Page 33 of The Texan Duke
The discovery that his father had been Gavin’s twin had evidently shocked Connor. How odd that he’d never known. Would it be helpful to tell him how many times Gavin wished that their estrangement had ended? Especially toward the last, when he’d grown weaker and weaker. He’d talked about Marie, then, and how much he’d loved her.
“She had a voice like bells,” he said one day. “I used to sit and ask her to speak, simply because I loved the sound of her voice so much.” He’d smiled, then. “She laughed at me, but I didn’t mind. I can hear the sound of her laughter even now.”
He had brought her to tears more than once with his words.
She wanted to know about Graham’s life in America. Why had he decided to go to Texas? Had he been happy? Had he loved Connor’s mother or was she only a replacement for Marie?
None of those questions would be proper, however.
“I like that you’re not a chatterbox,” he suddenly said.
“You say the strangest things, Your Grace. Connor.”
“I’ve been told that I’m too direct. Do you think so?”
Rather than answer that question, she asked one of her own.
“Who said that to you?”
“One of my sisters,” he admitted.
“You have five, Mr. Glassey said.”
He nodded. “Alison, Barbara, Constance, Dorothy, and Eustace.”
“They have alphabetical names,” she said, smiling. “Why doesn’t your name begin with anF? Or with anAas the only boy?”
“My father put his foot down,” he said. “I understand Connor is a McCraight name.”
“It is. Two of the previous dukes were named Connor.”
By the time they reached the old wing, Elsbeth was wishing she hadn’t taken him to the portrait gallery. Connor McCraight had changed from a charming, fascinating man to a truculent one. He didn’t speak. He only nodded when she showed him the armament the McCraights had carried into battle hundreds of years ago. The colorful rendition of the clan badge, mounted over the massive fireplace, didn’t seem to interest him. Nor did the various artifacts lovingly and carefully restored over hundreds of years.
Gavin had been most proud of the display case he’d had made for the Bible belonging to the third Duchess of Lothian. A devout and religious woman, it was rumored that she was responsible for the clan motto: God guides our endeavors.
He didn’t say anything to that, either.
“Do you know anything about the McCraight clan?”
At that, he turned and faced her directly. She was an inch from apologizing for the presumptuous nature of her question and its curiosity. Who was she to want to know such things?
“No,” he said, his gaze direct and unflinching. “I thought I knew something about the clan history in Scotland, but I realize I don’t know anything about my own heritage. At least not that from Scotland. In Texas, you don’t have to ask a man about his past. If he wants to tell you, he will. If he doesn’t, you just simply forget about it.”
She tried to reconcile the image of Graham with his brother. Had the younger twin simply walked away from Scotland, erasing everything about his heritage? It sounded like it.
“The laird is responsible for the clan’s well-being. In turn, the clan is responsible for supporting the laird, granting him fealty and loyalty. One doesn’t exist without the other.”
“That really doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he said. “I’m an American. I was born there. Even more important, I’m a Texan. My father might have grown up here, but I didn’t.”
Nor would he feel any kind of kinship to the family who was waiting, almost breathlessly, for him to indicate by word or deed what their future might be.
It wasn’t, after all, her task to educate him. Yet she could almost hear Gavin whispering in her ear. She turned and walked to a bench located some distance away. She heard Connor’s boots on the stone floor behind her.
This particular section of Bealadair was a long rectangular structure constructed of stone two stories high. The rest of Bealadair had been added on to this original part of the house. Although it was cool and pleasant in the summer months it was difficult to keep warm in winter. The windows always seemed to have a draft no matter how many times the glaziers worked to seal them. Here, the air was chilled, the fireplace not normally lit. Few people ventured to the old wing in the depths of winter.
A house was only a structure unless the people within warmed it with emotion, laughter, and conversation—the daily business of living. No one warmed this place.
He came and sat beside her. For five minutes, perhaps more, they sat together silently. Finally, Connor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, looking out at the display cases and framed artifacts.
