Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “Long enough,” he ground out. “Over there.” He hurried her to a divan strewn with satin pillows, turned her from him, and threw her over the seat. She heard his rasping breath and tried to push herself up.

  A hard hand between her shoulder blades sent her facedown again.

  “This is what you want, lovie. What I want.”

  She hated him calling her what he called Theodora. “Yes,” she said. “What I want.” He would pay for that mistake soon enough.

  Fabric scraped over male skin.

  “Scream, Melony. I like it when you scream.”

  He pulled up the chemise, ripped apart the fragile red silk drawers, and hammered his shaft into her.

  Melony screamed.

  Chapter 11

  “Kitchens is no place for those who dinna belong here,” Mrs. Moggach said. Ferociously wielding cutters, she labored over a large sugar cone atop a great, scrubbed wood table.

  Making the staff puddings at which she “wasna a good hand,” as Mairi put it, Grace decided. The housekeeper hadn’t as much as greeted Grace when she’d emerged from what felt like miles of confusing, dark stone passages that led from the castle’s upper reaches.

  “Far too much comin’ and goin’ if ye ask me,” Mrs. Moggach said, pushing away a wisp of gray hair with the back of a hand. “I’m all topsy-turvy. Nowheres near enough staff for all this extra work.”

  Grace would not mention that a household of this dimension should scarcely notice the arrival of two women, and a priest who evidently used to live here all the time. She would also hold her tongue rather than point out that a great deal more labor seemed to be expended on staff puddings than anything put before Grace or her mother. Father Struan had never eaten with them, and she assumed he preferred to take his meals with his ailing old brother.

  “I’ve not enough staff for all this, I can tell ye.” Mrs. Moggach’s voice had a droning quality. “If ye’re wantin’ to do somethin’ useful, ye can see to gettin’ more bodies for me. Not that I suppose there’s aught ye can do about anythin’.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Moggach,” Grace said firmly, and thought, Grumpy, with a good deal of satisfaction.

  Grumpy grunted. “Too much t’do an’ not enough hands.”

  A woman sitting before a roaring fire in the range had to be the cook. She drank tea noisily and rocked and appeared oblivious to Mrs. Moggach’s monologue. Florence, the upstairs maid, sat opposite cook, chopping carrots into a bowl between her feet. Grace counted eight additional maids of various ages. Two applied jiggers to pastry rolled out with a glass pin by a third, cutting piecrusts and laying them in earthenware dishes. Three more maids grated, ground, and squeezed nutmeg, apples, and lemons, respectively.

  “I came down to discuss the business of your instructions to Mairi—regarding those areas of the castle into which my mother and I are not supposed to go. Mairi seems unclear about your message.” Grace stiffened her spine. The annoyance she felt must not show if she was to preserve what little authority she might have here.

  “I’ve enough t’do without the added bother.”

  To Grace there appeared to be far more servants than could possibly be kept busy by the disgracefully lax standards at Kirkcaldy. The seventh and eighth maids, very young girls, carried dirty dishes and utensils into the scullery. In the doorway to another passageway lounged a footman swathed in a canvas apron. He polished a silver dish cover upon his braced knee and spoke through the doorway to someone Grace couldn’t see. Through a window into the butler’s pantry there was a clear view of Mr. Shanks poring over his books whilst another footman dusted crystal decanters and passed them to yet another to replace on shelves.

  “Mrs. Moggach, I should appreciate your full attention.” Inwardly Grace quaked. Her mother had insisted that she confront Mrs. Moggach, a task for which Grace felt completely unprepared. “Why would you send such messages to us?”

  “For your own good,” Mrs. Moggach muttered. “Wee upstart.”

  This woman felt quite secure in her position, which meant she knew something Grace did not know—maybe a great many things. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that. I should like an answer to my question, please.”

  “All o’ her ladyship’s things are to be left exactly where they are.”

  Grace dropped her hands to her sides.

  “Not a thing’s t’be touched.”

  “Her ladyship?” Grace screwed up her eyes.

  “Aye. His lordship gave orders after she died. Shut her rooms, he said. Dinna move a thing—not ever. That’s what he said.”

  “But—” She was living in those rooms.

  “Amber necklace gone,” Mrs. Moggach muttered. “And earbobs. And now there’s her little ruby ring.”

  Grace realized her mouth was dry, and swallowed. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” There wasn’t and never had been any jewelry in the Delilah room.

  Mrs. Moggach sniffed and raised pale gray eyes to Grace’s. She wiped her large hands on a cloth and slapped it down in a wad. “I was an upstairs maid when she died,” she said, and nodded toward one of the younger maids. “I started in the scullery. I’ve grown up in this great hoose. Her ladyship was verra fair. Tall and dark with black eyes and a laugh you could hear through many a room. Those days were different, I can tell ye. Back then this was a live place, not a dead one.”

  Grace swallowed again. “Times change. I’m sure the marquess mourned—”

  “She was a great deal younger than him. She dinna deserve t’die so young. It’s my job to make sure her things are kept the way she left them—the old marquess charged me wi’ the job. And now there’s her little treasures disappearin’, and me mournin’ for the lootin’ o’ her grave.”

  Grace could only stare.

  “Someone’s goin’ into the Eve Tower and gettin’ into her rooms. She chose them because she could see for miles. The whole of the road leading to Kirkcaldy. She liked to watch for visitors. Before a party or a ball, she’d dress early and stand up there like a wee girl on her birthday.”

  “Taking things from a room could hardly be termed ‘looting a grave,’ Mrs. Moggach.” The Eve Tower? The road leading to Kirkcaldy? The Delilah room was in the west wing, with the Adam Tower separating it from Eve. And a grove of old spruce trees obscured any view of the approach to the castle.

  Mrs. Moggach heaved a sigh that raised her impressive bosom inside the gray woolen dress she favored. “A tender heart, she had. When the old king died, she cried for days.”

  “But ... but that was only two years ago!” The words were out before Grace could contain them, then she didn’t care. “King George died in twenty.”

  “King George?” The name rang out as if the housekeeper sought to rid it from her lips forever. “I was speakin’ o’ the king over the water, o’course. Bonnie Charlie.”

  “But ... but ...” Grace looked around and found several pairs of eyes watching her with interest. “But Prince Charles died ... He died in ...”

  “Eighty-eight,” Mrs. Moggach said dolefully.

  “In 1788,” Grace echoed. “Your late mistress could not have died that long ago.”

  A few titters were hastily smothered.

  “I was speakin’ o’ the present marquess’s mother,” Mrs. Moggach said haughtily. “Someone’s makin’ off with her precious things, and it’s t’stop.”

  All hands stilled.

  “Goin’ through locked doors. Whoever heard the like o’ it?”

  Grace’s heart thudded. “You cannot be suggesting that we are responsible for breaking into locked quarters?”

  “They’re not broken into. There’s some as has a way o’ gettin’ in, though. And gettin’ out wi’ out anyone knowin’ until it’s too late.”

  “If nothing’s to be touched, how do you know things are missing?”

  Mrs. Moggach raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I’m to keep her ladyship’s rooms dusted, that’s how. It was a trust left me by
her husband.”

  They were speaking about her so-called fiancé’s parents. They were speaking of people who died long before Grace was born. She knew the answer to her next question. “Has the marquess—the current marquess been informed of the thefts?”

  “He has indeed. Ye might o’ charmed Mr. Innes, but he’d not risk keepin’ anythin’ from his lordship.”

  “And did his lordship give you leave to issue orders to my mother and myself?”

  Mrs. Moggach smiled. Not a pretty sight. “Aye, in a way. Ye’d not have to ask that question if the marquess had welcomed ye. But he hasna. Young Calum Innes has overstepped himself, just as he did so many times when he was an upstarty laddie. What can ye expect from a man with his beginnings? He’s tryin’ to push the marquess into doin’ what he

  doesna want. The marquess doesna want ye, lassie. And ye know as much, don’t ye?”

  “This is none of your—”

  “He doesna. And ye and that mother o’ yours—uppity madam—ye’ve decided ye’ll not go away empty-handed. Aye, we know what ye’re about.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Och, I do dare.” The woman threw down the sugar cutters and gathered up a toasting fork. “I’ve but one more thing t’say to ye. There was another who came to Kirkcaldy and found a way into those rooms. Don’t ye forget it.”

  “Forget what?”

  “We’ll not speak more o’ that.”

  “Tell me,” Grace said, her anger overcoming dread.

  Mrs. Moggach pointed the long, evilly pointed toasting fork at Grace. “Gladly. Isabel Dean got herself married to the marquess and then she crossed him.”

  “And?”

  The fork came an inch closer. “No divorce has ever sullied the name of Rossmara. And ye’re here, aren’t ye?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Well, then, we both know what happened, don’t we?”

  Niall was the only person she could talk to.

  And he was the one person she absolutely must not talk to.

  Grace ventured forth through the daunting vestibule and left the castle. Despite her efforts to be stealthy, the doors clanged shut with a bong that resembled a mighty, long-unused church bell.

  Catching her breath in the cool air, she hesitated in the shadow of the castellated porch, then fled swiftly toward the back of the west wing. Keeping

  close to the building, she didn’t stop running until she’d turned the corner and dashed past tall hedges to a lawn that stretched to the edges of a lake.

  What was she to do?

  How could she have been so foolish as to agree to Calum’s proposition?

  What was she to do?

  Mama wasn’t strong. Grace didn’t dare to as much as mention Mrs. Moggach’s accusations—or her threats. They had been threats, hadn’t they?

  The reed-fringed lake was large and glossy green in the overcast late afternoon light. Willows, their leaves still tightly budded, drooped silently into the water, and on the far shore stood a white marble pavilion flanked by white marble statues of nymphs—kelpies, as Mairi had told Grace they were called in Scotland.

  There was simply too much to be confused about here. Grace trailed to the water’s edge and looked down at her own reflection, wavering on the almost still surface.

  The truth was that there was one thing bothering her more than any other—although there were certainly others that should be confronted first.

  Niall.

  Her reaction to him.

  What had passed between them.

  The fact that she ... Grace plucked a reed and swished it in the water. She had never been in love, so how could she know that what she felt now, for this man, was love?

  Love.

  Grace walked toward the willows. She felt something she had never felt before. She felt it for Niall. It was a sweetly painful sensation. A tightness in her throat. A lightness in her head. A tingling thrill that climbed her spine ... and curled in those nameless places.

  Love, or whatever caused her present condition, held such potential for ecstacy—and despair.

  She hardly knew him. Grace picked up her pace. Then she began to march, pushing aside willow branches as she went. The problem was that she knew absolutely nothing about what was correct between a man and a woman. She’d been warned against the evils of spending time, alone, with a man to whom she was not married.

  So that, then, was all of it—the underpinning of her dilemma. She, Grace Wren, a single woman, had Spent Time with a man to whom she was not married. And she had Sat With Him! Pausing, she closed her eyes, hunched her shoulders, and gave herself up to the delicious and obviously wicked shiver that darted over her skin.

  Grace opened her eyes. What she had done, and allowed Niall to do, was wrong, and it was all her fault. Although she knew nothing of the particulars, she had been warned that it was a woman’s task, a woman’s responsibility, to ensure that no occasion for sin occurred. After all, it was a female who was the potential Vessel for Sin, the temptation for the male. Grace shuddered afresh. On the nights when she’d been with Niall, she had certainly proven a temptation for him.

  There was too much she did not know. In particular, had she experienced all that could occur when a woman spent time alone with a man? Or was there more?

  “Grace!” A male voice carried clearly in the stillness. “Grace! Wait!”

  Hatless, Calum Innes caught up. His thick, dark hair fell over his forehead. He was handsome, but, and definitely not for the first time, Grace compared him to Niall and knew her preference was for the dashing tail at the nape and green eyes—and a smile that was at once charming and wicked.

  “Are you well?” Calum asked.

  She started. “Perfectly.” It seemed that at Kirkcaldy she was frequently mistaken for an invalid.

  “Florence came to me. She said Mrs. Moggach was less than helpful to you when you visited the kitchens.”

  Grace considered how to answer. “She said that?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That and nothing more?”

  “What else should she have said? Tell me, please. Florence is a good girl, but understandably, she would be cautious not to make her position difficult with the housekeeper.”

  “Mrs. Moggach was inhospitable, nothing more.” She must not be seen as a complaining miss.

  Calum leaned against the trunk of a willow. A striking figure indeed. “Would you tell me if there had been something more serious than inhospitality?”

  Would she? “I ...” Grace made up her mind. “Yes. Calum, I have a serious problem, and I scarcely know what to do about it. In fact, I have not the slightest idea about it at all,” she told him in a rush.

  Calum regarded her intently. “I shall be delighted to offer whatever advice I can. You appear disconcerted, Grace. Shall we walk whilst we talk? It might relax you.” Bowing, he offered his arm, and when Grace took it, he strolled with her, leading her carefully around tree roots.

  “You are very kind, Calum.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, yes. Very kind.”

  “No more than I should be.”

  She should not have said she had a problem. “I am beginning to think Scotland the most beautiful place.” True, but not at all what she had intended to say.

  “Then we are agreed upon something very important.” He grinned, and his face became young and animated. “Now, share your dilemma.”

  Grace lowered her lashes. “You are not married?”

  “No.”

  “But you are experienced as a, er, man of the world?”

  He stopped walking. “What a very odd question for a girl to ask.”

  “I am not a girl.”

  “Excuse me. A young lady.”

  “There are occasions when there is a female of mature years who is quite without sources of wisdom in some of the more ... delicate areas. Apart from my mother, I have never had any female relatives—or friends—to turn to. And my mother’s sensibilities are exc
eedingly delicate. Have you ever ...” She simply had to have answers. “You are clearly a man of the world. Therefore you must have Sat with a woman. At least once.”

  Calum raised one dark red brow.

  “Oh, fie!” Grace pulled her hand from his arm and turned her back. “I am in need of advice, sir. Of information.”

  “Do not distress yourself,” he said gently. “I know that you have had some ... stressful experiences?”

  “Most stressful. But you cannot possibly know about them. I mean—” A pox on her silly careless tongue. “I mean that I need guidance. I need information of a technical nature on what exactly passes between a man and a woman.”

  “A man and a woman?”

  “In ... moments of intimacy.” Her voice rose to a strangled squeak. “I need to speak frankly with someone of experience who will tell me what I need to know.”

  Calum didn’t answer.

  “It is so annoying to wonder about such things.” She faced him again. “What exactly does a woman do when she’s being a Vessel for Sin? And when she does it, what does she cause a man to do? In the most extreme instances? That is, when the situation is carried to its fullest extent?”

  Grace didn’t remember seeing a man blanch. Or grow red. Calum did both in turns. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and raised his face to the sky.

  “You see,” Grace said, touching his sleeve. “If I knew what one does, and if I’ve already done it, then I might be able to avoid doing it again ... if I’ve ever done it before, that is.” This was dangerous. “Which I probably haven’t, of course. Only I should like to be certain because, unlike so many people, I believe it’s good for a person, including a female person, to be as informed as possible on all things.”

  He coughed.

  “Then there is the matter of love. Love is truly confusing, and I was wondering if you—”

  “Are you religious?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Religious,” Calum repeated.

  “God?”

  He nodded and echoed, “God,” sonorously.

  “Absolutely! My father was a very pious man, and that did not always ... Well, I do think one should practice one’s faith with those closest, don’t you? Rather than ... Father was a good man, but not always an easy one.” He was staring at her. “Yes, Calum. I am religious, and I find that fact a great comfort.”