Bride (3 page)

He was glad Justine was here—puzzled, yet very, very glad. But he should not have allowed her to travel through such a night to the lodge. The act was selfish and unsuitable. Mature she might be, but some might find fault with a beautiful and unmarried woman riding alone with a man to whom she was unrelated.

There was no one in the area to know; none in a position to express disapproval.

And he needed Justine. He needed an honest friend, if only to be reunited for a short while with the sane world that he fled with the arrival of the first, damnable letter.

Struan tightened his arms around Justine and closed his eyes. The horse knew the way and this rider was unutterably tired. Justine smelled faintly of roses and her slight body felt strangely comforting pressed to his own.

The letters.

His wretched past contained a lapse in good judgment that had cost him what he had so dearly prized—his integrity and his belief in his own strength of character.

The letters.

Another rested in his waistcoat pocket. Even through the wind he would swear he could catch the scent of incense from its pages. Once that mysterious aroma had led him deep into himself, to a place where he was at one with God and with his own soul. Or had that merely been an illusion, the dramatic imagining of a fervent young man bent on finding the way to his own essential goodness?

Essential goodness? He almost laughed but made certain he held back the evil, hollow, hopeless sound such laughter would be in his gentle friend's ears.

Again the envelope bore the seal of the fingertip dipped in blood. Blood from where; from whom? And how did the unknown demon manage to deliver his foul messages without being seen? Struan shuddered. He must stop recalling the images of his past. How else could he heal himself and make a life again?

Justine slid a little sideways and instantly clutched at his hands on the reins. Struan surrounded her waist with one arm and held her tightly.

“You're all right,” he called. “I won't let you fall.” Fool that he was, for all he knew, she'd never mounted a horse since a childhood accident had left her leg so badly damaged.

After a moment, Justine settled one of her hands atop his at her waist.

She was a slender creature. Elegantly slender and tall and very, very feminine in her quiet, self-contained manner. When he'd first met her, barely a year earlier in Cornwall, he'd been instantly enchanted. Despite knowing that Justine was a year his senior he'd nevertheless entertained thoughts of courting her. Thank God he'd waited. The letters had proved how right he'd been in his reticence.

They quickly covered the needle-strewn path through the trees on the knoll. Before them rose the concoction of towers with castellated crowns, of spires, columns and statuary and, fantastically, a single pagoda joined to the main structure by an ornate covered bridge. The whole had been the result of Grandfather's travels to faraway places.

Now the place was Struan's haven, and his prison.

Urging the horse on, they clattered beneath the bridge into the stable yard. For the first time since he'd come here with Ella and Max, Struan regretted the absence of staff. He was forced to take Justine with him while he stabled his animal. She stood patiently by and he noticed how she seemed to want to wait close to the horse, and how she smiled and murmured and stroked its head until Struan had accomplished the essentials.

He considered lifting and carrying her again, but their eyes met and he knew she'd read his thoughts. Very firmly, she slipped a hand under his elbow and held on, limping badly enough to make him wince, but leaving him in no doubt that this was all the assistance she wanted.

“I can hardly wait to see Ella and Max,” Justine said, raising her voice above the storm's gathering babble. “I expect they rise early enough.”

He set his teeth. “Indeed. When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. I find I am not at all tired, Struan. I think I shall sit by the fire and wait for the children.”

He swallowed with difficulty. “The quickest way into the house from here is through the kitchens. Will you forgive the informality?”
Informality?
Good Lord, he was becoming accomplished in the art of understatement.

“Of course. What a delightful building, Struan. Calum mentioned a hunting lodge, but he never described it.”

How could one describe the almost indescribable? “Is my old friend well?” Struan asked, desperate to find safe territory for discussion. “And his lady?”

“Remarkably well. Both of them. Philipa only grows more energetic. Everyone loves her.” Justine stopped walking and arched her neck to gaze up a belfry banded with fanciful terracotta friezes. The blue and red tiled structure flanked the door to the kitchens.

“My grandmother was reluctant to add—er—
unusual
elements to the castle, so my grandfather simply put them all here—all the things he'd seen and wanted to be reminded of from his travels, that is. The Lords of Stonehaven had not formerly been known for fanciful excesses. I think this was his small—or should I say, rather extravagant—rebellion.”

“I see.”

“The belfry isn't entirely useless. The dairy's in its basement.” Not that the dairy was used—or much else about the lodge.

“How delightfully resourceful.”

And how delightfully kind and circumspect she was.

Struan led Justine into the totally dark and cold building. He lit the candle he'd left ready near the door, and felt for Justine's hand. Her cool fingers wound around his—too tightly. She was frightened. He had scared her by bringing her here.

“I've felt a need for a simple existence,” he said conversationally, praying he could reassure her. That's why I decided to dispense with servants. There is one girl who comes from the castle on occasion to perform a few necessary tasks. I need no more.” Already he was adding to his lies, doing so to the one woman he'd met whose goodness and truth shone from her every glance.

“How very sensible of you,” she said in her unforgettable voice with its little break that suggested she might laugh at any moment. “I become so tired of the conventions, don't you?”

Surprise silenced Struan. Justine had always appeared entirely conventional, entirely above any form of eccentricity.

“In fact,” she continued as they skirted the kitchen table and passed the shapes of idle utensils. “That is exactly what I hope we can talk about. Certain somewhat
unconventional
ideas close to my heart … When you are rested and feel like talking, that is.
If
you feel like talking at all, of course.”

Unconventional ideas close to her heart? He hesitated in the act of leading her up stone steps toward the first floor of the wing he'd made into some sort of a home. “Naturally I feel like talking to you, Justine,” he said. Perhaps he could manage to make her so engrossed in chatter that she failed to notice all was not exactly as she might have expected in these makeshift quarters.

They left the stairwell behind for a curving passageway where vivid and gruesome paintings of dead animal trophies lined the walls.

“Mairi—the nice little maid who appeared the only one available to assist me—” Justine said, her grip on Struan's fingers bone-grinding “—she said Ella … Ella is enjoying the freedom to improve her riding skills here in Scotland, I understand.”

My God. Just what else had Justine been told? “Ella has a wanderer's soul, I'm afraid.” He would do his damndest to keep lies to a minimum. “She's become very fond of an old chestnut I rode for years. She—”

“I applaud you for encouraging her,” Justine broke in. Her voice was a little too high, a little too rushed. “A girl who is an accomplished rider is always looked upon favorably by gentlemen.”

Struan frowned to himself, uncertain he followed this line of reasoning. “How so?” Drawing a deep breath, he threw open the door to the room where he'd assembled some of his favorite pieces from the entire lodge.

“Ella is sixteen—approaching an age when she must be brought out, Struan. Those qualities expected in the wife of a suitable husband must be encouraged. A fine seat on a horse is certainly noticed.”

Struan glanced sideways at her, barely hearing what she said. Much more of interest was her reaction to the lodge's main hall. Generations ago men had gathered here after long days of hunting to eat and drink and brag about their marksmanship and the prizes they'd bagged.

To please Ella he'd removed the animal heads with their gaping jaws. A fortunate decision. He doubted Justine would have been more comfortable with the trophies than his young charge.

Drawing Justine with him, Struan made a circuit of stone walls, raising his candle to light others held in iron brackets every few feet. Gradually the colorful, curiously eclectic assortment he'd amassed emerged from shadow.

Justine said nothing at all.

“You must be utterly exhausted,” he said rapidly. “And chilled into the bargain after I've dragged you through such a night. I'll make you comfortable and light the fire.”

If he kept looking about him he'd start apologizing. In that direction lay danger, since he'd then have to explain himself. He could
not
explain his circumstances to Justine.
Never.

An ancient Italian giltwood daybed upholstered in silk damask the color of old amber and emeralds pulled easily from its place beneath a high, heavily draped window. Struan situated the piece near the fireplace. He had found the daybed in a small salon off the ballroom and decided it might appeal to Ella.

“Rest here,” he told Justine, guiding her to sit against the pillows and lifting her legs onto the elongated seat. “This will keep you warm.” She still wore her cloak, but he took off his own to cover her and added an armful of jewel-toned silk shawls quickly snatched from their positions draped over a gold Chinese screen encrusted with mother-of-pearl figures.

The first clatter of rain sounded on windowpanes. Wind moaned between turrets and roared in the chimney.

Pushing aside velvet pillows—Max's favorite thinking spot—from their station before the hearth, Struan heaped up kindling and started small flames leaping in a fireplace tall enough for a man to all but stand upright.

He added larger pieces of wood and soon the blaze crackled. “There.” Perhaps he could negotiate this difficult situation and send his friend forth without her truly noticing how extraordinary his circumstances were. “Now we shall soon be quite warm enough. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Thank you, God.
He had absolutely no idea what food might or might not be in the kitchens. The maid Moggach had supplied, Buttercup Likely, or some such name, appeared infrequently enough to please him and said very little. When he'd told her he required no formal attention she'd seemed inordinately pleased and quite satisfied to spend her time primping a profusion of blond curls—and casting fluttering-lashed glances at him whenever the opportunity presented. Buttercup supposedly cleaned. She did not cook. Supplies were delivered from the castle regularly enough, he supposed, but he took little interest beyond asking Ella and Max if they'd eaten … when he saw them.

Struan pulled several of Max's vibrant pillows close to the daybed and lounged in what he hoped was a nonchalant attitude. “So,” he said, smiling brightly. “Now there's a new Duchess to deal with Franchot Castle and you've decided to do a spot of traveling?”

The firelight turned Justine's large, heavily lashed eyes to a color that would rival the finest cognac. “I'm not particularly fond of traveling,” she said, unsmiling.

Struan propped an elbow and rested his head on a hand. “On the way to another destination, are we?” he asked, aware of an odd, turning sensation in his belly. He should not care that Justine undoubtedly had a life of which he knew little. “I expect you must have any number of friends in Scotland.” He did care.

“None I'd bother to visit, actually. Apart from Grace and Arran—and you.”

“None …” Struan ran his tongue over his teeth. Surely she must have known Arran and Grace were in Yorkshire with their daughter Elizabeth and Arran's ward, Roger Cuthbert. Would she have come purely to see him? Madness was finally claiming him. He said, “I don't think I—”

“What's troubling you, Struan? The maid at the castle made mention of certain … She said you were hiding out here.”

He sat up abruptly and rested a forearm on his knee, “I am not hiding out,” he said sharply. “I am simply a man who prefers his privacy. There are those of us who do not care to spend their days and nights falling over flunkies at every turn.”

“You told the flunkies not to let anyone know you were here at the lodge. Anyone who might happen to come looking for you, that is.”

“I—” He looked into her deep golden eyes and away. If she could see the darkness in his soul she'd run from him, and he couldn't bear that. “Very well, Justine. There is no point in trying to hide truth from you, even if I wanted to.” It was imperative that she leave before she learned even more of his dreadful secrets than those she now sought.

Justine pushed aside the shawls but kept his cloak wrapped about her as she swung her feet to the floor. “Share your burden with me, Struan. Let me help you.”

He almost laughed aloud. “I am in some small difficulty with someone who has decided they have a hold over me. Nothing more.”
Nothing more
? The horror of it was almost more than he could bear to allow shape in his mind.

“Blackmail?” she whispered. “Is that it, Struan? You are being blackmailed?”

“No!” Or was it yes? He still didn't know exactly what the bounder wanted, dammit. “Nothing so dramatic. A simple case of someone pressing for favors I choose not to extend. Please—don't concern yourself further with this, dear lady.”

Her dark brows drew together. “Earlier you told me you needed my help.”

He studied her. The ride had dislodged the smooth coiffure and red-brown curls—so like her brother Calum's—tangled with the long, dark fur that lined the hood she'd pushed down.

A remote woman, some might say. Untouchable. How would it be to touch and be touched by Justine Girvin? How soft would her pale skin feel against his—beneath his?