Bride

by Stella Cameron

  Her shoulders became straighter. “How dare you suggest it could have been a lover. I was a married woman. Iam a married woman.”

  “Commendable,” Struan said. “Was it your husband or your lover who hit you?” The marks on her face turned his stomach, but he must not weaken with this creature.

  “I told you I’m married,” she said. “It was my husband who hit me.”

  “A charming fellow, but what has this to do with me?”

  She stood and untied her bonnet. This she set on the seat of the chair before sweeping into his bedchamber.

  He followed her. “This is inappropriate—and given your history, very possibly dangerous. Kindly remove yourself. You may use the refuge of the room my wife so kindly provided you for the night. I shall not expect to see you in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance.”

  While she was being so sorry, she toured his room, running her hands over the bedposts and across the counterpane, examining twin gilt tigers that flanked the black marble fireplace.

  “Were you not given a room?”

  “I was.”

  “And taken there?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then why are you not there now?”

  “I’m lonely.”

  Struan set his teeth.

  “And I’m frightened. You said as how Glory could come to you if she needed anything. You said it after you’d ruined me.”

  Struan looked behind him, half expecting to find someone listening to their conversation.

  “Afraid your wife will hear?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Just come from her, have you?”

  This must be part of what the thing who had written the letters intended. “Who sent you here?”

  “I did. I came because I need help.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You will. I’m ever so sorry I’ve got to ask, but there’s no one else I can turn to.” She faced him with her head shyly bowed. “And anyway, I know a gentleman in your position wouldn’t want his business talked about to others.”

  Blackmail. Further blackmail? Or the beginning of what was to come from the letter-writer?

  “What is your husband’s name?”

  Her chin rose sharply. “I said I was giving you a chance by coming here. A chance to make sure what we know is kept between ourselves.”

  “And I asked your husband’s name.” Weakness—even a hint of weakness—could be disastrous with such a baggage as this.

  She said, “Mr. Smith. What else would it be?”

  “And where would I find this Mr. Smith?”

  She smiled secretively. “Maybe I don’t know.”

  “But you do know, don’t you? Just as you know all about the letters he’s been writing—just as you’ve been sent here as part of whatever foolish scheme the two of you hope to bring to pass.”

  “I don’t know anything about letters,” she said, raising her face.

  Struan remained in the open doorway. “Of course not. You simply happened to arrive on my doorstep at a time when your husband—I assume this is your husband, since he claims to be so in his scurrilous missives—has been annoying me with his insolent approaches for weeks.”

  In the years since she’d come to him in his cell at the abbey she’d grown more maturely seductive, if in a coarse manner. The gray dress enhanced rather than disguised her voluptuous body—no doubt by deliberate design. With a nonchalance he doubted was real, she took off the cloak and spread it on his bed. “You have no proof that I know anything about any letters.”

  “I wish you to leave my house—now.”

  “That won’t be possible, m’lord.” She began untying the tapes on her gown. “I’ll be comfortable enough here—with you to keep me safe.”

  Rough treatment of females wasn’t within Struan’s experience. He flexed his hands and sought for what course he should take to rid himself of this venomous nuisance.

  The dress descended over her shoulders and breasts and fell in a heap at her feet. She stepped out, swept up the garment, and deposited it atop her cloak. The chemise she wore was little better than no covering at all. Her nipples showed big and dark, their centers poking at the thin fabric. The triangle of black hair between her thighs was obscenely revealed.

  “I see you haven’t lost interest in what Glory’s got,” she said, raising a hand high up a bedpost and swaying a little. She played with a nipple through the bodice of the chemise and passed her tongue over her lips. “Your new wife’s a cripple, then. And very much the cool lady. Not at all the kind of woman for a man like you—a man of hot tastes.”

  “Hold your tongue—”

  “You hold my tongue. With yours, darlin’. I remember how you felt. Never could forget that. Come on. We’ve already wasted too much time. We shouldn’t waste any more.” She drew the chemise up about her hips, revealing the silvery gray stockings she wore beneath. Garters of red satin were tied above each knee. The rest was naked enticement. “Come on, then. Come on. That cold one can’t give you what Glory can. Close her eyes, does she? Press her legs together to keep you out?” Glory splayed her legs and propped her elbows upon the bed.

  Struan slammed the door and planted his fists on his hips. “Do not mention my wife. I do not wish to hear her name upon your lips.”

  “Ooh, we mustn’t mention the fine, crippled lady.”

  He alternately clenched and flexed his hands. “My wife is—” Words would be wasted on this whore. “Dress and get out.”

  Her face crumpled theatrically. “You said—”

  “Get out.”

  “I do know about the letters.”

  Muscles in his shoulders lowered a fraction. “Do you, now? And what is it you know about them?”

  Keeping her eyes on his, Glory Willing Smith ripped apart the front of her chemise and stripped off the tattered remnants.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, woman?”

  Her breasts were ripe white globes, tipped dark and traversed with pale-blue veins. Her waist was still narrow and her hips lush. Once more she propped herself against the mattress and raised one silver-silk-clad knee. She rocked the leg back and forth, displaying herself with evident relish.

  In a single motion, Struan retrieved the remains of the chemise and her dress. “You will be leaving. Will you put these on yourself, or shall I summon a maid to assist you and one of the male servants to eject you?”

  “I know about the seal on the letters.” Holding the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she revolved and leaned forward, presenting her buttocks, laying her torso, arms outstretched, upon the counterpain.

  He felt his color drain. “Lord.” No other words would come.

  “Like it, do you?”

  “He did this to you? Your husband?”

  “He had to get the blood for the finger spot from somewhere, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, my God.” Struan drove the fingers of both hands into his hair. “Why?”

  “He did it more than once, y’know. It looks better now since I ran away from him. He’d strip me naked and thrash me with those big, heavy gloves on his hands. Then he’d write his precious letters while I screamed, and take my blood to make a seal. Said it was symbolic.”

  A shudder passed the length of Struan’s spine. “Cover yourself, please.”

  “Squeamish, are we?”

  “It isn’t seemly for you to be naked before me.”

  “It was seemly enough when you took me in that cell. If you hadn’t done that, Mr. Smith wouldn’t have used me so.”

  Struan turned away and fought for control. He must not forget the falsehood that had probably been invented to involve him with this female in the first place. “How did your husband learn of what had happened to you … earlier?”

  “With you, you mean? When we rutted?”

  He bit back a curse. “Yes.”

  “Told him, didn’t I. Had to when the money stopped coming. He thought it was by w
ay of being some settlement from an old aunt of mine. When the money stopped, he was angry. Then he found out there’d never been an aunt and he beat me till I told about you. No man’s pride will take that. He said you should have to pay for the rest of your life for picking what he should have picked.”

  “Odd he didn’t notice the bare tree earlier,” Struan said wryly.

  “That’s as may be—or not. It doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s decided to make you pay anyhow.”

  “And you are here to help him, of course?”

  She stood up and flew at him, both fists raised. “How could you! You don’t know what I’ve suffered.”

  He caught her wrists and held on while she wriggled and fought, her fine breasts swinging where he could not fail to watch them with fascination.

  Panting, she grew still. “He’s going to make you pay more than you’ve ever paid. I didn’t have to tell you that, but I wanted to.”

  “To tell me what I already know from the letters? Thank you.”

  “Let me stay!” She struggled afresh. “Please let me stay. He’ll kill me if I go back, I know he will.”

  “You cannot remain here.”

  “But I can be useful to you.” She became limp, and Struan released her wrists. Promptly, she threw her arms about his neck and layered her body to his. Her heat struck through his clothes. “Use me, my lord. Use me in any way that brings you pleasure or usefulness—”

  “Stop.”

  “No. I won’t stop. I can’t. I’ll warm your bed when you can’t abide the cold one anymore. I’ll—”

  “You’ll get away from here.” He managed to drag her hands from his neck, only to all but buckle when she thrust inside his breeches to squeeze his shaft.

  “Damn you, woman!”

  He leaned over her back and surrounded her waist. The instant her feet left the floor she kicked him—kicked him and sank her teeth into the flesh at his side.

  Struan gasped and staggered, crashing into a writing table. They fell together, smashing the delicate piece to splinters that gouged wherever they found skin. Struan grabbed for the woman, but she squirmed away. He would not hit her, he would not. The welts and bruises on her back and buttocks sickened him. No man would take pleasure in wounding a creature so much weaker.

  “Glory! Be still.”

  Her response was to surge over him, rending his shirt as she went, flattening her breasts to his naked chest. Her teeth were bared. “I can’t go. I can’t and I won’t. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. And I can help you, I tell you, if you’ll only listen.”

  She’d succeeded in tearing open his breeches and sitting astride his hips. “I’ll tell Mr. Smith I’m here to help him. I swear to God I will. I’ll write and say I’ll be his eyes inside your home. Don’t you see what he’ll think about that?”

  “He’ll think you’ve made an excellent job of what he sent you to do.”

  “No!” she screamed. “No. My life depends on this, my lord. Send me away and he’ll find me and kill me. He intends to get everything that’s yours, I tell you. And he’ll kill anyone you care about to make you do what he wants. You won’t believe that, but it’s true.”

  Struan grew still. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll not tell you everything, because then you’ll have no reason to let me stay.” She began to cry, great heaving sobs that displayed her flesh to advantage. “What I’ve said is the right of it. If I say I decided to come here and help him, he’ll have to hope I’ve not given him away. I’ll tell him I’m doing it to make sure he shares everything with me. He’ll believe me, I know he will. And I’ll tell you everything he intends to do before it happens. That way you’ll be prepared.”

  What choice did he have? If he sent her away, he might never know if he’d missed the best chance he had to get the better of her husband. “You’ll write to him?”

  She wiped away tears and pushed back the riot of black hair that had fallen loose. “I know he intended to come this way shortly. I know a way of getting a message to him.”

  “How?”

  “I won’t say another word until I’m sure you’ll keep your end of the bargain.”

  “Get up,” he ordered her. “I am a man who keeps his word. I do not like the set of this, but I’ll test you, Glory. One false step and you’ll be glad to return to your monster husband.”

  Grasping her shoulders proved a mistaken strategy. Crooning, she fastened her clever fingers on his rod and all but managed to push him inside her.

  With a violent shove, he tossed her to the floor beside him and stood, pulling his breeches to rights.

  “You want me,” she whined.

  “There are some things over which a man’s mind has little control. A bodily reaction is all you accomplished, my dear— all you could ever accomplish again.”

  “Is that why you sleep so far from your beloved wife? Because it’s only your mind that needs anything from her?”

  “Push me, madam, and I shall have to rethink our bargain. How are your husband’s letters delivered? Who brings them?”

  She scrambled to her feet and said, “I don’t know.”

  “Come now, you must know.”

  “I’d tell you if I did.”

  Struan did not believe her. He longed to look upon Justine again, to behold her gentle, intelligent face and feel her tenderly sensual touch. “I’ll leave you now,” he told Glory. “I suggest you find your way to the room you were given and stay there until morning. After that we shall decide how best to proceed.”

  He took a fresh shirt and set his clothes to rights. While he did so, Glory made a haphazard job of putting her own garments together. At least she covered her nakedness, more or less.

  Struan didn’t wait to usher her from his rooms. Rather, he strode through the anteroom and crossed the bridge, desperate to return to his wife. From now on they would share the same rooms. The difficulties to be overcome there could be discussed. He would explain them to Justine and she would help him make appropriate decisions. A woman with such a fine mind should be included in decisions about how her life might be lived. She had told him as much and she was right.

  And the next step would be to tell her about the children— and even, perhaps, about his early conviction that he should embrace the priesthood and swear his oath to celibate abstinence.

  He hit the steps at a run, his boots clattering downward on stone.

  “Struan!” Justine met him in the vestibule. “Oh, Struan, I saw someone. I was too afraid to come, so I waited. Then I was too afraid not to come in case—”

  “Hush,” he said, framing her face. “Slowly, my love. Tell me slowly—once we have returned to your chamber.”

  Her tension flowed away before his eyes. “Yes. Yes, of course you are right. I am overset. You will think me foolish, but I thought I saw someone looking into my room after you left. Then, while I waited there, I decided whoever it was might have been looking for you and might then have gone to do you harm.”

  “You feared for no reason,” he told her.

  Justine’s smile faded. She looked past him and all color ebbed from her cheeks.

  Struan turned to see Glory, her dress undone and sagging, the tatters of her chemise trailing from her bodice, slowly descending the steps from the Pavilion.

  Justine covered her mouth.

  “I’ll go to my room now, then, my lord,” Glory said. “Just like you told me to.” Her hair still flowed about her shoulders and she dragged her cloak behind her. The bonnet hung from her fingers by a single ribbon. She accomplished a demeanor of complete confusion. A dazed, foully used woman …

  “Justine, this is not as it appears.”

  Tears filled her eys, and she drew away from Struan as if he were a fiend.

  “Thank you, then, my lord,” Glory said vaguely, walking between her host and hostess as if in her sleep. “I’m glad I can do your bidding. I’ll be in my room when you need me.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

 
Ella rode north and prayed her excellent sense of direction wouldn’t fail her tonight.

  What she intended could end in disaster—or it could help Papa and take away the ache that hadn’t left her throat since Devlin North’s first visit to Kirkcaldy.

  Saber wouldn’t refuse her request—not the Saber who had become her friend in Cornwall. She remembered the evening when he’d searched her out because he’d failed to see her at the Franchot Fair. She blinked back tears. Even now she knew the scent of him, clean, masculine—and the feel of him, strong yet gentle and so very protective.

  From the first moment they met, she’d felt the drawing together of their two spirits. Saber had been a little drunk! The memory warmed her and she grinned. He flirted openly with her—something he would never do sober—and Papa and Justine had been indulgently amused. They had encouraged Saber to court her. Papa knew she was not Saber’s social equal, but he considered her worthy of him and thought Saber would be good for her. Justine, who had said Ella brought out the best in Saber, had clearly hoped they would eventually become more than friends.

  But Saber had left. With polite but distant farewells, he’d simply said he must leave and had evaded her questions about any future meetings.

  Ella pressed her lips together and raised her face to the night sky. Saber would not turn her away now. He would help her.

  Hoping its absence wouldn’t be quickly noted, she had taken a piebald filly intended for the marquess’s daughter, Elizabeth, when she was old enough to ride. The horse was small but game, and Ella was certain they were making good time. She had nothing to guide her but the few comments she’d heard about the location of Devlin’s home. The Kirkcaldy estates had a common boundary with acreage surrounding Northcliff Hall.

  Unfortunately, Ella had only the vaguest notion of the distance to the farthest northerly reaches of Kirkcaldy, and she knew nothing of the actual placement of Northcliff Hall on its grounds.

  The moon, high and white, aided her on her way. The night was warm and still. With fear as her greatest enemy, she followed a well-beaten track used by tenants from far-flung reaches to bring produce to market in Kirkcaldy Village.

  She had no idea how long she’d been riding when she heard the “hoo—hoo—hoo—hooo,” of a Tawny owl. The filly broke stride and skittered sideways. Ella quieted her, and worked to calm her own beating heart. She looked up. The owl’s graceful shape flew silently across the moon’s glow and abruptly swooped.