“I married her.”
Charlotte’s reaction wasn’t at all what he expected. Squealing, she clapped her hands before launching herself at him and covering his face with kisses. “It’s so perfectly romantic. I knew you’d see what a darling she is. You two are simply ideal for each other.”
Vangie mightn’t agree.
She descended on her husband, wrapping her arms around him and sighing. “Is it not wonderful, Trevor? Ian’s found love too.”
Judging by the hungry look smoldering in Monroe’s eyes, Ian concluded his new brother-in-law had much more pressing matters on his mind than offering his congratulations. Namely how to courteously suggest Ian push off so he could entice his wife into a satisfying afternoon tussle on the feather tick dominating the small rented room.
Obligingly, Ian bid them farewell, eager to return home to his own wife. And if fate smiled kindly on him, mayhap he’d have his own honeymoon.
Twenty-two days after leaving Somersfield, Ian trotted Pericles into the paddock outside the extensive stables. Past midnight, a cocoon of tranquility swathed the night. A dove cooed sleepily, perched aloft in one of the massive oak trees looming over the main barn.
He had envisioned breeding the finest horseflesh in the north of England here. Now, with the acquisition of the Arabian-blooded stock, he pursued that dream.
Gerard, the stable master, approached lantern in hand. His slow, shuffling gait gave Ian plenty of time to dismount. Another form plodded unhurriedly from the barn. Gerard waved the sleepy groom away. “Go on with ye, Ben. I’ll see to the beasty.”
Mumbling an unintelligible answer, the young stable hand ambled back into the dark building. Soft welcoming nickers accompanied his return.
“Pleased to have ye home, Lord Warrick.” Gerard yawned sleepily, patting the lathered animal on his glistening neck. “Ye rode him hard, ye did.” He crooned softly to the stallion, his hands never breaking their soothing contact with the horse.
“Aye, I did at that.” Ian smiled and patted the horse’s rump. “I’ve a bride waiting for me.” Slapping the dust from his thighs, he made for the manor, calling over his shoulder, “Rub him down well, won’t you, Gerard? And an extra portion of grain for him too. He earned it.”
Entering the silent manor, Ian went directly to his bedchamber. Though he ached to see Vangie, he didn’t want to waken her this late. Besides—he sniffed, crinkling his nose in distaste—he sorely needed a bath. But he’d not wake his valet or disturb the other servants and demand bathwater at this ungodly hour. He’d have to wait until morning to greet his wife.
My wife.
He’d missed her more than he ought after such a short acquaintance. How had she fared in his absence? And more on point, were her thoughts as consumed with him as his were of her?
Exhaling a deep breath, Ian toed off his boots before stripping his garments with swift efficiency. Padding to the bathing chamber, he poured water into the basin then washed off the worst of the travel grime.
He smiled to himself. He hoped Vangie was an early riser, for Lucinda assuredly was. She’d be demanding his attention straightaway once she learned of his return. His smile faltered, and a scowl took its place.
She had better have removed herself to the dower house as he’d directed. He’d no intention of residing under the same roof with that termagant now that Charlotte wasn’t in residence. He’d have preferred to have been present for the transition, especially to ease the adjustment for Vangie. Instead he’d hied off in needless pursuit of his sister. Shaking his head in self-reproach, he splashed his hair and his unshaven face with the tepid water.
Charlotte was blissfully happy. She obviously adored the man she’d married, and Monroe was completely agog over her as well. As a wedding present, Ian, despite being thoroughly piqued with her, had offered the newlyweds a generous purse and sent them on a well-deserved wedding journey.
Well-deserved because he had never given Charlotte credit for any degree of intelligence—or thought her the least bit capable of standing up to her mother. That lamentable business with Pickering? All a wretched ruse Charlotte concocted to keep Lucinda off Monroe’s scent. She’d been successful, if he didn’t count his own forced marriage.
Charlotte hadn’t done poorly for herself, by half, Ian concluded, toweling his dripping hair. He quickly wiped his face then finished drying off. Lucinda wouldn’t be pleased he’d returned empty-handed. He’d deal with that difficulty on the morrow, after becoming reacquainted with his bride.
Slipping between the cool sheets, he lay back with his elbows bent, hands beneath his damp head. He’d send a message to the dower house in the morning, requesting an appointment with Lucinda in the afternoon. Staring at the canopied bed, his eyes drifted closed, his thoughts shifting to Vangie.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Vangie tore to the chamber pot, casting up the contents of her stomach for the third time in the past week. She tottered to the makeshift washstand and rinsed the foul taste from her mouth before running a damp cloth over her face. Hunched over the cracked basin, she drew in a deep breath. Another wave of queasiness assailed her.
Her stomach was empty, hollow to her backbone. The bland breakfast of watery porridge, tea, and dry toast she’d eaten moments ago now resided in the slop bucket. Dinner wasn’t much better. It usually consisted of a weak soup, a hunk of dry bread, and if she was lucky, a slice of cheese or a piece of fruit.
How much longer could she tolerate this unappetizing food? It often tasted peculiar, not unlike some of the medicinal herbs Puri Daj used to treat respiratory afflictions. No doubt Lucinda fed her half-spoiled leftovers which accounted for Vangie’s roiling stomach. She’d little appetite and as the days passed, ate less and less of the unappealing fare.
She wandered to the dilapidated armchair she’d tugged near the window and releasing a weary sigh, flopped into it.
Jasper and Mrs. Tanssen had been absolute dears. They’d smuggled candles, books, including Vangie’s Bible, her paints and crocheting, as well as more tempting, palatable foods into her whenever they could. It wasn’t often enough. According to Jasper, the dowager inspected every tray and bucket and made the servants turn out their pockets before entering the tower.
The first night, Mrs. Tanssen had sneaked into the tower, and when the door creaked open, Vangie, huddled in a corner under a filthy blanket, had been terrified. Recognizing the housekeeper illuminated in the doorway, she’d gasped, “Mrs. Tanssen? What are you doing here? How did you enter?”
Holding a candle in one hand, Mrs. Tanssen dangled a key in the other. “I provided that she-dog the key to this turret.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “But I don’t feel the least bit obligated to tell her I have a master key. I can open every door in the manor.”
She dropped the key inside her pocket and bent to retrieve something outside the door. “Here, my lady. It’s only a blanket, a candle, and a bit of bread. I couldn’t hide anymore beneath my skirts this trip.”
Vangie hugged her. “Thank you.”
“I’d best be going. I have several more things stashed in a closet at the bottom of the stairs. I want to bring them to you while Jasper keeps watch outside the dowager’s chamber.”
Two days later, Jasper had crept into the tower. “The dowager is like a rabid watchdog. She monitors our every move.” He withdrew a book from his pocket along with some biscuits wrapped in a cloth. “We have outwitted her though. One of us distracts her, and the other high-tails it here.”
The sweet-faced maid who brought Vangie her food, often stayed to visit, even though she was under strict orders not to. With her sandy-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, Ailsa reminded Vangie of an unrefined version of Yvette. She was the same age as her cousin, too, ten and seven.
“I don’t want you getting punished for defying the dowager, Ailsa,” Vangie told her.
“Her ladyship can blow biscuits out her bony arse,” Ailsa snorted. “You’re the lady of the ma
nor now, not that witch.”
Despite herself, Vangie’s lips had twitched. Though her face was angelic, Ailsa’s speech was anything but. She had no qualms about speaking her mind and doing so quite crudely.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and across her lap, Vangie gazed at the early morning scene beyond the window. Not even eight of the clock yet, she guessed.
She was lonely, cold, hungry, and desperate for Ian to return. Each day that passed without his appearance, sent her further into the doldrums. A multitude of misgivings worked their wiles, whispering discouragement and filling her with hopelessness.
His continued absence gave credence to his stepmother’s claim he’d ordered her locked away. The thought wrenched her heart. Despair squeezed her wounded spirit like an unrelenting vice. A tear trickled from her eye. She brusquely rubbed it away. No more tears.
She surveyed the travesty of a room the dowager had incarcerated her in. The window panes tossed thin shadows across the dusty floor. The cruelty behind her ladyship’s actions was beyond Vangie’s understanding. What drove someone to be so altogether vindictive?
The room’s disarray and disrepair proved it was never used, except by a pair of bats that made their way inside each night. Vangie had sneezed for a quarter hour straight the first day, such was the dust. Her bed originally consisted of a few moth-eaten blankets tossed on a lumpy, mildew-laden straw pallet on the floor.
Mrs. Tanssen smuggled clean blankets and a fresh tick over the course of the first few days, though how she managed without the dowager’s knowledge baffled her. Except for the chair she currently sat in, and a rickety three-legged pedestal table, the chamber was devoid of furnishings.
Gazing out the window, a half-smile tilted the corners of her mouth. She was certain the dowager had no idea how splendid the view was from the tower. It was a perfect setting for drawing and painting—if Vangie had the desire.
She didn’t.
Scanning the formal gardens and mazes below, she settled on her favorite scene—a pond on the other side of a large expanse of grass glistened happily in the morning sun. Black and white swans swam leisurely across the blue-green surface. A listing footbridge hugged the east side of the pond where it joined a meandering path to a glorious wisteria covered arbor. Everything was overgrown and neglected, but the underlying beauty of Somersfield’s grounds remained undeniable.
Nestled in a glen on the other side of the pond, barely visible through the trees, sat a stately stone cottage. The dower house, she presumed.
Somewhere beyond her view lay the Romani camp. She hadn’t remembered the note Milosh handed her in Brunswick until her eighth day of imprisonment. Retrieving her reticule, Vangie had dumped the contents on the table. Unfolding the note, she recognized her grandmother’s familiar writing. The Roma were encamped in a meadow under a maple grove near the Ouseburn River.
Oh, how she missed Grandmother.
A week ago, Jasper had brazenly dared to seek a few moments with Vangie after her grandmother had called at Somersfield. Puri Daj had visited the Caruthers and learned of her marriage.
The dowager had refused to receive Puri Daj, going as far as to instruct him to forbid her access to Somersfield lands. The dowager had even threatened Grandmother with arrest for trespassing if she dared to attempt to contact Vangie again.
Jasper, bless his heart, had endeavored to reassure her. “I promised Madam Caruthers I would personally see to your well-being as much as I am able to.” He withdrew an apple and a scone from inside his coat. Standing a mite taller he’d said, “I would consider it an honor to carry missives between the two of you.”
Vangie sighed, closing weary eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. How she wished to explore Somersfield’s lovely acreage and to visit her Romani relatives. Grandmother anxiously waited for word from her, and Besnik, a dear Romani friend, covertly watched the estate, lest Vangie attempt to communicate with her Roma vitsa, her kin.
How long did Ian and his stepmother plan to keep her imprisoned?
Feeling unusually optimistic, Ian descended the stairs. The long-case clock hadn’t chimed half-past seven yet, but he’d a small, if somewhat unrealistic hope, Vangie might’ve risen early herself. No sooner had he settled into his customary chair, teacup at his lips, than his stepmother strutted into the sun-streaked breakfast room.
Her steps faltered, and the self-satisfied look dropped off her face.
Damn and blast. Why was she still here? It wasn’t bloody-well likely she just popped over for breakfast.
From beneath hooded eyelids he scrutinized her. What had his father seen in her? Blunt. Father would do most anything for money. But lie with that? No wonder his father had been perpetually in his cups, though how he got his pizzle stiff when he was foxed and laying atop that squeeze crab was beyond Ian’s ken.
“I wasn’t aware you had returned, Ian.”
An obvious understatement if ever there was one. Cocking a hawkish eyebrow, he said, “I arrived late last night, or rather, early this morning. No doubt you were abed.”
Helping herself to several hot cross buns and tea from the sideboard, Lucinda made her way to the table. She avoided his eyes, making a show of buttering a roll then adding two lumps of sugar to her tea.
“Lucinda, I presume your presence indicates you didn’t do as I requested and remove yourself to the dower house?” He made no effort to conceal his displeasure.
In the act of stuffing a large piece of warm bun into her mouth, she gulped it down. She took a hurried sip of tea and from her grimace, she’d burnt her mouth. He was positive she’d have spewed the mouthful onto the table if it wasn’t for his presence. Instead, she swallowed, her face pinched with pain. Composing herself, she heaved dramatic sigh as if greatly put upon.
He tapped the side of his mouth. “You’ve—”
“You’re correct.” Meeting his eyes, she scowled, pursed her lips, and blew a large breath out her nostrils. All signs she was about to work herself into a state. “It was most impractical…”
“Lucinda, there’s…” Ian tried again, looking pointedly at her chin.
“Ian, you asked me a question. Do let me speak!”
“You’ve a dab of butter about to—”
The blob rolled over her chin, then plopped onto her chest. “Hell and damn,” she grumbled, wiping at the oily stain. “Now look what you’ve done. It’s ruined.” She tossed her serviette on the table and slumped in her chair. Folding her arms across her bosom, she shot daggers at him with her eyes.
Ian ignored her, long accustomed to her blaming others—usually him—for everything. “You were saying?”
“Yes, well, it was most impractical for me to remove myself with the disruptions that half-breed gypsy caused in your absence.” She drummed the fingers of her right hand on her bent arm. “I needed to remain here to maintain some degree of order.”
Ian leveled her a thunderous glower. “You dare to call my wife a half-breed gypsy to my face?” Incipient anger crackled beneath the surface of his calm composure. “You go too far, Lucinda!”
She paled beneath her sallow complexion.
“Her name is Evangeline Hamilton. The Viscountess Warrick.” He stabbed her with his gaze while stressing each word, “You had best never call her anything else again.”
Jasper plowed into the dining room, his movements so uncharacteristically hasty, he skidded three feet across the floor before coming to an unsteady stop.
Ian quirked an eyebrow in askance. Whatever was the man about? Jasper never moved faster than a rigidly-measured gait.
A long wisp of hair flopped over his high forehead and dangled atop his nose. He calmly shoved the strands back onto his head then smoothed them from one side of his balding head to the other. Ah, that explains that. For years Ian had wondered about the odd, waxy strand across the butler’s nearly bald pate.
“My bride has been troublesome, Jasper?”
“Really, Ian,” Lucinda objected, her thin face registe
ring annoyance. “Surely you’re aware how those belowstairs are given to tittle-tattle.”
Those abovestairs too.
With an air of patronizing superiority, she tilted her head and attempted to look down her pointed nose at the majordomo. The affect was comical, and Ian fought to control the grin tugging at his lips. She looked rather like one of his hounds. Nose in the air, Lucinda sniffed haughtily, “One simply cannot rely on candor from the likes of them.”
With great dignity, Jasper lifted his chin and cast a contemptuous glance at the woman. “Indeed, my lord. My lady’s imprisonment in the south—”
“That’s outside of enough. You may go,” Lucinda hissed, bolting upright in her chair.
“Her imprisonment in the south tower these three weeks past, has been severely troublesome to be sure,” the butler finished in a rush.
Ian froze, his fork half-raised to his mouth. He better had heard wrong. With deadly calm he asked, “What did you say?”
“Her ladyship has been locked in the south turret with barely enough food to survive on. No fire, no candles, no comforts whatsoever. Except those which Mrs. Tanssen, Ailsa, and I have smuggled to her whenever she,” Jasper sent Lucinda another fleeting look, this one indisputably defiant, “wasn’t watching.”
Ian fisted his hands under the table. The urge to wrap them around his stepmother’s neck and strangle the life from her was overwhelming. Never had he felt such burning hatred toward another human.
At Jasper’s triumphant revelation, her face paled with shock. She swiftly masked her astonishment and attempted a light-hearted laugh. The smile faded from her lips when Ian shoved to his feet, regarding her with unmitigated fury.
She speared Jasper with a deadly glower. Had it been a sword, Ian had no doubt the butler would’ve been skewered or eviscerated. Face twisted with hatred, she demanded, “You dared to defy me?”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 18