by Karen Ranney
Davina didn’t respond, and the two of them maintained an amenable silence for the next few minutes.
The closer they came to Ambrose, the more awe-inspiring it appeared. The castle was built in the valley just beneath Donleigh Hill. On the west side, a steep drop gave way to a spectacular view of Loch Moirdair and the ruins of Bowlin Abbey nestled on its banks.
The Nye flowed under the arch of Ambrose’s south battlements, ensuring a steady water supply even when under siege. Two turrets flanked the outer courtyard, their curtain wall construction still boasting broken brick and chipped mortar where cannonball had been leveled against Ambrose during some battle in the past. Ambrose could serve as a history lesson, since there were mentions of the great house in numerous books she’d read.
The castle was a monument to the tenacity of the Scots, as well as their indomitable resilience.
Once she would have been curious about her new home, eager to learn more about Ambrose, delighted with the idea that she was to reside in one of the most splendid places in Scotland. Now, however, the only feeling she had was a dread so strong that it was almost another occupant in the carriage.
What on earth had she done?
Chapter 3
Marshall awoke from his doze, feeling sick. The voices swirled around in his mind, so real that he looked around his study to ensure he was alone.
His skin was clammy; perspiration dotted his fore-hand and clung to the nape of his neck. He reached for the glass on the table beside the wing chair and took a sip, hoping the wine would calm his stomach. He was going to be married in two hours. A quick look at the clock amended that thought. Only an hour.
Had his bride arrived?
He sat back against the chair. What the hell had he done?
The room in which he sat was directly off his bedroom, and was his sanctuary, his haven. This study was not used to transact business as much as it was a place to escape to his books or his thoughts. Of all the rooms at Ambrose, this was the one room he could call singularly his.
No one was allowed in here but his valet and the occasional maid. The other inhabitants of the room, real only to him, preferred to appear between midnight and dawn. Today, however, they’d made an appearance at dusk, as if to remind him of the stupidity of what he was about to do.
Marriage? What an imbecilic notion.
Poor Davina McLaren. Did she think herself fortunate to snare an earl? Poor stupid girl. Perhaps she was simply greedy, and the condition of her bridegroom made no difference.
The marriage must happen. His remaining life span might well be counted in weeks rather than decades. He didn’t like the idea of being the last Ross, especially when nothing but disgrace would be listed beside his name.
But when he’d sent his solicitor in search of a worthy bride, he’d never expected the man to return so quickly with a recommendation.
“She is a bookish girl, Your Lordship, and one with a good reputation until last year. Then she and a young man were caught together at a garden party. I understand that the scandal has dimmed her prospects somewhat.”
“So she might be amenable to marriage with me, is that it?”
His solicitor had hesitated. “I suggest her only because of the speed with which you wish to marry, Your Lordship.”
Normally, the process of obtaining a bride would have entailed endless balls, dinners, and masques, as well as tedious conversations, all of which would be intended to convince Edinburgh’s sweet young things that he wasn’t as evil as he was portrayed to be by rumor and innuendo. The rest of the time would be spent trying to assuage any maternal and paternal worries on that score, as well as ensuring the parents of a bride-to-be that enough money could make up for any of his eccentricities.
Being wealthy might solve a great many social ills, including the fact that he was rumored to be the devil. Or, closer to the mark, a madman. But did he really want to go through all that, simply to find a bride? Especially in his current state?
The question was moot. His demons would not allow him time to court a woman. They would snare him each night, and pull him close to the abyss.
Perhaps he’d simply grow tired of his madness and do himself in, thereby ridding himself of the problem of producing an heir entirely. Marshall had weighed that option for perhaps all of five minutes. Like it or not, the will to live was strong in him. Hadn’t he proven that in China?
So if he wasn’t to do himself in, and he couldn’t venture to Edinburgh, and he wouldn’t go to London, then what was he to do? Ignore the issue. Wish that it would go away. But he suspected that his condition was growing worse rather than better.
He might have only weeks left of sanity.
The solicitor had stood in front of him, patient. Enduringly patient, as Marshall had never been.
“Would her family agree to my suit?” he’d finally asked.
“She only has one aunt left in her family, Your Lordship. I do not see any reservations there.”
“Then suggest the marriage,” he’d said.
Had it been only weeks ago? In some respects, it seemed longer. In others, only hours. Insanity took away his concept of time.
Now he stood, grabbing for the edge of the chair. Something was wrong with his balance. Hell, something was wrong with his entire life. He strode through the connecting door and into his bedroom. His valet was already there, carefully laying out his wedding garments.
Jacobs had one of those round faces that appeared perennially cheerful; large, wide brown eyes; a bulbous nose ending in a tilt; a shortened chin; and a slight overlap of his teeth.
Marshall had often thought that the man resembled a rather earnest chipmunk. The fact that he was short and rotund only added to the impression.
“If I might say, Your Lordship,” Jacobs began.
Marshall stopped him before Jacobs could continue. “You may not,” he said.
However, Jacobs had been valet to his father, a position that had evidently imbued him with a certain amount of courage.
“About your attire, Your Lordship,” Jacobs said. “You want to appear at your best. You have those embroidered vests from China, sir. Would you like to choose one of those to wear?”
Marshall knew exactly the garments he meant. Vests that were heavily embroidered in gold, silver, indigo, and green thread, depicting cranes so lifelike they appeared in mid-flight. The vests had been tailored for him during one of his first missions to China.
“Burn them,” he said. “I thought you had.”
“Your Lordship, they are exquisite examples of superior workmanship.” Jacobs’s fingers traced the outline of one fulsome chrysanthemum. “My grandson wrote me about such beauty.”
“I didn’t think Daniel was overly interested in embroidery.”
Jacobs didn’t speak, his concentration on the vest he held.
“Take them,” Marshall said abruptly. “Just never wear them in my presence.”
He’d already rid Ambrose of its carved ivory, netsuke figurines, and silk paintings—all reminding him of the Orient. He wanted nothing to recall those days. He needed nothing tangible. Each night his visions were there, vivid and real.
“But your attire, Your Lordship? Something less somber?” He pointed to a stack of fabric on the bed. “It’s tradition, Your Lordship.”
Jacobs had it correct. Until the kilt was outlawed more than a hundred years ago, it had been tradition. Since it had been returned to favor, there was no reason for him to refuse.
He’d held on to his identity with both hands in the last year. He’d come home to Ambrose with gratitude. Unless he wished it, there was no need to ever hear another English accent or see another English face. Ambrose offered him sanctuary and peace, along with constant reminders that he was a Scot.
He was a Ross, with the proud blood of long-ago Ross men flowing in his veins. Today, at least, he should look like one.
Jacobs didn’t say anything in response, only unfurled the fabric and stood with it stretched between his hands
.
Marshall removed his clothing, washed, and donned the white dress shirt before giving in to Jacobs’s implacable patience. He stood at attention while Jacobs measured the pleats, pinned them in place, and then stitched Marshall into a replica of the kilt his forefathers had worn.
A jewel-encrusted sporran was next, topped by a short black coat with small gold buttons with diamonds in the center. Jacobs knelt and helped him on with knee-high stockings embroidered with the Ross crest. His shoes were the last part of his wedding attire, the shiny black leather adorned with diamond-encrusted buckles.
He stood silent, allowing Jacobs to flit around him like an earnest bee.
What sort of woman would marry a man she’d never seen? Miss Davina McLaren must be desperate indeed. The fault was Marshall’s that he knew nothing about his bride. He’d deliberately cloaked her in secrecy so as not to provide himself with any reason to cancel the nuptials. If she had a long nose, or a grating manner, or an irritating laugh, let him learn all those things after they were wed and when it was too late to change his mind.
At least she wasn’t insane.
He hoped she’d cultivated some interests since she’d left the schoolroom, some variety of talents that would serve her well and keep her away from him.
The last thing he wanted was a devoted wife.
“Mrs. Murray has delivered another decanter of wine, Your Lordship,” Jacobs said.
He glanced in the man’s direction. “Has she? I think, on this occasion, Jacobs, that I should remain as sober as possible.”
His valet did not respond—wise man—but his expression smoothed until it resembled a stone effigy. A chipmunk gargoyle.
“Will you be wanting a timepiece, Your Lordship?” Jacobs asked now, extending a gold chain affixed to a diamond-encrusted watch.
Marshall shook his head. Time had no meaning for him. He didn’t give a flying fig if it was day or night. Why should he measure it? Nor did the timing of this particular ceremony matter all that much. It was going to occur or it wasn’t. He didn’t much care, either way.
When the carriage arrived at Ambrose, there was no ceremony to welcome Davina, perhaps because they couldn’t advance past the dozens of carriages blocking the drive.
“Oh dear, we are late.”
Davina glanced at her aunt. “They cannot hold a wedding without us, Aunt.”
Theresa didn’t answer, but her censuring look was comment enough.
“We shall never get there on time. There’s nothing to be done but walk the rest of the way.”
Theresa descended from the carriage. Davina and the two maids had no choice but to follow her.
“At least someone will be in attendance,” Davina offered as they navigated through the sea of carriages.
A few minutes later they climbed the soaring, curving steps leading up to Ambrose’s west-facing edifice. Someone in the house’s past had been enamored of classical architecture, so much so that this entrance resembled sketches she’d seen of the Parthenon in Athens. Imposing columns greeted the visitor, and the wide steps leading to a massive double door seemed designed more to impress than to welcome.
No one stood beside the curving stone steps and offered a greeting. Even the majordomo was absent. No doubt he was assisting all the other occupants of the dozens of carriages blocking the drive. She was neither escorted to the chamber she would occupy at Ambrose nor introduced to the staff. Instead, the four of them were left standing in the foyer.
“What do we do now?” Davina asked.
“You will take off those ugly spectacles,” Theresa said. “Are you trying to make yourself unappealing?” She leaned close to Davina and whispered to her, “It is too late, Davina. This course is already set.”
“I can’t see without them, Aunt.” But her fingers were already moving to the temples.
Her aunt frowned at her. “I thought your eyes were weak only for reading.”
Davina nodded, removing the offending spectacles.
“Would it not harm you to wear them otherwise? You’re quite a beautiful girl without them,” Theresa said. “Besides, if you wear them, I know you’ll seek out the nearest book.”
Davina bit back a comment as she put her spectacles in her reticule. She loved her aunt, she truly did. But her aunt had dancing and balls and laughter and the approval of men always on her mind. Theresa was a girl who’d never quite grown up, and Davina often thought herself Theresa’s elder, and not the other way around.
A moment later, the missing majordomo suddenly appeared.
“Please inform the earl that we’ve arrived,” Theresa said. “I’m Mrs. Rowle, the bride’s aunt, and she is Miss Davina McLaren.”
The majordomo stared at Davina, his pinched features revealing his annoyance. Evidently he thought her responsible for his chaotic day. Well, perhaps she was. But she hadn’t planned on being late to her own wedding.
He snapped his fingers, and a tall, liveried footman appeared from behind a column. “Fetch the trunks, man, and hurry!”
The majordomo fixed another irritated look at her and announced, “The ceremony is being held in fifteen minutes, miss.”
“I can’t be ready in fifteen minutes,” Davina said.
“You’ll find the earl’s staff is ceaselessly punctual,” the man said. From his expression, there was more the majordomo wanted to say, but his ire was evidently not as imperative as the ticking of the clock.
He carried on a rambling discourse as they walked, detailing the history of Ambrose. Davina would have much preferred that he speak about her husband-to-be, but a stern look from her aunt kept her silent and biddable.
This, then, was the true price of scandal: to be forced into doing something she didn’t wish to do because of a few moments of ill-chosen behavior.
“This corridor was once part of the Great Hall,” he intoned in a voice that rasped like a dry husk, “rumored to have been a meeting place for the clans before the ’45.”
She caught a glimpse of the fabled Great Hall as they passed. Claymores, broadswords, and dirks were mounted on the buttressed walls. The gray flagstones were worn in spots, the majority of them covered with a Persian rug of muted colors.
On the sideboard were a dozen pewter frames, each surrounding miniatures of those whose time had passed. Grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts, all bore witness to the strength of the familial link: the broad forehead, high cheekbones, and thin nose were echoed in each successive face.
The walls of the corridor were not covered in weapons but full-length portraits of the earl’s ancestors, some in court garb, a few dressed for hunting, the requisite hound at the subject’s feet and a brace of hares slung over an aristocratic shoulder.
She stopped and studied one, startled not only by the family resemblance between the portraits but by the overwhelming sense of command from all these long-dead ancestors. They looked as if they were comfortable with command, with the sense of themselves. Handsome men, and not a little autocratic. Scots, with more than their share of pride and stubbornness. No doubt imbued with a belief in the continuance of what had gone before, and a certain smug acceptance in the permanency of the Ross family.
“Miss,” the majordomo said, impatience etched on his features.
She nodded and followed him, avoiding her aunt’s look. All too soon they were escorted to the chapel and then whisked into an anteroom.
Was the earl such a hideous creature that everyone was worried she would bolt if she inadvertently saw him before the wedding? Despite all her thoughts of being brave on this most terrifying of days, she didn’t have the courage to broach the question to her aunt.
What if the answer was yes?
Chapter 4
This chapel was an addition to the older part of Ambrose, added when his ancestors had unexpectedly become aware that there was a God and His name wasn’t Ross. The room was small and slightly off-kilter. The wooden floorboards were warped, and tilted at an angle from the arched door to the stained
glass windows on the outer wall. The ceiling and the walls had recently been repainted in a blinding white, but the pews dated back two centuries or more, their scarred wooden surfaces now covered in crimson velvet.
The ceiling sagged a bit in places; the gouge in the wooden floor had been made when a drunken laird had put a sword through the boards during the funeral of his son; the small hole under the window was caused by dry rot, repaired of course, but a bane to all five-hundred-year-old homes. Over the past twenty years, restoration efforts had prevented the further crumbling of bricks on the chapel’s exterior.
Behind the altar was a stained glass window, depicting not a religious scene but a strange figure resembling a lizard. His mother had always likened the image to St. George battling the dragon, but his father had countered that it was probably the Fuath, a legendary water spirit with yellow hair and a tail, attired in green and possessing an evil nature. The window was either a wordless challenge to God in His own house, or a message to all worshippers that God can even protect the Ross family from the unnatural.
Would God protect Davina McLaren from the Devil of Ambrose?
His bride was late, Marshall had been informed, a fact that, strangely enough, didn’t seem to concern him overmuch.
He arranged himself beside the altar as was customary, in the secluded nave where the bridegrooms of two hundred years had waited. He wondered how many of them had begun to second-guess their unions as he was doing at this moment.
His uncle stood behind him, also following custom. A few hundred years ago, the man in that position would have held his sword at the ready, defender of the laird, protector from any rival, bloodthirsty, cattle-stealing clan who might send a member to rob him of his life or his bride on this day.
The Ross family had been civilized for so long that it was difficult for Marshall to conjure such a scene ever happening—although he knew for a fact that it had. His family history was replete with stories of his ancestors’ great heroism and even greater audacity.
What would they say, these forebearers of his, if they looked either downward from heaven or upward from hell to witness this day? Would they fault him for his actions of the past? Or judge that today he was reaping the full measure of his punishment for what had happened in China?