The Journey Home
They met in the wilds of Scotland, as a winter storm approached. Complete strangers, they were uncannily drawn to one another.India Moncrieff, grief stricken over her mother's sudden death, a woman desperate to hold on to Dunbar House, the majestic family estate. And Jack Buchanan, the American tycoon enchanted by the land, who sees the house as a business opportunity.Business and passion soon unite them. But shocking revelations will alienate the two lovers in their desperate battle over a legacy neither will surrender. Family secrets and a murder spanning 200 years have left too many souls lost and alone. Now it's up to the heart to illuminate the way home.
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India moved to the window and looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn and at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.
William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280, and had made the pledge that had been handed down from generation to generation: While this oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk the land. India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken.
As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk her mother had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.
My dearest India,
I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—
The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death.
“MIRA means star. This is a writer definitely shining.”
—New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham
To
my darling boys,
Sergio and Diego,
and
in loving memory of Mummy,
my Lady Elspeth.
For all she was, and always will be to us all.
The Tears of Scotland
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.
Thy sons, for valor long renowned,
Lie slaughtered on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees, afar,
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famished on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it, then, in every clime,
Through the wide spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crowned with praise,
Still shone with undiminished blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancor fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o’er the silent plain.
O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn.
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children’s blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor’s soul was not appeased:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murdering steel.
The pious mother doomed to death,
Forsaken, wanders o’er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretched beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o’er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpaired remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country’s fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow,
“Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.”
—Tobias Smollett, 1746
This poem was written by the poet and satirist Tobias Smollett shortly after the Battle of Culloden, and expresses Scottish rage at the treatment of the vanquished Jacobites.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all those wonderful friends who have been there all along the way. Emilio Lopez, for lending me my first laptop, David d’Albis, for his patience and long suffering teaching me about computers, and Simon di Rollo, for his Scottish legal expertise. Special thanks to Heather Graham Pozzessere, Sally Fairchild and Joan Johnston, whose encouragement and faith in me have been so precious. Thanks also to the lovely ladies at MIRA: Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Martha Keenan. Last but not least, my deepest thanks to Jean Marie Grimsley, for her tireless assistance, and Sondra Schneider for helping me see more clearly.
Contents
Prologue
The Lowlands, Scotland
1746
Rob Dunbar held his young bride, Mhairie, close. They huddled by the smoking peat fire, hungry and exhausted after their harrowing journey from the Highlands. The small band consisting of Rob, his gillie, Hamish, and Mhairie and her mother had made their way south, disguised as drovers driving their cattle to market in Falkirk. They had avoided the Redcoats, and the only stops taken were in smoky bothies of other loyal Jacobite supporters, or outside, in the clachans, where Rob had tenderly laid his plaid on the heather and bracken for them to lie upon.
