Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “Or perhaps she is eating from whatever other part of you pleases her.”

  “For God’s sake, Calum! Remember Struan.”

  “You need not waste remembrance on me,” Struan said grimly. “God remains your primary concern. There appears to be nothing further to discuss here. We shall return at once to the castle and make the necessary preparations.”

  “But she is an opinionated little shrew,” Arran argued, growing irate. “And she has independent ideas quite unsuited to any wife of mine.”

  “Nonsense. A strong woman is exactly what you need.”

  “I need to know how long I have before Mortimer arrives,” Arran insisted.

  Struan gestured impatiently. “It makes no difference now.”

  “It makes every difference, I tell you,” Arran said. “I need time.”

  Calum turned away and made to start back downhill. “Why?”

  “Because there is still work to be done—on my situation with the girl.”

  “Might I suggest that any further work of that nature be done after the marriage?” Struan said, and frowned. “I’ll allow it’s odd that Grace hasn’t mentioned you.”

  “I told her not to.”

  Struan smiled approvingly. “Loyal to her future husband already. A most encouraging sign.”

  Encouraging sign, be damned! Grace thought Arran was Niall, her friend, and it was to him she’d come, not to the man she expected to marry.

  “I have to know how much time I have before Mortimer arrives,” Arran said desperately. “He’ll have installed himself in the Charlotte Square house. Go to Edinburgh, Calum. If he is indeed there, detain him.”

  “Will you explain yourself, man? Will you tell me why you want me to do this?”

  “Because I’ve decided I will marry her. There. You have what you want. And if I’m to do so, it had better be before Mortimer appears and interferes.”

  “He could not,” Struan said.

  “He might. Unless I misjudge her, Grace will be in a formidable rage before she agrees to the wedding. If Mortimer arrives before I have dealt with that rage, he will have an advantage I would never choose to give him.”

  “Enough of this twaddle.” Struan reached for Arran’s arm. “Speak plainly. What is afoot here?”

  “Will no man allow me the honor of keeping at least part of my own counsel?” When neither Struan nor Calum answered, Arran’s blood began to pound in his ears. “I’ve placed myself in a pretty fix, dammit. The woman who is to become my wife thinks that I am another man.”

  Two pairs of eyes stared blankly.

  “She has spent hours with me alone. Without a chaperon. Allowed me certain—liberties. “

  “Yes?”

  “Good God!” Arran shouted to the skies. “You should sing together in the chapel choir. Miss Grace Wren has been keeping company with a man she thinks of as one of the marquess’s servants. She has suggested to that man that they become friends and remain close friends after her marriage to the marquess.”

  Both men’s mouths dropped slightly open.

  “She asked him to become her consolation whilst she suffers the decrepit old recluse she is to marry.”

  “Are you ill?” Struan asked.

  “Listen to me, you fuddle-head. I tricked her. I led

  her to believe I was not the marquess, but his closest companion. She does not know that when she is finally called to meet with her future husband, she will be confronted with me! And when that confrontation takes place, she will know that I have deceived her. She will know that I have listened to her plans to use me and take the money I am expected to leave her just as soon as she can encourage me to draw my last breath.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Struan murmured.

  Arran scowled. “Observe, Calum. Even in French, he prays.”

  “We’ve got to get to Mortimer,” Calum said. “Hurry. I can’t go. I’d make him suspicious. So would Struan. More so. We’ll send Hector MacFie. Mortimer is always impressed by Hector. He can take some missive from you relating to estate business. It will be a sop to Mortimer’s ego, and Hector can use it to delay him.”

  “How quickly the wind changes,” Arran said, his stomach clenching. “A moment ago there was no need to divert Mortimer. Now we must rush to head him off.”

  Calum and Struan spurred their horses in a wild downhill scramble. “A moment ago,” Calum called, “we did not know that you’ll need all the time we can gain you to subdue a shamed woman.”

  “How much time, do you think?” At his master’s urging, Allegro’s hoofs flew, spewing pebbles. “How much?”

  Calum’s shout carried clearly. “Perhaps Hector should suggest that Mortimer visit the Indies plantations—for a year or so.”

  Chapter 9

  Thirty-eight, blond, blue-eyed, and forceful in every move he made, Hector MacFie carried with him an air of absolute confidence. Estate commissioner to Arran for five years, since his father’s death, when old Amos Cameron had decided that he wasn’t interested in serving a new master, Hector was his own man, and a tough, hardheaded one. He was also the best estate commissioner in the land. Arran knew that many an envious landowner had tried to woo Hector away. A more than handsome wage and enough freedom in the matter of deciding policy for Arran’s holdings kept Hector on Rossmara lands.

  Having been summoned to Arran’s study in Revelation at ten o’clock in the morning, Hector was regarding Arran with curiosity. “McWallop came for me,” he said. “A rare tear, he said you were in.”

  Arran did not acknowledge that he knew what Hector was thinking. Their meetings took place in the early evening—always. The very fact of their being here now indicated some emergency.

  “I find myself in a difficult position. I need your help.”

  Hector bowed briefly. “Whatever I can do, I will do. You know that.”

  “Yes. And I thank you.” Hector’s loyalty had been tested before and shown worthy of trust. “I want you to go to Edinburgh, to my Charlotte Square house. Mortimer and Theodora are probably in residence there. And Theodora’s sister, the delectable, short-heeled Melony Pincham. There is information I want you to gather there.”

  Half an hour later, seething, Arran strode, into his bedchamber, tore off his coat, and threw it aside. “Damn the girl.” There had been no question of not telling Hector the truth. He’d opened and closed his mouth like a handsome blond fish cast upon a beach, before marching purposefully forth to find Mortimer.

  “You shall pay for the trouble you have caused me, dear Grace,” Arran said aloud.

  He could simply have told her the truth the moment they met.

  Why should he have? Calculating baggage. She had been quick enough to lay out her selfish plans. And she’d been more than quick to explore a friendship with him.

  No, he’d been right to tell her nothing.

  But now he wished he had been honest.

  Damnation—he could love her. Why was he driven to feel deeply for women capable of wounding him?

  It wasn’t too late to go to the Mercers. But he was too unsettled, too angry. Gael and Robert needed no ill humor in their time of trouble. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  Fair Grace. How sweetly, painfully erotic she’d looked. Naked but for the foolish ruff, the paltry bird on a chain she always wore, and lace stockings as provocative as any an opera dancer might have chosen. All slender, pale woman’s flesh. Swollen, rosy nipples and a small thatch of golden curls to hide what he had yet to take completely.

  He would not beg forgiveness for his deception.

  She would be the one to beg. He’d make sure of that.

  Please God he’d have enough time.

  His music was what he needed. Music and the oasis of quiet satisfaction it brought him. He could think there. Plan. Decide carefully how to deal with his dilemma.

  Arran could not remember the last time he’d gone to the gallery in daylight. It was possible he could not work now, but he would try. The mood was everything and ..
. he would try, dammit.

  The only mishap on the way to the gallery was a near collision with a plump, pleasant-faced maid who apologized and showed no sign of recognition. Arran smiled and started up the final flight of stairs. He really had accomplished an admirable degree of anonymity in his own home.

  He pushed open the gallery door and entered. By the end of the month he intended to send his latest arrangement for piano and violin to the very talented musician who had made certain that Arran’s work was regularly, and anonymously, performed for admiring audiences.

  The enthusiasm abroad for “Contemporary Anonymous” was gratifying and conveyed in unsigned missives from a certain Julius VonDerman.

  Calum frequently pushed Arran to claim his work. Struan, too. Arran was less than interested in fame of the kind they thought he ought to seek.

  The gallery wasn’t empty.

  Arran halted, his fists on his hips.

  The impertinent, bothersome, fascinating chit stood with her back to him—painting.

  Rising to his toes, Arran advanced on the small figure dressed in a voluminous thing that resembled a bed sheet gathered at the neck. She bowed over, keeping her nose close to the canvas. In her left hand was a wooden pallet, and in her right, a brush held aloft.

  He had denied her permission to come here during the day.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Oh!” She spun around and staggered back, almost knocking her precious painting from the easel she’d formed by stacking one of his priceless Aubusson chairs upon another!

  “Oh, indeed,” he growled, ducking his head and prowling forward until he towered over her. “Did I or did I not tell you that you are not, ever, to enter this room in the daytime?”

  Grace stood up straight, hitched the frightful, graying, paint-splotched garment above her toes by the device of dragging fabric upward with an elbow, and glared at him. “I am not afraid of you, Niall whoever-you-may-be.”

  She soon would be. “The time has come for us to have a few honest words together,” he told her.

  Arran advanced.

  Grace retreated.

  “I have decided to tell you certain things.” He reached for her wrist.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” She dodged behind her painting. “I have given considerable thought to ... to ... Well, I’ve given it thought, that’s all.”

  “Please don’t avoid fully speaking your mind on my account.” He felt—murderous. But on the other hand, he felt—amorous also. “Tell me, Grace. What is it exactly that you’ve given thought to?” Removing the foolish smock would take little effort.

  “We shall not speak of it again.”

  “As you wish. But we shall know just the same. Am I correct?”

  She blushed in that charming, rosy manner—the same blush that tinted her breasts, and belly, and thighs, when he kissed and stroked her.

  “Dear little Grace. Dearest little imp. I told you what I would think every time I looked at you.”

  “Stop!”

  “I cannot. I’m sorry, sweeting, but I am helpless not to see right through that ... that—” he indicated the smock “—and see your nipples, wet from my lips.”

  “Go away.”

  “I just arrived. I’m going to play.”

  She raised her pointed chin. “Play? But I thought you didn’t care to do so in front of others.”

  “You are exceedingly aggravating,” he said. “And exceedingly reckless. I advise you to be silent.”

  “Gladly. Go ahead and play. Be my guest. I promise never to tell your employer that you secretly appropriate his instruments.”

  Darting an arm around her waist, Arran drew her hard between his parted legs and brought his mouth to hers.

  “No!” She struggled and dealt him a blow with the fist that clutched the end of her brush. “Stop it at once,” she sputtered when he leaped away, rubbing his head.

  “You invited me to play,” he reminded her, delighting in her discomfort despite the sore lump on his head. “Now you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I thought you wanted to play the piano.”

  “When I can play with you?” This wasn’t the time to torment her. “Forgive me. Let us sit together.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I remember a former invitation to Sit With You, sir.”

  Arran grinned. “Ah, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve decided you didn’t enjoy that episode? I will not believe you if you do.”

  “You, sir, are arrogant beyond words.”

  “I am sir again? After all we have shared?”

  “If you are going to play the piano, I shall leave. If you are not, I’ll thank you to leave and allow me to paint.” She indicated the canvas, this one different from the one she’d already shown him.

  Dubiously Arran eyed a concoction of bold black and brown strokes alleviated only by a single gold slash. “Man with a sword?” he suggested.

  Grace looked at the painting and shook her head.

  “Man impaled on the sword of another?”

  “No.” Her marvelous blush deepened.

  “It is a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “A naked man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course. You don’t paint clothes.” He schooled himself to concentrate. She cared excessively for this so-called art of hers, and it could do little harm to indulge her feelings. He indicated the spear of gold. “Explain this to me. I only want to learn.”

  “Certainly. Painters are always direct when dealing with their work. He is a man who has invited a lady to Sit With Him.”

  Understanding dawned slowly. Arran laughed. He clutched his sides and laughed as he hadn’t laughed in far too long. And when he sputtered into choking silence, he found Grace glowering at him.

  “I have been painted before,” he told her. “But never in quite so—intimate a pose.”

  “Kindly leave me.”

  “I apologize.” He was instantly serious. “It’s just that you ... that your paintings are so astonishingly unexpected.”

  “You find them humorous. I would prefer you to go away.”

  She would prefer? “I don’t care for your tone, Grace.”

  “What you care for is of no interest. The other evening before I ... before I ...”

  “Sat with me?” he finished for her.

  “Quite.” Her golden eyes flashed. “I intended to ask you some questions. I choose to do so now.”

  Her fire could become a most entertaining tool on dark nights in the tumult of their marriage bed. “Grace, I have teased you enough. Now it’s time for me to speak seriously with you.”

  “Do you know that they call the marquess the Savage of Stonehaven?”

  He grew still. “I believe I’ve heard that title. Where did you hear it?”

  “It is commonly used.”

  If he were honest, he’d admit that he’d heard it himself among the tenants. “Old wives’ nonsense. Ignore it, please.”

  “They say he is mad. That he shouts and raves in the night. And they say that he is never seen by day. Is this all true?”

  “No ! No, it is not all true.” He did not shout and rave. “Grace—”

  “He continues to refuse to see me.”

  “I want to talk to you about—”

  “As soon as I see Calum again, I intend to ask him why he’s failed to tell me all I need to know about the marquess.”

  Arran sighed. “I’m sure he’s told you everything that could possibly—”

  “The man was married!”

  Arran dropped his hands to his sides. “Who told you that?” he asked softly.

  “I cannot reveal my sources. There is altogether too much mystery here, and until it is all made open to me, I cannot be certain that I’ll stay here. Not that the marquess shows any sign of wanting me to.”

  “Oh, he wants you to. You may be assured of that.”

  She spun away from him and paced. “How do y
ou know?”

  “Because I ...” Now, he would tell her now. “Because I am ... very close to him.” Damn his cowardice.

  “Don’t think I have forgotten that fact,” she said sharply, stopping before him. “You should have explained all this to me. Including the fact that his wife disappeared one night—after he was heard shouting at her like a madman.”

  “He did not shout at her ... No, he was angry, certainly, but not in the slightest mad.”

  “She slept in the room that is mine.”

  “Yes.” He should have had her moved after all.

  “And on that night she went to Revelation—where the marquess lives.”

  “Yes ... I mean, I assume so.”

  “And she was never seen again!”

  He was horribly afraid that he could guess the direction of this conversation.

  “Did you know the marchioness was ... increasing?”

  Muscles in Arran’s cheeks jerked. “I knew.”

  “But both the marchioness and her baby disappeared and were never seen again. And there is a secret room beneath the tower where the marquess lives.”

  “Yes, there is.” He did not want to think about this, to remember this.

  “It is believed that the marquess murdered his wife and unborn child and sealed them in that secret room. What do you have to say about that?”

  Weakness assaulted his limbs. Arran closed his eyes and saw hazy specks of color dance behind his lids.

  “You are a good man, Niall.” Grace’s fingers threaded between Arran’s, and she brought his hands to her breast. “You did not know. My poor, dear friend. I have shocked you deeply, and for this I am so very sorry.”

  With a great effort, he looked at her again, looked down into her upturned face, into serious eyes the color of the latest amber earbobs reported missing from his long-dead mother’s dressing table.

  “Listen to me, Grace,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We must speak honestly and quickly. There is no time to waste.”

  “No time, indeed.” She clutched his hands tighter. “But I have worked everything out. First, I forgive you for thinking my paintings ... unusual. After all, new ideas are sometimes difficult to assimilate. Second, forget what passed between us the other evening. We can be the best of friends and never think of that episode again. It was simply the result of our separate concerns becoming one in the most extraordinary, unusual manner.”