Fascination -and- Charmed (22 page)

“You’re absolutely certain the marquess has asked to see me?”

“He was adamant.”

Adamant
had never been a word Grace particularly cared for. It had an angry, authoritative sound. She walked reluctantly at Calum’s side through the confusing twists and turns, the ups and downs and arounds, of Kirkcaldy.

“I thought his lordship lived in Revelation.”

“He does.”

“Then why didn’t we go directly in through the door from the walled garden rather than take such a circuitous route?”

“That’s the marquess’s entrance.”

“He doesn’t like anyone else to use it?”

“The marquess is an unusually private man.”

So private, he scarcely wanted to meet the woman he was supposedly to marry. “Perhaps he intends to send me packing.”

“He doesn’t intend any such thing.”

Where was Niall?

She hadn’t seen him for two days. Would he be with the marquess? Oh,
please
let him be there.

Calum held her elbow as they descended a short flight of steps, crossed a small hall with plastered walls that rose several stories to a ceiling spanned with arches, and started up a gray stone wheel-stair.

Grace halted. “Why should the marquess care

who uses his precious door when he never goes out?”

“He ... That is a question you should ask the man himself.”

Grace fervently wished she’d never, ever come here.

She allowed herself to be led, very slowly, onward. “Wh-What am I to call him?”

This time it was Calum who halted. His brow furrowed. “He is Arran Francis William Rossmara, Marquess of Stonehaven.” He appeared uncertain. “Stonehaven would be the expected thing. He’ll instruct you according to his preference.”

The wheel-stair curled elegantly to a polished oak door at the top. A very solid oak door flanked by two portraits. When Calum saw Grace staring at them, he said, “Mary Queen of Scots,” of the painting to the left, and “Prince James Stuart,” of the other.

Grace said, “They look ill.”

“They probably were.”

“Living in castles can’t be particularly healthy.”

Calum checked his watch.

“Damp,” Grace said. “Not good for the lungs.”

“The marquess is waiting for you.” Calum climbed the last two stairs and offered Grace his hand.

Grace crossed her arms.

“My papa always warned me against the evils of damp buildings. He said I wasn’t strong. I needed warm, dry accommodations, that’s what he said.”

Calum crooked his fingers.

“I should have changed my gown,” she said, indicating her spring green muslin over which she wore a dark green velvet spencer. “This is not at all suitable for evening wear.”

“I doubt the marquess will notice.”

Grace felt light-headed. “Is he also blind?”

“Also?”

“In addition to his other infirmities?” Her hands were cold, the palms clammy.

“He is not blind. He is also not patient.”

Grace barely stopped herself from moaning. “He has ... Surely someone is readily to hand at all times in case he needs something?” Her voice was suitably nonchalant, wasn’t it?

“What his lordship wants, his lordship gets, I assure you.”

She must sound offhand, innocent. “I expect he has a close
companion
to attend him?”

The expression in Calum’s eyes changed, became even more unreadable. “His lordship wants
you
as his close companion, Grace. And he wants you at once.”

Niall was the marquess’s nearest and most trusted confidant. Naturally Niall knew Grace had been summoned. He would be in position exactly as she had instructed.

He had not seemed entirely delighted at her announcement that if she left Kirkcaldy, she hoped he would choose to go with her. In fact, he had not seemed delighted at all. He had said absolutely nothing definite on the subject.

Perhaps his sense of duty had required that he confess to meeting with Grace.

Perhaps the marquess was in a towering rage.

Perhaps Niall had been sent away!

Surely Father Struan’s brother could not be a complete monster.

“Is the marquess at all like his brother?”

Calum was turning the heavy brass door handle.

“Father Struan is so nice. Very gentle and understanding. And helpful.”

The door creaked open over dark wood floors worn to a satiny patina. The room beyond was large,

the lighting low, and Grace had a fleeting impression of masculine opulence.

“The marquess is nothing like his brother,” Calum said. “The bedchamber is beyond the far door.”

Overwhelmed by dread, Grace stepped tentatively over the threshold and glanced at Calum. “I confess,” she whispered, “that I am frightened.”

He bowed his head. “I know. It’s natural under the circumstances.”

“What should I do?” She caught his hand and held on tightly. “I am in the most terrible pickle. Do you suppose—No, of course there is absolutely no truth to the silly stories about him eating people.”

Calum laughed and patted her fingers. “He isn’t easily roused to anger—or so he says, although I frequently take issue with him—but I should say that his bark is almost always worse than his bite.”

“Oh!” Grace’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Take heart, little one,” Calum said, smiling at her. “Occasionally I am gifted with intuition. Call it second sight, perhaps. This evening I feel a premonition that his lordship will take one look at you and decide you are
exactly
suited to his taste.”

“His
taste?
”
Grace’s throat constricted.

“Indeed. In fact, I think he will consider you positively
toothsome.
”

Chuckling, he shut himself out—and Grace in. She covered her face with both hands. Her own gift for seeing what others apparently didn’t see was particularly active tonight. She saw darkness and rage and a fearsome creature reaching for her with gnarled and bony fingers.

A level head could divert many a disaster.
Calm,
Grace told herself,
be calm.

A fire crackled and spat in the white marble fireplace. The room felt different from other areas of the castle. It felt, Grace realized when she managed to make herself turn around, sumptuous and cared for.

A large carpet covered much of the floor. Its colors, dark red and green and gold, held the soft sheen of silk. A huge writing table with papers, ink, and pens scattered on its leather surface stood at an angle, and an Aubusson-tapestry-upholstered
fauteuil
was pushed back as if its owner had only recently sat in it to work.

Grace drew in a shaky breath. In the room beyond lay an ailing man, yet here everything was kept as if he might emerge at any time to resume the activities of his vigorous youth. The lords of Stonehaven had certain things in common with the ancient Egyptians. They liked to store worldly goods, untouched, in the tombs of their dead.

Blood drained so quickly to her feet that Grace swayed.

Widgeon.

Cork-brain.

Just because Grumpy ranted about grave-looting, there was no reason for Grace to become even more fanciful than usual.

Good grief, the marquess wasn’t even dead.

Yet.

She must either run away into passages and stairways and dark rooms from which she would probably never find escape, or go to meet the marquess.

A tapestry covering most of one wall was in what Grace recognized as the
Chinoiserie
style. If life in China was at all like the chaotic, capering madness depicted by the Frenchman who had most likely designed the hanging, then Grace was grateful never to have been there.

Whenever she was alone in the passageways of Kirkcaldy—particularly at night—there was a shrill singing in the sounds that wound through chill air. Such sounds might come from the open mouths of the pigtailed dervishes in the tapestry.

What could possibly be so terrible about a poor, bedridden old man?

Stiffening her spine, holding her head erect, Grace crossed the room and knocked on the door Calum had indicated.

It swung open beneath her hand.

Only firelight relieved the darkness beyond. The red-gold gleam rose and fell over the dim shapes of furnishings and glistened indistinctly on the heavy folds of drapes drawn about a massive four-post bed.

She could still flee.

Grace swallowed the purest terror she had ever felt and took several steps into the bedchamber.

Ninnies fled.

Immature misses fresh off the leading rein fled.

Women approaching advanced stages of spinsterhood held their ground and did what must be done.

“Good evening, your lordship. It’s Grace Wren.” Her knees wobbled under the weight of spent courage.

She heard a rustle from the bed.

“I do hope I’m not disturbing the rest you must so sorely need, but I understand you wish to speak with me.”

Another rustle.

For the first time Grace felt a twinge of pity. The poor man must be too weak to make himself heard.

“Mr. Innes came to London and told me you have need of a ...” How bizarre it all sounded spoken aloud. She had been selected as one might select a horse—according to the duties it was to fulfill. “I agreed to be what you need at this time.” Now that she thought of it, she wasn’t entirely certain what it was that the marquess was supposed to need.

Grace went to the bed and cleared her throat. “I

am going to open the curtains. If you prefer me not to do so, please give me a sign.”

She was met with absolute silence.

Grace parted the draperies.

“Your lordship?” She leaned over.

The bed was empty. Counterpane and sheets were folded back, smooth pillows were stacked, and there was no sign of the Marquess of Stonehaven.

Relief brought a giggle bubbling into her throat. But where was he? Where could someone incapable of walking possibly have gone?

“I did as you asked, Grace,” a man’s deep voice said, very softly, and she clutched handfuls of the bed drapes. “Your hair is falling out of its prim chignon, my dear.”

Niall’s voice.

She touched her hair, looking around. “Where are you?”

The drapes opposite parted. “Here, of course, exactly as you instructed. Didn’t you tell me to hide behind the marquess’s bed curtains?”

Any joy she might have felt at the sight of him was extinguished by the cold glitter in his eyes.

“You did tell me to be here? To hide in case the marquess fell upon you and did you violence?”

Grace nodded.

“All the frightful stories you heard—and believed—about him must have made it very difficult for you to come here tonight.”

“I had no choice.” Her voice cracked.

“Of course not. No choice if you wanted to reap the bounty you’re prepared to sell your body and soul to gain.”

He did not sound himself at all. And she did not understand what ... Yes, she
did
understand what he implied, but not why he was so angry. She had been honest with him from their first meeting.

“His lordship wishes to speak to me.”

“Yes, he does.”

“I expect he’s decided the time has come to arrange the wedding.” Why, oh why didn’t Niall smile, or offer her some shred of comfort?

“And then you will get your price, lovely imp.” He averted his face, and in the firelight, his profile was harsh, arrogantly masculine. “How I wish this were otherwise.”

He regretted that she was promised to another. Grace’s heart lifted. “I, too. But this is a matter of necessity. And convenience—and we must make the best of it. My feelings for you will not change.”

“And what exactly are your feelings for me?”

Never, ever, must a lady allow a gentleman to know the full extent of his effect upon her, not if she wished to retain his esteem. Mama had told her that much. “I find that I anticipate each of our meetings with the deepest pleasure.”

“I thought so. Yet you failed to keep our last appointment.”

“You ...
annoyed
me. You were arrogant and you ordered me to appear. And you left me ... Well, I was not at all comfortable when you left.”

He laughed shortly. “Not at all comfortable? What a quaint turn of phrase you do have. I left you unfulfilled, and women such as you demand fulfillment.”

“You misunderstand. I do not care to be told what to do—not by someone who has no authority over me.”

“And you decided to punish me? How predictable.”

“No. Not at all. I was simply ... It seemed advisable not to come until I fully understood certain things.”

“Tell me about them.”

She felt herself blush and blessed the gloom that would hide her pink cheeks. “I prefer not to. It would seem from your cross countenance this evening that you are angry with me. That saddens me, but I have learned in my life to accept disappointment.”

“How so?”

“How is of no importance, but I had noted your lack of enthusiasm at my suggestion that we appeared compatible enough to forge a long-standing friendship.”

“
Friendship!
”
He laughed aloud. “How I love your little codes. The other evening you wanted to ensure that you could count on satisfactory service whenever you required it. That is the
friendship
you sought.”

“Kindly make yourself plain.” Her lips trembled and she set them firmly together.

“Very well,” he said, throwing the bed hangings wide apart. “Since you insist on basic language. You anticipated that I would be delighted to offer up my body on demand—your demand.”

His words were like none she had heard before. “You sound so strange.”

“Do I.” He crammed the back of a hand against his mouth, and Grace noticed what she’d been too shocked to notice before: He wore a black silk robe open all the way to the sash that held it together at the waist. Black hair curled over his broad, muscular chest.

Grace looked quickly away.

“In truth, my dear, I shall be more than grateful to offer up that particular part of my body that most interests you. Even as we speak it is letting me know how ready it is to satisfy you this very instant. But I must teach it that in this, as in all things that concern you and me, it must always be my will, not yours, that is served. Do you understand what I am telling you?”