Tower Roscraig and associated village and industries…Firth of Forth…
Sworn before God…
Lord Thomas Annesley, laird of Roscraig.
Tavish dragged his gaze from the paper in his hands, which had taken on a slight tremble. “What does this mean?” he asked in a hoarse voice, troubled at the vulnerability, the uncertainty in the words.
Lucan Montague’s mouth quirked. “It means that your father’s property and title now belong to you, Master Cameron. Or, should I say, laird?”
Tavish frowned. “You should call me Tavish, I reckon.”
“Very well.” Lucan Montague nodded. “Tavish Cameron, laird of Roscraig.”
“Roscraig?” Mam gasped, and grasped his arm seeking his attention. “Tav, ’tis where Tommy was going the night he left me! To Roscraig, he’d said. It must be a bad place—as bad as that Darlyrede.”
“Why would you say that, Mam?”
“Because,” Harriet insisted quietly, fervently, “he never came back, Tav.”
“Whatever happened after he left you, it was through no fault of anyone at Roscraig, I’d wager,” Tavish said quietly. Tavish looked down at the parchment in his hands, forced himself to swallow before speaking again, struggling to keep the tremor from it as he met Montague’s gaze once more. “I don’t have to pay for it? Roscraig?”
“No. Although you will be responsible for any debts belonging to it accrued through the years of your father’s absence, of course. Liens, taxes, etcetera.”
“I don’t have to receive permission for it—from the king? The burgess?” Tavish looked back at the knight’s face.
Montague’s eyebrows rose. “The king must be informed of your claim. But you were bequeathed it from your father. I do doubt James shall have any argument. It’s yours, Tavish.”
Tavish looked back down at the parchment in his hands, but the words there were little more than blurry knots now. “Tower Roscraig,” he whispered, trying the name on his tongue. He looked up once more. “It’s mine—now?”
Montague smiled. “A month ago, in fact.”
“And I can go there, with this paper”—he rattled it toward Montague—“and claim it. And the burgess can’t…no one can stop me.”
“Correct.”
“When?” Tavish cleared his throat. “When can I claim it?”
“Whenever you like,” the knight allowed, and Tavish felt in that moment that he had misjudged this man twice, for now he could sense that Montague was happy for him. It was a strange circumstance for Tavish to have one of his betters sincerely wish him well.
But no—Lucan Montague was not Tavish’s better now.
Tavish was a laird. The laird of Roscraig. He had just inherited a stone hold on the Firth of Forth, allowing him to escape Edinburgh and the burgess forever, allowing him to at last give his mother the life she deserved. All the humiliations, hardships, anxious waiting and hiding, sailing the gauntlet of Leith custom officials every voyage, being forced to carry illegal goods to keep theStygianafloat with the outrageous tolls levied against him. All gone in the moment Tavish had unrolled the parchment in his hands.
And then there was the lovely Audrey, whose rich father wished for a titled match. Captain Muir would surely now curse Tavish for a devil.
Tavish read the words beneath his gaze again, thrice, while Sir Lucan Montague waited patiently.
Mam still hung on his arm. “Well? What else does it say? Is there anything more?”
“Aye,” Tavish murmured, turning his face toward his mother’s, fighting the constriction of his throat. “I suppose it says that Thomas Annesley did care for you in his own way, Mam.” He swallowed at his mother’s teary smile and confident nod.
“Oh, Tav. I already knew that.”
Chapter 2
Glenna Douglas sat atop her grave and looked out over the gray, flat water of the firth. With the small stone hermitage hidden in the viny fringe of wood behind her and the wide expanse of open water before her; the moist, freshly turned earth beneath her seat and low, dense clouds above, it was a comforting, quiet cell and the only place in the world she could let her mind be still.
The cool, humid air raised gooseflesh beneath the pitifully thin fabric of her gown, the old shawl she’d donned before leaving the Tower little protection from the sharp spring breeze. Spiral strands of her blond hair whipped at her eyes, often tangling in her lashes or catching in the crevice of her pressed together lips, but she didn’t bother raising her arms from her bent knees to remove the offending locks—she had a meager amount of heat caught in the tent of her skirts and moving would only shoo away the warmth.
