Brogan’s eyes widened and he whistled. ‘Not the Morven you spent all that summer with?’
‘The very one.’
‘And you think she’d intended the other one for you?’ Brogan grinned and shook his head. ‘No, never. Anyone with half a brain could tell you and Lady Morven were made for each other. What happened, about all that?’
Fraser bit back the surge of anger and hurt that swept through him. ‘Barbados happened.’
Brogan blinked and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. The heavy, warm weight comforted Fraser like no words could have. ‘I thought you realised once she’d gone you should have asked her to stay?’
Fraser shrugged. ‘Yes, well she never answered my letters.’
‘Ah.’ Brogan seemed lost for words for a moment. ‘That’s just not right.’
‘Right or not it happened. So off I went and here I am. Eight years later about to once again meet the one woman who could have broken my heart.’
‘Could? Only could?’
‘Yes well, that’s a closed subject,’ Fraser said in a flat tone. ‘But hell, Bro, what a bloody coil.’
Having spent an hour or so with Brogan was the best thing he could have done, Fraser realised as he once more headed for home. He’d missed having a close friend to talk to, someone to mull over problems and put the world to rights with. Brogan and he had spent many a night with a dram or two exchanging ideas and generally egging on, or restraining each other from excess when need be. Now hopefully their friendship could be resumed. After all, no one knew as much about each other as they did.
When he’d told Brogan how Morven had ignored his heartfelt pleas in his letter—tell me I’m not mistaken, tell me I was a fool to let you go, tell me you want me as much as I want you—Brogan had snorted and looked bewildered. ‘That’s not like the lass you knew,’ he’d said emphatically. ‘You’ll need to ask her why.’
Easier said than done, but at least he felt comforted in knowing Brogan was there to talk to. And talk they had. Brogan was in a similar situation to Fraser in that he needed to wed, but for him, there wasn’t the problem of a maybe wife.
Fraser’s head still swam when he thought of all the ramifications involved in that scenario. One thing that bothered him as much as anything else was the awful thought that they might be married in Scotland, and she unaware. If she went ahead and got married in England, where it might or might not be legal, she could commit bigamy and not know it. She’s mine. That thought popped into his mind and lodged there. The more he let himself dwell on it the more determined he became.
Never mind law, Tam Curtin or a day of folly. Fraser let that one thought linger.
She is mine.
Chapter Three
‘And of course as you are the elder I thought you’d like this suite,’ Lady Napier burbled to Morven. She flung open shutters and the door, which lead into a pretty enclosed garden with a stepping-stone path that meandered from the terrace and across the lawn to a rose-clad wall several yards away. The gate in the corner was of heavy wooden panels and the latch and snick looked as old as the castle itself. Presumably it didn’t open, or if it did was not a security threat.
Grow up; this is the nineteenth century not the seventeenth.
‘Oh how pretty,’ Morven exclaimed without having to choose her words. ‘It’s a piece of heaven.’ But, I’d wager my next month’s pin money you were not originally going to house me here.
‘I thought you would like it,’ Lady Napier said complacently. ‘Traditionally, it has always been the eldest daughter of the family’s quarters. Otherwise…’ She coloured slightly and coughed.
‘Otherwise?’ Morven prompted.
‘Pardon…oh otherwise I’m sure one of the children would have demanded it. My two younger girls and their brother. They will be sad to miss you, but this journey to my parents was long overdue. They are old, you understand. My parents not the children.’
Now why didn’t Morven think any of that was what Senga had originally intended to say? She knew how old the children were. However, as she couldn’t force the older woman to say what she meant, Morven smiled dutifully. ‘I dare say.’
‘As you see, the sitting room is down here and your bedchamber and bathing chamber are on the floor above. Now, your maid is contactable by this bell, and…’
Morven stopped listening. Why was she in a totally different wing to Murren and her mama? One she’d never been near all those years ago? Then she’d been housed somewhere near where she thought her mama and sibling now were. Was this the room her mama and Senga had thought of for Murren until she had declared it not to be thought of?
They—the duchess and Murren—were quartered near to each other, and she was sure she heard her mother speak to Lady Napier under her breath about exasperating and silly chits and then Senga mutter something to her mother about changes and convention.
Lady Napier had excused herself for a moment and returned to say their rooms were ready.
Whatever conventions the older women had been discussing, evidently they considered she, Morven, was too old to bother about such things. Or did they? Was this yet another ploy of theirs? Whatever, she would cope with anything life or parents threw at her when coping was needed. Until then she would enjoy the peace and solitude.
Morven waited until she was alone and began to explore her new quarters. So very pretty, even if she was probably the only person in the turret. This area seemed quiet, with only the birdsong outside in the tiny walled garden to break the silence of the somnolent sunny afternoon.
Was she all alone? Like the princess in the tower, she thought with a grin. Except she was on the ground floor, and her hair, although waist length, wouldn’t reach down to the ground.
Somewhere a door banged and she jumped, as her heart missed a beat and prickles of apprehension dotted her skin. She stared at the door through which Lady Napier had departed. Had it creaked when she left? Not in the slightest. The only noise had been when the latch dropped onto its mooring.
Fraser had slept in a tower like this. Although it had, she thought, been on the far side of the castle, where he could look down the glen and over towards Ben Lomond. Fraser had been master of all he surveyed. It had, he told her, in times past been the chambers where the laird’s heir lived to keep a watchful eye over his lands and his people and to look out for marauders.
A shriek like a banshee’s sounded from beyond the garden wall, and Morven whirled around from contemplating the metal door fastening to stare outside. Three crows and some sort of bird of prey flew overhead arguing. A robin sat on a branch and observed her with interest and chirruped its annoyance. That had been the noise then. Convention or not, Murren would have hated it here. Her sister readily admitted that she preferred the noise of pie sellers to magpies, and the known to the unknown.
The next scream sounded as if something was trying to enter the room via the chimney.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Morven said out loud, somewhat disgusted at her pathetic attitude. ‘Get a backbone. This is an old building. It creaks and talks to the world. Stop it. Selkies, kelpies and Ghillie Dhu do not exist…’ she broke off and bit her lips, before she swallowed heavily ‘…around here,’ she finished defiantly, and then groaned at the knowledge she was talking to herself out loud. Next I will be seeing those wee creatures, if I’m not careful. She picked up a cushion from the chaise and plumped it up for no reason.
Either the same door or one nearby slammed again and she could swear she heard footsteps. Morven dropped the cushion as if it was on fire and looked around for something—anything—she could use as a weapon to defend herself, then laughed, shamefaced. It was probably a servant, and Fraser wouldn’t take too kindly to one of his staff being attacked with a Sèvres vase, the only likely weapon she could see.
Now she wished she’d asked who used the top four floors.
However, it didn’t really matter. She had a lock on her door, on all doors in fact, and the idea of havi
ng somewhere private to slip away to was an unthought-of joy. Morven decided she might frequently develop a headache if it meant she could retreat here and enjoy such gorgeous surroundings. More and more she had begun to appreciate her own company. The chance to speak or not, to enjoy the world around her without interference or banalities was her idea of perfection.
Morven chuckled as she stepped into the garden. All she needed now was a cat or two and to start wearing lacy caps and she would be written off by all and sundry as an eccentric and on the shelf. It was almost enough to have her go on a hunt for several felines and a seamstress to make said caps. The idiotic scenario—as if she’d be allowed to do such things at almost quite six and twenty—cheered her up and she thought this sojourn in Scotland could work and be enjoyable. After all she’d loved her previous visit. All of it.
Good Lord, how pathetic. The only fly in the ointment was she had yet to meet Fraser again and it would no doubt be when they gathered for dinner. It would have been so much better if this first meeting after almost eight years could have been private. She had rather a lot to say to him and she wasn’t sure it was all going to be pleasant.
Morven knew she had agreed they should indulge in a summer fling and nothing more would come of it, and she had enjoyed every second of it. At eighteen, away from her family and with such an attentive escort, what was there not to love? She shied away from their last meeting. The one where he said he’d never forget her but he had to do what the clan dictated. That she would forget him, but he would never… Stop it now.
Now though? Not to be warned he would be at the castle when they were went beyond all comprehension. Did it have something to do with her mama’s uncommunicative behaviour on the journey north? And Murren’s worries, if that was what they were? Well of course it had, and there was precious little she could do about that, except when she once again met Fraser, she could be courteous, serene and polite and treat him as if they had been mere acquaintances.
And ask why?
However, she had to get over the meeting first. Project a persona that was cool, calm and collected and see if he was privy or agreed with this stupid idea of their mamas—if that is what it was. More and more the whole affair had a smoky feel to it and Morven felt as if she was looking at a farce being played out. One where they were all in the know and she wasn’t. But if, just if there were plans afoot for Murren and Fraser it would never do. Lord, he would eat her gentle sister for breakfast and spit her out in little bits without even thinking about it.
That could not be allowed. And how will I stop him? Seduce him? As if that would work; he is a man. Why stop at one if you can have two? Morven accepted she was not being fair. When had Fraser ever showed he would behave in that manner? She’d seen enough of him during that summer all those years ago to understand that was not his way. He had honour and a sense of right that she’d seen missing in many a man.
Dare she appeal to his better nature? Could she? Would she be honest and tell him she’d never forgotten those golden months? That even though she accepted their hand fasting and vows were private and meant nothing to anyone else, they meant a lot to her? Would he agree he had felt the same? Morven shook her head at her idiotic thoughts. Why would he? She knew he hadn’t. His subsequent actions told her that. Perhaps he would laugh at her childishness? However, there was a chance he wouldn’t.
What should she do?
It was a conundrum she had no answer to. Morven wandered across the manicured lawn of her garden and lowered her head to smell the rose that rambled up the castle wall.
‘Such a pretty sight.’
****
‘Argh…’ Three floors below his vantage point, Morven, at least he thought it was she, spun around so fast she lost her footing, and grabbed onto a grinning stone Adonis to save herself from falling.
Fraser chuckled. Did she know which part of the statue’s anatomy she now held in a death grip?
I could get used to that again.
‘Careful, he might get flustered…or something,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Lucky thing.’
She looked around, as if to try and figure out who spoke, and Fraser’s cock hardened to the point of pain, and his skin became taut and prickly as he realised it was indeed Morven. A beautiful, more mature Morven, who had grown into her skin and her loveliness.
‘Wait there,’ he called abruptly as she looked upwards and her expression changed from puzzled to annoyed. ‘Please,’ he added. ‘I won’t be a second.’ Fraser didn’t wait to see if she replied or agreed, but left his room rapidly, not even bothering to put on a cravat or jacket. House shoes, a shirt and his pantaloons would do. At least he had those on and wasn’t in his birthday suit. Now he knew that his mother had indeed housed one of her guests in his sister Flora’s old rooms. Senga had omitted to tell him that tiny fact when he had changed rooms and towers.
Fraser used the servants’ stair that led down the turret from his bathing chamber to the ground floor, passed the door into Flora’s—now Morven’s—bathing chamber and instead of going along the corridor to the outside of the castle and the waste area for slops, turned to a little-used door into the sitting room of the suite Morven occupied. He doubted Morven had noticed it. From memory the door was usually locked and he rather thought it might now be papered or panelled so it didn’t stand out. None of which was material. Fraser had learned how to pick locks at an early age, even if the key was in them. Which he’d bet in this case it wasn’t.
He was correct. It wasn’t.
Fraser used his lock pick, and prayed the door didn’t squeak. He should have known it wouldn’t. Flora had led quite an exciting life before she settled down and married Shettleston, and he knew she favoured the less than conventional side of life. He doubted much had been done to these rooms since she married, except the occasional dusting. After all before he had decided to move from the rooms he associated with that golden summer, to this side of the castle, this tower had been reserved for his sister and her now husband and no one else. Separately housed of course: Shettleston in the rooms Fraser now used, Flora below.
Now he was home, it was theirs no more and Flora could like it or lump it on the few occasions she visited. He had told his mother in no uncertain terms this was now the laird’s tower and tradition be damned.
But if she was trying to tell him to consider Murren as a bride, what on earth was Morven doing here?
“My love, I’m waiting…” Stop thinking about those letters. It was hard. He wanted to know one thing. Why?
Fraser let himself into the sitting room and walked over the carpet to lock the doors into the hall and the main staircase that led to the upper floors of the suite, and then made his way into the garden. Morven was still where he had last seen her. Almost. She no longer glanced around for him, or whoever she thought had addressed her, but looked at the climbing roses on the garden wall instead. Her hand no longer enclosed Adonis’s staff and instead of leaning on the statue’s groin, she sat on the plinth, and to all intents and purposes appeared like a lady enjoying the sunshine. Until you stared closely and saw how her fingers twitched and her breathing was erratic.
Fraser cleared his throat and Morven moved her head and looked him in the eyes.
The world stood still.
Oh Lord. I do still love her. That visit to Stirling was becoming more imperative by the minute. Not because he didn’t want to be tied to her officially, he was becoming more and more certain he did. But so he could regularise the situation if need be. He went cold at the thought that Morven could perhaps marry someone in England, come to Scotland, be legally married there and be found to have committed bigamy. That scenario would be unthinkable.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the laird. Do I curtsey?’ She raised her eyebrows but otherwise didn’t move.
Grief, how he hated her indifferent tone. ‘If you wish,’ Fraser said pleasantly and was pleased to see her eyes narrow and her skin colour. ‘I’d prefer a kiss but a curtsey is a start.’ If
she could snipe so could he.
‘Oh certainly, your highandmightyness.’ Morven stood up and swept him a very elaborate curtsey. ‘The kiss you can sing for; the curtsey is yours. Although I need to ask you, do you always invade the private quarters of your guests?’
Fraser laughed. He had forgotten how often they scored points off each other. However, all those years ago they had always ended in each other’s arms. Somehow he didn’t think it would be the outcome this time. ‘Your lordship or my lord will do. And you are my mama’s guests, not mine.’ He could have bitten his tongue when she went white and closed her eyes. How terrible did that sound?
‘Morven, love…’
‘I am not your love,’ she said fiercely. ‘You left.’ She folded her arms, sat back on the plinth and turned her back on him. Adonis stared down at him, indifferent to Fraser’s plight.
It’s all right for you; you’re made of stone. I’m bloody not. As his cock was telling him.
‘I had to leave,’ Fraser said in a tight, hard voice. ‘You knew that. But you had the chance to come with me. You didn’t.’ God, the anguish he’d felt all those years ago as he waited for an answer to his letter flooded through him again.
“My love, I am waiting…”
Morven snorted and once more stood up and walked so they were only a few inches apart. That close she had to crane to look him in the eyes. Were those tears he saw? Surely not?
He had no chance to ask before Morven poked him hard in the stomach. ‘Says who? Defective memory, my lord. You told me we’d had fun… fun…’
A definite sob escaped. Fraser lifted his hand to touch her cheek and dropped it again as she glared at him fiercely.
‘Was that all it meant to you? Fun. A quick flick of my skirts and a fumble or three? Really? Fraser, I gave myself to you, heart, body and soul. I worshipped you and would have gone with you at the drop of a coin. We exchanged vows for heaven’s sake. It might have been done in a fun manner, but I meant every word. I begged you to take me with you. I stood not far from here and begged you not to let me leave. I asked you to explain, that we were meant for each other.’
The Scottish Lord’s Secret Bride Page 4