Duchess of Mine (8 page)

Truthfully though, it was more difficult
being around his mother, who he felt had picked Albert over him,
although Albert was long dead by now. He knew that before Albert
they had struggled for food and shelter, yet when it had been just
the two of them, they’d always been happy. Then Albert came along
and pushed him out, even when his younger brothers were born,
Albert had pushed him out of his own family.

Duncan cleared his throat, trying to rid his
mind of such memories. It never did any good to think about
them.

“She’s had her things taken,” Duncan finally
uttered.

Helen tsked. “Poor lady.”

“I fear she has a bump on the head. She
doesn’t remember anything.”

“Does she complain of being in pain?”

Duncan shook his head, remembering how Fleur
had challenged him to touch her. Released from its holder, her long
black hair had curled around him, ensuring how much he wanted to
bury his face in her floral-scented tresses. Ach, to pull her off
the horse and hold her in his arms, smelling her, would have been
like heaven come to earth. Lightning-like impetus stirred in his
solar plexus at the memory, the want, but, damn, he was in front of
his mother.

Helen inhaled. “Doesn’t remember anything,
hmm?”

For a moment Duncan considered telling his ma
about Fleur’s confession that she was from a different time, except
she’d asked him not to tell. And he kept his word. Always. No
matter what.

“I’ll brew some willow’s tea, see if that
helps her head.” Helen snorted a laugh, and held her fingers over
her mouth. “I’m so taken with her, ye ken, that I asked her to stay
with me, in the house. I suppose she’s really to go to Tongue and
stay with Laird Reay. She is nobility, eh?”

Duncan almost grinned, thinking his mother
was helping with his wishes. He wanted Fleur close. Although he
didn’t sleep in his mother’s house, still preferring the barn, he
wanted to keep an eye on
the lady
. Nay, he wanted...he
wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and he knew it, but he wanted
to listen to Fleur for days on end. He loved her pretty voice. It
was breathy yet simultaneously had a bite of feminine huskiness to
it. He’d love to hear her tell him of her adventures of how she
landed here. Even if it was insane, he still wanted to hear it.

Lord, what was wrong with him? Having Fleur
here was the last thing he needed. Helen had to give him her
blessing to go to America and then get his brothers back. Jesus,
the thought nearly had him crumble to his knees. He missed his
brothers, Jacob, Michael, Thomas, and—oh God—Douglas. He could
hardly believe Dougie was truly gone. After all, he’d been too late
to attend the funeral or the wake. Lord, all his brothers were
gone.

On the day trips Helen had let him go on,
he’d discovered the ship his brothers had sailed to Virginia in,
the
John and Sue.
He’d also found when they’d arrived in the
colony, and to whom they were sold. If he ever found a Preston
Fairchild from America, he’d kill him with his bare hands.

He’d never thought much of slavery or
indenturedness until his brothers had been taken as prisoners of
war then sold. Now, Duncan couldn’t stop thinking about the African
folks who must feel like him, ready to tear out the eyes of the
people who thought they could own his kin. His brothers, if they
had served out their time, would be free within twelve years. A
wholly unchristian sentence, many said, since the Bible wrote only
of seven years a slave. However, Duncan had heard how the American
plantation owners were beginning to treat their slaves with
lifetime commitments. Always treatment of slaves was harsh, but
he’d heard rumors that in some places it was inhumane and evil,
especially toward the African slaves. They were becoming...chattel.
Duncan couldn’t help but shudder at some of the reports he’d been
told.

Then he’d received the first letter from
Jacob, mentioning that a tribe—how did Fleur pronounce it?—Yamasee,
helped them escape and took them in. Within the tribe, there
already were some German, Irish, and African men and women. The
letter had given Helen hope, and she’d smiled as Duncan had read
it. However, he wouldn’t take such comforts until his brothers were
back in Scotland, where they belonged.

After that, mayhap he’d go down to the
tropical Africa and find a way to stop slavery. He might be in a
losing battle, but it would be one hell of a way to die, fighting
for something virtuous, rather than all the money he’d accumulated
throughout the years, even if he’d given most of it to his
mother.

“I—I can hardly believe I have a lady in the
house,” Helen said, reminding Duncan of where he was. She giggled,
then swooped in and hugged him around his waist. “Thank ye, son.
This is the best gift, save when ye give me a grandchild.”

Helen felt so small against him, the bones of
her shoulder blades and spine rubbed against his arms and hands.
Lord, why couldn’t she put on more weight? He still had money to
spare and considered going to Tongue to buy more pastries she might
like and fatten up on.

“I’m sure the lads,” that’s what his younger
brothers had been called, “will give ye plenty of
grandchildren.”

She pulled away and looked up at him, her
small hands still on his belly. Searching his eyes, Helen shook her
head. “But I want
ye
to give me a grandchild, little bairns
that look like ye. Ye look so much like yer father.” Her voice and
face traveled to the distant shore of past love. Duncan didn’t have
a memory of his father, since he died when Duncan wasn’t quite the
age of two. What he did know was what Helen had said, but more than
that it was the way she looked when talking about him. She had
loved the man something fierce. And she never held a look like that
for Albert. Helen gazed back up at Duncan, despair apparent through
her pleading eyes. “Duncan, I ken I wasn’ a good mother after—”

“’Tis fine, Ma,” he interrupted, knowing
she’d say something about not being the kind of mother she should
have been for him. She’d been trying to apologize ever since Albert
had died.

“I should ha—”

“I said ‘tis fine.” He hadn’t needed to yell,
yet turning his voice to ice had made his mother release him from
her embrace, frowning. Then he felt like a royal jackass. “Sorry,”
he muttered and tried to push past Helen. “I shouldn’ kept the lady
waiting. She might be hurt.”

His mother caught his arm, and even though
she looked as frail as a newborn foal, she held him still,
scrutinizing him once more. When Duncan finally met his mother’s
stare, he saw his own eyes, the same colors reflected back—green,
gold, and the odd bursts of orange here and there. He bowed his
head.

“Truly, ma, I’m sorry. I didn’ mean to be
short with ye.”

She smiled and took a small step closer to
him. “Ye’re such a good lad, Duncan.”

He shook his head, still glued to her by her
grip on him.

“Ye are. Always givin’ me yer money. Makin’
my home so grand, it made me think I could invite the bonny lady
into my house.”

“Ye can.”

“If she stayed with me, would ye sleep in
here too?”

He shook his head again. “I don’ think the
people of this town—”

“Ah, fick ‘em and what they think.”

That was almost as severe a shock as getting
kicked in the bullocks, when his mother had sworn like that. She
hadn’t merely said damn or some other oath he’d started using when
he was a child. Nay, she’d used the big cannon of an expletive,
shocking him down to his toes.

Helen started to laugh. “Ah, the look on yer
face. ‘Tis priceless, my lad. Priceless.”

“Ma—” He could only mumble.

She took a quick breath. “Ye’re right. We
should attend to our lady. Do ye think she likes wine? I have some,
ye ken. All the way from France. My wonderful son bought it for me,
probably from one of his mistresses down there. Lord in heavens, I
wish the lad would settle down with a nice lady.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ma,” he huffed. “I didn’
have many mistresses in France.” He waited until she rolled her
eyes too, then said, “Now when I was Venice, that was a different
situation.”

She smacked him across one of his arms, while
she smiled. Then she held her hands over her ears as she walked
back into the house. “I don’ want to hear it. To me, ye’ll always
be a virgin until ye’re married. And even after that, if ye give me
a grandchild, it’ll be a blessing from the Lord, granting
Immaculate Conception once again on earth.”

Duncan couldn’t help but snicker as he
watched his wee ma enter her house, still holding her ears. He
realized it hadn’t been the first time he’d laughed today. He’d
chuckled earlier with Fleur. However before today, he couldn’t
remember the last time he’d laughed. Really laughed.

The clopping of horse hooves nearing
interrupted his levity. He sighed when he spotted Rory approaching
at a trot, no less. Duncan raked a hand through his messy red hair,
seeing the brightness of the color from the periphery of his eyes.
He probably looked affright—identical to the savage he’d proclaimed
himself to be earlier—and tried to catch his hair back in the
leather tie at the nape of his neck. But then wondered why he’d go
to such lengths when Fleur had already seen him looking more a
beast than a man, like now.

As Rory approached, the bright orange and
yellow setting sun hit the golden colors of his hair and his new
palomino’s too, making the man appear to have a golden halo.
Angelic. Fickin’ perfect, Duncan huffed, thinking of his ma’s
language.

Had Fleur noticed that his new captain was a
man who made grown women tremble in excitement? Had she as
well?

Duncan imagined punching Rory in the jaw. As
hard as he could. For no reason, of course. Not that he was
jealous, he told himself.

God, he hated being home. Hated the
discomfort of it all.

Through it all though, he wondered if
delicate, delightful, divine Fleur thought of him, the
uncomfortable oaf, at all.

Chapter 7

A
s Rory trotted along the dirt road,
he easily spotted huge Duncan in Mrs. Cameron’s back garden, while
the lovely Lady Fleur was sitting in the front, the sun’s setting
rays bouncing off her dark hair, making some of it appear scarlet.
He smiled. Oh, the lady’s tresses were bonny. Making him appreciate
the scene before him even more was the fact that Duncan was nowhere
near her. Rory had heard the women of the MacKay territory chatter
about the large man—the warrior returned; the good son who had
given his mother so much money, she was almost as rich as his own
brother, the laird. Duncan, the man who would make the chits swoon
as he silently stalked by. Although Rory knew himself to be a very
different man from Duncan, if anyone was his competition, it would
be him.

He took a deep breath though, thinking what
he could offer the lady. Conversation for one thing. It seemed that
Duncan could only talk when giving orders. Aye, the lady wouldn’t
want that. Rory could talk to her at length about a variety of
subjects, unlike the immense soldier. He could also seduce her with
wealth. All right, Duncan might have riches too, and—Wait, Rory
told himself. He was already thinking of seducing the lady?

Rory knew better. He was a gentleman after
all.

He chided himself for his rushing urges,
which would never win the lady to him.

Duncan started to walk along his mother’s
fence line. He gave a nod and a quick wave. It wasn’t truly a wave,
but more of an acknowledgement. It irritated Rory more than it
probably should have. He knew Duncan in the last four years had
served as a bodyguard to the Swedish king, whatever his odd name
was, and as such mayhap being around lairds and lairds’ brothers
might not be all that exciting anymore. Nonetheless, he thought
Duncan should have more respect for his rank and authority.

Duncan somehow found his way to the front
garden as Rory did. Damnation. Rory dismounted from his new horse
gained from a nearby neighbor of Mrs. Cameron’s, then tied the
reins to the front fence, close to the steed Duncan had stolen from
him. He nodded at Duncan as the too tall man held the gate open for
him. Walking through, Rory finally caught exactly where the lady
sat in Mrs. Cameron’s garden. Apparently Duncan did too, for the
man gurgled a kind of gasp. They both gaped as she weeded through a
row of carrots. Dirt smeared along her thin hands, she looked up at
both men and smiled.

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid. It’s
actually kind of fun once you get into a rhythm.”

Her hair appeared to be tied in a literal
knot at the back of her head. A few black strands hung around her
face and neck, somehow highlighting her appearance, making her seem
so soft and feminine. Delicious.

Rory heard a squawk, then looked up to see
Duncan’s mother hold her hands over her mouth in horror. Finally,
she came rushing from the porch of her house to the stone path,
close to Lady Fleur.

“My lady, you can’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Lady Fleur said, quickly
standing and wiping dirt from her extra long legs. “I—I should have
asked first, but I thought I could help. I’m sorry.”

Duncan’s mother stood transfixed a few feet
from Lady Fleur looking at the pile of dead weeds then to the
lady’s dirty hands. “I should have done it myself. I’m so
embarrassed I had weeds for ye to find.” She looked over to Rory.
“Oh, Honorable MacKay, ‘tis such a pleasure to have ye at my house.
Dear me, but I had weeds for the lady.”

Surmising the situation quickly, Rory said,
“Nay, weeds grow so fast. ‘Tis hard to keep up. I think the lady
merely wanted to help.”

Lady Fleur smiled at him and nodded. “Please,
don’t be embarrassed. As, er, Mr. MacKay said, weeds can grow
overnight, sometimes within hours, right? It’s the gardener’s
plight, weeds. I was only trying to help. I’m sorry.”