by Fascination
Arran glared around and saw Struan, elegant despite his hated cleric’s garb and comfortable as always astride a chestnut he’d favored since adolescence. “You’ve not forgotten how to ride, then, Father?”
“I’ve forgotten very little, particularly in the area of your foul temper.”
“Do not waste your priestly condemnations on me.” Arran wheeled Allegro and let the big beast drink from the river. “I told Calum to meet me here, not you.”
“Ah.” Struan’s dark eyes held innocent surprise. “How could I have misunderstood?”
“Why did you tell him to come?” Arran asked Calum.
“He didn’t,” Struan said. “Shanks made such a racket delivering your note to Calum, he woke me. I went to see what all the fuss was about. Poor fellow’s knees were knocking. Really, Arran, I do think you could try coming into the world with the rest of us.”
“I thought you were angling for me not to be of this world at all. I thought you were hoping to groom my poor, black soul for heaven.”
Struan settled his flat-brimmed black hat at a rakish angle over his brow and fixed Arran with one of the “I shall always forgive you” looks he’d perfected. “I am a man of faith. As such, I trust the Lord to show you the way home when it is time.”
Arran looked skyward through the vaporous, gray light. “May your Lord restrain me from knocking you off that horse and leaping upon your holy neck.”
“It’s cold, Arran,” Calum said. “Your note says you’ve matters of desperate importance to discuss.”
“Does it?” He hadn’t planned on Struan’s presence. There were things he didn’t care to speak of in front of his brother.
“Why did it have to be here?” Calum said, winding his cloak more closely about him. He wore no hat, and the damp early morning had scattered glistening moisture in his dark brown hair.
“Because it pleases me to be abroad when others are not.”
“You sound petulant,” Struan remarked. “It does not become you. And we already know your penchant for mystery. When do you plan to stop skulking abroad in the night and hiding in the day?”
“God grant me patience!” Arran pulled on Allegro’s reins and circled him about. “It is day now and I am not hiding.” He set off at a trot, with the two other men in his wake. Only Calum knew how Arran really preferred to spend his days.
“It’s barely dawn,” Struan called. “And I’ve no doubt you’ll soon dash for home and dive into whatever cupboard is your sanctuary. Father should have put a stop to your peculiar ways, brother. You should never have been allowed to develop such unacceptable habits.”
Arran had no patience for this prattle. The work he should have accomplished last night had not been touched. The three hours sleep he required in the early hours of each day had been ignored. He would be in no humor to move among his tenants this day.
“I am an angry man,” he ground out, spurring Allegro into a gallop. “A very angry man!”
“An amazing announcement,” Struan said, lengthening his own mount’s stride. “Don’t you find it amazing to learn that Arran is angry today, Calum?”
“Damn you, Arran,” Calum shouted. “Your capricious ill humor is no laughing matter. I’m a tired man with a great deal to think about. Let’s get to business and I’ll away home to my bed, where I belong.”
“I am not laughing,” Arran roared. He gained the brow of a hill and hesitated. Below lay a clutter of tenant cottages, among them the home of Robert and Gael Mercer. He had a visit to pay there, and soon. “What can be making you so tired and thoughtful, Calum?” Allegro pawed at the ground, and Arran swayed in his saddle.
Calum arrived at the top of the hill and said, “You, my lord, are an unpleasant and ungrateful devil. You know full well what occupies my mind presently.”
“Arranging for the attachment of my new ball and chain, no doubt.”
“You cannot possibly be referring to your marriage to that delightful Miss Wren,” Struan said, catching up with his companions. “To be joined to one so lovely will doubtless be a joy indeed—to a man with fleshly desires.”
“Shut up,” Arran commanded.
“I, of course, know nothing of such things, but I can imagine that lying with such a desirable female would give a creature such as you great pleasure.”
“Struan Nicholas Rossmara, I warn you.”
Struan’s black eyes, so like Arran’s in their expressiveness, gazed dreamily over the land. “Yes, very great pleasure indeed. When did you say the nuptials were to take place?”
“I did not. Calum, in the name of goodness—and for his own safety—take him back to Kirkcaldy.”
“We have hardly spoken since I arrived.” Struan sounded wounded. “I had hoped we could have many brotherly discussions.”
“That is enough. That is the very last inane comment I will bear from you.”
“Arran—”
“You may also be silent, Calum. I am a man beset by his responsibilities.” And his burgeoning desire. “I cannot tell you how I long for garters ... I mean peace.”
Silence fell.
“There. I knew it. You have not considered my feelings in this matter for one moment. Marry, you say. Marry now or Mortimer Cuthbert and his simpering wife will be telling you what you should and shouldn’t do with your own estates.” Damn the girl. He would find a way to bring her to heel soon enough. “I shall have my way with her ... I mean, I shall have my way in this ... I shall have my way. Do you hear me?”
“I do indeed,” Calum said, smiling in that infuriatingly knowing way of his.
“Indeed,” Struan echoed, not smiling at all. “Do you not agree that Miss Wren is delightful?”
“He has not seen her,” Calum said quietly.
Struan opened his mouth. And snapped it shut again.
“Arran sent me to London to find him a suitable wife. Then he changed his mind and said he didn’t want one after all—after she was already on her way here.” Calum cast Arran a narrow-eyed glare. “He will not see her. He knows he must produce an heir, but continues to behave like a blushing girl over the issue.”
“Have we forgotten that in the area of marriage I
have already had one notable, shall we say, disaster?” Arran made sure his voice conveyed menace.
“How could we forget?” Struan said, frowning. “A sad, sad event. But this is a new start for you, Arran.”
Arran leaned over Allegro’s neck. “If you had not decided to become a priest and take unnatural vows, I could have taken as long as I pleased to find another wife—if I ever found one at all.”
“I should have denied my own heart to relieve you of your duty?” Struan straightened broad shoulders inside a black cape. His hands held the reins casually. “Each of us must follow the path that becomes us.”
“How true. I remain here, doing my duty. And you, Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, should have taken your place at my side. I have needed you.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Calum looked away. Struan met Arran’s eyes, unflinching. “We have need of each other,” he said gently. “We always will and I am here for you, Arran. Believe that I shall never fail you. But it is you who should produce the Rossmara heir, not I.”
Arran felt his anger waver. The cold air made his eyes sting and he blinked. “I envy the church her ownership of you,” he said gruffly. “My bark is sharp, but it is the bark of a dog denied the company of the man he trusts most. And loves most.”
“Dear brother.” Struan brought his horse beside Arran’s. “You and I have shared much. No man will ever be closer to my heart than you. If you ever should need me, send word and I will come.” He rested a hand on Arran’s shoulder and, as quickly, removed it.
Smoke rose in thin coils from the cottage chimneys below the hill. “Our people are stirring,” Arran said, moved by Struan’s words.
“Aye,” Calum agreed. He had an unspoken kinship with the common folk of these parts. “I hear Gael Mercer is well advanced
in her ...” He caught Arran’s warning glance and stopped.
“Who is Gael Mercer?” Struan asked.
“Just the wife of a tenant,” Calum said offhandedly. “She’s with child and a delicate thing. Well loved, too. I’ve heard talk about concern over her health among the other tenants.”
He would go down to the Mercers’ tomorrow, Arran decided. There was the matter of a treat for Gael. He’d have to think about that.
They settled, the three of them side by side upon their mounts, relaxed in the saddle, looking out over the blue-green countryside.
Noisy scuffling broke from nearby bushes and a pair of gray-rumped fieldfares flew up, chack-chack-chacking as they fought for possession of a plump worm.
“What does that remind you of Arran chuckled. “We three did our share of fighting over this and that, didn’t we?”
“I sometimes wish we could return to those days,” Struan said.
Arran stirred. “We can never go back.” And he was not abroad at this unkind hour on this dismal morning to mourn the past like a foolish woman. “What I have to say might as well be heard by you, Struan. You may have withdrawn from the world of mere mortals, but I doubt if you would welcome the frequent tramping of our Cuthbert relations’ demanding feet upon Kirkcaldy land.”
“I would not,” Struan agreed.
Calum flipped the reins back and forth across his horse’s neck. “The solution to the problem is within your reach, my lord.”
“I have come to dislike the sound of respectful address upon your lips, Calum. You think what lies ahead is simple. I tell you it is anything but simple—
for me. And I am most uncertain that you have made as good a choice as you should have.”
“Well!” Calum cast back one side of his cloak and splayed a hand on his thigh. “Forgive me for doing as good a job as any man could do. And—since you haven’t as much as set eyes on Grace—how can you presume to judge her suitability to be your wife?”
“Oh, I’ve set more than my eyes upon ...” Damn his tongue.
“I beg your pardon,” Calum said slowly, shifting to face Arran. “What are you saying?”
“I owe you no explanations. I wanted to talk to you because I’m deeply suspicious of my cousin’s failure to appear on our doorstep. He—”
“Arran,” Struan said, interrupting. “What did you mean just now? About setting more than your eyes upon Miss Wren?”
“I meant nothing. There is something afoot with Mortimer, I tell you.”
“No, no,” Calum said, pursing his mobile mouth. “Don’t try to divert us. Have you seen her?”
Arran shrugged elaborately, turning up his palms and assuming a blank expression.
“You have,” Calum murmured, jutting his chin and beginning to smile. “Damn you for the slimy slyboots you are. When? Where?”
Damn him for the loose mouth he was. “When is Mortimer coming here?”
“What I’m hearing concerns me,” Struan said. “Am I to understand that you have kept secret company with Miss Wren?”
“Nothing a man does in his own house is secret ... not from himself ... and it is himself who is the law in that house.” Arran knew he blustered. “Answer me. When is Mortimer Cuthbert arriving?”
“Just yesterday afternoon Mrs. Wren approached me again on the matter of your refusal to meet with
Grace. And Struan can confirm that Grace asked the same question herself the previous morning. He was there.”
Arran frowned. “Hold your tongue, Calum! And do me the great favor of not calling my ... She is Miss Wren to you.”
Calum’s grin was smug. “Your ...? Your what, my lord? Oh, I will gladly call your ...? Certainly she shall be Miss Wren if it makes you jealous for me to address her otherwise.”
“It does not make me jealous.”
“There is something most unorthodox afoot here.” Struan shook his head slowly. “I’ll thank you to explain at once.”
“And I’ll thank you to keep your sanctified nose out of my affairs. Calum, Mortimer appears when, man? I have to know and I have to know now.”
“Because you wish to be married before he arrives?” Struan asked, not without a note of hope in his voice. “I’m sure that can be arranged. I know certain people. In fact, I could probably—”
“You could do nothing. For the last time, I wish to know exactly when my cousin is likely to bring his loathsomeness into my presence.”
“I don’t know,” Calum said.
“You must.” And Arran must know. Know exactly, so that he could decide on the best course to take with Grace. “Think, man. Work it out.”
“I told you I thought it likely he’d decide to come. I am not certain.”
“He’ll come. Calculate, Calum. Calculate.”
“Well, whenever he’s had time to gather his odious family and make the journey, I suppose.”
“And how long would that take?”
“For God’s ... Excuse me, Struan. You are unreasonable, Arran. I told you I had rashly allowed Mortimer to know that you would be married and
that I assumed he would come here to witness the event.”
“To try to halt the event, you mean,” Struan remarked.
Arran stared at him. So did Calum.
Struan continued, “We all know Mortimer would do anything that might put this fair estate, and the estate in Yorkshire, into his hands.”
“What could he do?” Calum asked. “If Arran chooses to marry and have a child, he chooses to marry and have a child.”
“Choice has no part of this,” Arran muttered.
Struan sighed. “For two worldly men, you are pathetically innocent. I think you would do well to watch our cousin, Arran. Marry in great haste. And bed your wife in great haste.” He coughed. “Please forgive my indelicacy.”
“The devil take your indelicacy,” Arran snapped. “I want to know Mortimer’s plans. Immediately.”
“What difference does it make?” The gray danced and Calum smoothed its neck.
“Immediately!”
“Marry the girl, damn you.” Calum caught at Allegro’s bridle. “And the devil take Mortimer.”
“Stay,” Struan said. “Both of you. There’s something Arran isn’t telling us. You’ve had some exchange with the girl. Doesn’t she please you?”
“That is of no consequence.”
“What kind of exchange did you have?” Calum asked.
He would not give them the information they wanted.
“Your silence leads me to believe the worst,” Struan said, pretending to study his nails. “You have already bedded her, haven’t you, my dear rakehell brother? I take it she is not to your liking between the sheets.”
“You take entirely too much,” Arran retorted.
“But I am correct?”
Arran made fists. “You are not correct.”
“Then what can possibly be holding you back from the obvious?” Struan said. “Hurry, man. She may already be with child.”
Calum sputtered. “Grace Wren has been here only a week. Less. Arran may be a potent bastard. He is not a wizard.”
“Wizardry is not required in the matter of impregnating a woman,” Struan said, moving to an examination of the back of one hand. “A fertile and receptive female—”
“In God’s name—”
“God’s name is frequently forgotten in these affairs, Arran. A fertile, receptive female and a man with a healthy, functioning rod and adequate seed is all that is required. Am I to take it that one or the other is missing in the case under examination?”
“Bloody hell!” Turning away, Arran covered his mouth with a gloved hand.
“Forgive me if I am too plain,” Struan said in silken tones. “But in the interest of expediting matters, it will help if we know which exact element is unsatisfactory.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Is it the female’s lack of receptiveness or fertility? Or your malfunctioning rod and lack of seed?”
“Get him away from me, Calum,” Arran ordered through his teeth.
“I think you should answer the question.”
“You conspire against me! You seek to make me a madman. All right. You want truth and you shall have it. I have not bedded Grace Wren. I have indeed spent time with her on three consecutive nights, but I have not bedded her.”
“Three nights?” Struan and Calum chorused. “How did you ...? How?” Amazement colored Calum’s voice.
“It is far too complicated to explain. Suffice to say
that the young woman and I encountered one another and had three separate, er, discussions.”
“Discussions?” Calum said, blatantly disbelieving.
“Discussions,” Arran insisted.
“On the subject of your marriage, no doubt?” Struan asked.
Damn them for the prodding fellows they were. “No. We spoke of ... art.”
Calum made a thoughtfully hissing sound and said, “Art?” as if it were a new word.
“Art, yes.”
“I see,” Calum said, but Arran knew full well that his friend and adviser was completely bemused. “So you had pleasant encounters and discovered that you have common grounds upon which to build an enduring relationship.”
“We did not.”
Calum released Allegro’s bridle. He threw up his hands. “I do not care whether or not you and Grace had a meaningful exchange on the artists upon whom you cannot agree. Time is running out. The important thing is that you are now acquainted with one another—we will not continue to explore how well—and so the wedding can take place.”
“We are not acquainted.”
“You—”
“Calum, Calum,” Struan said consolingly. “Do not excite yourself further over this dolt! For the last time, Arran, explain yourself.”
There was no point in continuing the farce. “Grace is a fetching piece.” It was a start. “She pleases me well enough—physically.”
“Yes?” Struan said encouragingly.
“We have—er—enjoyed certain small exchanges? Of the—er—fleshly variety.”
Calum laughed. “You slick devil. You haven’t lost your touch after all.” He chortled. “Five days and you have her eating out of your ... hand?”
Arran scowled.