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Chapter Three
Glendarron Castle, Scotland
December 23
“Look, children, we’rehere!”
The carriage drew to a halt. Devon climbed out then helped his wife and son. Lizzy followed, carrying a sleeping Francine in her arms. His daughter had the enviable ability to sleep through anything—thunderstorms, carriage rides, and Sebastian’s shrieks of joy at the Highland landscape.
It was just as Delilah had described. Wild, rugged, and free—free from the constraints of London.
But not free of people. Though he’d expected it, Devon hadn’t prepared himself fully for the degree of horror in the eyes of strangers when they first saw him—the landlord at the coaching inn at Edinburgh, the boy by the roadside begging for a coin. The initial horror in their eyes when they first saw him always morphed into curiosity, then revulsion, and finally pity.
During their stay at the coaching inn the night before, he’d donned his mask, seeking comfort from obscurity. His wife had protested, but he’d insisted, and she yielded with a shake of her head.
How much of a disappointment he must be to her!
“Mama, it’s like a fairy castle!” Sebastian tugged at Atalanta’s hand, his young body vibrating with the energy he’d kept pent up in the carriage.
Before them stretched Glendarron Castle—a huge building of soft gray stone, topped with turrets and battlements, which must have weathered centuries of sieges. Behind, the land stretched into the distance, rising gently into slopes covered with fir trees. Beyond, the mountain rose more steeply, dominating the landscape with its solid gray form and white-topped peak.
The duke and duchess stood by the castle entrance, waiting to greet them.
Fraser was even taller than Devon remembered—the flame-haired Highlander, who’d carried Devon’s sister into the bridal carriage and spirited her away to the Highlands. He towered over Delilah, whose body vibrated with as much energy as young Sebastian. Completing the welcoming party was a woman in her forties in a somber gray gown, flanked on either side by two children—a boy and a girl with hair to match their father’s, which shone in the afternoon sun. The woman let out a gasp as her gaze fell on Devon, and the duke frowned.
“Hush!” he growled.
“Devon!”
Delilah’s cry of joy swelled Devon’s heart. Breaking free from her husband’s hold, she threw herself at Devon and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Oh, brother, dearest, you have no idea how I’ve longed to see you!”
“And I, you, Delilah,” he said, holding her close, “though I didn’t expect to see you up so soon after your confinement.”
Fraser approached, then slapped Devon on the back.
“Since when has my wife been slowed down by something as trivial as a confinement?” he laughed. “It was all I could manage to keep her in her chamber as soon as little Maighread was born.”
“How is my new niece?” Atalanta asked.
“She takes after her Ma. Therefore, I ask for your sympathies.”
“Fraser!” Delilah gave her husband a playful nudge, then she turned to Atalanta. “I’m so pleased to welcome you to our home. Flora, Campbell—say hello to your aunt.”
“Good afternoon, Aunt Atalanta,” the children said in unison.
Then Devon’s sister embraced her, and he smiled to see it. There was a time when Delilah had disliked Atalanta heartily—for nothing more than being the premier heiress of the ton—thinking her shallow and interested in nothing but trinkets and jewels. But Delilah had grown to love her as a sister, though the long journey to Scotland prevented them from seeing each other as often as they would like.
Fraser bowed before Atalanta and kissed her hand. “I, too, am glad to welcome you here, Lady Atalanta,” he said, “or, perhaps, I could be permitted to call you sister? May I escort you inside? I’m sure our spouses have much to talk about, and we’d only get in the way.” He turned to Sebastian, who stood beside his mother.
“Good day to you, young sir.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened in wonder, and Fraser lifted him into the air, and he squealed in delight.
“Again! Again!”
“Perhaps later. Come along—bring your sister.”
