A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

They reached Edinburgh a week later, man and wife. Ilsa had thought he would want to wait and have his family there, but Drew waved that aside. “They’ll only insist on a delay so they can order new gowns and plan a lavish breakfast.”

She had to laugh. “Who needs all that?”

“Not I,” he declared, stroking his jaw, now covered in a dark beard. “I’m beginning to relish being an outlaw, freed of all civilizing influences.”

And so they were married in a Glasgow chapel, Drew in his now-ragged kilt and long hair and Ilsa in a hastily altered gown from a dressmaker in Trongate Street. Through it all they grinned at each other like children pulling off the greatest prank in the world, and when the minister pronounced them married, Drew lifted her off her feet for a kiss so passionate, the minister coughed and his wife giggled.

When they reached Edinburgh, his family descended on them with cries that changed quickly from alarm and curiosity to happiness. Even though they arrived late, Louisa St. James brought out a bottle of fine sherry to toast them, enfolding Ilsa in a warm embrace and murmuring how pleased she was to have another daughter.

Bella, Winnie, and Agnes mobbed her. “I knew he wanted to marry you,” cried Bella joyfully. “Thank heavens you said yes!”

“Oh, Drew, well done!” Winnie flung her arms around his neck before running back to Ilsa’s side. “And you, accepting him even when he looks like a hermit from the mountains!”

Drew struck a pose at that, stroking his beard. “Oh, Winnie, how you tempt me to worse . . .”

She put out her tongue at him. “As if you ever cared what I think! Only now you’ll have to bow to Ilsa’s wishes . . .”

“You will have your hands full, taming him,” whispered Agnes with a laugh.

I won’t tame him, thought Ilsa with a secret smile at her new husband. I love him wild.

Going home to Jean was bittersweet. The news of her marriage pleased Jean, but the rest . . . Ilsa had rehearsed her story, but when she said Papa was missing and she didn’t believe he would ever be found, her aunt gave a single heart-rending wail before collapsing in silent tears that smote her heart. Only Drew’s presence gave her the strength to keep her word, and not whisper to her aunt that Papa was safe. Instead she held her aunt and wept with her, hoping that someday it would be possible to tell her the truth.

Drew went to confront the furious sheriff-clerk and procurator-fiscal, once more respectably shaved and dressed like a proper Englishman. He put the fear of God into David MacGill, the “turncoat solicitor” as Ilsa called him, excoriating the man for his management of Stormont Palace and threatening to have him sacked. He offered one last chance for the man to win back his favor by defending Ilsa. Spurred into sycophancy again, MacGill provided a fiery argument that dissuaded the sheriff from action against Drew or Ilsa—indeed, he even wrung an apology from the sheriff for searching her house.

When Mr. Lorde arrived in Edinburgh three weeks later with the sorrowful news that a man fitting William Fletcher’s description had been hauled, drowned, from the River Clyde, the authorities were all too ready to accept it. It was printed in the paper, along with a smaller notice that victims of the recent robberies should apply for aid to Felix Duncan, who had agreed to handle paying out the funds Ilsa set aside from Papa’s estate.

Ilsa held Jean again as her aunt shed more tears, but this time grief mixed with relief.

“He would prefer this rather than be hanged by his neighbors and former friends,” Jean choked. “But oh! How I will miss him, my dear.”

“He is at peace this way,” was all Ilsa could say.

Mr. Lorde offered, with Drew’s strong endorsement, to spare her meeting Liam, but Ilsa refused. She had decided she must do this for herself—and for Papa. She sent for him, the half brother she’d never really known or liked, and they met in the drawing room of her house. Drew lurked outside, making sure Liam knew he was there.

“So,” Liam drawled in bitter amusement when Drew had gone out and closed the door. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your triumph. A future duchess! How pleased your father would have been. He always was one for appearances and influence.”

Ilsa regarded him steadily. “As you know, my father was discovered drowned in Glasgow.”

“Tragically,” said Liam with a cold twist to his lips.

“Thank you for your condolences.” Ilsa picked up the letter Mr. Lorde had brought. She had seen it before, that terrible day when Papa revealed the truth, and couldn’t wait to get rid of it now. “He made you a bequest in his will, which his solicitor provided to me. This was left among his papers for you.”

Looking smug, Liam took the letter.

“I know you never cared for me,” Ilsa went on. Drew had told her to leave it, but she had to know why Liam hated her. “But I always remarked Papa’s particular preference for you. It was exceptional. I’ve long wondered if there was some other connection between you and Papa.”

Her half brother leaned forward. “Never told you, did he? No wonder, given your behavior of late.”

“You know,” she said, unable to stop herself, “someone did hint to me, once, that you might be his son.”

Liam drew back, startled. “Did they?”

“Is it true?”

Some of his smirk returned. “Aye. It is.”

Ilsa nodded once. “I am sorry Papa never told me.”

“Sorry!” His mouth bent cruelly. “Were you sorry that he was in love with another woman and not your mother? Were you sorry to hear that he did have a son, the son he yearned for but was unable to claim because he was too afraid of your reaction to the news?”

So that was it. Papa had wanted a son so desperately he had let Liam believe that only Ilsa kept him from claiming him publicly. And Liam, smoldering in envy and resentment, had finally struck back at both of them.

She gave him a grave look. “No. I’m sorry for you. He was a wonderful father, tender, kind, and caring. And what’s more, I would have accepted a brother, had he come in love and friendship.” She got to her feet. “Thank you for coming today. I hope your legacy brings you fond remembrances of our father.”

Scowling Liam tore open the letter and scanned it, reading that he had been left two hundred pounds and nothing else. His face turned red. “How—this is an insult!” He leapt to his feet with a howl. “I am supposed to inherit the workshop in Dunbar’s Close! He promised me!”

“Did he?” asked Ilsa calmly. “I didn’t know that. He left that to me.”

“What will you do with a cabinetry shop?” he snarled.

“Sell it, I suppose,” she said with mild surprise. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Henderson. Papa would want it to go to another wright.”

Liam took a step forward. “How dare you,” he said, low and furious.

Ilsa stood a little straighter. “How dare I?” She lowered her voice. “I am very conscious of what you did for him—and to him. If you provoke me, I would have no hesitation in suggesting the sheriff investigate whom Thomas Browne gambled with—and how much that person lost in recent months.” She folded her hands. “I suggest you accept this with grace and take Papa’s advice to better yourself. He forgave you, Liam, but God detests a sinner.”

He breathed like a bellows. “You . . .”

“I had nothing to do with any of it. If I had, you would have received nothing.” She reached for the bell. “Good day, Mr. Hewitt. And good-bye.”