Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “Good. I have the perfect solution to this problem of yours.”

  “You do?”

  “Definitely. A man of God is what you need. One practiced in listening to many of life’s troubles—from the troubled. Come, we have a task for Father Struan.”

  Struan forbore to remind Calum that Arran was unlikely to be pleased if he discovered his private walled garden was being used as a confessional!

  “There she is,” Calum said, indicating a stone bench amid Arran’s beloved rhododendron crescent.

  “This is the very devil,” Struan muttered.

  “I fear she thinks she may be.”

  Struan stopped. “She thinks what?”

  “That she may be the devil,” Calum remarked without a trace of a smile. “Hence I steered her in your direction. You being the expert on such conditions.”

  Struan shook his head. He’d known Calum as long as he could remember—and liked him—but he’d always been an obscure fellow. “She’s a charming-looking little thing. Quite unlike anyone I’ve ever known Arran’s attention to be caught by.”

  “If one is to believe his allusions—and hers—they are quite caught by one another.”

  “Except that she doesn’t know Arran is Arran,” Struan pointed out.

  “Niall is Arran, you mean.”

  Struan cast his eyes heavenward. “May the saints preserve us.”

  “I’ll take help from anyone,” Calum said.

  “Have a care,” Struan warned. “The saints can be quite contrary on occasion.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Arran always preferred dramatic-looking women,” Struan mused. “Miss Wren is, um, ethereal, wouldn’t you say? Not that I’ve any experience in such matters.”

  “In this case I couldn’t agree more. Ethereal. And engaging. That’s why I chose her. I think she is exactly what Arran needs and what will bring him out of his damnable hiding.”

  “The golden brown eyes and pale hair are unusual.” Struan kept his voice down, but Miss Wren appeared to be transported to another place, apparently one that caused her deep concern. “Arran’s previous females have all been more, um, buxom?”

  “Voluptuous.”

  Struan blew out a breath. “Whatever. This creature is small but perfect, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would. When I first saw her, I wasn’t sure. Subsequently I decided she’d have the kind of body that might drive Arran wonderfully mad. Appeal to his sense of beauty. Lithe. Slender. Her skin is so pale. And her breasts are ... pert. “

  Struan threaded his fingers together.

  Calum gave every impression of being oblivious to his companion. “A man of Arran’s strength and sensibilities would undoubtedly be driven quite marvelously mad in conquering her. She’d be a supple wand. One could easily imagine that naked she’d be ...” Calum caught Struan’s eye and ducked his head. “Ah. I forget myself, Father. Looking for a wife for your brother was a heavy task, one I took with great seriousness. I tried to see her through his eyes, and that is why I have analyzed her so thoroughly. Please be assured that I have no personal interest in the lady.”

  “I need no assurances of that nature from you. I know you too well. It is time you found your own wife, Calum.”

  “We both know that is unlikely to occur.” The downward jerk of Calum’s mouth told of bitterness. “We will not speak of it.”

  Not now, Struan thought. But one day. “As you

  say. So I am to hear Miss Wren’s little troubles.” Please God let him be equal to the task.

  “Be patient,” Calum whispered. “I believe I shall leave you now. She’ll be more comfortable with you alone.”

  Before Struan could protest, Calum walked swiftly away.

  The little figure on the bench didn’t stir until Struan approached and stood directly before her. Then she raised her face with its large, intelligent eyes, its charmingly tilted nose and full mouth—and she blushed. And leaped to her feet.

  “Sit down,” he told her, and she sank back, but her spine remained board-straight. “You wanted to see me? To talk to me?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, probably not, but Calum said you were exactly the man I should speak to, so I agreed.” Between parted lips, her teeth were small and even and very white. “Calum said that since I find religion—God—such a comfort, I should most likely find talking to you about my dilemma quite comforting, too. Because you are a man of God.”

  Calum would hear more about this. “If I can help you in any way, I will.” Arran’s manipulating best friend had certainly chosen a lovely creature. The girl’s face held an innocence that twisted Struan’s heart. “Please don’t look so troubled. There is very little in this world that is worthy of deep regard. Except honor and kindness—and loyalty and honesty and a simplicity of spirit. I’m certain you have all these qualities in great measure.”

  An expression of purest misery filled her eyes. Tears welled along her lower lids. “Those qualities have always meant a great deal to me.” She spoke softly. “But I fear I have ... compromised ... all of them in my desire to accomplish certain earthly requirements.”

  Damn Arran for his thoughtlessness. “No, no, no.” Struan hoped he sounded reassuring. “You could not possibly be guilty of any such thing.” He also hoped for an early opportunity to give Calum and Arran his opinion of their behavior with this fragile creature.

  “There are certain things I wish to ascertain in order to decide exactly what I have done—or not done. And then I must find a way to deal with feelings I have for someone. I have no knowledge of the intimate side of relationships between men and women.”

  Calum should roast for this. “There is no need for you to know such things.”

  “Oh, but I think there is. How can I decide if I have ... I do not agree with the old-fashioned notions that a woman should be foolishly ignorant of matters concerning her bodily reactions.”

  He drew in a breath.

  “To men.”

  He puffed up his cheeks.

  “When they ... Sit Together.”

  Struan exhaled noisily. “Sit together?”

  “I know you are shocked that I should speak of such matters, but who can I speak to if not to a priest? I am not a Catholic, but I appreciate that your vows cause you to be exposed to many confidences.” She shook her head. “I should not at all care for that. Anyway, since you are a priest and the marquess’s brother, Calum thought you would agree to enlighten me.”

  There were trials no man should suffer.

  “I have experienced ... unsettling sensations. Completely new sensations.”

  Struan regarded his boots.

  “They are difficult to describe. Sort of—”

  “No need at all to be precise,” he said hastily.

  “Of course not. I expect a man such as you has heard these things in detail many times.”

  Pistols at dawn would be too good for Calum.

  “Are these sensations the usual sort of thing one should expect when with ...? Well, in truth, I’ve been having them all by myself. I expect that’s unnatural?”

  He used to be as good a shot as Calum. “Not at all unnatural. Not at all.”

  “Oh, what a relief.” Her eyes brightened, only to cloud again. “However, that does not enlighten me in the other matter.”

  Men of the cloth did not duel.

  “You are so patient with me.” She smiled a little. “Could you please tell me exactly what happens?”

  “What happens? In what regard?” As soon as he’d spoken, he guessed his sickening mistake.

  “The entire thing. All of its ... parts? You see, I think what I’m really wanting to find out is how I will know when I have experienced everything there is to experience.”

  God was merciful. Even a man of the cloth could commit a grave sin and be forgiven. For murder.

  “Would it make it simpler if we considered the question in relation to a wedding night?” Grace asked. “It would seem so to me. That
does appear to be the event that everyone considers ... eventful?”

  Through gathering gloom, Struan settled his gaze on the garden wall behind her head, on the espaliered cotoneaster, on the stones behind the shiny dark green leaves. Please let him find inspiration.

  “Miss Wren—Grace, you are about to be married. Trust that your husband will make these things clear to you at the, ah, appropriate moment.” Trust a cad. Trust a heartless monster who deserved to be horsewhipped, and his best friend with him.

  Footsteps on the path behind made him look over

  his shoulder. At the sight of Calum Innes, he pulled back his shoulders and glared.

  Calum approached, passed Struan without a glance, and stood before Grace. He offered a hand and she took it, allowed him to help her to her feet.

  “What is it?” She frowned, and Struan saw what she had seen, the stiff tension on Calum’s face.

  “Calum?”

  Calum waved Struan to silence. “Everything is perfectly fine. We understand your Cuthbert relatives are presently arriving at Kirkcaldy.” He aimed a level stare at Struan. “Perhaps you should entertain them awhile. The marquess wishes to meet Grace. Now.”

  Chapter 12

  “You’re absolutely certain the marquess has asked to see me?”

  “He was adamant.”

  Adamant had never been a word Grace particularly cared for. It had an angry, authoritative sound. She walked reluctantly at Calum’s side through the confusing twists and turns, the ups and downs and arounds, of Kirkcaldy.

  “I thought his lordship lived in Revelation.”

  “He does.”

  “Then why didn’t we go directly in through the door from the walled garden rather than take such a circuitous route?”

  “That’s the marquess’s entrance.”

  “He doesn’t like anyone else to use it?”

  “The marquess is an unusually private man.”

  So private, he scarcely wanted to meet the woman he was supposedly to marry. “Perhaps he intends to send me packing.”

  “He doesn’t intend any such thing.”

  Where was Niall?

  She hadn’t seen him for two days. Would he be with the marquess? Oh, please let him be there.

  Calum held her elbow as they descended a short flight of steps, crossed a small hall with plastered walls that rose several stories to a ceiling spanned with arches, and started up a gray stone wheel-stair.

  Grace halted. “Why should the marquess care

  who uses his precious door when he never goes out?”

  “He ... That is a question you should ask the man himself.”

  Grace fervently wished she’d never, ever come here.

  She allowed herself to be led, very slowly, onward. “Wh-What am I to call him?”

  This time it was Calum who halted. His brow furrowed. “He is Arran Francis William Rossmara, Marquess of Stonehaven.” He appeared uncertain. “Stonehaven would be the expected thing. He’ll instruct you according to his preference.”

  The wheel-stair curled elegantly to a polished oak door at the top. A very solid oak door flanked by two portraits. When Calum saw Grace staring at them, he said, “Mary Queen of Scots,” of the painting to the left, and “Prince James Stuart,” of the other.

  Grace said, “They look ill.”

  “They probably were.”

  “Living in castles can’t be particularly healthy.”

  Calum checked his watch.

  “Damp,” Grace said. “Not good for the lungs.”

  “The marquess is waiting for you.” Calum climbed the last two stairs and offered Grace his hand.

  Grace crossed her arms.

  “My papa always warned me against the evils of damp buildings. He said I wasn’t strong. I needed warm, dry accommodations, that’s what he said.”

  Calum crooked his fingers.

  “I should have changed my gown,” she said, indicating her spring green muslin over which she wore a dark green velvet spencer. “This is not at all suitable for evening wear.”

  “I doubt the marquess will notice.”

  Grace felt light-headed. “Is he also blind?”

  “Also?”

  “In addition to his other infirmities?” Her hands were cold, the palms clammy.

  “He is not blind. He is also not patient.”

  Grace barely stopped herself from moaning. “He has ... Surely someone is readily to hand at all times in case he needs something?” Her voice was suitably nonchalant, wasn’t it?

  “What his lordship wants, his lordship gets, I assure you.”

  She must sound offhand, innocent. “I expect he has a close companion to attend him?”

  The expression in Calum’s eyes changed, became even more unreadable. “His lordship wants you as his close companion, Grace. And he wants you at once.”

  Niall was the marquess’s nearest and most trusted confidant. Naturally Niall knew Grace had been summoned. He would be in position exactly as she had instructed.

  He had not seemed entirely delighted at her announcement that if she left Kirkcaldy, she hoped he would choose to go with her. In fact, he had not seemed delighted at all. He had said absolutely nothing definite on the subject.

  Perhaps his sense of duty had required that he confess to meeting with Grace.

  Perhaps the marquess was in a towering rage.

  Perhaps Niall had been sent away!

  Surely Father Struan’s brother could not be a complete monster.

  “Is the marquess at all like his brother?”

  Calum was turning the heavy brass door handle.

  “Father Struan is so nice. Very gentle and understanding. And helpful.”

  The door creaked open over dark wood floors worn to a satiny patina. The room beyond was large,

  the lighting low, and Grace had a fleeting impression of masculine opulence.

  “The marquess is nothing like his brother,” Calum said. “The bedchamber is beyond the far door.”

  Overwhelmed by dread, Grace stepped tentatively over the threshold and glanced at Calum. “I confess,” she whispered, “that I am frightened.”

  He bowed his head. “I know. It’s natural under the circumstances.”

  “What should I do?” She caught his hand and held on tightly. “I am in the most terrible pickle. Do you suppose—No, of course there is absolutely no truth to the silly stories about him eating people.”

  Calum laughed and patted her fingers. “He isn’t easily roused to anger—or so he says, although I frequently take issue with him—but I should say that his bark is almost always worse than his bite.”

  “Oh!” Grace’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Take heart, little one,” Calum said, smiling at her. “Occasionally I am gifted with intuition. Call it second sight, perhaps. This evening I feel a premonition that his lordship will take one look at you and decide you are exactly suited to his taste.”

  “His taste?” Grace’s throat constricted.

  “Indeed. In fact, I think he will consider you positively toothsome.”

  Chuckling, he shut himself out—and Grace in. She covered her face with both hands. Her own gift for seeing what others apparently didn’t see was particularly active tonight. She saw darkness and rage and a fearsome creature reaching for her with gnarled and bony fingers.

  A level head could divert many a disaster. Calm, Grace told herself, be calm.

  A fire crackled and spat in the white marble fireplace. The room felt different from other areas of the castle. It felt, Grace realized when she managed to make herself turn around, sumptuous and cared for.

  A large carpet covered much of the floor. Its colors, dark red and green and gold, held the soft sheen of silk. A huge writing table with papers, ink, and pens scattered on its leather surface stood at an angle, and an Aubusson-tapestry-upholstered fauteuil was pushed back as if its owner had only recently sat in it to work.

  Grace drew in a shaky breath. In the room beyond lay
an ailing man, yet here everything was kept as if he might emerge at any time to resume the activities of his vigorous youth. The lords of Stonehaven had certain things in common with the ancient Egyptians. They liked to store worldly goods, untouched, in the tombs of their dead.

  Blood drained so quickly to her feet that Grace swayed.

  Widgeon.

  Cork-brain.

  Just because Grumpy ranted about grave-looting, there was no reason for Grace to become even more fanciful than usual.

  Good grief, the marquess wasn’t even dead.

  Yet.

  She must either run away into passages and stairways and dark rooms from which she would probably never find escape, or go to meet the marquess.

  A tapestry covering most of one wall was in what Grace recognized as the Chinoiserie style. If life in China was at all like the chaotic, capering madness depicted by the Frenchman who had most likely designed the hanging, then Grace was grateful never to have been there.

  Whenever she was alone in the passageways of Kirkcaldy—particularly at night—there was a shrill singing in the sounds that wound through chill air. Such sounds might come from the open mouths of the pigtailed dervishes in the tapestry.

  What could possibly be so terrible about a poor, bedridden old man?

  Stiffening her spine, holding her head erect, Grace crossed the room and knocked on the door Calum had indicated.

  It swung open beneath her hand.

  Only firelight relieved the darkness beyond. The red-gold gleam rose and fell over the dim shapes of furnishings and glistened indistinctly on the heavy folds of drapes drawn about a massive four-post bed.

  She could still flee.

  Grace swallowed the purest terror she had ever felt and took several steps into the bedchamber.

  Ninnies fled.

  Immature misses fresh off the leading rein fled.

  Women approaching advanced stages of spinsterhood held their ground and did what must be done.

  “Good evening, your lordship. It’s Grace Wren.” Her knees wobbled under the weight of spent courage.