Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  “Are you?”

  “I do not like your tone,” she said, drawing herself up. Even though her face felt warm, and her chest tight, she didn’t look away.

  “You are no longer a widow, madam. Call yourself duchess. Or wife.” A beat of silence stretched between them as he studied her black dress.

  He was a supremely arrogant man, every inch a duke. How strange that at this moment she had a flash of memory as he’d been when she’d first met him, attired in his Highland Regimental uniform. He’d been kind then, she remembered, and almost charming, nothing like he was right now.

  He stood straight and tall as if he were still a soldier, at least in bearing. His shoulders were broad, almost too broad for the severity of his coat. And should his trousers be that tight? Her eyes jerked up to find his gaze still on her, his face severe and utterly devoid of emotion, except, of course, for the fact that one corner of his lip was upturned. Had he realized her thoughts?

  He was entirely too handsome a man, and seemingly aware of it, as if he had no modesty at all.

  “It was not my decision to marry you, Moncrief. And while I understand the honor that drove you to doing such a foolish gesture, it does not remove the fact that I am an unwilling bride.”

  For a long while, he didn’t respond. Finally, he said, “Keep your letters, and your self hallow and inviolate, dear wife. Keep your memories until they begin to fade as all memories do in time.” He strode toward her, reached out one hand, and cupped her cheek, allowing his thumb to trace her chin. “It is a pity, however, that you choose death over life with such alacrity. I could show you the joy of passion. Or is that what you’re afraid of? Strange, I never thought you a coward, Catherine.”

  “Is a woman allowed no loyalty?” she asked.

  “Is it loyalty that keeps you so chaste? Then I pity you, Catherine. Harry Dunnan was not worth your loyalty.”

  She closed her eyes, willing him away. His hands were rough, his fingers callused. But he was gentle in their use, smoothing them over her face and spearing them in the hair at her temples. Curious, she had never thought herself affected by touch, nor had she ever noted that a questing finger along the rim of her ear caused her to shiver.

  She was defenseless against his tender onslaught. And perhaps that’s what he wanted, to remind her that he was alive and Harry was not. If so, she was only human, and being human, turned her face against his palm, an encouraging gesture that she instantly regretted. His thumbs spread from her nose across her cheeks and down, as if he measured her face for a sculpture in his mind.

  “I can’t stop thinking of you staring at that book, Catherine. I want your gaze on me, not on those other men.”

  Shocked, she opened her eyes and stared at him.

  Then he was gone from the room, as if she’d imagined him. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. He had done that on purpose, and she hated him for it. Or perhaps herself, that she was so desperate for a little warmth and the touch of another person that she would crave it from Moncrief.

  Resolutely, she squared her shoulders and went about her tasks, determined not to think of him.

  Chapter 13

  There were four keeps at Balidonough, but only one was used to store furniture. The others were filled with instruments of war or trunks filled with letters and books that had not been able to fit in the library. In the first week she was at Balidonough, Catherine had explored the circular tower facing west, the only keep restored as it might have looked two hundred years ago.

  The lower part of the keep had been a dismal place since no windows existed on the first floor. The earthen floor smelled sour and musty, so she had quickly taken the steps built into the wall up to the second floor.

  The floor was constructed of wood and had evidently been replaced over the years. A series of steps led her to the crenellated roof. From here she could see the whole of Balidonough’s land, as far as the eye could see. How foolish she had been to think that Colstin Hall was a prosperous estate. When compared to the Lymond heritage, it was a tiny property.

  This keep was constructed just like the others, but the door was more solid, having been reinforced with iron bars. She opened it with the key Glynneth had given her, surprised that the door opened easily. The hinges must have recently been oiled.

  She lit a candle against the darkness, and was pleased to see that someone had cleared a path through the accumulated furniture to the steps beyond. She was halfway up the curved stairs when a figure brushed by her, pushing her so violently that she found herself tumbling down the stairs. The candle fell to the ground, mercifully missing the furniture and extinguishing itself against the dirt floor. A moment later she heard the door slam closed, and she was left in the darkness.

  Catherine pressed her hands against the stones and eased into a sitting position. The only thing that had saved her falling the whole length of the stairs had been the curved wall.

  She sat on the step and wrapped both hands around her throbbing ankle. Flexing her toes worsened the pain, and she uttered an unladylike curse below her breath, some combination of words she’d overheard one of the stableboys use, and had always secretly wanted to say.

  The door opened suddenly, and a shaft of light penetrated the darkness.

  “Catherine?”

  She winced at the sound of Moncrief’s voice.

  “How did you know I was here?” she said, looking down at him from the stair. He was the last person she wanted to see, the sting of their last conversation too fresh in her mind.

  “I was looking for you, Catherine.”

  “To apologize for your churlishness?”

  “Perhaps. Would you accept my apology?”

  “Not if you have to ask before it’s tendered, Moncrief.” She frowned at him. “Please go away, Moncrief. I really don’t need you here.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “I don’t know, and at this particular moment I don’t care. Go away.”

  A swift glance and he bounded up the stairs two at a time. “What have you done?” he asked.

  “What do you mean what have I done? I haven’t taken any laudanum, if that’s what you mean. I was simply inspecting the keep when someone brushed by me and nearly pushed me off the steps.” She truly wished he would go away. Granted, her ankle hurt like blazes at the moment, but all she needed was a few moments, then she could navigate the stairs.

  “Is this something you should have been doing? Where is Glynneth?”

  She crossed her arms and tried to ignore both him and the pain in her ankle. “She asked for the day off, and I gave it to her.”

  He sat back on his heels and studied her. “You’re very generous with the servants.”

  “So are you,” she said, matching his frown with one of her own. “Peter thinks the world of you, and Wallace follows you around as if you’re God.”

  She did wish he wouldn’t look at her so intently. Sometimes she felt as though he examined her, as if he were not quite certain of who she was.

  “You’re still angry with me.”

  “I congratulate you on your perception, Moncrief. Go away.”

  “What’s wrong with your ankle? Why are you rubbing it?”

  She moved her hand. “Go away.”

  “Are you going to be so stubborn as to refuse help? It’s obvious you’ve hurt yourself.”

  “I am not so addled by drugs that I can’t figure that out.”

  “But perhaps you’re blinded by anger.”

  “I know of no one else at Balidonough who has more of a right at this moment. Go away. How many times must I tell you?” She frowned at him, which had the opposite effect on him. He smiled.

  “You’re the one person at Balidonough, besides Juliana, who doesn’t give a whit for my consequence.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered that you’ve compared me to Juliana?”

  He bent down and scooped her up in his arms effortlessly. She let out a tiny sound of surprise and tried not t
o look over the side of the stairs.

  “We could sit here all day trading barbs, but I want to get somewhere to look at that ankle.”

  “You needn’t carry me.”

  “Surely you didn’t think I would let you walk with an injured ankle?”

  “It’s just that I’ve never been carried in such a way before.”

  She might have felt very cosseted being carried in such a way, if the person doing so was anyone but Moncrief.

  He strode through the keep and bent below the lintel to emerge into the cold, sunny day. The wind that blew around the keep made her grateful for her cloak.

  She closed her eyes, bent back her head, and felt the sun on her closed lids. One hand rested against Moncrief’s coated chest, the other trailed up to curve around the back of his neck.

  When he abruptly stopped, she opened her eyes to look up at him. She didn’t realize that his deep blue eyes had a touch of black to them. She was so close that she could see each tiny fleck of color.

  His head bent and for one breathless moment she thought that he was going to kiss her, but he drew back at the last moment.

  “You needn’t carry me, you know.”

  He looked down at her. “Shall I set you on your feet, then?” He began to lower her, and she frowned at him, then shook her head reluctantly.

  “No.”

  “Is it so difficult to accept my assistance, Catherine?”

  “I have done nothing but accept your assistance, Moncrief, from the very day we met. It seems our relationship is off balance.”

  “You can care for me when I’m ill, then. I will expect a tray in my bed and a compress for my head.”

  “I cannot imagine you ever being ill,” she said, half-smiling.

  “I am human, Catherine,” he said in a clipped voice. “Not a god.”

  She found it very difficult to think with him so close. And for a blessed score of moments, simply didn’t. She laid her cheek against his chest and felt the booming of his heart. He was so tall and strong and capable that it would be easy to allow his strength to overcome hers.

  In a sense, that’s exactly what she had done with the laudanum.

  She wouldn’t replace the drug with another form of helplessness.

  She wished he would put her down now, and she would make her own way back to her room. A cold water compress and putting her foot up on a pillow for a few hours would ease the discomfort. If that didn’t work, she would wrap a bandage around her ankle so the swelling wouldn’t increase.

  Moncrief turned to the right and walked directly toward the gatehouse wall. There, half-hidden behind a tall bush, was an ironbound door, one she’d never before seen.

  “Where does this lead?” she asked, as he ducked his head and then turned sideways to enter.

  “To the dungeon. From there to a secret passage.”

  “A secret passage?”

  “Balidonough has had a long, tumultuous past. There were times when my family had to have an escape route. It was judged wise to keep the passages in good working order. It’s shorter this way.”

  Soon they were in the cold cellar, a place used to store some of the foodstuffs and casks of wine. This room was truly cold but free of the dampness usually associated with rooms below ground. A set of stairs led to the kitchen, but Moncrief avoided them, and instead walked straight to a wall of tall shelves filled with an assortment of bags and barrels.

  “I’m going to put you down for a moment.”

  He lowered her and she stood pressed against him, balancing on her uninjured ankle. He reached over and placed his hands flat against the wall behind the shelves.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A certain brick. When I was a child I had to climb up on the shelves in order to reach it. Here it is.”

  Catherine heard a groaning sound as Moncrief pressed his shoulder against the bricks. Suddenly, the whole of the wall moved inward. Once more he picked her up and this time she was so bemused that she didn’t say a word in protest. The corridor was pitch-black, but he acted as if he knew exactly where to go.

  “How can you see anything?” she asked, straining to see something through the blackness.

  “I haunted these passages when I was a boy. I know every twist and turn.”

  “Does everyone know about the passages?”

  “The eldest son is supposed to know,” he said. “In order to protect the family.”

  “Yet you knew.”

  “I was a precocious child,” he said, and it sounded as if he were smiling. “I was determined to discover everything kept secret.”

  In the gallery it had occurred to her that Moncrief had been a lonely child. Now she was certain of it.

  “Did you have no playmates?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and she wondered if he was going to respond at all. “My brothers were much older than I, and had their own pursuits. The last thing they wanted was a younger brother following them.”

  “Were you a happy child?”

  “I think I was. I was alone most of the time, but I managed to occupy myself.”

  “So you had no childhood companions?”

  “I didn’t say that. The cook at the time had a boy, and we played together, and there was Hortensia, of course.”

  “Hortensia? You knew each other as children?”

  “Juliana and her sister were neighbors.”

  Before she could frame the question, he answered it. “Juliana was a bit more tolerable as a child. She was older and had already been promised to Colin. As for me, my tutor kept me busy most of the time. I remember occasions when he was gone or ill and I felt heady with my freedom.” There was a pause, and she wondered if he was remembering the boy he’d been.

  “When Dermott died, I found myself trying to escape my father’s attention as much as possible. Luckily, Colin had come into his majority by then, and he and my father traveled a great deal.”

  “And your mother?” They had reached a landing now.

  “She died when I was two.” Silence again. “I remember being cosseted by a succession of nurses, all of whom spoiled me. I was a very pampered young man, or so my father would say.”

  “I don’t think I would have liked your father,” she said.

  He chuckled, a sound that seemed to change the atmosphere in the passageway, bringing a certain warmth and comfort to the shadows. They didn’t seem as gloomy now as much as shielding. “I’m not certain I liked him, either.”

  He was climbing stairs now, and she pressed her hand against his chest. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you put me down?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’m certain I could with your help.”

  “I’d prefer to carry you.”

  He stopped for a moment, and she wondered if he was trying to get his bearings in the dark. But she heard another scraping sound, then he turned and pressed his back against the wall. A screech preceded the wall moving, and light spilled into the passage.

  She breathed deeply of fresh air, then realized they were in the ducal chambers.

  Sunlight streamed into the room through the open windows, and for a moment she was blinded by the sudden brightness. Moncrief momentarily hesitated before striding to his bed, gently placing her on the end, and kneeling before her.

  “I’m all right,” she reassured him. “Truly.”

  Without any thought to decorum, he lifted the hem of her dress. She leaned forward and pulled it down, and he simply lifted it again.

  Without even asking her, he began to unfasten her shoe. A stab of pain so sharp it took her breath away kept her from objecting. But a moment later, when his hand trailed up her leg, she slapped at it.

  “Moncrief! What are you doing?” She tried to pull away, but he kept his hand where it was.

  “How do you think to treat a broken ankle and retain your propriety, Catherine? One or the other must be forgotten.”

  If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he planned
this. There was a wicked twinkle in his eye, and her admonishing look did nothing to banish it.

  But what he said was the truth, wasn’t it? She could either ignore her ankle or the fact that he was sitting much too close, with his hand flat against her calf, his fingers trailing across her knee.

  Her leg didn’t hurt, merely her ankle, and it was beginning to ache abominably.

  “Do you actually think it’s broken?”

  “I have no way of seeing until your stocking is removed.”

  She flushed, thinking that surely there could be a way to do it with greater decorum.

  “You’ll have to turn away,” she said.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I am your husband, madam, a fact that you’ve consistently tried to ignore. However, the law recognizes it, the whole of Colstin Hall recognizes it, and now all of Balidonough recognizes it.”

  He was an intractable man. However, she could be as stubborn.

  “Very well,” she said, and pulled up her skirt with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Instead of being gentlemanly and looking away, he looked fascinated by her actions, and the mischievous glint in his eyes didn’t lessen as she reached her garter and slowly slipped it below her knee and down her leg.

  She almost slapped his hand away when he grabbed it from her fingers and slid it over her foot but then she realized he was doing so to ease it over her swelling ankle.

  Slowly, she began to roll down her white cotton stockings, wishing he would look away. Then, as before, he took over the chore for her at her knee. But this time, he allowed his fingers to drift down her leg in a long, slow caress. As her stocking reached her ankle, he glanced up at her, and for a long, mesmerizing moment, her gaze was captured by his.

  Look away. Look away. Look away. However much she commanded herself, she couldn’t. Something in his look compelled her to study it. Or perhaps it was because his pose reminded her of the book she’d discovered the night before. A warmth traveled up her chest to her cheeks.

  She was no virgin, but at this moment she felt unknowing, and too innocent.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” she said, feeling as if her throat were constricted.