Bride

by Stella Cameron

  Then, clawing at the air, he released her and sent her staggering away.

  She clutched her bodice over her breasts and dared to gulp fresh air. Struan brought Grably down and fell upon him, pummeling the hateful face with both fists.

  “Hit him, Struan! Stop him!” Her pounding heart kept time with the throb at her temples. Gravel embedded torn flesh on her palms, her elbows, her knees, yet the stinging pain was only a faint echo behind fear and desperation.

  Grably howled and tore at Struan’s hair—and heaved onto his side.

  And Struan slipped over the edge …

  He just slipped.

  Justine screamed.

  Then she saw Struan’s clinging fingers.

  Grably shoved himself upright. Staggering, laughing insanely, he stood over his victim’s last hold on life. “I’ll win after all, you know, Hunsingore.” He gasped each word.

  “What of Saber?” Justine asked, desperate to distract him. “Where is he? Will he help you now?”

  “Chance,” Grably said. “He was making inquiries in a certain London entertainment establishment. Fine establishment, too. One of my favorites. He wanted to know about a girl who used to be there.” He raised a foot above Struan’s slowly slipping fingers.

  “What girl?” Justine walked toward Grably. “Ella?” She must not let Grably see her looking at Struan’s hands.

  “That’s the one. Young Avenall was in his cups. Had someone arrange a meeting with me later. Hated your dearly departed husband’s guts. Thought he was rutting with the girl while he pretended to be her father. Avenall held back nothing. Sentimental fool. Using him was useful and simple. In the end he didn’t do anything, poor sop, but he’ll be blamed for it all. I’ll see to that. The girl’s locked away at Northcliff Hall with your coachman and those idiot butlers.” He laughed. “Thanks to the assistance their dratted cousin gave me, they don’t know anything. Your Nudge was useful—until now. But he’ll suffer. They all will.”

  “Good-bye, Hunsingore.” The foot rose higher. “I’ll take great care of your wife.”

  Calum peered through the bushes. “Shoot, dammit. Now. Before he kills him.”

  Arran held up a silencing arm. “We’re too far away. I’m as likely to hit Struan or Justine.” He knew too well the potential inaccuracies of firearms.

  “I can’t believe it,” Blanche moaned. “Those poor young things. Wait till I get my hands on that rogue. Man of the cloth, indeed. Man of the devil, more likely. I followed him here twice and he was up to no good either time, I can tell you. I should have told someone then. I felt foolish, but it shouldn’t have mattered.”

  “You’ve done the best you can now,” Arran told Blanche. The woman had more spirit than he’d ever dreamed possible.

  “Oh, my God”. Calum rose from his hunched position behind the bushes a hundred yards or so from the unfolding drama.

  Grably’s foot descended—and missed.

  With Justine’s arms wrapped around his standing ankle, Grably overbalanced, flailed in slow motion as he toppled sideways, and disappeared amid an endless bellow—almost endless.

  “Move,” Arran ground out, already in motion.

  He and Calum arrived at Justine’s side together. Lying flat, she clung to Struan’s sleeves. Each man locked one of Struan’s wrists in powerful hands and hauled him to safety.

  Crying, Justine stretched beside him, stroking hair away from his swollen, bloodied face, feeling his body, leaning to look into his eyes.

  Struan’s grin was a pathetic sight. “Good as new, you see, my love,” he said through thick lips. “Thanks to the tiger I married. I love you, you know.”

  Arran looked at his boots and felt Calum do likewise.

  “I should think you do love me,” Justine said. “I suppose I love you, too.”

  “You suppose?”

  “I shall have to analyze what I feel for my book.”

  “You do that. Would you mind just holding me for the moment, though?”

  “Not at all.” Cradling his head, she rocked him against her. “Hold you. Fight fires. Fight bad men with guns. Climb mountains. This cripple can do anything, just like you said she could.”

  “You are not—”

  “No, I’m not,” she said quickly. “I’m not because you make me whole.” With her face pressed to her husband’s neck and his arms encircling her, Justine, Viscountess Hunsingore, became quiet.

  “Look at that, dammit,” Calum said suddenly. “To the right. Listen to it.”

  Bursting into view from a copse of trees several miles along a trail above, a carriage shot into the air. Even at a distance it was easy to see the vehicle had thrown a wheel.

  “Poor devils,” Calum whispered as bodies soared, arms flailing, then fell amid the wreckage of the disintegrating carriage to the ravine far below.

  “Poor devils, indeed,” Arran agreed.

  Puffing to join them, Blanche murmured, “God bless them.”

  Trunks and boxes whirled and broke open.

  Early rays of sun glittered on exploding showers of brilliant debris.

  Epilogue

  Castle Kirkcaldy, 1825

  Snow drifted through naked trees. The struggling young year had yet to shrug the mantle of the old.

  Trailing between the company gathered within sight of his mother’s portrait in the red salon, Struan saw the beauty of the outside world with Justine’s eyes—as she had taught him to see so many things in the past months.

  “Sit, Struan.” Grace, Marchioness of Stonehaven, looped her arms through one of his and smiled up at him, her brown eyes startling against pale-blond hair. “You will exhaust yourself with so much walking. Then what good will you be to Justine?”

  He patted her hands. “How long has it been now?”

  Arran stirred on his chair near the windows. “Five minutes longer than when you last asked. Do sit, Struan.”

  “I should have engaged a second physician.”

  “This man is the best,” said Philipa, Duchess of Franchot, who was herself increasing for the first time. She and Calum rarely left each other’s sides. At the moment, they sat together on a red brocade chaise close to the fire.

  Calum nodded sagely. “The very best.”

  “As if you would know,” Struan said, in no mood for empty appeasement.

  “Calm down, young man.” The Dowager Duchess of Franchot, with Blanche Bastible behind her chair, favored Struan with a disapproving scowl. “This is the physician who attended Grace during two confinements—and he will attend Philipa. I assure you that were he not the best, he would certainly have been eliminated from consideration for the birth of the next duke.”

  “Can girls be dukes?” Max asked, his green eyes innocent.

  Laughter rippled around the salon, bending the tension.

  The dowager almost smiled. Almost. “You are impertinent, my boy.”

  Ella did not smile. She hovered near the open door and darted into the passageway each time she heard a sound.

  Arran looked out through the floating snow. “Come here, Struan. We are not alone in our vigil.”

  Struan did not care to go to the windows. “They are all there, aren’t they? The tenants? The villagers? Please God they will not have much longer to wait. I must go to Justine.”

  “Tell him he mustn’t,” Blanche said to the dowager.

  “It isn’t appropriate,” the old lady said obediently.

  To the amazement of all, Blanche had become the dowager duchess’s companion and now made her home at Franchot Castle. The duchess had even, if disapprovingly, settled certain gambling debts that came to light when one of the late Reverend Bastible’s relations tracked Blanche to Cornwall.

  “Papa,” Ella said clearly. “I think it perfectly appropriate for you to be with Mama. It has been many hours. She would wish you to be at her side.”

  Max, grown taller and more sturdy, joined his sister in the doorway. “Ella is right,” he said in the tones Justine had worked so
hard to produce. “Please, Papa, go to her.”

  “Young man—”

  “And ask her to hurry,” Max added as if he hadn’t heard the dowager speak.

  Struan hesitated a moment longer, then strode from the room, pausing to receive his adopted children’s quick kisses as he passed.

  The dowager’s voice, upraised in disapproval, followed him until he was too far from the salon to hear her. The physician had chosen Kirkcaldy for the confinement, pointing out that it was better appointed than the lodge. Secretly, Struan thought the pompous little man considered himself very grand and the castle, therefore, more worthy of his presence.

  Struan passed a maid carrying a covered basin and soiled cloths. He broke into a run.

  Justine labored in a beautiful apartment in the tower called Revelation, once Arran’s bachelor quarters. Struan heard a cry as he entered the anteroom to the bedchamber.

  Justine’s cry.

  God, would it never be over? The door that separated him from his wife opened. Mairi hurried out to pick up a kettle of boiling water from the hob at the fireplace. She saw Struan and glanced toward the open door.

  The next cry came so soon, and lasted so long.

  Struan strode into the bedchamber and halted. The physician, his shirtsleeves rolled up, consulted with the nurse he had brought to Scotland with him. Gael Mercer and Mrs. Tabby, another tenant woman, busied themselves about the bed. Mrs. Tabby bathed Justine’s face and stroked back her thick hair. Gael spoke steadily into her ear.

  And Justine cried out again.

  Struan closed his eyes an instant and struggled against a wave of faintness. She needed him.

  He went to her side. “My darling?” He bent until her dark eyes focused on his face.

  “My lord!” The physician noticed him for the first time. “I must ask you to leave at once.”

  Justine reached for Struan’s hand, held it with enough strength to crack bones, and smiled.

  “And I,” Struan said to the physician, “must ask you to go about your business while I attend to mine. You are doing well, Justine. This will soon be over.”

  The nurse clucked disapprovingly and muttered something that sounded like “false hope.”

  “Your lordship,” Gael Mercer whispered. “If ye could help her ladyship t’sit, t’would help. It’s been a long time and she’s a wee bit weak. Ye could be the strength for her. I can see the babbie’s head.”

  Struan swallowed. He gazed steadily into Justine’s eyes and sat beside her, drawing her up to lean against him.

  Gael and Mrs. Tabby occupied themselves elsewhere. He saw Gael applying hot towels between Justine’s legs. “The heat softens,” she said. “Makes the tearin’ less.”

  “We may have to consider a surgical procedure,” the physician announced. “Risky, of course, but the child often does very well.”

  Struan gaped at the man.

  “Push, my lady,” Gael said. “Oh, do help her push, my lord. She’ll not need any cutting o’her belly t’bring the wee one into the world.”

  “The longer we wait—”

  “Push,” Struan said, ignoring the sawbones. “Push hard, my love. With me. I shall help.” Supporting her weight, he pressed her farther forward.

  “Oh, Struan! Do not risk the baby’s life.” Her white face gleamed, but she grunted and he felt the force of her fresh effort.

  “Aye!” Mrs. Tabby said with toothy glee. “Cuttin’ indeed. The wee one’s comin’ wi’out any cuttin’.”

  Justine panted. Struan let her fall back a little, then eased her forward once more and willed his strength to join with hers.

  “Again,” Gael said.

  And again Justine cried out and bowed under Struan’s pressure.

  “Almost done!” Gael laughed, and swiped at her red hair with her upper arm. “We’ve the shoulders now. All m’lady needed was her man.”

  “Out of the way,” the physician ordered officiously. “Very good, your ladyship. Very good, indeed.”

  Jigging, Gael bobbed aside. She held her fists aloft and gritted her teeth as if to will Struan and Justine’s infant into the world.

  Using the fresh water Mairi brought, Mrs. Tabby wrang out clean clothes to bathe Justine’s face and neck.

  “You’ve a son!” Gael all but shrieked. “There. A fine wee boy.”

  Justine fell against Struan and he heard her sob.

  The insulted howl of new life brought a great grin to Struan’s face. He glanced up from his wife to see a small, bloodied creature with a thatch of dark hair and tiny, jerking limbs.

  “I want to hold him,” Justine murmured.

  The physician shrugged into his coat. “Nonsense, my lady. These things are not for you to concern yourself with. You have come through remarkably well. Now you must rest.”

  “Exactly,” the nurse agreed, proceeding to swaddle the infant.

  “Struan,” Justine said, her voice stronger. “I want our baby.”

  He smiled down at her, watching faint color begin to rise into her cheeks. “They do not know my tiger, do they? We’ll hold our son, doctor. Now, if you please.”

  Physician and nurse glanced at each other.

  And Mairi promptly relieved the nurse of her little burden. “Come on, sweet wee bairn. Little miracle bairn.” She carried the wriggling bundle and handed it to Struan.

  So light. So small, yet so fierce. Tiny fists already ground into a seeking mouth. Struan felt the unfamiliar sting of tears.

  Very gently, he unwrapped the tight blanket from the baby, settled him upon his mother’s breast, and pulled a cover over them.

  “Y’need t’tell your people,” Gael whispered at his side. “They’re all waitin’.”

  “You be the messenger,” Struan told her. “Have them all come inside, into the warm. The castle staff can find them something to celebrate with. Tell everyone I”ll talk to them later, when her ladyship’s asleep.

  “Mairi. Will you please ask my brother and his wife, and the duke and duchess to come up?”

  The physician snapped his cuffs straight. “A job well done, I believe. No doubt you have already retained a suitable wet nurse.”

  Justine found Struan’s hand and pulled herself up to look directly at the man. “Good day to you, doctor—nurse. We shall not require your services at the birth of our next child.”

  Pippa and Grace tiptoed into the bedchamber.

  “Is she awake?” Grace whispered.

  “Is the baby awake?” Pippa whispered.

  “Yes and yes,” Justine responded, still holding her son and snuggled in Struan’s arms. “Come and see.”

  Arran and Calum were much slower to enter. They stayed close to the door and murmured appropriate noises.

  “He’s lovely,” Pippa said. “And you look lovely too, Justine.”

  “I look like a witch, but I don’t care.”

  “Justine,” Calum said, “I finally got word to Saber. He wrote back that he looks forward to seeing us all on his return to England. And he said he regrets the poor decisions he made.”

  “He did no real harm,” Justine said. She would not allow old, bad memories to taint this moment. “We shall start again when he comes home.”

  Grace looked at Pippa, who nodded emphatically.

  “We have a surprise for you,” Grace said. “We scarcely dared hope it would arrive in time, but it has. See?”

  From behind her skirts she produced a book bound in red leather. “In fact, it has already gone on sale and is being talked about all over London and in Edinburgh.”

  Pippa took the volume and pointed to gold lettering on the front. “Entitled just as you requested. Viscountess Hunsingore’s Illuminations for, and Advice to the Modern Female on the Subjects of Courtship and Marriage.”

  “Oh, I think I shall burst with happiness,” Justine exclaimed.

  “This is my very favorite part,” Grace said, flipping through pages. “I declare you are so clever, Justine. Why did I never realize … We
ll, anyway. On Caring For One’s Husband A comfortable dressing robe for one’s husband is of the utmost importance. Encourage him to undress and wear this robe as often as possible. You will discover, as I have, dear reader, that the less often a husband is constrained by heavy clothing, the better. Trousers are particularly onerous since they restrain the part of one’s husband that is absolutely essential to the successful realization of marital bliss. Indeed, dear reader, this is the part which—”

  “Grace!” Arran said abruptly and loudly. He came forward to take his wife’s arm. “You must not tire Justine.”

  “Oh, do read the dedication, Grace,” Pippa insisted. “Then we shall leave you three alone.”

  Justine pulled herself a little higher and raised her face to receive Struan’s kiss.

  Pippa murmured, “Mmm.”

  “This volume,” Grace read aloud from the front of the book, “is dedicated to my husband, Viscount Hunsingore, without whose instruction my undertaking could never have been completed.”

  “Gad!” Calum exploded. “I understand the thing’s already flying through the hands of the ton. They say the printer can’t keep up with demand.”

  “You’ll be the talk of Town,” Arran said, chuckling.

  “Indeed,” Grace said. “But listen. In addition, Justine writes: My thanks must also go to my brother-in-law Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, and my brother Calum, the Duke of Franchot, two men who have tirelessly dedicated themselves to the greater gratification and enlightenment of women.”

  STELLA CAMERON

  lives in Washington State with her husband, three children, and beloved dog, Spike. A happily transplanted “Brit,” she loves being a wife, mother, friend, writer, and an American—in that order. Hopes? To be fitter, thinner, and more patient. Fears? Running out of time to write all her stories.

  You can write to her in care of Warner Books, Inc., Time & Life Building, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.