Bride (18 page)

He glanced away before saying, “The very best sort of trouble.”

“How can trouble ever be good?”

His sudden move to rest a hand on her hair made Justine flinch. “Hush,” he said, stroking. “Certainly I had not planned on these developments, but I cannot tell you I regret them. They merely require careful attention if we are to navigate certain … The potential for certain difficulties exists. I pray that we may make our way through those difficulties.”

Justine brought the flowers, with their odd, untamed scents, to her face and inhaled deeply. Struan muddled her. “I would not make difficulties for you,” she told him. “And I fear I have already done so. Perhaps I should do as my grandmother asks and return to Cornwall.”

With his hand still on her hair, he took so long to respond that her heart seemed to stop. If he told her to go, then go she must. Why had she said such a foolish thing?

When he did finally speak, his voice held dark intensity. “God help me, I don't want you to go.”

She closed her eyes.
That
was why she had said it—to hear him ask her to stay.

“You said there were things we should discuss. I expect you were referring to the children's welfare. I have already begun to give that a great amount of thought.”

“Actually,” Struan said. “What I thought we might do was continue with some work on your book—while we have some quiet hours ahead. Buttercup is not with us today and the lodge is blessedly empty.”

“My book?” A faint but quite distinct buzzing sounded in her ears. “Now?”

“I thought so.” He offered her his hand and waited until she took it. “You will probably want to continue your discussion on unmarried females dealing with balls. Did you find the ballroom here yet?”

Holding the flowers in her right hand, Justine gripped his fingers tightly and stood. “Yes,” she said. “At least, I assumed that's what it was supposed to be.”

“My grandfather thought to entice my grandmother into accepting this place. He decided that if he gave her the promise of intimate balls, with the wives of the men he invited here to hunt in attendance, she would look more favorably upon his creation.”

“And did she?”

“I don't believe so. She never attended a ball in this building.”

“How sad.”

“Come there with me now.”

He led her along corridors, up and down stairs and through numerous rooms to reach his destination. The ballroom, a small but perfectly proportioned ballroom atop a wing with a circular tower at each corner, had yet to be cleaned.

“Have I tired you?” Struan asked, studying her with concern in his eyes.

Justine inclined her head and smiled—and found a little flirtation came quite easily. “I am like the flowers,” she reminded him. “Deceitful. All delicate disguise to hide a woman of iron.”

He grinned, showing his fine, white teeth and making deep dimples beneath his cheekbones. “I shall remember that.” The grin faded as rapidly as it had appeared. “I may need to test the iron.”

Before Justine could question his meaning, he turned away and went to throw open heavy, dust-laden red damask draperies. The dust swirled in colored shafts of sunlight through stained-glass windows.

“Shall you be able to memorize what takes place here and write it down later?” he said, sweeping aside a cover from an elegant black piano and raising the lid. “I should have thought to have you bring your book.”

“I never forget anything you … I shall remember.”

Their eyes met, but Justine quickly looked away. She must not reveal what was truly in her heart. It might make him feel trapped—or bound by duty to marry her as Arran seemed so determined to arrange.

Oh, what bliss to be married to Struan and to have him want to be married to her.

Grandmama was correct. Justine was a simpleton.

“What are you thinking?”

His question startled her. “That I am foolish.” Why must she so often speak without thought? “I mean, that I know I must appear foolish to you. My grandmother—”

“Forget what your grandmother said.” He approached with determined steps. “Do you understand me? Forget every word that woman spoke to you.”

He sounded angry. Justine swallowed and surveyed the room. The draped shapes of furniture ranged around a dance floor. Gilded mirrors lined red and gold-papered walls above gilt wainscoting. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung from a delicately carved plaster ceiling in a charming shade of deep pink. Dust coated everything, yet she could imagine how lovely the room could be.

“Did you hear what I said, Justine?”

She faced him. “Grandmama is old. She has come to rely upon me. But I have made a decision.”

“And that is?”

Her palms were moist. “That I must live my life now or not at all. I can be useful to more than just one woman who already has all the pampering she can possibly need.”

She heard his outward rush of breath. “I had intended to say something quite different,” he said, and the bleak, troubled set of his features made her tremble. “But I must speak what's in my heart, Justine. You can be useful to me… to us. Everything seems… With you here everything seems different. Possible. Hopeful. There must be a way to navigate troubled waters without giving up the best that has ever come into our lives.”

If she wasn't careful, she'd begin to imagine hidden meanings in his words. “I shall do my best for all of you,” she told him quietly.

Struan's chest expanded. He seemed about to speak, then bowed his head before saying, “Yes, well… Let us continue our work.”

“I had thought you considered the whole project silly,” she told him in a rush. “Please, do not feel you have to pursue this. I think I rather made it sound like a condition of my working with the children and looking after the household. It is not, Struan.”

“It is for me,” he responded promptly. “A bargain is a bargain. You have a great deal of work to do with Ella and Max and I have a great deal of work to do with you… That is, with your project.”

Justine set the wilting flowers carefully on a sheet-draped chaise. She pressed her hands together. Again they were alone. She glanced about. ‘Where do they think you are?”

“Hmm?”

“Arran and Calum and the others? Where do they think you are?”

“About estate business,” he replied promptly. “But I did not tell them I should be. So there is no deceit, Justine. Not really.”

“No.”

“Arran and Calum have gone into the village. Arran has business there and Calum wished to go along. There are many memories here for Calum.”

“Of course.” Sometimes she forgot that her brother had grown up at Kirkcaldy.

“Your grandmother is resting. Ella and Max will remain at the castle until she awakes. They are determined on their little charade.”

“Yes.”

“No. Yes. Of course. Why, Justine, I do believe you are afraid to be alone here with me.”

“I'm not!” she told him fiercely. “Not at all. Why should I be?”

His flamboyantly drawn face held no softness now. “I don't believe I shall tell you that. No, not yet. Part of a much later section of your book, dear lady. Do you like to dance?”

“Dance?”
For an instant she was furious with him. “You know I cannot dance.”

He stared at her, then went to the piano and began to play. To her amazement, the instrument was in good tune.

“Arran ensures all instruments on the estate are well-tended,” Struan said over the strains of a waltz she did not recognize. “Do you play?”

“Yes. But not like you. You are very good.”

“You should hear Arran,” he said. “I'll make sure you do.”

“Tell me why your grandmother never came to this ballroom.”

“Headstrong woman. All women are headstrong.”

The music distracted her. It reminded her of balls held at Franchot Castle when men in military uniform whirled beautifully dressed women about the floor. Justine saw them now as if in shifting patterns, each pattern planned yet free.

“Did you hear what I said?” Struan asked over the music. “All women are headstrong.”

She tossed her head. “You are right, sir. We have to be headstrong to keep our sanity while dealing with men. Men—for purposes God must consider important—are larger and stronger than women. For that reason, they consider themselves to be also of superior intelligence.”

“Quite so.”

“Hah! He admits it.” She stood at his shoulder and watched his long, strong fingers fly over the keys. “And they consider their desires stronger and their appetites more fierce …”

Struan's fingers stilled.

Justine clamped her arms to her sides, appalled at what she had said.

A large hand pried her left wrist away from her body. “Look at me, Justine.”

She would not.

“Look at me. This will be perfect for your book.”

Reluctantly, she met his gaze.

“Stronger desires?”

She swallowed. “I meant that men think they want things more ardently than women.” “And do they?”

“I…” Academic. An academic exploration. “I believe women want things every bit as much as men do.”

“Things?”

Surely he could not be trying to trap her into some indiscretion. “In relationship,” she said boldly. “Yes, in relationship. They desire … intimacy. A oneness of heart. They long to share completely in those …”

“Those?”

“Sin's ears, you do persist so. Those passions. Yes, they desire to share the same passions men wish to enjoy.”

“Why, Justine, you sound as if you need very little instruction in the business of passion and desire.”

She would not look away. “I know nothing of passion and desire but my own imaginings. And my own … sensations. I do not set out to lie to you, Struan. I have often wondered if I may be an unnatural woman, but with maturity I have come to the conclusion that I am not at all unnatural. Most women simply fail to allow their … urges to develop. Or rather their urges develop but they deny them. To themselves. And to their husbands.”

“I see.”

“It is my mission to stop women from denying their urges.”

“I… see.”

“And I think a woman's appetite for fulfillment is equal to her husband's. In the matter of closeness, don't y'know?”

“No. No, I'm not sure I do. Closeness?”

She began to feel rather hot. “Perhaps we should concentrate on the ballroom? For now?”

Struan stood up. “I have the distinct feeling I shall become far more passionate on the subject of this closeness of yours.”

“Oh, it's not mine, I assure you!” Whatever could he be suggesting? “No, no, not at all. I have merely constructed certain conclusions. Some of them … Well, anyway, I have no personal knowledge of these things and that is why I am so very grateful for all your unselfish assistance.”

“I see.”

“You do have an unfortunate habit of resorting to ‘I see’ when you don't see. Don't you?” “Possibly.”

Justine saw the need for clarification. “Because girls and young women are so sheltered from the truth.… The truth about life, that is. Well, because they are not told anything, it's very difficult not to be nervous and ignorant in these matters relating to what occurs between a husband and wife. After they marry. When they share time in the same bed.” Her face glowed. “That sort of thing.”

“Quite.”

“I knew you'd understand.” She smiled gratefully at him. “I've done some preliminary research.”

“You have?”

“Oh, yes. We have a great many animals at Franchot. I observed certain activities—”

“Do you like to dance?”

Caught off guard by his swift change of topic, Justine blinked rapidly. “Why do you ask that again? You know I cannot possibly dance. I have never danced.”

“I'll rephrase my question. Should you like to dance?”

“I…” He was honest with her. She would be equally honest with him. “I have always regretted that I cannot dance. I do love music. And I love to watch others dance.”

“Do you feel wistful when you watch?”

He seemed to know her heart. “Sometimes.” She sighed. “I've tried not to.”

Struan put an arm around her waist and took her hand in his. “Then you shall no longer have any reason to feel wistful. You shall dance.”

“No.” She tried to wiggle free. “No, please.”

“Yes, please. Can you still remember the tune I played?”

“Well… Yes, I can.”

He began to hum. “Good. Listen to it in your mind and let me lead you.”

Completely incapable of making her feet move, Justine stood quite still. “I cannot.”

“Cannot? Or will not? For our purposes—on this first occasion—my legs will guide your legs. Allow the pressure of mine to show yours where to go.”

“But—”

“But it's not appropriate for me to touch you so intimately? Come, my dear. This is for scientific purposes. We must sacrifice ourselves—our principles—for the good of others.”

Justine stared fixedly at his black stock. “I am clumsy,” she told him. “My leg may simply collapse under me.”

“If it does, my legs will be your legs. What could be more simple?”

She felt weak and hot.

Struan took a step toward her and his thigh pressed her injured hip. “Backward,” he said softly, and she tried and stumbled. “I've got you. Relax. This is new.” His arm completely surrounded her waist and he contrived to make the step for both of them.

“A woman lets the man lead her,” Struan said. This time it was his left thigh that met her body. “Yes. Yes, just like that.”

Justine's breathing became shallow. She dared not look up into his face for fear he would see her—really see her—see how he undid her simply by his touch.

“There are times,” he said, “when a man who is particularly fond of a woman wants to hold her near. If I held you in such a manner you would be able to report on the event for the book. And you might feel less afraid of falling.”

Softly, Struan hummed more of the waltz, his breath shifting across her brow. Releasing her hand, he took her arms and placed them around his shoulders. “To steady you,” he said. Then he spread his hands on her back and drew her against him. “And to assist you in writing your book.”

Their bodies pressed together.

“This… this would not happen in the ballroom?” she said.