A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

The next day they rode eighteen miles down the River Clyde to Port Glasgow. Drew saw Ilsa’s eyes scanning the streets of the town—looking for her father, he thought. She’d been quiet since they’d parted from him yesterday, and he wanted to give her space to accept her father’s actions.

They took a room in a clean little inn near the church. The town was a heaving mass of activity: wagons ferrying cargo to and from Glasgow, sailors and merchants on the docks and in the coffeehouses, children and servants darting through the narrow streets. The harbors bristled with ships’ masts, the wide expanse of the Clyde sparkling behind them.

It was a simple matter to discover the Carolina. She was a large ship rocking at anchor near the mouth of the harbor. The shipping agent pointed out where passengers were to board the launch to the boat, leaving them nothing to do but wait.

For hours there was no sign of him. The sun was setting, and sailors had begun ferrying people out to the Carolina. Drew was beginning to wonder if Fletcher had lied to Ilsa about his plans, unwilling to face another emotional confrontation, when a figure strode around the corner of the customhouse with a large pack over one shoulder. Ilsa tensed but Drew held her back. “Don’t call attention to him,” he murmured, and she stilled, holding tight to his arm.

Fletcher came up to them and doffed his cap. His expression was calm and peaceful today, and his eyes were full of love as he looked at Ilsa. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” She even managed a smile. “Your daughter is not the sort to fall into a fainting fit, sir.”

He smiled at that. “Well do I know it! And how proud it makes me.” He let down his pack. “You’re a better daughter than I deserved.”

“Papa.” Her eyes shone with tears as she went into his embrace. Drew turned to scan the docks one last time, giving them a moment of privacy. He’d silently kept an eye out for any more officers following them or Fletcher but had seen no one suspicious. He hoped there were none. Let Fletcher get away with this, he thought. For her sake.

“There now.” Fletcher stepped back, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at Ilsa’s cheeks. “Don’t waste your tears on me. Wish me a bon voyage and be happy.” He glanced at Drew. “And I wish you great happiness.”

She pressed his hand. “How can I write to you—?”

“Ah, child.” Regretfully he stepped back. “You know you can’t. I don’t know where I shall go, in any event.”

“All right,” she said, remarkably poised in Drew’s opinion. “Then you must write to me. Somehow. I expect you to find a way, Papa. I will look every month for a letter from my distant cousin in America.”

His mouth quirked in reluctant amusement, and he winked. “God willing that he does write to you someday.”

A shout from the launch made them all look around. The bell in the church began to chime the hour. Fletcher hesitated. “Good-bye, lass,” he said to his daughter. “God go with you.”

“And with you, Papa.”

Her father’s mouth twisted into a sad, trembling smile. He gripped her hand to his heart. “Saints, I’ll miss you.”

Her chest heaved. “I know. But this is better than me missing you because you’re in a crypt in the graveyard.” She bent her head and kissed his hand, then gently disentangled her fingers from his. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Better they than the hangman,” he quipped. The moment of emotion over, Fletcher slung his pack onto his shoulder and turned toward the shore. The men waiting in the launch were untying the ropes, and he picked up his pace, trotting along the short beach and down the dock until he climbed into the craft.

Ilsa’s face was calm as she watched him go. The sailors cast off the last line and shoved the launch out to sea. Fletcher gripped the gunwale as the boat rocked from side to side, but managed to lift his cap for a moment. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the sprays of water thrown up by the oars as the men bent to their task, taking William Fletcher away from Scotland and the hangman—and his only daughter.

Ilsa didn’t move until the boat had grown too small to pick out of the swarm of boats in the harbor. In the distance, sailors were climbing the Carolina’s rigging, setting the sails. Finally her shoulders slumped in a silent sigh.

“He can never prove his innocence now,” said Drew quietly. “He can never return to Edinburgh, if not Scotland entirely.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But he’ll be safe. Perhaps one day I’ll tire of it here and follow him to America.”

They returned to the inn and took a light dinner. Ilsa’s eyes kept straying to the window overlooking the harbor, and Drew knew she was trying to pick out the Carolina among the ships beginning the long journey to America.

“What will you do?” he asked when they had gone back to their room, which faced east—Edinburgh, not America.

It was no small question. Fletcher had made a detailed plan. He had left a letter with Mr. Lorde, professing his intention not to expose his family to the indignity and shame of a trial, which Mr. Lorde would convey to the Edinburgh authorities at an appropriate time. He would also bring Fletcher’s will and execute it, once Fletcher’s death was accepted. Ilsa would affect deep grief and astonishment, even to her aunt—for they had both agreed Jean Fletcher couldn’t keep the secret as closely as it must be kept.

“I’ll use some of his money as restitution for those who were robbed. I don’t need it or want it. If people must think Papa the thief, they can know that his family tried to make them whole.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to do about Liam. If Papa had told me before, I might have found some compassion and warmth for him. But he has caused my father’s ruin, and I cannot forgive him.” She glanced up at Drew. “But I cannot condemn him without betraying Papa’s escape. What does that make me, that I would allow such a man to go free?”

“I think it means you have a steadfast, loyal heart, full of mercy.”

She nodded. “What else can I do?”

He should reassure her that her plan was noble and decent, the best choice she could make among all the bad options. He could vow to see that Liam was punished in other ways. He could simply comfort her, now that the die was cast.

Instead he went down on his knee in front of her and took her hands. “Marry me.”

Her eyes widened.

“I know you think you’ve led me into criminal behavior and caused me to ruin my name and reputation,” he plowed on. “You did not. I did everything of my own free will because I choose to be with you and fight your battles and stand by your side. I know you dread my inheritance and believe I would do best to marry an Englishwoman. But . . . I do not. I did allow Her Grace to believe she would advise me, but I don’t need her approval—or her advice. And if you don’t wish to live in England”—he took another deep breath before breaking the solemn promise he’d given the Duchess of Carlyle—“we won’t. We can stay in Scotland. Perhaps the duchess would allow us to live at Stormont Palace if it suits you. If Stormont can be administered from England, then Carlyle Castle can be administered from Scotland. I’ll find a chaperone to take Bella and Winnie to London for a Season.” Her face was blank with surprise, no matter how he searched for a hint of reaction. “We can solve this,” he said urgently. “Together. If you could trust me enough to try . . . I would never dismiss your thoughts or concerns. I love you to distraction.”

Ilsa’s mind, which had been a maelstrom for days, seemed to pause, settle, and calm at those words. She had told herself she must give him up, but . . . he did not wish to be given up. Nor did she want to do it. Drew had been her greatest adventure, her favorite companion, her truest friend, her most passionate lover.

Was she fool enough to throw that away in a fit of pointless sacrifice?

Was she too afraid to meet the challenges she might face as his wife?

No, Ilsa realized, she was not. She was not afraid of anything when he was beside her. And she was free, after all—free to bestow her heart where she chose, free to step out of her boundaries and make a bold decision. Free to learn from her father’s mistakes and do better, as he had urged her.

She was free to decide that she would make their marriage work, no matter what was demanded of her as a duchess someday. She would fight for what she wanted, and for whom.

“You would really marry a wild hellion who keeps a pony in the house and paints the sky on the ceiling?” she asked. “A wild, wicked woman who will ride astride and seduce you in every greenhouse we spy and play ghost in your house?”

“Haunt me forever,” he whispered.

Inside her, the knot of anxiety and tension softened and dissolved. Part of it, she realized, had sprung from her dread of parting from him, on top of losing Papa. But now she wouldn’t—ever.

The first real smile in weeks, trembling but wholehearted, curved her lips. “Yes.”