Bride (8 page)

Calum, still carrying Kirsty, came close to Struan. “Look at this place,” he said. “Cobwebs and dust. Everywhere. I'll wager that stove hasn't been used in years before today. I was told the maid came here several times a week. What does she do?”

“Nothing, for all I know,” Struan said. “It is of no concern to me.”

“The floor is filthy. Everything's filthy.”

Defiance destroyed Struan's caution. “The entire lodge is filthy. I have more important things on my mind.”

“Do tell.”

“I cannot. Not yet. Only trust me to take care of what I must.”

“You haven't told Justine about Ella and Max?”

Struan thinned his lips, and said, “Make no mention of that, please,” in low tones. “I must break it to her in my own way and in my own time.” A time he didn't wish to contemplate. He had rescued Ella from a London brothel where the owner planned to sell her to the pervert willing to pay the highest price for a beautiful young virgin. Ella had then beseeched Struan to find her brother, Max, then the property of a pickpocket in Covent Garden. Struan shook his head. “Eventually I will find a way to explain it all to Justine.” A truly revolting thought.

“Where do they go at night?”

“Damn
your curiosity, Calum. They stay with the Mercers.”

“Overly crowded in that little cottage, I should think.” Calum's voice was even, as if he spoke of mundane matters.

“They are safe there, and I trust Robert and Gael. It's the best I can do for the present.”

“It's amazing,” Calum responded. He set Kirsty down and turned serious eyes—eyes so much like Justine's—upon Struan. “Something's badly awry. I knew it the instant I learned you had chosen to live here, and that you didn't want to be found by any chance caller. Tell me what's afoot, my friend.”

“Not the time or place,” Struan responded. The shame he bore must remain his alone. Sharing his sordid past—with anyone—was unthinkable. And since he wasn't exactly certain what was in store for him, he could not truthfully answer his friend's call. He indicated the rest of the company. “Not the place at all. Don't worry. It's nothing I cannot take care of.”

“You show me no evidence that I should believe you.” Calum glanced at Justine. “She must come away with me. I cannot leave her here.”

“I agree.” Fate sneered at him yet again, this time in the tantalizing form of a woman who might be all he could ever desire yet could not have.

Heat rattled the pot on the stove. Gael Mercer began to ladle porridge into bowls. These Ella set upon the great square table that had been hastily relieved of its layer of dust by Buttercup.

To Struan's discomfort, Justine promptly sat on the end of a bench as if taking breakfast in a dirty kitchen was quite the thing.

Arran abandoned his musical efforts and sat beside Justine with Niall on his knee.

“Good God,” Calum muttered. “Surely you do not intend to have your company sit in this mayhem and eat amid the filth.”

“Gael came to feed me,” Struan said simply. “She is a wonderful woman who has helped me greatly. I would not offend her and neither, I assure you, would Arran. He knows every one of his people—including their children—and regards them as his responsibility. He's particularly fond of the Mercers.”

“But Justine has never—”

“Justine appears entirely comfortable,” Struan remarked, smiling down into Kirsty's somber face. “This young lady looks hungry to me.”

Calum shrugged and approached the table. “I give up. We shall get through this and remove to the castle where we can speak sanely.”

Jugs of thick cream, a bowl of honey, and a pot of fragrant coffee graced the rude table. Gael placed cups before each diner and gathered her children to her side. “We'll be leavin’ ye now.” Her face was flushed from working over the stove, and from discomfort at her unfamiliar surroundings, no doubt. She bobbed a curtsy. From the sloping wooden board beside deep sinks she took a glass bowl crowded with snowdrops, purple sweet violets, and bright blue speedwell and set it in the middle of the table. “Robert and I will await your instructions, m'lord,” she said to Struan. At Arran she directed the sweetest of smiles. “It's verra good t'see you, your lordship. Please tell her ladyship she's sorely missed at Kirkcaldy and we all look forward to her return.”

“Your words will bring her great pleasure,” Arran said.

Gael bobbed again. “Is wee Lady Elizabeth well?”

“Blooming,” Arran said, grinning. “And a handful.”

When the Mercers had left, Calum commented, “You always did have a way with the tenants, Arran. I do believe they love you. Not a usual situation between Scottish lairds and their people.”

“A usual situation between the lords of Stonehaven and their people,” Arran said. “But you already know that.”

Justine ate her porridge with evident enjoyment. “Ella,” she said, “your papa tells me you are a remarkable seat upon a horse.”

“I ride well enough,” Ella mumbled. Her black, waist-length hair hung in a tangled mass. Her thick lashes gleamed darkly about large, uptilted black eyes. At sixteen she was, indeed, a beauty.

Max squirmed on his bench. “I'm t'swim in the river wi’ a bunch o’ the laddies today,” he said. “Can I go now?”

“No,” Justine said, utterly serene. “It is far too cold and it is time for you to begin your instruction.”

“Papa,” Max said. “I want t'swim wi’—”

“You will not be swimming today,” Struan said, avoiding both Arran and Calum's eyes. “I have need of you here.”

“It is evident that I haven't arrived a moment too soon,” Justine said. She waited until Struan turned toward her. “I'm glad you have agreed that I should take the children in hand and prepare them for their rightful place in society.”

He put too large a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, burned his tongue, and coughed.

“Justine,” Calum said. “This lodge is a disgrace. I mean no disrespect to Arran or Struan—in a way I still think of this estate as my own home. I did grow up here. But this lodge was all but abandoned many years since and it is unfit—entirely unfit—for habitation. Particularly by a gentle lady completely unaccustomed to discomfort.”

Justine showed every sign of listening politely. When Calum had finished, she set down her spoon. “You misjudge me, brother. I am no milk-and-water miss. I am a mature woman who has passed from the spun-glass to the serviceable-plate phase of life. Do you intend to continue to live here, Struan?”

Whatever he said was bound to plunge him deeper into this new dilemma. “Yes,” he told her. That, at least, was true.

“Why?” Arran asked.

The question stopped every spoon. Arran regarded Struan steadily. “What is this all about? A few weeks since I left you in charge of Kirkcaldy. I return to find the castle all but deserted and you living here in squalid conditions.”

“Slightly unsuitable conditions,” Justine said archly. “Squalid is such a nasty word.”

“Slightly unsuitable conditions,” Arran said dutifully.

Despite his tension, Struan hid a smile. Justine could quell the strongest of men.

“Answer my question,” Arran insisted.

“I am not a child,” Struan told him. “I confess I have certain concerns that have led me to seek distance from the castle. I can handle my own problems, Arran.”

“You aren't handling your—”

“They are
my
problems.”

“And you are
my
younger brother. And I am the head of this household. And you owe me your allegiance in matters concerning this family.”

“You have my allegiance in all things. You do not have my permission to meddle in things that are my own affair.”

An awful silence followed.

Justine cleared her throat. “Ella, will you kindly ride to Mrs. Mercer's cottage. Ask her if she can find some women who would be glad to augment their incomes by helping me here at the lodge. I'll need them at once. As many as can come.”

Struan bowed his head. This only became worse.

“You, girl.” Justine indicated the serenely oblivious maid. “What is your name?”

“Buttercup.” The large blue eyes that turned on Justine held a hint of insolence. “I'm to do the viscount's bidding.”

Calum breathed out loudly and Struan set his jaw.

“For the present you will do
my
bidding,” Justine informed the girl. “Kindly begin by making yourself useful in the children's bedchambers.”

Buttercup's blue eyes rolled ever so slightly before she flounced from the kitchens.

“And you, Max,” Justine continued. “Go to the castle. Ask first to speak to Mr. Potts. He is my coachman. Tell him I require my trunks brought here. Then speak with the butler and ask if some of the castle staff might be spared. They did not appear particularly overworked yesterday.”

Calum half rose, ‘Justine, we are—”

She cut him off. “Kindly leave at once, Max.”

“Can I take the black?” the boy said, leaping up with enough force to rattle crockery and spill water from the flowers.

“You may not,” Struan told him. “The little chestnut will do nicely.” What was he saying? He'd have the place overrun and lose his precious isolation.

“Now,” Arran said when Max—and Ella in her shabby brown breeches and frock coat—had left. “We have much to settle and probably not much time to do so.”

“Quite,” Calum agreed.

“Do not press me further,” Struan said. “When I can explain myself—if that day ever comes—I shall do so. Until then I'll thank you to respect my privacy.”

“They only ask because they care for you,” Justine said gently. “But I know they will follow your wishes.”

Calum coughed discreetly. “Whatever Struan wants. Just know you can come to me at any time, old chap. Come along, Justine.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she told him. “Didn't you hear me ask Max to arrange for my trunks to be delivered?”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am perfectly serious.”

Arran reached to cover her hand on the table. “You are an answer to my prayers.”

She gave him a charming smile. “Why, thank you, Arran. How ever can that be?”

The corners of his eyes twitched slightly. “Naturally, this is all most unexpected, but it will be my pleasure—and Grace's—to welcome you into the family.”

Struan made fists in his lap. “Arran, I think—”

Justine interrupted him. “Oh, you fun me, Arran.” She tipped her head back and laughed.

The men didn't join her mirth.

She tapped Arran's wrist. “You know full well that I am long past an age where my reputation is an issue. And Struan's reputation is beyond reproach. There cannot be any question of silly talk about my being here.”

“On the contrary,” Arran said promptly. “You are a lovely, refined woman and you are far from being old enough to be considered a tabby.”

Justine stared at him, her lips parted.

She wasn't accustomed to compliments. Struan swallowed. If circumstances had been different, he would be delighted to put that omission to rights. Circumstances were not different, and for her own safety, Justine must not remain with him. He would say so. “We must rely upon Calum to know what is best for Justine,” Struan declared.

“No such thing,” Justine said. “I know what is best for me. Please let us waste no more time on this issue. The subject is closed. You may return to Grace and give her my love, Arran. And you, Calum, may go back to Pippa. Tell Grandmama I'll write.”

Struan could not help but laugh at gentle Justine's unexpectedly acid tongue.

While Justine managed to remain somber, Calum and Arran chuckled with Struan.

“Are you quite collected now?” Justine asked as the mirth subsided. “If so, I shall get to work. I will ensure that a room is prepared for myself and then set about putting the lodge to rights for Struan and for his dear children.”

“Justine—”

“Hush, Calum. My mind is made up.”

“You cannot stay, sister dear. There is not even a chaperon.”

“Bit late for that, wouldn't you say?” Arran remarked, fiddling with his watch chain.

“Damn your nerve!” Calum grabbed Arran's neckcloth and hauled his face closer. “Take that back or I'll thank you to name your seconds.”

“Would you not,” Arran said reasonably, “admit that a chaperon is a trifle superfluous at this point?”

With a final tug on Arran's neckcloth, Calum released him and said, “I would not.”

“Nor I,” Struan added. He wanted this issue settled. Quickly. “I think it is essential that Justine withdraw from the lodge immediately and with as little fuss as possible.” He wanted her departure to attract as little attention as possible.

“If the business of a chaperon is important at all, I'm sure that dear Mairi would be glad to come.” Justine picked up her bowl. “Is Grace planning to return to Kirkcaldy soon?”

“Not for some weeks,” Arran said.

“Then I'm sure you will be happy to spare Mairi,” Justine said sweetly. “Kindly send her to me when you stop at the castle to prepare for your return to Yorkshire.”

Arran ran a hand through his thick, curly hair which was restrained in an unfashionable but—according to the ladies—an irresistible queue. “This is not settled,” he said. “I will send Mairi. And some of the castle staff to supervise things. I shall want to talk with you, Calum—in appropriate surroundings. And with you, Struan,” he finished, glowering at his brother.

Justine carried bowls to the sinks as if she'd been a scullery maid in some previous life. “You should all go along and chat. I'm sure you have much to talk about. Many things to share. And I am anxious to put people to work here and get started on my book.”

“Book?” Calum said.

“Book?
” Arran echoed.

Struan tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a groan.

“Oh yes,” she said. “My book for prospective brides. It will revolutionize the whole business.”

“Good Lord,” Arran muttered.

“You are addled.” Calum sounded irritable. “Ladies do not write books. They certainly do not write books about matters such as the one you suggest.”

“Piffle.”

Calum planted his fists on his hips. “You have quite forgot yourself, Justine. That word has crossed your lips several times since I arrived. And the … Sin's ears, or whatever. You are not yourself.”