by Karen Ranney
Chapter 2
Castle Crannoch looked to be a vast place from the village, or even on the road leading up the mountain. Up close, however, it looked smaller, square and ugly, with turrets on all four corners and no windows to speak of facing civilization. On the other side of the castle there was the loch, and perhaps the defenders had allowed for some sunshine from that quarter. But they certainly hadn’t planned for comfort when they constructed the castle of the Dukes of Brechin.
Beatrice followed Devlen into the shrouded darkness of the entranceway.
“Do you not have candles or lamps at Castle Crannoch?”
“My father is notoriously thrifty with a coin.”
Beatrice had been without any source of funds for nearly a year, and in the past three months had been in dire straits indeed. She could stretch a meal to last three days, hoard provisions to last a month; but even she had lit a candle upon occasion, to keep her company during the long nights.
The only illumination was the pinpoint of light from a three-sided lantern set into an alcove far down the hall. Devlen headed toward it unerringly, as if he often traveled in the darkness and needed no marker or light.
The Devil could see in the dark.
Pray God to keep me safe and free from harm. See my sins, oh Lord, and forgive them with the alacrity I attempt to banish them from my soul. Keep me safe in this wicked place and with this wicked man.
She stumbled on the stone floor and made a sound, causing Devlen to turn. His expression was a mystery to her. She could no more see his face than she could the floor or her feet.
“Are you all right?”
No. She was tired and hungry, and more frightened than she’d been since the morning after she buried her parents.
She only nodded. He turned left and descended a set of stone steps carved into the earth. The musty, sour smell of the ground made her think this was a very old part of the castle.
There was nothing to fear with this man as her protector. He was so tall and broadly built, any ghost, goblin, or earthly presence would surely flee at the sight of him. There was nothing to fear unless it was the man himself.
Devlen abruptly stepped to the side of the corridor, as if he had some inkling of what would happen next. A keening sound echoed through the space, an unearthly noise that made her skin crawl. A small figure flew toward her, arms outstretched, a black void where his face should be. Beatrice pressed her back against the wall next to Devlen, praying the specter would pass. Instead, it halted only feet from her.
“Who are you?” he asked, pushing back the hood.
She expected to hear the voice of Hell itself, stentorian tones warning her this was no place for a gently reared woman. But the voice that emerged from the cloak was that of a young boy, high-pitched and curious.
Beatrice blinked at him.
The shadows were expansive, the single light from the end of the corridor barely enough to illuminate his narrow, pinched face. His nose was long for his face and his chin too prominent. His cheekbones were high, the skin stretched tight as if he’d lost weight recently or had always been a sickly child.
He was not an attractive boy, made even less so with his frown. His mouth was pinched and his eyes slitted into a narrow-eyed glare.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
At her silence, he glanced at Devlen.
“Cousin?”
Devlen turned to her, bowed slightly. “Miss Sinclair, may I present Robert Gordon, the twelfth Duke of Brechin.”
She glanced at the boy, every faint and futile wish or hope for her future dissipating as they exchanged a long look.
“Your Grace,” she said. The child acknowledged her light curtsy with a nod.
How was she possibly to obtain employment from this child?
She glanced at Devlen, wanting to slap the faint smile from his face. He’d known. All this time he’d known.
“Why did you not say something?” she asked.
“You insisted upon seeing the duke. I have provided you with a meeting.”
There was nothing to do but straighten her shoulders and walk away from Castle Crannoch.
“Why did you want to see me?”
She was not used to obeying the summons of children, even one from an aristocratic child. But it was all too evident neither of them would move to allow her to pass until she gave him some sort of answer.
“I need employment. The innkeeper at the Hare and Hound said you might have need of me.”
“In what capacity?” Devlen asked.
“Are you named for the Devil?” she asked, pushed to rudeness by the events of the past five minutes.
“The first duke, actually. He might well have been named for the Devil. I understand he deflowered his share of maidens.”
Heat surged to her face at his words. Had he no sense of propriety?
She pushed away from the wall, clutching her reticule tightly. Hunger was making her dizzy, and the disorientation of the darkness made the situation worse. She stretched out one hand and gripped the edge of a protruding brick, hoping she would not shame herself as she retraced her steps.
Please, God, let me get through this. Endurance. One of the great assets of life. Patience, another. She doubted she had any more of the good emotions left. The last weeks had drained her.
“Let me pass,” she said, reaching out and placing the fingers of her right hand on the wall.
She had to leave, to get out of here. There was nothing else to be done.
“I’ll hire you,” the diminutive Duke of Brechin said. “We’re always needing wenches in the scullery.”
Beatrice doubted she could manage the work in the scullery. In fact, she doubted she could continue to walk down this corridor without assistance. The walls were bending at the top to meet in the strangest sort of arch, and the floor was buckling beneath her feet.
She pushed past him, past Devlen, who didn’t put up a hand to stop her, and down the corridor, following the beacon of that single light.
“I have not given you permission to leave me.”
“I do not need it, Your Grace.”
“You are at Castle Crannoch, and I am the Duke of Brechin.”
“More like the Duke of Incivility,” she murmured, but he heard her.
“I will set my guard on you. Or Devlen. Devlen, fetch her to me. Stop her!”
“Cousin, you have insulted Miss Sinclair,” Devlen responded in a surprisingly somber voice. “I doubt the young lady would be suitable as a scullery wench.”
“Then where shall I put her?”
“Perhaps somewhere where her education could be of benefit.”
“How do you know she’s educated?”
Beatrice slowed her steps, curious as to what they were saying about her. A part of her was loath to leave Castle Crannoch. There was nothing waiting for her outside its walls.
Her stomach no longer rumbled with hunger. There was only pain, and a fierce sort of nausea that occasionally caught her off guard. It struck with a vengeance now, causing her to lean against the blackened brick. She climbed the steps with great deliberation.
They were still talking about her; she could hear them. Their words, however, were not as important as simply remaining upright. Dizziness threatened to level her, and it was with the greatest of wills she fought it back.
I will not faint. Not here, not in front of them.
“Are you all right, Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes, thank you.”
But she wasn’t. The world was tilting.
Devlen unexpectedly appeared beside her, putting his hand on her arm. She jerked away and lost her balance.
The stone floor seemed so very far away. She felt herself falling toward it, and reached out her hands to break her fall. The dizziness followed her down, became a voice etched with worry. A male voice called for assistance. How strange. How very odd.
She surrendered to the nothingness with a feeling of relief.
Devlen Gordon s
tared down at the figure of the young woman he’d escorted to Castle Crannoch.
“Damn.” He sighed, then bent to rouse her, a feat more difficult than he’d expected. He gently tapped her cheeks with his fingertips. No sign of consciousness. She was breathing lightly, a fact he noted with some relief. The last thing he wanted was one more complication in his life.
“Do something, Devlen!”
“You would do better to cease commanding me, cousin. In fact, I think it’s about time someone advised you on your manners.”
Robert didn’t comment, a wise decision since Devlen was about ready to upend his young cousin and apply a few judicious paddles to his bottom.
He bent and scooped Miss Sinclair up in his arms, thinking she weighed less than he’d expected. In fact, she’d surprised him from the first moment she’d entered the carriage. She was a mouthy little thing, puffed up with prudery. But her mouth was made for kisses, and she had the blackest hair he’d ever seen. For a moment, when he’d caught sight of her in the carriage, he’d wanted to demand she remain still for as long as he wished so he might study the color of her eyes, such a light blue it looked as if she’d trapped a portion of a fair sky behind them. Where had she gotten that small mole beside one eye? It looked almost as if it were an affectation, one used often by the women of Paris.
Despite her threadbare dress, or perhaps because of it, he was most conscious of her long torso, the waist sloping gently from an overfull bodice down to long, beautifully shaped legs. She really should wear a heavier petticoat if she wanted to hide her figure.
But perhaps she didn’t want to hide anything at all, and this story of applying for a position was just a ploy to wiggle her shapely little derriere past his father.
Still, she should weigh more. She wasn’t a short woman. The top of her head came to his throat, and he was tall for a Gordon.
He was insatiably curious, a character trait that might be considered a flaw since he tended to use it to excess. Was she sick? The fever? Had he unwittingly brought disease to Castle Crannoch? He realized as he walked into the newer section of the castle the young woman in his arms prompted more questions than answers.
“Devlen!”
He didn’t turn, didn’t answer Robert.
The oldest part of the castle was comprised of a series of long, corridors sparsely lit by a candle here and there. No one could claim his father’s stewardship of Robert’s inheritance was rife with profligacy.
The walls widened as he climbed up the gently sloping corridor. There were no stairs in this section of the castle. When visitors came to Castle Crannoch, they did so through the north entrance, gaining a view of the sea and the surrounding undulating hills. He’d taken the family entrance, and had to pay for it now, carrying Miss Sinclair through the fortifications like a beast who’d captured a maiden and was taking her to his lair.
Chapter 3
Beatrice awoke to find herself in a strange bed.
Her fingers trailed over the coverlet tucked beneath her neck. Silk. Ivory silk. Just like the heavily ruched canopy above her head. The four posters of the bed were intricately carved with trailing vines and leaves. The mattress felt as if it was stuffed with feathers. Was there lavender in the pillows?
She had never before slept in such a magnificent bed.
Naked.
Not quite naked. One hand crept across her chest and lower to measure the extent of her coverage. This garment was not her shift. The yoke was heavily embroidered, and there was lace at the edge of her cuffs.
She flattened both hands against the smooth linen of the sheet and closed her eyes, trying to recall the events that led to her being in a strange bed in a strange place.
The last thing she could remember was walking up the long and winding road to Castle Crannoch and being stopped by the carriage. A black carriage with a daunting occupant.
Devlen.
Had he undressed her, then? Was this his chamber?
Her eyes slitted open to take in the rest of the room. A tall bureau with a pediment and many drawers, a washstand, an armoire, the bedside table, a man sitting in a chair.
A man?
Her eyes widened as she stared.
Her visitor was quite a handsome man, one with a decided resemblance to Devlen. For all his name, however, Devlen’s face was that of an angel, and this man’s face was marked by suffering. His mouth was thin, set inside deep grooves, parentheses in his flesh. A tracery of lines radiated from his brown eyes, and she had the impression humor hadn’t caused them. His hair was brown, threaded with gray, and clubbed at the back with a blue ribbon matching the fabric of his jacket.
Emerald, lavender, and sky-blue embroidery depicting thistle and heather blossoms enlivened his waistcoat, granting a touch of abandon to his otherwise somber dark blue attire.
His mouth was faintly smiling, his expression one of self-directed mockery. Beatrice wished she had a clearer memory of the night before.
“Who are you?”
“Your host, Miss Sinclair.”
Beatrice tried to sit up and promptly fell back against the pillow when the room whirled around her. She pulled the sheet up even tighter, rose cautiously on one elbow, and after ascertaining she was well and truly properly covered—as properly as one might be while lying in an unknown bed being addressed by an unknown personage—addressed him again.
“It would be less confusing, sir, if I knew your name. You are not the Duke of Brechin. I’ve met him.”
“You do not sound impressed.”
She was reasonably certain she was still at Castle Crannoch. It was hardly polite to criticize the Duke of Brechin, especially since she was partaking of his hospitality, however accidentally.
“My nephew has a great deal to learn, unfortunately,” the man said at her silence. “One of those lessons is how to treat guests. I offer my apologies for his behavior.”
“Nephew?”
The man floated toward her. The movement was so disorienting it took her a moment to realize her visitor was in a movable chair. Large wheels in the front and smaller ones in the back allowed him to glide across the floor while seated.
“You will have to forgive me if I don’t get up, Miss Sinclair. My permanent posture is the result of a carriage accident.”
“I am very sorry, sir.”
“Pity is a common enough emotion, but it’s not the reason I’ve sought you out, Miss Sinclair.”
He reached the side of the bed. Slowly, he bowed from the waist, the same mocking smile still in place.
“Allow me to present myself,” he said. “Cameron Gordon. I am the Duke of Brechin’s guardian.”
“And Devlen’s father,” she said, recalling snatches of last night’s conversation.
“Have you known each other long?”
She could feel the warmth travel from her chest to her face at his amusement. How improper of her to call him by his first name.
“I met him only yesterday. Dear God, it was just yesterday, was it not?”
He nodded.
“How did I get here?”
“I understand from Gaston that you fainted. There are several reasons a woman faints, Miss Sinclair. Are you sickening? With child?”
She didn’t comment on his rudeness, because just then the faint scent of cooking wafted through the air. For a moment, she was dizzy, then hunger like she’d never known stripped any other thought from her.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Two days,” she answered absently, wondering where the smell originated.
A knock on the door preceded the arrival of a maid, who entered struggling under the weight of a heavily laden tray.
Beatrice sat up, uncaring that the sheet dropped to her waist, or that she was trembling. Nothing mattered but the sight of all that food heaped upon plates and coming toward her.
She almost wept.
The maid approached the opposite side of the bed and laid the tray on top of the silk coverlet
beside her.
Her fingers touched the lace of the tray cloth, felt the pattern of it. If it was real, then surely the toast was real as well?
“Is there anything else you would like, miss?”
“It looks like George IV’s breakfast.”
Cameron looked startled at her statement. “What would you know of the English king’s eating habits?”
She glanced at him. “My father had a vast correspondence with men in England. They said his favorite breakfast was two roast pigeons, three beefsteaks, and a variety of spirits. Did you know he was purported to be England’s fattest king?”
“If not its most inebriated.”
His comment surprised her, but not as much as the sudden smile transforming his face. Humor lit his eyes and curved his lips, transforming him into a handsome man.
She turned back to the tray, telling herself she had not eaten in so long that she’d be sick if she consumed very much food at one sitting. But, oh, the choices. Oatmeal with cream, a rasher of bacon, nearly a loaf of toasted bread crusty brown and warm. A pot of butter, and a pitcher of chocolate. Her fingers trembled in the air, lit on one object after another as she tried to decide what to eat first.
“You say it’s been two days since you’ve eaten, Miss Sinclair? And not steadily, I think, before that.”
Beatrice nodded, picking up a piece of the thickly sliced toast and holding it in the palm of her hand. She was trembling, and wished, suddenly, he was gone, that no one could see the almost religious reverence she felt for this bread.
She bit into it, closed her eyes, and chewed slowly. Her stomach, as she expected, lurched in spasm, a final bit of pain in response to days of hunger. She swallowed, then bent her head, ashamed for not having thought to say Grace. But surely the Almighty understood her desperate eagerness.
Her prayer quickly done, she took another bite, and while she was chewing slathered a dark red jam on the remainder of the bread. If she took one piece of toast, and a few slices of bacon, surely she wouldn’t become ill. One cup of chocolate, that was all she’d drink.
