"Montreal?" echoed Nathaniel, leaning forward. "Why?"

"Otter," said Robbie, simply.

Hannah was on her feet instantly, but Nathaniel caught her up and kept her still.

"Yer faither went tae extricate him from some difficulties," Robbie continued. "We had word o' young Otter when Spotted—Fox came through ma part o' the bush."

"But he was supposed to be fighting with Little—Turtle," Hannah said. Liam started visibly at this, but Hannah's whole attention was on Robbie.

The little girl's expression, half terror, half hope, made Elizabeth's heart clench. She went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Well, at least we know where Otter is, and that your grandfather is nearby." Elizabeth said this calmly, trying to force the idea into Hannah's head, and her own.

Nathaniel rubbed a hand over his face, as if to wake himself up. "What's this all about, Robbie?"

"It has tae do wi' a lass, as I under stan it." He grinned lopsidedly. "As trouble oft does when a man is Otter's age." But there was something uneasy about his smile, and Elizabeth wished desperately to be alone with Nathaniel and Robbie so that they might have the whole story.

There was the sound of a step on the porch, and Robbie leaned toward Nathaniel with a sense of urgency. "Moncrieff seems a guid mannie tae me," he said. "But the tale he has tae tell ye is gey strange. I didna think I should tell him aboot yer fait her or where tae find him, wi'oot yer permission."

"What—" began Nathaniel, but Moncrieff was already halfway in the room, and the conversation turned back to less sensitive matters.

* * *

Hannah and Liam were sent back to bed, and the adults settled around the fire. In spite of the late hour, Elizabeth was curiously awake, and aware of the smallest details: the fact that Nathaniel had a cut on his thumb, the shape of the pine knot she had lit on the hearthstones for more light, and the large, neatly turned ears of Angus Moncrieff, still almost purple from the cold at their outer edges. Behind them the room was in shadows, but the fire glowed white and amber, pulsing slowly.

"We had some word of you from a trapper we know," Nathaniel began. "But he's simpleminded and he had things confused."

"A big man, in need of a wash?"

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed. "He told us that you were the Earl of Carrick."

"No," said Moncrieff, his eyes narrowed slightly. "The Earl of Carrick would be Daniel Bonner's first cousin. Alasdair Scott."

There was a sudden silence. Beside Elizabeth, Nathaniel tensed as if he had heard a trigger cocked.

Robbie cleared his throat.  "Speak plain, man. Spit it oot."

Moncrieff turned his hands over to stare at his own palms. Then he looked up steadily and met Nathaniel's gaze.

"I have verra strong reason to believe that your fait her is the only son of James Scott, who was the younger brother of Roderick Scott, the last Earl of Carrick."

James Scott. Jamie Scott.

The hot August day in Albany; it seemed almost like a dream to Elizabeth.

Who is this James Scott?

I am. I do the banking for Bears. It's just a name, Boots.

Elizabeth was holding Nathaniel's hand; the tension humming in him said this was not a simple coincidence. She swallowed hard and tried to keep her face as expressionless as his, although she could not stop the color from rising on her neck and cheeks.

"I think you've got the wrong man," Nathaniel said. "But if you were right and you had proof, what of it, then? The younger brother of an earl has nothing to claim, as far as I understand it. His son even less."

Moncrieff grunted. "It's true, Jamie Scott came awa' to the New World with neither title nor lands. When he left, his brother Roderick already had a son and heir. That was Alasdair, the current earl, who is my employer. A man of eighty—two years, this summer past. In good health when last I saw him, but feeling his age.

Elizabeth squeezed Nathaniel's hand and he sat back to let her speak. "Why would his lordship send you so far to find a cousin he did not know existed? Unless the present Lord Carrick has no heir of his own?"

Moncrieff shifted in his chair. "You've got to the heart of it, Mrs. Bonner. The earl has no son, and so he sent me off to find Jamie Scott's son, or grandson. The last of the line, you see."

"And if Jamie Scott never had a son?" Nathaniel asked.

"But he did," said Moncrieff, taking a bundle of papers out of his vest and putting them on his knee. "There was nae trouble tracing Jamie Scott's movements. There are ship rosters, and land changed hands, after all. He took a guidwife, a young lady who emigrated from Edinburgh on the same ship as he. There's plentifu' information about his early dealings in the Colonies, including a letter hame to his brother announcing the birth o' a son, in 1718." The strong, slender hand rested on the papers. "But there's no detail at all about Jamie's death. Just a letter written by a priest in Albany to his lordship to notify him of the massacre, in '21, and the fact that a child had survived. A son called Daniel."

"It's a common enough name," said Nathaniel.

Robbie cleared his throat. "If the laird kent the lad had survived, why did they no' come tae find him then?"

Moncrieff leaned forward. "In fact, a great deal o' money was spent to find the child, wi'oot success.

"You've got no proof of any of this," Nathaniel said shortly.