by Karen Ranney
Not only was Sarah the Duke of Herridge’s daughter, but she was a Tulloch of Kilmarin.
Was Providence throwing boulders in his path on purpose?
He settled into the chair beside her, willing himself to sleep as well. He missed holding her while she slept, which was ridiculous. He’d slept standing up in a mud hut once, during a monsoon that had nearly floated him away. He could damn well sleep on a reasonably comfortable chair in a private rail car.
His memories, and their attendant guilt and shame, could wait until they reached Perth.
Chapter 17
They arrived in the city midmorning of the next day. As they pulled slowly into the station, Douglas realized that this journey was one of the longest he’d ever taken. Not of distance, but of time.
Douglas Eston, world traveler, explorer, inventor, and man of wealth was visiting the past.
Perth sat at the head of an estuary of the River Tay. To the southwest were the Ochil Hills, and the Sidiaw Hills lay to the northeast. Across the river, to the east was Monereiffe Hill and nearer, Kinnoull Hill, each nearly a thousand feet high. He’d climbed both as a child, pretending to rule over all his domain.
Perth was not only the site of his history, but that of Scotland itself. Once known as St. Johnstown, the city lay between two broad meadows, and had been, sometime ago, the capital of Scotland. In its past, it had also been a Royal Burgh, and in the hands of the English more than once. There, in the Church of St. John, where services had been attended by Charles I as well as Charles II, John Knox had delivered a sermon against idolatry.
As they waited for the carriage to be removed from the flatcar, he noted the people congregating in the station. When he was a boy, he would have tried to steal from them, or conjure up enough tears to summon their pity. Yet even then, rouser that he was, he’d dreamed of becoming the man he was now. Oh, he’d no idea of the manners and the clothes, the carriages, horses, houses, and the like. All he’d thought of was the money. He’d wanted to have enough money that he could buy anything he wanted to eat, at any time. If he was hungry in the middle of the night, he wanted to be able to order up a meal.
He had come too close to starving too many times.
The first true meal he’d had in years had been when he was fourteen, in a small bistro in France. Alano had been so disgusted by his table manners that he’d turned away, but at the time Douglas hadn’t cared. He’d eaten until he was nearly sick, unable to believe that he could have whatever he wanted. It had taken years to lose that panicked feeling, until he realized that he didn’t have to stuff himself at every meal, that food was readily available to him.
When the carriage was finally off-loaded, the horses coaxed from their car and into their leads, they were nearly ready for the rest of their journey.
Sarah and Florie were taking advantage of the station’s many shops. Douglas remained where he was, trapped by memory. Only when Tim signaled did he move to escort the two women to the carriage.
They traveled down South Street, past the older parts of Perth, to the walled enclosure that held the ruins of Balhousie Castle. He’d escaped there when he could, feasting on the apples from the orchard, sleeping in one of the small outbuildings with its roof still intact. When he was chased off, he went back to the alleys.
With its whiskey distilleries, linen, and bleaching industries, Perth was a thriving city, and almost as crowded as London. They were blocked in at one point, the carriage slowing to a crawl. From the window, Douglas could see the entrance to a dark, wet alley. Perth occasionally flooded, and it sometimes felt as if the city would never dry. There were places in it that smelled forever of salmon and rot. That alley looked familiar to him. He’d probably hidden behind a few barrels at the end of it, made it his home for however many days or weeks he could escape undetected.
The boy he’d been, eight years old and forever frightened, seemed to look out at him through the mists of time. Uneducated, illiterate, starving, almost animal-like, he’d somehow survived for six years, until the day he’d stowed away aboard a ship, bound for the world and his fortune.
Douglas didn’t have to enter the alley to experience it fully or even to remember. For the whole of his life, he’d be able to recall and be grateful that he’d somehow escaped.
The carriage was a lovely thing, equipped with soft blue velvet cushions, rolled shades, and brass appointments. There was even a clever little contraption between the seats that rose up, allowing her to put her feet a little higher.
Since the roads were so splendid and smooth, they decided to continue traveling and not stop for lunch. Instead, they would eat in the carriage.
“What about Tim?” Sarah asked, opening the hamper they’d purchased in the station at Perth. “We need to save him something.”
“I’ve already given him his share, Lady Sarah,” Florie said. “My Tim is always hungry.”
Sarah handed out a selection of meat pies, fruit tarts with fresh berries, and ale from stoneware jugs.
“When will we reach Kilmarin?” Sarah asked, when their meal was done.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
Four hours later, they stopped at a coaching inn. To her great surprise, Douglas gave the innkeeper orders to hold the four horses for their return, along with the payment to do so.
“The horses are better than most,” he explained, before asking of the innkeeper. “Do you have two rooms available?” At his assent, Douglas turned to Sarah. “You and Florie can sleep in one,” he said. “I’ll take the other, and Tim will watch over the carriage.”
Sarah didn’t comment and kept her expression mild, so as not to betray her thoughts. He was simply being considerate. It would not have been safe for Florie to sleep alone, and Tim needed to watch over the carriage. She would accustom herself to sleeping without him. Heaven knows she had had years of practice at doing so.
Douglas thanked the innkeeper, and after he’d shown them to their rooms, affixed a strange device to the edge of her door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He handed her a key.
“It’s a traveler’s lock,” he said. “Keep it on the door and lock yourself in.”
“You are much more experienced at traveling than I,” she admitted. “I would be foolish not to take your advice.”
“In this matter, I will not let you disregard it. Either the lock, or me.”
For a moment they studied each other in the dimness of the hall. What would he say if she removed the lock and handed it to him? Would he understand that she wasn’t inviting him to her bed as much as seeking his comfort? The past weeks had taught her that Douglas Eston could be a very great source of comfort.
“I haven’t done anything today,” she said, “but I’m remarkably tired. Why do you think that is?”
“Traveling for long distances in a confined space can wear you out as well as any tedious labor.”
He bent down and before she could stop him, before she was even aware of what he was doing, kissed her.
Speechless, she could only stare after him as he walked across the hall and opened the door to his own room. He didn’t turn to bid her good night. Nor did he fix one of those strange locks to his door. He only closed the door as she stood there watching.
She pressed two fingers against her lips and could almost feel the imprint of his mouth. He had kissed her. Such a soft and sweet kiss that it lingered on her lips.
An hour later, Sarah stood, rearranged her nightgown so it wasn’t twisting around her, and lay back in bed, smoothing the sheet over her before folding it down at the top. She placed the pillow right in the middle of the bed, put her head in the middle of it, and closed her eyes, deliberately seeking sleep.
Five minutes later, her eyes popped open.
She wished she had a book to read. Something lurid, or even frightening, a plot that would banish all her thoughts. She would have written in her journal but she didn’t want to wake Florie.
He had kissed her
, and she’d wanted more.
She lay staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Florie sleeping on the cot on the other side of the room. Her maid had not been happy to be separated from Tim, but he was sleeping in the stable, and there hadn’t been any room for Florie.
Husbands and wives should probably always sleep together. Did they? How very odd that she didn’t know. Her own parents’ union was not usual; she was well aware of that. Her father utterly despised her mother and made no secret of it. But did normal husbands and wives sleep together?
Had her mother ever been lonely? That was another question she had never asked herself, had never thought until this moment. The Duchess of Herridge had seemed content enough with her flowers and gardens, her needlework and her love of the pianoforte. But had she ever lain awake like Sarah was now, listening to the sounds of night and wishing for something she couldn’t name?
A soft knock sounded on the door.
She sat up, draped her legs over the mattress, and slid from the bed, padding barefoot to the door.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Douglas.”
She pressed her hand flat against the painted wood.
“Just a moment.”
She found the key on top of the bureau, returned, and opened the small lock. She turned the knob slowly and pulled the door open.
Douglas stood there attired in a white shirt half-unbuttoned and black trousers. His hair was mussed; his night beard gave his face a saturnine appearance, and he looked monumentally irritated.
“What is it?” she asked softly, conscious of her sleeping maid.
She opened the door farther so he could enter the room, put her finger to her lips, then pointed to Florie.
“Do you have a bottle of your scent?” he asked, his voice sounding gruff.
“My scent? Yes, of course. Why?”
“It’s of no importance,” he said. “May I have it? I’ll return it in the morning.”
“You want a bottle of my perfume?” she asked, not comprehending exactly what he needed.
He scowled at her, an expression of such animosity that she almost took a step back. Then her pride came to the forefront, and she frowned right back at him.
“I can’t sleep,” he said. “And I thought it might help if I smelled you.”
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and walked to the bureau, clutching her hands into fists so that he couldn’t see that her hands were trembling.
She returned with a bottle in her hand and held it out to him. “It has a screw top,” she said. “You must be certain to close it tight, else it will spill everywhere.”
He took the bottle from her, and looked as if he would like to say something but evidently thought better of it. With his mood as sour as it was, she had no idea what he might have said. He held the bottle in his hands, studying the triangular top and faceted crystal body as if it were the most important object in the world.
“You needn’t use the perfume,” she said. “If you would prefer to sleep in here, I would have no objections.”
He glanced over to where Florie was sleeping.
“I don’t believe I will,” he said, looking at her. His gaze was so direct and unflinching that she felt speared by it.
A moment later, he simply whirled on his heel, turned the handle of the door, and was gone, leaving her staring after him.
Chapter 18
Sarah had evidently not slept well the night before, and the lulling motion of the carriage was too much of a lure. Douglas watched as she rested her head against the cushioned corner and closed her eyes. In moments, she was asleep.
Douglas hadn’t slept any better, but he would rather watch Sarah than doze. They’d been married only a matter of weeks, and in that short amount of time, he’d seen her grieve for her mother, bristle at her father, care for those in her keeping, and engage in herculean tasks for the benefit of Chavensworth. She was passionate about those people and subjects that interested her, and too damned vulnerable.
She was also an eternal distraction, as if he carried a miniature of her in his mind.
After consulting his pocket watch, he decided to stop for lunch. They’d switched out the horses twice today and made excellent time. This afternoon, they’d be at Kilmarin.
“What do you say, Florie, that instead of eating in the carriage today, we make an adventure of it?”
She smiled brightly because his suggestion also meant that Tim would be able to relax as well, and the two of them would be able to share a meal.
“I would like that, sir.” She glanced over at Sarah. “Shall I wake Lady Sarah?”
He shook his head. “Let her sleep,” he said. “We’ll set up our picnic, then wake her.”
A quarter hour later, that was exactly what he did, entering the carriage after they’d set up a meal on a grassy brae. Tim and Florie had moved some distance away, and he’d not encouraged them closer. For one thing, they’d been married barely six months. For another, the class system in England wasn’t as rigid as some societies he’d known; but all the same, Tim and Florie wouldn’t have been comfortable eating with them.
He entered the carriage and sat beside Sarah. Her bonnet had come askew, and he reached over and slipped the bow free, carefully removing the bonnet from her head.
She started, her hand reaching up to touch her cheek, then her eyes opened, at first a little confused, and they filled with emotion.
“I was dreaming of my mother,” she said softly.
“You will,” he said. “For some months, I think. It’s a way of saying good-bye.”
She nodded and looked out the window.
“We’ve stopped,” she said.
“I thought we deserved a relaxing interlude.”
Douglas reached out with his hand, and after a quizzical look, she placed hers in it, allowing him to lead her from the carriage and up the hill. A red squirrel spotted them and danced in alarm back to the seclusion of the Scots pines woodland.
The skies above were a pale blue, nearly covered in fluffy white clouds with flat bottoms. The hills were indigo turning to gray when the clouds, racing like skiffs on a current of air, passed over them.
They climbed higher, the path running close to the edge of the cliff. As a precaution, Douglas put himself between Sarah and the overhang.
At the clearing, he halted, hearing her indrawn breath with satisfaction.
Below them was the River Tay, gleaming like a sterling snake through the emerald countryside. To the north were the Cairngorm mountains, stretching into the Highlands. To the west were the Loch Earn hills. The air seemed softer here, diffused, as though seen through a fine mesh.
He was home, and his heart knew it, seeming to expand with each mile.
“What is that?” Sarah asked, pulling her hand free and pointing to their left.
“Tulloch’s Folly,” he said. “The tower on it was built last century by one of your ancestors.”
“Does that mean we’re close to Kilmarin?”
“A few hours, no more,” he said.
“Does anyone live there?”
He shook his head.
“Then why build it?”
“I believe it’s an homage to the castles on the Rhine in Germany,” he said. He pointed down to the River Tay. “We have our own version of the Rhine, but no castles.”
She pointed to the right, to the ruins of another structure on a hill below the one on which they stood.
“What’s that, then?”
“That’s the castle of the White Lady,” he said, his smile beginning from somewhere within him and spreading outward. “I heard about it as a boy. I don’t remember who it belonged to, if I ever knew. But it’s rumored to be haunted by a girl who fell in love with a manservant and was banished to her third-floor bedroom. She threw herself from the window, evidently.”
“Good heavens.”
He reached for her hand again. “You mustn’t be saddened by such an old tale, Sara
h. Who knows if it’s true?”
They walked several feet away from the path and the cliff, and only then did she see the blanket and the basket.
He released her hand, and she gracefully settled herself on the corner of the blanket.
“How do you do that?” he asked.
She looked up at him.
“With your skirts. You look like a flower sitting there, and you did it as gracefully as if you were curtsying.”
She looked startled by the compliment.
“I’ve been trained to do it,” she said.
“Do you go on many picnics?”
“I used to,” she said. “My mother and I would take our noon meal beneath the oak to the south of Chavensworth. It’s a lovely place to sit and read or talk.”
“I’m surprised you allowed yourself a respite from all your duties,” he said, sitting on the opposite corner.
“When I was six years old, I began my training. That’s when it first was made clear to me that I was the daughter of the Duke of Herridge, and consequently different from other people.”
He didn’t comment.
“I was encouraged to act in a decorous manner at all times, and remember that people would look to me, the only child of the Duke of Herridge, for clues as to my father’s character. I was never to shame him. Never to embarrass him. I was never to do anything untoward.”
“A paragon of virtue, in other words.”
She smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”
“If I had any questions as to how I should act, my mother was my mainstay. She was a source of information for most things. In London, I had my aunt to consult.”
“Your mother didn’t accompany you to London?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “My father didn’t allow it.”
With every conversation, he was beginning to understand her a little better, and as he did so, he realized how very insular a life she’d lived.
