Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  She didn’t have a submissive nature. This marriage was not of her making or even her participation. Yet it was binding, and that’s what chafed at her. Despite her wish or her will, Moncrief was her husband and would be until he died.

  Go to him. After all, it hadn’t been so difficult with Harry. But she had loved him, and the discomfort had been easily ignored over the pleasure of touching him and holding him for as long as he remained in her bed.

  Go to him. End this. There were other things in life of much more importance. The inventory for one, or ensuring that Balidonough remained a heritage, or providing for the servants who depended upon the castle for their sustenance and livelihood.

  Moncrief walked away with the older man, and she felt released. But she still watched him for long moments, wondering if she had the courage to do what she dared.

  She heard a noise behind her and turned and smiled at Glynneth.

  “You wanted to visit the keep.”

  She scanned the horizon. The sunset was spectacular as it always was at Balidonough, as if God blessed the castle with particularly beautiful displays of His handiwork. “Some other day will suffice. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “You promised me my day off.”

  Catherine nodded. “I did, didn’t I? I’ll investigate the keep on my own. And we’ll finish the inventory as soon as Wallace has a few footmen move the furniture from the attic.”

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to continue today?”

  “No,” Catherine said. “It’s almost dark; there’s little we could really accomplish.”

  “If you’re certain.”

  In the blink of an eye, Glynneth had become the housekeeper again, and any warmth between them was stifled beneath her rigid demeanor.

  “I’m very certain,” Catherine said, becoming what she was as well, a reluctant duchess.

  She retreated to the library, since Moncrief was still outside the castle. She closed the door behind her and stood listening to the sound of the wind careening around the windows. The room, for all its size, was a cozy one, encouraging the reader to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs or to perch on an upholstered bench and select a volume.

  The setting sun was bathing the library in a brilliant yellow glow, a last farewell until dawn. But she took the precaution of lighting the branch of candles residing on the corner of the desk as well as an oil lamp. She left the candles lit on the desk but took the lamp with her as she climbed the winding stairs to the second level. Her fear of the dark had nearly been conquered, but she didn’t want to be caught having to descend an iron staircase without some illumination.

  She wanted to read something calming, a story that didn’t involve loss or heartache, or even love. Nor was she in the mood for an adventure. Perhaps a book of poetry. Perhaps philosophy. Or a travel book.

  In addition to rare books on metallurgy, and treatises on the properties of gold and silver, there were tomes here on religion, art, and astrology. Balidonough was rumored to boast one of the finest medieval libraries in the world simply because Dukes of Lymond had always been insatiably curious and were incapable of throwing out even a scrap of paper. She’d seen proof of it in an attic filled to the rafters with trunks of documents.

  She stopped in front of the tall bookcases filled with volumes, but nothing caught her interest. Hortensia had mentioned a history of Balidonough, a volume that supposedly related the earliest history of the castle. All she really knew was that Moncrief’s ancestors had ridden out from Balidonough on midnight raids. Those days were gone, however, ever since the family had discovered that distilling whiskey could provide more of a lucrative income than stealing cattle.

  Between two tall bookcases was an alcove, housing a glass case. Mounted on the wall above it was the picture of a woman seated at a table, her chin propped on her hand. She was past the first blush of youth, but her face was kind, her eyes sparkling. She wore a wimple that fit snugly around her cheeks, the crisp white linen of it so perfectly portrayed that Catherine could see its texture.

  Inside the glass case rested a single book. The volume was old, the leather cover cracked and worn, and deteriorating along the spine. Carefully, she lifted the top of the case, and opened the book. The words written on the fly-leaf were in another language, one she didn’t understand. Disappointed, she opened the book in the middle, only to discover that it was a volume of illustrations.

  Very graphic illustrations of naked men.

  The first picture was of a young man, gloriously tumescent, standing with one hand on his hip and the other flat against his flank, a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes as if he dared the artist to portray him in his erect state.

  She slammed the cover shut and stood there staring at the painting above the case. The kindly older woman now seemed to have a mocking glint in her eyes as if she was well aware that Catherine was shocked.

  Her hand was at her throat, her fingers feeling the rapid pulse at her neck. She stood there until she calmed, then glanced down at the book again. What kind of horror was this? Unseemly, and possibly even sinful, not the sort of book she would have expected in Balidonough’s library.

  Perhaps she had misunderstood. Perhaps she hadn’t actually seen what she thought she had seen. Very slowly, she opened the cover of the book again and turned a page. No, the illustration was exactly the same. The young man was erect, his penis stiffly in front of him like a living lance. She felt the warmth race up her body but she could not force herself to look away.

  A moment later, she turned the page. A thin vellum sheet separated it from the next drawing. Another man, older, with red hair not only on his head, but between his thighs as well, was pictured half-reclining on a bench with one leg drawn up, his wrist dangling on his knee. His other hand was wrapped around his engorged penis and he was staring directly at her as if he knew how utterly fascinated she was.

  She’d never seen a naked man in such a condition. She and Harry had only been married a month before he’d gone to join the regiment. And when he’d come to her bed, he was ready to mount her. She had never actually seen him in the darkness.

  Her finger reached out of its own accord, and traced the path of the red-haired man’s erection. Was it possible that it might become that large? If so, it certainly hadn’t felt quite that grand. She pressed her fingers against her lips and stood there debating with herself.

  Should she turn another page?

  Knowledge should never be shunned, especially in areas in which she was ignorant. Over the next quarter hour she managed to educate herself quite well.

  The book was a collection of some thirty paintings, each one more fascinating than the last. Toward the end of the book the paintings changed. Instead of one man there were two, one often featured touching the other admiringly.

  One of the last pictures was the most shocking of all. A man was featured kneeling at the feet of a young man, his mouth open, his tongue just about to touch the other man’s erection. Both men’s faces wore a look of utter bliss.

  “My great-uncle collected such things,” Moncrief said from behind her.

  She jumped so much that she dropped the book on top of the case and for a horrified second thought its weight was going to shatter the glass.

  “I didn’t hear you,” she said, quickly closing the book. Her voice was shaking, but so were her hands. She lifted the case, replaced the book, and shut the case again. Only then did she turn to face Moncrief.

  “He has other books in his collection. Japanese shunga, featuring women as well.”

  “Indeed?”

  He came to her side, and lifted the top of the case, retrieving the volume she’d so hurriedly replaced.

  “Did you find this interesting?” he asked, turning to a random picture of a naked man with a shield and sword beside him on the ground. He stood, with his back half-turned, his pose one that would still allow a glimpse of his erection. His back was muscled all over, his buttocks solid and defined, his arms stretched ov
er his head.

  Except, of course, that a certain part of him didn’t look the least relaxed.

  She closed her eyes rather than look at the next illustration he’d turned to, this one of two men reclining on a stone bench, each one’s head at the other’s feet. Both men had their hands outstretched, their fingers brushing the other’s erection. The look of pleasure on their faces was so vibrant that she was certain she could recall the image even with her eyes closed.

  “Does that really feel so wonderful?” she asked.

  For a moment there was silence in the room, interrupted only by the sputtering of the oil lamp. Catherine was horrified that she’d voiced the question. And Moncrief? She glanced at him to find him smiling at her. Not a pleased smile, as if she’d done something of which he approved. Or even a forced smile, such as he’d worn the night of the disastrous dinner. This smile was altogether different. He looked more amused at himself than at her.

  “I can assure you it does.”

  For a moment she was utterly shocked, enough to open her eyes wide and stare at him.

  The moments ticked by, measured by a flush on his cheeks. “I prefer my partners to be women.”

  “A woman could do that?”

  She reached out and fumbled with the pages until she found the picture she sought. She poked at the illustration with one finger. “And that?” she asked, amazed.

  Moncrief looked down at the image of the young man being mouthed by another, and his smile grew. “Yes,” he said, “and that.”

  She stared at the painting, stunned. “But why would anyone want to?”

  His laughter startled her. He replaced the book in the case and gently turned her so that she was facing the stairs. “Passion is a like a drug, Catherine,” he said, bending low to speak the words next to her ear. “When you’re immersed in it, you want to touch your partner in all ways; you want to bring them pleasure in every conceivable fashion.”

  The thought that someone had done that to him, had touched him exactly that way was so disconcerting that Catherine was speechless.

  “I hope, with all my heart, that you feel that kind of passion one day.”

  She glanced at him before descending the stairs. His smile had disappeared, and the look in his eyes challenged her to understand it.

  She turned away and left him then, escaping from the library as if demons chased her.

  Chapter 12

  Catherine awoke from a troubled sleep an hour before dawn, and rather than summoning Mary, took one of the serviceable dresses she’d brought from Colstin Hall and dressed. Moncrief was not in the room, and she was grateful for his absence.

  He’d been acting oddly ever since he’d found her in the library last night.

  All during dinner, he’d worn a strange smile, and later in the parlor, he’d not stopped watching her. While she couldn’t help but recall the illustrations she’d seen, her cheeks flushed for hours with the memory.

  She busied herself with tasks relating to Colstin Hall until the sun was up and the morning well advanced. She was on her way to giving the letters she’d written to her steward to Wallace to post when she heard Juliana’s voice raised in anger.

  “What is it that I hear about you ordering Munson to open the southern fields? And increasing the output at the distillery? You should have consulted me first, Moncrief.”

  To continue with her chore meant she would have to cross in front of the open door. But she didn’t want to see Moncrief at the moment. Nor did she want to encounter Juliana, so Catherine remained in the hall, a reluctant eavesdropper.

  “I see no reason to do so,” Moncrief said calmly.

  “While you were playing war, I was managing Balidonough on my own.”

  “Not wisely, however, Juliana.”

  Catherine could just imagine what kind of look Juliana was giving him.

  “In a short time, Moncrief, you have undone all of the cost-cutting measures that I have put into place at Balidonough. We’re going to spend a fortune, and what will we have to show for it?”

  “A better quality of life, madam? A grateful staff? People who want to work at Balidonough rather than those who are simply here by necessity? I do not intend for Balidonough to be a penal colony for the poor, Juliana. We’ve always had loyal and dedicated people serving us.”

  “But the money!”

  “Yes, the money. Of which we have plenty. More than a hundred people could spend in their lifetimes. Why do you save it with such assiduousness, Juliana?”

  “Because otherwise it may not be there when you have need of it.”

  “Or because you have other uses for it? Did you think it escaped my notice that your friends are Jacobites, Juliana? I won’t allow Balidonough to be used to fuel idiotic dreams from the past any more than my father did.”

  “Your father was killed because of his disloyalty. Do you want the same thing to happen to you?”

  Silence stretched between them, and Catherine took a step backwards. Should she retreat to the parlor once more?

  “What do you know, Juliana?”

  “You know as well as I that he was set upon by thieves when he was abroad.”

  “Were they really thieves? Or Jacobites?”

  Silence again, and this time, Catherine wanted desperately to peer into the room.

  “I’ve given orders for my solicitor to inspect the ledgers, Juliana. I sincerely hope that I will not find that you’ve funded any cause other than Balidonough.”

  “You’ve become too English in all these years, Moncrief. You’ve forgotten your heritage.”

  “I’m trying to preserve it, Juliana, while you would give it away to fools with glory in their veins.”

  A moment later, Juliana stormed out of the room, not even glancing in Catherine’s direction. She would have tiptoed past the door except for one thing. Moncrief was standing there looking at her.

  “She’s very angry at you.”

  He stepped aside, and she entered the room. He placed one palm flat on the wood of the door and leaned against it as if to prevent Juliana from returning. He studied his hand and not her when he spoke, which was just as well. She wanted a respite from that intense gaze of his.

  “She lives in the past. I don’t.”

  “Have you become too English?”

  “Perhaps I’m both English and Scot. I’ve always believed, even before joining the regiment, that the Pretender’s rebellion was a poorly executed selfish act. In that, I concurred with my father. But I’ve never forgotten who I was or where I came from.”

  She’d never met anyone like Moncrief, so supremely himself that his confidence showed in everything he said or did.

  “Are Juliana’s sympathies dangerous?”

  “Only costly.” He turned and smiled at her. “Juliana’s friends are all descendants of those who supported the rebellion. No doubt they get together and lament the old days.”

  “Then why not send her away from Balidonough?”

  “It’s better to know what an enemy is doing than to be left in ignorance. I would much rather have Juliana close to me than somewhere else fomenting rebellion in the name of Balidonough.”

  “You’re very patient with her.”

  Moncrief shrugged. “I can understand her discomfiture. Her rank has changed, her position of power. Life is different for Juliana, a fact that I suspect she does not quite comprehend as yet.”

  “Life is different for me as well,” Catherine said.

  He walked toward the windows and stood there looking out at the view. The morning sun spilled into the room bathing him in radiance. Light and dark. Brightness and shadow.

  “I suspect your life is no different at all,” Moncrief said. “I think you have brought your grief with you like a turtle houses his own home on his back. The only thing that has changed for you, Catherine, is the location of your mourning, not the intensity of it. I see your grief growing as each day passes. Harry is dead, and death did not make him a saint, yet you almost p
ray to him as if he’s become your Almighty.”

  She pressed her hand to the base of her neck; her other hand rested at her waist. His attack was unexpected.

  “I think that’s an unfair accusation, Moncrief. I’ve taken my duties to heart. I have met with Cook, I’ve supervised the making of new clothes for the servants. I am in the process of doing a complete inventory of all the stored furniture at Balidonough.”

  “All very admirable, and all duties Glynneth could do. What about the duties of a duchess? My duchess? Perhaps I should write you a letter to explain what I’m talking about. Perhaps you’ll hold it as sacred as you do Harry’s. Or do you think I don’t know that you sleep with them?”

  She moved to the fireplace, wishing her curiosity had not led to this confrontation.

  “Or perhaps I wouldn’t read it at all,” she said, hurt and angry. “But do write me a letter, Moncrief, because at least I could wad it up and toss it in the rubbish.”

  He turned from the window and folded his arms and studied her. A ghost of a smile played around his lips, and she wondered if he had manipulated her into this trap of words.

  “Why do you not give your new life a chance, Catherine?”

  She fingered the statue of the shepherdess on the mantel, concentrating on the tiny flowers arranged in the basket she held. Slowly, she turned and forced herself to face him. “I feel as if everything I was or had been is gone. My home, my family, my servants. My husband.”

  “You have a new home and a new husband.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Could you not summon a modicum of enthusiasm on my behalf, madam? I agree that it is not an ideal situation, yet it could be much worse. I could be a pauper, someone out to steal your funds. I could be a despot. And I’m not that, even though I am beginning to understand how despotic a man can become under certain situations.”

  “Are you referring to the bedroom? I am a widow, sir, not a virgin. I am accustomed to a man’s needs.”