Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “You seem certain there will be no problem with such an arrangement.”

  “None at all, thanks to you. You are by way of making me an offer of ... friendship, are you not?”

  His brows raised. “It would seem that I am.”

  “I scarcely comprehend such immediate good fortune, but I feel that you and I will be a great comfort to one another.” Reaching the open door, she paused. “Until tomorrow night, then, when I may surprise you with my ingenuity.”

  “What man would not look forward to such an occasion?”

  “Only one with water in his veins and no passion in his soul. Clearly you suffer no such affliction. Tomorrow I will show you that within this simple body of mine lies an innovative imagination. I will show you things you have never experienced before. And I hope you may offer of yourself with equal disregard for what our dull, tiresome society regards as acceptable.”

  He mumbled something she could not hear.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, Godspeed you back to your chamber ... And Godspeed the hours until tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 4

  “A mighty, monstrous excess.”

  Kirkcaldy.

  So had Arran’s father described the place—and his father before him.

  Arran planted his feet, pushed the brim of his shapeless woolen hat up from his eyes, and squinted against the late afternoon wind. The turrets and towers of the fortress that had been his family’s home for three centuries scarred a gray sky like dark, mocking fingers.

  Mighty, yes. Marvelous—yes. Monstrous? Perhaps. And only excessive in its insolent beauty.

  He loved Kirkcaldy.

  In the early hours of the morning, the hours after his encounter with Miss Grace Wren, Arran had felt, almost as never before, the weight of his responsibility for his home and his people. As he should have known would be the case, a day spent as most of his days were, on the land—with those people—had renewed his determination to remain accountable for both.

  The day had also fueled a bone-deep weariness. Even a strong man grew tired of standing alone. Arran smiled bitterly. Did the longing for love—whatever that might be—ever completely die? The answer was of no moment. For the Marquess of Stonehaven, there would be no trusted lover. Experience had taught him not to expect to share his life with a woman who would want him if he were not a nobleman with vast wealth.

  “Och, there ye are,” Robert Mercer said, arriving at Arran’s side and clapping him between the shoulder blades. “I didna see ye go. Will ye no take a bannock fresh from the hearth with us, Niall?” Tenant son of tenant forefathers, with a history as long as Arran’s on this land, Robert never failed to ask the man he trusted, but did not know, to break bread with his young family.

  Arran ducked his head and wiped a heavily gloved hand over his grimy face. “My thanks, Robert, but I’ll away home.” The manner of speech slipped to his tongue as easily as the rough peasant clothes fitted his big body—as easily as he became “Niall” to pass among the souls who found their living on his estates.

  He loved these people. They were simple and warm and generous—and their future was his trust as surely as had they been his children. The lords of Stonehaven had all had their faults, but they had never skirted responsibility for their tenants.

  “Things go well with ye?” Robert asked. The invitations to share the Mercers’ table were never pressed, although Arran always heard hope in the other man’s voice. “Your place weathered the winter?”

  Again Arran glanced toward the castle. “Aye. Well enough. It’s stout.” Robert had no knowledge of where the tall man with long, wild hair spent the hours after he disappeared from the fields and forests of Kirkcaldy, and had long ago ceased to ask. “How are Gael and the little one?” Arran added.

  Robert shifted at his side. Yet in his twenties, he was straight-backed and fair with brown eyes that looked at a man direct. “There’ll be another bairn afore long,” he said, flushing slightly. “I’d have wished my Gael stronger first. God forgive me, it’s too soon.”

  Arran heard fear and self-recrimination in Robert’s voice—and deep love for his tiny, red-haired wife. “Ye’re but a man,” he said, floundering. He looked at his own scuffed but sturdy boots. “Ye’ve plenty of good food? And your place is sound?”

  “Aye, Niall.” There was a hollowness. “Mr. Innes never fails to make certain o’ that. A miracle, he is. We all say as much. He seems t’know our needs almost as soon as we know them oursel’.”

  The system worked well, Arran thought with satisfaction. He told Calum what needed to be done, and Calum dispatched what was necessary—to the occasional confusion of the estate’s commissioner. Hector MacFie was a good man, but the fewer who knew of Niall’s existence, the better. “Take heart, Robert,” Arran said. “Take heart.”

  “A man ought to be more for the woman who gives him her life,” Robert murmured. “I’d be naught without my Gael.”

  “She’ll do well enough,” Arran said, awkwardly settling a hand on the other’s shoulder. “And she’d not do other than carry your bairn within her. Away, home t’her, Robert. Tell her I’ve a small treat I’m planning to bring soon.”

  “Ye’re so good. Have ye no—?” Robert closed his mouth, but the unasked questions hung between them. Had Arran no one to love, no one to give meaning to his life? Where did he go when he left this place? Why did he come and go like some great, solid apparition?

  Arran only fastened his gaze on his castle, his empty castle, which he must find a way to keep from the evil, grasping hands of his cousin—just as he must ensure that Mortimer Cuthbert never controlled the fate of the tenants of Kirkcaldy.

  “I’ll bid ye good day, then, Niall,” Robert said. “Thank ye, friend. I’d have taken two days t’mend that wagon without ye. I’ll tell Gael of your treat. Mayhap it’ll make her smile.”

  Robert swung away and loped downhill from the knoll where Arran still stood. He watched until the straight, blond hair and flapping coat sank from view.

  A poor man who worked the earth with his hands. A man for whom music was an old harp crudely played beside a smoking peat fire while he and his neighbors sang the simple songs they’d learned at their parents’ knees. That was Robert Mercer. Yet Robert Mercer had no need to search out a strange female to bear his child, a strange female who would take him to her bed for her own selfish ends ... as selfish as those of Arran Rossmara, Marquess of Stonehaven. Robert Mercer’s fragile little wife would bear his children no matter the cost to herself, and would do so in love.

  Grace Wren, if she eventually produced an heir to all that Arran saw before him, would not do so willingly.

  Anger drove his fists together. Were all so-called gentle-women shallow, ambitious adventuresses?

  Grace Wren welcomed the friendship of a man who was neither father nor brother nor any other kind of relation. They both knew what manner of friendship that was to be.

  When she discovered who he really was, she would hate him, and so much the better. Her hatred would make it easier for Arran to feel no remorse over his side of a loveless match.

  He turned his back on the way Robert had taken and strode toward the hidden mount that would take him to his castle ... and he remembered Isabel, and the black night that made him what he was today.

  Wedded to his music.

  Bonded to his inheritance.

  The keeper of his own heart and soul, and invulnerable to the wiles of any woman.

  March winds were wild upon the hills this year. By the time Arran reached his horse—sheltered in dense forest—tree limbs whipped and creaked before a growing storm, and his boots stirred the rising scent of wet and rotting leaves.

  Quickly he shed the sagging woolen coat and breeches, the shirt of crude cotton, and the heavy boots that were “Niall’s” trappings. In moments he was once more dressed as Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, with his hair secured at the nape by a black ribbon.

  Darkness had fallen w
hen he thundered, head bent over black Allegro’s neck, past the castle walls to the stables, where he left the horse for the stable-boy who would come as soon as he heard the door close behind Arran.

  Sodden, raging within at the intrusion of necessity upon the privacy he craved, he stalked through the walled garden that was his sanctuary alone, to the entrance at the base of Revelation—the tower that housed all of his private rooms except the music gallery.

  He gained his bedchamber, tore off his drenched cloak, and sprawled in a chair by the fire that was kept burning at all times.

  Fate had trapped him. Father, in a whimsical tantrum, had trapped him ... and failed to set him free by dying, equally whimsically.

  He had to marry. He had to produce an heir. Damn it all, he had to marry this conniving female Calum had found, because there was no time to do otherwise.

  What manner of woman would choose to marry a man she’d never met? What manner of woman

  would marry a man she thought to be “decrepit,” near to death?

  Arran smiled bitterly. The questions didn’t need to be answered—or even asked.

  What kind of man would marry a woman who had already shown such delight at the prospect of passing time in a “friendship” with a stranger whilst she awaited the demise of her husband?

  A desperate, trapped, ruthless man.

  They were well matched—almost.

  Miss Grace Wren and Arran Rossmara deserved each other. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and tasted the rain that was still on his skin. They deserved each other, but Miss Wren would be the one to learn that fact last ... and to learn most ... to learn the true price of bottomless greed.

  Arran Rossmara would teach her.

  “Mama, I really wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Pishposh, I shall do as I please, Grace, and you will show me the respect I deserve.” Mama, resplendent in an aqua silk gown and elaborate white ruff which Grace had not previously seen, reclined upon a gold brocade chaise. “As soon as that sensible—and, might I add, charming—Mr. McWallop arrives, we shall begin treading the path upon which I intend us to remain firmly footed.”

  Grace made up her mind. “We must discuss this, Mama. Whether you wish it or not. I am not at all sure—”

  “Well, I am sure. For your own good we must make certain that your position in this household is immediately made clear. The condition ...” Mama picked up a dusty Vincennes vase in dark blue and gold, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s an outrage. It is deplorable. A clear case of servants quite out of hand. They have—have—mutinied!”

  “Mama. We are not at sea.” Although from the

  violent winds that battered the windows, they might as well be. Grace turned her eyes determinedly from the dark menace beyond the glass. “I have no position in this household. Which is exactly what I wish to discuss with you.”

  “I should think so.”

  This was not getting in the slightest bit easier. “I have made an error. A grave, grave error.” Wind had frightened her since she was a little girl, and nowhere had it ever sounded so furious as here.

  “I’m glad you finally see things my way.”

  “Coming here was a mistake.” There, she had finally said what had to be said.

  “An error?” Mama sat more upright on the chaise and let her fan drop open. “What can you be saying?”

  Grace trailed around the beautiful little drawing room on the floor below her bedchamber. Her mother was right in saying that, although the castle appeared in perfect repair, it was sadly in need of a very good cleaning. Beautiful things met the eye wherever one looked, and despite an oppressive abundance of armor and weapons and rather nasty stuffed animals in spots, Grace thought that for a castle—not that she’d ever been in a castle before—Kirkcaldy was remarkably tasteful.

  “Grace, answer me at once.”

  “I like this drawing room better than the old marquess’s, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Stop avoiding my questions, my girl. And stop suggesting that you should have done other than accept Mr. Innes’s marvelous offer.” Mama closed the fan and pointed it at Grace. “You are twenty-four years old. Twenty-four. Had you been a son, the picture would have been entirely different. As a son you would have cared for me after my dear Ichabod died, and I should never have had a moment’s worry. Not a moment! But you are not a son

  and you are on the verge of becoming an old maid. If I were to allow you to do so, what would become of us then, I ask you? What?”

  “We should have to learn to live within our means,” Grace said quietly.

  “Oh!” Mama fell back against the cushions. “Oh, I cannot believe I am hearing this. Our means? Our means, you say? What means, you little sapskull?”

  “Papa left—”

  “Your sainted papa left enough to keep me in a modest manner for the rest of my life—should that be very short—and to provide for you until marriage—a very early marriage. Need I remind you that you have caused my dearest Ichabod’s plans to be completely inadequate.”

  Grace shook her head. Mama was wrong to berate her for not being a son, but it was true that keeping two on what should have supported one for the past few years must have put a great strain on Mama’s inheritance.

  “I’m glad you see the error of your thinking, Grace Charlotte. Kindly cause me no more frights like that.”

  “I did not intend to frighten you.”

  “Well, you did. And it is your duty to make sure that my wishes are met in this great wreck of a place.”

  “It is not a wreck,” Grace mumbled. “And I am not in a position to order the servants about.”

  “You soon will be,” Mama declared. “Where is Mr. McWallop? I sent for him ten minutes since. Really, the tea things have not been removed, and it is already well past the dinner hour. I feel quite faint from hunger.”

  Grace did not say that she thought it possible the maid Mama had sent—with a good tongue whipping—to bring Mr. McWallop had never delivered the message.

  “Ring the bell.”

  “Very well. But—” A fresh and mighty blast of wind slammed the building and whined its way upward between towers and turrets. Grace flinched, and flinched again.

  “Oh, do get over that silliness, Grace,” Mama said, then tutted. “You think me very harsh, and perhaps I am. But I have suffered a great deal, and I’m not as well as I once was. Ring the bell and come here to me, child.”

  Grace did as she was told and allowed her mother to pull her down to sit beside her.

  “You are my sweet lamb,” Mama said, patting Grace’s hands. “Kiss me and promise you’ll allow yourself to be guided by one much older and wiser.”

  Again Grace did as she was told and breathed in the rose-scented warmth of a rare embrace. She did love Mama. And she did want to be the one to provide for her and make her proud.

  “Ye called, Mrs. Wren?”

  At Mr. McWallop’s firm, deep voice, Grace sat up. Mama opened her fan. “Indeed. And you came almost before Grace finished ringing.”

  “Florence brought me your message a while since. I’d retired to my quarters for the evenin’. It’s usual for guests to call on Shanks or Mrs. Moggach. Or it would be if we ever had guests. I answer to his lordship.”

  Grace held her breath and dared not look at her parent.

  “In that case I am deeply appreciative of your making a special effort to give us some time.”

  There appeared to be no false note in Mama’s voice.

  “The tone of your request suggested we’d as well take the measure of one another smartly.”

  “I always admire a man with sound judgment and

  foresight. Did I not tell you that Mr. McWallop was just such a man, Grace?”

  “Mm.” Grace looked at the man’s face and decided he was handsome in a ruddy, exceedingly physical sort of way. “Mama said as much.”

  There was a slight relaxing of Mr. McWallop’s rigid, square-shouldered stance. “Verra generous of ye,
ma’am.” He actually smiled—directly at Mama—crinkling the corners of dark brown eyes in a quite pleasing manner.

  “Don’t mention it, Mr. McWallop. Grace wanted to speak with you about certain household matters.”

  Grace turned sharply to Mama.

  “Yes. She is—as you will discover—industrious and very, very observant. And she is a stickler where matters of household efficiency and appropriate management are concerned:”

  Mr. McWallop looked at Grace.

  Grace stared hard at her mother.

  “Every room in this establishment requires a thorough cleaning,” Mama said.

  Mr. McWallop’s impressive red brows drew together. “Is that a fact?”

  “It is indeed. Ask Grace. And meals are served at totally erratic hours, and they are of indifferent quality. Also there needs to be attention to fires—they are frequently allowed to burn low, and the servants in general appear a surly, untidy group badly in need of discipline and a good bath!”

  “Mama!”

  “Isn’t that so, Grace?”

  Really, Mama could go too far. “You have said that Kirkcaldy rarely has visitors. I have no doubt that our sudden appearance has caused unexpected stress on the staff,” Grace temporized.

  “Aye.” McWallop did not appear mollified.

  “Grace—”

  “My mother and I are still recovering from our long and arduous journey. Forgive us if we seem less than gracious.”

  “Grace Charlotte!”

  “I should particularly like to commend the choice of Mairi as my maid. She is industrious and intelligent, and I am delighted with her.”

  “Thank ye, miss.”

  “Really,” Mama said darkly. “You must take the reins at once, Grace.”

  “That is not possible, Mama.”

  “As the marquess’s wife, it is your duty to do so.”

  “I am not the marquess’s wife.”

  “You will be very soon.”

  Grace tried to avoid Mr. McWallop’s eyes. “This is an inappropriate moment to discuss—”

  The door sweeping wide open to reveal Mr. Innes stopped Grace in midsentence. He entered the room and stood before them. Once more his smile failed to reach his dark eyes. “You sent for me, Mrs. Wren? One of the maids found me, and she seemed exceedingly distressed.”