Bride (34 page)

The first order of business was to find a way to engage Struan's trust about whatever threatened his peace.

Movement below caught her attention. She knelt and pressed her nose to a pane. A man rolled into view from behind a large tree trunk. She did not recognize him, but he surveyed the lodge, then slid out of sight once more.

Justine sat again. She frowned and moved to a spot where she had a better view of the grounds to her right another man, this one sitting cross-legged, bided his time amid her new rose bushes!

By moving from her own room to Ella's and on to Max's, she was able to count no fewer than five persons idling only feet from the lodge.

Trouble.
Yes, trouble indeed. Did Struan believe she wouldn't notice his
army?
Unless they were surrounded by brigands, those men must be guarding the building—no doubt because Struan had, yet again, deserted his responsibilities. Too distressed to sleep after he'd returned her to her chamber, she'd heard a horse beneath her windows and seen her enigmatic husband riding away.

And it would not do! None of it would do!

How fortunate that she was a woman who had always preferred to attend herself when possible. Since Mairi remained at the castle and no member of the new staff seemed brave enough to approach, there was little danger of being interrupted.

With irritation building, driving her to move quickly, Justine dressed in a heavy rose silk dress with cream chiné stripe. She arranged her hair inside a French lace cap trimmed with ribbons to match the dress and sped from the room.

“This is for you and for me, Hannah,” she murmured aloud, steadying herself as she descended the stairs. “You will be set free because I will
act.
I will not wait for disaster.”

When she drew open the weighty front doors and walked out onto the steps, a scene of utter stillness greeted her. Day had broken but a chill still clung to the air and no sun had banished the early morning's dim light.

Justine set her lips firmly together and made her way down to the drive. Turning right, she strolled, deliberately studying plantings near the building. Much had already been accomplished in the grounds.

When she arrived at the spot she knew was immediately beneath her windows, she paused and listened—and set her mouth the more firmly when she heard a twig snap.

Onward she walked until she drew level with her new roses. With exaggerated nonchalance, she swung her skirts and approached the bushes. Buds had begun to form, and she bent to examine them closely—and looked through the branches into the blue eyes of Robert Mercer, who had hunched down as far as was possible.

Justine straightened. “Good morning, Robert Mercer.”

He leaped to his feet and coughed loudly, once, twice, three times.

A signal, no doubt.

She turned about in time to see the man behind the tree double over and begin to retreat. “You there!” she commanded. “Remain exactly where you are, my good man. I shall wish to speak with you.” The man did as she asked.

“Now, Robert,” Justine said. “Kindly explain what you and your friends are doing here.”

Robert—his brow still bearing evidence of their last encounter—whipped off his rough bonnet and rolled it between his hands.

Justine had little experience with the kind of annoyance she felt at this moment. “Speak up.” She must be firm. “Answer me at once.”

“Carryin’ out orders, my lady.”

“Whose orders?”

Robert frowned at the sky.

“Speak up!”

“Hmm. His lordship's.”

“And what were those orders?”

This time Robert's boots claimed his attention.

Justine's patience threatened to desert her entirely. She must not forget that this was a very gentle man, a shy man if she was not mistaken. “Kindly explain the nature of the orders you were given.”

His throat bobbled and he looked all about as if for inspiration. The sudden smile he bestowed upon her contained more hope than joy. “Cuckoo spit, my lady. I'm t'take the measure o’ cuckoo spit.”

“Cuckoo spit?”

“Aye.” He grasped a rose stalk and didn't as much as flinch when a thorn raised a bead of blood on one of his fingers. “Y'see? it's the frothy white stuff in the crook there.” He pointed and brought his eyes close as if to assess the exact number of bubbles in the substance.

“I have seen cuckoo spit, Robert, ” Justine said carefully. “Pray tell me. Why exactly would the viscount request that you study
cuckoo spit”

“Angus!” Robert shouted suddenly. “Come and tell her ladyship about the cuckoo spit.” Amazingly, he turned his back on her entirely and waited for the other man's reluctant approach.

Tall and thin, this Angus already held his bonnet in his big, white-knuckled hands. He stared steadily at Robert, who said, “I've been tellin’ the viscountess about the cuckoo spit.”

Angus's upper lip rose from his teeth and his nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Y'know,” Robert said, his shoulders hunching.
“Cuckoo spit.
She wants to know why the viscount wants it looked at early in the morning.”

Angus's eyes slid to Justine and back to Robert. “Aye, cuckoo spit.”

“Looked at for what purpose?” Justine persisted. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see another of the cuckoo spit experts slipping away.

“Measurin’,”
Angus said with the alacrity of a man possessed of sudden inspiration. “Is that not right, Robert?”

“Aye, measurin’,” Robert agreed. His fair skin turned bright pink with misery. He squinted along the track leading to the pines that surrounded the lodge. “There's young Max.” His relief at diversion was tinged with something else—concern, Justine decided.

Mounted on the little chestnut Struan preferred him to ride, the boy came at a gallop. He'd begun to head for the bridge and the stable yard when he caught sight of Robert's waving arms and turned toward them.

Spurring the chestnut, he rode to the rose garden and dropped from the saddle. After checking behind him, he turned a nervous face on the assembly. “I'm come t'get somethin’.”

Robert said, “Er, I was just tellin’ her ladyship how your papa has us come t'study the cuckoo spit early in the mornings sometimes.”

Max opened his mouth, looked from face to face, and clamped his lips shut again.

“Aye,” Angus said. “We're simple men, and explainin’ these things doesna come easy.”

Robert pointed to a delicate puff, no doubt a puff left by a mayfly or some similar insect. “You tell about it, Max. Why we
measure
it.”

“Why ye measure it?”

“Aye, measure it.”

Justine crossed her arms.

“When there's enough o’ it, it's collected, y'see,” Max said seriously. “It's important to have the absolute right o’ this thing. T'get the very most out o’ it, y'see.”

“I don't see.”

Max gave one of his most brilliant grins. “Och, forgive me. O'course ye wouldna understand. It's for herbs. There's nothin’ like cuckoo spit for cultivatin’ the very best herbs, and—”

“That will do,” Justine said succinctly. “I think I've heard all I need to hear. You must be certain to let me know what you intend to study when your present fascinating project is complete.”

Wait until his lordship deigned to return to his home—and his wife. He would not dare to deny that he feared some attack upon his home and family. And she would know the reason why. No knobby-brained excuse would suffice.

Max, whirling about, snapped her contemplation of what she would say to Struan.

A large, heavily muscled gray horse approached. Its rider was easily identified as Caleb Murray. Hatless and without as much as a jacket, he bore down upon the small group near the roses at a full gallop.

Max scrambled to mount his chestnut, but his foot missed the stirrup. By the time he'd pulled the horse around once more, Caleb brought his gray to a gravel-spewing halt. “This'll be the last time, lad,” he said to Max. The man's face showed pale beneath his tan. “I'll put you back where you belong this once. The next time, I'll go to your father.”

“I'm
tired
o’ those stuffy rooms! I want t'run and swim with me friends.”

In a single motion, Caleb swept Max before him on his horse and caught up the chestnut's reins. Without as much as a word to Justine, he wheeled about, leading the small horse behind him.

“I'll not go!” Max announced.

“You'll go and you'll do as you're told,” Caleb said, sending his heels into the gray's sides. “Your papa made it plain.”

Max squirmed and Caleb tightened his grip. “Be still, I tell you. It's for your own safety. You're to be watched closely.”

“Why?”

Justine looked from Angus to Robert—who looked away.

“Someone wants you dead,” Caleb said, his voice low and plain. “Someone wants you
all
dead.”

Justine pressed her arms to her sides and watched man and boy ride toward the pines. Raising her chin, she brought a finger to rest atop a tightly furled rosebud. “Cuckoo spit, hmm?”

Buttercup had been pressed into service to wait upon Justine. Once it was known that the lady of the house would spend the day in her rooms, her meals were delivered on a silver tray borne by the brazen-eyed girl.

The last offering, afternoon tea and small cakes, remained on the tray. Justine sat close to her sitting room window watching, as she'd watched all day, for Struan's return.

A knock sounded at the door and Buttercup, her blond hair riotous and completely unsuitable to her station, tripped into the room with tiny, rapid steps. Her round hips swayed and her high bosom strained at the bodice buttons above her apron bib.

At the moment, Buttercup's eyes were more avid than brazen and her breath came in shallow gasps.

Justine turned back to her vigil. “I've finished with tea, thank you, Buttercup.”

“Yes, m'lady.”

“I shall not require anything further today.”

“Yes, m'lady.”

When there were no sounds of the girl gathering the tray, Justine glanced at her. Rubbing her apron between her hands, Buttercup jiggled from foot to foot.

Justine asked, “What is it?” and managed a smile.

“Mr. Nudge said she couldna come in, but she wouldna be turned away. She's outside. I thought I should tell ye on account o’ some o’ the others at the castle sayin’ ye were kind and gentle.”

Justine frowned and attempted to concentrate. “You must speak more plainly, Buttercup. Who is outside?”

“Her who came t'see ye. A sad sight, she is. And she says ye'll be wantin’ to talk t'her.”

Justine stood up and went closer. “Who is she? Do I know this person?”

“She says ye'd never turn her away. Mr. Nudge thinks she's a hussy… Excuse me, m'lady. He thinks she's not a nice person, and he won't let her in on account o’ the master not bein’ at home.”

“I'm sure Nudge has experience with such matters.”

Buttercup caught impulsively at Justine's hand. She lowered her voice. “I'd not take such a thing upon myself, but she's not well, m'lady. I could tell she ailed, so I waited my chance and followed her. She'd sat hersel’ down against a wall, poor thing.”

“She asked for me, you say? By name?”

“Aye. Ye and no one else but ye, she said. She wouldna give her name.”

Justine was torn. She'd never turned aside from someone in need, but these were troublesome times, and although Struan had not confided as much in her, she knew he feared some unwelcome intrusion.

“I'm sorry, m'lady,” Buttercup mumbled. She backed away and picked up the tray. “I'd no right t'bother ye with such matters.”

What harm could an ailing woman do? “Leave the tray,” Justine said. “Do not return to the kitchens. Get this woman by another route and bring her to me.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Go quickly.” Before her resolve failed.

While she waited for the visitor, Justine set about making chocolate in a small pot on the hearth. Chocolate, she had always believed, could be quite restorative—despite Struan's bias.

A method for dealing with her stubborn husband—at least a beginning—had begun to form. All day she had determinedly pushed thoughts of Hannah away, but, nevertheless, she silently renewed her promise to do as her imaginings had instructed her and ensure she and her husband went forward side by side.

In response to a light tap at the door Justine said, “Come in,” and stood with her hands clasped before her.

Her face flushed, Buttercup entered first. Quickly, she urged her companion into the room and closed the door behind them both. “This is her, m'lady,” she whispered hoarsely. “If Mr. Nudge finds out what I've done I'll lose m'place.”

“He won't find out.” Justine was already absorbed by the woman the maid had brought. “Go about your business.”

“Oh, m'lady, I couldna leave ye—”

“You have no need to be concerned.” The pathetic creature swayed where she stood. Dark curls escaped a simple gray bonnet that obscured her bowed face. “Run along. Return in half an hour for my directions,” she added as a precaution.

“Will you sit by the fire?” Justine asked when she was alone with the stranger.

Without raising her face, the creature came slowly forward and sank into a chair. She wore a gray cloak of some thin woolen stuff over a plain gray dress.

“Will you have a little chocolate?”

The other nodded.

Justine busied herself filling a delicate blue Sevres cup. This she offered together with the plate of cakes from the tea tray.

The face that turned up to hers almost stopped Justine's heart. “Oh, my dear!” She set the cup and plate down and pulled up a chair for herself. “What has happened to you? You must tell me everything. The whole story. Are you a tenant here? What is your name?”

“Mrs. Smith,” the woman said in a husky voice. “I've come a long way to see the viscount.”

The answer startled Justine. Rather than address the last, she said, “How were you injured?” Bruises darkened the pale skin of a beautiful face. In one eyebrow there were signs of a healing wound. Another showed at the corner of an eye, and a narrow pink line suggested her lower lip had suffered some assault.

Mrs. Smith eyed the cakes and Justine hurried to hold the plate before her once more. The woman ate voraciously, devouring each delicacy in a single bite, one after another. She gulped down the chocolate and silently accepted a second cup.