“Certainly.” Compton’s jowls wobbled with the nod of his head. He took himself off to the kitchens, and Trick ushered Kendra into the study, tossing the letter on the marquetry table that sat between two leather chairs.
TWENTY-THREE
KENDRA SAT while Trick poured himself a shot of whisky. He dropped onto the other chair and threw back a gulp. Setting the glass on the table between them, he lifted the letter.
Kendra watched him worry the seal with his long fingers. “Open it,” she suggested.
“Not just yet.” He turned it over and stared at his name written on the back.
“What is it?” Wondering why he seemed so odd, she hitched herself forward and frowned at the parchment. “Do you know who it’s from?”
He looked up at her, his face set in unfamiliar lines. Not teasing, not angry, not thoughtful, not seductive—not any emotion she’d seen there before. Not even evasive—another all-too-common mood she was learning to distinguish.
“It’s from my mother,” he said softly. “I’d barely learned how to write myself when I left her, but all these years later, I still recognize her hand.” He blinked, then suddenly thrust the letter at Kendra. “Here. You read it.”
She nearly dropped it, but caught it in time. “No,” she protested. “It’s addressed to you.”
“I’ll listen. Then I willnae hear her voice, but yours.”
Her heart ached at the pain in his tone, at the telltale Scots word that had slipped into his careful English speech.
“Read it, please.” He slumped down in the chair and took a long sip of whisky, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
She smoothed the parchment against her skirt and slipped a fingernail under the seal. When it lifted off with a little snapping sound, Trick winced.
“Go ahead,” he said huskily.
The paper crackled as she opened it and held it to catch the light from the window. “Her handwriting is beautiful,” she said.
He said nothing.
She took a deep breath. “‘My dear Patrick Iain,’” she read aloud. “‘My heart is heavy with sorrow for all the years we’ve been apart. Now I am dying, and it is my fondest wish to gaze upon your beloved face once more. Though I know you’re a man grown, my bonnie lad you’ll always be. Come to me, Patrick, come make an old woman smile as she greets the next world. With all the love in my heart, Mam.’”
Silence. Kendra took one long breath, two…three.
Trick opened his eyes and sipped slowly from his glass.
“Can I go with you?” she asked.
“Where?” He shifted to face her. “You don’t think I’ll go to her, do you?”
“You must!”
“She cannot ignore me for eighteen years and then expect me to jump to her command.”
“She’s dying, Trick.”
He shrugged.
“You must make your peace. It’s your only chance.”
“I don’t care to give her the satisfaction.”
“It’s your own satisfaction at stake here. If you fail to go now, you’ll always wonder. Always. Go to her and find your answers, before it’s too late. Close your heart if you must, but go. Say good-bye.”
He drained the glass and rolled it between his palms. “You think yourself wise for your years.”
“I didn’t get to know my parents.” The letter crackled as she folded it and set it on the table. “In my dreams, awake and sleeping, I’ve accused them of leaving me and I’ve told them I loved them. I’ve been angry at them, and sad. But I was too young when they died, so face-to-face, I never got to tell them anything.”
He took a deep breath, and the crystal stilled between his hands.
“Go, Trick. Now. Tonight.” She’d have to postpone the children’s party, but so be it. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” he said slowly. “I’ll go alone. Tomorrow.”
TWENTY-FOUR
AFTER SUPPER, Kendra found herself mounted on Pandora, heading toward the cottage for the second time that day.
She slanted a glance at Trick riding beside her. She’d tried halfheartedly to talk him into taking her along to Scotland, knowing he was absolutely set against it.
Well, perhaps it would be a relief to be free from him for a while. Free to catch up on her sleep. Free from those kisses that made her lose her head. Free to think about whether she wanted to let Trick go past kissing, because she wasn’t sure whether to believe what Cait had told her or what he had said.
You should know it will hurt…
But not much, and only the first time…
Still, part of her was reluctant to see him go, so she’d clung to him like a sticky bun all the afternoon, while he completed the tasks that stood in the way of his leaving.
The full moon reflected off the cottage windows as they approached. “I had no idea of the extent of your responsibilities,” she said through a yawn.
“I just want to drop off some papers.”
Her eyes felt gritty. “And after that?”
Trick slid from Chaucer and reached to help her down. “I still have much to do before I can sleep.”
She tethered Pandora and followed him inside. “You’re pushing yourself.” She closed the door and leaned against it, watching while he lit a single candle. “I know you must be worried for your mother—”
“I’m not particularly worried.” Finished, he felt for the key above the fireplace.
“She’s dying.”
He shot her a look as he unlocked the desk. “You said yourself her writing is beautiful. A woman on her deathbed would have a shaky hand, or dictate to someone else.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his surcoat and slid them into the bottom drawer.
“Perhaps she did dictate it.”
“It was her own hand—I’d bet my life on that. Aye, she’s up to something.” He shut the drawer and relocked it. “I’ll play along with her game, just in case I’m wrong, but she’s a conniving—”
“You cannot know that, Trick. Not after all these years.”
“Time will tell which of us is right. But I won’t live in hope that she’s changed.” He
