“She hoped—we hoped—that you’d return the treasure to its rightful owner. King Charles II.”
Disappointment scraped a raw place inside him. His mother hadn’t been wishing for a reconciliation. Like his father, she’d wanted only to use him for her own ends.
“They never sold even one piece,” Niall put in, a transparent attempt to make light of his parents’ wrongdoing. “It’s all been locked away in twenty-three chests for thirty-five years.”
Hamish nodded. “You must believe me, we didn’t take it to enrich ourselves. It was a prank, an act of revenge. We were young enough—angry enough—to risk such folly. And although we were fortunate in that our rocks sank and were never discovered, the misdeed has preyed on our minds ever since.”
It would, Trick supposed. But the fate of his mother’s soul was in God’s hands now, and he wasn’t responsible for unburdening Hamish Munroe’s conscience.
Without Hamish, perhaps Elspeth would have come to love her husband, or at least learned to live with him, and Trick would have had a family. He owed this old man nothing.
Hamish took a long, bracing sip from Niall’s cup. “Charles was beheaded—he paid for his actions. His son is a better man, a better king. We don’t want the treasure—we never did. But your mother feared that if we returned it, we’d face arrest. So she was hoping you’d do it for us. You have the king’s ear, and he trusts you—”
“How would you know that?”
“Do you think your mother wouldn’t keep watch on you the best she could? We—she hired people to report to her. If ever you’d really needed her, Patrick, she’d have been there.”
He had really needed her. The times he’d been left alone in a horrid school in France, and the other times, the endless years he’d worked as little more than a slave for his father’s shameful business.
But the past was done. He’d long ago accepted the hand he’d been dealt, and more pressing matters required his attention.
King Charles deserved the Royal treasure, and heaven knew he needed it. The poor man was reduced to selling titles to make expenses. Even now, his ambassadors roamed the country with blank forms for anyone wanting and willing to pay for a baronetcy. Regardless of whether this ill old man deserved Trick’s loyalty, his monarch did.
Charles. His life these days seemed to be reduced to serving Charles, no matter the personal cost.
“I’ll do it,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Show me the chests tomorrow, and I’ll find a way to get them home.”
FORTY-FOUR
“IF I’M GOING to lug this treasure home,” Trick muttered on the way down the stairs, “I need to make plans.”
Behind him in the dark, narrow turret, Kendra sighed. All the special feelings between them seemed to have vanished into thin air. She a put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it you have to do? Maybe I can help.”
“I must see these twenty-three chests and decide how many extra vehicles I’ll need to transport them, how many additional guards I must hire. And what am I going to do with it all during overnight stops? We’ll attract attention traveling through the country with an entourage worthy of royalty. The treasure will need to be protected around the clock.”
“We’ll work it out,” she soothed. “Let’s see the treasure first, then we’ll deal with the logistics.”
“My head aches just thinking about it.”
“Perhaps it would be best to dispatch a messenger to Charles. He could send a contingent of soldiers to escort the goods.”
“And wait here, twiddling my thumbs, for three weeks or more until the soldiers arrive? I think not.”
They arrived downstairs to find that the dancing had ended and the trestle tables were back in place. Torches had been lit on the walls to augment the light from the iron chandeliers, and women bustled about, setting out all the dishes they’d brought for the draidgie supper.
Trick handed Kendra a trencher from a stack on the end of a table, then took one for himself. The food smelled delicious, but he was in a foul mood, and the offerings he piled on his platter didn’t seem to help any.
Odd, he was, for a fellow, she thought as she chose a piece of spice cake and a wedge of lemon tart. Her brothers had never failed to be cheered by a hearty plate of food.
Niall waved them over to join him at an empty table, filling two more goblets with ale from a pitcher. They’d no sooner settled themselves than Annag and Duncan dragged her young ones over to take the remaining seats.
“What did Da want with you?” Annag demanded, waving a girl onto the bench and plopping a runny-nosed toddler beside her.
Niall filled another goblet for her. “Nothing of your concern.”
Duncan sat, lowering his trencher to the table with a thud. “Did he not tell you of a new will, then?” he asked in a voice pitched to sound casual.
“Nay,” Trick said flatly. He cut a hunk of mutton with more vigor than was necessary.
“Here, Alastair.” Annag shoved a dish of hoch-poch in front of another of her children. “Are you certain there was no mention of a will?”
“Aye.” Niall reached for some bread. “And Da seems to be gaining strength. So whatever it is you’re hoping to gain upon his death, you shouldn’t be expecting it anytime soon.”
Kendra found Annag’s affronted look less than convincing. “I’m not wanting Da to die, you eejit.”
“But now that he’s shown up, a duke and all”—Duncan slanted a none-too-friendly glance at Trick before focusing back on Niall—“you won’t be needing any of Da’s paltry holdings. With a new brother to provide for you.”
Niall’s mouth opened and closed like a salmon out of water.
Kendra saw Trick’s jaw set before he pointed his knife at Duncan. “What makes you so certain I’m willing to provide for Niall? I’d lay odds your father
