Bride (10 page)

The smile faded from Justine's face. “Of course he finds no fault with you. Who could?”

For a long time Ella was silent. Then she said, “Do you hear from Saber? How is he these days?” The questions were too lightly asked.

Saber Avenall, Justine and Calum's cousin, had made Ella's acquaintance at Franchot. The fact that he had been smitten with the girl was obvious to all. True, the difference in their ages might have seemed extreme at the time, but within a year or so it would have been of no account. Justine, always very fond of Saber and convinced the two would be well matched, had dared to hope they would eventually marry. But Saber had withdrawn his attentions to Ella abruptly and left Franchot shortly afterward. Justine had no idea why and there had been no one to ask.

“Saber has been in India,” she said carefully. “He bought a commission last autumn and was eventually posted overseas with his regiment.”

“India?” Ella's fingers played over her lips. “Are there battles in India presently?”

Justine drew up her shoulders. “I don't know a great deal about these things. There is talk about increased hostilities there, but I'm sure Saber is safe.”

“I wish …” Ella averted her face and jumped down from the billiard table. “I hope he will be safe. He is a pleasant man.”

“He is indeed. Perhaps he will return in time for your Season next year.” Justine calculated how to proceed. Sometimes special conditions justified a small manipulation. “After all, he undoubtedly thinks of you like a sister. He would make a splendid ally in the matter of inquiring into the backgrounds of your suitors. If you decide to go to London after all.”

“You think he might be in London when—if I go?”

“Oh, I … It's entirely possible.”

“Mmm.”

She would write to Saber. Why had she not thought of it before?

“I don't know how to dance,” Ella said. Her eyes had lost focus. “And I've never even held a fan.”

Struan should not have waited so long to take his children in hand. “We shall have you taught to dance. Max, too. It will save time.”

“Max!” Ella laughed aloud. “Teach Max to dance? He would rather die.”

“He will learn to dance,” Justine said firmly. “Don't concern yourself with that. I shall deal with the rest of your training myself.”

“Have you ever seen Saber dance?”

Before Justine stood a lovelorn young woman. Why hadn't she suspected the depth of Ella's feelings for Saber? “He dances well. I'm sure he will be happy to share some turns around the floor with you in London.” Surely, once they were in Town Ella would meet so many charming and eligible men that she would be distracted from any infatuation with Justine's enigmatic cousin. Of course, if Saber were to put in an appearance and encounter Ella, it was always possible something might rekindle for him also.

“I shall think about it,” Ella said. “Papa doesn't believe I should do things I really don't want to do.”

Justine inclined her head. “He is a man advanced for his time.” In some matters. “Of course, we shall defer to him in this as in all things.”

“I promised Kirsty Mercer I'd show her my room here now that it's been made over. Will you excuse me?”

The sudden shift to impeccable politeness wasn't lost on Justine. “Of course.”

Ella walked away but stopped at the door and turned back. “Do you think it would please Papa if I decided to be brought out?”

“I do indeed.”

“Well, then”—Ella raised her chin—ldquo;I shall do it for him.”

When the girl had left, her vibrant presence seemed to hover in her wake.

She would “do it for him.”

The question was, which him?

And the probable answer disturbed Justine deeply.

“Call me out one more time and I'll accept the challenge,” Struan announced, facing off with Calum across the raised lid of the piano Arran had been playing in the window of the gallery that was his music room. “I've taken about as much as I intend to take from you,
friend.”

“The situation here is intolerable,” Calum responded, leaning over the exposed movement of the instrument to bring his face close to Struan's. “Four days ago my sister arrived in Scotland with an impeccable reputation. Rather than being made comfortable here at the castle, she was abducted to that damnable lodge by you. And today her name is on the lips of every peasant in the county. I have no doubt that before long all of Edinburgh will be agog at the news of her fall from grace.”

“No doubt at all,” Arran said pleasantly.

Struan glared at his brother. “She has not fallen from grace,” he said. He was exhausted from too little sleep and no longer cared if he maintained cordial relations with Arran or Calum or any other man.

“Tell Justine you want her to leave,” Calum demanded.

“Don't tell her any such thing, Struan,” Arran said from his seat at the piano. “I forbid you to do so.”

“Do as I ask,” Calum said. “Word has arrived from Grandmama. Evidently my poor Philipa crumbled under interrogation and the dowager demands that Justine be returned to her at once.”

“Not the best part of the bargain you inherited,” Arran remarked, his right hand flying repeatedly up a soaring scale.

“What does that mean?” Calum inquired, frowning deeply.

“Your dear grandmother. Quite a formidable creature, that one.”

Calum brought his lips together and his nostrils flared, but he made no argument. Only a year before he had still been Calum Innes, foundling recipient of Rossmara charity since his abandonment in their stable yard as a young child sick unto death. His determined search for his past had led to Fran-chot Castle in Cornwall and the extraordinary truth that he was, in fact, Etienne Loring Girvin, Duke of Franchot. Stolen from his crib while his mother lay dying, another infant boy had been left in his place. The pretender's mother, the former duke's thwarted lover, planned to use her son to grab control of the Franchot fortune. The rightful heir was to have died, but the woman paid to kill him lost her nerve and eventually discarded him at Kirkcaldy.

Thanks to Calum's persistence, the entire plot failed.

He reclaimed his rightful title and inheritance and the shame-the truth had brought the Dowager Duchess of Franchot had not, at first, endeared Calum to her, but she had adjusted to the new order of things remarkably quickly. Justine, so uncannily like him in spirit as well as appearance, had been overjoyed to claim him and be rid of her despicable fake brother.

“The dowager is admirable,” Struan felt bound to comment. “No doubt her formidable will is responsible for her remarkable, er, presence.” And her tyrannical attitude toward sensitive Justine.

“I have spoken to the minister,” Arran said, adding his left hand to his right, experimenting, turning his ear toward the keys. “It's as well you're here, Calum. You can give the bride away and help dispel the rumors of dissension between us.”

“They are
not
rumors. There
is
dissension between us.”

Struan struggled to hold his temper. “No,” he said through his teeth. “There is not dissension between us. And I wish you both to allow me to deal with this matter.” He would speak carefully and kindly to Justine and persuade her of the wisdom of her returning to Cornwall.

“Remember how Moggach used to call you a wee upstarty laddie, Calum?” Arran said, smiling to himself and ignoring Struan. “She probably still does.”

“I lose no sleep over your appalling staff,” Calum said. “Will you do as I ask and inform my sister that you wish her to leave Kirkcaldy.”

“No,” Arran said. “Under no circumstances will I ever tell such a charming and respected creature—respected by me— that my home is not her home whenever and for as long as she chooses—”

“For
God's
sake,” Calum sputtered. “You have become long-winded and totally bloody. If you respect our friendship, you will do as I ask.”

“You came into Justine's life rather late, did you not?” Arran said.

“You know I did.”

“Hardly surprising she isn't willing to bow before your will like a blade of grass assaulted by a low wind.”

“By—” Calum stalked to the white marble fireplace and braced himself by both hands against the mantel. “A
low
wind. Your inference is not lost on me, my lord. The woman is not herself. She believes Struan has need of her with those … Give me patience. I speak no ill of the two young ones. They are delightful. But they are not Struan's children.”

Arran stopped playing. “A fact that is of far more concern to me than to you,” he said. “In time he will have children of his own seed and they, naturally, will be his line. The sooner this farce with the bastards is put to rights, the better.”

“Don't
call them that,” Struan said. “And stop talking as if I'm not present. Stop deciding what I shall or shall not do with the rest of my life. Damn it all, you treat me like a child.”

“You behave like one,” Arran said. “Your charade with Ella and Max is out of hand. How long do you think you can keep people from asking questions? Why is Max an unschooled peasant? And why is Ella allowed to roam free?”

Struan crossed his arms. “I have all that in hand. They led a quiet life with their mother. I do not wish too much thrust upon them too soon. All in good time … That sort of thing.”

“Poppycock,” Arran said. “Then there is this latest development. Preposterous. You know Justine's reputation must be restored at once. There should be no question but that you marry her, and I cannot understand the delay.”

“I will not have my sister made the fool,” Calum shouted. “She approaches five and thirty. A confirmed spinster. There can be no question of some farcical marriage for the sake of propriety. But she will not listen to me.”

“I've sent a letter to Grace,” Arran said. “She cannot travel just now, but she will advise me on matters regarding the marriage. It is unfortunate that we cannot wait until she is no longer indisposed.”

“Indisposed?” Calum turned to look over his shoulder at Arran. “Grace is ill? Why didn't you say so? How could you leave her at such a time?”

“What's wrong with Grace?” Struan felt sweat break on his brow. “You should have told us at once. We must go to her. What can you be thinking of?”

“Under the circumstances Grace is remarkably well.” Arran raised his dark brows. “One does not speak of these things, but Grace and I anticipate the birth of our second child. As you know, she is a little thing, and I do not want her to take any risks. The doctor agreed that she should not travel for some weeks.” His handsome face bore the stamp of proud pleasure.

“Congratulations!” Struan leaped to thump Arran on the back. “Another child! You and Grace make me very happy.
Another
child.”

“Congratulations,” Calum said. “Please tell Grace how delighted Philipa and I are for both of you—for all three of you. But first, please tell my sister she may not remain here.”

Struan looked from Arran to Calum and felt an unaccustomed burst of the purest frustration and rage.
“Silence,”
he roared suddenly. “Not another word from either of you. What does or does not happen in the matter of Justine's presence as part of my life—”

“She is not part of your life.”

“I warn you, Calum,” Struan told him. “My patience wears thin.”

“A book,” Calum sputtered. “A book for
brides,
no less. A book detailing the intricacies of courtship and marriage! Written with the aid of your instruction. Saints preserve me. That notion paints some pretty pictures, don't y'know?”

“Justine is most sincere about her book,” Struan said, despite his own misgivings on the subject.

“You,” Calum said, leveling a finger, “will have no part in instructing my sister. Is that understood?”

“No.”

“Then I will explain. Give Justine any demonstrations supposedly designed to enlighten her for literary reasons and you shall answer to me.”

Arran resumed playing. “Once they're married, it will be up to Struan to decide what demonstrations he gives his bride.” He chuckled. “All kinds of possibilities there, old chap.”

“Name your seconds,” Calum demanded of Arran.

“God help us all,” Struan pleaded on his way toward the stairs leading down from the gallery. “We clearly are beyond helping ourselves.”

Chapter Seven

The Fiddler's Rest, an inn in Dunkeld Village near Castle Kirkcaldy

I
f hate had a smell, the air would reek of that odor. Hate, disgust, and the driving need for revenge. A deadly mixture.

Seated alone in a corner, all but hidden by shadow, he breathed in the fetid aroma of old ale, rancid food, and unwashed bodies—and waited for one whose appetite for vindication might even exceed his own.

A shadow passed across the table. “If we meet again, you will not know me,” said the second man to arrive as he slid onto a bench. “Away with you,” he snarled at a serving girl who approached.

The other rocked forward over his ale, one of too many he'd swallowed that evening. Rather than lift the measure, he clutched the edge of the table and sucked noisily at the rim of his pewter tankard. Less spilled that way. He wiped his mouth on the back of a sleeve and muttered, “I've not seen you, friend.” Honest enough. The agreement had been that they would come and go to the appointed table, neither man looking upon the other. Not that his vision was what it had been when he'd entered this devil's hole.

Acrid smoke from the tavern fire curled about the drunken company. The hour was not late, yet raucous shouts and screams erupted in bursts. Disheveled wenches rolled from one pair of groping hands to another, giggling, and delving to retrieve coins pressed between their near-naked breasts.

“Let's be done with this.” With each tankard, his tongue became thicker, as did his brain. Best come to a final agreement while he was still conscious—particularly since the newcomer had refused any drink. “What d'you want of me?”

“Listen,” the second man ordered grimly. “You should know things have changed, become more urgent.”

“How so?” His fingers threatened to slide away from the table's edge.

“He's got his claws into someone else. Another female.”