The Heiress Bride (23 page)

Sinjun gave him a long look. “There are several lists for you in the estate room, from the crofters I have visited. I trust you wish to see to them?”

He cursed again, but she said nothing more, simply went behind the musty Oriental screen and put on her nightgown.

He was gone the following morning before she awoke.

 

Sinjun smiled as she heard the huge clock downstairs strike twelve times. Ah, the stroke of midnight. It shouldn't be long now.

It wasn't. Not ten minutes later she heard the soft scraping sounds, like light-footed scurrying rats in the wainscoting. There were the familiar moans, the slapping of the chains.

Very slowly, she sat up in bed and counted to five. Finally she cried out, sounding so terrified she scared herself. “Oh, please stop, halt, I say! Oh, dear heavens, save me, save me!” Then she moaned herself. “I cannot bear it, I shall have to leave this haunted place. Ah, Pearlin' Jane, no, no.”

Finally the sounds ceased.

She was grinning like a half-wit when she slipped out of bed an hour later.

Philip was twitching in his sleep. He was dreaming about a large fighting trout he'd caught in Loch Leven the previous week, when he'd gone with Murdock the Stunted. The trout grew as his dream lengthened. It got bigger and bigger and its
mouth seemed now the size of an open door. Then Murdock the Stunted was touching him, telling him what a fine fisherman he was, his voice soft and softer still . . .

But it wasn't Murdock the Stunted's fingers or his voice. Suddenly the trout was gone and he was back in his own bed, but he wasn't alone. He felt it again, like soft fingers on the back of his neck, and he heard the soft voice saying, “You're a bright lad, Philip, so bright and so kind. Och, aye, a good lad.” He lurched upright and there, beside his bed, hand still outstretched, was a dead lady.

She had long, nearly white hair and wore a flowing white gown. She was young and beautiful, but she looked ghastly. Her hand was but inches from him and that hand and all its dead fingers were whiter than her gown.

Philip swallowed, then yelled at the top of his lungs. He grabbed his covers and yanked them over his head. It was a nightmare, his brain had made the trout into a ghost, that was all, but he burrowed farther down into the feather mattress, clutching the covers over him like a lifeline.

There was the soft voice again. “Philip, I'm the Virgin Bride. Your new stepmother told you about me. I protect her, Philip. Your Pearlin' Jane is afraid of me. She doesn't like the way you and Dahling are trying to scare off Sinjun.”

Just as suddenly the voice stopped. Philip didn't move. Since he couldn't breathe, he made a small tunnel beneath the bedclothes to the edge of the bed. He waited, his breath coming in huge gasps.

It wasn't until dawn that he eased his head out from under the covers. Dull morning light was seeping into his bedchamber. There was no sign of anything or anyone. Not a sign of the Virgin Bride.

* * *

Sinjun went about her usual duties, outwardly serene, smiling, wishing Aunt Arleth would drop into a deep well. Colin had been gone four days now, and she was so angry with him that she occasionally shook with it.

She was very tempted to go to Edinburgh. Or would he now be in Clackmannanshire or Berwick? Damned man.

Her trunks and Fanny her mare arrived late that morning, delivered by James, one of the head Northcliffe Hall stable lads, and three of his companions, stable lads all. She danced about like a child, so excited that she even kissed James and hugged the other stable lads. All was well at Northcliffe Hall, including her mother, the dowager countess, who was, nevertheless, according to James, a bit downpin because there was no one else about for her to improve upon. James delivered letters to Sinjun, saw Dulcie smiling at him as if he were a prince, and was more than delighted to spend the night at Vere Castle.

After she saw James and the stable lads off the next morning, their satchels filled with food for them and letters for her family, she went to the stables and saddled Fanny herself.

“She be a foine mare,” said Murdock the Stunted. Young Ostle, all of twenty-two years old, agreed fervently. George II, a mongrel of indeterminate lineage, barked wildly at the scent of the new animal, and Crocker yelled at him in language so colorful Sinjun vowed to make him her teacher.

The day was warm, the sun bright overhead. Sinjun click-clicked Fanny onto the gravel drive, now widened and newly regraveled—with the assurance, naturally, that the laird would pay for it upon his return. She was smiling. She'd ordered other
things done as well the same day that Colin had left again. Three of the crofters' huts were getting new roofs. She'd purchased seven goats and distributed them to all the crofters with children and babies. She'd sent Mr. Seton—never loath to impress his neighbors and the tradesmen with his importance—to Kinross to purchase more grain and sorely needed farming implements. A score of barrels and several dozen chickens had been duly distributed to the crofters. Ah, yes, she'd been busy, she'd meddled to her heart's content, and if Colin didn't return home soon, she fancied she would begin another wing to Vere Castle. She'd also set the local seamstress to work on pennants for the four Vere Castle towers. The Kinross tartan pattern was of red, dark forest green, and black. She wished she could see Colin garbed in a Highland kilt, but they'd been outlawed after Culloden in 1746. It was a pity, but the pennants would proudly fly the Kinross tartan.

Sinjun set Fanny into a gallop all the way to the very edge of Loch Leven and loosed the reins so her mare could drink the cold water. She looked toward the eastern moors that stretched up the sides of the Lomond Hills themselves. Barren and empty and immensely savage. Even at this distance she could see patches of purple heather, sprouting up between rocks and out of deep crevices in the land. And to the west, the land was verdant, rich and lush, and every acre of it tilled and flowering with growing wheat and barley and rye. A land of contradictions, a land of beauty so profound she felt it touch the deepest part of her. It was now her land, and there was no going back.

She patted Fanny's sleek neck. “I'm being a romantic and you're fat,” she said, sniffing in the clear sweet air, the scent of honeysuckle and heather light and teasing. “Douglas has been letting you eat
your head off in the stables, hasn't he? A good gallop is just what you need, my girl.”

“I occasionally say that to my women.”

Sinjun turned slowly in her saddle. A man was seated on a magnificent bay barb not six feet from her. Why hadn't Fanny whinnied?

“I wonder why my mare didn't alert me to your presence,” she said aloud, straightening now and looking at him.

He frowned. A bit of fear would have pleased him. At least a show of surprise at his unexpected appearance. Perhaps her wits were slow and she hadn't understood his small jest.

“Your mare didn't alert you because she's drinking from the loch. The loch water is magical, 'tis said, and a mare will drink until her stomach bloats.”

“Then I should stop her.” Sinjun gently tugged the reins back, forcing Fanny's muzzle from the water. “Who are you, sir? A neighbor, perhaps?”

“I suppose I'm a neighbor. You are the new countess of Ashburnham.”

She nodded.

“You're quite lovely. I expected a rabbit-toothed hag, truth be told, since you're such a full-blooded heiress. Colin must believe he's the luckiest bastard alive.”

“I'm pleased I'm not a hag, for Colin never would have wed me, regardless of the number and weight of my groats. As for his feelings of luck, I cannot attest to that.”

He frowned at her. “Colin is a fool. He's not worthy of any woman's regard.”

She looked at him more closely now as he spoke. He was tall, perhaps taller than Colin, though it was difficult to be certain, since he was sitting atop his stallion, his posture indolent, his expression
amused, his clothing of the best quality and fitting him perfectly. And he was very slender, to the point of delicateness, but surely that was an absurd thought to apply to a man. He had a full head of very soft blond hair and his forehead was high and wide. If anything, his features were too refined, too soft, almost feminine. His complexion was fair, his eyes a pale blue, his jawline and his chin as soft and delicate as a woman's. This quite pretty man was vicious?

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am Robert MacPherson.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Did you now? Well, that does make it easier, doesn't it? What has the bastard said about me?”

Sinjun shook her head. “Did you try to kill Colin in London?”

She saw that he hadn't; the surprise was too sharp in his eyes, his hands tightened too quickly and roughly on his stallion's reins. So it had evidently been a coincidence after all. He laughed as he flicked a fly from his stallion's neck. “Perhaps. I try to take advantage of opportunities when they present themselves.”

“Why would you wish to kill Colin?”

“He's a murdering sod. He killed my sister. Broke her neck and threw her off a cliff. Isn't that an excellent reason?”

“Do you have proof of your accusation?”

He drew his stallion closer to the mare. The mare flung back her head, nervous, her eyes rolling at the stallion's scent.

“No closer, if you please.” Sinjun calmed Fanny, crooning to her, ignoring Robert MacPherson.

“I don't understand why you aren't frightened of me. I now have you in my power. I can do as I please with you. Perhaps I will ravish you until
your womb takes my seed. Perhaps you will bear a child and it will be mine.”

She cocked her head to one side, studying him. “You sound like a very bad actor in an inferior play in Drury Lane. It is curious, I think.”

Robert MacPherson was nonplussed. “What is curious, damn you?”

Sinjun's look was remote. “I had pictured you otherwise. Don't you find that is so often the case? You thought I would be a hag, but I'm not. I had thought you would look something like Colin, or perhaps MacDuff—you must know MacDuff, don't you?—but you don't. You are . . .” She stopped.
Pretty
wasn't a particularly politic thing for her to say. Nor was
graceful
or
elegant
or
quite lovely, really.

“I am what?”

“You seem quite nice—a gentleman, despite your vicious words.”

“I'm not at all nice.”

“Did your sister resemble you?”

“Fiona? No, she was dark as a gypsy, but beautiful, aye, she was more beautiful than a sinner's dream, blue eyes the color of the loch in winter, and hair so black it was like the devil's own midnight. Why? You are jealous of a ghost?”

“I don't think so. But I am curious. You see, Aunt Arleth—that's Miss MacGregor—she says that Fiona fell in love with Malcolm and betrayed Colin, and that's why Colin killed her. I find that odd, since Colin is the most perfect man in the world. What woman could conceivably want another man, if he were her husband? Do you think it's possible?”

“Perfect man! He's a bastard, a murdering bastard! Damn you, Fiona loved only her bloody husband. She wanted only him from the time she was fifteen years old, no other, certainly not Malcolm,
although he did want her. Our father pushed for Malcolm, since he would be the laird after his father's death, but she wouldn't hear of it. She nearly starved herself until our father gave in. She got Colin, but she wasn't happy for very long. All I remember now was that she was always accusing Colin of infidelity, she was so jealous of him. He couldn't look at another woman without Fiona shrieking at him, trying to claw his eyes out. He grew bored with her and her insane jealousy, even I understand that, but he had no right to rid himself of her. He had no right to hurl her over that damned cliff. And to claim that he had no memory of it. Absurd.”

“This is all quite confusing, Mr. MacPherson. No one tells the same story. Also, I don't understand how Fiona could have possibly believed Colin to be unfaithful. He would never break his vows.”

“What nonsense! Of course he broke his vows. He slept with women far and wide. Fiona was once filled with laughter and charm. Men couldn't keep their wits about them when she was near, and it pleased Colin's pride to have it so, but only at first. Her jealousy extended even to the servants at Vere Castle. That's when he bedded other women, to punish Fiona. But that doesn't mean he didn't also sleep with her. She would tell me how he'd take her in a frenzy, his need was so great for her. She was a witch, Fiona was, a jealous witch. Even while he despised her, he was filled with lust and desire for her. And she for him, more's the pity. But she's dead now, dead because he was tired of her and he found it expedient to kill her.

“I have had to wait for retribution because my father believed Colin innocent of the crime. But now he's an old man with an old man's failing wits. He still refuses to take action. His man tells me he
sits and drools and dreams aloud of long-ago nights with his men, raiding the lowlands or fighting the Kinrosses. Ah, but it doesn't matter now, at least to me. I do as I please. Soon I will be laird.