Bride (11 page)

“Who—”

“No matter who. If she remains, we'll use her to our own advantage. The more he has to lose, the better. He is already afraid. I have made certain of that.”

He felt disoriented, sullen. “So, what d'you want of me?”

“Your word.”

“On what?”

“I think you know. You will do as I have asked you to do. No questions. No changing your mind, regardless of what happens. You're my man to the end.”

“Promised you as much already.” He raised a wavering hand and stirred the brew in his tankard with one long finger. “That whore's s-son robbed me.”

“He robbed us both. He's got to be made to pay.”

“S'right.” His head grew too heavy. “Tormented as we've been tormented. And I'm tired of waiting.”

“The wait is all but over. The time for action is upon us. All you need do is listen a little longer for my word. Be vigilant. Be ready. Give me your hand on it and we'll never speak each other's names or meet again.”

Their fingers touched, passed over palms, pressed briefly and withdrew.

If the eyes were the mirror of the soul, they were strangers in spirit. Strangers with a single wish—satisfaction—and the greater the cost to Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, the better.

By the time Struan rode into the stable yard at the lodge night had fallen. After leaving Arran and Calum to their bickering over what he should do with his life, he'd spent the afternoon going about the estates with Caleb Murray. Then he'd visited tenants, particularly Robert Mercer, whose help in recent weeks had been invaluable.

After the arrival of the first letter, and at Struan's request, Robert had recruited a band of loyal men to watch over Ella and Max while they wandered free during the daylight hours. Struan had needed only to say that he feared an old enemy. It had been Robert's idea that the children should spend their nights where none would think to look for them—in the tiny cottage he shared with Gael and their two little ones.

A boy Struan recognized from the castle stables ran out to catch the horse's bridle and hold the animal steady while Struan dismounted.

Deeply disturbed by the idea of so many knowing where he was living, he nodded to the boy and began drawing off his gloves as he approached the kitchens. Habit kept him entering by that route and he saw no reason to alter the routine. With luck his enemy might have no knowledge of the changes that had taken place here in the past few days.

Struan went into the kitchens—gleaming now in the light of freshly tended candle brackets. Pots and pans hung in resplendent brilliance before the great hearth where fresh venison had once turned upon the spit. The table and draining boards had been scrubbed white and the flagstones still smelled of the turpentine, soap, and pipe clay with which they'd been rendered to a pale shine.

All very appropriate. And all very dangerous.

In the wake of Justine's whirlwind efforts, Ella and Max were now permanently in residence. Not a comfortable thought. At least he'd been able to arrange, without difficulty, for a watch upon the lodge around the clock.

He entered the curving passageway leading up to the main floor of the building and took a flight of stairs two at a time. There had been no further letters since the one he'd received on the night of Justine's arrival.

That fact should bring him comfort.

It made his skin crawl.

Since they'd started arriving, never more than two days had passed between the letters—until now. The only reason for the interval that made sense was that the change in his circumstances was, indeed, known. Somewhere out there the faceless man might, at this very moment, be poised to strike.

Struan felt sweat on his brow and wiped at it angrily. Why didn't the swine ask for what he wanted? Why didn't he arrange a meeting? What kind of coward hid behind nameless threats?

All but the last question were mysteries.

The coward was potentially dangerous—potentially deathly.

The lodge was still. All the servants save Mairi had returned to their quarters at the castle, and the tenant helpers were long since back in their homes.

He would ensure Justine, Ella, and Max—and Mairi—were safe in bed, then station himself where he could watch their doors and listen for any sound of intruders. In the morning he'd return to Kirkcaldy and find a place to sleep undisturbed. Caleb Murray, a man of few words but considerable efficiency, could be trusted to do what must be done with very little instruction from Struan. And after all, dear Arran—he who was head of the household—was in residence.

The lodge was barely recognizable. It
wasn't
recognizable. In his entire life the place had never looked as it did tonight. Despite fatigue and the daunting hours that lay ahead, he smiled. Lady Justine Girvin was a determined woman. Determined to put his present home and the rest of his life to rights. How damnably unfortunate there could be no question of his accepting her attention permanently.

A scowl replaced the Smile. He couldn't have her, but neither would he allow either Calum or Arran to think they had the right to decide his future.

The chambers he sought were on the floor above the great hall. He climbed the stairs quickly and tapped on Ella's door. When he got no reply, he peeked inside and saw a dark braid snaking over white linen.

In the next room Max slept in his customary state—wound about by sheets, his arms and legs outflung.

Struan approached a larger room that had an adjoining sitting room. These were Justine's quarters—or so he'd been told.

The door stood open.

His night would be easier if he didn't have to see her, to talk to her—to hear her talk.

To avoid her completely was unthinkable.

“Justine,” he called softly. “May I come in?”

A lamp glowed and he could see the bed had not been touched. She must be in her sitting room. Probably couldn't sleep. These times were difficult for her also. The rage he'd felt too often of late surfaced again. How dare any man or woman speak against one so pure?

He spoke louder. “Justine. It's Struan.”

Only silence.

His belly clenched. What if the madman who had been stalking him had already struck?

Struan entered a bedchamber hung with dark-blue velvet and crossed a beautiful gold and blue Spanish carpet. A door to the left of the fireplace led to a sitting room—also blue; also empty.

Both rooms were cold. She hadn't been here for some time.

Hurrying, Struan retraced his steps and started for the end of the corridor and another staircase that led up to servant quarters where Mairi had been given a room.

He paused. If he awakened her and raised the alarm unnecessarily, there was a danger that more talk would spread among the castle staff. The children—whom he'd so far managed to convince that nothing was truly amiss—might hear that talk and become afraid. Struan made a systematic search of every room on this floor, then went down to the great hall. Sparklingly clean but empty splendor met him there. He returned to the circular vestibule. Opposite the stairs that led to the bedrooms he'd just left, a second, spiraling flight of stone steps rose to his grandfather's prized covered bridge. Struan's apartments were in the pagoda on the opposite side of the bridge.

Justine would never go there uninvited.

There was no alternative but to rouse Mairi and get more help to probe every nook and cranny of the sprawling building.

Before he did so, he must be certain all the threatening letters were safely locked from sight. There must be no question of Arran or Calum happening upon them if they decided to search his rooms—exactly the first thing Calum might do unless Struan was much mistaken.

Struan's boots rang on the stone steps and on the yellow mosaic tile floor of the bridge. Through the row of narrow windows on either side he saw only blackness. There would be no moon tonight—to hinder or to help him.

An anteroom led to his own bedchamber. He was already marching past flanking glass-fronted cases where his grandfather's collection of European silver was displayed when he heard a sound. The unmistakable sound of scraping overhead.

Another flight of stairs led from the anteroom to what had once been a hideaway for the lodge's first owner.

Struan thought of Justine's leg. So much walking and climbing should be beyond her.

The scraping noise could have been made by someone far less welcome.

Armed with the small but deadly dagger he'd taken to keeping about him, he stealthily ascended the staircase.

Humming.

He stopped just short of the entrance to an odd room with tapestry-hung walls and a painted ceiling that looped to a soaring point beneath the dome of the pagoda.

Someone was humming, and he knew who that someone was.

If it didn't beat all. Spinster Lady Justine Girvin making free with a man's rooms!

He edged forward until he could see the entire room—and the woman who sat at an outrageous marble-topped Egyptian writing table. Legs fashioned from ebony into sinuous naked female forms with large, upthrust breasts supported the table. Struan winced. Undoubtedly—and fortunately—the lady had failed to notice such details.

Dressed in a high-necked, elegantly flowing poppy-colored silk robe, Justine propped her brow on the heel of one hand. And hummed. Struan recognized the strains of a Scottish song about a lassie waiting for her warrior husband to return from the battlefield. Justine hummed and swayed a little and wrote in a large, leather-bound journal.

Struan stepped into the doorway and leaned on the jamb, watching.

The song and whatever Justine wrote engrossed her beyond noticing the approach of a mere man. He could not contain his smile. Ribbons of creamy satin closed the robe. Her hair was still drawn up to her crown, but swathes of curls had slipped free to lie against her neck and spill over a shoulder.

He rested a hand on his hip.

The ceiling above her head was painted in brilliant stripes, like the fabric of a Moorish tent. Everything else in the room was Egyptian. Golden serpents, their heads forming the ends of the arms, wound their way around mahogany chairs upholstered with scarlet damask. Between the chairs a circular leather-topped table dripped more gold serpents down its central pedestal. Struan steeled himself to look at the secretaire. Taller than himself, rows of figures decorated its doors and drawers, rows of figures encrusted with carnelian and lapis, with emeralds for eyes … and ivory penises … the men, that was. Rubies marked strategic spots on the women, and the whole formed an erotic depiction of a riotous orgy.

And Justine hummed.

And wrote.

Struan shifted his weight and leaned on the opposite doorjamb. Her cheek showed smooth, the bone high and touched by the crescent shadow of her thick lashes. Justine's mouth wasn't the mouth of a spinster lady. Too full. Too wide. Too made for laughter … and other things.

If she caught sight of him without warning she'd probably faint from shock.

With regret, he made a move backward.

“Oh!” Her head snapped up. “Oh, Struan, I did not expect you to return so soon.”

“I've been standing here for some time.” Watching her. Listening to her hum. Wanting to touch her. He swallowed and stood upright. “You should be in your bed.”

Justine stared at him, her dark eyes troubled. “I've angered you? By coming here?”

“Surprised me.”

“I'm sorry.” She fiddled with the lid of the standish. “I'd been wandering. Looking for a place where I thought I could work well. I found this wonderful room. But I'd intended to return to my apartments long before you arrived home. I suppose I became too engrossed.”

“This place is approached through the anteroom to my chambers, Justine.”

“Is it?” She appeared stricken. “Oh, my, what must you think of me?”

He thought her lovely. Not beautiful or pretty. Not adorable as was the fashion in the young things paraded each year in the marriage mart they called the Season. Lovely. Justine had the quality of a piece of art that grew from the artist's pure joy in his work.

And her very purity and the inner perfection he felt in her made Struan burn to unravel the woman, to bring the female to writhing life like the jewel-studded creatures contorted on the secretaire.

Struan wanted to possess and mold Justine. Struan wanted to make her into a carnal thing who reveled in being a woman—with him.

“I lied,” she murmured.

He looked at her lips. Where they remained slightly parted, the soft flesh was moist. “Did you?” he asked her.

“Yes. It isn't like me to lie. I hoped to see you tonight. I wore such inappropriate dress so that I could pretend I intended to be in my bed before you came back to the lodge.”

Her gaze remained lowered. She passed her tongue over her mouth. Moist. Twined together on top of the book, her slim hands were pale. Her throat was pale.

Beneath the poppy-colored robe and whatever nightgown she wore, her breasts would be pale, the nipples pink—like her moist lips. Pink, and they, too, would be moist when he drew each one into his mouth.

“I have really angered you.” She began to get up.

Struan drew in a sharp breath. “Sit,” he said curtly. “Sit at once. You've already done far too much.”

She was Justine, for God's sake. Untouched. Untouched Justine, his old friend's sister.

“I was wrong,” she said, slipping back onto her chair. “I've never been able to lie and get away with it. I've always had to confess the lie and apologize. I do apologize.”

Struan wrinkled his brow. “You hardly seem to have committed a great crime.”

“I have been bold.” She blushed delightfully. “I wanted you to find me here.”

He inclined his head. “I see.”

“And I wasn't actually wandering around looking for a place to write.”

“I see.”

“I already knew this was here.”

“I see.”

“Mmm. Yes, well—I also knew I would be coming through the anteroom to your chambers if I came here.”

“I see.”

Her smooth brow puckered. “And what do you think about that?”

“Nothing. Except I'd like to know why.”

“To be certain we got the chance to speak alone and without interruption.”