Bride

by Stella Cameron

  Ella came closer. “That is where you live, Mr. North?”

  “Devlin, please. Yes, that is my Scottish home.” He laughed. “And, coincidentally, it is to the north.”

  “How long has Saber been there?” Justine asked.

  Devlin puffed up his cheeks and spread his hands on massive thighs. “Oh, a while now. We were friends at Oxford and we kept up with each other through the years. Coincidence he should turn out to be related to Calum—but those things happen.”

  “I cannot imagine why he did not come to us direct,” Justine said. “After all, we are his family.” She sounded distressed.

  “He’ll come to you in good time.”

  There was something in what Devlin said—or perhaps in the way he did not say something—that troubled Struan deeply. “I remember Saber well,” he said, all good humor. “Independent, unless I miss my mark. I imagine he wants to be his old self before he puts in an appearance. Am I right, Devlin?”

  “Absolutely right.” With hands the size of lions’ paws, Devlin slapped his knees. “Anyway, I promised Saber I should drop in and give you news of him. Let you know he’s recovering well.”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  All eyes turned to Ella, and she blushed so brilliantly that Struan had to stop himself from going to her.

  Devlin’s extraordinary eyes narrowed a fraction. “He knows.”

  The girl’s smile had pathetic hope. “Should he like me to visit him? Did he say he’d like to see me?”

  Evident discomfort powered Devlin’s abrupt rise from the couch. “I’m sure he would have if he’d thought of it. He mentioned what an agreeable child he found you to be in Cornwall. I’ll mention your kind offer to him.”

  Ella’s heavy lashes lowered, but not before tears shone in her eyes.

  “Duty dispensed, then,” Devlin said heartily. “Shall I give Saber your good wishes?”

  “That and more,” Justine said, but she sounded strained and she did not take her gaze from Ella’s face. “And tell him we are anxious to see him.”

  “I shall do that.” Bowing deep, Devlin swung away and, with a last long stare in Ella’s direction, left the room.

  No one spoke until the ring of his boots receded.

  “Well,” Struan said, too loudly. “We must be grateful that Saber is on the mend.”

  “On the mend from what?” Justine said softly. “I do not like it. He is trying to ensure we do not go near him.”

  Struan shared her suspicion, but he said, “Nonsense. He had no way of knowing you and Calum would be in these parts now. I’m certain news of your presence surprised him and he is simply being polite. A man has a right to deal with ills as he chooses.” A principle to which he subscribed but was having increasing difficulty clinging to.

  “An agreeable child,” Ella murmured. Her voice shook. “Once I thought he was my friend, the mirror of my own heart, but he calls me an agreeable child now.”

  “Hush,” Struan said, going to her.

  Ella would not allow him to hold her hands. “It is all for nothing. I am what I am and—”

  “Please don’t,” he implored.

  She looked directly at Justine. “No. No, Papa, do not concern yourself. I shall be very well as always. Best that I give up this coming-out nonsense. After all, we both know no man will want me. And I want only one man, so what point can there possibly be?”

  Struan was helpless to do other than watch her sweep from the room, a truly beautiful creature wounded by early circumstances over which she’d had no power. “Go to her, Max,” he murmured, but the boy was already hurrying after his sister.

  “I feared it might be so,” Struan said. “She did think she loved young Avenall.”

  “Men,” Justine said, very low. “How do you avoid the truth of things. She did love him. And she still does.”

  Female wiles had their place in certain situations.

  Justine watched from behind a drape in her sitting room as Struan rode away in the direction of the castle.

  She was “resting”!

  Her morning had been taxing, so Struan had informed her. She must take care of herself for his sake. Pretty words to guarantee he got what he wanted.

  He had yet to take full measure of her determination.

  “I’ll have the cloak now, Mairi,” she said. “And perhaps you’d tell Potts I’m ready for the cart.”

  “Och, m’lady,” Mairi said. “Ye’ll be the death o’ me yet. The master’ll have me liver and lights fer lettin’ ye go when he’s said ye’re t’rest.”

  Justine decided not to explore the nature of Mairi’s “liver and lights.” “You are hardly able to stop a grown woman from deciding to take a ride if she chooses to do so. Please hurry, there’s a good girl.”

  The black velvet cloak was the one she’d worn to travel from Cornwall and very heavy. Justine shrugged it more comfortably around her shoulders and shooed Mairi in front of her and out of the apartments.

  “That was a bonnie gentleman who came t’visit this mornin’,” the maid said over her shoulder. “He certainly sent Miss Ella into a swoon. Buttercup, too. She’s still makin’ moon eyes an’ blatherin’ on about him.”

  “I’m sure I can’t speak for Buttercup’s reactions to Mr. North, but I don’t believe it was Devlin who sent Ella into a swoon, as you put it,” Justine said. She liked Mairi. The girl was open and kind and to be trusted. “Ella is not happy. If you can find ways to cheer her, I should very much appreciate it. Without letting her know we have spoken, of course.”

  “Och, o’course!” Mairi glanced back frequently as they descended the stairs. “Ye leave it t’me, m’lady. Where does the green-eyed gentleman come from, then? I dinna remember seein’ him before.”

  “He’s a neighbor,” Justine said. She recognized a case of infatuation-at-first-sight when she saw it. Mairi was as smitten with Devlin North as she reported Buttercup to be. “Apparently he does not spend much time in these parts. Too dull for him. He has quite the reputation. A man to be avoided at all costs, I should say.”

  “Dearie me,” Mairi said, not with the horror Justine would have hoped for. “Is that a fact?”

  Finally seated in the old cart with Potts driving, Justine swiveled on the makeshift seat to watch the fantastic shapes and colors of the lodge pass from sight behind trees. The place already felt like home.

  She faced forward and felt proud of her lack of nervousness over what lay ahead. What could they say when she refused to leave their precious discussion about her future?

  Bumping along the worn old track, Justine considered the odd visit from Mr. Devlin North and Ella’s distress at learning Saber was so close yet had shown no interest in seeing her. And what could she have meant when she said, “I am what I am”?

  Then there was Devlin’s open admiration of the girl. Justine glowered at the hedgerows they passed. In the hands of such a man, her dear little Ella would be like a baby fed to a tiger. No such thing should happen if Justine had her way— and Justine would have her way.

  But what of Saber? What could cause him to hide from his own family? He should be given time to come to them, but not too much time.

  March had given way to early April and big, starlike white stichwort flowers showed off among the spring-fresh hedgerows. Wood anemones demurely drooped their pale-pink heads, awaiting warmer sunshine to raise their petals to the sky. A chaffinch with some morsel in its beak soared in for a landing. The jangling song of the bird’s mate greeted the arrival of food.

  Justine breathed deeply of Scotland’s sharp moorland scents. A wild and beautiful land. Struan’s land. Her land, now, and she was glad of it.

  Potts urged his nag onward until the castle came into view. Atop a flat mound surrounded at the bottom by a formidable wall, Kirkcaldy’s massive bulk was not at odds with the craggy beauty of its setting. Dramatic, fronted by twin drum towers and with a many-turreted angle tower at each corner, the building flaunted an insolent grandeur.


  At last the cart ground to a halt in a courtyard tucked into the lee of the L-shaped castle. A clock tower topped the castellated balcony over the double doors to the vestibule. On the previous day, as on the night of Justine’s arrival here, she had been too preoccupied to take much note of her surroundings. She was preoccupied again now. She was also determined to be calm.

  Shanks, his bald head glimmering in the pale sunlight, opened the doors to admit her. “Are you expected, my lady?” he asked, his manner hostile.

  “No,” Justine said, feeling contrary and more than a little tired of the Kirkcaldy servants. “And I require no assistance from you.”

  Unfortunately she was forced to ask for assistance anyway. “Where is the dowager, please?”

  Shanks elevated his beaked nose. “In her boudoir.”

  Justine sensed more than saw a slight movement and swung about in time to see Mrs. Moggach’s bulk creeping into the corridor leading to the main staircase. “Ah, Mrs. Moggach,” she said to the housekeeper. “How nice to see you. I’d wanted to thank you for all your efforts at the lodge. On the way to the dowager’s rooms, are you?”

  The housekeeper stopped. “No one said ye were comin’,” she said. “There’s an important meetin’. They’d not want t’be disturbed.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Justine informed the woman. “Is that where you’re going now? To see if the dowager and her guests are ready for tea?”

  “I am indeed.” Moggach’s florid face folded into a secretive and lumpy study in discontent. “I’ll let Her Grace know ye’re in the green salon. Mr. Shanks’ll show ye there.”

  Moggach continued on and Shanks hovered.

  With a withering glance of dismissal in Shanks’s direction, Justine followed the housekeeper. Moggach clumped and puffed so with her own importance that she failed to check behind her until she’d ascended the stairs and arrived at a door. She knocked and awaited a faint “Come” from within.

  Then Moggach saw Justine and scowled.

  Justine favored the woman with blank serenity and let herself into the room. “Good afternoon, Grandmama,” she said to her sartorially spectacular grandparent. “My, is that a new black silk? The jet looks quite splendid on the lace fichu—and in the cap. In fact, you look quite splendid altogether.”

  “She followed me,” Moggach said. “I dinna know she was—”

  “Out,” Grandmama ordered, one rheumatic finger aimed at the door.

  Moggach didn’t argue. Moggach didn’t say a word or make any sound at all. She scurried—if scurrying were possible in one so portly—she scurried from the lovely little boudoir and shut the door with a blurred thud.

  “And out with you, too, missy,” Grandmama ordered Justine. “This is no place for you, and I’m certain the viscount conveyed that fact to you with suitable force.”

  The old lady sat upon a gold-upholstered gilt chaise, her back so starched and her toes so firmly placed upon red and gold carpet that the considerable mound of tapestry cushions behind her were mere decoration.

  Arran lounged with an elbow propped upon the ledge of a niche that held a white marble bust—probably of some former Stonehaven by the set of the nose. Calum stood behind Grandmama with his arms crossed.

  Struan had paused in the act of pacing the carpet before the dowager and appeared both agitated and frustrated.

  The door opened once more and Blanche Bastible entered. “Nothing’s happened yet, has it?” she asked breathlessly, trotting forward in a froth of embroidered mauve crepe weighted down by row upon row of flounces.

  “Mauve?” Grandmama said. “Widowed two months and already in mauve?”

  Blanche tossed her abundant chestnut ringlets. “A year’s mourning is an affectation. Felix always said one should get on with life. Never languish, he always said. Do not draw undue attention to yourself by wallowing in self-pity, he always said. I know, I heard him many times.” She fluffed a flounce. “Anyway, he’ll soon have been gone three months.”

  “Blanche has always made her own rules, Your Grace,” Arran said.

  “Well, she can make them elsewhere,” the dowager pronounced. “This is a private discussion, Mrs. Bastible.”

  “Oh, I know,” Blanche said, tripping to settle herself on the same chaise with Grandmama. “A family discussion. I know my Grace would want me here. And, after all, I have had experience in marrying off a difficult young woman.”

  “Bloody hell,” Arran muttered.

  Struan shocked Justine by turning on the Bastible woman and all but snarling, “Get out! We have more serious matters to deal with than your mindless babbling.”

  Blanche tossed her head and ignored him.

  Calum rested his crossed arms on the back of the chaise and brought his face close to Blanche’s ear. “Grace is a delight, Mrs. B. The puzzle is, why? Or should I say, how?”

  Blanche cast a reproachful glance at Struan, then wiggled with evident satisfaction. “You see, Your Grace. Your grandson knows I am a veritable wonder with young women and their problems. You must allow me to help you with your granddaughter. I understand she is already compromised.”

  Deathly stillness descended.

  “Of course, my daughter never stooped to anything like that, but, after all, as my Felix always said, there but for the grace of God go—”

  “Lady Justine is not compromised,” Struan said loudly.

  Blanche smirked. “This is going to work very nicely, Your Grace. As long as the gentleman is a gentleman, there’s never any problem. And you can be certain that I shall be the soul of discretion in the matter. Not a word of the truth shall pass my lips. Why, just this afternoon I told that lovely Mr. Murray that if he heard any rumors about Lady Justine and the viscount he should say they were forced to spend a night alone together because they were cut off by a storm. There.”

  Struan whipped open the door and said, “There, Mrs. Bastible. We wouldn’t dream of taking up more of your time.”

  “But the dowager needs me.”

  “The dowager will not hear of your being taken advantage of,” Arran said. Separating himself from his ancestor’s niche, he placed a hand beneath his mother-in-law’s elbow, drew her firmly to her feet, and propelled her from the room.

  Her face jerked in all directions as if she searched for an ally, but she went quietly enough.

  “Ghastly female,” Grandmama said before the door had completely closed again. “One wonders about your wife, my lord.”

  “No, one doesn’t,” Arran said. “Grace is a miracle. Her mother is tolerated because she is her mother. No more need be said on the subject.”

  “True,” Struan agreed, resuming his stalking back and forth across the carpet. “I’ll ring for Shanks, Justine. He’ll find you somewhere comfortable to wait. I’ll have some tea brought—”

  “No.”

  “Do as you are told,” the dowager said, pressing her tiny hands into the folds of the exquisite gown. “We are to discuss certain important issues relating to this sham of a marriage you’ve forced upon us. Obviously you do not belong here.”

  “What important issues?”

  “Justine,” Struan said gently. “You need have no fear that I shall do anything but what is best for you. Run along and think about some new gowns. Brides’ head should be filled with such things at a time like this.”

  She could not trust herself to meet his eyes.

  “Justine—”

  “How dare you?” She trembled. Her face flamed and her blood thundered at her temples. “Run along? Think about gowns? You will do what’s best for me. I am five and thirty. I chose you, Struan, Viscount Hunsingore. I chose you because I love you and I am not ashamed of the fact, or of stating the fact. We are to be married. That was not something I planned.” It was not something she had dared to as much as consider.

  “What do you mean by that?” Grandmama said. “You didn’t plan on marriage? Do you mean you had some notion of carryin’ on like some trollop with the man?”r />
  Justine took a long, slow breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her down. “I mean that I had hoped only to be near Struan. To be his helpmate with the children. To keep his home if he needed that. To be a friend. And I hoped he would help with my book. I expected him to meet and marry someone else one day. Until then, I would have accepted whatever I could of him.”

  “Good Lord,” Arran muttered.

  Calum said, “You’re a dashed lucky man, Struan. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  “I should say not,” Arran added.

  Struan stood beside Justine and rested a hand at her waist. “I know how lucky I am,” he told them all. “Luckier than I ever expected to be and certainly luckier than I ever deserved to be.”

  “Drivel,” Grandmama pronounced. “Now get rid of her so that I may get this business over with.”

  Justine’s leg ached. Her temper bothered her more. With gritted teeth, she limped to a chair near a fire in a small, Italian marble fireplace and sat down. “I will not leave and that’s an end of it.”

  “You will do as—”

  “She will stay,” Calum said evenly, countermanding his grandparent. “We are discussing Justine’s life, are we not? Of course we are. I shall make a handsome settlement upon her, Struan. As I have already told you, I expect my sister’s every need and desire to be met.”

  Struan’s jaw jutted. He took up position behind Justine and rested his fingers on her shoulders. “There is none better equipped to take care of her desires than I.”

  “It is your desires I intend to address, young man,” Grandmama said. “Speaking of such matters in front of your future wife is highly unusual and unsuitable. Don’t blame me for the consequences. We must deal with certain aspects of your natural appetites.”

  Justine found she had difficulty breathing at all—and in finding a spot to stare at.

  Arran said, “I say,” and his mouth remained slightly open.

  “I assume you’ve actually seen the extent of Justine’s deformity, Lord Hunsingore?”

  Justine closed her eyes.

  “Grandmama,” Calum said. “I hardly think we need discuss such matters at all.”