Bride (31 page)

At Struan's bidding, Robert had doubled the number of men hidden in the grounds surrounding the lodge. Now Struan could do nothing but continue this damnable waiting.

And hope that word of his hasty departure from his bride reached the enemy. If the creature thought Struan cared nothing for Justine, she would surely be safer.

That was a weak straw to clutch, but better than none at all.

At the sound of approaching hoofs he looked over his shoulder.

Arran.

Not now. How much more could a man endure on his wedding day? Surely he could be spared an inquisition by his brother, an inquisition bound to be only moments away.

“What in God's name are you doing, man?”

An inquisition already upon him. “Enjoying some solitude,” he told Arran as he drew level. “Forgive me if I don't feel like companionship.”

“I'll forgive you nothing.
Nothing.
Do you hear me?”

“I wish you joy in your ride, brother,” Struan said. “Perhaps we shall speak tomorrow.”

“We shall damn well speak
now,
you wastrel. I was suspicious when I found Caleb Murray wandering about the corridors of the west wing. He said you'd told him to keep a close eye on Ella and Max—”

“I am a protective father,” Struan broke in while he silently berated himself for not swearing Caleb to silence.

Arran wheeled his mount around and roared, “You are not a father at all! Not unless there is truly something you have failed to tell me.”

There truly was a great deal Struan had failed to tell Arran, and he didn't intend to begin revealing secrets now.

Arran maneuvered closer. “I didn't really intend to ride to the lodge. I still don't know what made me do so. Possibly I am developing some of Grace's otherworldly gifts. They do say a man and wife may—”

“Spare me,” Struan said curtly. “Finish what you came to say, then leave me in peace. I have suffered enough.” Heaverted his head. Those were words he'd had no intention of uttering.

“You have suffered? And how much is your bride of a few hours suffering? Is she glad to be so easily deserted by her husband and—”

“It was not easy!” Struan jutted his jaw toward his brother. “Nothing in my life is easy, damn you.”

Arran watched him narrowly and said, “So you say. I believe you,” very softly. “I encountered several male tenants skulking about the lodge. When I questioned their presence they each had some different so-called task to perform for you.”

“There is a great deal to be done to tame the grounds around the lodge,” Struan countered defensively.

“One does not engage tenants for such purposes. But that isn't what they're really doing anyway, is it?”

Deceiving Arran had always proved near impossible. “What else would they be doing?” Regardless, to reveal the truth now could spell disaster.

“You are afraid of something,” Arran told him. “You are afraid of someone. I am no fool. Ella and Max are being guarded at the castle. Justine is being guarded at the lodge.”

Struan returned his brother's stare. “Do not interfere with my affairs.”

“Tell me what has happened.”

“Nothing has happened.”
Yet.

“I don't believe you. Let me help.”

Struan gripped the reins tightly. “There is nothing you can do.” But he longed to bare his heart, to throw the truth to Arran and ask for his support.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I am not afraid.” Beyond afraid.

“Then… Very well. We'll set the question of your guards aside for the moment. Why have you left your bride on your wedding day?”

“How did you know I wasn't with her?”

“Your horse was missing. The stable boy said you'd taken it. Coming here was obvious. In case you've forgotten, we've been coming here in times of trouble since we were boys.”

He hadn't forgotten, merely failed to expect Arran to search for him. “There is no trouble,” he muttered.

“I repeat. Why have you left Justine alone?”

“For…” Another rider crested the ridge. Struan lowered his chin to his chest. “Of course Calum is coming. Why not? No doubt you have both watched my every action and timed this meeting accordingly.”

Rather than respond, Arran observed Calum's arrival in silence.

“What in God's name's afoot?” Calum called. “What has happened?”

This was the final insult to his already ruined composure. “Get away,” Struan said, waving an arm. “Get away, both of you. Leave me alone!”

Eyes blazing, Calum bore down upon him. “You have left my poor sister alone, damn you. I intend to find out why or break your faithless back.”

Shocked by the other's outrage, Struan subsided. “You have spoken to Justine?”

“She will not speak to me. Alone at such a time, and she will not as much as speak to her own brother. What have you done to her?”

“I have done nothing to her,” Struan ground out. “Would that I had.”

“The devil you say!” Calum retorted, his face tight with anger.

“I take it you have also developed otherworldly powers that caused you to go sneaking to my home.”

“Murray is standing guard over Ella and Max and—”

“And—like dear Arran—you were moved to snoop about the lodge.”

“I cannot speak for Arran”—Calum restrained his horse from nuzzling Struan's leg—“but this affair queers me. Is it because of my grandmother's?…
Is
it?”

Struan looked away, looked at the evening's thickening pall upon the land.

“Speak up, Struan,” Arran demanded. “Have you taken that damnable— Excuse me, Calum. Have you taken the dowager's words to heart? You're a man of the world. There are ways to avoid … There are ways. If you believe there would be risks to Justine's health… If you believe … Well, precautions—”

“Enough!” Struan's head pounded. “It isn't seemly to discuss this, but I will tell you both once—only once. You do not know all that concerns me. Yes, it is true that there are certain difficulties that have taken me from Justine's side when I wish to be nowhere but with her. The question of harming her health does trouble me deeply. The measures you speak of are not for a gentlewoman's bed—not a gentlewoman such as Justine.”

“But—”

“No,” Struan interrupted Calum. “No, my friend. I will not approach my wife as if she were a whore.”

“What, then?” Arran asked. “Surely you do not intend—”

“What I intend is my own affair.”

Calum regarded the darkening sky. “I heard her crying.”

He was a man tormented. There was no end to the torment. “You said she did not speak to you.”

“I said she would not She cried. And she told me to go away.”

Arran cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle. “Struan, a woman's safety in childbirth is never a certainty. This terrifies no man more than it does me. But with expert care, and with prayer, surely Justine …” He gestured with one hand. “And it's entirely possible she may never conceive. With careful attention to certain womanly times, one could assist that eventuality.”

“She cried,” Struan said, no longer interested in the presence of the other two men. “My fault. I have ruined her life.” He could even cost her her life—by more than one means.

“Justine loves you,” Calum said, distress replacing anger now. “And I believe you love her.”

“You cannot imagine how much.”

“Then go to her, man,” Arran pleaded. “Go and comfort her. Nothing more, if that's what you think best for now. She will not know that things should be otherwise between you. At least not until they are otherwise, so to speak.”

Struan stared at his brother.

“We three can decide how best to proceed with the other—the rest,” Arran continued blithely. “There are writings on the subject of avoiding conception, and we can go to London and consult with an expert. A physician. The man tending Grace seems more than capable. Possibly we should have Justine examined by him and—”

“Arran,” Calum said.

Too engrossed in his brilliance for caution, Arran continued. “Yes, we shall go to London for a consultation and bring the physician back with us to examine Justine. He intended to return to see Grace shortly. The two tasks can be accomplished in the same journey. Yes—”

“Arran,” Struan heard Calum say. “He isn't listening.”

“I am your older brother, Struan. You will be guided by me.”

Struan drove his heels into the black's flanks. “You, dear older brother, can go to hell. I have another place to go.” “But—”

The rest of Arran's argument was lost in the thunder of hoofbeats.

Justine detested displays of self-pity. Women who sank nose-deep in melancholy over slights—real or imagined—drove her to distraction.

Simpering, whimpering females were not to be tolerated.

But no other woman had experienced what she'd experienced in the hours since her wedding. If ever there could be reason for self-pity, Justine, Viscountess Hunsingore, had reason.

“Viscountess Hunsingore.”
She sobbed her new name aloud. “A bride without a groom. A married woman without a husband. I am as good as widowed.”

Her hands flew to her cheeks and she scrubbed at the tears. No, no, no. She was not widowed. What an unthinkable thought. Struan was alive, breathing, vibrant, strong, handsome, warm … His body felt so … so … When he'd tucked her into his naked lap and stroked her breasts… Oh, yes, Struan was so very alive.

And he was her husband.

Sin's ears, the knucklehead should suffer for this abandonment. Even if the sight of her old wounds, horrible as they might be, had turned his delicate stomach, he had no reason to behave like a girl with the vapors and rush away.

“I told you a husband does not require his wife to disrobe.”

The tears dried on her cheeks, leaving her eyes hot and stinging. Her throat hurt from the stupid crying over the stupid man who would discover she was no wilting bilberry blossom. He would discover she was not a woman to be trifled with. He would discover she would not be fobbed off with part of the succulent pie he'd wafted before her. She wanted it all.

“If you ever come back to me.”

Barefooted, she tore open the door to her chamber and marched into the corridor. Darkness had fallen some hours since—not too long after poor Calum had come tapping at her door. She would apologize to him …
after
she made certain Struan understood the nature of the woman he'd married.

Here and there candles flickered in their sconces. Justine tramped to the Pavilion only to find it empty. He was not in the great hall or any other room she searched. And evidently the staff had taken Struan's dismissal on the front steps to mean that they were relieved of their duties until further notice. Not a sound punctured the oppressive hush.

Very well. So be it. She would sit on the steps to the Pavilion bridge until he came home. If he waited so long that she died of hunger—or cold—then he would regret his beastly treatment of her and she would be glad to watch him suffer.

She leaned against the heavy banisters. They hurt her shoulder. So much the better. There would be bruises and she would make certain he saw them. Then she would go into a decline and
die.
And he would be beside himself with grief. He would stand at her graveside and toss roses on top of her casket—and beat his breast and wail his agony. And he would be so handsome all in black—handsome and removed and inconsolable.

Justine ground her shoulder against the bannister.

Perhaps something had indeed happened to him. It must certainly be growing late, and he'd left her early in the afternoon. What if he was so beside himself with unhappiness at the marriage he considered a mockery that he'd cast himself into the river and drowned? What if he'd climbed to the top of the Adam Tower and tossed himself to the cruel ground below?

At this very moment his beautiful body might lie crumpled and broken … or pale, limp, and waterlogged…

A door slammed. Boots clipped on the flagstones.

She hid her eyes in her knees. Someone was coming to tell her the horrible news. She was a widow before she'd become a wife—in the true sense.

The footsteps stopped.

A cry escaped Justine, and she wrapped her arms over her head.

“Justine! My love. Oh, my love, don't cry.”

Struan's voice came to her from below, then the sound of him running up the steps toward her. She didn't raise her head or lower her arms.

“You will die of the cold here, you silly goose,” he said, reaching her.

Justine surged to her feet. Powered by consuming rage, she pummeled his shoulders. “And you will die of your own cabbage-headedness.”

“My sweet, what—”

“Silence!” She shook so that her teeth clattered. “You might have drowned. Or been smashed to little pieces.”

“I—”

“How dare you run such risks?” His surprised face infuriated her. “Damn you to hell, Struan.”

“Madam!”

She shook a finger before his nose. “Don't you ‘madam’ me. From now on I shall say and do what pleases me. I told you … I warned you not to look upon my—scars. I said you would be disgusted and repulsed, but you would not listen. Then, when you could not continue the charade, you fled.”

“You do not have the right of it, wife.”

She rolled her eyes and sat with a thud. “Now you think to employ heavy-handed behavior such as you know I will not tolerate.”

Struan drew himself up. In the candlelight his rakish features were sharp and pate—and taut. “I'll thank you to cease this ugly display where you may be overheard. Or do you want every one of those wretched people I didn't want to employ to hear you?” His gaze swept to her feet. “No shoes! On icy stone? In faith, Justine! I must take you to a fire.”

When he made a move to lift her, she used a stiffened arm to ward him off. “Do not touch me.” With her other hand she tugged her skirts down as far as possible. If her flesh offended him he should not so much as glimpse any of it “You must follow my instructions, madam. I will take you to your rooms.”

“You will take me nowhere. I intend to have my say this night. In your rooms, my lord.” Justine snapped her mouth shut and rose—albeit stiffly—to her feet. She turned majestically from him and swept over the bridge. Struan followed her all the way into his chamber and slammed the door behind him.