by Mason, Nina
Robert, keeping hold of her hand, tugged her toward the edge of the copse. “Make haste. ’Twill not do for them to judge us indecent.”
“Why should we care what they think?” Maggie protested. “We are man and wife. Newlyweds, no less. They should be happy to see we cannot keep our hands off one another.”
“Aye, well. Be that as it may, my brother is a bit of a prude—a fact you somehow failed to notice, along with the rest of his flaws.”
She wanted to ask which flaws he meant, but there was no time. They came through the trees face to face with their visitors. Hugh had grown more handsome, time having filled out his features and strengthened his jaw. He was also more stylish. He’d always followed fashion, but the time spent at the Sun King’s court had made him more aggressive in the pursuit of smart attire.
She made a little curtsey and offered her former suitor her hand. A shiver went through her as he pressed his lips to the back of it.
“Well, well, well,” said Robert beside her. “’Tis the Prodigal Son come home again. We must kill the fatted calf, invite all the neighbors, and make a real feast of the occasion.” Turning to his wife, he added, “What do you say to that, Rosebud?”
Hugh spoke before she could. “Would that you had a fatted calf to slaughter, brother. But, if things are as ever, you have only the half-starved variety whose meat is unfit for consumption.”
’Twas too true, but only men would discuss cattle at such a moment. “Will you not make the introductions?” She met Hugh’s gray-green gaze.
His eyes were so like Robert’s and, at the same time, so different. Her husband, for all his wildness, had a gentleness to his gaze his younger brother’s lacked. Why had she never noticed the difference before?
“Of course,” Hugh returned with a nod of the head. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. I was so dumbstruck by our reunion, I forgot myself.” Turning to his bride, he said, “This is Juliette, the new Marchioness of Castlerock. We were married a week ago in the presence of King Louis.”
Unsure of the protocol, Maggie dipped into a curtsy. “What a pleasure to meet you, my lady. You are very welcome at Balloch Castle.”
Hugh spoke to Juliette in French before turning back to the duke and duchess. “I’m afraid she has little English as yet. I had rather hoped my brother had taught you a sufficient amount of French by now.”
Maggie’s face heated. Robert had taught her a few French phrases, but none she planned to use in company. Smiling to hide the wicked thought, she inspected her new sister-in-law more closely.
Disquiet swelled within Maggie when she noticed Juliette resembled her in more than hair color. They had the same wide-set blue eyes and porcelain complexion, the same modest bust line and slender build. Had Hugh unconsciously chosen a bride who favored the one he’d been denied? And what of his alleged preference for men? Perhaps Robert had deliberately deceived her on that score.
Anger ignited deep in her belly. Just how many lies had her husband told her to get his way?
Before she could consider the matter further, Hugh offered his arm. Taking his elbow, she allowed him to lead her toward the gate a few steps behind Robert and Juliette, who were similarly arm-in-arm. Jealousy ensnared her heart like a thorny vine as she studied the pair. Had she picked the wrong brother? Not that she’d had much choice in the matter. Robert had been her guardian, her sole means of support, her only prospect save returning to the convent as an initiate—an option she did not care for in the least.
Besides, she loved her husband in spite of his deceptions.
“What do you think of my choice of wife?” Hugh asked.
She wanted to say how surprised she’d been to learn he’d taken a bride and how amazed she was by the striking resemblance, but she did not. Instead, she said the safer thing. “She is lovely in her person and seems quite amiable. I look forward to knowing her better.”
“I shall let you in on a secret.” He leaned in so close his breath tickled the sensitive folds of her ear. “There is more to the fair Juliette than meets the eye.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
He laughed. “’Twould be ungentlemanly of me to say, do you not think?”
She just smiled. Ever the trickster. Good old Hugh. How nice to have his cheerful soul back in Scotland, married or no.
“How did the two of you happen to meet?”
“We first clapped eyes on one another across a crowded ballroom,” he said. “To tell the truth, I thought she was you, come to Versailles in defiance of my brother. Or, perhaps I should say hoped she was you?”
Shock pricked her heart. “Did you?”
Holy Mary. He’d wanted her to come to him as much as she’d wanted him to come to her.
“Aye. I will not speak falsely, Maggie. I have feared for your welfare ever since I got your letter informing me you had accepted Robert’s proposal of marriage.” He slowed his pace, putting greater distance betwixt them and the leading pair. “Do reassure me, now that you’re able. Tell me he has not corrupted your virtue in more ways than a husband usually does.”
As she contemplated her answer, memories flashed through her mind. Robert tying her to the bed whilst blindfolded. Her caning him before having her way with him until both were too exhausted to move. Him taking part in a threesome at court. Her buggering him with the glass Godemiché whilst he was tied to a cross.
With each vision, her face grew hotter. If her purity had been tarnished, the deed had not been accomplished against her will.
“I know not what you mean,” she said. “Robert loves me as I love him.”
“My, what a fickle organ is the heart of woman.” Hugh patted the hand with which she kept ahold of his arm. “Not six months ago, I was convinced you loved only me.”
Robert might be right. Maybe Hugh was not quite the angel she’d always imagined. Love was, after all, said to be blind. If indeed she’d been in love with him once upon a time. Did those feelings yet dwell somewhere deep in her heart? Maybe. She definitely felt something, though she’d better take pains not to let Robert detect a preference. No, wait. On second thought, maybe she ought to go out of her way to provoke her husband’s possessive nature. Jealousy might be the very thing to inspire him to stay true to his vows.
Chapter Five
Later that night, Maggie lay abed, longing to hear Robert’s knock upon the door separating their bedchambers. She wanted him both to ease her passions and her curiosity about his brother’s allegation about Juliette. Alas, since their guests arrived, she’d not had a single moment alone with her husband to discuss the matter.
After returning to the castle, the gentlemen went off with the dogs to hunt wild fowl on the moor whilst the ladies, with the help of the abigail and valet the couple brought with them from France, unpacked what seemed an excessive quantity of cases and trunks.
Though they had no fatted calf to slaughter, dinner had nevertheless been a feast compared to their standard evening fare. The brothers had shot several muirfowl, which Mrs. McQueen roasted on a spit with a blend of herbs and served alongside oysters, stewed neeps, sheep’s-head broth, gravy potatoes, and fresh bread—rare treats one and all.
As special as the repast was, Maggie could not help feeling excluded. Whilst the others chatted away in French, she strained to pick out a recognizable word or two.
After the meal, the four of them played Lanterloo, a popular card game with French origins. Since Maggie was dealt no viable hands, she had plenty of time to scrutinize Juliette’s person across the table, but could perceive naught out of the ordinary.
Feigning fatigue after several rounds, Maggie left the three of them to the game, hoping Robert would comprehend her motive and follow. To her dismay, an hour had passed in the meantime and still he had not come.
She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew, she awoke to a new day.
She was still alone—and now annoyed. Why had Robert not come to her in the night?
Sunlig
ht shone through the leaded-glass window. Yesterday’s tryst in the garden drifted through her thoughts, redoubling her interest in locating her husband. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown and stepped into her slippers. The door dividing their bedchambers was ajar, so she peeked through the crevice to check if he was still abed.
He was not.
Disappointed yet still determined, she dressed quickly in a simple day frock and headed for the kitchen. There, to her dismay, she found only the kitchen maid with her hands in a tub full of dishwater. “Have you seen His Grace this morning?”
“Aye, m’lady,” the maid replied as she wiped her wet hands on her apron. “He set off about an hour ago to settle a dispute betwixt two of his tenants.”
“What about the marquess? Are he and his wife yet up and about?”
“Aye, m’lady. They’ve gone out for a ride.”
Maggie grabbed a bannock off the plate before her and nibbled the edge. Though part of her was disheartened by the desertion, another part welcomed the time alone. There was much weighing upon her mind and much more demanding her attention as Duchess of Dunwoody.
Retreating to her morning room, she took a seat at her secretary and shuffled through the waiting stack of letters. All had been opened—by Robert, presumably—apart from one. The stamped red-wax button sealing the letter made her chest feel at once hollow and heavy. She’d prayed every night since learning her father’s identity she might be spared the acquaintance.
But, alas, to her great consternation, here was a communique bearing the signet of the Duke of York. With trembling hands, she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of fine paper.
To my long-lost daughter,
I was apprised of the circumstances of your birth too late to make contact during your recent visit to Holyroodhouse Palace or, rest assured, I should have taken steps to do so at once. Believe me when I tell you that you have long been missed by your father. ’Twould please me exceedingly if you would consider visiting me in Edinburgh when next you are in the capital. My brother appointed me Lord High Commissioner of Scotland and seated me at Holyroodhouse to oversee governmental affairs. In the meantime, let me hear from you and be assured I shall always be very kind to you.
Your affectionate father,
James
Maggie heaved a mordant sigh. ’Twas a better letter than she had a right to expect, yet she remained unmoved. The duke’s shameless whoring disgusted her. To acknowledge him as her father would be misconstrued as approval of his licentious ways.
As she set down the letter, the sight of Mrs. McQueen looming over her gave her heart a jolt. She’d been so caught up in reading, she’d not heard the housekeeper come into the room. The dourness on the woman’s usually cheerful face told her at once something was amiss.
“What is it, Mrs. McQueen?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, m’lady, but the marchioness left instructions with her maid to have a bath drawn and waiting upon her return from the ride.”
Maggie furrowed her brow. “How is that a problem?”
“Normally, ’twould not be, but she’s insisted upon bathing in her bedchamber.”
Maggie and Robert took their baths in the kitchen behind a screen. Juliette was quartered on the second floor—a considerable inconvenience to the servants who had to haul pitcher after pitcher of boiling water up the narrow and winding servant’s staircase.
“I still see no problem,” Maggie said crossly. “Be grateful we’ve not housed her in the tower room.”
“I am indeed,” the housekeeper returned. “Most grateful. But, at the same time, I fear the lady is exceedingly spoiled—and has no qualm about inconveniencing the whole household to secure her every comfort.”
Maggie heaved a sigh. She hoped Mrs. McQueen was wrong and Juliette would quickly adapt to their simple way of life. “The lady is accustomed to the luxuries at the court of Versailles. While we are in no position to compete, we can certainly make an effort to accommodate this one trifling request without turning ourselves inside out. If it helps, I will speak to the duke about postponing our baths until tomorrow.”
Mrs. McQueen, looking contrite, bowed her head. “Very good, m’lady.”
As the housekeeper exited the room, a plan hatched inside Maggie’s mind—a bold and wicked plan. The whole of Juliette’s room could be viewed from the small chamber Robert’s father built for the family to hide within should the rounding up of Catholics and priests for imprisonment, torture, and execution be reinstated.
The priest hole could be entered through an opening behind a panel in the staircase. Rising from her chair, Maggie hurried to the door and checked the corridor. To her great relief, there was no one within her range of vision. She waited a moment, listening for voices or footsteps. Hearing naught, she kicked off her slippers and, heart hammering in her chest, crept toward the stairs in her stocking feet.
* * * *
As he sipped his ale, Robert cast around the dim and dingy warren of a pub to assess the likelihood he’d have his throat slit.
He’d wasted the morning attempting to settle a dispute betwixt two of his tenants—both of them Catholic-hating Presbyterians, as were most of the inhabitants of Dunwoody. His late father had been given the estate in gratitude for his service to the royal family following the execution of its former owner, a Covenanter who’d conspired against King Charles I.
The former laird’s allegiances led Robert to suspect most of his tenants were cut from the same zealous cloth. Stiff, plain black cloth with no ornamentation. Many were the nights he’d laid abed fearing a mob would storm the castle and kill all within. Fortunately, they had not. Probably because, though a Catholic, he was an exceedingly tolerant man who turned a blind eye to their illegal conventicles.
Now, the morning post had brought, along with a letter from the Duke of York, a directive from King Charles II demanding he post the names of all Covenanters known to him throughout Dunwoody. To do so would be akin to kicking a sleeping dog. One known to foam at the mouth when awake. Yet, to defy the order would be treasonous—a crime punishable by the most horrendous form of death imaginable.
Drawing and quartering.
Shuddering at the thought, he took a long drink of strong ale. Given the current climate of unrest, he probably should not have stopped at the Broken Crown, a warren of a pub along Dunwoody’s main road. But the chances of any Covenanters being within a Catholic-owned establishment were slim, and he was in too foul a mood to go home.
The only good thing he could say about the day so far was that his wounded arm no longer bothered him enough to consult Dr. Cockburn.
Outside, a group of rabble-rousers were singing the Hokey-Pokey—a dig at the Latin phrase hoc est enim corpus meum, which Catholic priests spoke over the Eucharist during Mass. These “magic words” brought about transubstantiation—the literal transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ.
I put my right hand in,
I put my right hand out,
In out, in out.
And shake it all about.
Robert’s scrutinizing gaze took in his fellow patrons. Most were soldiers—lowland militia and Highlanders who’d been billeted in the Covenanting shires for the past two years. The Highlanders were almost exclusively Catholics, the reservists predominantly Episcopalian. Rumor had it, they robbed their grudging hosts and defiled their wives and daughters. One man’s pregnant wife had been fatally stabbed for motives that remained unclear.
Such barbarous deeds only amplified the animosity toward Catholics and the crown.
You do the hokey pokey
and you turn yourself around
That what it’s all about.
“I have a mind to make them eat those words,” grumbled the scruffy-looking Highlander on the next stool.
Robert glared at the man. “Do you think that will stop them from hating us?”
“Nay. But ’twould make me feel better, I promise you.”
“That’s what the ale is for.” Robert turned to the landlord, a reedy man with a thin moustache who stood behind the bar wiping a pewter tankard with a dirty rag. “How about another round for all within? On the duchy.”
Surprise registered on the Highlander’s ruddy, bearded face. “Do you work for His Grace, then?”
“Nay, you overgrown moron,” the landlord put in with a chuckle. “You are conversing with the man himself.”
“A thousand pardons, Your Grace.” The Highlander gave Robert a deferential nod. “Being new to the post, I didna ken who you were.”
The tavern door swung open, admitting an icy gust and a blast of daylight into the windowless room. All heads turned to see who’d come in. Robert’s gut tightened at the sight of Alec Watt, the baillie he employed for the duchy.
Watt was a two-faced sycophant who’d sell his own mother if there was a profit to be made. Robert also strongly suspected the baillie of being a closet Covenanter. Watt had been hired by Robert’s father—probably to keep the kettle from overboiling—and, for the same reason, Robert had kept the baillie on.
“Your Grace.” Watt approached, wearing the smile of a serpent. “How glad I am to see you. How is your lovely young bride? Well, I hope.”
“The duchess is very well,” Robert returned, all politeness. “Thank you for your kind inquiry.”
“And your brother? Well, too, I hope. I hear the marquess has returned to Dunwoody.”
“You’ve been correctly informed.” Robert regarded the man with rising distrust. He’d shared the news with none outside the castle. Had one of the servants been spreading gossip? He hoped not. For there was naught he disliked so much as a twattler—unless, of course he was in the market for information. “As it happens, the marquess arrived only yesterday.”