Courting an Angel

by Grasso, Patricia;

  “I’ll be returnin’ to Campbell Mansion this afternoon,” Gordon said, accepting the parchment. “I’ll see ye there later if this requires an answer.”

  The courier nodded and left.

  Gordon closed the door and leaned back against it. He started to break the wax seal on the missive.

  “What’s the news from Argyll?” Lavinia called. With the coverlet wrapped around herself, she emerged from the curtained bed.

  Suppressing a smile, Gordon glanced at his friend. Mungo rolled his eyes at his cousin’s curiosity.

  Gordon opened the missive, and keeping its contents hidden from view, began to read. He’d been expecting this particular order, but actually seeing it in writing startled his senses. Ten years seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye.

  Closing his eyes, Gordon tried to conjure the image of his bride as she would now appear, a full-grown woman. All he saw was an eight-year-old angel who feared the monster living under her bed. What did Rob MacArthur look like now? he wondered. Had the promise of beauty been fulfilled?

  “Ye dinna look especially pleased,” Lavinia remarked.

  Gordon stared at her for a long moment and hoped she wouldn’t succumb to one of her tantrums. “My MacArthur bride is ripe,” he said. “Argyll orders me to fetch her.”

  “Ye canna leave me,” Lavinia cried. Then, “Cousin, speak to him.”

  “Livy, the man must do his father’s biddin’,” Mungo replied with a shrug.

  “If ye dinna consummate yer vows,” Lavinia advised, “ye can annul the marriage.”

  “I willna do that,” Gordon told her. “’Twould cause a breach between our families.”

  “Why, ye never loved me at all,” Lavinia said in an accusing voice.

  She has the right of that, Gordon thought. He didn’t love her. Love was for women and fools.

  Gordon reached out and pulled her close, saying, “Livy, love has naught to do with marriage. Ye know that as well as anyone.”

  “Ye promised ye’d escort me to the king’s masque tomorrow evenin’,” she whined.

  “Do ye see me leapin’ on my horse and ridin’ off to the Highlands?” Gordon asked. “The MacArthur brat has kept for ten years. Another couple of days willna matter.”

  Lavinia smiled and entwined her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against his hard, muscular frame and asked, “So, ye’ll leave me heartbroken in a couple of days?”

  Her delicately seductive scent assailed his senses. Steeling himself against her wiles, Gordon set her back a pace.

  “God’s balls, Livy. Dinna wrap yerself around me,” he scolded. “Ye know I detest bein’ smothered.”

  Mungo burst out laughing. Gordon Campbell was the only man he knew who possessed the willpower to resist his beautiful cousin.

  Glorious in her anger, Lavinia rounded on her MacKinnon cousin. “Yer laughin’ at my heartache?”

  The absurd thought of Lavinia being heartbroken over any man made Gordon chuckle. Lavinia whirled around and raised her hand to slap him.

  Gordon was faster. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her against his unyielding body. His lips captured hers in a kiss that left her breathless and yearning for more.

  “Dinna be daft,” Gordon whispered against her lips. “I’m plannin’ to deposit the chit at Inverary Castle and then return to Edinburgh posthaste.”

  Lavinia’s expression cleared, and she smiled with satisfaction.

  “Sneak back to yer own chamber after I leave,” Gordon ordered. “Be dressed for shoppin’ by the time I return.”

  “Shoppin’?” Lavinia echoed, her interest primed.

  Gordon smiled. “Aye, lovey. I’ll buy ye somethin’ wildly extravagant.” At that, he lifted his bag of golf clubs and gestured to the other man.

  “I’ll ride with ye to Argyll,” Mungo said as the two of them walked out the door.

  “I thought ye disliked the MacArthurs,” Gordon replied.

  “My Edinburgh creditors are breathin’ down my neck,” Mungo told him. “At the moment the MacArthurs seem the lesser of two evils.”

  Gordon’s chuckle ended abruptly when something heavy hit the door as it closed behind them. The two men stopped short and turned around to stare at it.

  “Lavinia is ventin’ her anger,” Mungo said. “The MacArthur lass is gettin’ the title to which she aspired.”

  Gordon glanced at him. “She’ll survive. To the best of my knowledge, disappointment never killed anyone.”

  The two men lifted their golf bags to their shoulders and started down the corridor again.

  “I’ll be leavin’ for Argyll in the mornin’,” Gordon informed his friend. “Be ready to ride at dawn if ye’ve a mind to accompany me.”

  Mungo looked at him in surprise. “Ye told Lavinia —”

  “Livy willna know until after I’ve gone.” Gordon winked at the other man and added, “The gift I buy her today will smooth her ruffled feathers . . . Ah, a double dose of trouble walks this way.”

  Mungo glanced down the long length of the corridor. From the opposite direction. Lady Armstrong and Lady Elliott advanced on them and smiled when they spied the two men.

  “Good mornin’, ladies,” Gordon greeted his two former mistresses. He flashed them one of his most charming smiles.

  “Will ye be attendin’ the king’s masque tomorrow evenin’?” Lady Elliott asked, giving Mungo her attention.

  “We’ll be leavin’ Edinburgh in the mornin’,” Gordon spoke up.

  “Poor Lavinia will be so disappointed,” Lady Armstrong remarked, her insincerity apparent in her voice.

  “To hell with Lavinia Kerr,” Lady Elliott quipped, her inviting gaze still fixed on Mungo. “I’m disappointed.”

  “We’ve an appointment with His Majesty and dinna want to keep him waitin’,” Gordon said, drawing his friend away. “Excuse us, ladies.”

  “Why d’ye do that?” Mungo asked as they continued down the corridor. “Lady Elliott seemed interested in me.”

  “Lady Elliott is married,” Gordon reminded him.

  “Well, ye had her,” Mungo replied. “Her bein’ married never bothered ye.”

  “Married mistresses are a wealthy man’s luxury,” Gordon informed him. “Beddin’ other men’s wives is a waste of yer time. Ye need to woo an heiress.”

  “And how am I to do that when I’ve got no prospects?” Mungo asked.

  “For one thing, always tell the ladies what they want to hear,” Gordon advised. “Tell a beautiful woman she’s smart, and a smart woman she’s beautiful.”

  “What if the lady in question is both beautiful and smart?”

  “Run in the other direction, my friend,” Gordon warned. “The point is give the ladies what they desire in their secret hearts, and they’ll trip over their pretty feet to do yer biddin’. ’Tis a lot like dealin’ with the king.”

  Mungo cast his friend a sidelong glance and said, “I guess what they say is true.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There are more reivers amongst the Campbells than honest men in other clans.”

  Gordon grinned. “Thank ye for the high praise.” He reached out and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder in easy camaraderie, saying, “Did ye hear the story aboot the Reverend John Knox playin’ golf on the Sabbath?”

  Mungo shook his head.

  “One glorious Sabbath morn, that righteous reformer sneaked away for an illicit solo round,” Gordon told him. “God saw what the hypocrite was doin’, so He punished the man by givin’ him a hole in one.”

  “That’s no punishment,” Mungo remarked.

  “Strange ye should say that,” Gordon replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “Saint Peter uttered those verra same words. God cocked one holy eyebrow at Saint Pete and replied, ‘Oh, no? And whom can he be tellin’?’”

  Mungo chuckled. “Serves the bastard right. My uncle told me Sunday was the best day of the week before John Knoxious had his way with it.”

  Gordon burst ou
t laughing. “My own father said the verra same thing . . . Let’s hurry, or Himself will be waitin’ for us. Ye know what that means.”

  “Aye, partin’ with more money than I can afford to lose.”

  In their haste to reach the king, Gordon and Mungo quickened their pace. Turning down another passageway, the two men nearly crashed into someone rounding the corner from the opposite direction. In the dimly lit corridor, the man appeared as dark and sinister as Lucifer himself.

  “The devil’s bairns have the devil’s own luck,” the stranger said, flashing the marquess a smile. “I’ve found ye without any trouble.”

  Gordon noted the man’s green and black, yellow-pin-striped plaid. A MacArthur clansman, he concluded, come to tell me my bride is ripe. Lifting his gaze to the stranger’s dark eyes, Gordon realized he was looking at one of his brothers-in-law.

  Six feet tall and muscularly built, Dubh MacArthur had hair and eyes as black as a moonless midnight and a devilish smile that could charm the chastity out of a nun. At twenty-five, this MacArthur son was the image of his father as a young man.

  “Greetin’s, Cousin Dubh,” Gordon said, returning the other man’s smile. “What brings ye to Holyroodhouse?”

  “Ye do.”

  Gordon raised his eyebrows at him. He turned to introduce his companion, but faltered at the cold hatred gleaming at the other man from his friend’s blue eyes. Why did MacKinnon harbor such a strong dislike for the MacArthurs? This aversion didn’t bode well for their continued friendship. After all, his bride was the MacArthur laird’s only daughter.

  Recovering himself, Gordon pasted a gracious smile on his face and said, “Meet Mungo MacKinnon, one of my closest friends.”

  “Are ye, perchance, related to my cousin Glenda?” Dubh asked the slight, blond man.

  “Her mother Antonia was one of my late father’s sisters,” Mungo answered.

  Dubh offered the man his hand in friendship, saying, “Then I’m certainty pleased to make yer acquaintance.”

  Mungo hesitated and dropped his gaze from MacArthur’s dark eyes to his offered hand. Finally, he accepted the outstretched hand, but his smile did not reach his pale blue eyes.

  “We’re late for a round of golf with the king,” Gordon told Dubh. “Come with us, and I’ll introduce ye to him. We can talk as we walk.”

  As the three of them started down the corridor, Gordon cast his MacArthur kinsman a sidelong glance. When Dubh grinned broadly at him, Gordon suffered the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that he was the butt of a hilarious jest to which only his brother-in-law was privy.

  “’Tis strange ye should arrive in Edinburgh today,” Gordon remarked. “Mungo and I are leaving for Dunridge Castle in the mornin’. ’Tis past time I fetched my wife to Inverary.”

  “Dinna bother, brother-in-law.” Dubh gave him a long look. “Yer wife isna there.”

  Gordon halted abruptly and turned to him. “What do ye mean?” he asked, confused. “Is she dead?”

  “Rob is in England,” Dubh told him. “She’s been visitin’ Uncle Richard for the past year.”

  “Ye mean the Earl of Basildon?” Gordon asked.

  “The English queen’s Midas?” Mungo echoed, obviously impressed.

  “Aye,” Dubh answered.

  “When is the lass due home?” Gordon asked, relieved for the reprieve from the drudgery of beginning his married life.

  Dubh hesitated. He flicked a glance at the blond man and then said to his cousin, “Send Mungo ahead, and we’ll speak privately aboot this.”

  “Ye can say whatever ye want in front of my friend,” Gordon told him. “Make it fast, though. We’ve kept the king waitin’ long enough.”

  Ignoring his kinsman’s rudeness, Dubh inclined his head and smiled. “Rob says she’s stayin’ in England and wants yer marriage annulled.”

  Mungo reacted first. He hooted with derisive laughter, but one quelling look from the surprised marquess ended it abruptly.

  “She wants to annul me?” Gordon echoed, unable to credit what he’d heard. No woman had ever refused him. That the MacArthur twit even considered annulling him was shockingly humiliating.

  Dubh grinned and nodded. “Ye’ve the gist of it, cousin.”

  “I willna allow it,” Gordon said, masking his embarrassment with sternness. “Tell yer father to order her home.”

  “With all due respect, my lord marquess, Rob is yer wife,” Dubh countered. “If ye want her, fetch her yerself.”

  “The earl approves of her rebellion?” Gordon asked.

  “I didna say that,” Dubh replied. “We MacArthurs havena heard a peep out of ye in ten years. How could we guess yer intentions? ’Tis the reason I’m here.”

  Gordon had the good grace to flush but then defended himself, saying, “I’ve been makin’ my way at court for the good of the clan.” He turned to his friend and asked, “Are ye up for ridin’ to England?”

  Mungo nodded. “Perhaps the king will have messages for his ambassadors.”.

  “I’ll ride with ye,” Dubh said. “I’ve always been able to reason with my baby sister.”

  Gordon grinned. “‘Twill be the last adventure of my bachelor days. The three of us wilt go trystin’ with the Sassenach devils.”

  “My sweet mother is English,” Dubh reminded him. “The English are na devils, Gordy, merely men.”

  “Only a devil would seduce an innocent bride into turning her tender regard away from her noble husband,” Gordon replied.

  “Perhaps the husband lost the bride’s tender regard without anyone else’s help,” Dubh countered with an easy smile.

  Mungo MacKinnon chuckled, earning a censorious look from the irritated marquess.

  “Whatever the cause of my bride’s waywardness,” Gordon told his kinsman, “I’m determined to take her in hand and set her straight.”

  Chapter 2

  “Whatever the outcome, I’m determined to take Henry aside and tell him the truth of the matter,” Rob announced. Noting her friend’s dubious expression, she added, “I swear I’ll do it the moment he returns from court.”

  “Do you think ‘tis wise?” Isabelle asked. “The fact that you’ve kept your marriage a secret for over a year will probably anger him.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Rob said with a dainty shrug. “If he truly loves me, Henry will see my annulment through to its end.”

  “I’ll be here to help you through the worst of it,” Isabelle promised, taking Rob’s right hand in her own.

  “I’m so lucky yer cousin Roger brought ye along with him to visit us last summer,” Rob said, smiling at the only friend she’d ever had. “However would I cope with this whole situation if ye werena aboot to hold my hand?”

  “I’m the lucky one,” Isabelle insisted, returning her smile. “When do you think Henry will return?”

  “I dinna know,” Rob answered. “I was hopin’ he’d come home in time for tonight’s celebration.”

  The two friends strolled around the Earl of Basildon’s garden and enjoyed the early winter’s afternoon. Opposites yet complementary, the two young women were like magnificent jewels — beautiful if solitary yet startlingly exquisite when placed in the perfect setting of the other’s company. Both were petite, but Rob’s ebony hair and emerald eyes contrasted strikingly with Isabelle’s golden tresses and sky-blue eyes.

  A powdery light blanket of snow, the first of the season, muffled the sounds of their footsteps on that December afternoon. Several starlings gathered in the hackberry elms and dined on its few remaining berries while wrens, so secretive during the summer nesting season, flaunted themselves boldly on the barren branches of a birch tree. Wood smoke scented the Strand’s crisp, crystalline air.

  “Aunt Keely says ’tis a Welsh custom to kiss beneath the Yule mistletoe,” Rob old her friend. “I’ve decided to allow Henry one kiss.”

  “Your aunt is a bit of a pagan, isn’t she?” Isabelle said with a fond smile. “By the way, your uncle seems in especially good
spirits for a man who’s just fathered his sixth daughter.”

  “Aunt Keely assures Uncle Richard that the next one will be a boy,” Rob replied. “’Tis why they’ve named the new babe Hope.”

  “How can she possibly know what her next child will be?”

  Rob shrugged. “She hasn’t been wrong yet . . . Ouch!”

  “Owww,” Isabelle cried.

  Something struck their backs, and the two women whirled around as a second barrage of snowballs sailed through the air toward them. The telltale giggling of little girls reached their ears.

  “We got you good,” ten-year-old Blythe called, materializing from behind a hedgerow.

  Eight-year-old Bliss, trailed by her three younger sisters, stepped from behind the hedgerow and asked, “Will you play with us?”

  “Please?” three-year-old Summer and Autumn chimed together.

  “Pretty please with sugar on it,” added six-year-old Aurora.

  “I thought I felt pryin’ eyes watchin’ my back,” Rob said. “Come along then.”

  Beside her, Isabelle chuckled as the five Devereux girls dashed toward them. “I too felt someone watching us,” she said.

  “I still do.” Rob glanced around but could detect no one watching them. Yet, the uncomfortable feeling persisted.

  “Grandmama Talbot’s birthday party is tonight,” Aurora announced when she reached them.

  “Mama said we may attend,” Blythe added. “If we nap today.”

  “We can eat all the pudding we want,” Bliss told them.

  “Apples and nuts,” Summer and Autumn shouted with childish glee, making all of them laugh.

  “Do ye think anyone will invite me to dance?” Blythe asked, hope and fear warring upon her pretty face.

  Rob noted her cousin’s anxious expression. “Do ye wish to dance?”

  Blythe nodded and blushed, admitting, “With Roger Debrett.”

  “He’s an old man,” Bliss said.

  “Is not,” Blythe countered, rounding on her sister.

  “He is —”

  “— Not!”

  “At twenty-two years, Roger Debrett scarcely qualifies as aged,” Rob informed Bliss. She smiled at Blythe, adding, “I’m certain sure he’ll be invitin’ you to dance.”