by Karen Ranney
“I imagine Mr. Cameron will be so very happy to see you, madam.”
So happy he’d not yet put in an appearance. So happy no one stood at the broad front doors to greet them. Not a servant walked down the steps; the door didn’t even open.
If she’d been so foolish as to confide in Mary, she’d tell her that not once in the months since she’d been gone had Cameron ever written her. She had no idea if the time without her had been a lonely one, or if he’d missed her, if his health was good. In short, her husband was a stranger.
The morning was fair, the sun greeted her brightly, but no human being of her acquaintance stood at the door and welcomed her home.
“Perhaps Mr. Gordon woke late, madam, and he’s just now dressing,” Mary said.
Not a good sign that her maid had noticed her discomfiture. In just a moment, Mary would be dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her ever-present handkerchief, a sign she empathized for Rowena’s plight—being the unloved wife of an invalid.
“There was no way to let him know of our arrival, Mary. We shall simply let them know we are here now.”
There was no need to instruct the driver, he was well aware of where to have the trunks taken. What a pity all the new clothing she’d purchased in London wouldn’t mitigate this bitter disappointment.
In addition to her new wardrobe, she’d purchased presents for Cameron and Devlen, and added to Robert’s collection of toy soldiers. She knew the child would be pleasantly surprised. They’d had little or nothing to do with each other, and she suspected he preferred their current arrangement as much as she.
She’d always been careful around children, cautious and reserved. She didn’t go out of her way to view a child in its pram, and when a friend whispered to her she was with child, Rowena’s first thought was to mentally bless the poor soul and hope she made it through the travail of childbirth.
After marrying Cameron five years ago, she’d given some thought to children, but since he was twelve years older, it hadn’t been a subject concerning her over-much. He had his heir in Devlen. After the accident, she’d had to accept the closest she would ever come to her own child would be acting as aunt to Robert, the twelfth Duke of Brechin.
She mounted the steps holding her skirts up to her ankles. Her dress was a gray merino trimmed in silk. The bodice was fitted in the waist, and the color accented her red hair. Perhaps after two months Cameron would notice she was not unattractive, at least not according to several men in London.
Would he comment upon her pale complexion? She’d been careful not to acquire any sun. Or lovers. More than once, she’d been approached by an attractive man, and more than once she’d wondered at her own virtue.
Would Cameron have been as restrained if the circumstances were reversed? That was not a question she was foolish enough to ask herself.
Mary opened the door for her, as properly as a footman. She smiled at her, a forced expression, not quite sincere. But the dear woman only smiled back at her and hurried to close the door behind her.
Dear Mary, always so accommodating.
Rowena took the stairs to the right. Her chamber was adjacent to Cameron’s in the same wing, on the opposite side of the castle from the Duke’s Chamber. As if Cameron did not wish to be reminded daily his nephew had ascended to the title.
How could he ever forget?
If she did nothing else, she needed to convince Cameron a few more servants would not be amiss. If for no other reason than to be able to smile at a friendly face from time to time and not make the journey from her chamber down to the drawing room without seeing a solitary soul.
At the second floor, she hesitated. A wiser woman would have gone straight to her room to refresh herself and rest from the journey. But she had waited for this moment for the last two months, less one day.
During that first day after she’d left Castle Crannoch, she’d been happy about her decision. Then regret had crept in, and she’d been so desperately lonely she’d immediately wanted to turn around and return to the castle. During these past two months she’d imagined all sorts of homecomings, and none of them had been so dry and desolate as the real one.
How foolish she was to desperately want something that would never happen.
She stopped and turned, changing her mind and walking back to her chamber. She opened the door before Mary could do so and entered the room.
Rowena turned away from the door and went to her vanity. Mary followed, intent on helping her. For the moment, however, she only wanted to be alone.
“See to yourself, my dear,” she said, with as much kindness as she could summon. “If you could come before dinner, perhaps.”
Cameron insisted everyone dress for dinner, and since it was often the only time during the day when she saw her husband, Rowena took great pains with her attire.
Mary chattered at her side, and she nodded from time to time so as to appear attentive. In actuality, there were times when she simply ignored Mary. Her maid shared every thought traveling through her mind, however transiently. Given any encouragement at all, the poor dear would go on and on and on about the most trivial matter. The squeaking of the latches on the coach door, the slap of the shade against the window, all these things reminded her of when she was a child and embarked upon a journey with her father while her mother stayed behind caring for a sibling.
In addition, Mary liked to gossip, and these little snippets of conversation would shortly contain tidbits about every single individual who lived at Castle Crannoch. Rowena would be privy to the activities of every single servant, guest, or inhabitant of the castle. Except, of course, herself and Cameron. But she didn’t hold out any hope Mary had any restraint whatsoever when it came to sensitive matters.
“Please, take this time for yourself.”
“Very well, madam, if you’re sure,” Mary said. “I can stay, if you prefer. Your trunks will be delivered shortly, and we need to unpack your things. Otherwise, those lovely new gowns will be irreparably damaged.”
Rowena could not see how sitting in a trunk a few more hours might ruin them when they had been sitting there for days already. But she only smiled.
“There’s time enough later.”
Mary finally left, closing the door softly behind her. Rowena stared at herself in the mirror, slowing removing her hat, an ethereal bit of fluff and veil that enhanced her green eyes.
She was too pale, but other than that, the last part of the journey from London had not altered her looks. She looked well, healthy, and vibrant, a woman of youth who still had the ability to turn a man’s head. Her cheeks were pink, her mouth turned up in a smile, the freckles on her nose barely visible through the dusting of powder. Her eyes sparkled, but she knew it wasn’t anticipation but tears making them look so deeply green.
One tear escaped and trailed from the corner of her eye down her cheek, then to her chin. She brushed it away slowly.
Cameron would know by now she’d arrived. Perhaps he was even supervising the arrival of her trunks and looking at all of the things she’d purchased with that smile of his, half-wry, half-cynical.
But he hadn’t come to her room and he hadn’t made the effort to greet her. Two months had evidently made no difference in Cameron’s affections.
Very well, if this was how she was to live the rest of her life, she would do so with grace. He would never know how devastated she felt at this moment. Instead, let him look at her and wonder at her smile. Let him imagine what might have transpired in London. Let him think her beautiful and desirable. Let him decide she was wanton. Let him think anything at all about her other than she was a poor despicable creature yearning for the affections of the one man who wouldn’t grant them. Who held his heart aloof because of what she’d done.
He had his pride. Very well, so did she, and he would learn just how very much pride she had from this moment on.
She repaired her hair, and blotted at her face so no trace of her earlier tears would show. She stood,
straightened her attire, grateful for the gray wool she wore. The dress flattered both her coloring and her figure.
Once armored, she left the room, intent for the library on the first floor. Cameron had claimed the room as his, and if he wasn’t in his chamber, he was holed up in the library, playing at being the Duke of Brechin. Even if he could not bear the title in actuality, he governed Castle Crannoch as if he were the true owner.
Cameron was a genius at management. He knew the exact number of cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, or horses and where they were at any one time. He knew the tally of each field and how many bushels it produced. The ships belonging to the child duke, the various possessions scattered all over Scotland, were all kept in perfect order by Cameron for the child’s majority.
Once Robert no longer required a guardian, he could destroy his own birthright if he chose. When he reached twenty-one, Cameron would be forced to turn away and surrender all he’d stewarded for all these years. She’d asked him once if he would be able to simply walk away from Castle Crannoch. He’d only stared at her as if she weren’t there. A ghost of who she’d been, perhaps. A wifely spirit.
She knew exactly when his love had turned to hate. Marcus and his wife had been visiting Edinburgh to celebrate his birthday. A carriage accident had killed the duke and duchess instantly, and injured Cameron to the extent she’d had to make a fateful decision.
She’d sat at the side of his bed every moment since the operation. Cameron’s life force was so strong he couldn’t help but survive. If anything, she would will it. For days she sat beside his bed and prayed.
When he finally awoke, it was her duty to tell him what had happened. Because his legs had been crushed beneath the carriage he would never walk again.
But he would survive, his life would go on.
“Not without my legs, Rowena.” He’d turned away from her then, and ever since, he’d treated her as if she weren’t quite there, never looking at her directly and rarely addressing her personally. When he’d made the decision to move to Castle Crannoch, she acquiesced. There was nothing, after all, she could do.
How strange she could love someone so deeply and hate him at the same time.
Chapter 14
The air was chilled, but the sky was blue. The grass was lightly browned from the nightly freezing temperature. Yet there was something about the day that spoke not of winter, but of springtime. Beatrice halted on the lee of the hill and looked beyond her, to the vista of blue-shrouded hills in the distance.
There was something about the scenery, the sight of an eagle soaring high above, its wings black and gray against the blue of the sky, the feel of the air itself, holding a bite even in summer. She closed her eyes and thought she could even smell the faint odor of peat fires and smoke.
Her father was Scots, and he loved the country with the same fervency she felt. But he had no illusions as to its history, its future, or its people.
“The word no is an anthem for Scotland, my dear Beatrice. You’ll never find a more recalcitrant lot than the Scots. Nor will you ever find a nobler race of people or a greater friend than a Scotsman.”
Her mother, half-French, always smiled in tolerance. Perhaps she’d learned it wasn’t important to worry about nationalities.
At the moment, Beatrice couldn’t help but feel as though she were born to this land.
She glanced behind Robert at the looming castle. From here, the older part of the castle was clearly visible, including the lone tower, now crumbling in places.
“Why is it the past seems so much more romantic than the present? Your ancestors lived here a very long time ago, and no doubt suffered a great many privations. But one doesn’t think of what they suffered, only of their pride and their determination.”
“Do you know nothing of the Gordons, Miss Sinclair?” Robert stopped on the path and glanced back at her. “They were a bloodthirsty lot. My father used to tell me stories of all the raids they went on, and all the cattle they stole from places along the border.”
“Really?”
“My father and I used to spend every Friday afternoon discussing a Gordon. There are thirteen generations of Gordon men, Miss Sinclair, and each of them should be studied. Some were foolish, while some were heroes.”
His voice proudly echoed his father’s words. She looked down at him and smiled.
“I think I would’ve liked your father.”
She thought for a moment Robert was going to say something in return, but he didn’t.
Perhaps if she could get him to talk more it would be a healing step for him. She knew loss was never truly eased, but it became a part of the fabric of one’s character, like a hole through a once-loved garment. Even after mending, the tear was still there, and the garment altered because of it. She didn’t discard a garment because it had one flaw, and she couldn’t stop living her life simply because grief had visited her. If she imparted no other lesson to Robert, she’d try to teach him this one.
The young duke was, after all, only seven years old. He had a lifetime of living ahead of him. True, his early years would always be filled with the bittersweet memories of the parents he loved, but he must begin to create other memories.
The graveled path they followed was bordered by large rocks on either side and was too narrow for two people to walk abreast. Like the road leading down the mountain, it meandered from side to side through the glen. The distance to the woods was longer, but conversely, the journey was easier, given the height they descended on the zigzag trail.
Someone, a very long time ago, had cut steps into the stone where the hill abruptly dropped, and they’d become part of the path itself. As she followed him, Beatrice noticed Robert’s step became less reluctant, his arms began to swing back and forth, and his head came up as if eager to see what was ahead of him.
How long had it been since he’d ventured outside the castle? Castle Crannoch might be his birthright, but there was no sunlight there, nothing but a dark warren of lavish rooms lit by hundreds of candles. A child needed sunlight and activity, chores to perform and responsibilities, even if he was duke.
To the right, following the curve of the hill, was a dense strip of forest. The trees were thick, and the underbrush looked as if it hadn’t been cleared away for years. At first glance, the wood appeared black and unfriendly. But as they grew closer, Beatrice realized it was just the kind of place a boy would like to explore.
He thrust both fists into his pants pockets. His stock had already come untied, and there was a spot on his jacket and one on the knee of his trousers. He was not the most sartorially perfect of aristocrats.
She wanted suddenly to hug him. Though he had moments in which he was rude and unbearable, she found herself softening toward him the longer she was in his company.
“What do you do in the woods?”
“I pretend I’m duke.”
She glanced at him, surprised.
“I’m not really the Duke of Brechin at Castle Crannoch, Miss Sinclair.”
“Why on earth would you say that? It’s your home.”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe her stupidity. It was such a boyish thing to do she found herself smiling.
“It was my home when my parents were alive. Now it’s filled with people who do not like me and wish I’d never been born.”
He turned and marched toward the forest again, leaving her with a choice of either to follow him or stare after him incredulously.
Finally, Beatrice lengthened her strides until she was only a few feet behind him.
“Surely you don’t feel that way about Gaston?”
“Gaston is my uncle’s servant.” He stopped again, turned and looked at her. “Did you know, Miss Sinclair, none of the servants who were employed at Castle Crannoch when my parents were alive are here now?”
She shook her head, surprised.
“Most of the servants below stairs are rotated every three months. They come from Edinburgh or Glasgow. My uncle imp
orts them here with a bonus and promises them they will only have to serve for a quarter of the year. Even if they wish to stay, they are not allowed to.”
Was her tenure to be as short-lived? The selfishness of that thought shamed her.
“Why would he do that?”
He shrugged. “You tell me, Miss Sinclair. My uncle tells me nothing. I think he’d rather pretend I wasn’t around.”
“And Devlen?” she found herself asking. “How do you feel about Devlen?”
He turned away, relentless in his approach toward the woods. She had to nearly sprint to catch up with him.
“Devlen is my one true friend. I would live in Edinburgh with him if I could, but my uncle wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because Devlen would be a bad influence upon me.” He grinned, a thoroughly masculine, albeit seven-year-old version, grin. “He stays out late, you know, and he has a great many lady companions.”
“Does he?”
He stopped one more time and looked at her. “I found a deer once,” he said, looking as if he were dubious about confiding in her.
“I trust you treated him with more care than the snake.”
He raised his eyebrows in an imitation of his cousin’s gesture. “I’m the Duke of Brechin, Miss Sinclair. I’m the only one allowed to hunt in these woods. But the deer was already dead, I’m afraid.”
“You have your morbid moments, Robert. Is that why we’ve come to the woods? To find some other poor dead creature?”
He gave her another pitying stare, and she decided to refrain from further comment.
They were beyond the first of the trees when Beatrice heard a loud cracking noise. She looked down, thinking she had stepped on a branch, but the noise came again, this time from behind her. She glanced back toward Castle Crannoch. Something stung her face and she recoiled, pressing her hand to her cheek. When she drew it away, there was blood on her palm.
Robert ran up to her, grabbed her arm, and before she could ask him what he was about, had pulled her into the woods and to the ground.