by Jackie Ivie
“He . . . did?”
“’Tis nae great hardship,” MacVale interceded. “There’s just something about true love that seems to bring out the best in people—even an auld bachelor, such as myself. I was due for a change, anyway. And they tell me Spanish women really like Highlanders.” He winked at her.
“But what of the annulment paperwork I signed? What if it’s located?”
“Doona’ worry a moment longer of that. We burned it.”
“You did? When?” She was glowing. Nothing was remotely cold. Anywhere.
“The moment we . . . uh. Well. The moment we discovered Lord Ballanclaire in your cabin.”
“You accept the marriage, then?”
“And the legitimacy of the bairns. Aye.”
“Then why was he strapped down?”
The eyebrows of both men rose. There was absolute silence for several heart-pounding moments.
“I knew I saw Ballanclaire honor guardsmen aboard The Destiny this eve. I knew it,” Blair said finally. He shook his head. “That husband of yours has the most amazing ability to escape, disobey, and rebel. It never fails to astonish.”
MacVale cleared his throat, and he was smiling. “In answer to your question, my lady, the honor guards are the ones at fault here. But they are following orders. They will na’ shirk their duty, regardless of reason or fairness. To do so means punishment and possible expulsion from the clan. At least . . . until Kameron inherits and becomes laird.”
“Enough! You two take too long with your words, and your explanations are a bore! Why is a Scotsman always so taken with the sound of his own voice?”
The count stepped in front of the barristers and flung his arms wide. Years ago, her sister Hope had described a Spaniard’s propensity for drama. Constant smiled slightly as she watched the count demonstrate her sister’s point.
“Dear lady. You must listen to me. Please? Hear my pleas. I beg of you. They tell of a new plan? It is mine. And you must help me.”
“What can I do?”
“You all speak of true love? Well, I know it exactly. I am in that condition. Sí. I have been in love for nearly two decades! Two! It is a desperate situation and I beg your help, as I beseeched these gentlemen before you.”
“My . . . help?”
“My beloved cannot wed with me. She never could. So, I lived with the situation, and I sailed the seas, and I brooded. And then I heard a rumor. My beloved’s betrothed had wed another! It was a love match. It freed us if it stood. I have been following Ballanclaire ships ever since I first heard. And success is finally mine!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Constant replied.
“My beloved has pretended an illness her entire life. She is not ill. She is desperate. I know the feeling. Perhaps you do, too.”
Constant was so grateful for the chair, she could cry. Her legs didn’t feel like they belonged to her. She was shaking, but it had nothing to do with the elements. Everything in her was attuned to what he was saying. She knew his next words before he said them.
“My beloved is the Princess Althea. She cannot wed with a mere count. She has to wed the great British lord, Kameron Ballan. She has been so ordered. She would rather die. She has so informed me. I will not allow that to happen. That is why I hatched this plot. My beloved does not even know, but she will agree. To this faith, I cling. This is where I need your help. Oh, good. Lucilla is here. With tea. You’d best give some to the señora first. She looks close to fainting. You don’t faint, do you?”
“I never used to,” Constant replied, closing her eyes and breathing as quickly and shallowly as possible.
OCTOBER 1773—BALCLAIRE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“The Princess Althea Esmerelda Consuelo d’Anjou, daughter of King Philip the Fifth of Spain; great-granddaughter of King Louis the Fourteenth of France through her father; granddaughter of the Duke of Parma, through her mother, Princess Isabella Farnese; and the new Lady Ballanclaire through her marriage by proxy to Kameron Geoffrey Gannett William Alistair Bennion Ballan.”
Constant waited until the list of her names and titles had been announced before stepping out onto the landing overlooking the great hall of BalClaire Castle. There was an audible gasp from many onlookers. She held herself stiff and straight and supported the four pounds of jeweled comb holding a mantilla atop her head as if she’d been born to the chore. What her new attaché, Carlos Montoya, had assured her would happen was happening, too. She no longer shook at the knees or blushed uncomfortably at having everyone look at her. In fact, she made certain everyone was either in a deep bow or a curtsy before they rose, and looked at no one but her. All the preparation to ensure that she conducted herself as a true princess was paying off.
Kameron hadn’t been completely accurate about BalClaire Castle. Perhaps he was trying to minimize the effect of losing it. He’d been truthful about its construction, however. The Ballanclaire ancestral estate was definitely a rock-hewn ancient castle. She’d only gotten a peek at it during her arrival that morning, because she’d been in a closed carriage portraying a princess with a weak constitution. That one look had been enough, although it was an overcast day full of rain. BalClaire had loomed up from a solid rock face right into the sky, the entire structure like a great brooding beast. It gave the same impression as her first look at the Ballanclaire honor guards had, a year ago in Madame Hutchinson’s parlor. Intimidation. Threat. Power. Might. To think of Kam as a small boy, kept alone inside these walls, had made her heart ache.
The carriage had taken her across a drawbridge, the echo of their passage on wood blending oddly with the sound of pipers. She already loved the long, mournful sound the pipes made, carried as it was on the air through the glens and across the moors as they’d traveled. Kameron was closer now than ever. She could almost feel him beside her as they’d passed through the barbican and into the inner bailey of BalClaire. Just this morn.
It felt like days.
The crowd before her separated, creating a passageway to the far end of the room. She stood and waited, assuming a look of disdain. It was an act. The room was impressive. Jaw-dropping. Constant kept her features perfectly chiseled and blank, despite the shivers running all over her as she looked at length at three fireplaces, two along an inner wall, while a third framed a dais at the end. They each looked capable of burning an entire tree. She tipped her chin a fraction to scan upward. The space was at least two stories high, constructed of more rock. Spans of it were covered with long, embroidered tapestries, mounted animal heads, and what looked like the glint of ancient weaponry. Far above was a crosshatched wooden ceiling she’d been told was of hammer-beam design. A profusion of chandeliers were suspended from it, their lit tapers denting the space with pockets of light that barely made it to the crowd below. The room was enormous, dimly lit, smoke hung in the air, and it seemed filled with Scotsmen and -women of all clans and allegiances. Colors and plaids vied with each other among the attendees, although the majority wore Ballanclaire red and white on black.
Kameron had told her the castle was modernized. Not this room. The great hall was a medieval banquet for the senses. It exuded might. Strength. Power. The impression didn’t fade regardless of how long she looked it over. It was immensely stirring. Heart-pounding. Almost frightening. Definitely awe-inspiring.
The senior statesman in her coterie was Barrister Iain Blair—now impossible to recognize in his guise as Spaniard Carlos Montoya. He’d thinned down, was usually dressed in court attire of velvets and lace and other costly fabrics, and sported a black, curled wig. He’d filled her head with the history, pageantry, and traditions of the castle, but he hadn’t done it justice. BalClaire was the seat of the mighty Ballanclaire clan, owned by the dukes for centuries. From this room, they’d dispensed justice. Sentenced enemies. Awarded heroic deeds. This room was the manifestation of the family’s history and power.
And Kameron was willing to forfeit it for her?
Chill
s ran through her at the thought, before she stanched them and narrowed her eyes at the dais. The reigning duchess moved into view. The woman was wearing a silver ensemble, and the strawberry coronet atop her head looked fashioned of the same metal. Surprisingly, the metallic color drained her complexion of color. That was odd. Constant had thought the woman would never appear in anything less than her best light. Apparently, that detailed attention to herself gave her room to criticize, lambaste, and castigate just about everything, and everyone, else.
Days of travel locked inside a coach with the duchess had confirmed Constant’s impression. Kameron had been blunt but accurate when describing his mother. She hadn’t a loving bone in her body. She reminded Constant of a coiled snake, ready to strike at the first opportunity. Constant found that claiming a weak constitution was the best method of avoiding her, and if that proved improbable, she hid behind her royal persona’s inability to comprehend English. She noticed that her interpreter softened many of the duchess’s caustic remarks when he translated.
A richly dressed and bewigged man stepped from the crowd near her. She didn’t know how she’d missed him earlier. He wore a plaid kilt in the clan’s red, white, and black colors; a black jacket; and an array of medals and brooches that signified his position. He was surrounded by men dressed as he was, but he towered over them. He looked every inch a Scot chieftain. He didn’t look weak, either. Kameron had been right about his father’s looks: he wasn’t remotely attractive, and his nose really was the size and shape of a turnip. And he was enormous, although he stooped.
“May I allow an introduction, Your Highness?”
One of her dignitaries spoke at her side. Constant tipped her head in acquiescence.
“This gentleman is your father-in-law, His Grace, the Duke of Ballanclaire. Your Grace? The Lady Ballanclaire, Princess Althea d’Anjou.”
Constant listened to the introductions, first in English, and then in Spanish. She waited for them to finish before holding out her hand to the duke. The moment he touched it, she dipped into a deep curtsy. When she stood up, she noticed that she reached the duke’s chest. Even with the two-inch heels on her shoes.
Constant busied herself with the arrangement of her skirt, making certain the satin had fallen correctly. The heavy, brocaded white satin of her skirt was overlaid with a gossamer layer of lace that had been embroidered throughout with tiny diamonds. It was the match to her mantilla. Constant pulled slightly on the lace that flowed over her shoulders and wrapped about her elbows, cocooning the material to make an enclosure that framed the upper body and face. It took grace and practice to wear a mantilla correctly, especially one this heavily embroidered and bejeweled.
As rich as they were, both lace pieces were a far cry from the magnificence of her bodice. That single square of material had been encrusted with so much diamanté, it had no flexibility and left tiny scratches all along the cleavage created by her corset. And all of it was done to showcase the goose egg–sized diamond of her necklace. The dress had skintight, elbow-length sleeves, ending with more lace that fell to enhance her wrists. The design was intentional; her upper arms were spared contact with the diamanté, and the satin bore up well, leaving no snags to mar the surface.
Constant watched as the duke looked her over from head to toe, as if he were inspecting prize horseflesh. Constant waited, calmly holding up the weight of her gown in the stiff-backed position she’d learned. She hadn’t powdered her hair. It would have been a travesty after spending a week sitting patiently while Lucilla stained every strand with India ink. The result was worth it. She looked extraordinary and exotic, and exactly like a Spanish princess. The blue-black color contrasted sharply with the pallor of her skin. It also set off the turquoise color of her eyes.
She watched as the duke took in every nuance of her appearance before he returned to her face. She could tell she’d passed inspection. Her lips thinned involuntarily. She had to consciously force them to soften.
“I am verra pleased to welcome you to BalClaire Castle, Your Highness. I only hope it meets with your approval.”
She waited for the translation before answering.
“Your minions shall be informed if it does not,” she replied in the high-pitched voice she’d affected.
Constant waited through the translation of her words. She knew she’d said it right as the duke stiffened and his brows drew together. Other than his size, he didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to his son.
“Come, Your Highness. Allow me to escort you to the dais. There will be a long receiving line. I have sent invitations throughout the Highlands.”
Constant waited for the interpreter to finish before placing her hand lightly on the duke’s upraised elbow. She already knew about long receiving lines. She’d had to endure one that lasted more than fourteen hours when she’d first arrived at London. Then she’d been put on display and presented over a span of three days at Haverly. Three days!
The Duchess of Ballanclaire wasn’t about to be outdone by anything her royal cousin did, or anything her husband might contrive later, either. She’d made that clear to Constant, when she wasn’t sullying one of her acquaintances’ reputations. Constant would have found the three days at Haverly intolerable, her patience at an end, and her tongue sore from biting down on it, if it hadn’t been for Lucilla’s suggestion that she stuff cotton into her ears. That way, all she had to do was nod vacuously and murmur occasionally. The duchess probably thought her daughter-in-law was hard of hearing and lacked sense. That was better than the alternative. The last thing Constant wished was to be the Duchess of Ballanclaire’s confidante.
Constant sighed quietly. The whole masquerade would be unbearable, except that it made possible a life with Kameron. And then nothing could keep them apart.
There had also been the joy of seeing the real Princess Althea’s face when she’d finally wed her count and gone to live a life together at his estates. If anyone involved balked at the plan, they had only to recall that the count and his new wife were in love, as two wedded people should be, and nothing on earth was as important as love.
Nothing.
Constant was surprised it had been Barrister Blair who had designed and executed everything, although both of the barristers had been livid when Constant hadn’t been able to keep her pregnancy a secret another moment.
That was the reason it had taken so long to turn her into Princess Althea. She had been heavy with a child no one could know about, and until it was birthed no one could see, or know, anything about her. So, she’d been hidden away at the Ballanclaire estate in Palma. Constant had let her baby sustain her, enfold her, and help her through the loneliest days, especially when they let her take up residence in the suite slated for Kameron. It had made her feel so close to him and to her twins, it had been near heaven.
He’d felt closer still the moment they’d sailed. He’d felt so near in London, when the Spanish galleons had been allowed entrance and escorted up the Thames. He’d felt especially close the evening before her wedding. She hadn’t slept! Constant had anticipated seeing him at Westminster Abbey; everyone had. It was expected of him to be at his own wedding . . . but he’d failed to show. She’d been wed by proxy to a stranger, in front of the entire royal court.
Constant caught the remembered dismay to her breast and stanched it immediately, before it became an emotion she’d have to deal with. They’d reached the dais. The duke had stopped. There were three steps to negotiate, and four thronelike chairs sat atop the platform.
Four?
Constant’s heart pounded. After her wedding there had been a reception at Windsor. Everyone whispered and speculated about the whereabouts of the reclusive Lord Kameron Ballan. Somehow Constant had managed the entire fourteen hours of gossip. It had been difficult, and more than once she’d nearly been reduced to tears. The only thing that saved her was the interpreter, San Simeon. His clear failure to translate exactly was a blessing. Althea’s brother, King Charles, must have select
ed this interpreter for his tact; Charles would not have sent his barely healthy sister into British hands without a man who could deflect the vicious words directed toward her . . . at least, not until she was good and wed, and he had signed documents to that effect in his hands.
Constant’s interpreter had been put to the test at Windsor, but not later, at Haverly. There, the duchess had discouraged speculation and gossip by placing only two chairs on the dais: one for her and one for her newest acquisition, a royal daughter-in-law.
Four chairs?
Constant debated which one she should occupy. She negotiated the steps to the platform, holding her skirts with a hand that trembled before she could stop it, while the other rested atop the duke’s forearm.
The chairs were of a like character, constructed from strong, thick wood, with real silver hammered into each arm. The seat cushions were covered with red-and-white-on-black plaid. She selected the second one she came to and turned to face the crowd. Constant smiled to herself as an attendant fussed with her hem and the train of her ensemble. If anyone from the Ridgely farm ever thought about her, or wondered, they’d never come close to the actuality of her new life. She was treated royally, wore clothes that cost more than Farmer Ridgely could earn in a lifetime, and had to wait for an assist before doing just about anything.
It took a certain talent to expect such service, and even more to ignore it as it was given. The old Constant would have been overheated with blushes, and probably in tears at the attention. The princess Althea was unaffected by it and stood, coolly appraising all those in the room as they started moving to one side to form an orderly receiving line.
The duke stopped at the first chair, the duchess behind him, her smile looking pleasant and genuine. It was false. Anyone who met her eyes would know it. She had the same golden-brown eyes that Kameron was blessed with, but hers were as hard as the egg-shaped diamond at Constant’s throat. It was obvious Constant was going to be on the receiving end of her displeasure, along with the man at her side.
