Page 115 of Stealing Sophie
“Here at Duncrieff? Have you seen this ghost?”
“I have not, though my grandmother did, and told my sister and I about it when I was a child. But then you do not believe in ghosts, fairies, magic, and suchlike.”
“I am learning they may have their worth. Go on. And the other stone?”
“We do not know where that is either. Some say that it is still in the keeping of the fairy who left the cup with her family. She took it with her to always have that tie with them—and with generations of their descendants. Who can say about that?” She shrugged. “It is a beautiful thought, though, keeping that bond alive always.”
He nodded. “What of the book you mentioned?”
“The Book of Duncrieff. A very old manuscript. Tales are added in every generation. The original part of the book is so old that we dare not open it for fear it will crumble, and so it is wrapped and locked away. I am not even sure if we know where it is, these days—years have passed, and my siblings and I were young, and our father is gone, who would have told us about it.”
“But the stories have survived.”
“Aye, many stories. My grandmother told me some of them when I was a girl.”
She smiled, turned into his arms, looked up.
“And our story?” He smiled, brushed his hand over her hair.
“I will write it,” she said, “when I have time. I expect to be very busy for a while.”
“Aye, with your gardens at Glendoon and here at Duncrieff.”
“And Kinnoull House,” she said.
He frowned. “Kinnoull? I wish it was so. But even with Sir Henry dead and gone, my dear, I have been unable to gain back Kinnoull House. There is a solicitor—but he claims to have nothing more than papers Sir Henry wrote up himself.”
She slipped a packet out of her pocket. He saw folded papers tied with a red ribbon. “Connor, I found this a few weeks ago in your mother’s chest of things but forgot about it. Honestly, I did not realize what it was at first. But I found it again just this morning when we were up at Glendoon. And I knew it was intended for you.”
Frowning, puzzled, he took the packet and opened it. “A letter?” He scanned it and then read it more closely. “By God! This is the deed to Kinnoull. It was in the trunk, you say?” He stepped away, astonished, holding the document to the light from the window, the writing precise and ordered, the royal seal at the bottom of the page.
“I found it in a wooden box, wrapped in a plaid inside your mother’s trunk.”
“This must be the deed that my father kept. It has his signature.”
“And there is a letter too, on another page. Your father must have written it.”
He looked at the handwriting, so familiar, though years had passed since he had seen it last. His heart pounded, his eyes blurred with tears.
“`I relinquish my title as Lord Kinnoull and my ownership of Kinnoull House and its environs,’” he read, “‘to my son, Connor David MacPherson’–dear God, Sophie,” Connor breathed. “He must have written this before his arrest.” He looked at her. “He writes here that all of it was to go to me, every part and parcel.”
“Kinnoull House, aye.”
“More than that,” he said, looking through the pages, his mind whirling. “He signed the deed over to me before he was arrested or charged. That means the lands could not be forfeited of him directly. It was never legal, Campbell’s forfeiture. The property was mine by then. We just never knew. My father never had a chance to tell me.” He blew out a breath, feeling the profound weight of grief in his chest suddenly release, replaced by love, by relief, by a sense of belonging that he had not known for years.
“Then Kinnoull never belonged to Campbell, all that time.”
He nodded, feeling stunned. Simply, wholly stunned. He folded the pages, fingers trembling, and slipped the packet inside his plaid, under his vest and shirt, next to his heart. “I will take these to the solicitor to verify. But that is what this appears to be.”
“I am so glad, Connor. Even if other papers could establish your claim, I am glad we have these pages. It is as if your father left this as a gift for you.”
He pulled her to him, holding her in silence for a moment. He kissed her golden hair. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.”
She smiled at him through tears and kissed him, her mouth warm and delicious.
“Sophie, love,” he said. “I would never have known about this without your help. I can never thank you enough for that.” He wrapped her in his embrace, closed his eyes, feeling more blessed and grateful than he had ever known, that he could ever express.
“You do not have to thank me for everything, Connor MacPherson,” she said primly. “You are a polite thing for a great brawny brigand.”
