Page 122 of Sold to a Laird

Granddaughter,

I have deeded Kilmarin to your husband, another Scot who needs to return to his homeland. The house will shelter you, give you protection, and within its walls you can find family.

That was all, just two short sentences, but the implication was staggering.

She glanced over at Douglas. “He left you Kilmarin.”

He nodded. “I know.”

On his face was the shadow of the boy he had been, poor and hungry, hearing of the great castle near Perth.

She approached him. “You’re the laird of Kilmarin,” she said softly.

“I am.” He smiled. “Are you coming to Scotland with me?”

“Of course I’m going with you. I’m not about to let you desert me for Scotland.” She smiled. “Wherever you go, Douglas. Scotland, Spain, France, Queensland. To the ends of the earth, if necessary. I’ll go with you anywhere.”

He studied her for several long moments, his gaze sweeping over her face.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“If you can remake yourself, Douglas Eston, then so can I. You give me the power to be anyone I choose to be,” she said. “I think I shall like being a new person.”

“Not the duke’s daughter?”

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Would you mind if I chose to be Sarah Eston of Kilmarin, instead?”

“As long as you don’t forget your true role,” he said, smiling.

“The laird’s wife?”

“The laird’s love,” he said.

“The laird’s love,” she agreed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

Epilogue

The Duke of Herridge stood at the door and watched as Douglas Eston’s carriage, followed by two wagons laden with trunks, set off for Scotland. The wagons were, unfortunately, followed by another carriage, this one containing his cook, his underbutler, and his stable master, in addition to a few other highly capable servants. He’d already lost his housekeeper, who’d elected to move to London and marry some Spaniard. The other disloyal fools had evidently decided that Scotland offered them more than Chavensworth. Let them go. Let them all go, including the woman he’d brought up as his own child.

Bastard. The word seemed more fitting for a male than a female. Scottish bitch—that title he reserved for her mother. Six months after their marriage, she’d whelped that child and didn’t even bother to pretend it was his. His pride had demanded a lie, so he’d pretended as well. What did it matter? She was a girl. No other children had been born alive, however, and after a while, he’d given up trying.

He withdrew the mirror from the concealment of his sling. He’d found it in the library one day, a gift for the taking. Besides, Eston still owed him some diamonds.The casing of the mirror was fine, with its heavily etched gold and diamond adornment. The glass of the mirror, however, needed to be replaced. Still, it would serve as an adequate bridal gift.

As luck would have it, he already had a girl in mind. A charming, lovely creature with a laugh that made him want to smile and a voice as enchanting as a forest brook.

Anthony, Duke of Herridge, smiled, and anticipated becoming a bridegroom.