03 - Dreams of Destiny

  Dreams of Destiny

  (Book 3 of Dream Trilogy)

  BY

  MAY MCGOLDRICK

  ISBN: 0451212150

  Copyright © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

  First Published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

  a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  May McGoldrick novels are:

  "Richly Romantic." --Nora Roberts

  "Enchanting." --The Philadelphia Inquirer

  "Wonderful." --Jill Marie Landis

  "Passionate." --Susan Wiggs

  Complete Book List as of 2011

  Writg as May McGoldrick:

  DREAMS OF DESTINY

  CAPTURED DREAMS

  BORROWED DREAMS

  THE REBEL

  TESS AND THE HIGHLANDER

  THE PROMISE

  THE FIREBRAND

  THE ENCHANTRESS

  THE DREAMER

  FLAME

  THE INTENDED

  BEAUTY OF THE MIST

  HEART OF GOLD

  ANGEL OF SKYE

  THISTLE AND THE ROSE

  Writing as Nicole Cody & May McGoldrick

  LOVE AND MAYHEM (Arsenic and Old Armor)

  Writing as Jan Coffey:

  THE BLIND EYE

  THE PUPPET MASTER

  THE DEADLIEST STRAIN

  THE PROJECT

  SILENT WATERS

  FIVE IN A ROW

  TROPICAL KISS

  FOURTH VICTIM

  TRIPLE THREAT

  TWICE BURNED

  TRUST ME ONCE

  CHAPTER 1

  Baronsford, Scotland

  August 1771

  The cold breezes of the spring morning brushed across his naked shoulder where the blanket had slipped down. Still more asleep than awake, he snuggled closer to the warm back that had fit itself to the contours of his abdomen.

  He was not entirely conscious of the leg that was lying between his own, nor of his own arms that had encircled her body. Her head lay on his arm, and her back was pressed against his chest. The shirt that she wore had ridden up, and the skin of her legs lay warmly against his own.

  The Highlander’s hand was lying on her breast, and when he moved, she responded to his tightening embrace by pushing her body even tighter against his.

  As she did, his hand brushed lightly across the sensitive--

  “Gwyneth Douglas!”

  At the sound of the deep voice, Gwyneth started, the tip of her Keswick pencil breaking and skidding across the paper. In her rush to shut the notebook, two letters inside slipped out and fluttered a moment in the air before sailing toward the ledge. She jumped to her feet from the stone bench beside the cliff walk and shoved her writings under one arm, grabbing in panic for the letters before they glided off the bluff and out over the river Tweed below. The first one proved an easy mark, and she quickly stuffed it deep in the pocket of her skirt. She whirled around and dove for the second, but as she did, Gwyneth was mortified to see the black boot descend upon it. She looked up at the officer’s uniform, and her heart leapt.

  “David!” she cried and then tried to control her excitement. “I mean, Captain Pennington…so you are back in Scotland.”

  “Could I miss my mother’s bloody birthday celebration? But why this formality between two old friends?”

  Gwyneth gasped as the tall officer swept her into his embrace and lifted her off the ground, whirling her around. She closed her eyes, her arms wrapping uncontrollably around his neck. For those few seconds, she imagined the gesture was more than just the friendly affection toward a neighbor that he had not seen in over a year. Her head was spinning slightly when he finally put her back down.

  “I cannot believe it. You have grown so since I saw you last.”

  Gwyneth realized she was still holding onto him, her body pressed against his tall and powerful frame. He must have realized the same thing, and her face caught fire when David took her hands from around his neck. He held them, though, as he stepped back to look at her at arm’s length.

  “Definitely taller. And your hair is more fiery red than I remember. But I’m happy to say those freckles on the bridge of your nose have not disappeared.”

  Gwyneth freed her hands and took a step back, frowning up into the deep blue eyes that were so dear to her. She had fallen in love with David Pennington the summer she had turned nine years old, the same summer that she had been left an orphan. She’d been sent to the Borders to live with the family of her uncle, Lord Cavers, in his country house at Greenbrae Hall. David was the youngest son of the nearest neighbors to the east, at Baronsford. Gwyneth grown up trailing after her cousin Emma and David, riding and running through the hills and forests between the two estates.

  “I would suggest you keep all your comments to yourself, Captain, if you cannot think of anything nice to say.”

  “You are even thinner than I remember, too,” he continued in the same tone. “Do they feed you nothing at Greenbrae Hall?”

  “I am well fed, I assure you.” She spotted her notebook lying open at her feet and quickly snatched it up. David picked up the letter he still had trapped beneath his boot. Gwyneth could see it had been ground into the dirt. She extended her hand toward him. “That is mine, I believe.”

  He gave it a cursory glance. “This had better not be a love letter from some secret admirer.”

  “’Tis no such thing!” She snatched it out of his hand and shoved it into her pocket with the other letter. With her secret safely tucked away again, she felt a bit of confidence return. “But on the slim chance that ‘twas a note from some gentleman, I cannot see why you should object, Captain Pennington.”

  “I believe I have every right to object to a child receiving that kind of attention from some rogue.”

  “Child, did you say?” she cried, trying to sound indignant, but fighting back her smile. “I’ll have you know I am seventeen…on the verge of turning eighteen. And just because you no longer come around to Baronsford or Greenbrae Hall, that doesn’t mean that life has ceased to move ahead. People do age, Captain…and mature…and make their own lives.”

  The sun was sinking steadily in the western sky, and Baronsford—its majestic walls and towers a picture of gleaming gold and shadow—sat high on the hill behind him. David looked like a hero from one of her stories. He stood tall and straight. His jacket of crimson was brilliant in the setting sun, the color set off by the gold trim, the white breeches and the black boots. He had a face more handsome than any she could ever invent or describe. His hair was so dark it was nearly black, tied back in a long queue with a black ribbon. He studied her closely, and Gwyneth felt her blush return, scorching her skin.

  “I can see that a few things have indeed changed.” He sat down on the stone bench overlooking the river and pulled her down beside him. “So tell me, my fiery-headed nymph. Who is the scoundrel?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “There is no one.”

  “You cannot fool me.” He tugged not so gently on a wayward curl, making her yelp.

  “David…” she scolded.

  “There are over a hundred guests milling about Baronsford. At least a dozen lasses your age are gliding arm in arm through the gardens, acting as if they’re promenading along the Grand Walk at
Vauxhall. Still, you leave that excitement and come all the way down here to the river. And why? To read some villain’s letter.”

  All Gwyneth could do was to shake her head. Their shoulders bumped together, and he leaned over to look at her. Gwyneth’s breath caught in her chest as his blue eyes stared into hers.

  “Not just reading…you were answering him, were you not?” he whispered.

  A delicious tingle ran down her spine. Gwyneth wrapped her arms around the notebook, hugging it tightly against her chest. “I was only writing in my journal.”

  “Oh, of course. That fascinating chronicle of pirates and Highlanders and bloody battles you used to read to me.” He looped an arm around Gwyneth’s shoulders and smiled into her face. “I’m glad to know you are still writing your tales. I always thought you had a gift for storytelling.”

  Hidden in her pocket, the two letters that had nearly fallen down the cliff reaffirmed whatever gift she had, Gwyneth thought. At least, in the opinion of Mr. Thomas Ruddiman of High Street, Edinburgh. One of the letters had been accompanied by twelve pounds. The second, received two months later, had contained fifteen pounds. A momentary lapse made her almost blurt out her news that Mr. Ruddiman planned to print and distribute her long tales in serial form. Gwyneth contained herself, however. She didn’t think it would be wise to share any of that with David now—considering the fact that these tales were scandalous enough that the publisher intended to print them anonymously.

  “Would you read me what you were writing?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head, looking away. In spite of the excitement of seeing him, that would be too embarrassing. She had been writing a tender scene between two people in love. The woman’s emotions were a mirror of how Gwyneth felt herself about the hero, who in her imagination was none other than the officer standing before her.

  He took hold of her chin and drew her face back to his. “What have you done with my talkative and spirited Gwyneth? The young lass who could not wait to tell me everything she’d dreamed, or read, or written in her notebooks? What is the reason for this sudden shyness?”

  Instead of searching for an excuse, she found herself studying every feature of David’s face. His eyes were a shade of blue that she’d never been able to describe in her stories. His lashes were dark and long, curling slightly at the tips. He had changed much this past year, too. There was a weariness about him, creases at the corners of the eyes and a furrow in his brow that Gwyneth had not seen when he had stopped at Greenbrae Hall for just a single afternoon thirteen months ago. David was no longer the tireless and carefree young man who rode between the two estates with Emma beside him.

  The thought made her shiver and tear her gaze away from his face. Her cousin was the one David had always loved. Emma was the reason he was here.

  Gwyneth knew the blade had cut deep when her cousin married David’s oldest brother two summers ago to become the Countess of Aytoun. That was when he’d begun to stay away from Baronsford for long stretches of time—just like a tragic hero in her stories.

  “Well, ‘tis all the same to me,” he said breaking into her thoughts. He ran a hand affectionately down her arm and gathered Gwyneth closer to his side. “We can just sit here and enjoy the—”

  “So this is where you have been hiding!”

  Gwyneth’s chin sank at the sound of Emma’s voice. David’s hand dropped away, and she carefully hid the notebook beneath her skirt on the bench. When he stood to greet the other woman, Gwyneth turned slightly to look at her.

  The world around them suddenly paled with the appearance of Emma. The sun spread only its most radiant light on her. The breeze seemed to s thhe grasses clean for Emma’s feet. Her golden curls, stylishly arranged, shone in the afternoon sun. Her white and gold brocade dress fit her slim body to perfection, and the low neckline was perfect for drawing a man’s attention. Her skin was flawless. Her lips were red and turned up in corners. She looked as regal as a young queen, more beautiful than the moon and stars…and she knew it.

  And now, Emma’s blue eyes were on David.

  And his face…

  Gwyneth’s heart ached as she noted the pain in his expression. He watched her every step. His gaze paid homage to her, from the tips of her silk slippers up to the feathers adorning her hair. She watched, though, as one large hand fisted once and opened. He did not walk toward her, but stood waiting for her. Always waiting.

  One did not have to be an expert in knowing people to recognize that he still loved her, and how tormented he was by her. Gwyneth turned her gaze back to the cliffs and the river below, unable to bear witness to his pain.

  “I am very disappointed with you, David Pennington. I had to hear that you’d arrived from Mrs. MacAlister…the old dragon. Why did you not come looking for me?”

  Gwyneth guessed her cousin was only a dozen paces from the bench. She grabbed her notebook and rose to her feet, intending to walk quietly away, giving them the privacy they sought. David’s hand on her arm made her look up, surprised. He wanted her to stay.

  “I thought I would come see this one first. I cannot believe she’s had another birthday while I was gone.”

  Gwyneth had no option but to remain where she was, and Emma’s gaze never wavered from David. She swept up against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Her fingers lingered on the front of his jacket before reluctantly falling to her sides. Gwyneth noticed that he did not return the kiss, but instead quickly backed away a step. The obvious reserve in him brought a tint of red to Emma’s cheeks. Her eyes turned hard when they turned toward Gwyneth.

  “Oh, indeed. Our little heiress. Always buried in her books and never having time to pay attention to how she looks or to the displays she makes of herself. And never a thought about the fortune she has coming to her. Mother keeps telling her that in another year, every wolf from London to Edinburgh will be knocking at the gate at Greenbrae Hall, hoping to steal her away.” As was her habit, Emma then shifted her attention to another topic without taking a breath. “But didn’t Augusta tell you that there would be many distinguished guests here at Baronsford for my party? I hope you are not planning to dine in that dress.”

  “I am not staying for dinner,” Gwyneth replied quietly. “Nor staying for the party.”

  “Oh, nonsense. Your endless scribbling can wait,” Emma scolded. With a pretty shake of her head, she cast aside her annoyance. “I have gone to a great deal of difficulty making the arrangements for this party, and I shall not allow you to miss a moment of it. You might surprise yourself and actually have fun.”

  Emma looped an arm through Gwyneth’s, and the other through David’s, turning them back up toward the house.

  “Come, you two. I cannot allow you to hide yourselves away down here. I shall have Truscott arrange to have Augusta’s carriage take Gwyneth over to Greenbrae Hall and wait until you change into something appropriate. Wear that greown I helped you pick in London last month, the one with the satin sash. The color matches your eyes. Also, bring back the yellow dress for tomorrow.”

  “I really do not think—”

  “Do not argue,” Emma ordered as they continued on across the fields toward Baronsford. “But if you must have a reason to come, then think of it as doing me a favor. I know that if you are not here, Augusta is going to fret over you in addition to her usual threats to leave every time she loses a hand at whist.”

  At the age of fifteen, Gwyneth had lost another person she cared for, her Uncle Charles. Since the death of Lord Cavers, she had been under the direct control of his wife, Augusta. At the time, Emma had just married Lyon Pennington, and Lady Cavers had been quite amenable that Gwyneth should remain as her companion until she married and came into her inheritance.

  Having Emma marry well—which meant finding a husband with a fine income and a title besides—had been a priority in Augusta’s life. She saw it as a reflection on herself, and she made it known to them both on many occasions. Gwyneth always sensed, though, that there were storm
clouds ahead, for in her own mind she believed that Emma was destined for David, and Augusta would never allow her daughter to marry any third son, no matter what his income might be.

  When Emma had married Lyon instead, and had become Lady Aytoun, Augusta had fairly crowed at her success, and Gwyneth had won a couple of years reprieve. This year, however, the subject of marriage was becoming a continuous source of contention between her and her aunt. Augusta wanted to place her on a marital auction block and take offers from potential suitors before the young woman had even experienced her first Season in London. Gwyneth rebelled at the mere idea of it.

  She was happy with her life as it was. She was not fond of the burdens polite society imposed on someone of her age and gender. She enjoyed the solitude of the country. She needed no entertainment and was happiest when she was left on her own to spend endless hours on her writing. Without anyone knowing, she was even beginning to draw a modest income from it. She had no need for a husband in her life. Like the heroines in the stories she was writing, there was only one man in Gwyneth’s life—one love. She peeked at David, who was not looking entirely happy, but was staring straight ahead.

  Emma released her arm, but Gwyneth noticed how her cousin’s arm remained linked with David’s. The three of them continued to walk up the long hill toward the house. Emma was telling some story about arriving at their townhouse on Hanover Square in London last month, only to be told that her husband had left that same morning, even though he had been informed that she would be arriving. She was complaining of Lyon.