city.
Of course, Clarindon protested that someone needed to be in residence there to begin seeking out any Radical sympathizers among the Scottish nobility, but Alexander knew the truth. His friend didn’t want to miss any of the festivities leading up to Christmastide—hunting in the surrounding countryside capped by evenings filled with drink, card playing, and, if Clarindon were lucky, a bit of wenching on the side.
“Even though you’re officially spoken for, old chap, it won’t hurt for me to get a running head start before you get there,” Clarindon had said.
So shepherding the MacOwen ladies to their new holiday quarters fell completely on Alex’s shoulders.
For a thrifty Scottish family, the MacOwen girls weren’t short on personal effects. There were enough trunks filled with feminine frippery to warrant their own conveyance. Alexander dutifully arranged for a sturdy cart for the baggage and a coach to transport the women.
He decided to buy a horse for himself.
“Best ye let me bear ye company when ye do,” Lucinda told him while he hauled one of Aileen’s trunks down the narrow staircase. “If an Englishman tries to buy a horse in Edinburgh, he’ll likely find himself getting skinned by the dealer.”
“Just because I’m English?” Alex was beginning to think the king’s proposed visit to this backwater country was not only a bad idea, but a dangerous one. “Do all Scots hate my countrymen so?”
“’Tis no’ exactly hate, ye ken. More like mistrust, I’d say. There’s a long history between our peoples and it willna vanish from folks’ memories simply for the wishing.”
She stacked a hatbox on the trunk he’d deposited by the front door and followed him back up the staircase to fetch the next bit of baggage. Alexander had tried to hire porters to do the lifting, but Great-Aunt Hester wouldn’t hear of it.
“There’s no call for me to allow strangers in the house,” the old woman had protested. “No’ when me great-niece’s betrothed is a healthy young man and sound of limb.”
So if Alexander wanted the MacOwens to move, he had to do it himself.
“It would go easier on ye if ye wore that MacGregor plaid sash when ye buy a horse,” Lucinda said.
Damned if he was going to hide behind a scrap of fabric just to fool the locals. “I’m not a MacGregor.”
“Aye, ye are, if your mother was one,” Lucinda said. “And I’ve noticed ye dinna seem eager to present yourself as Lord Bonniebroch, either. A Scottish laird always commands respect.”
But I’m not Scottish. I’m English, he thought furiously as he stomped back up the narrow staircase. She seemed to vacillate between his two nationalities depending upon whether it suited her argument to consider him as one or the other.
There was no ambiguity for Alex. Any part of him that might have been the least Gaelic had been drummed out of him by
Alexander always thought his mother was pretty enough that his father should have wanted Finella for herself, not for any land that came attached to the match.
She peered solemnly from the small canvas, her gray eyes serene, her mouth just a little tight. Had she ever smiled? Alex had no recollection of it.
He shook off the memory and scrubbed a hand over his head, standing his hair on end like a startled hedgehog. He didn’t have time to fret much about the past. Especially one as shadowy as his. The present gave him enough to worry about.
With any luck, he’d see the MacOwen sisters to Dalkeith Palace. Lucinda would find another beau among the Christmastide revelers and he’d be free of this unexpected encumbrance.
Alex had no clue what would free him from Sir Darren’s weeping woman.
Moving Lucinda MacOwen and her sisters to Dalkeith Palace turned out to be as complicated an enterprise as organizing the flight of the Hebrews from Egypt. Clarindon, the turncoat, had made good his escape to the palace, which was located some miles south of the city.
Of course, Clarindon protested that someone needed to be in residence there to begin seeking out any Radical sympathizers among the Scottish nobility, but Alexander knew the truth. His friend didn’t want to miss any of the festivities leading up to Christmastide—hunting in the surrounding countryside capped by evenings filled with drink, card playing, and, if Clarindon were lucky, a bit of wenching on the side.
“Even though you’re officially spoken for, old chap, it won’t hurt for me to get a running head start before you get there,” Clarindon had said.
So shepherding the MacOwen ladies to their new holiday quarters fell completely on Alex’s shoulders.
For a thrifty Scottish family, the MacOwen girls weren’t short on personal effects. There were enough trunks filled with feminine frippery to warrant their own conveyance. Alexander dutifully arranged for a sturdy cart for the baggage and a coach to transport the women.
He decided to buy a horse for himself.
“Best ye let me bear ye company when ye do,” Lucinda told him while he hauled one of Aileen’s trunks down the narrow staircase. “If an Englishman tries to buy a horse in Edinburgh, he’ll likely find himself getting skinned by the dealer.”
“Just because I’m English?” Alex was beginning to think the king’s proposed visit to this backwater country was not only a bad idea, but a dangerous one. “Do all Scots hate my countrymen so?”
“’Tis no’ exactly hate, ye ken. More like mistrust, I’d say. There’s a long history between our peoples and it willna vanish from folks’ memories simply for the wishing.”
She stacked a hatbox on the trunk he’d deposited by the front door and followed him back up the staircase to fetch the next bit of baggage. Alexander had tried to hire porters to do the lifting, but Great-Aunt Hester wouldn’t hear of it.
“There’s no call for me to allow strangers in the house,” the old woman had protested. “No’ when me great-niece’s betrothed is a healthy young man and sound of limb.”
So if Alexander wanted the MacOwens to move, he had to do it himself.
“It would go easier on ye if ye wore that MacGregor plaid sash when ye buy a horse,” Lucinda said.
Damned if he was going to hide behind a scrap of fabric just to fool the locals. “I’m not a MacGregor.”
“Aye, ye are, if your mother was one,” Lucinda said. “And I’ve noticed ye dinna seem eager to present yourself as Lord Bonniebroch, either. A Scottish laird always commands respect.”
But I’m not Scottish. I’m English, he thought furiously as he stomped back up the narrow staircase. She seemed to vacillate between his two nationalities depending upon whether it suited her argument to consider him as one or the other.
There was no ambiguity for Alex. Any part of him that might have been the least Gaelic had been drummed out of him by
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