Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  “But you weren’t one of them.”

  He shook his head, but didn’t volunteer any further information. She tried once more to elicit an answer from him. “Why didn’t you like him, Peter?”

  Peter looked away and then back to the fire as if its flames were intensely important. “He gambled a lot, Your Grace, and he wasn’t good with horses. We lost a lot of them.”

  He bowed then and picked up the sling he had used to carry the trunk into the room.

  “If that will be everything, Your Grace,” he said, backing out the door as if afraid she would ask another question.

  Even though she was certain he wanted to say more, she let him go.

  “Thank you, Peter.”

  She stared at the closing door. A gambler? Harry? He never mentioned such a thing in his letters, and the few times he had mentioned his horses he had done so with fondness.

  Catherine walked to the trunk and selected one of Harry’s letters. She read the first sentence, and that’s all that she needed to take her back to the time when she’d first received the letter. It was one of the first ones she’d received from him in North America. There had been something different about it, something unique about the way he had spoken to her, a warmth that she’d come to expect as their correspondence lengthened.

  My dearest Catherine,

  Quebec is a cold city, not only in temperature but in its people. They look at us as if we are invaders and we are in truth. The battle to reach here has been long and well fought on both sides. My French is not as good as it should be, perhaps, but is enough for me to understand the insults and invectives they hurl our way. But for all of the people who are unfriendly and ungovernable, there are those who are generally hospitable. Every week a few ladies stop by the garrison, bringing pies and tarts as a way of welcome. I think that women are the true peacekeepers.

  You seem to have done yeoman’s work on Colstin Hall. I enjoy listening to your comments about the builders, and your daily exploits bring me closer to home.

  You have asked me about the other men in our regiment. On the whole we are simply military men, all given to dreams of glory from time to time. Most of us come from the south of Scotland, some near Glasgow. There are few of us Highland-born, but their speech is such that we often find it difficult to understand them. The colonel of our regiment is given to secluding himself from others. I think he is the loneliest of us all. But no more about him.

  Tell me, what do you have planned for spring?

  I wish I was there to help you, to take the burden off your shoulders. But I think there have always been separations of this sort. Men go to war and women remain behind. I cannot help but think that women have gotten the brunt of the burden. But if they had been like you, Catherine, those women would have survived and prospered, I am certain of it.

  What would he think to see her now, so tired and frightened?

  A month. Only a month. Simply a month. Thirty days. How was she to become acquainted with Moncrief in only a month? He looked at her oddly from time to time, and he was occasionally impatient and visibly irritated, but she didn’t think he was unkind. Sending her Harry’s trunk, for example, had been a gesture she hadn’t expected of him.

  She set aside Harry’s letter and stared at the newly built fire. Moncrief wouldn’t be an easy man to get to know. And to think, she had to share a bed with him. Tonight.

  He gave the impression of needing no one, of requiring nothing, no praise, no recognition, no friendship. But she knew how foolish that was. Everyone needed someone, even a man as arrogant and aloof as the twelfth Duke of Lymond.

  She walked to the window and stared outside, wishing that she could see where he’d gone. Perhaps if she studied him in silence, without him watching or knowing it, she would be closer to understanding the enigma that was Moncrief. Instead, this room faced a dormant garden, mulched for the winter.

  This was to be her home. Perhaps she might be able to go back to Colstin Hall from time to time. But for the rest of her life she was to live here.

  What did Moncrief think upon coming home?

  She returned to Harry’s trunk and selected another of the letters at random, returning to the bed. By the light of the lone candle she began to read. The letter was one she knew well, coming only weeks before word of Harry’s death.

  My dearest Catherine,

  The days are long here, as if the sun is reluctant to say farewell. I am grateful to say that war seems behind us for a little while, and we have only the peace to administer. It is difficult for men who have been trained in combat to relish the absence of it, however, and even the most peace-loving man among us is occasionally restless.

  I thank God for the respite in writing you. You are my release, dearest, and I am grateful for it. The other day I saw a lovely bonnet being worn by a lady on the street and my first thought was to find its replica and send it to you. But such things as bonnets do not travel in official dispatches, so let me satisfy myself with only thoughts of generosity.

  Your ideas about the new crops seem well reasoned. I look forward to hearing tales of your harvest.

  Thank you for the constancy of your letters. Thank you for the anticipation of them. Thank you for your words that buoy my own spirits.

  I wish I could find a way to do so in kind, but even though the war seems to be winding down, our stay here does not. However, I cannot help but dream that I am at Colstin Hall, hand in hand with you, my dearest.

  Catherine held the letter to her chest for several long moments, wondering how she could ever forget Harry. Slipping the letter below her pillow, she vowed that she would never do so.

  Moncrief returned to the ducal chamber expecting the worst: a torrent of tears, perhaps, at the delivery of the sainted Harry’s trunk or a wifely rebellion, with Catherine standing against the wall in fear and fright.

  Thank God he was prepared.

  Catherine was pulling down the covers of the bed when he entered the room. She was clad in a black nightgown, her breasts pressing against the material, the drape of the garment not quite hiding her curves.

  “Is everything in your wardrobe black?”

  “Of course, I’m a widow.”

  “Even your stays?”

  She drew herself up, as if offended by the question. He wanted to tell her that the pillow she pulled off the bed and placed in front of her was no protection. He remembered only too well what she looked like naked.

  Never before had he witnessed a body as beautiful as hers. The firelight had limned her figure with flashes of orange and red, making her skin look as if it were dusted by gold.

  She had a long waist that flared to a slight curve of hips and long graceful legs. Her breasts were upturned and impudent, full and so perfectly round they looked crafted not by Nature but by a man’s dreams. Her stomach was flat, the triangle of hair so perfect that it looked like an arrowhead.

  Such beauty was so adequately covered by the ugly black mourning dress that he might have forgotten it had he not been celibate for so long. Or he might never be able to forget it, necessitating that he place that thought and memory in a closely guarded compartment labeled: Forbidden Thoughts.

  She walked with grace, her body limber and lithe, but her head was always bent, her gaze on the ground. As if she possessed a dual nature, one sensuous, the other restrained.

  “That is hardly a question you should be asking, Moncrief.”

  He was struck by the most unholy amusement at the moment. Here he was, the new Duke of Lymond, a black sheep turned gray by circumstance. In defiance of his father’s dire predictions, he’d outlived battles, disease, and injury to find himself back at Balidonough.

  If that were not enough of an irony, he’d returned with a woman who thought that it was more important to honor her widowhood than be a wife.

  He had never been indiscriminate in matters of the flesh, but Moncrief couldn’t help but wish, right at this moment, that he’d been more like Harry. If so, he wouldn’
t be feeling this surge of hunger for a woman who didn’t even see him as a man. An obstruction to her grief, yes. An irritant, most certainly. A rescuer, grudgingly perhaps. But it was evident she didn’t see him as a husband.

  No doubt a lady’s book existed somewhere that dictated the most proper and formal conversations for events such as these. An unwanted marriage? An inconvenient husband? Address the weather, ladies. Or perhaps remark upon the day, how lengthy it seems or conversely how short. Or to confound the issue completely, perhaps one might discuss with the new husband the assets of the old. Catherine had evidently read that chapter.

  He much preferred that she talk about hats and gloves and intimate attire.

  This was a night of celebration, a time to be thankful, an occasion to commemorate. Instead, his welcome tasted like ashes. His family was gone, as were the servants who had acted the part of parents for him. His wife was in love with another man.

  “Take it off.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Take the blasted thing off, Catherine. This is a bed, not a bier.”

  She placed a palm against the base of her throat, a place he wanted to kiss. “I can’t do that, Moncrief. I would be naked.”

  “You have my word, madam, that you will awaken as chaste as when you retire.”

  “I would prefer to keep my nightgown.”

  “And I would prefer that you rid yourself of it.”

  They stood staring at each other, and he had the feeling that she might well be as stubborn as he, although more subtle in her obstinacy.

  “If I find you a nightshirt, will you sleep in that?” he finally asked.

  “Is it the garment you object to, Moncrief, or its color?”

  “The color, madam.”

  “Then I will wear what you wish, but remember this: In my heart I mourn my husband.”

  “I am your husband.”

  He walked to where she stood, still clutching her pillow. He pulled it from her and threw it on the bed.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Catherine. Perhaps I’ve not acted in accordance with my role. If I were truly your husband,” he said, tracing a delicate path under her chin with his forefinger, “I would touch you here.” His finger stopped at the base of her neck. “Several times, I’ve seen you pull your cloak close to your throat as if it’s a place of special sensitivity. If I were your husband, Catherine, I would kiss you right here, and feel you shiver.”

  He said nothing for a minute, and her eyes widened.

  “Lovemaking is an art, some men say.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Perhaps it isn’t as important to consummate this marriage as it is to bring you joy.”

  He brushed his finger against her bottom lip, and she jerked at the touch. “Do you feel pleasure making love, Catherine? A foolish question to ask one’s wife, is it not? I should know by now, should have memorized the feel of your kiss, the soft touch of your hands on my body.

  “Even in loneliness, one can find some comfort. Even as strangers, perhaps. But does your heart have to be occupied, or only your senses?”

  “Moncrief.”

  “I like it when you call my name in such a tone. How proper of you, Catherine. It makes me want to do something utterly wicked to shock you further.”

  She opened her eyes wider.

  “I have to admit that I haven’t forgotten what you looked like standing naked in front of me. You appear even in my dreams. Damn fevered things of late. Your skin is the color of cream, and your body is made for loving. Mourning should be a sin.”

  She shook her head. He bent forward and kissed her cheek, a soft and lingering—almost tender—kiss.

  “Are you waiting for me, Catherine? Or will you remain, for all time, a vestal virgin for the late, eternally lamented Harry?”

  He wondered if she willed herself not to move. He was not a wild animal waiting to pounce.

  “What a waste,” he said, turning away from her. “Keep your nightgown, Catherine, and your letters. I find I don’t like being second best.”

  Chapter 8

  Balidonough, evidently, came alive with the first traces of the sun. Moncrief awoke at dawn to the sounds of life beyond the velvet draperies of the bed: the splash of water from the stable trough, a few of the stableboys laughing with each other, a rooster’s crow, and the sound of a heavily laden wagon, the wheels turning slowly on the graveled road.

  He stretched slowly, feeling the empty spot beside him instantly.

  Where was Catherine?

  Moncrief sat up and pushed the bed hangings aside to find an empty room. Had she fled back to Colstin Hall? He’d been true to his word and had left her alone last night. She’d entered the bed like a martyr and lain there with her arms at her sides, her black nightgown more protection than any suit of armor.

  He stood and walked across the room to a door that hid the water closet. Once his morning ablutions were complete, he dressed in a simple white shirt and black trousers, the better to oversee Balidonough. He pushed open the double doors to the balcony and stood surveying what was now his to command.

  A kingdom, a castle easily the size of a small village.

  Today he would be about the business of acquainting himself with Balidonough. He would meet with the steward, and a few of the tenant farmers. There would need to be some type of celebration to honor his wedding and ascension. The duke is dead; long live the duke. Transitions, however painful, needed to be marked and celebrated.

  Moncrief left the duke’s apartments, wondering where Catherine had gone. If he were an ardent bridegroom, he would know. If he were truly an ardent bridegroom, they’d still be abed. He’d have awakened her with a kiss, inquired about her well-being. Did you sleep well? Was the mattress to your liking? What can I bring to please you?

  Anything but memories of Harry.

  It felt wrong allowing her to mourn for a man who did not deserve her constancy and devotion. For a moment he allowed himself the mental image of retrieving Harry’s trunk and placing it in the circular drive in front of Balidonough before setting it afire.

  That first day at Colstin Hall he’d been shocked by Catherine’s appearance and demeanor. She’d been a pitiful creature, one who had elicited his compassion. Despite her protests, Moncrief didn’t believe that Catherine had been accidentally drugged. If she’d tried to end her life because of loneliness and grief, what would she do after learning the truth?

  All he could do was be patient, not a character trait that came naturally to him.

  The second floor was devoid of maids, but not so the first. A battalion of industrious young women all attired in the same light blue dress with blue aprons were scrubbing and polishing and dusting every conceivable piece of furniture, every ornament, panel and carving. Wallace had evidently taken his instructions to heart, because the footman-made-majordomo stood at the doorway alternately frowning and pointing, then looking earnestly up the stairs. When he spied Moncrief, his face altered, and in that instant, Moncrief could see what the young man would look like with a few years on him.

  “Good morning, Wallace,” he said. “I approve of your industriousness.”

  “Her Grace said that supervising the maids was usually a job for the housekeeper, but since she’s new to the job, that I should handle the chores for today.”

  “The housekeeper? I thought we didn’t have one.”

  “I believe Her Grace has already appointed someone for the post.”

  The sense of relief he felt was entirely unwarranted. Of course Catherine hadn’t left him. “Where would my wife be now, Wallace?”

  “She’s in the kitchen, Your Grace, with Cook and the housekeeper.”

  Moncrief headed for the rear of the castle. A few of the large corridors that linked the various rooms were adorned with shields that men of the family had taken into battle. Once he’d been impressed by such a display; now it didn’t interest him. Was it because he was tired of war itself? What was that biblical expression? Be
ating his sword into a plowshare? While he doubted that his regimental dress sword would be an adequate farming implement, he might well bury it somewhere on the estate, along with the memories of the battles he’d fought and the men he had killed.

  Balidonough had been built in a time when protection was necessary. Three wells inside what was once the outer perimeter walls provided fresh drinking water. Farm animals could be herded to a small enclosed corral, and a small garden to the rear of the main structure provided vegetables. Balidonough could withstand a siege of weeks, and had, more than once.

  He passed the servant staircase and dipped below a low-hanging lintel. Last night he’d not noticed the disrepair in this, the oldest part of the castle. A few of the walls looked to need shoring up, and there were a few high windows that were cracked. But the air of disuse was everywhere at Balidonough, as if the castle had been neglected all these years.

  The walls here were three feet thick and had been repaired at various times throughout the centuries. Sound did not carry well except where it echoed in isolated places such as the bottom of the staircase or the entrance to the pit dungeon.

  He could shout at the top of his voice in this one location and no one would ever hear him, as if the stone itself absorbed noise. He rounded one wall and entered the kitchen, only to be immediately summoned by Catherine.

  “Moncrief!” She motioned him closer with a wooden spoon. “Did you know, Moncrief? I have never heard of anything more ghastly in my life. Did you know?”

  He kept himself from rearing back physically beneath the onslaught of her words. Planting his feet apart, he folded his arms and studied her. His wife was frowning at him, her face flushed. Catherine looked irritated and ready for battle.

  Today, as usual, she was dressed in unrelieved black from head to toe, except for her blue apron.

  “Could you not find a black apron to wear?”

  She blinked at him, evidently startled by his remark.

  “It’s been long enough, Catherine, surely you can see yourself graduating to lavender. Or will you wear black for the remainder of your life?”