When Love Comes Along

291 Pages·2016·1.3 MB·English

by  Coffman Elaine

When Love Comes Along
Elaine Coffman

Blush Sensuality Level: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not
graphic).

Mackinnons, Book Six

Fletcher Ramsay is a man in search of his destiny. He travels to Scotland for
revenge and his stolen title—the Duke of Glengarry. He has prepared for this all
his life and nothing will stand between him and his goal.
Well, almost nothing. It seems it is also Fletcher’s destiny to meet Cathleen
Lindsay, a minister’s granddaughter, and as pure as first fallen snow. At first,
Cathleen resents Fletcher’s intrusion into the lives of herself and her grandfather,
for she knows they are opposites in every possible way. But time is on Fletcher’s
side, and she begins to see the gentle soul behind the impassioned man seeking
revenge. But loving Fletcher can be dangerous, and Fletcher must risk all to
protect Cathleen and everything he believes in.

A Blush® historical romance from Ellora’s Cave
W L C A
HEN OVE OMES LONG
Elaine Coffman

Prologue
Northern California, March 1878

The time was late. The house was still. The dream came to him again, for the
first time in ten years. Fletcher Ramsay slept fitfully, consumed by a drowsy
numbness, troubled by haunting dreams. A sudden gust of wind blew into the
room, wailing like a woman’s sorrow and sending a shower of imaginary leaves
skittering across the floor.
Out of the darkness and into his room a silent guest had come, lingering in
the hovering shades of night.
His eyes opened. Was he awake, or asleep? He couldn’t see a thing, and yet
he saw himself standing in an unknown place, upon a dark, unfamiliar summit,
looking down at a wild and churning sea. And all about him, the world lay
infinitely still.
It was night, nothing more than a shadow of darkness upon a treeless moor,
yet the crags were white as milk and the moon pale as cream. Overhead, the stars
hung thick in a black velvet night.
The wind carried the smell of a pungent sea and the haunting lilt of bagpipes.
He saw his homeland, a place of bleak heath and shaggy wood, of high corries
and stormy seas, and against a gleam of fading light, he saw the ghostly spires of
a castle rising in silhouette, infinitely gray, infinitely silent, and calling out to
him.
Lightning ripped the sky. A brilliant, blinding light appeared before him, and
something seemed to suspend time.
From the intense brightness a man came forth, dressed in white and hovering
just above the ground. His being shone, and his countenance was one of
immeasurable beauty.
Wait, Fletcher. The time is soon…
The wind died down, and the eerie moans of a voice hung in the air, as dry
and flint-like as the ancient syllables of a Gaelic chant, before fading away. The
vision dimmed, becoming no more than a pale vapor, growing obscure, then
disappearing completely. But like a faded flower whose fragrance lingers, the
memory stayed. Fletcher closed his eyes. The speaking silence of the dream had
passed, and at last his body slept.
But his mind could find no rest. His soul was awakened. His spirit was
ready.
It was now twenty-one years since the murder of his father, Bruce Ramsay,
the Duke of Glengarry. The year was 1878 and Fletcher Ramsay was twenty-
eight.
The time had come.
Chapter One
Northern California, June 1878

Fletcher stood on the cliffs where the great, swelling waves of the Pacific
crashed against the rocks below, churning the water and turning it to foam. He
was restless and on edge. He had been that way for three months now, ever since
the dream had come to him. He knew why he was restless and he knew what the
dream meant. He did not know what he was going to do about it.
He had always known that there would come a time when he would go back,
a time when he would avenge his father’s death and set everything right.
Recompense and restitution. They were two words he learned to live with, two
words that shaped his life.
His father had been murdered, his birthright had been stolen from him. The
time had come to take it back. He knew that, and yet the vision confused him.
Wait, Fletcher. The time is soon…
“I thought I would find you here.”
Fletcher turned around and saw his mother, Maggie Mackinnon, walking
toward him, the wind whipping her hair and skirts about her. As she drew even
with him, she paused, looking out far over the water.
He saw the way she stared as if in a trance and knew that she did not really
see this place, but another. “This place has always reminded you of Scotland,
hasn’t it?”
“Aye. I ken that is because they are both places born of the violence of the
earth.” Maggie did not say more, but he knew her well enough to know that
something grave distressed her.
“What troubles you, Mother? What are you thinking?”
She turned toward him, a bittersweet look upon her face as she lifted her
hand and touched his cheek. “I was remembering.”
He gave her a smile. All that he was or ever hoped to be, he owed to his
mother. “And what were you remembering?”
She sighed. “A lot of things, things I ken you will find silly…forgotten
evenings when you used to walk with me here when you were just a wee lad,
your hand warm in mine, your pockets crammed with rocks and string, and a
snail shell or two.” She looked down and drew her shawl more tightly around
her shoulders, and he knew that she was fighting back the urge to cry.
“It’s too cold for you out here, Mother. Let me take you back to the house.”
“No. I want to walk out here, Fletcher, along the cliffs with you.”
“Why?”
“It seems appropriate somehow.”
“Appropriate?”
“Aye. Like you said, this place has always reminded me of Scotland.”
“And that makes it appropriate?”
She nodded.
“For what?”
“For what I have to tell you.” He could almost hear the heartache he saw in
her eyes. She smoothed the collar of his jacket. “How like your father you are,
tall, with a slimness that is just now beginning to fill out. You have his smile, his
wit, his intelligence, his gentleness,” she smiled sadly, “and that same stubborn
streak.”
He had seen her in these moods before and understood how hard it
sometimes was for her to see her children grow up. “I know you’ll be telling me
next how my eyes are the same dark blue as my father’s.”
“Aye, but they have none of Bruce Ramsay’s teasing lightness, for you were
ever a serious lad, Fletcher.”
He was concerned now, for instead of her mood lightening, she seemed to
grow more melancholy. “You aren’t ill, are you, Mother?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Are you certain?”
“Aye.”
“Then what is it?”
She put her hand up, pushing his hair back from his eyes as she had done so
many times before. “Even the texture of your hair is the same.”
He nodded. “But lighter brown.”
“Aye, but not too much lighter.”
He smiled at her motherly ways. Taking her hand in his, he turned it to kiss
the palm, hoping to cast her somber thoughts away. “Always the mother,” he
said, reaching out to draw her shawl up over her shoulders. He paused to stroke
the soft wool, as he rubbed the fringe between his fingers. He gave her a
winsome smile. “I used to wonder why it was that your clothes always felt
different from anyone else’s in my hands.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Fletcher, how can I bear to let you go?”
“Go?” He looked down into her face, his eyes searching hers as if he could
see the sadness there. “Mother, what’s wrong?”
“Let’s walk to the end of the trail,” she said, and took Fletcher’s arm as she
started up the well-worn path.
“You are greatly troubled,” he said.
“I received a letter from Scotland today.” She glanced at him. “It was from
my sister, Doroty. My brother, Ian, is dead.”
Fletcher drew up short. “Ian? My Uncle Ian is dead?”
“Aye,” Maggie said, “Ian Alexander Sinclair, the twelfth Earl of Caithness,
is dead, and you, my son, are now thirteenth. Thirteen. Not exactly a good
omen.”
But Fletcher wasn’t interested in omens right now. “What do you mean I am
the thirteenth?”
“You are now the Earl of Caithness, Fletcher.”
“But how? I’m not a Sinclair, Mother. I’m a Ramsay.”
“Aye, you are a Ramsay through and through, and proud as a peacock about
it, too. I ken hearing all of this seems strange to you since you never knew my
brother.”
“No, I never knew much about him.”
“He was a widower. He had no children. My two older brothers have been
dead a long time. There are none of us Sinclairs left now, save myself and my
sister, Doroty.”
“So the title passed to me?”
“You are the closest male heir.”
Fletcher was dumbfounded. “I had no idea. You never mentioned the
possibility.”
“I never gave it much thought. Ian was not that old. I always thought he
might one day remarry and have children. He did write that he was quite
interested in a young widow.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
Maggie smiled. “It is a rare thing indeed to see you flustered and uncertain.”
“It is a rare thing for me to hear I’ve just inherited a title.”
“I know the news is staggering to you,” she said. “Hout! It is staggering to
me as well.”
“Was there anything else in the letter?”
“You mean as to what happens now?”
“Yes. I…” He paused, turning to look at her, taking her hands in his. “I have
to go, Mother. It’s what I’ve always wanted. To return to Scotland. You know
that I must go, don’t you?”
“Aye, although those are the words I have dreaded hearing for a good part of
my life. My heart is crying out with unbearable grief, now. I would have kept
you young, Fletcher, and playing about my skirts if I could.”
“I know. But you’ve always known I wouldn’t stay here in California. It was
never right for me. Never.”
“Oh, Fletcher, how can I bear this?”
He heard the pain in her voice and knew how difficult this was for her. She
was not the kind of woman to control her children or interfere in their lives. It
was only her love for him—and her fear—that forced her to try now.
“I have to go.”
“Aye, I’ve always known you would, just as I’ve always known I would do
everything I could to stop you. I fear for your life, Fletcher, every bit as much as
I did the day I left Scotland. Adair Ramsay may be an old man now, but he is
still formidable. Once he finds out you are in Scotland, he will stop at nothing.”
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“Aye,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “That’s what your father said the day
before they found his body on the cliffs.” Maggie’s lip trembled as she studied
her son’s face. “Is there nothing I can say, nothing I can do that will keep you
here?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Well then, there is no more to be said. You will return to Scotland, and my
heart is breaking. I fear I may never see you again, Fletcher. You, my firstborn.”
Her voice broke.
“I would never allow anything to happen to sadden you. You know that.
Give me your blessing, Mother.”
“I have experienced much pain in my life, but none that has cut so deeply as
this. I want to give you my blessing, Fletcher, but I canna. How can I bless
something that will tear out my heart?”
He nodded. He understood that. After all, she was only being the woman he
had always loved and admired. It was her love for him that stirred this
protectiveness within her. She had lived with her fears, her feelings of dread,
since his father’s death.
In some ways it seemed like such a long time ago, but in reality it had only
been some twenty years ago that a man by the name of Adair Ramsay had come
into their lives and destroyed them—a greedy little man who had tried to usurp
the title, Duke of Glengarry, from Fletcher’s father, Bruce.
Protecting his title had cost Bruce Ramsay his life, and for what? A few
months after Bruce’s death, Adair Ramsay had laid claim to the title again, and
this time the courts in Edinburgh had awarded it to him. No one had been able to
prove that Adair had taken Bruce Ramsay’s life. But that mattered little to
Fletcher.
In his heart, he knew it was so.
His mother knew too, for she had told him often enough that as long as he