Once a Laird

Book 6: Rogues Redeemed

by Mary Jo Putney

Genres: Regency Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

"He yearns to escape his past...
After the death of his fiancée, Kai Ramsay left Scotland to roam distant lands. He has searched ancient ruins, collected priceless antiquities, and escaped certain death after being imprisoned as a spy during the Napoleonic War. Ramsay has lived on the edge of danger for years—but everything changes the day a letter arrives for him from Scotland...

She’s determined to protect her future...
Signy Matheson has dedicated her life to the people of Scotland’s remote Thorsay Islands. With a fiery spirit and agile mind, she is a faithful ally to the aging laird. But now their leader is near death, and Signy must summon his successor at once. It’s time for Kai Ramsay to come home...

Together, they discover ancient treasures and disturbing attraction...
When Ramsay returns to Thorsay, he’s shocked to find that Signy has blossomed into an alluring beauty, and a force to be reckoned with. Their complicated past interferes with their unspoken desire as they work together for their people. Until a wild storm sparks first passion, then unexpected danger when a treasure trove left by their ancestors comes to light..."

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

The letter was dirty and folded, not surprising considering how far it had come. Ramsay was reluctant to break the seal because he had a strong suspicion what it would say. He was right.

The letter was addressed to Kai Douglas Ramsay and said tersely:

Of course it would be Signy who was writing him. Only islanders he’d known as a boy would call him Kai. Signy had become his grandfather’s deputy as well as being the head schoolmistress in the islands. Ramsay smiled a little, remembering her as a knobby-kneed girl with a tongue that could flay a whale when she was in a critical mood. She was the younger sister of Gisela, his first and only love.

His smile faded. After laying the letter on his desk, he moved to the window and gazed out at the domes and minarets of Constantinople, which were visible above the walls that surrounded the British embassy compound. He’d spent five years here, the longest time he’d lingered anywhere in his wandering years.

His official position was Under Secretary for Special Projects, a vague enough title to cover his various nefarious activities. With all the layers of history in Constantinople, he could spend a lifetime here and barely scratch the wonders of this city and this land.

It was hard to imagine a place more different from the far northern islands of his homeland. But Ramsay had always known his time here was limited. He might have stayed in Thorsay if Gisela hadn’t died suddenly of a fever when he was finishing his studies at the University of Edinburgh. The pain was so numbing that he’d been unable to bear the thought of returning to the islands.

His grandfather, the wily old devil, had known how Ramsay would feel. After giving the news of Gisela’s death, the laird had said that Ramsay could feed his wanderlust until his grandfather died or was near death. Then he must come home to assume his responsibilities as Laird of Thorsay.

Ramsay had seized on the proffered bargain, both because he couldn’t imagine returning to Thorsay with Gisela gone and because he’d yearned to visit distant lands and study ancient ruins. He’d had a dozen years of that freedom and had managed not to get himself killed, though it had been a near-run thing more than once.

That led him to thoughts of a certain cellar in Portugal where he’d been held captive with four other men as they drank bad brandy and waited to be executed at dawn. But the five of them had worked together to escape and made a pact to meet up again after the war if they survived. Now Napoleon was gone for good, exiled to a bleak rock in the South Atlantic to rule over the seabirds, and perhaps that reunion would be possible.

How many of the men who had been in that cellar were still among the living? They’d all been leading risky lives. When Ramsay traveled through London on his way home, he could check for letters at Hatchard’s Bookshop, which had been their chosen venue to exchange information.

Ramsay forced his wandering mind back to practical matters. Though he’d wished this day would never come, he’d been mentally preparing. It was time to make the long journey through the Mediterranean, west around the Iberian Peninsula, then north through the English Channel and North Sea to Thorsay.

The three island groups north of Scotland were due west of Norway, closer to Oslo than London. Orkney was visible, barely, from the northernmost coast of mainland Scotland. Thorsay lay beyond, and far-flung Shetland was most northerly. All three archipelagos were inhabited by tough, stubborn islanders whose first language was Norn, a Scandinavian dialect. Over the centuries, Gaelic-speaking Celts had also settled on the islands, and even a few English. No wonder the Thorseach, the people of his islands, were good with languages.

Ramsay turned to his painting of the Egyptian pyramids set against a blazing sunset sky. The picture was hinged on one side, and he swung it away from the wall to reveal the mirror mounted on the back.

He concealed the mirror to avoid being accused of vanity. Its real purpose was so he could check his appearance when he was dressing up in local clothing in order to travel through the teeming city without being recognized as a foreigner.

He studied his face. Years spent in the sun had tanned and weathered his complexion so he looked much like a native of this part of the world. He had also dyed his hair dark brown so he wouldn’t stand out as a Northern European. He’d stop the dyeing, so by the time he reached the British Isles, his natural light brown hair would have grown in.

He turned to gaze around his office and over the scattered mementoes of his travels. They’d have to be carefully packed for the journey home.

He lifted a richly decorated silver mirror from Italy. Gisela would have loved it. If she’d lived, the shape of his life would be completely different, yet he could barely remember her face. She’d been sweet and funny and very, very pretty. He would have returned from Edinburgh and married her, and they’d likely have had children by now.

Ramsay would never have seen the sun set behind the pyramids, but he wouldn’t have known the loneliness of his solitary years. Would his life have been better or worse if she had lived? Impossible to say. Certainly it would have been significantly different.

Face set, he left his office and headed down a floor to see the ambassador. There was no reason to delay handing in his resignation. Once he did that, his life here would be officially over.

He thought he’d have to make an appointment, but the secretary said, “Sir Robert is available, so you can go right in.”

No reprieve here. Ramsay knocked on the door, then entered. Sir Robert Liston glanced up from his desk. A Scot, he’d studied languages at the University of Edinburgh as Ramsay had done several decades later. Ramsay had used their common history to persuade the ambassador to create this unusual position for him as part of the British delegation.

Sir Robert started to rise, then settled back into his chair with a frown. “The evil day has arrived?”

Sir Robert was a perceptive fellow. Ramsay replied, “I’ve just received a message summoning me back to Thorsay.”

The ambassador’s frown deepened. “Have you considered refusing the summons? Surely there are others who would leap at the chance to become the next laird, but there is no one else who can do the work you do here. Your skills are unique.”

“My deviousness and affinity for disreputable rogues, you mean,” Ramsay said dryly.

Sir Robert smiled. “Exactly. Most of the young gentlemen who join Britain’s diplomatic corps are entirely too conventional. Good for many things, but not for what you do so well.”

For a moment Ramsay allowed himself to consider the older man’s suggestion. If he refused the call, another laird would be found and he’d be free to continue learning and exploring and quite possibly dying in some violent way.

No. He’d promised to return and take up his responsibilities not once but twice. The first vow had been made to his grandfather, the second seven years ago in that damp cellar in Portugal. He and his fellow captives had spent a long night drinking and discussing what they would do with their lives if by some miracle they survived.

All had spoken of becoming better men and redeeming past sins. Ramsay had privately renewed his vow to answer the call to Thorsay when the time came. Though he’d make no more wondrous discoveries, he’d gathered enough notes to spend the rest of his life writing scholarly articles about what he’d observed in his wandering years.

The thought was not exciting, but at least his conscience would be clear. “This is one call I can’t refuse, Sir Robert.”

The ambassador nodded regretfully. “The trouble with honorable men is that they’re honorable. When will you be leaving?”

“As soon as possible. The letter I received was written when my grandfather was still alive. Perhaps he still is.” Ramsay would like to say good-bye if possible. He and the old laird had fought like two cats in a sack, but there had been real affection under the fireworks.

“You islanders are a tough lot. I hope he’ll be there to swear at you one last time.” Sir Robert unlocked a lower desk drawer and produced a bottle of good Scots whisky and two glass tumblers. “A toast to the old laird, and thanks to you for all the nefarious and useful things you’ve done for Britain.”

He poured a couple of fingers of whisky in the glasses, handed one to Ramsay, and lifted his in a toast. “To auld lang syne.”

“To auld lang syne,” Ramsay repeated before downing the whisky in one long burning swallow. “Next Hogmanay I’ll be in Scotland.”

“I envy you.” The ambassador leaned forward and poured more whisky into Ramsay’s glass. “Lift a glass for me, lad.”

“I will,” Ramsay promised. But by God, he’d miss this part of the world!

Ramsay’s voyage home benefited from fair winds and was swifter than expected. The light became bluer and the winds more chill as he traveled north. By the time he reached London, Constantinople was only a distant sunburned memory.

He spent several days in London attending to business and staying at Thorsay House, which was owned by the laird of Thorsay. The Browns, the couple who maintained the house, hadn’t heard that the old laird was dead, so perhaps Ramsay’s grandfather was still holding on.

Thorsay House served as a way station for traveling Thorsayians. Ramsay found that he’d just missed a favorite cousin, Kendra Douglas, who had taken refuge in the house after a disastrous scandal. As a girl, she’d been a lively little thing. He’d taught her and Signy Matheson and several other younger children the basics of fencing.

He stopped at Hatchard’s and found a trove of letters from the Rogues Redeemed of the Portuguese cellar. Impressively, they all had survived the wars, and while he was in London, he managed to dine with one of the men, named Hawkins, and his intrepid wife, Lady Rory. Then he set sail again, first to Edinburgh and finally, on a small coastal trading vessel, the last stretch to Thorsay.

Ramsay spent much of this last leg of his long journey in the bow of the boat, feeling an unnerving sense of homecoming. The silvery seas and austere scattered islands seemed to be bred into his bones despite his reluctance to return.

When the vessel finally moored at the pier below Skellig House, Ramsay left the deckhands to unload his luggage. Personal possessions were few, but there were a fair number of the best ancient artifacts he’d found.

Impatiently he climbed the hill to the Ramsay family home. Skellig House was a low, sprawling stone structure designed to stand against the fiercest winds off the North Sea. In the distance beyond, he could just see one of the circle of towering stone monoliths erected by the ancient inhabitants of these islands.

Nothing seemed to have changed in the dozen years since he’d left. His pace quickened as he wondered whether his grandfather still lived.

As he approached the entrance to the house, the door swung open and someone stepped out, his gaze turned toward Ramsay. No, not a man but a tall woman—that was clear from the way the wind shaped her gray gown around an undeniably female figure. The same wind rippled her blazing red-gold hair like a banner of war.

She brushed her wind-whipped hair from her face and said in a voice colder than an Arctic gale, “What took you so long, Kai?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. In the years he’d been gone, bony little Signy Matheson had become a damned Nordic goddess!

As the sweetheart of her older sister, he’d seen a great deal of Signy. She’d been a delightful little girl, full of energy and curiosity and with a quick, clever tongue. He guessed that her grimness now was because of the laird’s impending death. The old man had taken her into Skellig House after Gisela died and had been like a father to her. She’d been mentioned often in his grandfather’s letters. Now Signy was about to lose him as she’d lost the rest of her family.

Speaking English, Ramsay said, “Well met, Signy Matheson. Is the laird still among the living?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s still alive, though barely. Fortunate that you made good time. He’s been hoping his unreliable grandson would return for a last scolding.”

Signy replied in Norn, the traditional dialect of Thorsay, and from the malicious glint in her eyes, she wanted to see if he could still speak it. Years had passed since he’d heard the ancient tongue. It took a moment of mental adjustment for her words to make sense, but he’d always had a gift for languages. Ramsay relaxed a little. “I’m glad to hear he’s still with us,” he replied in Norn. “Can I see him?”

“I think he’s awake now, but he’s very weak. He’ll not last much longer.”

“Then I mustn’t waste any time.” Ramsay turned to the stairs that led up to his grandfather’s rooms, but Signy stopped him with a gesture. “We made up a bed in the library for him.”

In other words, his grandfather was unable to climb the stairs and it was easier to tend him on the ground floor of the house. “That was always his favorite room, I think.”

“Where should I have your things put?” she asked in a flat tone.

Ramsay realized she was asking if he wanted to take over the laird’s rooms upstairs. No. Not while his grandfather still lived. Maybe never. “If my old room is available, that will be fine. If not, any room will do.”

“Your old room, then. It’s been empty since the last time you left for university.”

Expression grim, Ramsay gave a short nod and headed through the house. The library was spacious and in a corner of the house, so there were windows on two sides. Bookcases rose to the ceiling; the size and quality of the library had always been a point of pride for the lairds of Thorsay.

But the long oak worktable was gone, replaced by a bed and a new bedside table that held medicines, books, a lamp, and a huge gray cat with one eye and ragged ears. As the cat glared at him, Ramsay tried to conceal his flinching from the sickroom smells of medicine and a deteriorating body. Duncan Ramsay had been a tall, powerfully built man, and the bony, painfully thin shape under the covers on the massive bed was shocking. For a horrific moment Ramsay feared the old laird was already dead.

Then his grandfather turned his head, the pale blue eyes flickering open. “So you made it home, Kai,” he said in a labored whisper. “You look like something a dolphin coughed up.”

“It’s a long journey from Constantinople, and the last sail up from Dundee was one squall after another.” Smiling a little, Ramsay pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat where he could see his grandfather’s face. “I’m glad you’re still here. It would be a pity to come so far and not be greeted by any insults.”

The laird laughed, then began to cough as if his lungs were failing. Ramsay froze, wondering if he should call for help, but the coughing stopped and his grandfather said in a rasping voice, “Pour me some of that whisky.”

“Is that allowed?” Ramsay asked as he stood and moved to the table to obey.

“Why the hell would I stop? Fear that it will kill me?”

“Hard to argue with that.” Ramsay moved to the table to get the whisky, and the gray cat swatted him with an annoyed paw. He pulled his hand back, smiling. His grandfather had always liked cats. “Who’s your one-eyed friend?”

“Odin, of course. The one-eyed chief god of the Norsemen.” The laird stretched out a thin hand and scratched the cat’s neck, receiving a thunderous purr in return. “This Odin isn’t a god, but he does rule all the cats in the area.”

Ramsay used the distraction to collect the whisky bottle and a pair of tumblers. “Does he get whisky as well?”

“Only if it’s splashed into cream.”

“I’m glad to learn that Skellig House is maintaining its reputation for splendid eccentricity.” Ramsay poured two fingers of whisky into one tumbler and the same for himself in the other.

His grandfather received the drink with a shaking hand but didn’t spill any as he drank half the whisky in one long swallow. “Didn’t think you’d come back. Thought you’d choose Constantinople and your damned old stones.”

Ramsay felt a tangle of emotions: annoyance, amusement, and relief that the old devil was still himself despite his failing body. “When have you known me to break my word?”

“Never, but you must have been tempted.”

“Very briefly.” Ramsay sipped his drink cautiously; some forms of the local spirits could etch iron. But this was Callan’s, the islands’ best—a smooth, well-aged whisky with the taste of Thorsay smoke and peat. The taste of home. He took a larger sip. “But I knew Grandmother would haunt me if I didn’t return.”

“Aye, she would,” Duncan said with a snort of laughter. “Caitlin is waiting for me on the other side, tapping her foot with impatience because I haven’t joined her yet.”

Ramsay smiled wistfully at the image. After the deaths of his parents, he’d been raised by his grandparents. His grandmother Caitlin had been a true Thorsayian woman—strong, beautiful, and fiercely independent. “I’m sure you’re right, and that you’re equally anxious to see her.”

His grandfather made a gruff sound that was neither assent nor disagreement. Thinking it was time for a change of subject, Ramsay said, “I brought you a present.” He pulled an ancient coin from an inside coat pocket. Gold glinted in the thin sunshine as he put it into his grandfather’s gnarled hand.

Duncan squinted at the coin. “Is it Greek or Roman?”

“No, it’s much older than that. It comes from an ancient civilization we don’t know much about. A people that originated in the Eastern Mediterranean and were called the Canaanites or Phoenicians.”

“Like in the Bible?”

“Yes, though no one is sure exactly what the name covered. It seems to be a general term for different peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean. The Greeks called them Phoenicians. They were great seafarers. Their trade routes covered the whole of the Mediterranean and somewhat beyond. If you look closely at the coin, you’ll see that one side depicts a ship with armed warriors and some kind of sea beast.”

“Huh,” Duncan said, interested. “Like our Viking ancestors.”

“Exactly. And like the Vikings, they established towns and settlements that became trading ports.”

“A thalassocracy then.” Seeing Ramsay’s expression, his grandfather gave a hoarse laugh. “Didn’t expect me to remember my Greek, did you? Thalassocrats. People who settled along the shores but weren’t interested in conquering inland.” He turned the coin over and squinted at the embossed head on the other side. “Who’s the curly-haired fellow?”

“I have no idea,” Ramsay said cheerfully. “A king, presumably, but it will take a lot more study before we know things like that. There are so many ancient civilizations we know almost nothing about. I’ve spent much time in my traveling years looking for traces of these Phoenicians. That almost got me killed in Portugal. I don’t suppose I told you the whole story.”

His grandfather’s ferocious brows drew together in a frown equal to his best. “It was some years back. You wrote that you’d visited Porto to look at some nearby ruins but the French decided to invade and you left in a hurry.”

“That was true as far as it went, but it was a much more exciting visit than that.” Ramsay thought dryly that exciting meant damned near lethal. “Porto is on the north bank of the estuary of the Douro River, with the smaller city of Gaia on the south bank. The bridges over the river were destroyed to stop the French advance, but the residents of Porto were desperate to escape, so a temporary bridge was cobbled up out of small boats lashed together.”

“I read about that,” Duncan said, his voice thready but his interest obvious. “The bridge of boats broke apart. Many of those trying to cross drowned, including a number of women and children.”

Ramsay nodded grimly. “They’ll never know the true death toll, but it was chaos as people on the shores tried to rescue as many victims as possible. I was part of a group pulling out nuns and their little girl students. We were successful, but by chance, several of the other men were also British. A French colonel captured everyone suspicious and threw us into a cellar so we could be shot in the morning as British spies. There were four Britons and one Royalist Frenchman unlucky enough to be caught in the net.”

The bushy brows rose. “Obviously you didn’t die.”

“One of the group figured out an escape route. Working together, we managed to get out before dawn,” Ramsay explained. “It was a memorable night. Having shared bad brandy and danger, the five of us have kept in touch in a haphazard sort of way. We all seem to have survived the wars, amazingly.”

“For which I’m grateful,” Duncan said in a rasping voice. “The living people here need you more than the dead stones do. There is much work to be done in Thorsay.”

“Is it me that’s needed? The fact that I’m your grandson doesn’t necessarily make me the best choice to be the next laird,” Ramsay said bluntly. “I grew up here, but I’ve been away for almost half my life.”

“Thorsay needs new ideas and new energy. You’re a natural leader and are Thorsay’s best hope for the future.” Duncan’s voice was barely audible. “The day-to-day business you can learn from Signy. She’s been a godsend these last years.”

“You should name her the laird,” Ramsay said half seriously.

The faintest of smiles showed on Duncan’s face. “I considered it. But she’s not close blood kin. She was born in Norway. And she’s a woman.”

“All true, but she’d still make a better laird than I will.”

“Probably.” Dun. . .