His frown deepened. “I have already told you that I respect you. Is that what you mean?”
“Do you desire me in your bed?” Anything stronger might hint to him that she’d already enjoyed those pleasures, and she didn’t want him to know that. “Do you feel happy when you think of me in your life? In short, Mr. Ruthven, do you love me?”
His pale face went even paler. “Love you? I daresay I could be brought to it in time. I am fond of you, to be sure. That is the beginning of love, is it not?”
Not in her experience. She had never been fond of Frederick. She had always loved him.
“As for the rest,” he went on, “I would appreciate you and value you as my wife. I need a helpmeet, you know that. A single man does not progress well in the kirk. You will not be an ornament. I know you would not wish for that.”
“What if I say no?”
He shook his head. “Most inadvisable, dear lady. The history of your acquaintanceship with Lord Glinn is well-known in the village.”
Oh, yes, she remembered, and apparently, so did they. That humiliation was to return, was it? And the household here already knew what she’d done last night. She was fairly sure they wouldn’t gossip, but they all had family down in the village. The village was not completely isolated, and gossip had a habit of spreading. Nothing could stop it.
No, Rhona wasn’t safe. Gossip would taint her reputation, ensure that her career as housekeeper was compromised. If she needed to find work elsewhere, no reputable agency would take her. No careful mistress of a household would take her. She thought she’d lived the scandal down, but it was lying in wait, ready to snare her again.
Now, she got to her feet, but to face the fireplace, which she had never lit. She gripped the wooden mantelpiece until her knuckles turned white. Of course they knew. Of course they gossiped. And they always would. “May I give you my answer later?”
“No. Gossip is already flying.”
“Christmas morning, then, when I see you at church. Advent will be over. I’ll give you my answer then.”
He swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. He stared at her for what felt like an eternity. “Very well,” he said eventually. “But once you have accepted my hand, you cannot live in the same house as Major Lord Frederick Glinn.”
“Colonel,” she said.
“Indeed? He did not say. Very well, then, Colonel Lord Frederick Glinn.”
“What did he say to you?” she asked then.
“Very little,” Mr. Ruthven admitted. “Only that he had returned for a few days and, weather permitting, he expected to leave soon. He said he was glad to find the castle in good heart, and that you had handled affairs very well.”
So he had not confirmed that they were lovers.
Their lives were falling into place, whether they wanted it to or not. She would marry Mr. Ruthven and finally call him Fergus, a step she had, up to now rejected, and Frederick would marry his general’s daughter. They would live fruitful lives, which they would find satisfactory, even fulfilling. Perhaps, one day in the far future, she and Frederick would meet again and smile over their youthful obsession with each other.
So why did she want to burst into tears?
“Christmas morning,” he repeated. “You must give me your answer then, so we may get arrangements under way.”
Yes. Arrangements. Practicalities. “The Yule log is already in place, ready for the men to drag into the hall. It’s been drying out for a month.” Half a tree, more like. Far too large. If the chimney smoked, they’d all choke to death, or the castle would catch fire and burn down. She’d had the huge old chimney swept at the end of the autumn.
He assumed she would accept. She saw it in the tilt of his chin, the smug, proprietorial smile. But he would be good to her. Arrogant he might be, but he also had a kind heart. He had all but confirmed that he would take her on, and not expect her to be a virgin on her wedding night. Many men would reject her for that, but the gossip about her and Frederick all those years ago was still current today. He must know.
That night in bed, because, of course, she went to Frederick again, he gave her another box. It said Present on the lid.
Inside, she found a carved wooden castle, one she could hold in the palm of her hand. It was a replica of the keep, beautifully carved. She held it up to the candlelight, turning it and admiring it. “Did you carve this from memory?”
“I had plenty of time while I was recovering.” He shrugged, his broad shoulders catching the smooth, linen sheets. If she was an artist, she’d paint him like this. But she wasn’t. He was. “You didn’t do the other parts of the castle. Just the keep.”
“That’s where my heart is,” he said. “In there, with you.” He pointed to the window of the small turret room. “Rhona, I don’t want us to part. I want you to come with me when I leave.”
Words failed her, so she turned into him and made love to him instead.
Chapter Three
Future
Christmas Eve, and the last day of tranquility before the madness began. The villagers looked forward to this time of year all winter. Placed strategically in the middle of the season, it gave them something to remember as the weather deteriorated, and something to remember on the climb towards spring. When the duke came, they added more sophisticated entertainments, but he wasn’t coming this year, so Rhona had planned something simpler and more boisterous.
Rhona sat at the kitchen table with her slate and chalk, drinking tea and chatting to Cook, who was alternately chivvying the scullery maid to make it quick with those tatties, and creating something delicate and elegant for his lordship’s dinner. “They’re bringing the holly branches today,” Rhona told her. “I need them to leave them in a pile in the hall. We’ll put a cloth over them until tomorrow. The minister might call again.”
Just because she had a private celebration she wouldn’t stint these people. Some were relatives, others were people she’d known all her life. They all meant so much to her. As did the man currently snoozing upstairs.
Cook sniffed. “I’d have thought he’d be busy today. The service tonight and then decorating the church, you know. What time does he have to come a-courting?”
Rhona looked up sharply. “Hush!”
“Ah, wheesht. Do you think people haven’t worked it out?”
Elsie, who was polishing silver at the end of the kitchen, chuckled. “They’re taking bets in the village. Then, when his lordship arrived, the odds went right up. You can get ten to one right now. But they’ll go back the other way when he goes.”
Ah, so they assumed Frederick would leave alone.
At the reminder, her heart jolted. He would go and leave her here. A lump rose in her throat and before she could prevent it, a tear fell out of the corner of her eye and trickled down the side of her cheek. She tried not to sniff, and failed.
“Och, lovey.” Cook pushed her dish of tea in front of her. “Drink your tea. Everything will work out. It always does, one way or the other.”
Elsie muttered something in Gaelic.
“It’s not his fault,” Rhona protested. “How can he help it if I…”
“Nae more,” Cook said. Cook always spoke in English, made a point of it. Most of them did, since lapsing into Gaelic could mean accusations of treason, if a stranger passed through, or even if a disgruntled villager decided to complain to the soldiers in Fort William. “Whatever you feel, it’s longstanding. We all know that, even those of us who weren’t there. It’s for you to decide, but remember this. Whatever you do, you’ll always find a home here.”
That simple statement meant more to Rhona than anything else Cook could have said. Even if she decided to become a lady of the night, a courtesan, they would have her back. Except for old Mrs. MacKay at the end of the village, who claimed she was no relative to any of the other MacKays. But she spent every day grouching about everybody else.
“Here.” Cook shoved a bowl of unpodded snow peas at her. “Make yourself busy
while you brood. I sent little Maire down to the village to see her ma and pa. After today, she’ll be too busy to do it, so I’m a maid short.”
Yes, she was brooding. Mistress to the man she loved, or wife to a man she could respect but did not have any fondness for? A life of leisure, or a life making herself useful? Rhona had no doubt that if life had crossroads, this was the biggest one she had encountered. And once she’d chosen her path, she could not retrace her steps. No going back. That meant this castle, as well.
She had a third choice. She could refuse both men and stay here. The duke rarely visited this, the least favorite of his properties, and his brother would most likely follow his example. She could stay here and let year follow year until she died.
She shelled the peas. Small, but welcome. Every fresh product was welcome at this time of the year. They had apples in storage in the barns, together with the few vegetables that could stand the cold. Brussels sprouts, cabbage and the rest. The men spent the autumn stacking the food and killing the livestock they couldn’t afford to keep over the winter, and the women lived in the stillrooms and kitchens, pickling, stewing and bottling.
Rhona always loved that time of the year, when delicious scents wound around the castle. She might never know it again.
Did a person savor the times they knew would never return or did they, like her, take them for granted?
By the time she’d shelled the bowl of peas, she had her decision. Tranquility returned, and she welcomed it. She would say goodbye to her lover tomorrow, just before she accepted Fergus Ruthven’s hand in marriage. That would be the end of it. A useful, fulfilling life with a man she might eventually learn to love. One who valued her contribution.
Heartbreak happened to everyone. She’d suffered it once and survived, so she’d do it again. And that was all there was to it. Staying in the castle, growing old, hearing about the life Frederick had made for himself? No, that would not happen. A waste and a shame.
Peas cured her. They provided her with a repetitive task that let her mind float and then come back to her, decision made.
She got to her feet. “The holly won’t arrange itself. I have to go.”
“Mind you put on thick gloves!” Elsie called out after her.
Frederick—Lord Glinn, as she had to learn to refer to him, in her mind as well as outside it—rose late, and had breakfast in solitary splendor in the breakfast room, or so Elsie told Rhona when she returned from the noisy and dirty task of supervising the men who’d brought the holly inside the house. They had bunches of mistletoe, too, and a few sprigs of yew, but Rhona made them take that out. Yew berries were poisonous. “Leave the yew trees for the churchyard,” her mother had always said. Rhona tended to agree.
“Is his lordship staying over Hogmanay, do you know?” Elsie asked Rhona as they worked side by side, brushing up the leaves and debris. Later, they’d have a lot more to clear up because the men were tromping in and out, taking the supplies to the rooms she’d designated.
Several buckets of pine cones, and some branches with cones still attached lay by the fireplace. They’d put some with the log to pop and scent the room, and use the others to drape around the displays of ancient weaponry arranged in elaborate patterns that were set around the walls. Rhona rarely thought of them except to curse them as dust traps when she and the maids gave them their three-monthly cleaning. Musicians would arrive from the village tomorrow night, and the villagers would come to dance, their first dance in a month.
“I don’t know,” Rhona said truthfully, “but I suspect he’ll be away while he can. If he can get down to Fort Worth, he can get across country to his brother’s house near Edinburgh. The roads will be passable for a few days yet.”
He wouldn’t want to stay once she told him what she’d decided. So perhaps he’d do everything he could to get away from her before Twelfth Night. The weather was holding, but there would be no traveling once the snow came. It had threatened, with heavy white skies and a hush in the air today. It would break soon. She’d go downstairs soon and double-check the supplies. And ensure the well was in working order and all the water butts were covered.
In fact…pulling her gloves off, she went to the long table that ran down one side of the hall to where she’d left her slate. As she began to make a note, the outer door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. What had the men forgotten?
“Ah, Mistress MacKay. Perfect.”
What was the minister doing here? With a sigh, Rhona turned to face him. “Shouldn’t you be down at the church, Mr. Ruthven? Or is it holly you’re after?” She indicated the pile in the middle of the room. “As you can see, we have plenty.”
He cast the covered branches a disdainful glance. “No, not that.” He strode across the room until he stood before her, trapping her against the table. “Is it true?”
“Is what true, Mr. Ruthven? Since I can’t read your mind, I don’t know what you mean.”
He looked more agitated than she had ever seen him. His cool, brown eyes were wide, his mouth partly open. The quietly contained minister had gone, replaced by this whirling demon. “Your kitchen maid came down the hill this morning to see her mam. She was talking in the street, boasting of her position and she said that you have been spending your nights with—that man! That the whole village it talking about it.” One hand went up, pointing not to heaven, but the rooms upstairs. “Is it true? After what I said yesterday, did you go to him last night?”
What did she say? Did she deny it, tell him a bold-faced lie, or confirm it in this room where ears flapped? Come to think of it, she couldn’t hear any footsteps that would indicate the men were working. She looked around Mr. Ruthven, glared at the two villagers who were standing still, blatantly listening.
One cleared his throat. The other picked up a bucket of pine cones and headed upstairs.
“Could we go somewhere quiet to talk about this?” she suggested. “Obviously, something has distressed you.”
“Distressed? Distressed?” Spittle flew out of his mouth and he leaned forward. “Outraged, Madam! Outraged!”
Rhona tried not to cringe back in instinctive revulsion. “I would remind you that what I do is not your concern.”
Red veins bulged in his neck. “We are to be married, Madam! I would say that gives me a right to demand to know what you are about!” He leaned forward even more, slapping his hands down on the table behind her, caging her in.
She opened her mouth to deliver her own indignant reply, but another voice came from above. “Release her, sir!”
Another roaring male. Rhona rolled her eyes.
The uneven tread told her that Frederick was coming down the stairs. “How dare you molest a woman in my house!”
Ruthven breathed heavily, glared at Rhona before he pulled away and turned around to face Frederick, who was, by this time, advancing on him. He had his cane, she noted, concerned, because of his exertions last night.
However, Frederick did not appear in the least affected by his disability. “I said unhand her! Now! And then get out of my castle!”
“It is not your castle, my lord, as you well know.” Ruthven spat the words at Frederick. “You have come here, taken advantage of your position, and besmirched the lady I have—had—every intention of making my wife!”
Rhona clenched her hands, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.
Ruthven turned a little, so he could see her. “Your feelings for him are dangerous. I thought to rescue you from your predicament, make you a respectable offer, and last night you were—fornicating with this man?”
One of the maids sniggered. That kitchen maid had to go.
“Fornicating?” Frederick repeated, thunderstruck. “Good God, man, moderate your tone and apologize to Mistress Mackay immediately!”
“Or what will you do? What can you do?” Ruthven paced around Frederick, deliberately placing his feet. The implication was obvious. With one good leg, Frederick was useless to anyone. By now,
the village would know that as well. “Did you come here planning to engage in the only physical activity left to you? Work your way through the maids from the housekeeper down and then leave, without a backwards glance?” He seemed completely overtaken by passion, but not in a good way.
Not surprisingly, Frederick’s eyes lit with anger, and he leaned forward. “You think that a man with half a leg is no match for a cowardly and ignorant clergyman?” Without looking away, he held out his hand and beckoned imperiously. But not to Rhona. To one of the men standing watching the spectacle, open-mouthed. “You! McHeath! Get me a sword. Two swords!”
McHeath looked up at the walls. He was right. The only weapons available were arranged in detailed circles and curls on the walls.
Ruthven’s “Ha!” spurred McHeath to stride to the nearest display and yank two claymores down. Their edges were a trifle rusted, Rhona noticed. A touch of annoyance colored her anxiety, that they had missed it.
The man brought the claymores over, his gaze avidly curious. Ruthven snatched one from him, but addressed Frederick. “You think because I’m a man of the cloth that I cannot fight?”
“You think because I have been injured that I don’t know how to handle a sword?” Frederick’s gaze turned cold. Rhona shivered. His icy temper was far worse than Frederick in heated anger.
How could he fight with a sword when he couldn’t move? He could walk, stand, but fight?
But she knew better than to get between two angry men with swords. She glanced at Elsie, who stepped to one side, revealing the bucket of water they’d been using to wet their brushes. Rhona shook her head. If Elsie threw that bucket at them, they’d lose control of what they were doing, and a man with a sword could be even more dangerous if he couldn’t see what he was doing.
They stepped back. Frederick touched the tip of his sword to the floor. The stone flags were uneven with age. Frederick could stumble and fall. Who knew what his opponent would do then?
“I fight you for the lady whose honor you have taken. The woman who would have been my wife.”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 74