Bride

by Stella Cameron

  “My brother has no sense of humor,” Struan put in, glowering at Arran. “Neither does he believe in tact. The unspeakable has happened. In my absence yesterday a visitor arrived and contrived to get herself installed at the lodge. None other than Glory Willing, or Glory Smith as she now says her name is.”

  All color fled Grably’s face and he whispered, “No.”

  “Yes. Later she managed to make it appear that I had ravished her.”

  “To your wife?”

  “Who else? The plan is to force a way into my life where she can help her husband in some damnable scheme to part Arran and myself from a goodly portion of the Rossmara fortune.”

  “That is preposterous.”

  “Do you believe I raped her at the abbey?”

  Grably shook his head slowly. “My son, I know what I saw, but I do not believe you instigated the act. I assure you I could not possibly believe it.”

  “Help me deal with her,” Struan begged. “Come with us now and … why do you say you could not possibly believe I instigated the act?”

  Grably studied the sky again. “No matter. I hope what I have said helps you find peace. Thank you for offering me a place in your home, but I cannot accept.”

  “I need you,” Struan told him. “I need your wisdom. And with you present and clearly my boon friend, Glory will be shaken. Surely she will leave at the very sight of you.”

  “My shame knows no bounds.”

  Struan looked sharply at the other man.

  “It was not merely a desire for a less structured life that made me leave the abbey, my son. I had to leave.”

  Calum shifted impatiently at Struan’s side but subsided when Struan shook his head slightly.

  “My brother has made a plea for you to lend him your support,” Arran said. “Is there any good reason for your refusal?”

  “I will come with you,” Grably told Struan quietly. “She is an evil creature and must be banished from your doorstep with all haste. Before she poisons everything you hope to build in this new marriage of yours.”

  Struan drew in a great, grateful breath. “Thank you. You shall not regret your decision. Justine and I will make you a place for as long as it pleases you to remain. Perhaps you will consider becoming instructor to my son”—he met Arran’s narrowed eyes and immediately returned his gaze to Grably’s—“Max is a fine boy, but sadly lacking in formal lessons.”

  Grably inclined his head. “I know Max. A fine boy indeed. But you will not wish me to become his teacher, my lord.”

  “Yes—”

  “No. It’s only appropriate that you know why I will come with you—even though I doubt I can be of assistance with the woman. You see, she in unlikely to listen to any threats I might issue.”

  Struan spread his hands. “It cannot hurt to try. Such a creature is almost certain to be shaken by your authority.”

  Grably laughed without mirth. “The authority of another man she toppled from his virtuous throne? A man she contrived to ruin with her beautiful, sinful body? I was forced to flee the abbey and roam—a man of God with no right to approach that God, a man sentenced to forever search out ways to make amends for his wrongs.”

  Arran and Struan appeared as uncomprehending as Struan felt. “To look upon a woman with … You always told me such lapses were to be expected and that with prayer one might be forgiven.”

  Grably pulled up his hood and threaded his hands into his loose sleeves. “For looking, yes. But I, too, was seduced by Glory Willing.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mairi fussed around Justine. “Ye look like an angel, my lady. The viscount’s right t’want ye with him when he’s entertainin’ a visitor.”

  Justine stood mutinously still, suffering Mairi’s primping and poking with stoic indifference—at least on the outside. Struan had sent for her!

  She bit the inside of her cheeks to stop her lips from trembling. “I don’t believe I feel well enough to join my husband,” she said.

  Mairi finished fastening Saber’s amethyst-and-diamond necklace above the bodice of a dress the same color as the pink-lavender stones. Next she pulled a small stool close and stood on it to place a diamond-studded comb into Justine’s simply coiled hair.

  “Have you misunderstood me, Mairi?”

  “It’s such a pleasure t’be back wi’ ye,” Mairi responded. “Miss Ella’s a love, but it’s so much more excitin’ t’be here. Mr. North visited a number o’ times, but I’m not certain Miss Ella’s taken a likin’ t’him, if ye know what I mean.”

  “I know you are avoiding my question.”

  “What d’ye think o’ Mr. North?”

  “He is too old for Ella. But he is charming.”

  “Have ye taken the measure o’ his eyes, my lady?”

  Irritation and apprehension grew in equal parts. “I cannot say that I have made particular note of Mr. North’s eyes.” Struan’s were quite another matter. Struan’s eyes held the depth of the man, the passion … Justine could not stand this. Loving him and wanting him, being furious with him and determined to avoid him. All at the same time.

  Mairi touched her shoulder lightly. “Are ye feelin’ ill?”

  “No! Would you kindly help me remove this gown? I wish to rest.”

  Mairi clapped her hands. “Oh, my lady. Are ye increasin’ already?”

  Justine pursed her lips and turned her burning face away from Mairi. “I fail to see how you would make such a connection, and—”

  “A newly wed lady,” Mairi said, all coy. “Too indisposed to be at her husband’s side when he’s receiving company. Well, y’know what everyone’ll think. Is it so?”

  “That will do, Mairi.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid was instantly demure. “Mr. North has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. And he’s built like a great tree. A girl could die of delight just lookin’—”

  “Do not look at Mr. North,” Justine ordered. “He has a … a reputation. Dear me, there is so much work for me to do with my writing, so many desperately urgent topics to address for the good of all women.”

  “Ye’re distressed.” Mairi clasped her hands before her. “Ye need t’calm yourself. Mayhap I should explain t’the master.”

  “Oh, really!” Justine walked away, leaving the maid on her stool. “I shall go down for a very short while. Kindly be ready to attend me when I return. This wretched gown is impossible to shed on one’s own.”

  She didn’t wait for Main’s next response, but made her way to the freshly refurbished suit to which Struan had summoned her. In the same wing as the ballroom, the apartment consisted of three rooms: bedchamber, small study, and sitting room. Justine arrived to find the sitting room door open. Inside she could see a tall, distinguished-looking man standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a brown monk’s habit and sandals.

  What new trick of Struan’s was this?

  Justine entered the sitting room and discovered Struan stretched out upon a Chinese divan. At the sight of her, he leaped to his feet and advanced. “My dear. I want you to meet a very old and treasured friend.”

  With a hard stare, she willed him not to touch her and he dropped the hand he’d extended toward her arm. She turned to the newcomer and said, “Welcome. Kindly tell me how I should address you?”

  “This is Abbot John Grably,” Struan said, his eagerness cutting into the pathetically fragile shield she’d hastily erected against him.

  “I was an abbot,” the man said. “I have chosen to leave my order and take to the highways and byways of our beautiful countryside. I should be honored if you called me Brother John.

  “Brother John,” she murmured.

  “Struan has told me he met you in Cornwall.”

  “My home is in Cornwall.”

  “It was in Cornwall,” Struan corrected her. “Brother John is to stay with us, dearest. I am hopeful we may persuade him to undertake Max’s education.”

  Justine looked at the monk with fresh interest. “
You have taught before?”

  The man was handsome in a hawkish manner. Thick hair, more gray than black, swept back from a high brow. His deep-set eyes appeared almost the color of pewter. “Teaching has been my life,” he told her. “But I am not certain we should make very definite plans as yet.”

  “Why?” Justine asked, even as she saw Struan about to argue the point himself.

  “Because I may not be able to stay very long,” Brother John said. “I do think it admirable that you and Struan have undertaken to care for two children who are not your own.”

  “I love Ella and Max,” she said promptly.

  “Such generous hearts. How fortunate for Struan that his wife is as willing to accept those orphaned waifs as he was.”

  Justine frowned.

  “Abbot—Brother John”—Struan enclosed her wrist in a bruising grip—“this is not something that should be discussed now. I will explain why later.”

  “Explain now,” Justine said through barely parted lips.

  The monk shrugged eloquently. “I merely wished to commend you both for your dedication to two children who are related to neither of you. A most unusual and unselfish act.”

  “Not related… to you?” Justine said to Struan. “What can he mean?”

  Struan’s mouth worked soundlessly.

  “Oh, my goodness.” The monk appeared stricken. “Oh, dear. Struan, my good man, I had no idea. Since you’ve chosen to tell me, I assumed …”

  “The children are not mine,” Struan said, his features hardening. “The story that they were mine by an early marriage was concocted to ease their way when I took them with me to Franchot Castle.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I failed to tell you the truth—exactly.”

  “This is terrible.” Brother John’s voice trembled with emotion. “My dear people, how can I make amends?”

  “I should have told you the truth, but my thoughts were for the children’s comfort. Please believe that, Justine.”

  “Believe?” How could she believe anything he told her?

  “Of course she believes you,” the monk said with a forced laugh. “I understand your courtship and marriage has been something of an unexpected event even to yourselves. It is little wonder some minor points have yet to be addressed.”

  “Minor?” Justine stared at him in furious amazement. “It is minor that the children I took as my stepchildren are not related to my husband? A husband who supposedly prized honesty so highly. How, pray, did you come by Ella and Max? Who are they related to?”

  “They—”

  “Hush, now.” The visitor took Justine’s hand and led her to the divan Struan had vacated. “Sit down and be calm. Such things as these will only strengthen your union in the end. I may never have enjoyed the married state, but I have observed it in a scholarly manner. Adversity draws husbands and wives together.”

  She could scarcely concentrate on his words.

  “After all, surely you didn’t accept the same unlikely story as the staff and tenants of Kirkcaldy.”

  Justine shook her head slowly.

  “Brother John,” Struan said urgently. “I think my wife and I need time alone.”

  The other man smiled wryly and stepped away from Justine. “Of course. I cannot express the depth of my distress over any dissent I may have caused. But, after all, you cannot have thought clearly, my lady. Had he been married and a father, a man of Struan’s honor would not have come within hours of taking his final priestly vows.”

  Short of using force, stopping Justine from locking herself in her rooms—and locking him out—had been beyond Struan’s power. He’d then been compelled to all but beg Brother John to remain at the lodge. The man was, even now, overcome with grieving self-recrimination and lay prostrate in his bedchamber. That he would not insist upon leaving once he’d rested was far from certain.

  There was a tap at the door to the library where he’d closeted himself. Struan ignored the intrusion, but the door opened anyway and Buttercup trotted in. “Mr. Nudge sent me, m’lord. Says I’m t’warn ye.”

  Sunk deep in a chair, Struan did not answer.

  “Company comin’. Now. The old duchess and that Mrs. Bastible.”

  Struan massaged his temples.

  “Her ladyship sent Mairi away hours ago. Said she wouldna’ see any o’ us. No one dares go near. Mr. Nudge thinks ye’ll want t’be ready for the duchess.”

  “Ready?” Struan thundered, leaping from his chair and striding about the room. “And how exactly should I be ready for the duchess in any way other than the expected? Have Nudge show her in here. And that damn … and Mrs. Bastible. Bring tea. Bring cakes. Bring anything you bloody well please.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The girl ducked her head and curtsied. “I’ll tell Mr. Nudge.”

  “You do that,” Struan said to the door as it closed behind the maid. “Come one, come all. My wife thinks me a damnable liar—which I am. And a lecher—which I am not, although I might at least he diverted if I were. The man I most admire in the world is collapsed because I failed to warn him that I am a liar who has told his wife barely two words of truth since she came into my care. The whore who brought me to this low point is ensconced beneath my roof, and it can only be a matter of time before my brother and best friend decide to abandon me.

  “Oh, and my wife will probably die rather than converse with me again!”

  He minced with tiny, exaggerated steps toward the center of the room and executed a flourishing bow. “Welcome, Duchess. I am so glad you could join me for tea.”

  “Don’t you toy with me, my boy.

  Struan raised his face to be confronted by the Dowager Duchess of Franchot with cane brandished. If it were possible, her shrunken figure appeared even more so. Blanche Bastible, on the other hand, positively bloomed inside her canary-yellow gown and matching plumed bonnet.

  “Tea, did you say?” Blanche inquired. “Thank goodness. I am quite peckish. Are you also peckish, dear Duchess?”

  Max suddenly appeared from behind Blanche’s voluminous skirts and plodded past Struan as if he were invisible. The boy went to the fire, where he held out his skinny hands.

  Struan collected himself and said, “I can tell you are troubled, Your Grace.”

  Troubled?”

  Borne by three maids and presided over by dour-faced Nudge, the dratted tea arrived and was set upon two tables before an Aubusson-upholstered couch.

  The duchess, Blanche, and Struan observed in silence. Max did not as much as turn to look. Struan could not decide if he should pray to be spared from madness, or hope to be entirely claimed and released by that condition.

  Brother John Grably entered as the serving entourage departed. He appeared surprised to find the room so filled with visitors. “Excuse me,” he said. “I wanted to let you know I have attempted to—make contact with our acquaintance. I was not successful. I’ll leave you to your company, Struan. We’ll speak later.”

  “Absolutely not,” Blanche Bastible caroled, avidly perusing Brother John’s considerable length. “We should never forgive ourselves for causing a man of the cloth to be turned away, should we, Duchess?”

  The dowager concentrated only upon Struan.

  “Why,” Blanche exclaimed, “you appear near-starved, Reverend…”

  “Brother John.”

  “We are soo pleased you’re here.” Rapidly dispensing small sandwiches onto a plate and surrounding them with miniature cakes, Blanche swayed and pirouetted, and linked an arm with Brother John’s. “We shall sit together and enjoy this bounty, Brother John. My late husband was a man of the cloth, you know. The Reverend Felix Bastible. A dear, fine man taken from this life in his prime. But Felix never complained—even when he was desperately ill. He bore his pain with such bravery. I miss him so.”

  Struan took up a mince tart and thrust it at Max, who ate the delicacy in a single bite and returned to warming his hands. If only all these people would go away and leave a man t
o find peace with his wife. Given time he could do that; he knew he could.

  Brother John listened in silence to Blanche’s prattling. His gray eyes held no expression. He allowed her to stroll with him to the couch and pull him down beside her.

  The duchess’s cane, connecting with the floor, made a tableau of the room and its occupants.

  Max burst suddenly and astoundingly into choking sobs.

  “A disaster,” the duchess proclaimed. “I should have allowed myself the luxury of admitting a premonition. From the first moment I set foot in this dreadful lodge I knew no good lay ahead.”

  “Pray, calm yourself, Your Grace,” Brother John said, clearly concerned at such a display of agitation in one so elderly and frail. “Allow me to counsel you.”

  “Twaddle.” The duchess’s bright eyes glittered. “Find someone in need of counsel.”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Blanche, popping a sugared almond into the amazed monk’s mouth, reduced him to spasms of coughing. She promptly thumped his back.

  “I avoid shows of emotion,” the duchess told Struan. “All that outpouring and such. Demeaning. But I will tell you that I am concerned for my granddaughter. She is your wife and that cannot be changed. I also cannot deny my feelings—or my fears. And I cannot bring myself to leave this place without knowing she is safe.”

  “She is safe,” Struan said vehemently. “I would give my life for hers.”

  “So you say.”

  Max’s sobs rose to a wail before he fell to huddle in a ball on the rug.

  “Silence, boy,” the duchess said. “Leave these things to those better able to deal with them. And stop that noise, I tell you.”

  Struan dropped to a knee and drew the pointed muddle of arms and legs against his chest. “Hush, Max. It’s all right.”

  “S’not.”

  The cane hit the floor again. “I will get to the bottom of what’s afoot here. It might occasionally appear that I am a less than gentle woman. That appearance is entirely erroneous, I assure you.

  “My granddaughter is dear to me. If she were not, I would be less distraught at losing her under such circumstances. And because she is so dear, the disappearance of the girl has all but undone me. There is great danger here, I’m certain of it.”