Free The Heart Queen by PATRICIA POTTER

it would ever be home. There were too many bad memories there.
    As he rode his horse into Braemoor’s stables, he noticed an unfamiliar horse there. He unsaddled his own mount before Jamie, one of the stablelads, came to rub him down. He paused a moment to watch the boy, thinking how much he had grown in the past year. Rory had asked him to look out for the boy, who had been abused by his father. One of Neil’s first acts as marquis had been to buy an indenture from the father, then banish the man from Braemoor.
    “There’s an unfamiliar horse here.”
    “Aye, my lord,” Jamie said. “A messenger came for you two days ago. He has been staying in the great hall.”
    “He did not leave the message?”
    “Nay. He said he was told to wait for an answer. He has been working here with me. He comes from Concarnie.”
    Concarnie was near Lochaene.
    Without more conversation, he strode quickly to the tower house. He was met there by Torquil, his butler and valet, though Neil seldom had need for the latter. He preferred taking care of his own person, including shaving. But Torquil had needed a position and had been unwilling to take charity.
    He was a thin man who looked gloomily over the world. He rarely smiled. And he always muttered as he went about his duties. Now he met Neil at the door, his nose wriggling with indignation. “There be a lad to see ye. He says he has a letter for ye, but he willna leave it with me.”
    He nodded. “Jamie told me.”
    Torquil snorted and any other time, Neil would have smiled. He knew how protective Torquil was of his position in the household. And of Neil himself. In truth, Torquil had a kind heart and siphoned off food to give to those who needed it. Then he roared about missing food. Everyone pretended they did not know of Torquil’s small kindnesses. It was a gentle game to let Torquil believe he
was truly feared and regarded as a crotchety guardian of his master’s interests.
    “It is all right,” Neil said. “Where is he?”
    Torquil glowered. “He’s been sleeping in the great hall. He came not long after ye left. I dinna know what to do with the ruffian,” Torquil said.
    “You did right,” Neil said. “Is he there now?”
    “Aye. He did work some in the stable this morning,” Torquil said grudgingly. “Said he wanted to earn his keep.”
    Neil kept a smile to himself. A gleam of approval glinted in Torquil’s eyes despite his disparaging “ruffian.”
    Neil merely nodded and went into the great hall. A lad was at the great table, eating a plate full of stew. At the sound of boots, he raised his head, then scurried to his feet. “Ye are the Marquis of Braemoor?”
    “Aye. You have a message for me?”
    The lad, no more than sixteen, reached inside a torn, worn wool shirt and took out a sealed letter. “From the vicar in Concarnie,” he said.
    He’d expressed the thought earlier that Concarnie was near Janet. Neil took the envelope, tore the seal opened and glanced to the bottom of the letter.
Janet Campbell
. Not “Countess of Lochaene.”
    “Go back to your meal,” he told the lad.
    He went out the door, past Torquil’s inquisitive face and up the stairs to his own chamber. He wanted to read the letter in private, even as he wondered why Janet had chosen this means to send it. Why not a messenger direct from Lochaene?
    He remembered her face, pale and thin. Her eyes, which he’d remembered as soft and full of wonder, had been cautious, wary. The softness was there only when she spoke of the children.
    He reached his room, poured himself a drink of brandy from the bottle he always kept there, then sat down at the table. He fingered the parchment for a moment before starting to read. He could almost feel her reluctance in the first sentence, and it sent streaks of pain through his heart.

    You said if I ever needed a friend . . .
    I do fear that I need help. I am asking for it not for myself hut for four innocent children. I will understand if you consider