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Overview
Taken in by the Braemoor clan as a boy, Neil Forbes fell deeply in love the moment he laid eyes on Janet Leslie. To his delight, Janet, the daughter of a Jacobite, returned his feelings, and they made a solemn pledge to one other. Then Neil discovered the terrible reason he couldn’t marry his beloved . . . and could never wed at all.
After Neil’s betrayal, Janet vowed never again to be seduced by the fickle promise of love. She hoped that her marriage to Alasdair Campbell, a widower and father of three young girls, would give her the security she needed. Now the cruel Earl of Lochaene lies dead, and Janet is suspected of her husband’s murder. Worse, Campbell’s daughters—and her infant son—could be taken away from her. And the man she once adored with all her heart has just been appointed guardian of her son, the heir to Lochaene. Can she trust Neil, now the politically connected Marquis of Braemoor—or the dangerous desire that his first caress reignites in her? As they give in to passion, a powerful enemy could destroy their newfound love—and expose the secret Neil has been guarding for far too long.
This second book in Patricia Potter’s Scottish Trilogy is the winner of the 2001 Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Scottish Historical Romance.
The Heart Queen is the 2nd book in the Scottish Trilogy, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504002905 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 03/10/2015 |
| Series: | The Scottish Trilogy , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 424 |
| Sales rank: | 189,933 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Heart Queen
By Patricia Potter
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2001 Patricia PotterAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0290-5
CHAPTER 1
Scotland, 1747
No one should pray for another's death.
Janet knew she would go to hell for doing it. She'd couldn't even confess her sins since Catholicism had been banished. It wouldn't have mattered, in any event. She couldn't repent them in her heart.
How could she have ever deluded herself about Alasdair Campbell? How could she ever have wed him?
But as she sat in the nursery, her body still hurting from the beating he'd just inflicted and rocking the cradle that held her young son, she knew exactly why.
In the next room slept three little girls. She'd fallen in love with them, not their father.
Oh, Alasdair had played the charming and loving father who'd needed a mother for his children. It was the one argument that had won her consent. She'd hungered for children.
After Neil's betrayal, she thought she would never again succumb to love's seduction. And she hadn't. She'd even thought her heart incapable of loving again.
She'd turned down every suitor paraded by her father. Two years passed, then four and finally six since she'd received the note from Neil, saying that he'd decided against marrying her, that her dowry would not bring what he had expected. He'd not even had the courtesy to tell her in person. Instead, he'd fled Braemoor, leaving only the cruel note behind.
She'd been shattered. Not only shattered, but she had lost her faith in her own judgment. She'd never regained what she had lost that day.
She'd known she would not—could not—love a man again. It was far too painful. But she loved children. Her heart no longer yearned for a husband because she no longer believed that men could love as she wanted to love, and be loved. But she'd also wanted children. She'd longed to hold a bairn in her arms, to watch a lass take her first steps and a lad mount his first pony.
And when Alasdair Campbell courted her, bringing his three young motherless daughters with him, she'd promptly fallen in love with them, not him.
And so she had agreed to marry him.
He was handsome and outwardly charming. His daughters had been too well mannered, too quiet for children, but she hadn't put the two together until it was too late. Even then, though, she may have taken the chance.
She had been completely beguiled by the wee lassies. They'd been silent and shy. But then, they'd lost a mother. She wanted them to smile, laugh, play. And so she'd given her consent despite her father's concern that the Campbells were Protestant and, in fact, loyal allies of King George, whereas the Leslies had favored the Jacobites.
Janet had become the new Countess of Lochaene, wife to the Earl of Lochaene. She'd soon found a household ripped by hatred, envy and greed. Her predecessor, Isabella, had died in childbirth when she bore Annabella. Or was it, Janet often wondered, simply an escape?
If so, it had been a disastrous one for her children. They lived in constant fear of their father; his mother, the dowager countess; and her husband's younger brother. The latter had been particularly displeased at the birth of her own son, Colin, ten months earlier.
Colin and the wee lassies were the only good things to come from her marriage. She loved the earl's daughters as if they were her own. She nurtured them, taught them, protected them—which accounted for her recent bruises.
Annabella, all of five years old, had failed to move fast enough when Alasdair had strode past her. In fact, she had been rooted to the floor in fear. Her older sister had stepped in and tried to push her out of the way, only to be struck by a crop.
She'd screamed and Janet had interfered, placing herself between Alasdair and the children. He'd gone red with rage.
"I'll do as I wish with my children."
"No," she said. She'd held her tongue so many other times. She'd realized defiance only spurred his bouts of rage. But she would rather be the focus of his rage than a child who didn't even know what she'd done wrong.
"No?" he'd replied, his voice friendly. But she knew what lay beneath it.
His hand clenched her arm painfully and he dragged her into his room. They didn't share the same room, for which she thanked God. She had an adjoining room, and she was more than aware of the women he took to his chamber. She was grateful each time because that meant he wouldn't enter hers.
She'd made an art of keeping out of his way, and more importantly keeping the children out of his sight. But this time they'd darted out the door, eager for a promised picnic. Janet had not realized Alasdair had returned from a hunting party.
He threw her on the bed. "You will never say no to me again," he said, as he flicked the crop still in his hand. "You have never learned your place, Jacobite bitch."
Her blood froze at the words. The last year had been a horror in the highlands. After the Battle of Culloden, every Jacobite family had been hunted and persecuted. Her brother had died fighting for Prince Charlie and her father's lands and properties had been taken, but not before he'd died trying to protect them.
She'd had no one to protect her then, no one who really loved her. No one but three little girls, ages five, six, and seven.
And a memory. A memory of a lovely sun-kissed day.
She'd hung onto that as he'd torn clothes from her, as the crop fell over her shoulders, then across her breasts, and finally her back. Then he'd taken off his own clothes and dropped down on her, oblivious to the pain of her body. Oblivious and uncaring.
She tried to think of something else as he used her. She thought about leaving him, but where could she go with four children under the age of eight? How could she care for them? Feed them? Clothe them? She could leave on her own, but then what of the children? Alasdair would never let his son go. He'd comb the entire country before relinquishing his heir. The lasses meant nothing to him. They were lasses, worthless. But her son ... he was something to mold into his image.
Over her dead body.
Or his.
And he'd known it. His eyes had narrowed after he'd left the bed.
"You haven't learned obedience to your lord yet, my dear. How many lessons do you require, stupid wench?"
She'd glared helplessly at him just as a knock came at the door.
Alasdair opened it to MacKnight, his valet. He had a bottle of brandy on a tray. His eyes widened as she frantically tried to cover up her body with torn clothes.
"A little lesson, MacKnight. One you need to remember if you are so foolish as to marry."
Janet had learned two years earlier not to give Alasdair the satisfaction of tears. But as the door closed, she said, "Someone is going to kill you someday."
"A threat, my dear?"
"Nay, a promise, if you hurt the children again."
"I will do as I wish with my children. You will not interfere again. I will expect you at supper this evening. I have some guests."
He left then, the door closing behind him with deceptive softness.
Janet lay still for a moment, her body aching from his abuse. She refused to cry. That would give him power. Even if he was not there to see it. After several moments, she rose, dressed painfully, then went to see the children.
The lasses were huddled in the corner, and her son was screaming. Fixing a smile on her face, she'd told them they would have a picnic the next day. She soothed her son, feathering his face with kisses. When he'd finally calmed, she put him down in his bed and helped the lasses into their nightclothes. She stayed to tell them a story and sing a lullaby. Finally, their eyes closed.
She sat next to her son, watching him sleep. Less than a year old and he already flinched at the sight of his father. She feared that one day Alasdair would lose his temper and seriously hurt one of the children. She'd seen him do that to a puppy that wandered in his way. She'd nursed it, found it a good home. She'd never allowed the children another pet.
She swallowed hard ... and thought of Neil Forbes, of how different she'd once believed her life would be. But then she'd been nineteen, and believed love really existed. She'd believed in his gentleness, in his kisses, in his awkward but seemingly honest words, the sweet explosiveness between them. She'd been ready to give up everything for him. The disillusionment had been bitter and long lasting.
He'd had little then. And he had not been willing to settle for what little dowry she would bring. Now he was one of the wealthiest men in Scotland. He'd inherited the title of Marquis of Braemoor after the death of his cousin at the hands of the notorious Black Knave. His lands had expanded through his cousin's marriage. He was said to have the ear of Butcher Cumberland.
He hadn't needed her at all.
But he hadn't married. She knew that. There had been talk of trying to interest him in her husband's younger sister. Braemoor had rebuffed all overtures. He obviously was hoping for an even more advantageous marriage.
He could have anyone in Scotland now. Not only was he wealthy, but he also cut a fine figure. She remembered his height, his raven hair that had curled around her fingers, the dark eyes that were always cautious until they looked into hers.
She shook her head of the memories. He had not been what she had thought. He was probably no better than her husband.
Then why did he haunt her dreams so?
Loneliness sliced through Neil as sharply as the blade tore through the meat on the table at the wedding party.
He stood in a corner and watched the merriment as one of his tenants danced with his new bride. A fiddler played a lively tune and ale flowed like a river.
He would leave soon. He knew he was not an enlivening influence on the celebration. He knew he was respected though not particularly liked. He'd been alone too long, wary too many years to relax and enjoy the company of others.
It was one of his greatest regrets. Only recently had Neil discovered how deep his cousin's friendships had run, what great loyalty he'd inspired. Neil had learned that all too late. He wished now he'd looked behind his cousin's outer facade to the man beneath.
Rory, Neil knew, would have felt right at home here where he—well—felt like an intruder.
He'd felt an intruder all his life, even now that he was Marquis of Braemoor. It was a position that he'd always wanted and even thought should be his. He'd thought he cared more for the land and people than Rory had. In truth, Neil now knew it was he, Neil, who hadn't had the slightest idea of honor or courage or commitment.
In the months since Rory's supposed death, Neil had tried to rectify his own life, to make it mean something, but he didn't know how to make a friend, or keep one. He didn't know how to relax over a tankard of ale. When he tried, he'd been discomfitted and knew everyone with him was, too.
And so he maintained his distance. He tried to do the right thing by his tenants, keeping them on the land rather than evicting them as so many other landlords were doing. The last vestiges of the clan system had been broken at Culloden Moor. Clearances were common. He had to pay heavy taxes to the crown to keep the land, which meant he had to produce revenue. Like others, he'd turned some land over to grazing, but he'd tried not to turn anyone out.
The tenants knew that. Still, he realized he was never going to be their friend.
He gazed around at the whirling figures. No bagpipes. They'd been outlawed by Cumberland, as had been plaids. Instead, the men wore rawhide brogans and cheap breeches.
The music stopped and the dancers huddled in small groups, none of them near him. He sighed, then forcing his lips into a smile went up to young Hiram Forbes and handed him a small purse. "For you and your bride," he said.
The girl curtsied and Hiram looked surprised, then pleased. "Thank ye, my lord."
"I wish you many bairns," Neil said, even as he felt the emptiness in his own soul, in his life. He would never have bairns, nor a wife looking at him as the young lass looked at her new husband. 'Twas obviously a love match, and he ached inside that he could never see that look again.
Once. He'd seen it once. He'd seen himself in eyes shining with love, and he'd felt ten feet tall. He'd never felt that way since.
He turned and walked away, well aware that no one asked him to linger. He mounted his waiting horse, Jack. Back to the tower house?
That was a lonely thought. Since Rory and his wife, Bethia, left, the life seemed drained from the stone structure. On a rare impulse, he headed Jack toward the loch up beyond the hill, the one where he'd met Janet years earlier. Nine years and three months earlier, to be exact. She was married now, to a Campbell. She had a son.
The thought brought a familiar ache to his heart. He'd kept up with the gossip about her. He'd heard that her brother had fallen at Culloden where he'd fought for Prince Charlie. He knew that her father had died shortly afterward and that all his estates had been forfeit. He also knew that Janet's husband had not received the Leslie estates, probably because he had not joined Cumberland at Culloden. Instead, they'd reverted to the king who had awarded them to an Englishman who had fought with him.
He'd remember how much she'd loved her father. Unfamiliar with prayer, he nonetheless had stopped in the small chapel next to the tower house and prayed for her and the man he'd once hoped would be his father-in-law. He doubted whether God had heeded his prayer; he'd not been practiced at such an undertaking. And he had his own doubts about the value of prayer and even the very existence of God. He'd seen too much cruelty, too much inequality, too much killing. If God permitted such injustices, then what use was He?
Still, for Janet's sake, he'd tried. Little enough.
It was very late afternoon when he reached the loch. The sun was setting, spreading streaks of color across a cinnamon sky. The last rays colored the loch with a sprinkling of gold and the surrounding hills were dark with heather.
The quiet serenity of the Highlands usually quenched the ache inside him. Tonight, it sharpened the pain, deepened it until it overtook everything he was. It smothered him. He saw Janet Leslie, her brown hair framing a serious yet delicate face, her eyes banked with quiet fires of passion. He saw the shy smile, thought of the sweetness of her touch, remembered how it had turned sensuous, yet never lost its gentleness.
God, how he longed for her, for someone to touch, to talk to, to share the simple pleasure of a sunset.
"You and me, Jack," he said to the horse. He'd named the beast as a reminder of Rory. The stallion was as duplicitous as his cousin—calm one moment, all rebellion the next. Wild and longing to be free.
Everything Neil wanted to be but couldn't. He was grounded in responsibility, in practicality.
Rory's disguises from his days as the Black Knave were still hidden in a cottage now abandoned. Neil knew he should destroy them, but he'd never quite been able to do so. They represented something to him, a reminder that never again should he judge another human being so heedlessly.
He watched the sunset fade into dusk. A mist rose over the lake, softly eclipsing it.
He turned Jack toward Braemoor and thought again of Rory. Would he ever be as courageous as his cousin? As bold? Even as honorable? Or was he just fated to plod along, waiting for the madness that had overtaken his mother?
He walked Jack down the treacherous path back to rolling land, then mounted. He urged the animal into a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop. He wanted to leave the ghosts behind.
But he knew they would always lurk deep inside.
Alasdair Campbell, the Earl of Lochaene, died in the wee hours of a Friday. He died in agonizing pain.
Janet had been summoned by a servant and hurried to his bedside. His mother and one of his brothers were at his side.
"The physician has been summoned," Alasdair's mother, the dowager countess, said.
The earl was no longer handsome. His face was pale and distorted, his hair lank, his body twisted with agony. He screamed with pain.
"Dear God," Janet whispered. "What happened?"
The dowager countess, Marjorie, looked at her with suspicion in her eyes. "He was well earlier."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Heart Queen by Patricia Potter. Copyright © 2001 Patricia Potter. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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