Someone rushed toward her—Mama in a swirl of soft silk arching out her arms. But Greer barely felt the embrace.
She was supposed to be in his arms—the man she loved. Loved, liked, respected and cherished. The man she had looked forward to marrying. The man who was supposed to finally be her own.
Her throat tightened, hot tears burned behind her eyes, she couldn’t draw breath.
Papa was at her other side, propping her up. “Pray fetch some brandy or sherry, before she takes a faint.”
“Nay.” Greer had never in her life taken anything so weak as a faint. She had crossed oceans and scaled mountains without needing to pause for breath. She had always stood on her own two feet.
But today was different—horribly so.
The way was cleared, with Mama on one side, and Papa on the other—their firm embrace keeping her from shaking like a leaf—they maneuvered her from the empty reception room into a private drawing room, where there was an upholstered settee upon which they sat. Some well-meaning person pressed a sherry into her shaking hand.
Greer drank, dutifully gulping down the potent fortified wine, though nothing could ease the cold ache in her throat.
How could this have happened? In the letter in her pocket, he was so very alive, so full of life and vitality.
“If I may ask, how did he die?” her papa was quietly inquiring.
Malcolm Cameron’s eyes shied away again, as if the topic were too painful. “An unfortunate accident, is all we can surmise. He disappeared, we are told, after a night of heavy drinking, as was his wont.”
Disappeared? As was his wont? The sheer wrongness of such a statement hit her like a bracing skelp across her face.
Nothing could be farther from the impression of the man she had come to know over ten years of correspondence. The very notion was an insult to his memory, an assault against all she had held dear. She refused to listen to such tripe.
Her canny Papa, bless him, gave voice to the questions she could not ask. “Where did this occur?”
Lord Malcolm Cameron—for she couldn’t yet make herself think of him as Crieff—hesitated, but finally answered. “He was last seen in Edinburgh.”
Ewan’s letter had told her he had business in the capital. He also had friends there. Friends, like Alasdair Colquhoun, the Marquess of Cairn, or Archie Carrington, who ought to have been with Ewan, and kept him from ‘disappearing.’ Oh, why had they not?
Why was nothing, nothing, nothing, as it ought to be?
For the first time in her life, Greer felt fragile, as if the next blow might shatter what was left of her composure into a hundred broken pieces. How could this have happened to her Ewan—he who was so careful and methodical in his habits? Where had he been that such a thing could have happened?
There were so many questions—Greer picked the most pressing one. “When?” She had had a letter from him only two days ago. His next to last letter had found her in Holland ten days before. Ten days spent in travel, crossing the Channel and hieing up the Great Northern Road as fast as a post chaise could take them.
“Forgive me, but I was under the impression the lady did not even know my cousin.” Malcolm Cameron shot a look at the steward, MacIntosh, as if seeking information and confirmation.
“They had not formally met,” Papa replied. “Though the betrothal was of long-standing. However—”
“Greer and His Grace wrote often,” her mama explained. “They must have written hundreds of letters.”
Four hundred and twenty-six letters, to be exact—Greer had counted. She did know Ewan. Through their correspondence, they had shared their thoughts and feelings in a way that some married couples who lived in the same house had never done.
But Malcolm Cameron was frowning at them, as if he could comprehend neither the reasonable explanation, nor her unreasonable emotional state.
Greer would not apologize for her feelings—they were honest and right. “His Grace and I were betrothed for ten years, my lord.” She still could not bring herself to call this man—Ewan’s cousin, it seemed, though she had never heard of him—by Ewan’s title. “We had every expectation of a long and happy life together. His death”—even saying the word brought a searing pain to her chest and heat to her eyes—“has come as a very great shock.”
“Then I am doubly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.” And he did look sorry. He looked as devastated as she—there were dark circles of grief under his red-rimmed eyes.
Greer tried to set aside her shock enough to understand his—the news must be as hard for him as it was for her. It was not his fault that no one had known to send word to Dalshee.
But as awful as it was, she supposed she was grateful they were there, at Ewan’s home, and thinking of him, when she found out. Grateful to see what must be a portrait of him hanging over the drawing room mantelpiece. The young lad in the portrait stood with his parents in the park with Castle Crieff in the background, his vivid green eyes and quiet smile a younger version of the youth who gazed at her from her miniature.
Now, she would do what was right—she would see Ewan, himself. Finally. And for the final time. “I should like to see him now. To pay my respects.”
To see him at last, and to perhaps perform at least one wifely duty for the man who would now never be her husband. To see to his body with the tender care and affection she had harbored within her for these long years.
There was a terrible silence while Malcolm Cameron stared at her, aghast.
She would make him understand. “I am not so faint-hearted or weak-kneed that I do not know my duty to my intended, my lord”—she stumbled over the words—“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I am sure my parents would like to accompany me.”
“Of course,” Papa agreed immediately.
“I beg your pardon, but that is not possible.” Malcolm Cameron looked away to another soberly clad man who stood to the side—a secretary or some such functionary—as if he needed to confirm the answer. “The body has not yet been recovered.”
Greer’s breath bottled up in her chest, like the air in a hot balloon, threatening to burst. She looked to her papa, and then back at Malcolm Cameron. “But, then how do you know—” Her mind raced to the possibilities—perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps it was all just a miserable misunderstanding, and Ewan was alive. “Disappeared, you said—on what evidence is he presumed dead? He might yet survive! There was a man on the road—”
“Greer.”
That was her father’s voice, as full of grave caution as her Mama’s hushed whisper. “You go too far. Pray do not let your imagination run away with you in so serious a matter.”
But Greer was already on her feet, full of the volatile combination of hot, burning indignation and hope, advancing toward Malcolm Cameron. “If he has not been recovered, how come you to wear his ring?” She knew the heavy, black onyx seal—as she knew all things of Crieff—from Ewan’s description and recounting of the day the ring had come to him on his grandfather’s death. And yet here it was on Malcolm Cameron’s hand, even when Ewan’s body had not yet been recovered?
Cameron’s left hand shifted to touch the ring on his right, as if slightly astonished to discover he was really wearing it. “I wish to God I wasn’t. But the ring was sent to me. As proof. When the authorities sent word.” Malcolm Cameron seemed to gather himself together before he faced her. “I didn’t like to say in front of ladies. But his body has been found—dead. Quite dead. Though it has not yet been brought home to Crieff, as it ought.”
“Oh.” The hot ember of hope in her chest was stamped out. “Oh, I see.”
“We expect his body to be delivered directly.” Cameron looked to his secretary again before turning to her papa. “My Lord Shee, I would ask that you and your countess and daughter stay for the service and burial, though it may be some days, as arrangements are still being made.” Cameron nodded to his secretary in confirmation.
“Yes, of course,” Papa demurred at the same time
that Greer objected.
“But I cannot stay here.” Not in this house that would not never be her home. “Not now.”
“Greer, dearest.” Mama rose and came to her side. “We have an obligation, to say nothing of our Christian duty, to stay and pay our respects. It is the very least we can do.”
“No, please. I cannot.” Greer wanted to be home, where everything was known and familiar. Where everything was calm and balanced and symmetrical. Where everything was right. “Please understand I mean no disrespect, my lord.”
“Your Grace,” her papa corrected quietly.
“I understand that you have suffered a loss, Lady Greer,” His Grace, Malcolm Cameron, said. “We all have. But—”
It was more than a loss—her grief was a gaping hole in her very being, her soul. Her loss was a well that could never be filled.
“We have all suffered a grievous loss,” her mother interposed without raising her voice, “and endured a terrible shock. Your Grace, I offer you and the house of Crieff my sincere condolences.”
Mama’s civility in the face of such an untenable situation reminded Greer of her manners. She made herself speak graciously—or at least as graciously as a broken heart and aching throat would let her. “Your Grace,” she ameliorated her tone, though she could not hide her feelings. “My apologies. I offer you my profoundest condolences on the death of your cousin. My parents and I join you in grieving such an enormous loss.”
“I thank you.” His own effort to curb his emotions made him terse. “And my apologies for your own, now obvious, loss. I had not anticipated it.”
“Nay.” How could anyone anticipate the death of a man so seemingly hale and healthy—a man in his prime. A man she would miss forever.
“We both need some time to recover ourselves.” Malcolm Cameron seemed as distressed and bewildered as she, though he was clearly working hard to mask his sorrow behind a veneer of responsible civility. “But when that time is over, I should like to think things can…” He paused, as if he were still formulating his thought. “And should, I think… remain the same.”
“What do you mean?” Papa was as bewildered as she. “What things should remain the same, Your Grace?”
His Grace of Crieff did not answer her papa but came instead to Greer’s side to take up her hand. “I want you to know.” He met her eyes for the first time, gazing at her as if he were swearing an oath. “I stand ready to honor Crieff’s commitment to you. I stand ready to honor the marriage settlements and make you still Crieff’s bride. In fact, I am sure my cousin would have wanted it that way.”
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
11 April, 1785
Dear Lady G,
In answer to your last—I hope you will enjoy the enclosed.
Yours, E.C.
Lord Ewan Cameron
7 Rue Malebranche
Faubourg St. Michel
Paris
17 July, 1785
My dearest Lord Cameron,
I am in receipt of your last, and the enormous parcel of BOOKS! you have so very kindly sent to me! I am all agog, and frankly near overwhelmed at your generosity. Would that I had something of equal value to give you. Alas, I have only my friendship and loyalty to offer in return. Perhaps when I am grown older, and you are at last home, I shall think of something better with which to thank you.
In the interim, I remain,
Your most devoted friend, GD
Chapter 6
Even Mama gasped.
Greer shook free of Malcolm Cameron’s hand, and sought out the miniature tucked away in her pocket, as if the beloved talisman could ward off such an ill-considered prospect. Though she could no longer hold back the tears scalding her eyes, she found enough pride and indignation to stiffen her legs along with her spine. “Nay. I am sorry, but that is impossible.”
She could not imagine that Ewan would never have wanted any such thing—the rapport between them was unique and special and not to be fobbed off on whomever came next.
“While your offer is no doubt well intentioned, Your Grace, the timing of such an offer is highly inappropriate.” Papa’s tone was cooler than was strictly civil.
“Forgive me.” Malcolm Cameron was instantly contrite, and, judging by the flush creeping across his high cheekbones, suitably abashed. “I spoke too soon. Such things belong to the future, not now. Let me see that you are shown to your rooms, so you might recover.”
“Nay,” Greer insisted. “I cannot stay. I cannot.”
“Greer.” Her mother’s voice held another warning. “Let your Papa handle this.”
Wait for your father. Stand back. Don’t put yourself forward. Watch your tongue.
She’d be damned if she would.
She cared nothing for manners or civility at that moment. “I want…” She wanted privacy to curl up in the comfort of her mother’s lap and cry herself to sleep. She wanted the solace of her dogs and her home. She wanted the last half-hour to never have happened. The crushing reality of it all was like to suffocate her. “I want air.”
She wanted to be alone, outside, where everything was green and alive. She needed to be where she could feel close to Ewan—out on the land he loved more than anything else in the world. “You will excuse me, please. I need—”
Greer picked up her ruined hems and ran out the way she had come in, through the oaken door MacIntosh rushed to open for her, and across the now-empty forecourt. She took the first path that showed itself at the edge of the tall, sheltering woods, and followed it upward onto the moorland through the cathedral of the fir trees, letting the wild reverence of the wind whipping through the branches silence the screeching sorrow in her soul.
She chose the direction of her flight instinctively—even if she had never before walked the path from Castle Crieff, her heart could still navigate its way to the craggy outcropping of rocks known as Glas Maol. Though she knew it was impractical to think she could climb all the way to the top of Glas Maol in her present attire—it was a good eight mile dauber in the best of circumstances—she was driven by something pressing, some weight that needed to be carried high into the open vastness of the heather-covered hills.
She had to move, to exercise the press of grief before it smothered her. Even if it hurt to breathe—her more recent long walks touring the sights in Amsterdam and the Hague were no preparation for scaling mountains. Exertion and sorrow stole the air from her lungs, and she had to stop where the last of the trees gave way to open moorland to catch her gasping breath.
She dropped her skirts—it would not matter if her hems were dirtied or the skirts torn or ruined. As beautiful and bonnie as they were, she would never wear them again—the gown would forever remind her of this ruined day, this relentless, burning sorrow.
Greer turned momentarily back toward Crieff, to take some sort of accounting of how far she had walked and was startled to find that she was not alone—a clarty little dog appeared to have been creeping along behind her in tentative accompaniment.
“Here, lad,” she called the mud-speckled spaniel near. “Oh, you poor thing,” she crooned as the taffy-colored dog melted into a grateful puddle of animal pleasure at her feet. “How long have you been out here on your own?” Greer ran her hands over the dog’s ribs to try and reckon how long the poor animal might have gone without food or care.
Her answer was a sweet, wiggling kiss, but behind the spaniel’s long silky ears she discovered a leather collar, with a wee, dingy name plaque.
Her fingers stilled even as her heart kicked over within her chest. “I am a Gent,” Greer read the brass plaque sewn onto the leather. “Oh, wee Gent!” The fresh tears that dampened her cheeks were immediately dispatched by the demonstrative little animal, whom Greer clutched to her chest. “Oh, poor, sweet Gent.”
For she knew this dear dog in the same manner that she knew all the things of Crieff. And because she had given the wee spaniel his name at Ewan’s
behest. She should have thought to ask after the animal, who looked much the worse for wear—his coat hung slack on his spare frame and his feathery legs were fringed in mud.
“But you’ll be fine now that you’ve found your way to me, Gent—I’ll see to you in your master’s stead.” She ruffled the sweet animal’s soft-furred head. “I’ll take you home to Dalshee with me, and my dogs, Milk and Honey. We’ll be a quadrumvirate of our own.” Gent could never take the place of Ewan, but the wee dog would be a lovely, lasting connection to him, and the special rapport and friendship they had forged over the years.
Her tears finally gave way to a smile—for who could not smile under the adoring gaze of such an animal, who, after his gyrations of ecstasy were exercised, led the way upward, turning again and again, as if chivying her along in his busy, companionable way.
And so she did—for a short while. Because while she might have been unsuitably dressed for hills and dogs in her silk wedding gown and heeled shoes, Greer was enough of a countrywoman to keep a strict eye on the unpredictable Highland weather, which looked to be matching her changeable mood—blowing in clouds from the west, stacking like grey stones on the ridges above.
She had best turn back for Crieff immediately. It would be beyond awful if her impulsive flight prevented her family from returning to Dalshee as she had insisted—the coachman, Fenner, would not want to risk his team on the long trip around the moor on the valley roads in the dark.
Greer called the dog back, “Here, Gent.” But when she turned on the path, she was struck by the view back down the glen to Castle Crieff rising, grey and strong out of the surrounding green, with the shimmering expanse of the home loch trailing away like a teardrop behind.
The place she had thought to call home. The place she had been prepared to turn into her home. The place where she had prepared to become…herself—the wife and partner, the duchess she was always meant to be.
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 4
