Page 6 of The Highland Heist
She reread the name three separate times before looking back over her shoulder at the door where Perkins had disappeared.
She’d always known Perkins had incredible foresight, but to see into the future?
“What is it?” Frederick touched her arm.
She dragged her attention from the door, blinking with new fervor, and looked up at her husband. “It’s a letter.” She drew in a breath, trying to understand, and turned the page toward Frederick. “From my mother.”
Chapter 2
Grace had a tremendous imagination.
This was no news.
But to bring someone back from the dead seemed a little extreme, even for her.
So Frederick stared a full five seconds, trying to understand what she’d just declared.
Of course, the two of them had been through a great many unexpected things in the span of their short marriage, and he’d hoped a simple visit to see her family would prove a respite among their many adventures. But he should have known. Whether trouble followed him or her, it always seemed to find them.
Besides, Mr. Ferguson’s last letter in relation to the funds associated with the marriage contract to Grace, had induced an unexpected wariness. The man’s responses had remained vague regarding the third installment, inspiring a hint of concern. Paired with some of his own recollections surrounding Mr. Ferguson’s behavior upon first meeting him, the current situation made sense.
While painful for his dear bride and Frederick’s pocketbook, in hindsight, these memories provided clarity.
In all honesty and much more by heavenly hand than his own, however, Frederick’s greatest prize from the contract had been wholly unexpected.
Grace. In more ways than one.
So he’d dismissed the concern at Mr. Ferguson’s ambiguity.
But the moment Grace mentioned unexpected improvements to Rutledge’s grounds, his suspicion had spiked.
The temptation to fume for the injustice done to his wife stung through his chest, but now was not the time for fury. Grace didn’t need that reaction from him. Not with the upheaval this news caused her.
Yet the fact that Mr. Ferguson had lied about the full dowry, whether intentionally or by conveniently leaving out the information, lured Frederick back toward two age-old weaknesses.
Mistrust.
And fear of bringing shame upon his family name.
Fortunately, he had grown enough during the last seven months of marriage to recognize the ghosts before they haunted him for too long. Grace’s presence in his life, her love, had brought him to an awareness of better priorities and the power of faith, no matter the unexpected or difficult. And she’d proven her love, strength, and devotion to him and their marriage, taking on all the demands—and at times, life threatening moments—with a passion and assurance that baffled him.
And built up his own confidence.
And to be honest, increased his prayer life.
Despite the many adventures and misadventures they’d already experienced, he couldn’t recall a time when Grace looked helpless. She’d faced death on several occasions, from his own estate of Havensbrooke, to the desert of Egypt, and then an island off the coast of Venice. Though he’d seen fear, confusion, or frustration on her face, none of those moments had inspired such a look of lostness as he’d witnessed when she confronted the face of her father’s subterfuge.
And now a letter from Grace’s dead mother? Surely he’d heard incorrectly.
“Your—your mother is alive?”
She frowned. “What?”
“You said the letter was from your mother.” Frederick cleared his throat trying to sort out how to come to terms with a resurrected parent. “Recently?”
“Recently?” Grace’s brow creased as she looked from him back to the paper. “Oh, no, no …” She shook her head and raised that lovely gaze back to him, tears still resident in those eyes. “It was written the year she died.” Grace turned the page toward him, noting the date at the top. “She—she must have composed it when expecting my baby brother. How very strange.” She turned her attention back to him, searching his face. “Do you think she knew?”
It was his turn to frown. “Knew?”
