The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  Smiling her appreciation, Vangie slipped off her robe, past the point of caring whether a complete stranger saw her unclothed. She settled into the warm, soothing water, sighing in pleasure. An aroma wafted past her nostrils. Roses, naturally. She strongly suspected Mrs. Parker held the penchant for both the color pink and roses.

  The housekeeper made herself busy, tidying the room, tsking and clucking the whole while. Her movements stopped when she too spied the tell-tale mark upon the bedding while removing the linens. Vangie’s face burned with chagrin. Wasn’t it normal to bleed? Aunt Adélaid had mentioned it. The pitying look Mrs. Parker sent her had her sinking deeper into the bath water.

  Several minutes later, Emma returned with a basket.

  All brusque business, the housekeeper assisted Vangie from the tub, then wrapped her in an enormous linen towel. She handed Vangie a jar. “It’s an ointment. It will aid in the healing.”

  Vangie removed the lid, sniffing the aromatic mixture. It reminded her of one of Puri Daj’s herbal concoctions. Mrs. Parker lifted some soft cloths from the basket. She hesitated, casting a glance in Emma’s direction. The maid busily tended the hearth. Lowering her voice, Mrs. Parker said, “To catch the remnants of your torn maidenhead.”

  Vangie averted her eyes. This was really beyond the pale. Did all the servants know? She clutched the towel tighter, like an enormous shield against the embarrassment oozing from every pore. Truly grateful, yet equally humiliated, she thanked the housekeeper. “You’re most kind.”

  Mrs. Parker tutted comfortingly again. “You’ll be mended in a day or two. Right as rain.”

  She passed Vangie her threadbare shift and darned stockings. Shooting another look toward Emma, Mrs. Parker muttered for Vangie’s ears alone, “So long as your rutting husband leaves you be.”

  After taking his usual chair at the breakfast table, Ian opened the news sheet folded neatly before him. He stared blindly at the headline. His body was replete—his mind anything but.

  He’d fallen asleep with Vangie nestled securely in his arms. Dawn’s glow woke him this morning, prompting him to edge from the bed. The coals burned low in the grate. They offered little in the way of warmth, yet emitted enough frail light that he could appreciate the vision of his slumbering wife.

  She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, and her ebony hair fanned across her pillow. Several silky curls curved over her ivory shoulder and back. The dark arc of her lashes created a startling contrast to the porcelain cheeks they caressed. Her lips, still rosy-red from his fervent kisses, were parted as she breathed softly in her sleep.

  The sheet had slipped halfway to her waist when he’d risen, revealing the sumptuous curve of a breast. She shifted, and the sheet dropped lower.

  Ian had sucked in a hissing breath. A slight bruise marred the loveliness of her breast. Had he done that? Blister it all, he was a brute. Tenderly draping the bedclothes over her, he’d silently vowed he’d make it up to her.

  By God, his stepmother and sister had better have a good explanation for defaming her character. And for sending him on a wild goose chase to snare a siren-turned-angel.

  The clattering of china as Lynch prepared Ian’s tea interrupted his reverie. He glanced through the open door. Was Vangie awake yet? Two maids and a footman huddled together beyond the doorway, whispering. Catching Ian’s perusal, they ceased talking and scattered.

  Returning his attention to the breakfast room, he frowned. What was afoot with the staff? He’d been met with a series of dark scowls and looks of reproach from his usually amiable servants the entire morning.

  Lynch finished pouring Ian’s tea. He placed the cup and a plate of food before his master. He half-turned to the sideboard muttering, “I forgot the sugar—”

  Ian studied him. Something was awry. It wasn’t his imagination. The man never forgot anything. Ever. And where was Mrs. Parker? Ian hadn’t seen her all morning. If anything was amiss, Lynch would be the first to know.

  “Lynch?”

  The butler faced him. “Sir?”

  Did he detect the minutest bit of frost tingeing the single word? Crooking an eyebrow, Ian met the butler’s indecipherable gaze. He took a bite of sausage. “Is something afoot?”

  Lynch pursed his lips and looked down his rather long, hooked nose. Disapproval was etched across his haughty countenance. “Perhaps, my lord,” he sniffed disdainfully, “you should make that inquiry of the new Lady Warrick.”

  Ian paused, his kipper-laden fork almost to his mouth. Frosty, to be sure, and no small measure of censure as well. “Lady Warrick?”

  “Indeed,” Lynch intoned, his imperious voice ringing with disapproval.

  Lynch turned to the sideboard, muttering beneath his breath. Lynch did not mutter. Ever. It seemed it was a morning for firsts.

  Ian distinctly heard, “Inconsiderate…poor innocent…lout,” before the butler snatched up the teapot, and with another loud, disapproving sniff, quit the room.

  Ian placed his fork on his plate and wiped his mouth before tossing the serviette onto his full plate. He shoved from the table and strode from the breakfast room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made straightaway to Vangie’s chamber, entering without knocking.

  Mrs. Parker and Emma both fussed over his bride. Upon spying him, Vangie dipped her head, lowering her gaze to the floor. The maid continued to twist and pin his wife’s raven hair.

  Patting Vangie on the shoulder, Mrs. Parker gathered the bed and bath linens before heading for the door. Ian heard her mutter, “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you great oaf,” as she flounced from the room.

  Lynch and Mrs. Parker muttering?

  As if compelled by some unseen force, the unmade bed drew his attention. There in the center, like an unholy beacon, a blemish marred the mattress.

  Blast and damn.

  Regret swirled in his gut. He swung his gaze to Vangie.

  She continued to study the carpet.

  He looked to Emma, and she glared at him, accusation and condemnation in her eyes. Pursing her lips, she dipped her gaze to her mistress’ hair once more.

  The unfamiliar heat of a flush stole across Ian’s face. It would seem the whole staff thought he was a monstrous beast. An ugly thought intruded.

  Did they think he’d forced himself on Vangie? He couldn’t very well assemble the staff and explain otherwise. Humiliated at the notion, he ran a finger around the front of his neckcloth. He’d cleaned up the mess on the floor to still any gossip, but he hadn’t considered that. His gaze flicked to the bed. There was nothing for it then. Let them think what they would.

  He caressed Vangie with his gaze. It was what she thought that mattered. “Emma, please go below, and ask Mrs. Plumperbuns to prepare a basket for our journey.”

  “Yes, my lord. Just one more curl to pin.” Securing the last strand, Emma met Vangie’s eyes in the mirror. “You look lovely, my lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emma dipped a quick curtsy, mumbling a belligerent, “My lord,” before hurrying from the room.

  Feeling as awkward as a lad in short pants, instead of an experienced man of the world, Ian approached his wife. “Are you? Did I?” Finally, heaving a frustrated sigh, he grasped her hands and drew her to her feet. “I’m sorry, sweeting. I tried to be gentle. If I’d known you were an innocent…”

  Raising her head, Vangie met his eyes. Undisguised melancholy lingered in hers. She attempted a smile, though her lower lip quivered the merest bit. “I’m fine. Please, don’t concern yourself. It’s the way of nature, as God intended.”

  Guilt and remorse battered Ian’s ribs. His sweet bride was reassuring him, again, when she was the injured party. He was only now beginning to realize how blessed, rather than cursed, he was at having taken her to wife.

  So why had Lucinda and Charlotte done their utmost to tarnish Vangie’s character to him? Why had they been eager to see him depart for London to defend the family’s honor?

  He clamped his t
eeth until they threatened to crack. What an ironic twist of fate. Vangie wasn’t the villain in this marriage. He was.

  Three days later, Vangie thumped the inn’s lumpy pillow for the umpteenth time. Giving up on sleep, she flopped onto her back. As usual, slumber eluded her. She reached under the pillow, seeking her dagger. She closed her hand on the familiar silver handle, her wedding ring clinking against the metal. Though physically fatigued, her mind refused to stop ruminating, replaying the past trio of days.

  They stopped only long enough to switch the team and see to their personal needs. Ian even insisted they eat while on the move. He’d set a punishing, exhausting pace. More than once, she’d fallen asleep, and he’d woken her as the coach rolled into a lodging house’s dark and dusty courtyard. Tonight, as she had every other night, Vangie sought her lonely bed immediately after supping.

  She shifted on the mattress, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Her backside ached from the hours and hours of sitting and bouncing along in the couch-and-four. However, her heart ached far more. After their wedding night, Ian hadn’t come to her bed again. Each night, he dashed her hopes once again when he procured separate rooms for them at the posting houses along their route.

  Staring at the fingers of moonlight dancing across the ceiling’s beams, she played with an escaped curl. Except to hand her in and out of the coach, he touched her not at all. Neither did he keep her company within the conveyance’s boring and stuffy confines. He rode his stallion during the day, only joining her after sunset.

  His demeanor remained coolly polite, but a few times she thought she might’ve glimpsed remorse in his quick-silver eyes. Did he already regret marrying her? Had she so dissatisfied him on their wedding night that he was now averse to touching her?

  A nasty twinge gripped the region near her heart, and she absently wrapped the strand of hair around her finger several times. She’d tried to show him she’d been willing, and his eagerness hadn’t disgusted her. The things Ian had done to her…

  A wistful sigh escaped past her lips as she blinked into the darkness, reliving the sensations. The way he’d made her feel had been utterly exquisite, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Those delicious little quivers still fluttered along her senses when he looked at her.

  One touch from him, and she was willing to throw herself into his arms once more. She wasn’t immune to her husband. In fact, he intrigued her. At least that’s what she called her growing fascination.

  Forgiving by nature, she’d hoped to bear a child from their marriage, someone to love, and who’d love her unconditionally in return. A difficult task, to be sure, when one’s husband declined to share one’s bed. Even if the initial experience had been something short of ideal. Mortifying heat swept her face. It was beyond demeaning to be spurned so early on.

  If Ian would let her, Vangie intended to be a good wife to him. Yes, he was angry and disappointed at being forced into marriage, but hadn’t the settlement tempered his disenchantment even a little? She grimaced, pulling her mouth into a taut line. And she wasn’t wholly repugnant, else why would those gentlemen in London have been so attentive? Albeit, usually inappropriately so.

  Rolling onto her side, she dangled a foot off the mattress.

  She’d attempted to talk with him their first evening of traveling. He’d climbed into the coach, settling across from her, his legs stretched before him.

  “It’s cooling rapidly this evening.” Oh, bother, she’d scolded herself. Couldn’t she contrive something cleverer than that drivel? Talk of the temperature? Every featherheaded ninnyhammer in London babbled on about the temperature or the weather or their latest bonnet.

  “Indeed,” he’d replied. Polite. Cool. Reserved.

  “Have we far to travel yet?” In the darkened carriage, she had rolled her eyes in self-disgust. Simkin. Naturally, we do. We’ve but started the journey. Vangie had floundered a bit more, “Today, er, tonight, I mean.”

  “A bit.”

  “Your stallion, he’s Arabian, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you travel this route often?”

  “Yes.”

  That was it. She’d given up.

  He’d obviously not wanted to converse with her, and she’d retreated into confused silence. Moments later, she’d heard the striking of flint as Ian lit the oil lamp. The revealing light wasn’t welcome.

  Through lowered lashes, she’d watched him settle into his corner of the carriage—without uttering a sound. The man certainly was a miser with his words.

  Idly twisting a loose button on her emerald-green jacket, she’d frowned and looked downward. Best to stop before it came off. She brought no other jacket. Yvette had pressed Vangie to take some of her clothes, but she’d refused. Her kind-hearted cousin didn’t understand how demoralizing it was to always accept charity. Besides, her aunt, uncle, and cousin had already been too generous by far.

  Rather than face Ian’s indifference, Vangie had peered out the window into the passing darkness. The painful truth was, she was far more likely to see a shooting star than receive a morsel of kindness from her husband. A wistful sigh escaped, but she swiftly suppressed it lest he hear. She wouldn’t wallow in self-pity.

  She’d fingered her spencer’s worn, faded cuffs. She hadn’t many clothes, and those she owned were castoffs, showing signs of constant wear. Tucking her scuffed half-boots beneath her skirt, she’d removed the plain straw bonnet atop her head. Undoubtedly, she’d doze off again and wouldn’t chance crushing the humble accessory. She only owned one other bonnet, and the hat was too warm for springtime wear.

  The clothing Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid had purchased for her always remained with them when she departed. She’d taken to borrowing Yvette’s rather than have them go to the unnecessary expense of purchasing garments she’d only leave behind. The first few times she’d returned home with new clothing, Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia had confiscated them. They’d sold the garments for her keep, as was their right, they claimed. They’d also made it clear she’d been a tiresome, unwanted burden these many years.

  Greedy buggers.

  Vangie had earned her way, and she suspected Uncle Gideon continued to send them monies regularly. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Puri Daj hadn’t compensated them too.

  Despite begrudging her every meal, Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival would not be pleased she’d wed. They quite liked the monies her presence afforded them. Placing the hat atop the reticule she’d crocheted herself, Vangie had turned her attention to the inglorious night once more.

  She’d awoken to the coach bouncing as Ian hopped to the ground. After eating a quick meal, she’d bathed and gratefully crawled into bed. And lain there for hours, wide awake, her mind churning. Just like tonight.

  Now, eyes gritty with fatigue, she stared at the dancing moonbeams cavorting across the rustic ceiling and walls. The moonlight, bright as day, taunted her, daring her to seek slumber’s peace and its welcoming forgetfulness. But she didn’t want to forget.

  Three nights ago, Ian had bedded her.

  In her mind she replayed his tenderness, the regret and undisguised shame, the genuine remorse he’d expressed after discovering his error. Absorbed in her own unhappiness, it had only now occurred to her that he must be suffering too. Every instinct told her he was a bari man—a good man—at heart, and Puri Daj always said, “God looks at the heart.”

  Yawning, Vangie turned over. She smiled into the bumpy pillow knowing she could sleep now. She had a plan.

  Ian idly regarded the raindrops scampering after one another on the foggy carriage window. Only one more night of posting houses remained before they reached his home. Late this afternoon, the weather had turned beastly, reflecting his dismal mood. A passing storm drenched the roads, forcing him to forsake the saddle he preferred, and seek the dry, lamp-lit interior of the luxurious coach.

  He’d climbed in, dripping wet. Sitting, he lifted off his hat and removed his gloves be
fore unfastening his greatcoat. Once his sodden garments lay beside him, he relaxed against the seat, arms folded.

  Vangie’s bewilderment fairly radiated off her. He recognized her confusion in her soulful eyes and sad smile. He called himself a hundred kinds of fool. She’d not complained an iota, but instead, had been amiable and sweet-tempered the entire journey.

  He’d neglected her miserably, leaving her alone every day in the coach-and-four. Truth to tell, he wanted her desperately and didn’t trust himself to be in such close proximity. One kind word, one soft touch or yearning look, and he’d be undone, no doubt lifting her skirts and taking her right there in the coach.

  On the floor. On the seat. In his lap—

  Blast it all, cease man.

  Thoughts of claiming her once more heated his pulse and caused a predictable reaction in his nether regions. Shifting on the buttoned leather, he rearranged his legs, carefully keeping his face concealed in the shadows the lamp’s meager glow didn’t reach. He didn’t want her to notice him studying her, afraid she’d see the desire he couldn’t conceal.

  Or insistently bulging in my pantaloons.

  Ian had hurt her once. He’d not do so again; not intentionally leastways. Retreating into the controlled, impersonal shell he’d adopted as a child, where he didn’t permit himself to feel anything, served his purpose well.

  Only he did feel. Something elusive, mystifying, and consuming. Drivel.

  Something that haunted his increasingly distracted waking moments and his evermore restless nights.

  Rubbish and balderdash.

  His heart skipped a beat and turned over in an unfamiliar manner.

  Dunderheaded dolt.

  From across the coach, a muffled sigh sounded, and he cursed inwardly. Through half-lowered lids he watched Vangie. The lamp’s dim light cast moving patterns across her delicate, downcast features, and he berated himself. His guilt had created a great, gaping chasm between them.