Bride (22 page)

The way he played the waltz.

The way he hummed the waltz.

The way he held her, moved her, moved with her.

His kisses.

She could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers. Her fingers stole to rest on her mouth.

And the
Other
. A shudder like lightning racked from deep within her all the way to her toes, all the way to the roots of her hair. Her skin tingled.

Her breasts ached.

Justine wrapped her arms about herself and rested her brow on the dressing table.

Was it possible that something more than a sense of duty had brought about his suggestion that they marry? Could he love her? Did men even know what love was? Some did. Arran loved Grace. Calum loved Pippa. But she, Justine, was not Grace or Pippa. She should no longer be thinking of such things as being loved by a man—in that way.

But she wanted love in that way. From Struan. With Struan, who had made the sensations she wanted to feel again, she wanted to discover the entire truth about
It
between humans.

This was all so important for her book. If only she could separate her mind from her body, the success of her project would be assured.

Tomorrow she would speak to Struan. She would set the stage for a tranquil existence at the lodge. Eventually he would want freedom to go about in places far from Kirkcaldy. She could give him the gift of that freedom, but first they must make peace over the present trying situation. Calum and Grandmama must go home and Arran must not press Struan further on the issue of marriage.

Going to Edinburgh with Ella might be exactly what was needed to clear the air. Yes, in the morning she would suggest to Struan that she take both children to the Stonehaven house in Edinburgh.

To Edinburgh to shop for a debutante's wardrobe. Justine looked down at her fine white lawn robe and night rail. The yellow daffodils embroidered at neck and hem had been her own work. When she'd still been young and foolish enough to dream of a marriage of her own, she'd worked the robe and gown thinking to save it for her trousseau.

Saving it had become pointless.

Some women would have snatched what Struan offered.

Some women would have told themselves that simply to count themselves his wife—even without true affection— would be a great boon.

It would be purgatory.

In that, at least, her grandmother had been right. To be married to a man whose natural appetites and desires would cause him to wander, to find solace elsewhere, would be an endless misery.

Ella had left Justine's hair unbraided. What did it matter? She had no reason to concern herself with being seen.

Favoring her weak leg, Justine blew out all but the candle she carried. She placed the candle beside the bed, removed her robe, and climbed the steps to the mattress. As she did every night, she reached into the pocket in the bed drapes where she kept her Bible. The small, black leather-bound volume had been her companion since early childhood.

The fire had burned low, and she pulled the covers over her shoulders.

What she held was not her Bible but another leather-bound book, this one brown. Justine frowned and turned back to the drapes. As she thought, she had returned her Bible to the wrong pocket. There it was, safely where she must have placed it the night before.

But how had this book gone unnoticed?

When she opened the front cover, yellowed parchment pages crackled. What she held was extremely old.

“Hannah,” she murmured, reading the single name written inside the front cover. “1736.”

Almost a hundred years ago.

“
Perhaps if I write down my feelings I shall forget to be angry. I am so very tired of being angry with Edward
.”

Justine read on, turned a page, and read to the bottom again.

Hannah, she realized, had been Struan's grandmother, the woman he said had never been here, or at least had never been to the ballroom her husband built for her.

A sprig of dainty, pressed bilberry blossoms fell out. Justine marveled at the preservation of their delicate pink hue.

Bilberry. There had been bilberry in Struan's bouquet. She'd left it behind in the ballroom. Mairi had promised to retrieve and dispose of the flowers.

“
To be married because it is the expected thing is not at all acceptable. I know that had he had the choice of every woman in the world he would never have chosen me. But I do not care a fig for that. And I shall not be bought off with his extravagant gifts. What noble ladies does he think would accept an invitation to his precious monstrosity in the wilderness?
”

The ballroom, of course. That had been an extravagant gift. How odd that this book should have come into her hands tonight of all nights.

Justine turned another page and gasped. A carefully executed watercolor portrait had been slipped into the volume. Smiling impishly at her was a dark-haired young woman in Elizabethan costume. A tiny cap atop her head secured a long, transparent veil of the same creamy color as her embroidered, pearl-studded gown. At her neck a double ruff was visible and ropes of pearls rested against a stiff, elongated bodice.

The woman's eyes laughed. Green eyes. Like Arran's.

A beautiful creature. On the back of the portrait was the notation, “
Me, in the gown I shall not wear for him at the costume ball I shall not go to for him
.”

So this was Hannah. How could she have thought any man would be less than delighted to call her his own?

The entries stopped quite suddenly. Justine was disappointed—until she went to close the book and discovered another entry, this one on the final pages.

“
I had forgotten this journal. Strange. Perhaps I found it because I needed to read what I had written. If I had ever had daughters, I should have told them about my mistakes and begged that they learn from them Edward always loved me. Of that, I'm certain now. Perhaps my not believing him was a form of greedy vanity. Perhaps I needed to be told too often. Perhaps being told made me feel important
.

“
Most of all I regret never having given him the pleasure of seeing me enjoy the ballroom at his hunting lodge. The anger he showed when I failed to go to that costume ball was not feigned I hurt him. Now his injuries from the accident keep him at the castle. He will never hunt again—probably never as much as see his beloved lodge again. He will definitely never attend a ball there with me at his side
.

“What a foolish woman I was. To have recognized his love at last was a gift I did not deserve, but I mourn the lost years. I shall visit the lodge and spend time in the ballroom. Then I'll tell Edward and I think it will make him happy
.”

Justine closed the book and found her cheeks wet. Poor woman. Poor man. If only they had been honest with each other. To think of so many wasted years was heartbreaking.

She would not sleep for hours.

Leaving her bed, she put her robe on once more. Hannah had gone to the ballroom with no memories of being there with the man she loved. For Justine the room would always bear reminders of a sun-filled afternoon and a lithe, dark-haired man who held her and danced for both of them.

With her single candle, Justine set off through the lodge, grateful for the sense of direction that rarely deserted her. The trek to the ballroom was long, and every step of the way she thought of Struan having been at her side when last she made the journey.

In the ballroom, her little light did no more than paint shadowy shapes on the walls. Struan had left the piano uncovered, and she sat on the seat. With one hand she picked out notes remembered from the waltz he'd played.

A sighing sound stilled her fingers.

Sighing and a current of air that reached her gently.

From the passageway, no doubt.

She set the candle on top of the piano and attempted the waltz again. Tomorrow she would ask Struan what it was. She might even ask him to play it for her again. The solution to the dilemma here was to banish awkwardness.

Hannah had misunderstood her Edward. She had mourned the loss of years when she might have enjoyed his love. If only they had spoken frankly to each other.

Another sigh raised the small hairs on her spine.

Justine looked past the candle, looked past the raised lid on the piano, and clung to the edges of her seat.

A woman reclined on a chaise
.

A woman who sighed and then began to sob softly.

Justine couldn't make herself move.

The chaise was distant, close to the wall, but there was no mistaking the ethereal vision for other than that of a veiled woman.

Veiled and dressed in clothes from another era. Elizabethan. Creamy cloth studded with pearls that picked up the merest hint of shine from Justine's poor candlelight.

Hannah
.

Hannah's ghost! Justine closed her eyes tightly. She was a sensible woman, definitely not given to fanciful imaginings. The journal and the late hour—together with her own disturbed thoughts—had made her fanciful and befuddled. She opened her eyes again.

The creature remained where she had been, and her soft sobbing held deep despair. “Oh, don't,” Justine said. “Be at peace. All was well in the end.”

More sobbing and sighing were the only responses.

Shaking, Justine rose, picked up her candle, and approached. Her heart climbed, thudding, into her throat. Perspiration broke out on her face and her body, perspiration that was instantly icy in the cold room.

A ghost.

Hannah had not found peace after all. Wasn't that what they said about ghosts? That they returned because they had not found the peace in this life that allowed them to completely let it go?

Justine knew so little about such things. She had never believed in them.

There was a ghost on a chaise in this ballroom.

Treading softly and slowly, Justine rounded the piano and approached the veiled creature.

And her candle blew out.

She dropped the holder, heard it smash, and uttered a shocked cry. A rush of air had hit her face and snuffed the candle.

The door slammed.

Justine stood quite still. In a dark room. No, a
black
room. Not a hint of light showed anywhere.

She shut her eyes once more, squeezed them tightly shut and held her breath.

To move would be to invite a disastrous fall.

To stay might mean she would die of pure terror.

Wait for the dawn
.

Hours away.

Hours alone.

With a ghost!

“Papa! Papa!”

Still in his cloak and gloves, Struan caught the bundle of sharp bones that hurtled into his arms in the vestibule of the lodge. “Whoa, Max,” he said. “What is it, old chap? Bad dreams?”

“Lady Justine's gone.”

“Gone?” Struan said, aware of how foolish he sounded. “She came back with you and Ella.”

“That was hours since. Wasn't it, Ella?”

Dressed for bed, Ella came forward. “I couldn't sleep.” She lowered her eyes. “She seemed so unhappy. So a little while ago I went to see if she was resting. I wanted to comfort her.”

“And she wasna in her bed,” Max said. “Wolves. I heard them mysel’. And they sounded hungry—”

“Not now, Max,” Struan said, striding past the pair and starting upstairs.

“She didna take any o’ her things,” Max called after him. “Snatched from her bed, I say. Wolves. Or mayhap the wild hill clans.”

If anything had happened to Justine …

She wasn't in her apartments. Nothing appeared to have been removed. Her bed was turned back as if she'd decided to get up and take a stroll.

In the small hours of the morning, for God's sake?

“She is so very unhappy, Papa,” Ella said from behind him.

He swung to face her. “How so? What makes you say she is unhappy?”

“I saw her hiding tears. And she could not concentrate on anything I said to her. She did speak to Mairi of flowers. Of having to get the flowers. I don't know what she meant. But that was all she seemed to care about. I—”

“Thank you, Ella,” he said. “Please don't concern yourself further. Everything will be well. Justine is safe, I'm certain. You and Max—away to your beds, if you please.”

“Aye,” Max said with surprising meekness. “She'll not leave us, will she?”

“No,” Struan said determinedly. “She will not leave you. She loves you and she is a woman of honor. Her promise to remain and assist with your upbringing is something you need never fear she'll break.” If only he could be as certain of his own future with Justine. “To bed with you both. We'll speak in the morning.”

“But—”

“No,” he told Ella. “No buts, young lady. Off with you. If I need you, I'll come. I won't need you tonight.”

Leaving them trailing back to their rooms, he dashed through the lodge, cursing his grandfather's wretched sprawling design every inch of the way.

Holding aloft the lantern he'd snatched in the vestibule, he wondered how easily Justine had negotiated the dark passageways.

He paused.

Surely he was right and she'd returned to the ballroom for the miserable wildflowers he'd gathered for her.

She should be on her way back by now, yet all about him was silence and—but for his own light—darkness.

He hurried on until he reached the double doors to the ballroom. Flinging them open, the first thing he saw was Justine.

She screamed.

“Oh, my God.” He started forward and halted. “Justine, it's me. Struan.”

At her feet lay the remnants of a china candleholder. Dressed in a softly flowing white nightrobe with her hair loose around her shoulders, she stood in the center of the ballroom floor with her arms tightly wrapped about her.

Her eyes shone huge.

“What is it, my love? What's happened here?”

One hand stole to her mouth.

“Justine, speak to me.”

“I have been wrong. I should have been honest with you.”

He didn't understand. Quickly, he set the lantern on the mantel and lighted a branch of candles beside the fireplace. Gas, he thought distractedly. Gas was becoming the thing, and they needed it here.