Cameron rode through the narrow streets south of the Liffey River at a leisurely gait. He was in no hurry to reach the Scottish duke’s home. The days he had spent in Dublin had been lazy days. Cameron had surrendered to a languid feeling. Not only was he completely lacking in vigor, but his usual curiosity had disappeared. He suspected these uncommon feelings were the result of a curse cast by Meggie from afar.
One connection to the wild Irish lass and her grandfather remained. The mare he rode. The strong, proud chestnut mare that Gerald Fitzgerald had given Cameron to escape from Dochas. She had proved her worth during the journey east, and he called her by the only name possible ... Dochas.
In the bustling city of Dublin, the British ruled. All who lived or visited spoke English and dressed in the style of the old maiden queen and her subjects. No Irish man or woman dared flaunt the rules of dress or deportment in Dublin. Except for an occasional Celtic-laced accent, Cameron felt he might just as well be on British soil.
He arrived at the duke’s address at the appointed time. The tidy, narrow town house resembled those to be found in London on the fashionable Strand. He did not require more than a glance to determine that the duke’s cobblestoned neighborhood reflected residents of wealth and prestige. Yet, Cameron questioned the business of a Scottish duke in Dublin.
A butler answered the door knocker promptly and escorted him to a small chamber. Apart from the location of his residence, the Duke of Doneval’s circumstances were made quite clear at first glance. The chamber’s furnishings were plentiful and sumptuous in shades of gilt, gold, and burgundy.
Cameron remained on his feet, running his fingers across polished mahogany, brushing the thick velvet drapes. Nothing appeared out of place or, for that matter, used. If he did not know better, he would think no one lived here.
As it happened, he did not have long to wait. Within moments, a tall, attractive older man carrying the girth of age strode into the room. The Duke smiled broadly, as would a close friend who had not seen Cameron for a long time.
“Cameron Thatcher?” he asked.
“Aye, Your Grace.” Cameron dipped his head. “Captain Cameron Thatcher at your service.”
The duke continued to smile, and his brown eyes, quite like the color of Cameron’s, sparkled brightly. His auburn hair had long since receded, leaving him with a broad forehead. He placed a thick hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “You may well wonder what you are doing here.”
“I do, indeed.”
The duke circled him, scrutinizing Cameron as he might a servant to hire. “Aye, an’ you are a handsome lad.”
The hairs on Cameron’s nape prickled in warning. He frowned. “My thanks. But how may I serve you, Your Grace?”
“Would you join me?” The duke gestured to two chairs set before the fireplace.
Feeling he had no choice, as he had been ordered to the duke’s home, Cameron sat. ’Twas a pleasure to sit in a chair with a carved back, a luxury he hadn’t known at the Buckthorn Inn nor often at Dochas.
Once seated, the duke leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His once handsome face was lined with age and scarred from old battles. His intense expression somewhat alarmed Cameron as the Scotsman’s eyes locked on his. “Captain Thatcher, how much do you know about your birth?”
The small beware hairs on Cameron’s neck raised again. “I know very little,” he acknowledged. “I was a foundling, given to the Thatchers as a babe. They raised me as well as a man could be raised.”
“Aye, they did, they did raise you well.” The duke grinned with seeming admiration. “Ye are a fine young man.”
Cameron could not think of a proper reply. He regarded the noble Scot with increasing wariness. “My, uh, thanks.”
In his soft, melodic Scottish accent, the duke went on. “The Thatchers were chosen to raise you by your natural mother.”
Cameron’s heart slammed against his chest. His mouth fell open. He almost dared not to ask the question that leapt to mind. “Do ... Do you know my natural mother?”
Before his eyes the lifeblood appeared to drain from Doneval’s big body. The duke’s shoulders sagged. He lowered his eyes. “Aye.” He nodded. “I knew her well. Her name was Anne.”
“Was?” Cameron repeated. The bottom dropped from the pit of his stomach.
Was.
An infamous word. A word meaning that his natural mother no longer lived. Would he never know her? See her face? Be held by her?
His heart slowed to a dull thud.
“Aye, I regret to tell ye that yer mother passed on several months ago after a long illness.” The duke spoke with great and surprising gentleness. He blinked the water from his eyes. But sorrow and compassion remained, glimmering in their dark brown depths.
“I see.” Cameron lowered his head. He felt as if an iron blow had been dealt to his midsection. The air left him in a rush. Confusing and unexpected emotions assailed him.
Cameron did not truly know what he felt. Disappointment? Anguish? Innumerable questions flashed through his mind. Was the duke telling him the truth? But then, why would he not? Why would he create a tale? Why now?
“Anne told me about you, on her deathbed, Cameron.”
“What? Why?” Impatient and irritated by the prickling, painful inner turmoil, Cameron rose to his feet.
For years he had held the illusion he was in complete control of his life. Without meaning to, Meggie had shown Cameron how foolish he’d been. And now—this. This new evidence of his lack of control.
Casting the duke a scathing frown, he revealed the deep-seated bitterness Cameron had not realized until this moment he possessed. “Did my loving mother tell you why she gave me away?”
“Aye.” The craggy-faced Scotsman lowered his eyes and nodded sadly. “Your mother feared for your life. You see, Anne was the daughter of Mary Tudor.”
“Bloody Mary?”
“An unfortunate name. But, aye.” The older man’s kindly gaze rested on Cameron as he told the rest of the tale. “Mary gave birth to Anne in secret in order to protect her only child. The queen, your grandmother, then gave her babe to a young lady-in-waiting to care for and raise. Installed in Scotland, far from court intrigue, Sally Pickering and Anne lived in virtual isolation in Downes Castle. Your mother dinna have a happy life.”
Suddenly weak in the knees, Cameron hastily took a seat across from the duke. He felt like a woman about to swoon. His mind raced; his breath came in shallow gasps. “Are you telling me I am of royal birth?”
“Aye. You are a prince.”
“A... a prince?”
“Aye.”
The devil!
Cameron threw his head back and laughed. He laughed for all the years, ever since he could remember, that he strove to be accepted, to be favored by his peers, to be admired and respected. All those years, all the while he was a bloody prince!
The duke frowned, a concerned frown rather than one of disapproval. “Do you find your princely state amusing, me lad?”
“Nay, nay.” Cameron composed himself. Another question begged to be answered. “Your Grace, do you know who might be my father?”
The duke’s charming grin reappeared. His craggy face brightened, and the spark in his deep brown eyes returned. “Aye,” he said with a nod of his head. “’Tis I. I am your father. Cameron, and you are my son. My one and only son. My heir.”
Cameron jumped up, incredulous. “The devil!”
The duke rose as well. “I loved your mother. I courted Anne, but she wouldna marry me, wouldna even see me oft times,” he explained. “And she never told me about the children. About you and Kate.”
“Kate?”
“Your sister. In order to protect you, just as her mother had protected her, Anne chose to give her children to men and women who would give them a normal life. If she hadna done so, ye would have been raised in isolation at Downes Castle. ’Twas a great sacrifice for her to let ye go.”
Cameron paced, raked a hand through his hair. “I can hardly believe—” He stopped and stared at the duke, who stood grinning in the center of the room. “But no, it must be so. Not even an Irish bard could create a story such as this.”
“Aye. I understand this might be difficult for you to take in all at once.”
“You are my father. Princess Anne was my mother.”
“She hoped to be reunited with you one day. Anne charged the Thatchers, and Kate’s parents, to observe certain conditions. One of these being that at all times you would wear the rose-and-crown ring that identifies you.”
God’s bones. The ring I gave to Meggie.
Cameron blanched.
The duke took his hand. “Where is your ring?”
With the woman I love.
“I... I am a spy. I can wear nothing that might identify me. But do not worry, the ring is safe.”
If Meggie hasn’t thrown it in the river by now.
“Of course, of course.” The soft-spoken duke clapped a hand on Cameron’s shoulder once more, in a familiar, fatherly fashion. “I realize ’tis quite a shock and you shall require time to digest what I have told you.”
“Aye,” Cameron quickly agreed. A goodly amount of time. “Aye.”
“You’ll likely be havin’ more questions as well.”
“Aye.”
“Before sailing to Dublin, I visited the Thatchers and extended my gratitude to them. I canna tell you how knowing ye were raised in a good home lifted my spirits.”
“The Thatchers have been good to me. But I always felt... different from them,” Cameron admitted. “Even before they told me I was not their natural child.”
“You are different. Royal blood runs through your veins, son.”
Son?
Donald Cameron offered a rueful smile. “Weel na, I realize I canna be a father to you now. And I rue the days I missed seein’ you grow to the fine man ye are. But if you wouldna mind, I’d like to be your friend.”
Cameron’s heart felt as if it would break. How much more breakage could one heart stand? he wondered. Reaching out, he laid a hand on the duke’s arm. “I... I would like that as well.”
His father’s hesitant smile widened to a broad beam of light. “My thanks. We’ll make time to sort things out and get to know one another if ye like.”
Cameron had taken to the duke instantly. Oddly enough, he had felt the connection of kindred souls. “Aye. I would like that.”
He could learn much from his natural father.
“I’ve hired this house for a short spell. You are welcome to stay with me. In fact, I should like you to stay.”
After months of wandering and sleeping in trees and cold, damp chambers, Cameron could not object.
“’Twill be a welcome respite. I have been given several days before I must report and return to the field.”
“Ye might wish to resign your commission. You’ll inherit my country estate one day. Already, I am growing too tired to handle all matters.”
“Estate? In Scotland?”
“Aye, Doneval Manor lies just north of Edinburgh, still in the Lowlands we are, a spot close to heaven. You’ll find more land, cattle, and sheep than the eye can see.”
Cameron had learned a bit about cattle and sheep during his time at Dochas. He had learned about horses and farming as well, and discovered he enjoyed a farmer’s life. Now his natural father offered him that same life across the sea, “I... I think I should like to farm.”
“My lad, I dinna wish to press ye. You have time to decide what to do.”
Cameron breathed deeply, in a sigh of sorts. “I am not a true Englishman, then.”
“Son, I’m proud to say you have rich Scottish blood running through your veins. And ye have my name as weel.”
“Cameron.”
“Anne named you Cameron, and the Thatchers promised never to change your name.”
“I am not Cameron Thatcher, but Cameron Cameron?”
“A name change might be in order.” He grinned.
It would not be the first change in Cameron’s life. The past few months had brought constant change. Change that had begun the moment Meggie shot him. The duke’s news meant significant changes of a different sort.
But what Cameron wished for more than anything else could not be changed. The Irish duchess with the red-gold hair would never be his. Even if pure Scots blood ran through his veins, he would never have the opportunity to tell Meggie. Before he could explain, she would either refuse to see him or, this time, shoot to kill.
The duke’s bushy brows knit together in a frown. “For your own safety, I should like to announce that I have found in you my lost son. My lad, stolen long ago from my wife Caragh and me. You shall be known as the Duke of Doneval one day, but I fear if you should declare yourself as Anne’s son, you may be doomed.”
“Doomed?”
“Old Queen Bess is always looking for long-lost relatives wishin’ to make a claim to her throne. She locks them up in the Tower of London.”
“And likely forgets they are there?” Cameron asked, knowing the answer. “I feel no need for such a declaration. I shall be proud to be known as your son.”
Knowing he was a prince was enough.
* * * *
Two days after the English bard disappeared, Meggie’s father rode through the gates of Dochas. Her heavy heart lifted at the sight of him.
She saw him coming from the tower window where she had taken refuge from Niall, who stubbornly remained at Dochas. He ranted at every turn, accusing Meggie of aiding the English spy to escape. He swore she had been placed under a spell. When he calmed himself, he vowed to marry her. And each time he said they would be wed by All Hallows’ eve, Deirdre’s eyes filled with tears. The girl loved Niall.
Humphrey Fitzgerald was home. Meggie need not worry about Niall now.
Flanked by two warriors, Humphrey sat as straight and tall in the saddle as a man half his age. The villagers who tended the fields had stopped their work to follow him. Dochas retainers rushed to greet him. Meggie’s heart outraced her feet as she scurried down the spiraling staircase.
“Da!” She ran to her father with outstretched arms. “Da!”
At the sight of her, he came to a stop in the middle of the bailey, dismounted quickly, and gathered her into a crushing embrace. Average in height, lean and muscular, he presented an ominous figure in his heavy sheepskin mantle that swept the ground. The sun had lined and darkened his skin to the shade of old bark. His blue eyes appeared more startling in contrast to his dark complexion.