Courting an Angel

by Grasso, Patricia;

  Courting An Angel

  Patricia Grasso

  For Linda Grasso-Kaplan, my dearest sister:

  Roses are red and violets are blue.

  I’m younger, cuter, and Mom’s favorite too . . .

  Gotcha last!

  Prologue

  Dunridge Castle, Scotland, 1576

  She was going to give him grief.

  Fifteen-year-old Gordon Campbell marched across the torchlit great hall and stared at his eight-year-old bride. Nervous apprehension made his heart sink to his stomach and his clenched hands felt clammy with sweat, yet his unconcerned expression never altered. As the Marquess of Inverary and the Duke of Argyll’s heir, Gordon had a reputation to safeguard, and he would never allow any eight-year-old to gain the upper hand with him. If the watching MacArthurs and Campbells guessed how uncertain he felt at that moment, Gordon knew he’d be the laughingstock of the Highlands until the day he died. God’s balls, imagine the scandal of the Duke of Argyll’s heir trembling before his future duchess — an eight-year-old bairn.

  Not in this lifetime, Gordon vowed, fixing his gray-eyed gaze on her.

  The lass was trouble all right. Gordon knew that as surely as he knew his own name.

  Dressed in virginal white and wearing a wreath of orange blossoms in her ebony hair, the girl looked as innocent as an angel, but gleaming trouble leaped at him from the depths of her emerald green eyes. The tilt of her upturned nose and the stubborn chiseling of her chin gave proof to her less than passive temperament. The lass even had the audacity to stare right back at him. Without blushing.

  She gave him an ambiguous smile. Standing with her arms behind her back, the girl seemed as demure as a shy angel. In contrast, the thick mane of ebony that cascaded to her waist and those disarming emerald eyes with their thick fringe of sooty lashes lent her a seductive appearance beyond her years.

  Feeling a hundred interested gazes on his back, Gordon decided to use his superior sophistication to win the girl’s affection. He gave her his most charming smile, the same one that worked so successfully with Inverary Castle’s maids.

  In answer, the girl raised her perfectly shaped ebony brows at him. Did the wee witch know what he was thinking.

  “Yer as cute as a kitten,” Gordon remarked, crouching down to be eye level with her.

  “I’m a girl,” she said flatly.

  Gordon forced himself to smile. “A verra bonny girl,” he complimented her, thinking flattery would soften her attitude. “I’m Gordon Campbell, the Marquess of Inverary.”

  “I know who ye are,” she said, apparently unimpressed by his tide.

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Rob B. MacArthur.”

  “Ye’ve a boy’s name.”

  “I’m a girl.”

  “What’s the B signify?” Gordon asked.

  “Brat,” shouted the girl’s three older brothers.

  Rob turned her head and cast each of them a reproving look. She flicked a smile filled with love at her father, the earl, and then returned her attention to Gordon, saying, “The B stands for Bruce. My father named me in honor of his special hero, Robert the Bruce. Have ye ever heard of him?”

  God’s balls, Gordon thought in disgusted dismay. How could he hope to live down the fact that he’d married a girl named Rob Bruce? What kind of daft parents did the lass have?

  “And I dinna give a tinker’s damn if my name pleases ye or no,” she added.

  “Rob is a lovely name,” Gordon said, wondering how she’d known what he was thinking. “As a matter of fact, Robert the Bruce is my own special hero.”

  That made her smile. The sweetness of it tugged at his heartstrings. She really was as cute as a kitten and held the promise of growing into a great beauty.

  “Did ye know I’m goin’ to marry ye today?” Gordon asked.

  Rob nodded, but asked in a loud whisper, “Dinna ye think yer a bit elderly to be my husband?”

  Pockets of smothered laughter erupted in the hall. Embarrassed, Gordon cast his father a meaningful look.

  “Dinna look to me for help,” Magnus Campbell called to him, apparently amused by his son’s discomfort. “Each man makes his own way in the world.”

  “Speak to yer daughter, Brie,” Iain MacArthur ordered his wife. “She’s givin’ the lad a hard time.”

  Lady Brigette started forward.

  “Brie, stay where ye are.” Magnus countermanded the order. “Gordon will be dealin’ with her for his whole life. The lad may as well make a beginnin’ of it now.”

  “’Tis my father, the Duke of Argyll,” Gordon told Rob. “If ye marry me, I’ll make ye a duchess someday.”

  “I dinna want to be a duchess,” she replied.

  “The devil take ye,” he exclaimed, but his piercing gray eyes flickered with interest. “What do ye — ?”

  “This is my hall,” Rob interrupted him. “I’ll thank ye to keep a civil tongue in yer head when yer speakin’ to me.”

  “I do apologize,” Gordon said with laughter lurking in his voice. For a child of eight, the lass already issued orders like a seasoned duchess. “If ye dinna mind me askin’, what would ye like to be?”

  “An English lady like my mother.”

  Holy horseshit, Gordon thought, his charming smile never wavering. “If ye marry me, I’ll be yer knight,” he coaxed. “That means I’ll slay yer dragons.”

  Now her eyes flickered with interest. “What aboot the monster that lives under my bed?” she asked.

  “Ye’ve a monster livin’ beneath yer bed?” Gordon echoed, feigning shocked dismay.

  Rob nodded gravely.

  Drawing Gordon’s attention, thirteen-year-old Ross MacArthur called, “The only monster in her room is the one who sleeps in the bed.”

  “Show the marquess yer devil’s hand,” ten-year-old Jamie MacArthur added, then quickly sidestepped out of his father’s reach.

  “Both of ye shut yer mouths, or ye’ll answer to me,” fifteen-year-old Dubh MacArthur threatened.

  Gordon cast the three MacArthur brothers a long, measuring look and wondered at their words. When he turned back to the girl, his heart nearly broke at the startling transformation in her demeanor. One moment she’d been a proud Highland lass and the next moment a pathetic angel complete with quivering bottom tip as if she waged a fierce inner battle to prevent the flood of tears that threatened to spill. What would he do if she started to weep?

  “Why dinna ye ask yer da to kill the monster?” Gordon asked.

  “Old people canna see him,” she answered, making everyone but her father smile.

  “What does he look like?”

  “Da or the monster?”

  Gordon swallowed the chuckle he felt bubbling up. The lass was more entertaining than a band of traveling players. “I meant the monster,” he said.

  “I never saw him but —” Rob broke off, lowered her gaze, and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “Share it with me, lass,” Gordon said in a soothing tone of voice.

  “The monster touched me once,” she whispered, holding her left hand out for his inspection. “See what he did.”

  A dark, flower-shaped birthmark stained the back of her left hand. The six-petaled flower of Aphrodite signified sin, or so the church authorities taught their faithful. Most people regarded the mark as a sure sign of the devil.

  Gordon slowly raised his gray-eyed gaze to hers and noted the unshed tears glistening in her disarming eyes. Without forethought, he lifted the offending hand to his lips and kissed the birthmark.

  “I’ll kill that monster for darin’ to touch ye,” Gordon promised, smiling at her surprised expression. “As soon as ye place yer mark on the marriage contract.’”

  Rob shook
her head and said, “Ye must kill the monster first.”

  “Dinna ye trust me to keep my word?”

  “Everyone in the Highlands knows that Campbell means ‘crooked mouth.’”

  Gordon flushed when he heard the smothered chuckles emanating from the MacArthur section of their audience. “So ye’ll wed me if I slay him first?” he asked.

  Rob nodded.

  “Dinna do it,” Ross MacArthur called.

  “Yer a goner for sure if ye do,” Jamie MacArthur warned.

  Dubh MacArthur reached out and slapped first one brother and then the other. “Open yer mouths again,” he threatened them, “and Ma will be wearin’ mournin’ black in yer memory.”

  Ignoring his future brothers-in-law, Gordon stood and offered the girl his hand. He glanced at his father who cast him a look that said “well done.” Together, the fifteen-year-old marquess and his eight-year-old bride left the hall.

  “Ye’ll wait here where ’tis safe,” Gordon ordered, halting at the bottom of the stairs. “Which chamber is yers?”

  “The last door on the left.”

  Gordon started up the stairs but stopped when he heard her speak.

  “Ye’ll be careful?” she called, sounding worried.

  Gordon paused and turned around. He smiled at her and nodded, then continued up the stairs. Gordon walked into her chamber, leaned against the door, and waited. He judged ten minutes would be the appropriate amount of time for monster slaying. Anything less would be suspect, anything more would bring the girl in search of him.

  Glancing at the spartanly furnished chamber, Gordon assumed it was the usual little girl’s room but didn’t know for sure. As an only child, he’d never stepped inside a young girl’s chamber.

  Gordon reached up and ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair at the same moment his gaze touched the bed. For some unknown reason, Gordon pushed away from the door and sauntered across the chamber toward the bed. He dropped to his knees, lifted the coverlet, and peered beneath the bed. No monster.

  Ten minutes later, Gordon emerged from the chamber and retraced his steps down the corridor to the stairs. He smiled when he caught sight of his bride-to-be.

  Rob stood at the base of the stairs. With her eyes closed and a frightened expression fixed on her face, she moved her lips in a silent prayer.

  Gordon flicked a glance toward the great hall. Lady Brigette stood outside the hall’s entrance. When he looked in her direction, she mouthed the words thank you and then disappeared inside.

  “’Tis done,” Gordon announced. “That nasty monster willna be botherin’ ye again.”

  Rob opened her eyes and gave him a relieved smile. “What did ye do with his body?” she asked.

  “The thin’ disappeared when he died.”

  “Yer certain sure he isna hidin’?”

  Gordon nodded and sat down on the bottom stair. He reached into his pocket and said, “I’ve a gift for ye.”

  “I love receivin’ gifts,” Rob cried, her emerald eyes sparkling with delight.

  “I was certain ye did,” Gordon said dryly. He lifted her left hand and slipped a scrolled band of gold onto her third finger. “The ring has a secret message inside. Vous et Nul Autre means ‘Ye and No Other.’ Yer my lady-wife, and I’ll always be true to ye.”

  Rob looked at the ring on her finger and then gazed at him, saying, “My mother told me ye’d bring me somethin’ pretty, and ye did.” She batted her ebony lashes at him and smiled winsomely, adding, “I was hopin’ for a new doll.”

  Gordon burst out laughing. “I believe ye’ll make me a grand duchess, and I promise to send ye a dolly as soon as I return to Inverary. Will that do?”

  Rob nodded.

  Several minutes later the Duke of Argyll’s only son married the Earl of Dunridge’s only daughter. With all of her heart and soul, Rob MacArthur loved her gallant husband for a long, long time. Gordon Campbell left Dunridge Castle and, in true fifteen-year-old fashion, dismissed his child bride from his mind as if she’d never existed.

  He never sent her the promised doll.

  Chapter 1

  Devereux House, London, 1586

  Autumn wore its most serene expression that final day of October. Clear blue skies kissed the distant horizon, and gentle breezes caressed the land.

  The changing season painted vivid colors within the perfect setting of the Earl of Basildon’s garden. In addition to nature’s orange, gold, and red-leafed trees, an army of gardeners had landscaped the grounds in a rainbow of autumnal shades. Chrysanthemums in a variety of hues adorned the manicured lawns along with flowering cabbage, marigold, and sweet alyssum.

  A shining white birch tree, an evergreen yew, and a majestic oak stood together like old friends in the rear of the earl’s garden. The earl’s five daughters, ranging in age from three to ten, and his countess circled the yew tree and stared up at the ebony-haired woman perched comfortably on its thickest branch.

  “Are you listening?” called the eight-month-pregnant Countess of Basildon.

  Rob MacArthur inhaled deeply of the mingling scents of the garden’s flowers and then looked down at her audience. “I hear ye, Aunt Keely.”

  The countess turned to her daughters and asked, “Are you listening?”

  Rob smiled at the sight of the five young girls nodding their heads with exaggerated vigor, their ebony braids bobbing up and down with the movement. Having passed the previous year in England with Uncle Richard and his family, Rob loved her younger cousins and considered them the sisters she’d never had.

  “All the participants around the bonfire tonight will receive a sprig of yew,” Lady Keely instructed. “Samhuinn — known in England as Halloween — is the festival of our ancestors, and the yew tree symbolizes death and rebirth. These sprigs of yew represent our ability to commune with those loved ones who have gone before us into the Great Adventure. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the five little girls chorused.

  The countess looked up at her niece and asked, “Do you understand?”

  “I ken what yer sayin’, Aunt Keely.” Rob dropped a handful of yew sprigs, and her cousins scrambled to pick them up. She glanced toward the mansion and saw her uncle headed in their direction.

  “Here comes yer father,” she announced.

  In the distance behind the earl, Henry Talbot walked onto the Devereux estate. Spying the family gathering in the rear of the garden, the twenty-five-year-old Marquess of Ludlow sauntered in their direction.

  Rob sighed when she saw him. “Isna he the handsomest man ye’ve ever seen?”

  “’Tis one of the many reasons why I married him,” the countess replied.

  “I dinna mean Uncle Richard.” Rob giggled at the absurd notion that her uncle was the handsomest man. “I meant yer brother Henry.”

  “Rob loves Henry,” eight-year-old Bliss Devereux chanted in a singsong voice. “Rob loves Henry.”

  “Quiet, Lady Blister,” Rob hushed her. “He’ll hear ye.”

  “I’m no blister,” Bliss replied.

  “You’re a terrible pain in the arse,” ten-year-old Blythe Devereux told her sister.

  “’Tis unkind of you to say that,” Lady Keely chided her eldest.

  “Cousin Blythe, lyin’ is sometimes kinder than the truth,” Rob called, then smiled at her aunt’s reproving frown.

  “How are the Halloween preparations progressing?” asked the earl, reaching the yew tree.

  “Fine.” The countess smiled and patted her swollen belly. “As ordered, I refrained from climbing the tree this year.”

  “Daddy?”

  Richard Devereux looked down at six-year-old Aurora, usually as silent as the hushed moments for which she’d been named. When the child offered him a sprig of yew, the earl smiled and crouched down to be eye level with her.

  “Thank you, sweetlin’,” he said, accepting the sprig.

  “Daddy,” two voices chimed together.

  Richard glanced first to the left and t
hen to the right. On either side of him stood his three-year-old twins, Summer and Autumn.

  “What do you call an Englishman who eats ants?” Summer asked.

  “Uncle,” Autumn shouted.

  Everyone but the earl laughed. “Who told you that?” Richard demanded.

  “Uncle Henry,” Blythe, Bliss, and Aurora answered at the same time.

  The earl stood and faced his wife, saying, “Tell your brother to refrain from spreading his wickedness to our daughters.”

  “Great Bruce’s ghost,” Rob cried indignantly from her perch in the tree. “Henry isna wicked.”

  “Thank you for defending me, my lady,” said a husky voice behind the earl.

  Rob smiled at Henry Talbot, and all of the tender affection she felt for him shone in her expression. Noting the grim set to her uncle’s jaw, Rob prevented his intended tirade by calling, “Henry, will you help me down?”

  “With pleasure.” Henry stood beneath the yew tree, and when she leaped off the branch, his arms were there to steady her. They stood so close their bodies touched.

  The masculine feel and the clean scent of him made Rob’s senses reel. Staring up into his sky-blue eyes, Rob became mesmerized by the tender emotion mirrored in them.

  Silently refusing to relinquish her. Henry dipped his head toward her. His face inched closer, and his lips sought to claim hers.

  Rob turned her head at the very last moment. Her heart pounded frantically within her breast at the near contact of their lips. How she wished she were free to succumb to his kiss.

  Henry chuckled and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I almost had you that time,” he teased.

  “Almost doesna count,” Rob replied. She glanced at her frowning uncle and blushed with embarrassment.

  “Daddy?”

  Richard Devereux turned away from his niece and his brother-in-law who were still clinging to each other like a couple of vines. He looked down at Aurora.

  “Yesterday I seen Uncle Henry trying to kiss Cousin Rob,” the little girl told him. “She wouldn’t let him.”

  “Daughters, let your cousin’s behavior be an example to you,” Richard said, beginning his favorite lecture on the inherent evil in men. “All men — like Uncle Henry — have wicked intentions. Never let them near you.”