Marriage By Arrangement (8 page)

Tiptoeing to the door, she placed her hand on the latch, and then hesitated. She wasn’t afraid.

Avondale had never hurtfully laid a hand on her, but occasionally during the last few days his eyes had looked so wild she scarcely recognized him. Caught between his distance and his wildness, he seemed to be two men.

She folded her arms gently across her stomach. Now she had the baby to think of.

In the adjoining room, Avondale’s voice reverberated around the walls. His footsteps paced the length of the chamber and back. He stumbled, and she heard the thud of flesh against iron. A shiver crept up her spine.

Love meant taking care of the loved one. Love decreed taking action when her husband needed her. Love entailed more than feeling warm and cherished. Love gave. And gave. And kept on giving. Even when the giver had no idea how to help.

She pressed her ear against the sitting room door. Silence. Certainly Avondale needed her. She pushed down on the hard iron latch and shoved. The inlaid door opened barely an inch.

The stench of something burning bit into her nostrils.

She shoved her shoulder against the door, but it budged only a few more inches. She squeezed through.

By the light of the silver moon beaming through the many half-curtained windows, she saw her husband sprawled across the Turkish carpet, his head next to the enormous fireplace and irons. An overturned candle burned into the thick fibers of the red carpet not inches from his limp hand.

She rushed to his side, dropped to her knees, and smothered a velvet pillow over the spreading flame. The odor of scorch billowed up with a sooty cloud of smoke, but the fire died.

“Avondale, Geoffrey, speak to me.” She shook his inert shoulder.

Where was the promise of all that strength? He looked so helpless. His jacket was hanging open, his clothes rumpled.

He stirred and turned a lax face in her direction. Opening one dark eye he drawled, “I’m in a bit of a fuzz.” He put a hand to his forehead. “But I see you are the sprite who brings the breath of angel wings.” He grimaced. “Guardian angel. Dash it all. Keep out that bully. Lock the doors against him. He and his horsemen. They’re after me.”

She turned away, unable to bear seeing the fright distorting his face. What did he think he saw?

She glanced around the room. Avondale had blocked the door to the hall with his huge clothing press. He had moved the fainting couch to obstruct the door to their bedchamber. She’d only just been able to force her way inside.

She touched his high, intelligent forehead. Her fingers discovered a large bump growing thicker.

Grabbing her hand, he shakily pulled himself into a sitting position, wound his arms around her, and buried his head in her bosom. For the time being he was quiet.

She must get him into their bed and perhaps give him a small dose of laudanum.

When he woke, mayhap he would have forgotten his nightmare and would become his sweet, gentle self…or the haughty, cold shadow of himself.

She shivered.

Either way, she must help him find refuge from his demons. How did he cope during the day when he disappeared? Did his duties worry him so that he went a little wild at night?

As if Avondale was a small, frightened child, she kissed the angry knot on his forehead and held him against her breast and rocked him, humming a soothing tune.

For a few minutes he was quiet.

Then he freed himself and jumped up. “Billy the Butcher! Look out the window! I’m certain he’s arrived. Twas only a matter of time.” His normally pleasing baritone voice sounded high-pitched…and fearful.

Avondale paced the large chamber, running his strong fingers through his brown hair and leaving the thick mass standing on end. His elegant breeches wore patches of mud, and his waistcoat was half unbuttoned. Limping on one stockinged foot, and one boot, her handsome husband looked wild-eyed and totally unlike his usual debonair self.

Throwing the half-opened curtains all the way back, he pressed his nose to the glass, and then stalked from window to window. The candle sconces lighting the walls wavered, dimmed, and almost blew out from his momentum.

“Avondale, whatever is the matter?” Following him, she gazed out the window he had just left. Nothing to see outside or down below, but empty walks and driving rain. “I’m certain no one has arrived. Neither the dogs nor the servants announced visitors.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please calm down. No one is anywhere nearby.”

“Yes, yes. He’s outside. See the blood dripping from his hands. He’s calling me. Don’t… don’t let him inside.” His brown eyes looked dark and glazed, and Avondale stared through her.

She grasped his strong shoulders. “There’s no one outside, my darling.”

She must discover what haunted him. She’d heard of men returned from battle who suffered still from what they’d experienced. And certainly Avondale looked like a man who’d experienced horror. Had he fought at Culloden?

She took her husband’s clenched hand, but he pulled free and again paced from window to window, staring out of each one.

“Listen! Listen! Can’t you hear Bloody Billy calling me?” He cupped a hand over his ear.

She held her breath and listened. The wind howled almost like an angry voice. She pressed her ear to the thick window glass, but only the hissing sleet driving against the unyielding stones of the castle reached her ears. “There’s no one there. It’s all right. No one is outside.”

Lurching from side to side, her husband continued to pace, his single boot thudding on the thick carpet.

Doors creaked open in the upstairs hall.

She could imagine guests, nightcaps askew, peeking out.

Again she tried to calm him. “Come to bed, my dearest.”

He shook off her hand and strode to the doorway to the hall. “He shall not get you. You must hide. I shall lead him away.” Shoving aside the heavy furniture as if each piece was a toy, he flung the door open, clattered out, sped down the long hall, and took the stairs at a run. Soon, the back castle door slammed open and shut.

She rushed to the window. He dashed through the downpour and slopped through puddles on the path to the stables. Would he injure himself? Already his soaked jacket and bedraggled shirt clung to his body.

Soon a horse galloped out the stable door. Avondale rode bareback in a line to the open moor, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He would catch his death of consumption.

Someone coughed behind her.

She turned. “Hennings?”

Avondale’s muscular valet stood just inside the open door.

She pulled her robe closed. Her hand trembled. “Please send someone to fetch His Grace back to the castle.”

“Yes, Milady.” Hennings backed out the door. “I shall go myself.” He rushed down the hall, his nightclothes flapping about his bare ankles.

She followed.

Heads were indeed peeking from bedchamber doors.

“I’m so sorry, we awakened you. Everything is fine. His Grace had to see to an emergency. Please go return to your beds.”

Yawns, nods, and a few curious looks met her gaze. Then one by one, each returned to his room and closed his door.

Mums bustled down the hall. “Is everything well?”

“I don’t know.” She tried to smile.

Mums looked so worried.

“However, I believe I shall entail Rafe to accompany Avondale, should he be called out again in the middle of the night.”

“Rafe?”

“The brawny Scot who shoes the horses.”

“Whatever for?”

“To keep my dear husband safe.”

Mums eyes widened. Her mouth thinned. “To be his guard, you mean.” She frowned. “Isn’t his valet enough?”

So Mums had not missed Avondale’s valet’s real mission. How many others understood as well? If only the too long lingering wedding guests would return to court or to their own homes. Perhaps they enjoyed the Scottish country air more than the more polluted atmosphere of London. Certainly the hunting here was superior to that in England.

Or perhaps Mums’s fine cook kept them too happy.

And Papa would never be rude to such high born gentry by asking them when they planned to return to their homes.

Cailin shook her head. “Apparently Avondale’s valet sleeps at night. I must see that Rafe does not.”

“Oh my dear, whatever can be wrong with His Grace?” Tears glistened in Mums aqua eyes.

“I wish I knew. I’ll call for his royal mother. Perhaps she’ll know what to do.”

“Oh, heavens.”

“I wouldn’t send for her if I was not just a bit desperate.” Cailin bit her lip.

9

Cailin watched Avondale stir, open his dark chocolate eyes, and stretch. Her heart ached at the loving expression in their warm depth.

“Ah, my dearest wife. I’ve just enjoyed the soundest sleep. I say, what time is it?”

“Almost daylight. Are you still feeling ill?”

“Ill?” Avondale’s face puckered into a puzzled expression. “I’m quite refreshed.” He opened his arms, and smiled. “Come in to bed, dear Cailin.”

She hesitated. Did he have no memory of last night? Had the laudanum his valet administered after Avondale entered the castle following his wild midnight ride erased the terror from her husband’s mind? What awful nightmare haunted him? Who was Billy the Butcher? If she questioned Avondale, would she cause him to slip into another spell? She must be cautious with what she said.

“I sent word to Stirling to invite your royal mother to visit us again.”

“Smashing. But whatever for?” He patted the silk sheets lying smoothly next to him. “Come to me.”

“I…I thought she might like to be among the first to know that we are expecting a baby.” She could not bring herself to tell him the real reason she’d summoned his mother.

His eyes widened and sparkled. A huge boyish grin transformed his handsome face. His broad, bare shoulders straightened. “Fine! Fine!” He caressed her arm. “And how are you feeling?”

“Physically, I’ve never felt better. No morning sickness.”

“And emotionally?” His proud grin had turned tender.

Tentatively she touched his lips. “I have ups and downs.” She was so worried about him.

He smiled and stroked his bare chest. “That’s very normal, I think. Though I’m not so sure I believe in prayer, this is definitely an answer.” His warm hand cupped hers. “Having a son will take a heavy burden from my shoulders.” A frown puckered his fine forehead. “You must take care of yourself. I think no horse riding until the baby arrives.” With his free hand, he stroked her hair. “Now come, my sweet little kitten. I’m glad the royal mother is visiting, but you’re the one I really want to see.”

The familiar warm, loving feeling gathered inside her heart.

Perhaps the scene last night had been caused by taut nerves.

Avondale had returned over soon from the boar hunt in order to be in time for the masquerade Mums and Megan had planned for Fiona.

Papa had been grumpy as well, when the men had reappeared empty-handed.

Yet Avondale had seemed on edge during dinner. Had something else happened to her husband between dinner and when she found him so agitated in the bedchamber? Were affairs of his estates causing him concern? Was Bloody Billy a hired assassin?

Father, whatever Avondale’s problem, please do not let him become so unsettled again. Help me make him happy. Help me share his burdens. Help me to be a good wife. Give me wisdom.

She slid into bed next to her husband.

10

Cailin and Avondale spent a happy hour reading the Bible together and discussing the various passages before going to bed.

Once the single candle he permitted was doused, he held her in his strong arms. His full, warm lips pressed sweet love onto her neck and lips. “I fear so for the child, my bride. I would not put his life into any danger. Having a son is not to be taken lightly.” He stroked her hair and cradled her against his muscle-ridged chest.

She heard the rock-solid beat of his heart. “But I’m a strong, healthy woman. We should have no fear—”

“You look as delicate as a fine china cup.” Avondale’s eyes, shining in the moonlight, held shadows that darkened them to onyx. “You are my treasure, and I will not risk putting you or our child in the slightest danger.”

For the next several nights she contented herself with enjoying his presence and explaining the meaning of various passages in Scripture. One passage in Colossians seemed to particularly attract his attention.

Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son: In Whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins.

Yet, each morning his side of the bed was empty.

After taking breakfast with the family, Cailin found herself walking in the garden savoring the freshness of the morning, listening to the songs of birds, and inhaling the scent of roses.

More often than not, Brody measured footsteps with her.

“Where is Megan?”

“Ach. She seems taken with some of the English gentry. I think yer ma has given me wife the chore of entertaining the ladies.” He walked, hands clasped behind his broad back, a frown between his straight brows.

“I see.” Cailin avoided brushing her morning dress on the roses thrusting their thorny branches over the paved path.

They walked together in silence, each trapped inside their own thoughts until they reached the sty over the hedgerow that marked the end of the garden. He reached out a huge hand and helped her over, though she’d easily scampered over the sty since she was a child.

“I wrote a new tune for Megan. Would ye hear me before I play it for her?”

Perhaps if she went with him, she would dredge up the courage to ask him what he thought about Avondale’s odd behavior. “You have your bagpipes hidden?”

Of course he did. The English forbade the playing of bagpipes and confiscated any they found, imprisoning the owner inside the Tower of London.

“Aye. They are hidden inside the mews. If ye have the time we could trot over there and I could play for ye. Ye could tell me if ye thought Megan would like her song.”