Bride

by Stella Cameron

  Justine read on, turned a page, and read to the bottom again.

  Hannah, she realized, had been Struan’s grandmother, the woman he said had never been here, or at least had never been to the ballroom her husband built for her.

  A sprig of dainty, pressed bilberry blossoms fell out. Justine marveled at the preservation of their delicate pink hue.

  Bilberry. There had been bilberry in Struan’s bouquet. She’d left it behind in the ballroom. Mairi had promised to retrieve and dispose of the flowers.

  “To be married because it is the expected thing is not at all acceptable. I know that had he had the choice of every woman in the world he would never have chosen me. But I do not care a fig for that. And I shall not be bought off with his extravagant gifts. What noble ladies does he think would accept an invitation to his precious monstrosity in the wilderness?”

  The ballroom, of course. That had been an extravagant gift. How odd that this book should have come into her hands tonight of all nights.

  Justine turned another page and gasped. A carefully executed watercolor portrait had been slipped into the volume. Smiling impishly at her was a dark-haired young woman in Elizabethan costume. A tiny cap atop her head secured a long, transparent veil of the same creamy color as her embroidered, pearl-studded gown. At her neck a double ruff was visible and ropes of pearls rested against a stiff, elongated bodice.

  The woman’s eyes laughed. Green eyes. Like Arran’s.

  A beautiful creature. On the back of the portrait was the notation, “Me, in the gown I shall not wear for him at the costume ball I shall not go to for him.”

  So this was Hannah. How could she have thought any man would be less than delighted to call her his own?

  The entries stopped quite suddenly. Justine was disappointed—until she went to close the book and discovered another entry, this one on the final pages.

  “I had forgotten this journal. Strange. Perhaps I found it because I needed to read what I had written. If I had ever had daughters, I should have told them about my mistakes and begged that they learn from them Edward always loved me. Of that, I’m certain now. Perhaps my not believing him was a form of greedy vanity. Perhaps I needed to be told too often. Perhaps being told made me feel important.

  “Most of all I regret never having given him the pleasure of seeing me enjoy the ballroom at his hunting lodge. The anger he showed when I failed to go to that costume ball was not feigned I hurt him. Now his injuries from the accident keep him at the castle. He will never hunt again—probably never as much as see his beloved lodge again. He will definitely never attend a ball there with me at his side.

  “What a foolish woman I was. To have recognized his love at last was a gift I did not deserve, but I mourn the lost years. I shall visit the lodge and spend time in the ballroom. Then I’ll tell Edward and I think it will make him happy.”

  Justine closed the book and found her cheeks wet. Poor woman. Poor man. If only they had been honest with each other. To think of so many wasted years was heartbreaking.

  She would not sleep for hours.

  Leaving her bed, she put her robe on once more. Hannah had gone to the ballroom with no memories of being there with the man she loved. For Justine the room would always bear reminders of a sun-filled afternoon and a lithe, dark-haired man who held her and danced for both of them.

  With her single candle, Justine set off through the lodge, grateful for the sense of direction that rarely deserted her. The trek to the ballroom was long, and every step of the way she thought of Struan having been at her side when last she made the journey.

  In the ballroom, her little light did no more than paint shadowy shapes on the walls. Struan had left the piano uncovered, and she sat on the seat. With one hand she picked out notes remembered from the waltz he’d played.

  A sighing sound stilled her fingers.

  Sighing and a current of air that reached her gently.

  From the passageway, no doubt.

  She set the candle on top of the piano and attempted the waltz again. Tomorrow she would ask Struan what it was. She might even ask him to play it for her again. The solution to the dilemma here was to banish awkwardness.

  Hannah had misunderstood her Edward. She had mourned the loss of years when she might have enjoyed his love. If only they had spoken frankly to each other.

  Another sigh raised the small hairs on her spine.

  Justine looked past the candle, looked past the raised lid on the piano, and clung to the edges of her seat.

  A woman reclined on a chaise.

  A woman who sighed and then began to sob softly.

  Justine couldn’t make herself move.

  The chaise was distant, close to the wall, but there was no mistaking the ethereal vision for other than that of a veiled woman.

  Veiled and dressed in clothes from another era. Elizabethan. Creamy cloth studded with pearls that picked up the merest hint of shine from Justine’s poor candlelight.

  Hannah.

  Hannah’s ghost! Justine closed her eyes tightly. She was a sensible woman, definitely not given to fanciful imaginings. The journal and the late hour—together with her own disturbed thoughts—had made her fanciful and befuddled. She opened her eyes again.

  The creature remained where she had been, and her soft sobbing held deep despair. “Oh, don’t,” Justine said. “Be at peace. All was well in the end.”

  More sobbing and sighing were the only responses.

  Shaking, Justine rose, picked up her candle, and approached. Her heart climbed, thudding, into her throat. Perspiration broke out on her face and her body, perspiration that was instantly icy in the cold room.

  A ghost.

  Hannah had not found peace after all. Wasn’t that what they said about ghosts? That they returned because they had not found the peace in this life that allowed them to completely let it go?

  Justine knew so little about such things. She had never believed in them.

  There was a ghost on a chaise in this ballroom.

  Treading softly and slowly, Justine rounded the piano and approached the veiled creature.

  And her candle blew out.

  She dropped the holder, heard it smash, and uttered a shocked cry. A rush of air had hit her face and snuffed the candle.

  The door slammed.

  Justine stood quite still. In a dark room. No, a blackroom. Not a hint of light showed anywhere.

  She shut her eyes once more, squeezed them tightly shut and held her breath.

  To move would be to invite a disastrous fall.

  To stay might mean she would die of pure terror.

  Wait for the dawn.

  Hours away.

  Hours alone.

  With a ghost!

  “Papa! Papa!”

  Still in his cloak and gloves, Struan caught the bundle of sharp bones that hurtled into his arms in the vestibule of the lodge. “Whoa, Max,” he said. “What is it, old chap? Bad dreams?”

  “Lady Justine’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Struan said, aware of how foolish he sounded. “She came back with you and Ella.”

  “That was hours since. Wasn’t it, Ella?”

  Dressed for bed, Ella came forward. “I couldn’t sleep.” She lowered her eyes. “She seemed so unhappy. So a little while ago I went to see if she was resting. I wanted to comfort her.”

  “And she wasna in her bed,” Max said. “Wolves. I heard them mysel’. And they sounded hungry—”

  “Not now, Max,” Struan said, striding past the pair and starting upstairs.

  “She didna take any o’ her things,” Max called after him. “Snatched from her bed, I say. Wolves. Or mayhap the wild hill clans.”

  If anything had happened to Justine …

  She wasn’t in her apartments. Nothing appeared to have been removed. Her bed was turned back as if she’d decided to get up and take a stroll.

  In the small hours of the morning, for God’s sake?

  “She is so very unha
ppy, Papa,” Ella said from behind him.

  He swung to face her. “How so? What makes you say she is unhappy?”

  “I saw her hiding tears. And she could not concentrate on anything I said to her. She did speak to Mairi of flowers. Of having to get the flowers. I don’t know what she meant. But that was all she seemed to care about. I—”

  “Thank you, Ella,” he said. “Please don’t concern yourself further. Everything will be well. Justine is safe, I’m certain. You and Max—away to your beds, if you please.”

  “Aye,” Max said with surprising meekness. “She’ll not leave us, will she?”

  “No,” Struan said determinedly. “She will not leave you. She loves you and she is a woman of honor. Her promise to remain and assist with your upbringing is something you need never fear she’ll break.” If only he could be as certain of his own future with Justine. “To bed with you both. We’ll speak in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he told Ella. “No buts, young lady. Off with you. If I need you, I’ll come. I won’t need you tonight.”

  Leaving them trailing back to their rooms, he dashed through the lodge, cursing his grandfather’s wretched sprawling design every inch of the way.

  Holding aloft the lantern he’d snatched in the vestibule, he wondered how easily Justine had negotiated the dark passageways.

  He paused.

  Surely he was right and she’d returned to the ballroom for the miserable wildflowers he’d gathered for her.

  She should be on her way back by now, yet all about him was silence and—but for his own light—darkness.

  He hurried on until he reached the double doors to the ballroom. Flinging them open, the first thing he saw was Justine.

  She screamed.

  “Oh, my God.” He started forward and halted. “Justine, it’s me. Struan.”

  At her feet lay the remnants of a china candleholder. Dressed in a softly flowing white nightrobe with her hair loose around her shoulders, she stood in the center of the ballroom floor with her arms tightly wrapped about her.

  Her eyes shone huge.

  “What is it, my love? What’s happened here?”

  One hand stole to her mouth.

  “Justine, speak to me.”

  “I have been wrong. I should have been honest with you.”

  He didn’t understand. Quickly, he set the lantern on the mantel and lighted a branch of candles beside the fireplace. Gas, he thought distractedly. Gas was becoming the thing, and they needed it here.

  Justine stared straight ahead. He looked around but could see nothing that might hold her attention.

  “Now,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. “I am here, and whatever has happened is over.”

  “She’s gone.”

  Struan searched the room a second time. “Who’s gone?”

  Justine turned to him. She seemed to see him, really see him for the first time since he’d arrived.

  “Someone was here with you?” he pressed gently.

  Very gradually, color seeped back into her white cheeks. “I… No. The doors swung shut. The draft blew out my candle.”

  “I see.”

  “Honesty,” she muttered.

  Struan approached her carefully. “I should not care to be alone here in the dark,” he said.

  She gave a short laugh. “Why must you always be so kind?” Her thick, dark-brownhair curled about her shoulders. Fashioned of some cobweb-fine white stuff, the robe she wore accentuated her slender but enticing body. Struan could not help but glance at the thrust of her breasts, at the obvious evidence of crested nipples.

  Words all but deserted him. He cleared his throat. “I am not particularly kind, Justine. Just plainspoken.”

  “I do not believe you would be so frightened by darkness that you would screech like a lunatic and stand in one spot, terrified lest you fall over something.” She averted her face.

  Struan raised a hand and held it, hovering, inches from her shoulder. “Was someone here?”

  “No. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “You’ve had a fright, that’s why. Let me help you back to your room.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “No.” He settled his hand on her shoulder. “But perhaps I should like to help you. Would that make a difference?”

  As she turned her head her hair slipped over the soft white fabric of her robe—and over his hand. “When I said I had not been honest with you, that was true. I’ve lied from the moment I arrived at Kirkcaldy.”

  He watched her lips move, glanced into her serious eyes, edged her toward him a little—spread his fingers on her neck beneath her hair. “Justine, I cannot imagine you capable of lying. You are the most candid woman I’ve ever met.” And he was a liar, a liar with another of the damnable, incense-laced letters burning him through the kerseymere of his coat. His enemy had finally made contact again—managed to come and go from the castle without being seen—yet again. Struan had taken the missive discreetly and had yet to open the envelope.

  When Justine came closer of her own volition he inclined his head and met her steady stare.

  “I knew Arran and Grace had gone to Yorkshire. Grace wrote to Philipa and told her. She told her she might be increasing again and that she did not expect to be able to return to Scotland soon.”

  He frowned—and played his fingertips over the soft skin at her nape. “You came although you knew Grace and Arran would not be here?”

  Her chin came up. Softly, she settled a hand on his cheek. “I came because I knew they wouldn’t be here. I planned to find you alone here—with Ella and Max, of course.”

  Struan shook his head. “You said …” What exactly had she said?

  “I said I wished to care for Ella and Max and that I wanted your help with my book.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what you said.” Her featherlike caresses over his cheek and jaw should not cause his gut to clench, or his manhood to quicken. “Exactly. And we did come to some sort of agreement, I believe.” He wanted—no, needed—to spread his hands over her breasts and to kiss her until she willingly stretched beneath him. Naked. Her slender woman’s body naked, as naked as his own—joined with his own, writhing with his own—eventually resting in mutual satisfaction with his own.

  Justine’s eyes went to his mouth. She put her arms around his neck, combed her fingers through his hair… And she rose to her toes to rest her mouth on his.

  Breath rushed from Struan’s lungs. His eyes closed and heat flashed along his veins. A second and he was weak. Another second and he was strong, so strong he could ward off any foe, even the nameless, faceless foe who threatened him and sealed the threat in blood.

  Her kiss was chaste and he let it be so. A chaste kiss from Justine, delivered because she decided to deliver it, was more erotic than any he might have devised.

  Slowly, their lips parted. He opened his eyes and found hers closed. Gradually, she sank from her toes but kept her hands in his hair.

  “You are lovely, Justine,” he told her. “I could never have hoped to hold one so lovely so close to my heart.”

  “I lied to you.” Still she did not open her eyes. “When I came I intended to be alone with you. I planned it because I have thought of little else but you since the moment you first came to meet me at Franchot.”

  He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to break the spell.

  “All I have wanted since that day is to find a way to be with you. I plotted to do so. And then I came to Scotland, praying I might be able to stay where I could at least see you from time to time.”

  No woman had ever made herself vulnerable to him as this woman did now. “Yet you will not have me as your husband?”

  “Please will you answer me honestly?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, Justine.”

  “Is it possible … That is”—she slowly raised her lashes and yearning shone in her eyes—“could you care for me? Enough to find me an acceptable helpma
te?”

  “Acceptable?”

  “To share your life? All aspects of your life? Is it possible that you did not ask me to mary you entirely because it seemed the right thing to do?”

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “I am going to show you the answer to that question, lovely lady. Containing myself until the appropriate moment will take great control on my part, but I shall manage.”

  “Is that your way of saying you do have some feelings for me?”

  Struan gritted his teeth. He pulled her face against his chest and kissed the top of her head. Her hair streamed over his fingers and he tugged it lightly. “I have a great many feelings for you. All of them want me to do certain things right now.”

  “Then do them.”

  He laughed aloud, and as quickly sobered. With a knuckle, he raised her face until he could rain small, hard kisses over her brow, her nose, her cheekbones and jaw—the corners of her mouth. “I do believe I shall do some of them,” he said when he paused for air. “But this ballroom is not at all comfortable. Do you think I could persuade you to come to my apartments for … for a little companionship before I return you to your own quarters?”

  “Shall we … Struan, will I learn more of what happens between a man and a woman? In private? A man and a woman who wish for It?”

  Sometimes she had the most peculiar turn of phrase. “I do believe you will. And I shall enjoy being your teacher.” He must be very careful with her, not an easy task when he could not deny his own burgeoning lust.

  Her brow pleated. “Well, in light of these developments, I think that would be a perfectly appropriate idea.”

  Struan pushed his chin forward and produced a jaunty grin. “Would you care to explain that statement to me?”

  “I love you, Struan.”

  He stopped smiling.

  “I will always love you,” she whispered.

  The slow revolution within him might be his stomach or his heart—or both.

  “You said you thought we should marry. The rest of them agreed.”

  “I did,” he managed to say. “And they did. And I still do.”

  Justine stepped away and put her hand in his. “I do, too.”

  Chapter Fourteen