Bride (35 page)
“Can you talk now?” Justine asked.
Licking crumbs from her fingers, the woman took off her bonnet. “Forgive me,” she said. “I haven't eaten in days. I came many miles—mostly on foot. I've no money, you see. But I had to get away.” Her eyes, beautiful black eyes, settled anxiously on Justine's.
The woman's clothes should have distinguished her instantly from the tenant wives. Simple and far from new, they were nevertheless well cut and had once been quite fine. “Would you care to take off your cloak?”
At first Mrs. Smith's reaction was to clutch the cloak over her dress. Slowly, her fingers relaxed and she removed the garment. Still watching Justine, she reached back to loosen tapes at the back of her bodice. Wincing, she shrugged the garment from her shoulders until it rested at the tops of lush breasts. Then she stood and turned around.
Justine gasped and covered her mouth in horror.
“He did it,” the woman said, her voice breaking. “My husband. He's going to kill me. I know he is.”
She had been brutally beaten. Justine had never seen the results of such horrible violence. “You must be treated,” she said. “We shall find you a bed and you shall sleep until you are strong enough to tell me your story. You are not to be concerned further. You are safe now.”
Mrs. Smith eased her gown back over her shoulders. Justine hurried forward to retie the tapes.
“Where is your husband now?” An awful vision of the beast descending upon the lodge did nothing for Justine's composure.
“He was drunk when I left him,” Mrs. Smith said, averting her eyes. “That was days since. I took nothing, so he'll expect me to go back. It'll take a long time for him to realize I've left, and then he'll have no idea where to look, I need a place to hide, my lady. To hide and think.”
Justine squared her shoulders and paced to the windows. When she turned it was to find Mrs. Smith looking through the door into the bedchamber. Justine cleared her throat.
The other woman looked at her with no sign of embarrassment. “Such pretty rooms. You and the viscount must be very fond of blue.”
“Yes,” Justine said, uncomfortably aware that the chamber showed no evidence of a man's presence. Not that—according to Grandmama—it was less than usual for a husband and wife to have entirely separate sleeping arrangements for other than
It.
“I shall ring for the maid. There are dozens of empty rooms in this lodge. You shall make one of them your home until we can decide how to proceed. May I ask you one question?”
Before Justine could react, Mrs. Smith threw her arms about her in a fierce embrace and said, “Thank you, my lady. Oh, thank you. I should have guessed his lady would be no less than the generous soul he is himself. Will you call me Glory, too?”
Justine patted Glory's arms. “I'm sure that will be agreeable. When you say ‘he,’ I assume you mean my husband? Viscount Hunsingore?”
“Oh, yes. We were friends once.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled. Justine noted that the bruises did little to detract from the woman's beauty. “That was before Mr. Smith, of course. And before you.”
“Of course.”
“But he told me to come to him if ever I was in trouble, so here I am. I promise I'll be no trouble. You won't regret taking me in.”
“I'm sure I won't,” Justine agreed, no longer at all certain she hadn't acted too rashly.
“You won't even see me once the viscount returns.”
“And why should that be—exactly?”
Glory Smith's face resumed its former serious expression. “Because I know he won't want you concerned with my troubles.” She shook her head until her luxurious black curls swung. “No, not at all. He'll take care of Glory just the way he promised.”
F
rom a knoll overlooking the castle, Struan surveyed the hills and valleys, the clusters of tenant crofts, Kirkcaldy Village, and the forking river that fed the estate's fertile fields.
Robert Mercer stood beside him. At Struan's request, the two had ridden out together. Now they were alone Struan couldn't decide what to say. The tenant would not speak until spoken to.
“I'm grateful for all you've done in recent months,” Struan said at last. “All you've done for Ella and Max—and now at the lodge.”
“It's no less than we should do.”
“My wife is gentle. I do not want her worried.”
Robert shuffled his boots. “Aye, she's gentle and fair—and kind. Did she speak of this morning?”
Struan looked sharply at Robert, “What about this morning?”
“Och, nothin’, I suppose. She saw me and Angus, but we told her we were about some business for ye.”
“And she believed you?”
Robert puffed up his cheeks. “Aye. Young Max happened along. He told one o’ his fine stories and for once it was useful.”
“Max?”
Struan caught Robert's sleeve. “Max was at the lodge this morning?”
Robert grimaced. “Only long enough for Caleb Murray t’-catch him and bear him away wi’ terrible threats and the like.”
Struan relaxed a little. “But the viscountess suspected nothing?”
“Women … that is, the ladies’ interests hop like crickets. A tale about somethin’ they canna understand distracts them quickly enough.”
Struan nodded and fell into a pleasant moment of shared understanding with Robert before telling him, “I should like you to know why all this has been necessary. I'll explain the way of things as soon as it's safe to do so.” Robert would expect no such confidence, but Struan felt a kinship with the tenant.
“Ye'll be the judge o'that, my lord,” Robert said. “Was there somethin’ special—somethin’ else ye wanted to speak of?”
Keeping Arran and Calum completely ignorant of his position had become impossible—and possibly unwise. He might be forced to ask for their help, and today he'd take them partially into his confidence. How unfortunate that they'd been less willing than Robert to accept that he could not reveal everything yet. Arran had stormed and shouted and demanded the entire truth. Calum, pale with concern and divested of all patience by the dowager's inexplicable refusal to leave Kirkcaldy, had all but threatened to retain a private regiment to protect his sister.
Struan dropped to his haunches and picked up a stick. His horse cropped the grasses nearby. Robert's shaggy mount kept a respectful distance from the Thoroughbred.
“Your people have been on Stonehaven lands a long time, Robert.”
“Aye. Generations.”
“We're glad you're here. I was speaking with Arran earlier. He told me I'd chosen well when I'd asked for your help with Ella and Max. Calum agreed.”
“Aye. The marquess is a fine man. He's been good t'me and mine. My Gael thinks him the best ever t'draw breath, and the wee ones love the very sight o'him.”
“He can be generous.” When he wasn't ranting. “I expect you're wondering why I asked you to come up here with me.”
Robert turned candid blue eyes upon Struan. “Ye're troubled, my lord.”
“More troubled then you know.”
“If it'll help, we can keep a watch day and night.”
“You have your own affairs to attend to.”
Robert shrugged. “We're good at helping each other. We'll manage.”
“For the next few days I'm going to leave Ella and Max at the castle with Caleb.”
Robert picked a handful of grasses and let them drift through his fingers.
“They'll be safe enough there,” Struan said.
“Ye canna keep young ones locked indoors forever,” Robert said. “It's easy t'tell ye've a terrible affliction. And ye can only wait for it t'come t'ye. If it was otherwise, ye'd not be barring your family away. Can ye not ask guidance from another?”
Struan snapped the stick in two and tossed away the pieces. With the arrival of afternoon a weak sun had escaped the clouds, but there was little warmth in the day. He bounced to his feet. “I'll be honest, Robert. If I thought there was someone who could help—and whom I could trust with the lives I must protect—then I'd be happy to meet that man.”
“Brother John,” Robert said.
Struan paused in the act of reaching for his mount's bridle.
“The monk,” Robert continued. “Did ye ever meet him?”
“Ah, the monk Max speaks of. No, our paths have never crossed, but I understand he's not averse to an evening of cards in Dunkeld.” He had yet to mention his disapproval of such unsuitable encounters to Caleb.
Robert hid a smile. “Aye. At the Fiddlers’ Rest. And he wins. And then he shares his winnings with those in need. He's a simple enough man, my lord. And a man of God. But human, if ye know what I mean. There's little t'spare t'pay him for his help—but he's always the first t'offer that help.”
“Why have I never met this paragon?”
“Ye were away from these parts when he came. Wanderin’ he was. Searchin’ for a place where he'd feel the Lord in every day, so he said. And he stayed here.”
Struan looked toward the village again. “A man with fine taste.” Unfortunately Struan had begun to wonder if the Lord had temporarily forgotten at least one of his errant children.
“Will ye meet Brother John?”
“I'll consider the prospect.” Struan mounted the black. “If it seems like a good idea I'll ask you to arrange it. We'd best get back.”
Robert climbed onto his horse and the animal immediately ambled downhill.
“I don't think there's any need for you and the others to spend your days at the lodge,” Struan said, catching up with ease. “But I'll thank you to stand ready to be there at night when necessary.”
“Aye.”
Robert pulled his nag to a halt and pointed.
Struab followed the direction of the other man's finger. At first he saw nothing of note. Then a movement attracted his attention. From behind a thicket a donkey plodded into sight, a cowled figure astride its broad back.
“I dinna believe it!” Robert looked to Struan. “Brother John himself. Will ye not speak wi’ him? Just t'get his measure?”
Struan was of a mind to refuse. He hesitated.
The brown-clad figure continued on his swaying way.
“All right,” Struan agreed abruptly. “Let's meet this holy man of yours.” The time for avoiding men of the cloth must pass, just as the events of long ago must pass—assisted by force, if necessary.
Robert grinned and urged his horse on. “Brother John!” he cried. “Halloo, Brother John!”
Rather than overtake, Struan hung back and followed at a leisurely pace in the other man's wake. Robert was almost upon the monk before the cowled head rose from apparent deep contemplation and the donkey slowed to a stop.
Gesturing at Struan, Robert gained the monk's side and clapped him on the back with unexpected familiarity.
“A saint for the simple folk,” Struan murmured, and instantly chided himself for his own mean spirit. Perhaps he still, somewhere deep inside, mourned the loss of what had once been his own deep spirituality.
“I'm tellin’ Brother John about ye,” Robert announced cheerfully as Struan reached him. “The marquess has given him a livin’ place in the old mill, but they've not met.”
“We must remedy that, Brother,” Struan said.
The cowled head was averted. A low voice said, “Blessings, my lord. Forgive me if I take my leave of you. There are pressing—”
“Brother?” Struan said, interrupting. His heart beat fast and hard. “Can you not spare me a little of your time?”
Slowly, the man turned his face and looked up at Struan.
For a moment it was as if he'd received a blow. The air left the day—and the light went away. He opened his mouth but could not speak.
“Hello, my son,” the holy man said. “I have awaited this meeting. I have longed to see you—and I have dreaded seeing you. But there must be only honesty between us. It was with the hope that I should encounter you that I came to Scotland. But I find my courage has deserted me.”
Struan took the hand the man extended. He wound their fingers together and hung on. And he stared into eyes he had never thought to see again. When last he'd spoken to Abbot John Grably it had been on the steps of Moreton Abbey in Dorset. The abbot's face had borne deep sorrow. Struan had begged forgiveness for ruining an innocent maid.
“Justine? It's Struan. May I come in?” He tapped on her chamber door for the third time, then pressed an ear to a panel. No sound came from the room.
Carefully, he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and peered inside. Her bed was untouched, but a stroke of light showed around the edges of the door to her sitting room.
Lighter of heart than he'd felt in many a month, he crossed to knock the second door. “Justine?”
“Come,” she said, sounding preoccupied.
He followed her instruction and found her seated behind a small leather-topped desk with her famous notebook open before her.
She did not look up.
Smiling, Struan advanced. “Busy, I see.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
So that was the way of it. Not that he could expect a more enthusiastic greeting under the circumstances. “I've come to apologize.”
“For being a shatter-brained ass?”
Startled, Struan halted. “Surely I've misheard you.”
“I doubt it. We frequently pretend not to hear those things which hold too painful a thread of truth. It must be exceeding uncomfortable to know one is a cocklehead.”
“A
cocklehead?”
This woman would undoubtedly never shed her ability to amaze him.
“A suitable term for a man who by turns ignores and supposedly adores his wife of only hours.”
“You are harsh, my lady.”
“I am honest, my lord.”
His own sudden smile surprised Struan. “Ah, but your spirit is irresistible, Justine.”
She raised one fine brow. “I'm glad I entertain you. Currently I am recording what passed between us last night.”
“The devil you are?” He felt an unaccustomed heat beneath his collar.
“I find accuracy more easily obtained if one doesn't allow too much time to pass following the event one wishes to record.”
The thought of Justine attempting to write down the details of their lovemaking temporarily dulled Struan's happiness at being reunited with his old friend and mentor. The abbot had been quick to reveal that he'd come to Scotland as much to seek forgiveness as to offer the same to Struan. He'd alluded to his own search for humility and understanding, and assured Struan he should not continue to blame himself for the fiasco with the girl at the abbey. Struan had alluded to his predicament, and the abbot readily promised to lend his considerable intelligence to solving the dilemma.
