Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L aird Donald Stewart was weary to the bone. He had been up since dawn coughing and retching since the wasting disease that was consuming him gave him no rest. He knew that his days were few and did not want to waste a single second of the time he had left. Nevertheless, he wanted his children to remember him fondly and with joy, and that was why he was attempting to make the question of his succession into a celebration.

He sighed with disappointment as he looked at his twin sons, however. The whole debate around who would be the heir could have been settled if his youngest child, Janice, had had the sense to be born first and been a boy. She had stubbornly refused, however, leaving her twin brothers, Andrew and Alasdair, who were two years older than she was, to fight it out between them. Since this suited absolutely nobody, the laird had decided to choose another approach, one that he hoped everyone would enjoy.

"I see that most of the hard work of organizing the celebrations has been done," the laird observed, frowning. "By Janice."

He glared fiercely at his sons, who were sitting on the other side of his desk. Andrew was picking at his fingernails with a pocket knife, barely listening. Alasdair was inspecting his shirt sleeve, tutting with annoyance at a wine stain he had acquired that morning through imbibing his favorite drink as soon as he rose from bed.

Laird Donald Stewart thumped his fist on the table, startling the two young men into awareness. "Have you two heard a word I have said?" he demanded, before he succumbed to a bout of coughing so severe that he had to brace himself against the table to stay upright.

Janice rushed around to his side of the table and knelt down beside him to hold his hand until the worst was over. She waited for the coughing to stop, then passed her hand gently over his forehead and kissed his cheek.

"All right now, Da?" she asked softly.

Donald looked into the soft, loving eyes of his only daughter and nodded. He wiped away the tears caused by the paroxysm of coughing, managing a weak smile. "Much better now," he said hoarsely.

His two sons were watching him, looking concerned, but neither had made a move to help. However, this was quite normal, and he had not expected them to behave any differently.

"Can you fetch a glass of water, please, Alasdair?" Janice asked sternly. Her brother did so, and when she received it, Janice put it to her father's lips and tipped it carefully into his mouth. He sipped it slowly, and after a few moments, he smiled at her.

"Thank you, Janice," he said fondly. "You are a good girl."

Janice kissed the top of his head and sat down, aware that her brothers were glaring at her, no doubt thinking that she was currying favor with their father. Both of them were of the opinion that she was his favorite, which in fact was true, and not only because she was his only daughter. She was the only one of his children who really cared about him.

The laird loved his sons because they were his children, but he liked his daughter better, and he privately thought that she was the only one who would mourn him when he died.

Janice moved away and sat down again, then waited for her father to speak.

"I should be thanking all of you," Donald Stewart said grimly, "but I can only thank Janice because she is the only one who seems to have done any work around here. Why is that, my sons? This whole event is for you." He sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows, then waited for an answer.

It was not long in coming since both of the young men began to spout out objections at once. The laird held up his hand for silence, then, when it was not forthcoming, he slammed it down on the table, making his sons jump in fright again.

Janice was laughing inwardly. She had not seen anything so funny in ages, and she could not suppress a little mischievous smile that she covered with a discreet cough.

"We have been working!" Andrew cried furiously. "We just do not boast about it the way she does!" He flung out an accusing finger toward his sister, and the two siblings glared at each other in mutual hostility.

"I have never heard Janice boast about anything," the laird said mildly. "She merely gets things done—and quickly. What have you achieved, pray tell? Either of you?" He sat forward in his chair, tapping his fingers on his desk.

Andrew looked at his brother, flustered. Alasdair stared back, unable to think of anything to say.

"Well…" Andrew began. Then he suddenly thought of something. "We tasted the wine for the feast!" he said triumphantly.

The brothers nodded at each other, grinning.

The laird frowned. "I am quite sure you did," he remarked. "What an onerous task that must have been." He spoke with withering sarcasm. "Apart from that?" He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"We have not done much so far," Andrew admitted, avoiding his father's eyes. "But that does not mean we are not ready to do our duty before the festivities start."

"Oh, that is good news!" Janice chimed in, clapping her hands and grinning. "I will draw up a list of tasks for you to do, and you can both start right away—if that is all right with you, Da?"

The laird nodded, smiling at his daughter.

"Sister," Alasdair said silkily, "why is this any of your concern? We employ people to do the hard work around here. Why does any one of us have to lift a finger? Why do you bother?"

"Because one day one of you will be laird, and you will have to learn how to do it yourself!" Laird Stewart's grey eyes were almost black with anger as he glowered at his son. He knew he had allowed his boys too many liberties while they were growing up, and this was the result: a pair of overindulged, self-centered infants in adult form.

It horrified him to think that his proud legacy was going to be passed on to one of these two when it should rightfully have gone to the most capable of his offspring—his daughter. However, daughters could not inherit, and the laird was helpless to do anything about it, no matter how unfair the rules were.

"And one day you will be married to a rich young laird and never have to do anything but squeeze out babies!" Andrew said viciously.

A silence fell after that, during which the twins had the grace to look ashamed. Their own mother, Lady Annie Stewart, had died giving birth to Janice, so of course she had no memories of her. The twins had been only two years old but could remember nothing about her, but they knew that even after all these years, her father still grieved for his late wife. Reminding him of her death this way was just plain cruelty.

Janice gave her brothers a look that might have been fatal if she had the power to make it so. Her father was grimly trying to hold on to his composure, and she reached out a hand to squeeze his. Yet, although she was upset about the laird's distress, she recognized that the twins were feeling guilty. This might be an ideal chance to prod them into actually doing something worthwhile.

"Speaking of mothers," she drawled, "it is almost the end of the lambing season, and I know that you have both expressed a wish to help with it."

This was a complete falsehood since neither of her brothers would ever soil his shoes in a muddy field, but Janice had neatly corralled them into a corner. She raised her eyebrows in a questioning fashion, looking at both of them in turn. They both nodded and mumbled an answer of sorts, and she grinned.

"It will be an excellent chance for you to get to know your tenants," the laird agreed. If he had guessed what Janice was doing, he said nothing about it.

"Good!" Janice said happily. "I don't suppose either of you has a pair of suitable boots? The fields are quite muddy, and you will need some old clothes too. You don't want to dirty the ones you are wearing."

Her gaze swept over their immaculate snow-white shirts and kilts. The twins were always meticulous about their appearance.

"You know we don't have boots or old clothes," Alastair replied. His voice was as sullen as the sky before a thunderstorm. "You always took our old clothes to give to the tenants."

"That is true, of course," Janice agreed, "but I will find you something suitable."

The conversation moved on to lighter subjects after that, like the seating in the great hall, where the banquet was to be served.

"Would you two like to arrange that?" Janice asked, looking at her brothers.

"If we must," Alasdair answered for both of them. His voice was resigned and weary. "Although I thought it would be a task more suited to you, Janice."

"I thought you two might jump at the task," the laird said, a tone of surprise in his voice. "You will be able to seat yourselves next to the prettiest girls in the place." Then he said thoughtfully, "Of course, we can always decide the lairdship another way. I could have all the elders of the clan come and sit around a table and then take a vote, but I thought this would be the most enjoyable for everyone. It may be the last ceilidh I attend before I die."

"Don't say such things!" Janice cried desperately. "You may have years to live yet, Da!"

The laird shook his head sadly and patted her hand. "Sweet girl, you know that is not true. We all know it, but I will be content knowing that what I have built over the years will be in good hands." He studied his sons for a moment. "One of you will officially inherit my title, but I expect the same amount of dedication from both of you."

"And her?" Andrew pointed at Janice as though he were pointing a weapon. "She will run off and marry then do nothing."

"The same nothing that you are doing now?" Janice could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I have no plans to marry, Brother. I could stay here and set up a home of my own in the east wing of the castle, and there would be absolutely nothing that you could do about it."

Brother and sister glared at each other before Andrew dropped his gaze. Both of them knew that it had been written into their father's will that Janice had the right to stay in Howdenbrae Castle until the day she died. She would also have the option to settle with a husband and family there if she wished.

They talked for a long time after that, with Janice and the laird making most of the conversation. Andrew and Alasdair chipped in from time to time, but mostly they looked bored and only spoke when directly addressed. At last the meeting ended, and they left the laird poring over his ledgers as he usually did in the late afternoon.

Once they were in the passageway outside, however, Alasdair grabbed Janice by her upper arms, squeezing so tightly that she winced in pain.

"One day I will be in charge here," he growled, "and if you know what is good for you, you will never speak to me so disrespectfully again. I may not be able to throw you out of this castle, but the turrets are high here, and I can certainly throw you off…accidentally, of course!" His usually handsome face was an ugly mask of rage, and his voice was a snarl.

"Are you threatening me?" Despite herself, Janice was terrified and could not keep the tremor from her voice. Her eyes were wide with fear, which she could not hide from Alasdair.

"Take that any way you like," he answered, his grey eyes black with rage.

"And the turrets will still be there if I am laird," Andrew asserted confidently.

"Pfft! That will never happen!" Alasdair's voice was contemptuous, and Andrew backed off a little. They could argue about who would be top dog later. It was no concern of hers.

Janice shook herself free, then raised her chin in defiance. "I will fetch your clothes." Her voice sounded confident and contemptuous, but as she marched away, she hoped that neither of her brothers could see that she was weeping with sheer terror.