Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  In contrast the nights were so different, bright with intimacy and hot, wicked addictive pleasure. Step by delicious step Robert was leading her to the ultimate consummation, and a part of her longed for it. Yet at the same time Lucy was finding the gulf between the days and the nights increasingly difficult to deal with, as though she were wed to two very different men, the one silent and withdrawn and the other a man she trusted with her body and would trust with her life.

  “Mrs. Stewart is quite a talker,” Sheena said. “She tells me everything. She’s lonely, poor lady. She used to be housekeeper at Methven but fell out with the old laird and he sent her here. I’d run mad being marooned on a place like this.” She looked toward the window, where the mist pressed close as a shroud. “Golden Isle? Gloomy Isle is more fitting.”

  “I’ve seen the sun,” Lucy said. “It came out once last week and the island looked beautiful. I think the mist will lift today.”

  Sheena snorted in disbelief. She finished threading the ribbon through Lucy’s hair and stood back to admire her work. “There. That looks pretty. Let’s hope Lord Methven notices. He does not strike me as a noticing man, not where it matters.”

  Lucy looked sharply at her maid’s reflection in the mirror, but Sheena’s face was averted and she was busying herself picking up the spare pins and tidying the top of the dressing table. Lucy wondered suddenly if the maid deliberately set out to hurt her. These little barbs, planting doubt and sowing unhappiness, were becoming more frequent. Yet it seemed an absurd idea; Sheena had cared for her since she was a child. She had been a servant at Forres forever and was utterly loyal.

  “What will you do today, madam?” the maid said.

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said. Suddenly she felt lonely. “I have no idea.”

  The Auld Haa was too small a house to require much in the way of running, and what was needed Mrs. Stewart did anyway. Lucy was hardly going to make the poor woman’s situation more miserable by taking over her duties. Nor was she going to sit at home waiting for visitors, or going out to pay house calls. Society on the island was very limited; the wives of the two lighthouse keepers had called the previous day, one, Mrs. Hall, very genteel and reserved, the other, Mrs. Campion, very opinionated with a loud laugh, both united in disparaging the islanders as barbarians. Mrs. Campion had coyly suggested hosting a dinner for Robert and Lucy and inviting the schoolmaster and the parson. These, she implied, were the only islanders of sufficient social standing to be worthy of an invitation. The merchants who owned the booths down by the harbor were very poor and beneath her notice. Besides, they were foreigners, Norwegians, whom she considered beyond the pale. Lucy found her snobbery unbearable. She had not invited the ladies back.

  She could take up her writing, of course, but suddenly the Lady’s Guide to Finding the Perfect Gentleman seemed both uninspiring and downright irrelevant. Perhaps, though, she could make some inquiries into the history of the Golden Isle. She felt a faint stirring of interest. She had heard some stories from Mrs. Stewart, who was indeed as talkative as Sheena said, tales of gold from an Armada shipwreck as well as stories of the Vikings who had been the ancestors of the islanders. Their warning beacon still stood on the hill behind the Auld Haa, and the south harbor still held the cuts where their longboats had rested.

  “Will you go out with Lord Methven today?” Sheena persisted.

  “I doubt it,” Lucy said shortly, and thought she saw a faint smile on her maid’s lips before she turned away to fold the nightclothes into the drawers.

  “May I come with you today?” she asked Robert spontaneously as they sat in the breakfast parlor with the scent of fresh coffee in the air and the bright sunshine breaking through the mist to pattern the wainscot. “It is a beautiful day and I should like to see more of the island.”

  Robert put down his cup with a sharp clatter. “I shall be working on rebuilding the beacons today,” he said. He got up and went out, leaving Lucy feeling hurt at the rebuff.

  She had had enough. She saddled up one of the sturdy little ponies from the paddock and went out riding. There were no sidesaddles and she was obliged to ride astride, which meant she had to borrow some breeches from Mrs. Stewart’s nephew. She soon discovered the pony was a feisty little creature with a mind of its own, bigger than a Shetland pony but twice as bad tempered. They had a short sharp battle over which of them was in control and then the pony settled down as docile as Lucy could have asked.

  In the following few days she rode all over the island, exploring from the heather-strewn cliffs of the north to the softer green fields of the south. The crofters waved as she passed by; on the second day one of them offered her a drink of milk to refresh her on such a hot afternoon. On the third day she was invited into one of the croft houses and offered griddled oatcakes as well as milk. After four days the island women decided it was time to try and teach her to spin. She was hopeless at it and just listened to their chatter as they spun, learning about life on the island. At first the women had been reticent in front of her, looking at her sideways, wary and unsure what to make of her. Lucy understood their reticence and perhaps they began to understand that she was lonely because after they had all laughed over her woeful efforts at knitting, they sat down to tea and all differences of background were forgotten.

  “I hear you have been out riding,” Robert said over dinner one night. He had come in late and walked straight into the paneled dining room in his mud-splashed boots, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.

  “That’s right,” Lucy said. “Would you care to join me one day?”

  “I have too much work to do.”

  Something snapped within Lucy. She pushed away her bowl of vegetable broth and stood up.

  “You are behaving like a spoiled child,” she said. His rejection stung; inside she felt shriveled with dismay that she was trying to reach him and he kept pushing her away.

  He fixed her with his hard, direct blue gaze. It was intimidating, but she was determined not to allow it to silence her.

  “I know you do not like it here,” she said precisely. “I understand that it is painful for you because of Gregor’s death and your quarrel with your grandfather—”

  Something so vivid and elemental flashed in his eyes then that she stopped instinctively. There had been grief there; she had felt it like the burn of a flame. Yet Robert did not speak and with a sinking heart she saw him lock down his emotions even harder, the frown pulling down his brow, his jaw tightening like a steel trap.

  “I know you do not want to talk about it.” She plowed doggedly on. She had started this—again, and against her better judgment—and this time she would have her say.

  “No, I do not want to talk about it.” The quietness in his tone was terrifying, as was the controlled stillness that hung about him like a cloak.

  “But I am only trying to help you.”

  “I do not require your help.” Each word was bitten off.

  “And I do not wish to be married to so miserable and dour a husband.” She flung down the napkin that she was still holding. It landed with a slap, trailing in the broth. She stalked to the door, hoping that he would call her back, apologize, say something, anything. But he said nothing.

  “Don’t come to my bed tonight,” Lucy said, over her shoulder. “I am your wife, not your mistress, and I won’t be ignored during the daytime and only found use for at night.”

  Up in her bedroom, she curled up on the window seat and looked out over the fields to the sea. Tonight the moon was full and bright and it bathed the island in a golden light, rippling over the water and gilding the land. For once the island looked peaceful and lived up to its name.

  The candle flame was burning down and she was cold. She had not heard Robert come upstairs. She was not sure what she would do if he did come to her. She felt bruised and disappointed that he rejected every attempt she made to reach him. He had shown her such tenderness; it was the hardest lesson to learn that his gentleness with her did not m
ean that he wanted to share an emotional as well as a physical closeness.

  She heard a sound below, the scrape of leather on stone, the creak of the gate. The moon cast the long shadow of a man across the wall. She could see from the way he moved that it was Robert.

  She was curious. By now she had heard so many stories about Golden Isle, the legends, the shipwrecks, the free trading. On a night like this it was easy to believe in ghosts and myths. She slid from the seat, grabbing her little half boots, sliding her feet into them. Her cloak was warm and it was, fortunately, not a cold night. The stair creaked as she tiptoed down, but no one came. Mrs. Stewart and the other servants had rooms in the west wing. She opened the door and felt the cool breeze nip at her skin. She could just see Robert’s figure heading away across the field toward the cliffs. She followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WILFRED CARDROSS WAS drunk when the messenger came into the hall, dusty and mud spattered, two letters clutched in his hand.

  “Urgent messages from Golden Isle, my lord,” he said, and backed out quickly before Cardross’s boot could speed him on his way.

  Cardross tipped the blowsy serving wench off his lap—she was someone from the kitchens, he had no idea whom, and she had been rather inexpertly trying to arouse his lust, but he was too bored and too drunk to be interested. He reached for his wineglass first, spattering drops over the letters, tilted it to his lips and drank greedily.

  “Fetch me more,” he said to the indignant girl, slamming his glass down on the table with a force that made the crystal shiver.

  “Hope it chokes you,” the wench said viciously, under her breath as she headed off back to the kitchens.

  Cardross ignored her. He opened the first of the letters, tearing it a little in his careless haste. As expected, it was covered in McTavish’s writing. Cardross read a few words and threw the letter down on the table in disgust. McTavish was as nervous as an old woman, rambling about warning beacons and Methven’s suspicions of a French raid. The French pirate, Le Boucanier, would never show himself if there was any chance of capture. And while Le Boucanier was free, Cardross knew his own secrets were safe.

  Yet even as he tried to reassure himself, a sliver of doubt wedged itself in the earl’s gut and started to gnaw at him. Supposing, just supposing, Methven was clever enough to trap the French privateer. Le Boucanier would very likely trade his own freedom in return for information on the Scottish nobleman who was treasonably selling his country’s secrets to the enemy. Cardross glowered into his wineglass. Could he take the risk?

  Then another line in the letter caught his eye.

  “Methven is sending for half his clansmen from his western estates to mend the beacons and defend the isle...”

  Cardross paused. How entertaining it would be, he thought suddenly, if the press-gang should take all those Methven men and impress them into the Royal Navy. Then not only would the marquis lose half his clansmen and plunge his other estates into hardship and ruin, but Cardross could also claim the reward for leading the recruiting officers to such a rich prize. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea, and the more he liked the idea, the more he wanted to be there to see Methven’s anger and despair on losing those clansmen he had tried so hard to protect.

  Cardross laughed, slopping the last of the wine into his mouth. Some of it splashed onto the table and he cursed aloud. He shouted for his steward to bring him pen and ink. He would write immediately to Wilson and Scott, the northern recruiting officers, and have them sail to Golden Isle to take the Methven men. Greed, like a canker, ate into him, and it felt sharp. He would sail too; Wilson in particular was a brutal and corrupt individual who would cheat him of his blood money if given half a chance. And once the Methven men were taken and Robert Methven had retreated south to lick his wounds, he would be able to take up once again the lucrative business of free trading and of passing information to the French. He could not lose.

  The earl was so taken with his idea that he almost forgot the second letter lying unopened on the table. Snatching it up, he unfolded it and scanned the few lines, first with impatience, then with a quickening interest. When he had finished he paused, tapping the paper against the table edge, a smile on his lips. His spy in Lady Methven’s household had come through with a ripe piece of news. His smile grew as he thought about it.

  Robert Methven would not meet the terms of his inheritance. There would be no heir.

  Now he would most certainly go to Golden Isle to witness the downfall of his rival. In fact, he would go so that he could inform the marquis in person of his wife’s betrayal and enjoy Methven’s shock upon receipt of the news.

  His steward had not appeared. Neither had the girl with his wine. Cursing them both, Cardross staggered to his feet and set off to make preparations for his voyage north.

  * * *

  IT WAS THE ghosts that had finally driven Robert out of the house. He had sat for a long time after Lucy had gone, eating nothing, aware of nothing but the frustration that was locked tight inside him. Eventually he had gone down to the sea, to the bay where he and Gregor had gone so many times as children. He had loved Golden Isle then. It had been special, Gregor’s kingdom. He had never once thought that would change.

  Then Gregor had died and he had hated Golden Isle for taking his brother from him, hated it as much as he had loved it before. He realized that he and Lucy shared that common thread. They had both lost a sibling who had been so dear to them that the loss haunted them still.

  The night air was soft and gentle, as was the hush of the tide on the sand. Robert sat on one of the rocks that commanded the shore and felt the cold granite rough against his palms. On the high cliffs above was the Devil’s Bridge, where Gregor had fallen. No one could explain it. Gregor and he had both been as sure-footed as mountain goats; the cliffs held no fear for them. Yet on that day, Gregor had gone over the Devil’s Bridge to try to save one of the boys who had got into difficulties climbing down the cliff face for the gannets’ eggs. The lad had survived, but in trying to help him Gregor had fallen from the bridge and had died.

  Robert sighed. He knew he had to go back to the Auld Haa and find Lucy. He had to apologize—again—for his dourness. He had to stop running. Lucy had been much braver than he; she had trusted him with her fears while he had withheld his from her.

  He stood up. Tonight was such a calm night. The moon patterned the shifting sea with silver. It felt peaceful.

  Then he saw Lucy. She was standing on the other side of the Devil’s Bridge. At first he thought she was a ghost conjured by his memories. Then, with a clutch of fear that nailed him to the spot, he realized she was not. It really was Lucy and as he looked she started to walk across the narrow arch of the cliff toward him.

  He heard the rattle and tumble of stones as they fell from the arch into the chasm below.

  Pure cold fear pierced him and held him still.

  She is going to fall.

  He was running, stumbling over the tussocks of grass toward her, half falling, swearing, until he collided with her and clutched her to him, snatching her away from the edge of the cliff and those dark, dangerous rocks, feeling her warm and real in his arms, even as he panted with exertion and dread.

  “Robert?” She did not even sound out of breath. “I came to find you. I was worried—”

  “You little idiot! You stupid, foolish, crazy—” He realized that he wanted to shake her. The violence in him was vast, spawned by utter terror. He was trembling. He could not speak. Then the relief swamped everything and he held her cruelly tightly, his face against her neck, feeling her warmth and hearing her breath.

  “Oh,” she said, and there was a revelation in her tone. Then more quietly: “Oh.”

  “I thought I was going to lose you,” Robert said. He could feel himself shaking. He had to make a huge effort to loosen his grip on her. “I love you so much and I thought Golden Isle was going to take you from me too.”

  He did not know w
here the words had come from. He only knew that they were true. His complex emotions had turned out to be fairly simple after all. He had named them lust, tenderness, admiration, anything other than love.

  Lucy cupped his cheek in her palm and held him as fiercely as he held her, and he felt the emotion crash through him as powerful as the tide and as irresistible. He pulled her down onto the soft, springy turf, a deliciously comfortable bed, and she came easily into his arms and he pushed the cloak from her shoulders and found beneath it just her nightgown, shredded by the sharp rocks where she must have scaled a couple of the field walls. He ripped the remaining shreds from her and felt her shiver. The little half boots he found ridiculously erotic and did not remove. Her naked body was pale and golden in the moonlight and when he kissed her she kissed him back, hungrily, fiercely, sliding her hands over his back, pulling him closer. There was no hesitation in her and no doubt, and he knew the waiting was over. He was hit by such a wave of possessive desire that for a moment he could not breathe.

  He cupped her face in his hands, feeling her hair silken soft against his palms.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” He was afraid of the force of his need for her.

  “You won’t.” She strained up to kiss him, her breasts brushing his chest. “Please, Robert. I want this. I love you too.”

  His hands were shaking as he loosened his pantaloons. He parted her thighs and slid into her, trying to be careful of her even in the midst of his raging need for her, and felt her jerk with the discomfort of his entry. He heard her breath catch. Her eyes opened. She looked bemused, on the edge of losing that lovely sensual pleasure.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “In a moment it will ease.”

  She nodded. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop now.”

  Robert held himself still against the need to plunge into her, claim her wholly, and kissed her again, putting all his love and longing into that kiss. He felt her body start to soften again and open to him, and he started to move, a gentle slide, holding himself under absolute control even as the hot, slick clasp of her threatened every thread of restraint he possessed. He heard her sigh and she reached for him, pulling him deeper within her, and it was glorious, and she tilted her hips up to meet his thrusts and he was lost. He felt himself tip over the edge and fall, hard and fast. The physical release was astonishing, blinding in its brilliance, sharp enough to make him groan. Beneath that pleasure was another sensation, a need fulfilled, a claiming, a coming home.