Page 1 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Prologue
Scotland, 1738
Men were the problem—or rather, one Frenchman and the kiss he stole from her mother on the deck of a ship. Mary witnessed their kiss through dark hair buffeted by chilly wind. A dutiful daughter, patience was her virtue. Every time her mother returned, Mary would wrap herself in wool and wait for her on Leith’s shore. Their reunion was always the same—a loving embrace clouded in rosewater while her mother’s soft curls feathered her cheek.
Eyes shut, she’d hoard the tenderness.
“You look exactly the way I did when I was fifteen,” her mother would whisper in her ear.
“Except you are prettier,” she’d whisper back, wishing this would be enough.
It never was.
“Will you stay home awhile, Mama?” Her question would burst with hope and brightness. There’d be a gentle touch to her chin and enigmatic gray eyes, so like her own, chided her.
“My dear, sweet girl, let us not waste a splendid day on such things.”
Indeed, they never did. Mary quietly stuffed emotions into a neat box and took joy where she could. On that particular morning, they’d linked arms and strolled through Leith, discussing her mother’s latest journey, this time to Niderville pottery works, its factory leased by a Frenchwoman.
“So delightful, Madame Andre,” her mother had trilled. “As a woman of business, she rules her fate. Remember that, Mary.”
Beautiful and restless, her mother had already forgotten the gentleman on the ship.
But his kiss had not forgotten her.
A month later her mother’s fair cheeks were sallow and her black hair lank and greasy. Entombed in a richly appointed bed, she was fragile. No man attended her save an old physic, Dr. Ross, holding a handkerchief over his nose. Understandable. Urine and sweat perfumed the air. The examination done, he dropped the handkerchief into the bedside brazier. Mary watched delicate flames lick the pristine cloth.What a waste.Dr. Ross could’ve used the handkerchief on his next visit.
Her mother’s fevered stare followed him. “What... ails me?”
The physic rummaged through his medicine case, the bottlesclinkingsoftly.
“You have the French fever, madame.”
“But—how?”
“Have you visited France of late?”
“Yes, Lorraine,” she rasped. “But the fever—I thought it was... finished.”
Dr. Ross sighed heavily. “In Paris, yes. However,there are reports the sickness lingers in provincial towns.” He set an amber vial on the bedside table. “Take this for your discomfort.”
Candlelight glinted on a near-empty bottle.
“Won’t she need more than that?” Mary asked from her corner of the room.
Hooded eyes etched with age and gloom met hers.
“No.”
Dr. Ross locked his wooden case, the brassclicka confusing noise. So cold, so final. Like a certain end. Mary worried a seam on her stomacher, this stygian nightmare growing. She’d read about the sickness last year, the details vague. Mouth sores, terrible sweats. The malady took half the afflicted. For the other half, recovery was agonizing. Yet, Dr. Ross wasn’t issuing further advisements.
“Now may I climb on the bed and hug Mama?” was the childish whisper beside her.
Her sister, Margaret, not yet five years old, waited on the bench, her legs swinging idly.
“Later,” Mary said, stroking Margaret’s ink-dark hair. “First, we must tend her, you and I, and when Dr. Ross returns, he will proclaim you an angel for healing Mama.”
“I will not return,” he said.
