An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Journeys did not always have such pleasant respites, she told herself, and remembered that on her arrival at Skaig Castle she and Lord Niall were to meet as strangers. He had told her that he had planned to intercept her on the road because ever since he had first fallen in love with her, he had wondered how he could compel her interest He had been sensible enough to realise he had little chance of doing this in London, where he would be in competition with the Marquis. When he learnt that Beatrice was to visit Skaig he had known that here was a unique opportunity to further both his love and his ambition. Once he had guessed why she was journeying north, he was anxious to leave her in no doubt as to where his sympathies were placed.

  Beatrice, while appreciating that Niall needed her help materially, was quite prepared to believe that he spoke the truth when he said he loved her. She was at the same time well aware that, had she been infinitely less attractive, he would to further his plans still have made an effort to seduce her. But she was experienced enough to know that, ambitious or not, desire for her had finally swept him off his feet.

  She was too well versed in hearing men talk of love not to recognise sincerity when she met it, and when Niall had driven away from the inn at Aviemore, she knew that he was both her captive and her slave. At the same time it was obvious that he was uneasily aware that his stepmother would make trouble should she learn where he had been or have the slightest inkling that his affections were deeply involved.

  It was therefore imperative that they should not arrive at the castle together and Lord Niall had gone ahead with the intention of breaking his journey the following night not in Inverness but at an inn on the outskirts of the town.

  “It would not be wise for us both to stay in Inverness,” he told Beatrice. “More beautiful than the stars in Heaven, wherever you go, you are bound to excite comment and someone would doubtless sooner or later repeat that they had seen us together.”

  “You sound as if you were afraid of your stepmother,” Beatrice teased and noted that Lord Niall looked uncomfortable.

  “She is inordinately fond of me,” he said at length.

  “And you – of her?” Beatrice asked.

  “When I was very young, I found her not unattractive,” he replied. “I had seen few women, and she was certainly nearer my age than that of my father.”

  Beatrice laughed.

  “The story has a familiar ring,” she mocked. “Pretty young stepmother and a handsome, lonely stepson.”

  There was something provocative in her tone and Lord Niall drew nearer to her to gaze hungrily at her curved lips, parted to show the pearly perfection of her teeth and the tip of a crimson pointed tongue.

  “All women for all time will look like hags now that I have seen you,” he said, thickly.

  Beatrice smiled, and her eyes gleamed enticingly beneath the dark lashes that bordered her heavy lids.

  “How can I believe that?” she pouted. “Memories are short and when I have gone South again, doubtless someone else will hear those very words.”

  “Do you doubt me?” Lord Niall asked fiercely. “I could kill you so that no one else could tell you of your beauty.”

  He caught her almost brutally in his arms, but she laughed as her head went back against his shoulder. His lips were hard against the whiteness of her neck and after a while her laughter died away.

  Yes, Lord Niall had been bewitched by her beauty, but now, as the wheels of the coach rumbled over the bridge leading into the castle, Beatrice wondered if the ardency of his love might not prove a trifle fatiguing.

  It was always the same where she was concerned. A new love, a new adventure, she swept into it eagerly and excitedly until all too soon the thrill and ecstasy vanished, leaving her bored and impatient with the whole affair. A lover was like an orange she thought, when it was sucked dry, one’s thirst was quenched and there was nothing to do but to throw away the empty rind.

  The horses drew up in front of the Castle.

  Beatrice gave a last look into the hand mirror her maid held for her. Despite the long drive from Inverness there was not a hair out of place beneath her feather-trimmed hat of black velvet and her eyes were bright and unwearied. She wore her most elaborate travelling gown of azure blue velvet trimmed with ermine, and she carried a tiny muff of the same fur.

  As the footmen hurried forward to open the coach door and draw aside the heavy fur rug that had covered her, Beatrice paused before descending, well aware that several figures were waiting for her at the top of the steps that led to the great oak door.

  At last she stepped from the coach, two footmen assisting her descent, her maid hurriedly arranging the folds of her velvet gown. Then very slowly, her golden head held high, Beatrice moved up the steps.

  The Duchess was waiting for her just inside the door, and Beatrice surprised a look of chagrin in her eyes and knew it was due to a very feminine pang of envy.

  The two women kissed, then the Duchess turned to the tall figure standing by her side.

  “May I present my stepson,” she asked, “the Duke of Arkrae?”

  “We are indeed honoured by your visit, Lady Wrexham,” a deep voice said. “Permit me to welcome you to Skaig Castle.”

  Beatrice felt his lips brush her fingers, and then as she rose from her curtsy, she looked deep into his eyes and felt something strange happen to her. She was not sure what it was, a sensation half of pain and half of pleasure that seemed to strike her suddenly and leave her weak and quivering, a frailty she had never known before.

  She was only half conscious of the Duchess’s chattering voice,

  “You must be tired, my dear Lady Wrexham, for in truth it is a tiresome, exhausting journey. I vow that the last time I drove to London I was prostrate for weeks after my arrival. But let us repair to the salon. You will need a glass of wine to revive you, but I swear you look as if you have but stepped from your bedchamber.”

  Beatrice followed her hostess and now she was able to notice the furnishing of the castle and feel relieved at its luxury. She had been half afraid she would find everything exceedingly uncomfortable, for she had been told in London that the Scots were little better than animals without even the most primitive ideas of civilisation.

  But one glance at the elegance of the Duke’s exquisitely cut and heavily embroidered coat, the diamonds which glittered at his throat and the formality of his powdered hair reassured her that at Skaig the Scots were not without their graces.

  She moved beside the Duchess up the broad staircase, their dresses sweeping against the carved oak balustrade, their silk petticoats rustling over the carpet. Beatrice was conscious all the time of the man who followed them. Never had she imagined for one instance that the Duke would be so handsome or indeed so attractive. No, he was more than that, there was something unique about him, something she had never encountered before. She was not sure what it was, and when they reached the top of the staircase, she turned round, making some trivial question an excuse to look at him again.

  He answered her courteously and she noticed with a sudden sense of disquietude that he appeared quite unmoved by her beauty and his eyes were cold. She was accustomed to a change in men’s faces when they first beheld her, to seeing their faces darken, the pupils dilate a little.

  She could feel excitement radiate from them, reaching out towards her, drawing her irresistibly as if towards the warmth of a fire. But in the Duke’s expression there was only polite interest, and for perhaps the first time in her life Beatrice wondered if her mirror had played her false.

  The Duchess was speaking.

  “Where is Niall?” she demanded. “I sent a footman to tell him that Lady Wrexham was arriving and that we were waiting to greet her. He can never have received the message or he would have been beside us. Where do you think he can be, Ewan?”

  “I have not the least idea of Niall’s whereabouts,” the Duke replied.

  A footman, standing sentinel on the landing, stepped forward.

  “His
Lordship is in the Chinese Room, Your Grace.”

  “What can he be doing there?” the Duchess asked sharply. “I will call him.”

  She crossed the landing towards a pair of wide mahogany doors on the far side. The footman hastened to open them for her. They swung open and it was easy for Beatrice and the Duke standing at the top of the staircase to see into the interior of the room.

  Lord Niall was leaning against the mantelpiece in a negligent attitude, one hand raised as he played with his diamond-ringed quizzing glass. Standing in front of him, her slim, tense figure somehow conveying an impression of defiance, was Iona. In her hands she held a woollen shawl, the corner of which trailed on the ground. Her face was very white, her eyes wide and dark, but her chin was high, the vivid red of her hair a flag of unvanquished courage.

  As the door opened, Lord Niall looked round with an expression of irritation, but it was obvious that the interruption came as a relief to Iona.

  “Niall, why are you here?” The Duchess’s voice was almost shrill. “Lady Wrexham has arrived and you were not there to greet her.”

  Lord Niall glanced from his stepmother’s face towards the landing and he moved unhurriedly towards the door.

  “No one informed me that her Ladyship’s arrival was imminent,” he said and, passing the Duchess, moved to Beatrice’s side. He took her hand and she felt the warm insistent pressure of his lips.

  “My deepest apologies for not being the first to welcome you,” he said. “Nevertheless it gives me unbounded pleasure to meet your Ladyship.”

  “I thank your Lordship,” Beatrice said, and there was a hint of laughter in her tone.

  The Duchess turned to Iona.

  “Your hair needs attention,” she said icily, “and a shawl is hardly the correct wear for the salon. It would be best for you to retire and tidy yourself before being presented to Lady Wrexham.”

  Iona curtsied but said nothing, and the Duchess swept away leading Beatrice towards the salon, the two men following in their wake. Swiftly Iona picked up her shawl and hurrying from the Chinese Room sped upstairs.

  Her heart was still fluttering and her hands were cold with fear. It had been a relief beyond all words that the Duchess should have interrupted her interview with Lord Niall, and yet she was embarrassed that they should have been discovered tête-à-tête and she wondered what the Duke would think. In her bedroom, Cathy was waiting and as Iona entered, she went towards her.

  “Is all weel, mistress?”

  “I got back safely and no one saw me enter the castle,” Iona said, “but unfortunately I met Lord Niall in the passage. He was looking for me.”

  She felt her heart throb again as she remembered that almost agonising moment when Lord Niall had said that he must speak with her. She had been too agitated to make excuses, and miserably conscious of her muddy shoes and stained dress she had followed him downstairs to the Chinese Room.

  It was a charming little drawing room decorated with strange and colourful hangings of exotic birds and flowers, but Iona had no eyes for the room, only for the dark secretive face of Lord Niall.

  He closed the door, walked across to the writing desk and sat himself on the edge of it, then he looked her up and down, playing with his quizzing glass the while as if it were a weapon he held in his hand.

  “You might be my sister,” he said at length, “though we are not alike.”

  She knew he was taunting her and she answered him bravely.

  “Surely you are the unusual one? I thought all MacCraggan’s had red hair.”

  “Indeed not! Have you ever heard the rhyme our clansmen repeat when a child is born?

  “MacCraggan red, oh happy day! MacCraggan black, then kneel and pray.”

  “The black MacCraggan’s are the bad ones, and they are also – dangerous.”

  Iona recognised the implication of the last word.

  “I am not afraid of you,” she said quietly.

  “No?” He raised his eyebrows. “And yet why should you be? I might find a sister useful.”

  Iona said nothing. His eyes scrutinised her very closely.

  “Was it enjoyable?” he asked at length.

  The question seemed to Iona to have no sense.

  “Enjoyable?” she repeated. “To what are you referring?”

  “The night you spent in Inverness,” he replied, and she felt the embarrassed colour run swiftly into her cheeks. She had already decided what her explanation was to be. Keeping her eyes on his, with almost pathetic dignity she said quietly.

  “What your Lordship supposes is not the truth. The ship that brought me from France made its first port of call at Yarmouth. Two passengers disembarked, another came aboard. The latter was the gentleman whose bedchamber was opposite your own in the hotel at Inverness. He was kind to me onboard, for the ship’s company were rough and it was not too pleasant to be a woman travelling alone and unprotected.

  “I was in great fear that my possessions, poor though they were, might be stolen from me, and so I gave to the gentleman for safekeeping most of my money, and the packet containing the proofs of my identity. He was gracious enough to guard these for me, but unfortunately when we arrived at Inverness, he went ashore before I had time to ask for the return of my valuables. He did not come to the hotel until after I had retired to bed, and I was therefore forced to wake him early in the morning before I left on the stagecoach.”

  To Iona’s own ears the story sounded plausible enough, but she was well aware that the mocking suspicion was still apparent in Lord Niall’s eyes.

  “And the gentleman’s name?” he inquired.

  “Thomson,” Iona stammered. “Mr. Hugo Thomson.”

  She made up the name at random – at the same time regretting that she had not been sensible enough to inquire of Hector what name he had actually used at the hotel.

  She half expected Lord Niall to tell her that she lied, but he said nothing and with a sense of relief she guessed that he was not in a position to know if she was telling the truth or not.

  “So that is your story,” he said at length, “Yet you would be surprised if I was fool enough to credit it.”

  “I am not aware that I have given your Lordship any reason to doubt my word,” Iona said.

  Lord Niall laughed.

  It was not a pleasant laugh and Iona was aware that he enjoyed torturing her. She made every effort to keep her voice clear and steady, to control the quivering of her fingers and the sudden trembling of her lips. But she could not prevent the colour rising in her cheeks, or the way it would suddenly ebb away leaving her pale and a little faint.

  Lord Niall walked across the room to stand with his back to the mantelpiece.

  “Come here,” he said suddenly.

  Iona drew a step nearer to him, still keeping instinctively out of arm’s reach.

  “There are many things I might say to you,” he said, and his voice was suddenly silky. “Firstly that Mr. Thomson – if that is indeed his name – was a damned fortunate fellow, and secondly that you are far too pretty to be my sister.”

  Iona’s lips tightened for a moment and he added,

  “But you don’t like my saying either of these things, do you? Shall I add something else? It is that I am a trifle suspicious of young women who come from Paris just now for the purpose of getting into communication with the Duke of Arkrae.”

  Here was danger!

  Now Iona’s embarrassment had vanished. She felt instead alert and watchful, and in a voice of puzzled surprise she asked,

  “Perhaps your Lordship will explain what you mean.”

  “Why should I bother? You are not so simple as you appear. Besides, I might prove a better friend than an enemy. Why not trust me?”

  “With what?” Iona’s eyes were wide and innocent.

  “Your reason for coming here.”

  “But surely that is obvious,” Iona parried. “You have doubtless seen the letter containing Jeannie MacLeod’s last confession.”

&
nbsp; “I am not interested in that,” Lord Niall replied. “I am only interested in you and perhaps a trifle in the gentleman called Hugo Thomson.”

  There was a definite menace in his slow tones, yet now Iona was aware that he had nothing definite with which to threaten her. He was but feeling his way, suspicious, uncertain, and whilst she was afraid of him, she knew that for the moment he was weaponless.

  Lord Niall looked down at his quizzing glass swinging pendulum-like from the thumb and finger of his left hand.

  “You are, of course,” he said softly, “an ardent Jacobite?”

  His words were so unexpected that Iona felt her heart give a frightened leap and the blood drain away from her cheeks. Then as he looked at her and waited for her answer, the door opened and she was rescued.

  Now in her own room, she was well aware that the respite would be but a short one.

  Lord Niall was dangerous, she was well aware of that. It was not only because he had caught her at a disadvantage in Inverness that she distrusted him, it was something deeper and more fundamental than anything he had ever done or said. It was the instinctive reaction of every sense in her body. He was not trustworthy – there was something horrible and treacherous about him, something which affected her sub-consciously so that she knew with absolute clarity that here was a real and malevolent danger.

  “How white ye are, mistress!” Cathy said breaking into Iona’s thoughts.

  Iona sat down on a chair.

  “I’m all right, Cathy,” she said a little unsteadily.

  “Ye are faint. May I fetch ye a glass o’ wine?”

  “I shall be all right in a minute,” Iona murmured, putting her head down in her hands.

  Without waiting for permission Cathy sped downstairs and a few minutes later came back with a glass of brandy that she held to Iona’s lips.

  “Take a sup, mistress,” she begged, and because Iona felt too weak to argue she took a sip or two and felt the liquid run like fire through her body.