Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  Glynneth looked confused. “Of course, Your Grace. The lion fell from the roof.”

  “Did you see anyone approach the attics?”

  “No, but I am not on the third floor often.” She hesitated. “You’re saying it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Where were you this morning? After your conversation with the vicar concluded?”

  She stared at him, startled at the accusation. “You can’t think I would do such a thing?”

  “Someone did, Glynneth, and I intend to find out who.”

  She looked away, but nevertheless answered him. “I spoke with the vicar before he left, then I went directly to the kitchens. Cook can attest to my presence there for most of the morning.”

  He dismissed her, and she left without another word.

  “We’ve insulted her.”

  He glanced at Catherine, but didn’t comment.

  After Glynneth, the rest of the household staff entered the library one by one. Cook looked terrified, and he was quick to reassure her that she had done nothing wrong.

  “All we want to know is what you might have seen.”

  He saw Catherine hide her smile, since at the moment Cook’s apron was pressed against her face.

  “I haven’t seen anything, Your Grace,” she said tearfully. “Not a blessed thing. I swear on St. Hegrid’s grave.”

  He wasn’t entirely certain who St. Hegrid was, but now was not the time to ask. A few more moments of reassurance, and she was composed enough to leave the room. Wallace opened the door for two of the housemaids.

  They didn’t weep, which was a welcome change, but they did stare at him with wide eyes as if he were some sort of monster they’d been threatened with as children. He counted six curtsies before he excused them, certain they knew nothing.

  Fifty-three servants later, he turned to Catherine. “We have only have Juliana and Hortensia left to interview.”

  “Do you think that wise?”

  “They were in the house at the time, and with Juliana’s Jacobite sentiments, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything she’d do.”

  He rang for Wallace and sent for his sister-in-law.

  The door opened a few moments later, and Juliana strode into the room, her narrow face contorted in an obvious effort to restrain her temper. She took a seat in the lone chair in front of the desk

  This afternoon her face paint was less heavily applied. He wondered if anyone had ever had the courage to tell her instead of enhancing her appearance, the concoctions she used only drew attention away from the fact that she was still a lovely woman. Dissatisfaction, however, pulled down the edges of her mouth and her frown was an almost constant expression.

  Hortensia had followed her into the room and not finding a convenient chair, simply stood behind her sister.

  When Juliana turned her glare in Catherine’s direction, Moncrief placed his hand on his wife’s, an unspoken gesture of reassurance. Juliana might be a force to reckon with, but she wasn’t someone to fear.

  The gesture startled Catherine into glancing at him. He didn’t return her look, instead concentrated on the paper in front of him. He had asked the servants three questions: Had they witnessed any activity near the roof, had they seen anything suspicious at Balidonough, and did they know of any reason why someone would try to harm a member of the family.

  Every single one of them had answered negatively.

  The questions he would pose to Juliana would be somewhat different.

  “I don’t understand why we’ve been summoned here as if we’re servants, Moncrief,” Juliana began.

  He held up one hand to halt her tirade. “Let me explain it to you in as concise a way as possible. Someone has attempted to harm my wife or myself, someone who currently resides at Balidonough. You are being questioned because you’ve left no doubt of your feelings for either of us.”

  “I do not have to sit here and listen to this.” Juliana rose from the chair.

  “Yes,” Moncrief said, “you do. At least you do if you wish to continue to live at Balidonough. If not, the gatekeeper’s cottage can be made into a suitable living space for you and Hortensia.”

  “Then command it to be done, Moncrief. Because I will not listen to such scurrilous accusations against my character.” She took one step closer to the desk. “I do not like you, Moncrief. You are a spendthrift. You have sided with the English all these years. You have even fought at their side. But you are blood, and for that reason I have been willing to overlook your grievous faults. But this, Moncrief, is too much.”

  “I will have the cottage readied for you. Please ensure that your move from Balidonough is accomplished within the week.”

  Juliana actually looked taken aback, as if he had called her bluff.

  “It will be done within the day.” She turned and stormed through the door, calling for her sister as she left.

  Hortensia, however, did not move.

  “I beg of you, Moncrief,” she said softly, taking the chair Juliana had left. “Do not make me move with her.” She clasped her hands together on her lap. “I know Juliana has not treated either of you with good grace. But I would gladly become a servant in your house rather than live in the gatehouse with Juliana.”

  Hortensia looked as though she might weep, and he fervently hoped she would not. He almost issued a dictate that if she did cry, he would change his mind and send her after Juliana.

  “You are welcome to remain at Balidonough, Hortensia,” he said, hoping that Juliana’s absence would have a salutary effect on her sister.

  She did cry then, holding her handkerchief to her face to muffle her tears. When she left, he exchanged a glance with Catherine. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

  “I am forbidden to thank you, I believe. But I can’t help but think that was a kind gesture on your part.”

  “I cannot imagine a grimmer fate than being forced to live with Juliana in a small cottage.”

  “Do you think she’ll stay there?”

  “She doesn’t have a choice. Besides, it will serve as a backdrop for her martyrdom. This way she can tell her friends how much she’s suffering for the cause.”

  Interviewing the remainder of the staff was much easier than the meeting with Juliana. As they began interviewing the stableboys, however, Moncrief began losing any hope that someone might have seen something.

  After the last of them was excused, Catherine turned to him. “Do you think we’ll find a witness?”

  “I’m coming to the conclusion that everyone at Balidonough is blind.”

  He stood up and walked to the other side of the room, standing in front of the windows. The afternoon sun gleamed on the surface of the river, turning it gold. In the distance he could see the forest surrounding Balidonough. Once it had been used as a defense, but the need for that had diminished over the years. Now they sold some of the wood, and allowed hunting in the larger section.

  Catherine no doubt thought that he was entranced with the view, but at the moment he was formulating a confession.

  I wrote the letters to you, Catherine. I was lonely and the temptation too great.

  But before he could speak, she stood. “I will be in your room tonight, Moncrief. I will come to your chambers as befitting my place as your wife.”

  Startled, he turned to face her.

  “You have been patient enough.”

  Tell her. But if he did, he knew she wouldn’t come to him. He was no saint nor wholly sinner, but a man torn between his goodness and his need.

  “Why now?”

  “For an heir? Because it’s time? Your month is up, Moncrief, and I no longer have a reason to mourn. Until tonight,” she said, and quitted the room, leaving him with the vague, dissatisfying, feeling of guilt tinged with anticipation.

  Chapter 21

  Worrying about a task did not make it easier. A coward avoided the difficult. The brave faced a situation directly and did what must be done.

  Catherine stood in front of the co
nnecting door attired in a new nightgown and wrapper. Thankfully, it was neither overtly revealing nor entirely concealing. She had found it at the end of her bed after returning to her chambers this evening. A card indicated it was delivered from the seamstress at the orders of the duke.

  At the orders of the duke. She was here at the orders of the duke. Everything at Balidonough happened because, ultimately, Moncrief wished it done.

  How had this situation ever begun? How had she ever found herself married to a duke, and Moncrief of all people?

  Perhaps she should consider herself fortunate to have married such an attractive man, one both young and wealthy. His character gave her no reason to fear him. In fact, he cared for those in his keeping, was concerned about Balidonough, and was often compassionate although not overtly empathetic. He was, as he had said, Moncrief.

  Would he be like Colin? She’d overheard Juliana’s complaints often enough to know that Harry had not been the only husband guilty of adultery.

  How did one ask a husband if he intended to be faithful?

  And why wasn’t fidelity an issue of any importance to men?

  Would Moncrief be faithful?

  Catherine took a deep breath and raised her fist to knock on the door. She was no coward, and the act had been quickly done with Harry. She enjoyed the moments afterward when Harry lay beside her before he left for his own chamber.

  Twenty minutes, perhaps an hour at the most, and she would be back in her room. After that, they need not discuss the matter anymore. She would visit Moncrief a few times a month and keep her part of the bargain as his wife.

  All she had to do was begin.

  Her soft tap on the door received no response.

  Again she knocked, and this time she heard his voice. She pressed down on the handle and pushed in the door and entered his chamber.

  Moncrief was standing at the end of the bed, dressed in a long dark blue dressing gown, the silk molding to his body and leaving no question that he was naked beneath it.

  Was he going to reveal himself as he had before? If so, she was quite prepared for the sight.

  “Do you come in a gesture of sacrifice, Catherine?”

  “No,” she said, surprised at the question.

  “Then why?”

  “Because it’s time. Because you’ve been patient as I asked.”

  “Do you think you know me any better now than on the day we married?”

  “I think I know myself better,” she answered honestly. “As to you, I doubt anyone will ever know you completely, Moncrief, unless you allow them to do so.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that you probably hold that honor more than any other person?”

  The surge of pleasure she felt was wholly unexpected. “Yes,” she said. “It would.”

  “Where is Harry?”

  She blinked at him, startled at the question. “Harry?”

  “Is he in your heart, or your mind at this precise moment?”

  She was uncertain how to respond.

  “Do you think of your wedding night with Harry?”

  “I hadn’t, until this moment.” Perhaps that was a statement she shouldn’t have made, because he frowned at her.

  “Don’t bring him into this room.”

  “I had thought of him.” She played with the ring on her left hand, turning it over until only the gold showed, and then once again until all the jewels were revealed. “Is it your intention to be faithful to me, Moncrief? I must have your promise on it.”

  He didn’t answer her, only slowly walked toward her, like a predator might stalk its prey. She remained where she was, an act of courage more difficult with each step Moncrief took.

  “Why should I ever choose another woman when there is you, Catherine?”

  There, another surge of pleasure.

  “Do I have your promise?”

  “Did I not do so in our vows?”

  “I don’t remember our wedding. But I will remember tonight.”

  “I promise.” He reached out and placed his hands over hers, the act one strangely ancient, as if he swore fealty to her. “I promise to be faithful to you, Catherine.”

  She nodded, satisfied. Moncrief would never break his promise; his honor would not allow him to do so.

  She waited for him to disrobe or enter the bed. He did neither, only stood in front of her looking calm and relaxed while she felt just the opposite.

  “Your gown is lovely. Blue is a color that suits you.”

  “Thank you. I like it as well.”

  Reaching behind her, he slowly closed the door. The latch made a very loud click, and she jumped at the sound.

  “It’s a lovely evening.”

  “Yes, it is. But cold.”

  “If it were warmer, I would open the windows. Unless, of course, you ascribe to the notion that the night air is dangerous for the health.”

  “No, unless one is in Edinburgh or Inverness.”

  “I didn’t know you were so well traveled.”

  “My father bought cattle stock in Edinburgh. We had friends in Inverness.”

  Moncrief reached out and slowly unbuttoned two of the top buttons of her wrapper. She bent her head and watched him.

  “My father was a little old-fashioned. He was disturbed that Scotland had been so easily assimilated into Britain. I think he wanted things to always be as they were.”

  “Things change. Circumstances alter.”

  “Yes.”

  She moved away from him, to sit at the bench at the end of his bed. Now that she was in his chamber, the three steps up to the mattress was a momentous and nearly impossible journey. Although she’d slept with him for weeks, this night would be different.

  “Where would you like to travel if given the opportunity?”

  Must they talk? She simply wanted the bedding done, then they could converse.

  “I’ve always wanted to travel aboard ship.”

  The answer evidently surprised him.

  “I have never been on a ship, but I’ve seen them along the coast. They look like magnificent things with their sails furled and the wind guiding them.”

  “And the destination?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “Then I shall try to grant your wish.”

  “Truly?”

  “Absolutely. I have no other obligations than my wife and Balidonough.”

  “Balidonough is a great responsibility. Your wife is not so much of one.”

  He sat on the bench beside her.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Look at me so intently.” She studied the tapestry on the far wall, wondering why she’d never noticed that the maiden pictured there looked suitably terrified. Catherine couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, was about to go to her husband’s bed. “You look at me as if you’re focusing directly and intently on me.”

  “Would it bother you if I told you I was?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can hold me in thrall with a smile.”

  “It’s not necessary to flatter me. I’m quite resigned to this night.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.” She stood, wishing that the portraits had been moved to the dining room. The previous dukes all seemed to be looking at her, a dozen pair of eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

  Moncrief’s smile had disappeared, and his gaze was, if anything, more intense than before.

  “You look both beautiful and terrified, Catherine, standing there in your blue gown. You look entirely too young and virginal.”

  “I am not neither.”

  “I think, perhaps, you are, and you simply don’t know it.”

  She drew herself up and frowned at him. But before she could comment, he stood and walked toward her.

  “You didn’t use the crutches. How is your ankle?”

  “Fine,” she said, her voice too tremulous. “At least for short distances.”

  He bent a
nd scooped her up in his arms, ignoring her sigh of exasperation.

  “The passages are cold at night, and you’re barefoot.”

  “Passages?”

  He didn’t answer, but walked toward the wall containing the hidden door. Once again, he pushed against something, this time a wall sconce. A painting slowly moved inward.

  “The journey will not be a short one and I don’t want you hurting.”

  “Are you taking me to the keep?”

  He stopped and glanced down at her, the shadows softening his smile. “We’ll have to explore this imagination of yours, Catherine. We’re going to one of the guest chambers. Anyplace but here.” He glanced behind her, his gaze encompassing the portraits of the Dukes of Lymond. “I’ve often thought of redecorating this suite. Perhaps my ancestors should be relegated to another chamber.”

  “Do they look at you, too?”

  “With more than a little jealousy. But let them get their own brides.”

  She smiled and leaned her cheek against his chest.

  The wall closed behind them, darkness obscuring her vision. Moncrief, however, didn’t hesitate, striding through the passage as if he could see.

  “How do you know where we are?”

  “I count the doorways.” A few feet later, he stopped. “There’s a slight rise at the threshold of each door. This is the first of the west wing guest rooms.”

  “You must have spent a great deal of time exploring as a child.”

  He chuckled.

  “There’s an adage about eavesdroppers not hearing the best of themselves. Unfortunately, I was often in that position. My father never learned that his punishments were rarely a surprise. I had ample opportunity to anticipate them.”

  “Were you punished often?”

  She could envision Moncrief only too well, a lonely little boy with a pugnacious attitude and air of bravado about him.

  “Often enough to make me dread my father, but not often enough to enforce some lessons. Time has done that better than my father could.”

  She wanted to know what lessons time had enforced, but he stopped and reached up on the wall. Slowly, an entrance opened, and he walked into a room that looked brighter somehow. Then Catherine realized the effect was caused by all the white dust sheets covering the furniture.