“But—”
“Go,” Struan said in ominous tones. “We shall speak about your behavior later.”
“But—”
“Go.”
Max backed up until he thudded against the door, then rapidly exited the room.
“He only does that when he’s overset,” Struan said apologetically. “That’s when he tells the stories. The lad means no harm.”
“He needs a woman’s guidance,” Justine said, already planning how she would read to Max from the Bible.
“He needs a good whipping,” Calum retorted. “Now. This madness has progressed quite far enough. Justine, I will hear no more argument. As we travel, we shall discuss how best to explain your extraordinary behavior. We leave Scotland at …” His words trailed away. He stared toward the door.
Justine turned to see Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, looming on the threshold.
Struan groaned, threw himself into a deep, scarlet, tapestry-covered chair, and buried his head in his hands. “A circus,” he muttered. “Come one, come all. Don’t miss the show.”
“A show indeed,” the marquess said, his massive, dark countenance moving into the room like an inevitable force. “I thank providence that I listened to Grace.”
“Grace?” Struan moaned.
“My dear wife—as you well know—has always had other worldly powers. She felt the need for me to come here now. I tried to resist since I should not have left Yorkshire at such a time. But, of course,’ she was right.”
“Preserve us all,” Struan said, raising closed eyes toward the ornately carved, domed ceiling. “Here again is the man who once laughed at his bride’s otherworldly talents.”
“Indeed,” Calum said. “Good to see you, Arran. Unfortunately we cannot dally to hear more on this fascinating topic. Justine and I are already running late on our travel schedule.”
Arran’s face, so like his younger brother Struan’s, assumed an expression of distant confusion. “Travel? Surely the traveling has been done. Where Justine is concerned. Shanks and Caleb Murray—and Mairi—tell me our visitor arrived yesterday.”
“I …” Justine looked to Struan, whose eyes remained closed. “That is so.”
“She arrived yesterday and will leave today,” Calum said, his mouth set in a firm line. “We will speak of this on another occasion, Arran.”
“We will speak of it now,” the marquess said serenely. “I understand Struan brought your dear sister here last night.”
Calum snatched up Justine’s cloak. “True. And now—”
“And,” Arran continued, “my brother and your sister were alone here—no chaperon that I know of—alone for hours.”
“Damn you, Arran,” Calum said, flinging the cloak around Justine’s shoulders. “Must you embarrass her further?”
“I am not embarrassed.”
Her voice assured the attention of all three men.
“I am not embarrassed because I came here of my own will, Arran. I wished to spend the night with Struan.”
“Nothing happened,” Calum said hastily. “Nothing.”
“It certainly did,” Justine said. “It did.” Whatever it was, and she’d better find out in case someone decided to quiz her more closely on the subject. From the response every mention of—of whatever It might be, the—whatever—must be quite fascinating. “It did happen,” she repeated.
“Oh, my God,” Struan whispered.
“You had better pray,” Calum told him. “Pray there is no lasting harm here. I bid you good day, my friends.”
“A good day indeed,” Arran remarked. “We must make the best of it and start preparing immediately.”
“We are already prepared,” Calum said. “Justine came in a Franchot coach and the horses will be well rested by now.”
“Horses won’t be necessary.” Arran draped a forearm on the mantel. “Struan and Justine will marry at Kirkcaldy.”
Chapter Five
“Marry at Kirkcaldy?” Justine said, with enough disdain to make Struan smart. “Marry Struan?”
“He does appear to be the man you spent last night with,” Arran responded in a level voice Struan recognized as dangerous. “And everyone seems in agreement that the pair of you were alone here.”
Struan splayed a hand over his jacket—on top of the letter. He had become a poison to those he cared for deeply. No more potential victims must be offered to his tormentor. “The situation has already been explained to Calum’s satisfaction. Justine arrived late. We were pleased to see each other and wished to talk—as old friends. I may have shown poor judgment in bringing her here without a chaperon, but no harm has been done. Let us have no more of this foolish talk.” This dangerous talk.
“Exactly,” Justine said, her head held at a haughty angle. “Foolish talk, indeed. They will be waiting for us in the kitchens.”
Arran drew himself up to his full and very impressive height. “There are times when we are forced to accept the error of our ways and take the consequences.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Calum snapped.
“Responsibility.”
Calum’s eyes glittered and he stood very close to Justine. “I repeat, Arran. Make yourself plain. And if you are calling my sister … If you are questioning my sister’s character, I advise you to think hard before saying anything at all.”
“Arran would never question Justine’s character.” A heavy ache pressed about Struan’s eyes. This development must not divert his attention, his vigilance. “He sometimes forgets that I am past needing his guiding hand. I am not a child, y’know, brother. I’ll attend to my own business.”
These decisions are frequently removed from our hands,” Arran said. “I am merely insisting that for the sake of family reputation—our own and the Franchots—we must do what is right.”
“We are doing what is right,” Calum said, his color unusually high. “We are leaving at once.”
“I think not,” Arran remarked, almost offhandedly.
Calum placed an arm around Justine’s shoulders and glared. “The devil you say. This is not your decision to—”
“It is not Arran’s decision and neither is it yours,” Struan interrupted. “I assure you that the two mature people involved in this are very capable of making their own decisions.”
“Exactly,” Justine announced emphatically. “And this mature person has decided to remain here to pursue her work and to help a friend.”
Arguing openly with Justine would do nothing to further his cause. Struan addressed Calum, “We will deal with this, man to man.”
“Indeed,” Arran agreed. “We—”
“Calum and I are the men involved,” Struan told his brother, tight-lipped.
“And I am the woman involved.” Justine’s serenity was amazing. “Struan and I understand each other perfectly, don’t we, Struan?”
How could he do other than nod agreement?
Her smile was jubilant. “Quite. Now I find I am hungry. Very hungry. If we keep those in the kitchens waiting longer, we shall truly run the risk of arousing gossip.”
The world had gone mad. Even more mad than Struan had unwillingly accepted it to be in recent weeks.
Last night he had ridden to the castle alone, and expected to return to the lodge—alone. Instead he’d been confronted by Justine, who, at this moment, stood in the middle of this outrageously neglected kitchen like a slightly bedraggled princess misplaced in an abandoned dungeon.
And in their company were two men Struan had not thought to see for weeks, or perhaps months—and certainly not together, or here.
Gael Mercer, wife of Robert Mercer, lifelong tenants of Kirkcaldy and indispensable allies in Struan’s recent trials, busily tended the fire in the great black stove. The occasional maid, Buttercup, stirred a large pot of porridge bubbling atop the stove. She stirred but kept her pink and white face firmly averted from the steam. Buttercup herself rather bubbled inside the uniform that didn’t subdue her curves.
&n
bsp; Ella, Struan’s dark-haired, exotic “daughter,” hovered near Justine, who regarded the girl with smiling joy.
“You are so beautiful,” Justine said, not for the first time since she’d entered the kitchens. “Even more beautiful than when I last saw you in Cornwall—if that were possible.”
“She’s a wild one,” Max announced, breaking into a boisterous jig that involved swinging his arms and hopping from heel to toe. “Ye should hear Grumpy talk about how wild our Ella is. Another one spawned o’ the devil, she says.”
Struan gave up trying to restrain the boy. “Gael,” he said. “You really don’t have to do this, you know.” He found himself repeatedly looking to the windows for signs of watching enemy eyes.
Slender, red-haired Gael kept her gaze lowered and took over stirring the pot. “Robert said I was t’feed ye,” she said, her voice barely audible over Max’s hummed accompaniment to his dance and the hollow banging made by a plump toddler thumping a large spoon on an upturned basin.
To Struan’s amazement, Arran dropped to his haunches in front of the child and brushed fair curls away from his brow. “That’s a fine drum you have there, Niall,” he said, grinning indulgently. “May I have a turn?”
Struan scrubbed at his face. He sometimes forgot that Arran had helped bring little Niall into the world, but this was not the time or the place for glad reunions.
Max’s dance grew wilder. Around and around the kitchen he cavorted, his shirttail flying, his muddy boots clattering a tattoo on the flagstones.
Arran covered young Nidi’s hand on the spoon handle and they beat out a rhythm to match the dance.
“Oh, how lovely,” Justine said, pressing her hands to her cheeks.
Calum hoisted the thumb-sucking Kirsty into his arms and allowed her to anchor his face between tiny fists while she studied him very closely.
There were entirely too many people in this ghastly room. And everything had slipped from Struan’s control—at the very time when it was essential that he maintain the tightest control ever. In daylight, with three formidable men present, he did not fear for those he intended to keep safe, no matter what the cost to himself. If he was forced to keep the children at the lodge tonight, he must mount a careful vigil.
Calum, still carrying Kirsty, came close to Struan. “Look at this place,” he said. “Cobwebs and dust. Everywhere. I’ll wager that stove hasn’t been used in years before today. I was told the maid came here several times a week. What does she do?”
“Nothing, for all I know,” Struan said. “It is of no concern to me.”
“The floor is filthy. Everything’s filthy.”
Defiance destroyed Struan’s caution. “The entire lodge is filthy. I have more important things on my mind.”
“Do tell.”
“I cannot. Not yet. Only trust me to take care of what I must.”
“You haven’t told Justine about Ella and Max?”
Struan thinned his lips, and said, “Make no mention of that, please,” in low tones. “I must break it to her in my own way and in my own time.” A time he didn’t wish to contemplate. He had rescued Ella from a London brothel where the owner planned to sell her to the pervert willing to pay the highest price for a beautiful young virgin. Ella had then beseeched Struan to find her brother, Max, then the property of a pickpocket in Covent Garden. Struan shook his head. “Eventually I will find a way to explain it all to Justine.” A truly revolting thought.
“Where do they go at night?”
“Damn your curiosity, Calum. They stay with the Mercers.”
“Overly crowded in that little cottage, I should think.” Calum’s voice was even, as if he spoke of mundane matters.
“They are safe there, and I trust Robert and Gael. It’s the best I can do for the present.”
“It’s amazing,” Calum responded. He set Kirsty down and turned serious eyes—eyes so much like Justine’s—upon Struan. “Something’s badly awry. I knew it the instant I learned you had chosen to live here, and that you didn’t want to be found by any chance caller. Tell me what’s afoot, my friend.”
“Not the time or place,” Struan responded. The shame he bore must remain his alone. Sharing his sordid past—with anyone—was unthinkable. And since he wasn’t exactly certain what was in store for him, he could not truthfully answer his friend’s call. He indicated the rest of the company. “Not the place at all. Don’t worry. It’s nothing I cannot take care of.”
“You show me no evidence that I should believe you.” Calum glanced at Justine. “She must come away with me. I cannot leave her here.”
“I agree.” Fate sneered at him yet again, this time in the tantalizing form of a woman who might be all he could ever desire yet could not have.
Heat rattled the pot on the stove. Gael Mercer began to ladle porridge into bowls. These Ella set upon the great square table that had been hastily relieved of its layer of dust by Buttercup.
To Struan’s discomfort, Justine promptly sat on the end of a bench as if taking breakfast in a dirty kitchen was quite the thing.
Arran abandoned his musical efforts and sat beside Justine with Niall on his knee.
“Good God,” Calum muttered. “Surely you do not intend to have your company sit in this mayhem and eat amid the filth.”
“Gael came to feed me,” Struan said simply. “She is a wonderful woman who has helped me greatly. I would not offend her and neither, I assure you, would Arran. He knows every one of his people—including their children—and regards them as his responsibility. He’s particularly fond of the Mercers.”
“But Justine has never—”
“Justine appears entirely comfortable,” Struan remarked, smiling down into Kirsty’s somber face. “This young lady looks hungry to me.”
Calum shrugged and approached the table. “I give up. We shall get through this and remove to the castle where we can speak sanely.”
Jugs of thick cream, a bowl of honey, and a pot of fragrant coffee graced the rude table. Gael placed cups before each diner and gathered her children to her side. “We’ll be leavin’ ye now.” Her face was flushed from working over the stove, and from discomfort at her unfamiliar surroundings, no doubt. She bobbed a curtsy. From the sloping wooden board beside deep sinks she took a glass bowl crowded with snowdrops, purple sweet violets, and bright blue speedwell and set it in the middle of the table. “Robert and I will await your instructions, m’lord,” she said to Struan. At Arran she directed the sweetest of smiles. “It’s verra good t’see you, your lordship. Please tell her ladyship she’s sorely missed at Kirkcaldy and we all look forward to her return.”
“Your words will bring her great pleasure,” Arran said.
Gael bobbed again. “Is wee Lady Elizabeth well?”
“Blooming,” Arran said, grinning. “And a handful.”
When the Mercers had left, Calum commented, “You always did have a way with the tenants, Arran. I do believe they love you. Not a usual situation between Scottish lairds and their people.”
“A usual situation between the lords of Stonehaven and their people,” Arran said. “But you already know that.”
Justine ate her porridge with evident enjoyment. “Ella,” she said, “your papa tells me you are a remarkable seat upon a horse.”
“I ride well enough,” Ella mumbled. Her black, waist-length hair hung in a tangled mass. Her thick lashes gleamed darkly about large, uptilted black eyes. At sixteen she was, indeed, a beauty.
Max squirmed on his bench. “I’m t’swim in the river wi’ a bunch o’ the laddies today,” he said. “Can I go now?”
“No,” Justine said, utterly serene. “It is far too cold and it is time for you to begin your instruction.”
“Papa,” Max said. “I want t’swim wi’—”
“You will not be swimming today,” Struan said, avoiding both Arran and Calum’s eyes. “I have need of you here.”
“It is evident that I haven’t arrived a moment too soon,” Justine said. She
waited until Struan turned toward her. “I’m glad you have agreed that I should take the children in hand and prepare them for their rightful place in society.”
He put too large a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, burned his tongue, and coughed.
“Justine,” Calum said. “This lodge is a disgrace. I mean no disrespect to Arran or Struan—in a way I still think of this estate as my own home. I did grow up here. But this lodge was all but abandoned many years since and it is unfit—entirely unfit—for habitation. Particularly by a gentle lady completely unaccustomed to discomfort.”
Justine showed every sign of listening politely. When Calum had finished, she set down her spoon. “You misjudge me, brother. I am no milk-and-water miss. I am a mature woman who has passed from the spun-glass to the serviceable-plate phase of life. Do you intend to continue to live here, Struan?”
Whatever he said was bound to plunge him deeper into this new dilemma. “Yes,” he told her. That, at least, was true.
“Why?” Arran asked.
The question stopped every spoon. Arran regarded Struan steadily. “What is this all about? A few weeks since I left you in charge of Kirkcaldy. I return to find the castle all but deserted and you living here in squalid conditions.”
“Slightly unsuitable conditions,” Justine said archly. “Squalid is such a nasty word.”
“Slightly unsuitable conditions,” Arran said dutifully.
Despite his tension, Struan hid a smile. Justine could quell the strongest of men.
“Answer my question,” Arran insisted.
“I am not a child,” Struan told him. “I confess I have certain concerns that have led me to seek distance from the castle. I can handle my own problems, Arran.”
“You aren’t handling your—”
“They are my problems.”
“And you are my younger brother. And I am the head of this household. And you owe me your allegiance in matters concerning this family.”
“You have my allegiance in all things. You do not have my permission to meddle in things that are my own affair.”
Bride Page 6