Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  The vicar nodded. “Naturally, you came to Colstin Hall to give her your condolences. Of course.”

  The vicar turned to the servants still clustered in the doorway. “There is no shame here, no scandal. Only a generous man doing his duty.”

  Of course it helped that he was a duke, and had the income to accompany it. Moncrief couldn’t help but wonder what cause he would be expected to contribute toward before this day was done.

  He glanced toward Catherine. No one thought it strange that she remained asleep. She had turned so that her profile was visible. In repose her face had a youthful purity. No lingering sadness curved her lips, and her closed lids shielded eyes that had been filled with despair.

  She remained alone, with no one at her side. Not one person questioned her health or inquired as to her well-being, an omission that disturbed him on a visceral level.

  Only Glynneth had protested his presence. She now stood silent behind the vicar.

  Colstin Hall was a prosperous and well-maintained home. The servants evidently ate well and no one appeared overburdened by their duties. Where, then, was their loyalty? People often behave by rote, following a leader’s example. Who, in this group, was their leader? Glynneth? Did the servants emulate her behavior toward Catherine, a distance that he could both see and feel?

  “Is she not well?” the vicar asked, as if he’d heard Moncrief’s thoughts.

  “No. But I expect her to recover.”

  “You tended to her yourself, Your Grace?” The other man smiled at him, the expression punching his little apple cheeks up higher on his face until he looked like a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts. “How very kind of you. But you needn’t concern yourself further. There are plenty here who can care for her.”

  Were there? What would happen to Catherine after he left? Would she continue to grieve? Or would she simply succeed the next time she chose to take too much laudanum?

  Moncrief looked at the young maid who’d opened the door to him. She glanced away. Glynneth remained behind the vicar, eyes downcast. The other servants were huddled in the doorway, their faces avid with curiosity rather than concern. The young maid, who’d been so amused in the parlor, simpered at him now. Not one of them looked as if they gave a flying farthing what happened to their mistress.

  He wouldn’t leave a sick puppy in their care.

  “I will counsel her myself, Your Grace.” The vicar caught his thumbs in his vest, rocked back on his heels, looking pleased and altogether too prosperous for a vicar. Were they not supposed to abjure wealth? This man looked as if he’d had too many meals, and even the quality of his clothing did not indicate penury. No doubt because of Catherine’s generosity. “Despite her illness, she should not have entertained visitors in her chamber, a point I will make abundantly clear.”

  In those few minutes, Moncrief realized that it was not simply momentous events that had the power to alter his life. This moment, for example, strung out like beads of moisture on a spiderweb, so infinitesimal, had the effect of altering his entire future.

  “That won’t be necessary, vicar,” Moncrief heard himself say. “I believe that it’s necessary for Mrs. Dunnan and myself to be wed with all possible haste, both for the sake of her reputation and my peace of mind.”

  Chapter 4

  He was touching her, his fingers lightly stroking her breasts. Occasionally, the back of his thumb would touch a nipple, and he would teasingly move away. She wanted to urge him not to be so delicate with her. She wanted the feel of him, the touch of him everywhere on her body. She wanted to smell of him in the morning, and see places on her body that he had marked with the roughness of his passion.

  She felt his hands slide from her midriff to her waist and below to her hips, then even lower, all the while stroking, then moving away just when her skin began to tingle. He turned her in front of the fire, and she wanted to reach out to him, place her hands on his shoulders, and lean into his kiss. The lassitude that swept over her was so delicious that she lost herself in it.

  His fingers ran down her back, pressing against her shoulder blades and under her arms, teasing just where the swelling of her breasts began. Then each hand cupped her buttocks and moved beneath them, as if half-daring to touch her intimately.

  She wanted to demand that he kiss her, a command that she intended to utter in a soft and languorous tone. The words, however, were so difficult to speak that she remained silent and hoped that he had the ability to read her mind instead.

  The dream was foggy, tattered remnants that Catherine couldn’t recall. All that was left was an aching feeling as if she’d cried in her sleep.

  She felt his foot against hers and smiled to herself. Harry had evidently stayed with her the night before, something that didn’t happen often. She brushed the bottom of his heel with her toes as she slowly turned her head.

  Harry was dead.

  Abruptly, her eyes opened and she stared into the face of a stranger. She jerked back her foot and sat up, clutching the sheet. She scooted to the edge of the bed, ignoring the sudden and overwhelming pounding in her head. Should she scream or race for the door to the hall? The decision was taken out of her hands when the stranger gripped her shoulder.

  She screamed.

  He clamped his hand over her mouth. “For the love of God, stop it,” he said, looking for all the world as if he had the right to be incensed. He released her just as quickly, and she sank back against the headboard.

  “Who are you?” she asked faintly. A drumbeat clung to every word and hammered through her head. She crossed her arms over her chest and was grateful to note that she was at least dressed, even if only in a threadbare nightgown. Although one thin layer of linen could not be said to be properly attired. “What are you doing in my bed?”

  She half expected him to vaporize in the next instant, a figment of her imagination. But surely if she had dreamed him, she might have dreamed someone more close in appearance to Harry. Her beloved had blond hair and pleasing features. This scowling stranger with his disheveled black hair and coarse night beard was almost frightening in appearance.

  “Do you not remember anything of the night before?” His voice was gravelly, as if he’d spoken for a long time and was now hoarse with it.

  He sat up, still scowling at her, and it was only then that she noticed he was barefoot but otherwise fully dressed.

  “Who are you?” She slid one leg out of the bed. Where were her servants? At her scream they should have come running.

  Had he murdered them all in their beds?

  “I am your husband, madam, and I chose to sleep beside you because I was concerned that your sleep would be one of permanence.”

  She simply stared at him, certain that this was some kind of dream, perhaps one brought about by too much laudanum. She was asleep and wandering among the heather, scattering the tiny pink blossoms into the air, not sitting here with a fully dressed and grumpy-looking man who had just declared they were forever linked by bonds of matrimony. Even in her most horrendous nightmares, she had never dreamed of such a thing.

  “Have you no curiosity about how such an event occurred?”

  “Have I died, then?” she asked softly. “Is this God’s punishment for my many sins? The vicar says that I should purge my soul. Is it too late?”

  She looked around her and thought it strange that the room should appear so much like it always had. Except, of course, that the bath was in front of the fireplace, and there were several towels on the floor. She was never that messy.

  The room was a distortion of her real world.

  “Is this hell, then?”

  He was standing now and coming around the end of the bed. Before she could move away, he’d bent over her, placing both hands on the headboard and leaning over her so closely that she couldn’t focus on his face. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes.

  “I am your husband, madam, and you are very much alive.”

  “Are you God?” she asked. She clutched
the sheet tightly beneath her chin and forced herself to keep her eyes closed.

  “The laudanum is giving you delusions.”

  Finally, something that made sense.

  “Is that what you are? A delusion?” Her thoughts were confused, no doubt because of the deepening pain above her eyes.

  She felt his hands move and she opened her eyes to find him standing beside the bed. “I am not a delusion. My name is Moncrief, Duke of Lymond and you, madam, are my duchess.”

  “I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” she said, certain that if she wasn’t dreaming or dead, and her wits hadn’t left her, then he must be a lunatic who had come in through her window during the night.

  When he didn’t respond, she forced a smile to her face. Wasn’t it common wisdom that it was better to humor a madman? Still, she glanced toward the fireplace and the tools arranged there. Perhaps she could get to the fireplace and brandish some kind of weapon against him, something that would keep him at bay while she summoned help.

  “How long have we been married, dear sir?” she asked sweetly, dropping her other leg off the bed.

  One of his eyebrows arched as he regarded her.

  “A long time? Or have we recently been wed? Please forgive me if I cannot remember. The excitement of our union has no doubt thrust the date completely from my mind.”

  He was still scowling at her, a look that didn’t reassure her at all. But she was standing and despite the pain in her head, she raced for the fireplace, grabbed the poker, and pointed it at him with both hands. The pain was so bad above her left eye that she could barely see, but she managed, nonetheless, to note his sudden look.

  “Have I managed to amuse you, sir?”

  “Indeed.”

  She frowned at him, backed up to the door, opened it and shouted for Glynneth. Her companion did not appear, but one of the maids did. Before her startled eyes, Abigail curtsied, her round face turning pink.

  “Summon the magistrate, Abigail,” Catherine said. “And the vicar if you will. He has some knowledge of healing. Together, they can no doubt assist this man.”

  Abigail looked behind her to Moncrief and curtsied, again, before glancing at Catherine.

  “It’s all right, Abigail,” Moncrief said. “Perhaps summoning the vicar would be a good idea, but I doubt we need the magistrate.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Abigail said, curtseying for the third time. “Would you like your breakfast now?”

  “In the dining room, I think.”

  Moncrief strode toward Catherine and lifted the poker from her hands. He walked back to the fireplace and deposited it in its holder before turning and surveying her once again.

  “As fetching as that garment is, I doubt it’s appropriate for breakfast. Have you a wrapper? Or better yet, would you care to change?”

  “I don’t know you,” she said, moving to stand with her back to the wall. “I am a widow. I am not prepared to wed again. Not ever.”

  “However, you are. Would you care to know how it was done? Or would you prefer to continue in your claim that it was not?”

  She moved a few feet to the left until she came to her favorite chair. Slowly lowering herself into it, she placed her hands on the arms and put her knees together, ankle-bones aligned perfectly, both feet together—the proper comportment for a lady of breeding.

  Only then did she force herself to look at him again. How could she possibly be married to this man?

  “Then tell me.”

  He turned and leaned his hands against the mantel, bracing himself there as if summoning strength for this revelation.

  “I know you didn’t expect to awake being wed. However, I suspect you didn’t intend to awake at all. It was my good fortune to come upon you before the laudanum had taken effect. I was able to save your life, a fact that you no doubt resent now.”

  She would have spoken, but he turned and held up his hand as if to silence her. So surprised was she at his arrogance that she remained silent. How dare he command her in her own home. In her very own room. With a shock she realized that if they were truly wed, it was no longer her house or her room or her fortune.

  He strode toward her with such resolve that she sank back against the chair. She was no match for him in physical strength. But he surprised her by sitting on the ottoman in front of her and holding out his hands, palms up. She looked at them, uncertain what he wished. Did he want her to place her own hands on them?

  Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

  “Catherine?” he asked softly. “Are you feeling unwell? I’m not surprised. You took a great deal of laudanum.”

  She shook her head, ever so gently so as not to encourage the pain to grow worse. Slowly and silently, she counted to ten. When she opened her eyes he would be gone, and she would be marveling at the strange and disconcerting dream she’d had. But before she even opened her eyes, he spoke again.

  “Catherine?”

  “I am asleep,” she said, interrupting what he would have said. “I have not awakened yet. None of this has been true or real. I am in the throes of one of my nightmares. And this one has not even brought me Harry, but a stranger.”

  “Do you dream often of him?”

  “Every night and every day. Sleep has become a refuge. A place to go when the pain of losing him becomes too great.”

  She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him. “I do not tell that to other people,” she confessed. “But you are only a figment in my nightmare. So it’s all right if I tell you anything. What a manly creature you are. I must have been very observant before my marriage to note such things about a man. Your chest is very broad, you know. You fill out your shirt quite well. But I do not think that your trousers should be quite so tight, and I’m a little ashamed of myself that I have conjured you up. Especially with such impressive attributes.” She stared at the bulge between his legs. Even sitting, it could not be dismissed.

  How odd that the pain in her head felt real, as did her unshed tears. And her stomach was announcing that it, too, was in rebellion with other parts of her body. If she kept her eyes closed she would awaken soon, and this would simply be one more hideous nightmare.

  A few moments later, she opened her eyes again.

  Moncrief’s eyes were blue.

  Harry’s eyes had been a warm and comforting brown.

  “I’m not in the throes of a nightmare, am I?”

  “Unless you think marriage is a nightmare, madam.” He sat back, withdrawing his hands and placing them on his knees.

  “It was a blessing,” she said softly. “Too short, but a blessing nevertheless.”

  She looked away, trying to distance herself from this man who had altered her life so quickly and without her knowledge.

  “Tell me how we come to be wed, then. And please, no tales of laudanum. I take it only to sleep, nothing more.”

  “To sleep forever, perhaps.”

  She pushed the pain in her head back far enough to scowl at him. “I have never used it to excess, nor do I appreciate your accusing me of doing so.”

  “You were near death last night, madam, or do you not recall that, either?”

  She didn’t, but did he have to know? What insanity had brought about her assent? She would never love anyone but Harry. Never share, willingly, her body with another man.

  “Tell me,” she said, looking away.

  He told her then, and when he was done, she didn’t speak, didn’t question. A few minutes earlier she’d thought him a lunatic. She was certain of it at this moment.

  “The vicar married us in this room, with your servants as attendants and witnesses.”

  She looked down at her nightgown, threadbare and worn, it had once been one of her favorites before she’d gone into mourning. She’d not had the heart to dye the tiny little pink and yellow flowers embroidered on the yoke and cuffs.

  “And I was in my nightgown? Any woman would be shamed to be wed in her nightgown.”

&
nbsp; “Most women would not have tried to end their lives.”

  “I did not,” she said, turning and fixing on him a look of such irritation that surely he must see the truth in her eyes. “Why would I have done such a thing now? Why not when word came of Harry’s death?”

  “Grief is a cumulative thing. It doesn’t necessarily grow easier to cope with a loss the greater the time that passes.”

  “And you have experience with such grief, my lord?”

  “Your Grace is acceptable. Or husband, if you prefer.”

  “I think I’ll call you Moncrief. It is your name, is it not?”

  “And what shall I call you? Wife?”

  “Catherine.”

  He nodded. “What is the last thing you do remember?”

  She hadn’t a clear memory of any of it, only disjointed shapes and feelings.

  “Do you at least remember me? I came to see you the day before yesterday. Tuesday.”

  Which would mean that today was Thursday. She knew that much, but she didn’t know him. So many days had passed one into the other, becoming a gray fog of her life. She could remember Harry’s words so clearly that they rang like a clarion bell in her mind, but she couldn’t remember Tuesday.

  She looked down at her clenched hands on her lap, determined not to look at his face. How did she explain losing time?

  “I don’t remember meeting you. I can only take your word for it.” She looked around the room before finding the courage to face him finally.

  His eyes were somber and the expression on his face serious yet blessedly empty of ridicule or contempt.

  “By the fact that you are in my bedchamber, I will also have to accept your word for the fact that we are somewhat acquainted.”

  He smiled then, and stood, striding across the room, his boots echoing against the wooden floor. She wanted to tell him to quiet his sounds, to muffle the noise of his presence in her chamber, but she kept silent. If Abigail knew, then the whole of Scotland had learned of their marriage.