The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
His burial elicited the most tears.
Angelica stood beside Dominic and the local reverend, with Hugh and his young wife on the minister’s other side, and thanked those who had attended, mostly locals, but a few from the surrounding glens and clans. That she was to be Dominic’s wife seemed understood by everyone; she was deferred to as if she were already his countess. She had half expected her brothers to try to convince her to return to London with them, but although Gabriel had voiced the idea, he hadn’t pressed, having by then grasped the reality of her position within the clan, and that it was more important to her and to others that she be there by Dominic’s side.
She and Dominic were the last of Clan Guisachan to remount and ride back to the castle.
Dominic let Hercules set an easy pace along the narrow lanes, but when they reached the turnoff to the castle, he checked the big chestnut and glanced at Angelica, managing a dancing Ebony alongside. He met her eyes. “Let’s go for a ride.”
She grinned. “Lead on.”
Hercules surged. With a laugh, she gave chase.
Dominic led her at an easy pace off the track and onto a long stretch of sward—then he let Hercules have his head. The big chestnut thundered down the familiar straight, then veered around to continue along the edge of the loch. Ebony flew alongside, black legs flashing, mane whipping back. Angelica let out a joyful halloo.
Pushing Hercules on, feeling the rhythm of the heavy hooves find an echo in his blood, Dominic rode hard for the end of the cleared shore, only at the last slowing the big horse. He sent Hercules into a wide turn, breathing deep and exhaling, feeling more alive, more free, than he had in years.
Angelica pulled Ebony up a little earlier, then walked the black filly until Ebony’s shoulder bumped Hercules’s.
She studied Dominic’s face, then, reaching up, laid a hand against his lean cheek, looked into his stormy eyes, then drew his face to hers and kissed him, but lightly.
When she drew back, he stopped her, held her within one arm and touched his forehead to hers. “I can barely believe it’s all over.”
She smiled as he released her. “Let’s go home.”
They cantered back side by side through the glow of the summer morning, through the mild sunshine and the scents of the forests. As the castle rose before them, the stone softened by the golden light, the rich tapestry of the forests’ greens and browns spread like a cloak to either side, the flashing waters of the loch adding movement to the scene, she looked, heard, sensed . . . and felt in her heart that peace, gentle and abiding, had returned, creeping slowly over the mountains, rolling over the trees and the loch, to settle over the castle and spread through the glen.
They may have reached an end, but inherent in it was another beginning—the start of their own story, the beginning of their shared tale.
Dominic glanced at her. When she looked his way, he arched a brow. “A guinea for your thoughts.”
She smiled. “I was just thinking that these last months were in essence the epilogue of your father’s life.” She met his eyes. “And the prologue of ours.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. “And from here on, the rest of this tale is ours.”
“Ours to create—ours to live.”
“Ours to enjoy.”
She smiled and rode beside him over the drawbridge, into his castle, and on to the keep.
The afternoon continued with the same sense of newfound freedom, of new directions, and their first steps along their now joint road.
In midafternoon, Dominic and the boys found Angelica in the gallery and persuaded her to allow them to kidnap her again—this time for a long ramble through the wilderness to the west of the castle.
As she walked beside Dominic, her hand locked in his, she watched the boys range ahead, along with the three dogs. Nudge had apparently adopted Angelica as her person, circling back frequently to bump her along, before padding away to rejoin the boys and the other two dogs.
When they’d first arrived at the kirk that morning, Dominic had detoured to stand before a double grave by the wall in the Guisachan section. She’d gone with him, had stood beside him, and had read the inscription. “The boys’ parents?”
He’d nodded. “Krista was swept away in a flood. Mitchell tried to save her, but was badly injured himself. He died a week later from his injuries. I swore I’d look after the boys as my own.”
She’d merely nodded, but later, while Dominic had been talking with others before the church, she’d slipped back to the grave, stood at its foot for some time, then quietly made a vow of her own: I will care for all three of them as my own. You can rest easy now, and leave them to me.
As she walked through the dappled sunshine, the words of that vow echoed in her mind.
Eventually they reached the western tip of the island. She and Dominic sat on the raised bank and watched the boys and the dogs cavort in the shallows. The boys threw sticks into the water and the dogs dived in, retrieving and returning them, then shaking the water from their thick, curly pelts to shrieks of delight from Gavin and Bryce, who were soon nearly as damp as the dogs.
The sun was westering, still warm and golden, turning the summer air hazy.
“Stag,” Dominic suddenly said. Both boys froze and looked expectantly at him. To Angelica, he whispered, “Don’t move.” Then he slowly raised a hand and pointed at the shore to their right.
Following the direction, Angelica saw the proud head and a massive set of antlers rise as the stag lifted its muzzle from the waters. Surrounded by thick forest, it looked across at them, at the dogs still milling about the boys, then looked at Dominic and Angelica, studied them for a long moment, then the beast turned, and with a rustle, was gone.
“Oh.” She sighed. “He was magnificent.”
Dominic glanced at her, smiled. Arms draped over his raised knees, he looked back at the boys. “I’ve hunted him for years. He knows me. I’ve had him in my sights countless times, but never taken the shot. He knows he’s safe in our lands now.”
Angelica leaned her head against his shoulder. The stag had reminded her of him. The animal had the same regal but wild beauty—visceral, powerful, untamed, and just a little dangerous. Her hero was a true son of the highlands.
Sitting beside him, she watched the boys, laughed at their antics as the sun slowly sank.
As the shadows lengthened, she breathed deeply in, felt her heart, her very soul expand, and knew she’d found her rightful place.
Fate and The Lady had brought her a long way, far from her birthplace, far from London and the life she’d known.
They’d brought her here—because here, with him, with his people and the boys . . . this was where she belonged.
Seven days later, Dominic followed Angelica into the front hall of Lord Martin Cynster’s house in Dover Street.
As Dominic waited beside Angelica while the butler closed the door, he was conscious of nerves the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his school days, and it wasn’t the prospect of meeting her father that was to blame.
He and Angelica, along with the same five staff who had accompanied him to London earlier, plus several others and the boys, had arrived in town the evening before. Angelica had made no bones about her intention to reside with him in Bury Street; he’d shared her bed in the countess’s suite last night.
That morning, while she’d set about transforming his house, he’d slipped away and called on her father. Lord Martin, primed no doubt by Gabriel, Lucifer, and most likely Devil, had been severe at first, but civil, and finally understanding, welcoming, and even congratulatory. The bottle of the clan’s finest old malt Dominic had brought as a peace offering had set the seal on what he hoped would be a lasting accord with his soon-to-be father-in-law. Cynsters, he’d realized, were partial to good whisky.
So as the butler ushered them into a long dr
Gabriel was there, smiling, a tall brown-haired lady, presumably his wife, Alathea, beside him. Lucifer stood beside her, a slighter, dark-haired lady, his wife, Phyllida, by his side; Angelica had provided the names and descriptions.
The lady standing beside Devil Cynster, his wife, Honoria, looked exactly as Dominic had pictured her—a duchess to her toes. Breckenridge was there with Heather on his arm, alongside Jeremy and Eliza.
The latter two ladies Dominic knew by sight, but neither had seen him other than at a distance. Both unabashedly surveyed him, then their gazes flicked to Angelica and they grinned. He didn’t want to know what was going through their minds.
The last lady in the room was seated in an armchair to one side of the fireplace, but because of the arrangement of people, he couldn’t get any clear view of her.
Gabriel was closest; Angelica stopped before her older brother, stretched up and kissed his cheek, then touched cheeks with Alathea before introducing Dominic.
Taking the hand Alathea offered, Dominic bowed over it and murmured a greeting. Straightening, he met a pair of shrewd hazel eyes; after a finite pause, those eyes twinkled and Alathea smiled.
“Welcome, my lord. I believe you’ll do very well in this family.”
“Dominic, please.” He returned the smile with a semblance of charm, but his mind had fixed on the lady in the armchair.
But before he reached her, faced her, he had to run the gauntlet of introductions—to Phyllida, who smilingly bade him welcome and asked after his wards, to Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, who considered him, then deigned to smile and welcome him to “our clan.”
While Heather and Eliza were curious, and he found them charming and engaging, he left them feeling—as Angelica had told him—that in deciding the outcome of each of his attempts to kidnap one of Celia’s daughters, fate had successfully served all their best interests.
Finally, Angelica drew him past Breckenridge and Jeremy to the lady in the armchair. Martin stood beside the chair; as Angelica with Dominic in tow approached, the lady rose to stand beside her husband.
Celia Cynster, Dominic judged, was a quiet matriarch, one of those strong women who by her natural demeanor seemed less forceful . . . but Angelica’s spine of tempered steel hadn’t come from her father.
Barely taller than Angelica, with graying hair that once must have been a similar if less intense shade as that of her youngest daughter, Celia stood rigidly upright, her chin tipped high—while her eyes devoured his face.
He halted before her and waited for her verdict. For her censure, her repudiation, if she so decreed.
Angelica sensed his tension. Beside him, she looked from him to her mother and back again.
Martin stepped in and performed the introductions. Both Celia and Dominic responded by rote, but when he would have released her hand, Celia gripped his. With her free hand, she waved the other two away. To him, she simply said, “Walk with me.”
He very correctly offered her his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve and together they walked down the long room to the alcove of a bow window.
There, Celia stopped and faced him. Closely studied his face. “You don’t look anything like your father, yet I can see something of him in you.”
He suppressed a grimace. “My eyes.”
She looked again, then nodded. “Yes, but yours are . . . less simple. More complex.” Her gaze again roved his face. “Do you take after your mother, then?”
“No. Or at least she didn’t think so. Only the color of my hair.” After a moment, he added, seeing she seemed so intent, “I’m said to be the image of my great-grandfather—my father’s father’s father—except for having black hair.”
Her fingers still touching his sleeve, Celia drew back, head tipping in a gesture she’d passed on to her youngest daughter, lips slightly pursing—he recognized that, too. After a long moment of intense scrutiny, during which he had to force himself not to fidget, she said, “From all I’ve heard, and all I can see, you’re not in the least like your father—and certainly not like your mother, either. I suspect you’re a throwback to an earlier age, your great-grandfather’s possibly, to the days when clan chiefs ruled with wills of iron and performed great feats . . .” Her lips slowly curved. “And if you’re marrying Angelica, you’ll need to be able to do both.”
Stepping nearer, stretching up on her toes, she drew his head down and kissed his cheek. “Welcome to the family, dear—I do hope you don’t find us too overwhelming. Just hold on to Angelica if you do—she’ll see you through.”
He blinked. Remained stock-still when she would have turned him back into the room. When she arched a brow at him, he said, “You don’t . . . mind?”
“Not a bit of it.” Gripping his sleeve, she turned him around and started them back toward the others. “I trained my girls well—Angelica would never have let you within arm’s reach if you hadn’t been a worthy man. And if you’re thinking I might feel awkward about the past—and I can see how you might—then as it’s very nearly time to go in to dinner, while we dine, I’ll tell you and the rest of the company, too, the story they’ve never heard.” She met his eyes. “Your father was a good, kind, possibly weak man, but he was never other than a gentleman to me.”
She looked ahead, then halted.
Dominic, perforce, halted, too.
After a moment of studying the group directly ahead of them—Heather and Breckenridge, Eliza and Jeremy, and Angelica, who was looking their way—Celia blew out a breath. “And to be perfectly blunt, while I abhor your mother’s actions, if out of all the machinations I gain my dearest wish to see all three of my girls happily and suitably wed, then I really cannot find it in me to complain.”
Angelica quit the group and came up. She mock-frowned at her mother. “You’ve had him long enough—he’s mine.”
Celia laughed. “Indeed, my dear—and I’m very glad he is.”
On the first of July, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Dominic walked into a wood-paneled room in a discreet building in the City. Elegantly gowned, her hair fashionably dressed, Angelica walked beside him, her hand on his arm.
Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, Mr. Rupert Cynster, well-known investor, and Mr. Alasdair Cynster, renowned expert on antiquities, followed them into the room.
Standing about the head of the central rectangular table, the seven bankers representing the City’s seven largest banks were simultaneously taken aback and suitably impressed.
Halting at the foot of the table, Dominic inclined his head. “Gentlemen. I’m here as agreed, on the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, to hand over to you the last and final piece of the Scottish Regalia—the Coronation Cup.”
On cue, Lucifer stepped forward, a royal blue velvet drawstring bag dangling on silken cords from one hand. Angelica took the bag, opened it, reached inside, and to a chorus of reverent aahs, drew the goblet free.
She handed it to Dominic.
Taking it, he balanced it on the palm of one hand and looked at the bankers. Arched a brow. “The deeds?”
His tone snapped the bankers from the trance the sight of the goblet had induced. Not entirely surprising; Lucifer had cleaned and polished it until its beauty shone.
Flustered, the bankers rummaged among several piles of papers set waiting on the table. One by one, they hurried down the room to present the deeds they held. Stepping forward, Gabriel received each document, swiftly scanned it, then laid it aside. After examining each one for the required stamp of release, he looked up at Dominic. “All accounted for, all cleared.”
Dominic smiled. “Excellent.” He set the goblet on the table, took the stack of documents from Gabriel, and slid them into a satchel hanging from his shoulder. Then he looked at the bankers. ?
Taking Angelica’s arm, he turned her to the door. “Use it in good health—yours and the king’s.”
As their group quit the room, Devil, Gabriel, and Lucifer falling in behind Dominic and Angelica, they all heard a rush of feet as the bankers converged on their treasure.
Angelica looked at Dominic, and grinned.
He looked at her, and a smile broke across his face. “Done. Finished.”
“Free at last!”
Dominic halted on the pavement outside the building and shook hands with the other men. Gabriel grinned at Angelica and tapped the tip of her nose. She scowled at him, while Lucifer laughed and hugged her. Devil smiled and saluted them both, then the three Cynsters sauntered off, leaving Dominic and Angelica to hail a hackney back to Bury Street.
Dominic didn’t immediately do so. He stood on the pavement, facing Angelica, letting the bustle of the street pass them by, then slowly, deeply, incrementally he filled his lungs; lifting his head, he exhaled on a long, deep, sigh. Then he looked at her, trapped her eyes. “It’s truly over. It’s all finally gone. The past, at last, is done with and behind us, buried and no more, and the future is all ours.”
She smiled, stretched up, pulled his head down to hers and planted a quick, shockingly hot kiss on his lips. “Speaking of futures”—she dropped back to the ground and wound her arm in his—“I want to hire more gardeners. We won’t be here for long, and I want to tame the wilderness before we head north.”
He set his hand over hers. “Whatever you want—anything you need.”
She widened her eyes. “Is that so? In that case, hurry up and hail that hackney so we can get back to Bury Street for an in-depth discussion of all my needs.”
Dominic laughed, did, and they did, to their mutual satisfaction.
That evening, St. Ives House was a blaze of lights. Carriages jostled all around Grosvenor Square, liveried grooms and stable boys battling to keep order.
Coach after carriage drew up at the canopied red carpet, disgorging their richly dressed occupants to the delight of the crowds thronging the pavements, eager to see the flash of jewels, the sheen of satins and silks.