Fascination -and- Charmed (13 page)

“I’ll be close by. I promise ye that.”

Cold crawled over Grace’s skin. “I don’t understand you.”

Mairi leaned close. “After ye’re married. I’ll be close enough to hear if ye cry out. Please say ye’ll call me if ... if he ... if ye need me.”

“I thank you for being concerned, but there is absolutely no need for you to worry about me. And I cannot imagine why you should be worrying about something you have no true reason to expect.”

Mairi sighed—a very long sigh. “D’ye not know the marquess was married once already?”

Grace screwed up her eyes. “No.” Her heart beat faster.

“Well, he was. And she was verra beautiful and verra young.”

“How long ago was this?”

Mairi sprang to her feet. “I’ve got to away back to me work, miss. I’ll need to go now.”

“Nonsense.” Grace caught the girl’s wrist and drew her close. “I expect it was a very long time ago that the marquess was married.”

“Not so verra long,” Mairi muttered.

“How long?”

“I’m not sure. Six years, mayhap. We’re not to speak o’ it.”

“
Six
years,” Grace said. “Only
six?
What happened? How did she die?”

“Och, miss!”

Grace bit back a reproach. “It’s obvious that the marquess’s first wife died. I’m simply asking you to tell me how.”

Mairi pressed her lips together.

“Was she ill? A fever?”

Mairi shook her head.

“Did she have an accident? Riding, perhaps? A fall?”

“Someone’s got to tell ye. It might as well be me.”

“Indeed,” Grace said while her skin continued to draw tight over her bones.

“D’ye know about Revelation?”

It was Grace’s turn to shake her head. “No—” She held up a finger. “Yes. When Father Struan arrived, Mr. Innes—Calum—said they should go to Revelation at once. It’s where the marquess lives.”

“Aye. It is.”

“Where is it exactly?”

“Over there.” Mairi pointed west. “It faces the hills behind Kirkcaldy—on the side where there’s nothing but forests and sky t’see. They say he doesna care to look upon people at all, or the places where they live.”

“He sounds most unpleasant,” Grace said before she could stop herself. “That is, he sounds ... private,” she finished for want of a more acceptable description.

“They say there’s a secret chamber under Revelation.” The folds of her plain woolen skirts became of great interest to Mairi. “They say there could be a way out from below—but there’s no one who can tell ye where it is.”

Grace digested that. “What does a secret chamber have to do with the marquess’s wife?”

“Ye will scream if—”

“
Mai
ri
.
Tell me what you’re trying
not
to tell me, please.”

Distress clouded light blue eyes. “She was there at night. In the morning there was no sign of her.”

“The marchioness left?” Grace asked. “At night?”

“Not by carriage. Or on horseback. And it was deep winter, so she couldna have walked.”

“Oh.” With her heart thudding as if it intended to escape her chest, Grace pushed to the back of her chair and gripped the seat. “You think ...? They think ...?”

“Aye,” Mairi whispered. “That’s what they think. And her bairn with her.”

Grace raised sickened eyes to her maid’s face. “Her bairn?”

“Her ladyship was increasin’. That night the marquess’s voice was heard, and it was a horrible thing, so they say. A howl that shook even Kirkcaldy. Like an animal with an arrow in its heart, so me father told me.”

The thudding of her own heart beat along Grace’s veins and into her ears.

“That night a beautiful woman who was to bear the marquess’s bairn went to her bed in her own chamber. Later the marquess was heard shouting in Revelation. The next morning the marchioness was gone, and his lordship never spoke her name again.”

Thoroughly shaken, Grace moistened dry lips. “I am certain this is all foolish speculation.”

“He used to go down under Revelation. They say he kept a special store o’ spirits there. He doesna go anymore. He hasna since that night. Sealed it up. And then he ordered her room locked. Something

awful would befall anyone found in it—that’s what his lordship warned.”

“Oh, dear,” Grace said, mostly to herself. “Oh, my. Poor woman. There has to be another explanation.”

“If ye think o’ it, it’d make me feel less afeared.” Mairi wound her apron about her hands. “I’ll be away now.”

“Mairi!” Grace rose as the girl reached the door. “Is there anything else I should know?
Anything?
”

Mairi hesitated, her hand on the door handle. “No. No, nothin’ ... except that the last person to see her ladyship alive—apart from the marquess, that is—was her maid when she took hot chocolate to the marchioness’s room.”

“I see.”

“In the morning the marquess called in the maid.”

“Yes?”

“She was never seen again, either.”

A small shriek escaped Grace’s throat.

“Aye, ye’d do well to be concerned. It’ll make ye more careful. And there’s one other thing ye ought to know.”

Grace could only stare.

“Ye’re sleepin’ in the marchioness’s room.”

There were times, like now, when Grace wished Mama were someone with whom she could share confidences. But here, as had always been the case, they saw each other rarely, and only when Mama chose to do so.

Should
she go to Niall tonight?

Naturally, Mama would say no. After all, Niall could not offer what the marquess could offer.

Not that Niall was particularly likely to offer anything at all—except companionship while she was here.

But they did seem so admirably suited ...

Wasn’t what she felt with him
exactly
what she’d hoped to eventually feel with a man, a man she would wish to marry?

He was some sort of servant.

Grace did not care.

She hesitated by the door of her room.

The pelisse robe had been the perfect answer to Grace’s dilemma. Of amber-colored velvet, the garment covered her from throat to ankle and was closed along the length of its front with sturdy hooks and eyes concealed by flat, knotted silk bows in a shade like russet autumn leaves. A narrow ruff of cream lace rested about her neck.

A guard to keep her own errant responses trapped.

And a shield to turn back any misguided notion Niall might have about repeating last night’s definitely questionable performance.

She raised her chin, set her shoulders squarely, and slipped from the room she wished she need never enter again. It seemed full of silent screams. And draped about with shifting shadows.

Paperskull.
Whatever might or might not have happened in that chamber could not have left anything behind, and it certainly had nothing to do with her.

Last night Grace had taken a wrong turn on her way to the music room and arrived late. Tonight she knew exactly where she was going.

Her skirts brushed a suit of armor.

Metal joints rattled.

Tiny hairs rose along Grace’s spine.

She drew back against the wall and looked up into the painting of a man’s narrow, sardonic face. “Very well,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Sneer at me. I am not afraid. I am
not.
And I think you were a greedy, self-indulgent creature. Those wet, red lips tell me so.”

Talking to portraits? This place was fuddling her mind.

Carrying the one small package she had still to place with her other bundles, she took several more steps and stopped again.

Panic swelled up and she clasped her throat.

“What should I do?
What should I do?
Oh, please tell me what I should do.”

No wise voice answered.

If she doubted that what she might share with Niall was pure, she needed no wiser voice than her own.

But she didn’t trust herself in this.

“Tell me to return to my room.
Please.
Make me go back there and close the door and never see him again.
Please.
”

All she heard were the creakings and hushings

and whisperings that had accompanied her on her previous trips through these corridors.

But no music.

Last night there had been music, just as on her first venture. Again it had enveloped her and lured her on. She strained to catch the sound now, but not a note reached her. The absence increased her uncertainty. It was Niall’s music that had so helped convince her that they were alike. They both loved beauty and were not free to pursue it as they should.

Earlier in the day she’d been determined not to go to Niall, but her fortitude had failed.

Go to him. Explain that you were not yourself last night. Tell him you understand that you may somehow have been responsible for those marvelous ... those undoubtedly inappropriate touches. Say you do not blame him at all and beg him not to think ill of you now that you have come to your senses and are firmly resolved never to allow further moral lapses. Ask him about the stories you
’
ve heard—about the marquess and the marchioness and the room.

Brushing away formless things that seemed to wind about her face and neck and pluck at her hands, Grace scurried on, faster and faster, until she could scarcely breathe. Niall could tell her what she needed to know. She would ask her questions, go to her bed, and never seek out his company again.

Or she could decide not to marry the marquess and ask Niall to take her instead.

Out of the question! This would be their last meeting.

There. That was decided.

The final flight of stairs was gained and she ran upward.

“Good evening, Grace.”

She had not heard the door to the gallery open. Off balance, she stumbled on the top step and would have fallen into the room—had Niall not caught her.

Grace’s face collided with his solid chest. The next moment she found herself swept up by an exceedingly strong pair of hands at her waist, swung around, and deposited on the blue silk carpet.

“So eager,” he said, a smile making the dimpled grooves she’d imagined so many times whilst waiting to see him again. “I’m flattered that you ran all the way to me.”

“I did not run all the way,” she told him, gasping. “I merely tripped.” Fortunately she’d managed to keep a grip on her package.

Before she guessed his intent, Niall pulled her into an embrace that threatened to suffocate her. His mouth covered hers, opened hers, and his tongue slipped past her teeth in that strange, mystical way it had done so last night.

Grace forced her eyes to remain open. She would not succumb to these abandoned desires. With a great effort, she tore her face from his and pushed at him.

Raising one dark, slashing brow, he released her at once. “What is this, imp? A return of maidenly modesty?”

“I have never lost my maidenly modesty,” Grace informed him.

“Really?” Niall paced around her, studying every inch from the top of her tightly coiled chignon with its few restrained curls that fell forward at the ear, all the way to amber satin slippers that barely peeped from the hem of the matching pelisse robe. “Intriguing. Truly intriguing.”

Grace walked past him and set her package down by the window. “There are a few things I wish to tell you. And one or two questions I should like to ask. Would that be acceptable?”

When he didn’t reply, she swept the full back of her skirts around and turned to look at him. “Niall? May I proceed?”

He made an expansive gesture with one arm. “Please do.”

“First there is the matter of a rumor that has been spreading today. Are you aware of it?”

“Something about missing trinkets? A handful of small gems? Yes. It is of no importance.”

“But Calum did tell the marquess.” Grace picked up her parcel again. “He would not have done so if he hadn’t thought it important.”

“Mr. Innes has become Calum? I had not thought the two of you were on such intimate terms.”

“The use of a first name is hardly intimate.”

“It is more intimate than the form accepted between strangers.”

“We are
not
strangers.”

Niall came closer and stood, looking down at her. “You find it remarkably easy to become closely acquainted with men, don’t you?”

His meaning was obscure, but Grace doubted she would like it made more clear. “Calum has been kind to me. For that I’m grateful. It has been mentioned to me that certain suggestions have been made about the identity of the supposed thieves.”

“No such suggestion was made to me ... by the marquess.”

“I’m told that a member of the staff thinks the crimes are being committed by someone recently arrived here.” She stared at him hard. “How many people can you think of who are recently arrived at Kirkcaldy?”

He strolled away, and for an instant she thought he might sit at the piano. Instead, he picked up a violin and peered at its bridge.

“You can think of no one but my mother and myself, can you?” Without waiting for his reply, Grace tugged open the oilcloth that wrapped her package and spread the contents upon the window seat. “It occurs to me that someone may have observed me bringing my supplies here and decided that I am hiding things I have stolen.”

“Are you suggesting
I
may have made that connection?”

“I don’t know. Come here, please. You will see that any such suspicion is false.”

“You really are an intriguing little baggage.” He did as she asked and silently regarded the jumble she’d set out for him. “Paintbrushes? Paints?”

Grace drew herself up. “I am a painter.” She raised the lid of the window seat enough to drag out another bundle and wrestled a canvas into the light. “I do not expect you to understand my form. It is not necessary that you do.”

Niall took the canvas from her and propped it against the drapes. “Oils?” he asked, predictably enough.

“Indeed.
Oils.
I have no interest in the dull watercolors ladies are supposed to take such delight in daubing.” Why was she showing him, telling him? Was it truly because she feared he might make a connection between her hidden possessions and the things that had been stolen? Or was it because she needed, so very desperately, to share what she had never been able to share, and to do so with another human being in whom she felt a kindred passion for beautiful things?