The Heiress Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 3)

Colin stared down at his cousin, the man he’d loved as a boy and respected as a man. He was dead. He looked over at his wife. A look of intense pain crossed his face. “So many people lost to me, so many. Did he tell you why, Sinjun?”

She felt his pain, his wrenching betrayal. No more, she thought, no more. She looked at him straight in his beautiful eyes. “He told me that he murdered Fiona because she rejected him. He killed Aunt Arleth because she had proof that he’d killed Fiona. He was in financial difficulties, as he told you. He wanted to leave Scotland and he had to have money. We were the likely source. That’s all there was to it, Colin. Nothing more.”

Colin’s head was bowed. “Nothing more?” he asked, not looking at her.

“No, nothing more. He didn’t want to kill either of us, Colin. I think he was sorry for all the tragedy he’d caused. Thank you for saving me.”

“Ah,” said Douglas, “then you’re not going to claim that it was the damned Virgin Bride or the absurd Pearlin’ Jane who sent us here to save your white hide?”

“Not this time, brother dear.” She smiled up at her husband. He looked at her closely. He lightly ran his fingertips over the bruise on her jaw. “You’re a mess,” he said. “A beautiful mess. Does your jaw pain you much?”

“Not much now. I’m all right. Just dirty and awfully tired of these foul swamp smells and sounds.”

“Then let’s go home.”

“Yes,” Sinjun said, “let’s go home.”

Two days later, Sinjun went to Aunt Arleth’s bedchamber. No one had been in the room since they’d found her body. Thank God the rope had been taken away. There was no sign that a tragedy had occurred here, yet the maids wouldn’t even come as far as three feet from the door.

Sinjun closed the door quietly behind her and stood there for a moment, just looking around.

She saw signs quickly enough that MacDuff had searched in here to find his proof that Colin was illegitimate. But he hadn’t found that proof. It was still here, unless Aunt Arleth had lied to MacDuff about it, and Sinjun didn’t believe she’d lied about that.

She searched methodically, but at the end of twenty minutes she hadn’t found a thing out of the ordinary. She had no idea what she was looking for, but she knew she would know when she found it.

Another twenty minutes of searching and she was nearly ready to concede that Aunt Arleth had spun the fantasy from her own tortured brain.

She sat in the chair that faced the small fireplace, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

What would the proof be?

Suddenly, she felt a warmth steal over her, a prodding sort of warmth that made her rise instantly from the chair. She stood perfectly still, wondering what the devil was going on, and then, just as suddenly as the warmth had come to her, she understood it. It was Pearlin’ Jane and she was here to help her.

She walked directly to the long brocade draperies that hung from ceiling to floor on the far east side of the bedchamber. She knelt down and lifted the hem of the drapery. There was something very solid sewn into the wide hem.

The thread wasn’t all that secure. She gently pulled it open. Out fell a small packet of letters tied with a faded green satin ribbon.

They were letters from a Lord Donnally and they were yellowed with age, the paper crinkly. They covered a three-year period, the first one dated nearly thirty years before.

Well before Colin’s birth.

All the letters were from Lord Donnally’s estate in Huntington, Sussex. She read a few lines, then hastily folded the paper and slipped it back into the ribbon. She withdrew the very last letter in the packet. It was dated after Colin’s birth.

She read the faded black ink written in a spidery hand:

My dearest love,

If only I could see my son, hold him, just press him against my body once. But I know it can’t be. Just as I’ve always known you could never be mine. But you have our son. I will abide by your wishes. I will not seek to see you again. If ever you need me, I am here for you. I will pray that your husband will cease his cruelty, that he won’t hurt you . . .

The handwriting was blurred here and she couldn’t make it out. But it didn’t matter. She’d read quite enough.

Sinjun dropped the letter into her lap. She felt the wet of her tears slowly drop on the back of her hands.

The warmth seemed to swirl around her. She knew of course what she had to do.

Sinjun left Aunt Arleth’s bedchamber ten minutes later. The room was warm from the fire that had burned briefly.

She went into the drawing room and walked directly to the fireplace. She stood there, looking up at Pearlin’ Jane’s portrait. It was between the earl’s and his wife’s, just as Pearlin’ Jane demanded that it should be.