Bride (28 page)

Struan had paused in the act of pacing the carpet before the dowager and appeared both agitated and frustrated.

The door opened once more and Blanche Bastible entered. “Nothing's happened yet, has it?” she asked breathlessly, trotting forward in a froth of embroidered mauve crepe weighted down by row upon row of flounces.

“Mauve?”
Grandmama said. “Widowed two months and already in mauve?”

Blanche tossed her abundant chestnut ringlets. “A year's mourning is an affectation. Felix always said one should get on with life. Never languish, he always said. Do not draw undue attention to yourself by wallowing in self-pity, he always said. I know, I heard him many times.” She fluffed a flounce. “Anyway, he'll soon have been gone three months.”

“Blanche has always made her own rules, Your Grace,” Arran said.

“Well, she can make them elsewhere,” the dowager pronounced. “This is a private discussion, Mrs. Bastible.”

“Oh, I know,” Blanche said, tripping to settle herself on the same chaise with Grandmama. “A family discussion. I know my Grace would want me here. And, after all, I have had experience in marrying off a difficult young woman.”

“Bloody hell,” Arran muttered.

Struan shocked Justine by turning on the Bastible woman and all but snarling, “Get out! We have more serious matters to deal with than your mindless babbling.”

Blanche tossed her head and ignored him.

Calum rested his crossed arms on the back of the chaise and brought his face close to Blanche's ear. “Grace is a delight, Mrs. B. The puzzle is, why? Or should I say, how?”

Blanche cast a reproachful glance at Struan, then wiggled with evident satisfaction. “You see, Your Grace. Your grandson knows I am a veritable wonder with young women and their problems. You must allow me to help you with your granddaughter. I understand she is already compromised.”

Deathly stillness descended.

“Of course, my daughter never stooped to anything like that, but, after all, as my Felix always said, there but for the grace of God go—”

“Lady Justine is not compromised,” Struan said loudly.

Blanche smirked. “This is going to work very nicely, Your Grace. As long as the gentleman is a gentleman, there's never any problem. And you can be certain that I shall be the soul of discretion in the matter. Not a word of the truth shall pass my lips. Why, just this afternoon I told that lovely Mr. Murray that if he heard any rumors about Lady Justine and the viscount he should say they were forced to spend a night alone together because they were cut off by a storm. There.”

Struan whipped open the door and said,
“There,
Mrs. Bastible. We wouldn't dream of taking up more of your time.”

“But the dowager needs me.”

“The dowager will not hear of your being taken advantage of,” Arran said. Separating himself from his ancestor's niche, he placed a hand beneath his mother-in-law's elbow, drew her firmly to her feet, and propelled her from the room.

Her face jerked in all directions as if she searched for an ally, but she went quietly enough.

“Ghastly female,” Grandmama said before the door had completely closed again. “One wonders about your wife, my lord.”

“No, one doesn't,” Arran said. “Grace is a miracle. Her mother is tolerated because she is her mother. No more need be said on the subject.”

“True,” Struan agreed, resuming his stalking back and forth across the carpet. “I'll ring for Shanks, Justine. He'll find you somewhere comfortable to wait. I'll have some tea brought—”

“No.”

“Do as you are told,” the dowager said, pressing her tiny hands into the folds of the exquisite gown. “We are to discuss certain important issues relating to this sham of a marriage you've forced upon us. Obviously you do not belong here.”

“What important issues?”

“Justine,” Struan said gently. “You need have no fear that I shall do anything but what is best for you. Run along and think about some new gowns. Brides’ head should be filled with such things at a time like this.”

She could not trust herself to meet his eyes.

“Justine—”

“How dare you?” She trembled. Her face flamed and her blood thundered at her temples.
“Run along?
Think about gowns? You will do what's best for me. I am five and thirty. I chose you, Struan, Viscount Hunsingore. I chose you because I love you and I am not ashamed of the fact, or of stating the fact. We are to be married. That was not something I planned.” It was not something she had dared to as much as consider.

“What do you mean by that?” Grandmama said. “You didn't plan on marriage? Do you mean you had some notion of carryin’ on like some trollop with the man?”

Justine took a long, slow breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her down. “I mean that I had hoped only to be near Struan. To be his helpmate with the children. To keep his home if he needed that. To be a friend. And I hoped he would help with my book. I expected him to meet and marry someone else one day. Until then, I would have accepted whatever I could of him.”

“Good Lord,” Arran muttered.

Calum said, “You're a dashed lucky man, Struan. Don't you ever forget it.”

“I should say not,” Arran added.

Struan stood beside Justine and rested a hand at her waist. “I know how lucky I am,” he told them all. “Luckier than I ever expected to be and certainly luckier than I ever deserved to be.”

“Drivel,” Grandmama pronounced. “Now get rid of her so that I may get this business over with.”

Justine's leg ached. Her temper bothered her more. With gritted teeth, she limped to a chair near a fire in a small, Italian marble fireplace and sat down. “I will not leave and that's an end of it.”

“You will do as—”

“She will stay,” Calum said evenly, countermanding his grandparent. “We are discussing Justine's life, are we not? Of course we are. I shall make a handsome settlement upon her, Struan. As I have already told you, I expect my sister's every need and desire to be met.”

Struan's jaw jutted. He took up position behind Justine and rested his fingers on her shoulders. “There is none better equipped to take care of her desires than I.”

“It is your desires I intend to address, young man,” Grandmama said. “Speaking of such matters in front of your future wife is highly unusual and unsuitable. Don't blame me for the consequences. We must deal with certain aspects of your natural appetites.”

Justine found she had difficulty breathing at all—and in finding a spot to stare at.

Arran said, “I say,” and his mouth remained slightly open.

“I assume you've actually seen the extent of Justine's deformity, Lord Hunsingore?”

Justine closed her eyes.

“Grandmama,” Calum said. “I hardly think we need discuss such matters at all.”

“We certainly must. Your sister suffered a childhood accident that rendered her a cripple. Her hip is not completely formed and her leg is a withered monstrosity. It is my duty to point out to her future husband that he cannot expect to receive other than damaged goods in this match.”

Struan's fingers, digging into her flesh, became the focus Justine clung to. “If you were not my fiancée's grandmother, madam, I should refuse to converse with you further.” His voice was barely audible.

“But I am her grandmother, and apparently I am the only one concerned enough about her health to ensure she comes to no harm. First I must ask if you have already had her. Don't hold back. What is said within these walls is of too much importance for it to be repeated elsewhere. Have you breached my granddaughter's maidenhead?”

Calum said,
“My God!”

Struan brushed the side of Justine's neck and murmured, “It's all right, my sweet.” To Grandmama he said, “No, I have not. And I will not until we are man and wife.”

“Good. I am in time, then. You must understand that there is to be no… you must not risk entering her?”

Arran swiveled away and went to the windows.

Calum scrubbed at his face with both hands.

“What does that mean?” Justine whispered to Struan.

“The marriage will take place within a few days,” Grandmama said. “It's imperative that I have your word before it does, Lord Hunsingore.”

“Grandmama,” Calum said. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Justine could never give birth.”

“How dare you speak like this in front of her,” Struan said.

The dowager shrugged her frail shoulders. “I did my utmost to avoid her hearing any of this. I was overruled. Her deformities would turn the successful sowing of your seed within her into a potentially murderous act.”

Justine slumped. She would faint. Surely she would faint. Why didn't she faint—or just die?

“Your word, sir,” Grandmama demanded.

“I would never do anything to hurt Justine,” Struan said. “But surely—”

“She would never bring a child into the world without killing herself and very possibly the child.” Black silk rustled as if in emphasis. “Even if she were not severely damaged, her advanced years would make such an attempt ludicrous. She is elderly, frail, and deformed.”

“And I shall not marry Struan,” Justine said, her voice breaking with shame. “Kindly forget any of this occurred. All of you, forget it. I shall leave for Cornwall at once.”

“Not with the Franchot name in ribbons, my girl,” Grandmama told her. “You have made your bed and now you shall lie upon it. It must be a separate bed from your so-called husband's, that is all.”

“No man should be shackled to a woman for reasons of propriety.”

“He certainly should, and he will be. He has no one but himself to blame.” The dowager stretched out her sinewy neck. “And he already has two perfectly dreadful children. Why should he want more?”

Struan stunned Justine by coming to kneel before her, gathering her into his arms and pressing her face against his shoulder. “We shall be happy, my love. I promise you that. This outrage will be forgotten.”

“You will marry,” the dowager duchess said. “On Monday morning next—the day after the final banns are called—you shall marry and I shall happily return to Cornwall.”

“Praise the Lord,” Struan muttered.

“Praise Him, indeed,” Grandmama said. “And accept it as His will that you find your pleasures elsewhere than with your wife. If you make her truly your wife you may kill her. Not one of us would ever forgive or forget that. Once the ceremony is over and a respectable interval has passed—to still any nimble tongues—it might be as well for Justine to return to me in Cornwall.”

Chapter Seventeen

A
dam and Eve.

There had been more than one lord of Stonehaven with an odd sense of humor.

The twin drum towers fronting Kirkcaldy were dubbed Adam and Eve. The tower Arran had made his own—which he now shared with Grace—was Revelation. Throughout the great castle, biblical names vied with those of Greek gods and Egyptian royalty.

Struan looked out from the Adam Tower at the view down the oak-lined Long Drive to the massive gatehouse with its castellated bridge spanning the carriageway. At the base of the castle's mound, beyond the walls, stretched low hills dotted with tenant crofts. The village of Kirkcaldy lay some ways distant and a river forked to surround the valley like the tongue of an elegant silver serpent.

From these windows, generations of Rossmaras—the family name of the lords of Stonehaven—had observed the land that was theirs.

Struan had come to the circular room at the very top of the tower to find solitude, solitude to consider how to deal with the dilemma that had been presented him by Justine's grandmother—and solitude to reread the sickening letter.

Justine had refused his company on her return to the lodge. And she'd refused with a tight-lipped, barely restrained agony that brooked no argument.

He made fists on the stone casement and rested his brow on leaded panes. He would allow her time for the private healing she would attempt. Then he would be the one to draw together the wounds a selfish old woman had wrought.

“… successful sowing of your seed would be a potentially murderous act.”

Why had he never considered that he could harm Justine simply by loving her—by taking her as his own?

“God!” He brought his fists together to pound his forehead. This was a burden he must carry alone, but carry it he would. “I love her.” Aloud, the words brought a sudden burst of joy amid the pain. He did love her, dammit. Whatever it took to be with her, he would do it—bear it. And no man crazed with hate and a lust for vengeance would take her from him, either.

The only furnishing in the austere room was a single ancient leather chair, placed where a lone watcher might view sky and treetops—and sun and moon.

Soon there would be darkness.

Struan sat in the shiny, brass-studded chair and took out the letter. Once again he pulled out two folded sheets of paper. As ever, the elegance of the writing struck a discordant note with its mission—like a fine silver blade employed for a woodcutter's task.

Love has no eyes, but you know that, my lord. Ah, yes, now you do indeed know that. You have found your own lady, your own love. At first I thought it to be a convenience. Other evidence has been brought to my attention which leads me to believe I was very wrong.

This match you intend to make is dear to you. You love Lady Justine despite her infirmity, just as I love my lady despite the stain you spread upon her.

I love my lady but I cannot forget that you stole what was rightfully mine. And now there is something that you want for yourself and yourself alone. Perhaps it would only be appropriate for me to take from you what you took from me.

There is a price to be paid, my friend. You may have to pay it more than once—or twice—or even more times to satisfy my honor.

Struan's palms sweated. He flexed his fingers, one hand at a time, and glanced over the darkening landscape. Justine? Ella? Even Max? Grace when she returned? Little Elizabeth?

He could leave this place.

The madman would punish him regardless; Struan knew it was so. Somehow he must protect his Own. They must never be alone, never be far from his sight or the sight of someone he could trust absolutely.