Bride (7 page)

“Hello, Max,” Justine said, still clinging to Struan. “Who's this pretty child?”

He took several seconds to close his mouth and swallow. Glancing first at Calum he said, “Kirsty,” very faintly. “Kirsty Mercer. She's got a terrible wee brother called Niall. He's two. Mrs. Mercer says two's the most terrible age on a wee one. He's in the kitchens, too. We've brought porridge on account o’ Mr. and Mrs. Mercer worryin’ about Papa not eatin’ proper.”

“My goodness,” Justine murmured. “He speaks like a Scot, Struan. Only months since he sounded like—”

“A barrow boy,” Max announced smugly. “Like a London barrow boy from a market. Grumpy told me so. Spawned o’ the devil, she says I am. And—”

“Enough,” Struan said and seemed to remember he still held Justine. “This is too much for you,” he murmured, close to her face, and set her feet upon the floor with great care. He took her hand and threaded it beneath his elbow.

Justine studied Max and the ethereal blond child. “Were you not in your bed, Max? Have you just returned from … Have you just returned home?”

“Aye,” he said.

“Yes,”
she corrected him automatically. “And Ella, too? Has she already been out this morning?”

“O'course,” Max said as if he considered her lacking in simple understanding. “We've both been where we always are at night. Wait till Ella sees ye, Lady Justine. She'll be beside hersel’ wi’ happiness.’

Justine's heart turned over. “What can he mean? Struan?” She looked up at him. “Does he mean he and Ella are in the habit of sneaking from their beds without your knowledge?”

“I hardly think this is something you should concern yourself with, Justine,” Calum said, but she noted the way his brows drew together. “I'm sure Struan can deal with his own affairs.”

“And I'm sure he cannot. Which is exactly why he needs me. Max, you will speak to me with complete honesty. Why have you and Ella become wild things? What would possess you to leave your beds while you assume your father is sleeping? Where do you go? This really is insupportable.”

“What does the lady mean, Max?” the little girl asked. “Is she one o’ the ones ye told me about? Am I t'go find me da now?”

“Hush,” Max said, his skin reddening.

“But ye told me to fetch me da if one o’ them was t'come.” A small-boned creature, the child's smooth brow puckered. “Is she one o’ the ones wi’ bloody murder in her heart? One o’ the ones set on tearin’ out your da's liver and lights?”

“Max,”
Justine, Calum, and Struan exclaimed in unison.

“This lady is a friend,” Max said to Kirsty Mercer. “She's held in great favor wi’ Papa. And wi’ me. Away wi’ ye. Go tell Ella there's someone here she'll want t'see. And tell your mam we'll come t'the kitchen for porridge shortly.”

Justine shook her head. Things had come to a much worse pass than she could have imagined. Now Struan's English barbarian son had become a Scottish barbarian. She must start work very quickly.

As soon as Kirsty had scampered from sight, Max closed the door and approached the adults with a conspiratorial hunch to his shoulders. “Let me deal wi’ this, Papa. Ye carina expect the duke and Lady Justine t'understand the way o’ things here.”

“Max,” Struan said, his voice loaded with warning. “I think you had better leave us and join Ella.”

“Not until I've explained about the wild bands in the hills.” Justine met Struan's eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That's why we leave the lodge at night—Ella and me, that is. Bands of wild clansmen come down from the hills in the dark. They've great claymores and clubs and all manner o’ fearsome weapons. The tenants are afraid o’ them. Ella's afraid, too, but I let her come so's she'll feel useful. I have my ways of scarin’ the wild ones away, y'see.”

“Wild clansmen,” Calum said. “The same type of people bent on securing Struan's—your father's
liver and lights,
would that be?”

Max nodded sagely. “The very same.”

“Nothing has changed, I see,” Calum remarked. “I would suggest the boy spend long hours with a minister. Discussing the danger his deceit poses to his soul.”

“He's eleven,” Justine snapped.

“Quite,” Calum responded. “Old enough to know better. Kindly leave us alone, young man. If there is time, Lady Justine will greet Ella—before we leave for Cornwall.”

“But—”

“Go,” Struan said in ominous tones. “We shall speak about your behavior later.”

“But—”

“Go.”

Max backed up until he thudded against the door, then rapidly exited the room.

“He only does that when he's overset,” Struan said apologetically. “That's when he tells the stories. The lad means no harm.”

“He needs a woman's guidance,” Justine said, already planning how she would read to Max from the Bible.

“He needs a good whipping,” Calum retorted. “Now. This madness has progressed quite far enough. Justine, I will hear no more argument. As we travel, we shall discuss how best to explain your extraordinary behavior. We leave Scotland at …” His words trailed away. He stared toward the door.

Justine turned to see Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, looming on the threshold.

Struan groaned, threw himself into a deep, scarlet, tapestry-covered chair, and buried his head in his hands. “A circus,” he muttered. “Come one, come all. Don't miss the show.”

“A show indeed,” the marquess said, his massive, dark countenance moving into the room like an inevitable force. “I thank providence that I listened to Grace.”

“Grace?” Struan moaned.

“My dear wife—as you well know—has always had other worldly powers. She felt the need for me to come here now. I tried to resist since I should not have left Yorkshire at such a time. But, of course,’ she was right.”

“Preserve us all,” Struan said, raising closed eyes toward the ornately carved, domed ceiling. “Here again is the man who once laughed at his bride's otherworldly talents.”

“Indeed,” Calum said. “Good to see you, Arran. Unfortunately we cannot dally to hear more on this fascinating topic. Justine and I are already running late on our travel schedule.”

Arran's face, so like his younger brother Struan's, assumed an expression of distant confusion. “Travel? Surely the traveling has been done. Where Justine is concerned. Shanks and Caleb Murray—and Mairi—tell me our visitor arrived yesterday.”

“I …” Justine looked to Struan, whose eyes remained closed. “That is so.”

“She arrived yesterday and will leave today,” Calum said, his mouth set in a firm line. “We will speak of this on another occasion, Arran.”

“We will speak of it now,” the marquess said serenely. “I understand Struan brought your dear sister here last night.”

Calum snatched up Justine's cloak. “True. And now—”

“And,” Arran continued, “my brother and your sister were alone here—no chaperon that I know of—alone for hours.”

“Damn you, Arran,” Calum said, flinging the cloak around Justine's shoulders. “Must you embarrass her further?”

“I am not embarrassed.”

Her voice assured the attention of all three men.

“I am not embarrassed because I came here of my own will, Arran. I wished to spend the night with Struan.”

“Nothing happened,” Calum said hastily. “Nothing.”

“It certainly did,” Justine said.
“It
did.” Whatever it was, and she'd better find out in case someone decided to quiz her more closely on the subject. From the response every mention of—of whatever
It
might be, the—whatever—must be quite fascinating. “It did happen,” she repeated.

“Oh, my God,” Struan whispered.

“You had better pray,” Calum told him. “Pray there is no lasting harm here. I bid you good day, my friends.”

“A good day indeed,” Arran remarked. “We must make the best of it and start preparing immediately.”

“We are already prepared,” Calum said. “Justine came in a Franchot coach and the horses will be well rested by now.”

“Horses won't be necessary.” Arran draped a forearm on the mantel. “Struan and Justine will marry at Kirkcaldy.”

Chapter Five

“M
arry at Kirkcaldy?” Justine said, with enough disdain to make Struan smart. “Marry Struan?”

“He does appear to be the man you spent last night with,” Arran responded in a level voice Struan recognized as dangerous. “And everyone seems in agreement that the pair of you were alone here.”

Struan splayed a hand over his jacket—on top of the letter. He had become a poison to those he cared for deeply. No more potential victims must be offered to his tormentor. “The situation has already been explained to Calum's satisfaction. Justine arrived late. We were pleased to see each other and wished to talk—as old friends. I may have shown poor judgment in bringing her here without a chaperon, but no harm has been done. Let us have no more of this foolish talk.” This dangerous talk.

“Exactly,” Justine said, her head held at a haughty angle. “Foolish talk, indeed. They will be waiting for us in the kitchens.”

Arran drew himself up to his full and very impressive height. “There are times when we are forced to accept the error of our ways and take the consequences.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Calum snapped.

“Responsibility.”

Calum's eyes glittered and he stood very close to Justine. “I repeat, Arran. Make yourself plain. And if you are calling my sister … If you are questioning my sister's character, I advise you to think hard before saying anything at all.”

“Arran would never question Justine's character.” A heavy ache pressed about Struan's eyes. This development must not divert his attention, his vigilance. “He sometimes forgets that I am past needing his guiding hand. I am not a child, y'know, brother. I'll attend to my own business.”

These decisions are frequently removed from our hands,” Arran said. “I am merely insisting that for the sake of family reputation—our own and the Franchots—we must do what is right.”

“We are doing what is right,” Calum said, his color unusually high. “We are leaving at once.”

“I think not,” Arran remarked, almost offhandedly.

Calum placed an arm around Justine's shoulders and glared. “The devil you say. This is not your decision to—”

“It is not Arran's decision and neither is it yours,” Struan interrupted. “I assure you that the two mature people involved in this are very capable of making their own decisions.”

“Exactly,” Justine announced emphatically. “And this mature person has decided to remain here to pursue her work and to help a friend.”

Arguing openly with Justine would do nothing to further his cause. Struan addressed Calum, “We will deal with this, man to man.”

“Indeed,” Arran agreed. “We—”

“Calum and I are the men involved,” Struan told his brother, tight-lipped.

“And I am the woman involved.” Justine's serenity was amazing. “Struan and I understand each other perfectly, don't we, Struan?”

How could he do other than nod agreement?

Her smile was jubilant. “Quite. Now I find I am hungry. Very hungry. If we keep those in the kitchens waiting longer, we shall truly run the risk of arousing gossip.”

The world had gone mad. Even more mad than Struan had unwillingly accepted it to be in recent weeks.

Last night he had ridden to the castle alone, and expected to return to the lodge—alone. Instead he'd been confronted by Justine, who, at this moment, stood in the middle of this outrageously neglected kitchen like a slightly bedraggled princess misplaced in an abandoned dungeon.

And in their company were two men Struan had not thought to see for weeks, or perhaps months—and certainly not together, or here.

Gael Mercer, wife of Robert Mercer, lifelong tenants of Kirkcaldy and indispensable allies in Struan's recent trials, busily tended the fire in the great black stove. The occasional maid, Buttercup, stirred a large pot of porridge bubbling atop the stove. She stirred but kept her pink and white face firmly averted from the steam. Buttercup herself rather bubbled inside the uniform that didn't subdue her curves.

Ella, Struan's dark-haired, exotic “daughter,” hovered near Justine, who regarded the girl with smiling joy.

“You are so beautiful,” Justine said, not for the first time since she'd entered the kitchens. “Even more beautiful than when I last saw you in Cornwall—if that were possible.”

“She's a wild one,” Max announced, breaking into a boisterous jig that involved swinging his arms and hopping from heel to toe. “Ye should hear Grumpy talk about how wild our Ella is. Another one spawned o’ the devil, she says.”

Struan gave up trying to restrain the boy. “Gael,” he said. “You really don't have to do this, you know.” He found himself repeatedly looking to the windows for signs of watching enemy eyes.

Slender, red-haired Gael kept her gaze lowered and took over stirring the pot. “Robert said I was t'feed ye,” she said, her voice barely audible over Max's hummed accompaniment to his dance and the hollow banging made by a plump toddler thumping a large spoon on an upturned basin.

To Struan's amazement, Arran dropped to his haunches in front of the child and brushed fair curls away from his brow. “That's a fine drum you have there, Niall,” he said, grinning indulgently. “May I have a turn?”

Struan scrubbed at his face. He sometimes forgot that Arran had helped bring little Niall into the world, but this was not the time or the place for glad reunions.

Max's dance grew wilder. Around and around the kitchen he cavorted, his shirttail flying, his muddy boots clattering a tattoo on the flagstones.

Arran covered young Nidi's hand on the spoon handle and they beat out a rhythm to match the dance.

“Oh, how lovely,” Justine said, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

Calum hoisted the thumb-sucking Kirsty into his arms and allowed her to anchor his face between tiny fists while she studied him very closely.

There were entirely too many people in this ghastly room. And everything had slipped from Struan's control—at the very time when it was essential that he maintain the tightest control ever. In daylight, with three formidable men present, he did not fear for those he intended to keep safe, no matter what the cost to himself. If he was forced to keep the children at the lodge tonight, he must mount a careful vigil.