by Karen Ranney
“On the contrary, my dear wife, it was my son who looked bereft. Didn’t you notice? Any interest I express about Miss Sinclair is simply because I’m concerned about Robert’s well-being.”
“To the exclusion of anyone else.”
He didn’t say anything, only sat and studied her. He hadn’t lost his looks in the last six months. Her longing for him would have been easier to bear, perhaps, if he had.
“I admit, she is lovely, but not your type. I’ve always thought you liked a certain dramatic sort of woman.”
“Like you, Rowena?”
She smiled.
“Like me, dearest Cameron. Except, of course, you haven’t given any indication of liking my looks of late. Strange, I thought your legs didn’t work. Not your manhood.”
He looked startled at her bluntness. She had never before assaulted him with words. She’d attempted to seduce him. She’d hinted at her loneliness, and when nothing else worked, she’d taken herself off to London, only to realize the only way to storm the citadel was by a direct and frontal attack.
She’d no intention of allowing someone like Beatrice Sinclair to take one iota of her husband’s attention away from her.
“She’s frightened of you, you know. I don’t know if it’s because you’re in that chair or simply because she doesn’t like you.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“She avoids you at all costs, does she not?”
“What Miss Sinclair does or does not feel for me is none of my concern, Rowena.”
“I could have told her, of course, that you were kinder when you were walking. You’ve changed, Cameron, become more angry, more embittered, more annoyed with life.”
“Is there a reason for this litany of my sins, Rowena?”
“You have always enjoyed my humor, Cameron. You once said you enjoyed my intelligence. Perhaps you’ll come to admire my bluntness.”
She advanced on him, then changed her mind and walked toward the door and locked it.
A small smile was playing around his lips, and it angered her. She wanted to punish him for all of his avoidance, for the nights in which she’d lain awake desperate for his touch. Now, however, was not the time.
She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, loosening her wrapper. She was naked beneath the thin garment and the cold had tightened her nipples, making them as hard and erect as if she were aroused.
He didn’t need to know she was almost desperately afraid at this moment, afraid he would reject her. She reached out and grabbed his hand and pulled it to her, placing his palm over her nipple.
“How you used to love my breasts, Cameron. You used to love to touch them, to pull on my nipples. To taste me.”
Despite the fact he was attempting to pull his hand away, she was stronger in her need than he was in his annoyance. She took two of his fingers and deliberately stroked herself with them.
“Do you remember being inside me, Cameron? Do you remember when we would exhaust ourselves with each other?”
Before he could respond, before he could pull away and renounce her with words that would no doubt hurt and wound, she reached out her left hand and gripped him between the legs.
“You’re hard for me. What do you do every night? Do you will it away? Or you think of your Miss Sinclair and bring yourself to satisfaction?”
“I am but an animal in several ways,” he said, allowing his hand to drop. “The sight of a lovely woman, any lovely woman, is enough to get me hard.”
She pulled back. “Why do you hate me?”
“You know the answer to that, madam, more clearly than I could ever articulate.”
“We’ve only been married five years, Cameron. Five years. Am I to live like this for the rest of my life?”
“Go back to London, Rowena. Find yourself a lover.”
He wheeled himself to the door, turned the lock, and swung it open.
“Or coax one of the footmen to your bed, I don’t care. Just don’t come here again.”
She stood and pulled her wrapper around her, affecting a nonchalant pose she didn’t feel.
He didn’t say another word to her as she left his room.
Chapter 20
Surprisingly, Beatrice slept well, waking at dawn as she normally did. This morning, like her entire stay at Castle Crannoch, was different from the mornings of the past three months, however. She was not awakened with a raging headache, an empty stomach, and an obsession for food.
She’d have liked some of the biscuits from last night, but she doubted if Robert had left any. Never mind, she’d find something to eat.
Dressing took no more than fifteen minutes, talking to herself sternly took a half an hour.
You will not flirt with Devlen Gordon.
You will not even look in his direction.
You should not wish for excitement. Or adventure. You have had enough of those since coming to Castle Crannoch.
There was something to be said for a placid life, for a sameness of routine. Ah, but that life didn’t include people like Devlen Gordon, handsome and dangerous. She sighed.
Ensuring every hair was in place, and her attire was suitable for a governess took a little longer, as did washing her face and staring at herself in the mirror until the color on her face subsided. Her eyes sparkled too much, but she doubted if there was anything she could do about that. She tried to think sober thoughts, but her mind was not cooperating either.
An hour after she rose, she walked down the hall in search of her charge.
There was time before breakfast for a brisk walk. Doing so would no doubt enliven the constitution, and make it easier to sit for hours in the schoolroom during lessons.
When she mentioned as much to Robert, he looked startled at the suggestion.
“Miss Sinclair, do you think it’s safe?”
Until that moment, she’d forgotten about the shooting incident. What kind of governess was she, that she could forget such a horrid thing?
“We’ll stay close to the castle,” she said. “But we need some fresh air. And despite the fact it’s cold, it looks to be a fair day.”
In fact, it was nothing of the sort. The sky was cloudy, and it looked like snow, but her mood was such it could have been a bright summer day.
She bundled Robert up in his greatcoat while she wore her dark blue cloak. Once they were out of the castle, she turned to Robert.
“Are you going to tell your cousin about what happened?”
He looked straight ahead, and she wondered if he was going answer her. After several silent moments, he sighed.
“Do you think I should?”
They walked for a few minutes, rounding the front part of the castle.
She hadn’t expected him to ask her opinion. She turned the question on its ear and back to him. “Do you think you shouldn’t?”
He stopped abruptly, and stood there thinking. After a moment, she noticed he was trembling.
“Robert? What is it?”
He raised his arm and pointed, his finger shaking.
“Look, Miss Sinclair. The birds.”
She followed his glance, then walked past him, staring down at the dozen or more birds lying dead on the ground, their plump gray bodies surrounded by a few chunks of frozen bread.
“Go and get Devlen,” Beatrice said, as calmly as she could.
Robert didn’t ask any questions, only set off in a run to obey her.
She thrust her hands into the cloak and tried to assume an aura of nonchalance, of outward calm. Inside, however, she was panic-stricken. She clasped her hands together, and stood looking down at the dead birds. Above them was the schoolroom. She tilted her head back and viewed the window where yesterday Robert had been so excited to be feeding the birds. If she thought about what she saw, she might well scream. Or run as far from Castle Crannoch as she could.
Neither action would be helpful or productive.
Despite her resolve, however, she couldn’t help but feel th
e first cold icicles of fear. Someone was trying to harm Robert. First, the shots, which she had tried to pretend were an accident, and now the birds. This, however, was even more horrible. Someone had actually poisoned his food. Someone inside Castle Crannoch. Someone who wanted a child dead.
Who?
Was Cameron Gordon so bitter about being disinherited by a seven-year-old child that he’d want Robert dead?
Another icicle of fear slid down her back. She could have easily eaten the bread, too.
If it hadn’t been for the child, she might have given her notice on the spot. Though poverty, the loss of her pride, possibly even starvation was all that awaited her back in her village, at least she would be alive, and it’s doubtful anyone would care enough to wish her dead.
Beatrice heard the running footsteps and felt an easing of that curious, immobilizing fear. She turned her head and watched as both Devlen and Robert entered the clearing.
Devlen didn’t say a word either in greeting or reassurance. He glanced down at the dead birds, looked up to the window high above, then bent to retrieve a piece of the bread.
“Did I poison them, Devlen?” Robert asked, his small voice out of keeping with his usual bravado.
He was an intelligent child. Too intelligent, perhaps. Surely she should say something to assuage his worry, to ease his mind. But she had never been a good liar. There was no hope of sheltering him or shielding him from the truth. But she reached out anyway and enfolded him in her arms, pressing his cheek against her waist.
She spoke to him the way a mother might, saying, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Nonsensical words, in actuality, because she wasn’t at all sure things were going to be all right. But he didn’t challenge her, only held on to her waist with both arms, as if she had suddenly become his anchor.
Even through the heavy wool of his coat, she could feel him tremble, and suddenly the child’s fear made her angry.
Devlen stood, and she looked up at him, her eyes dry and furious.
“This is not right,” she said. “For whatever reason someone is doing this, it’s not right.” She glanced down at the child. “Tell him, Robert,” she urged.
He looked up at her, then over at Devlen.
“He’ll get mad.”
“I doubt he will.”
“Why am I being talked about as if I’m not standing here?” Devlen said. “What will I get mad about, Robert?”
“He won’t get mad, Robert. I promise,” she added, glancing at Devlen.
He nodded.
Robert told him about the shooting. As the story progressed, she watched Devlen become more and more rigid until his spine could have been made of iron.
“Go and pack your things,” he said.
Her grip tightened on Robert. “You do not have the power to dismiss me. Nor will I leave.”
“Your loyalty is admirable,” he said in an unconscious repetition of his father’s words earlier. “However, I have no intention of dismissing you. Pack Robert’s things as well. You’re coming to Edinburgh with me.”
Robert was in danger, but then again so was she. Not, this time, from someone who wanted her dead. As they exchanged a look, she knew full well if she went to Edinburgh with him she might well be putting herself in peril.
“Will you come?” he asked, his voice soft, low, and dangerous.
She had no choice, and yet she had a world of choices.
“Yes,” she said, in agreement with her own ruin.
Devlen turned to his cousin.
“Would you like to come to Edinburgh, Robert?”
Robert pulled back, releasing his grip on Beatrice’s waist.
He nodded. His eyes were red, traces of tears still on his cheeks. Beatrice smoothed his hair back and placed her palm on his hot cheek, feeling an incredible tenderness for the young duke.
“Then we should go and pack,” she said. “Shall we make a game of it? Who’ll be the first to finish?”
“You, Miss Sinclair. I have so much more than you. I must take my soldiers, you see.”
“Do not pack too much, Robert,” Devlen said with a smile. “Think of my horses.”
She forced an answering smile to her face and took Robert’s hand. There were times as an adult when she had to feign an emotion until it was real. But now she found herself in the curious position of having to hide what she felt.
“I’m half-tempted to put you in a carriage now, without giving you time to pack. How soon can you be ready?”
“A quarter hour,” Beatrice said, shortening the time she needed by half. But she was nearly desperate to leave Castle Crannoch, and if doing so quickly meant her valise was packed in haste and her clothing was wrinkled, she truly didn’t care.
“Then do so,” he said. “I’ll have my coach brought around.”
She walked with Robert to the front of the castle, realizing she could easily have abandoned anything in her room. She didn’t feel comfortable staying at Castle Crannoch anymore. Something was desperately wrong here, something so evil and pervasive it seeped through the very bricks.
Suddenly, she wanted her old life back. Not the way it had been a month ago, but as it was a year ago, with her parents alive and her content, if a little restless.
She had wanted something to happen, and dear God it had, but not quite in the way she’d expected. Was God a literal deity? Should she be careful about the wording of her prayers?
Then let her amend them. She wanted peace in the morning and a feeling of contentment during the day. She wanted laughter and lightness in her heart, and a dozen other pleasant emotions.
“Is it going to be all right, Miss Sinclair?”
“Of course it is,” she said crisply, her voice conveying no uncertainty, no hesitation. Robert mustn’t know of her own fears.
Less than half an hour later, they left Castle Crannoch. Together, she and Robert walked slowly to the coach, all the while Beatrice expecting to hear her name being called. But Cameron Gordon didn’t shout for her to return with her charge. No one knew they were leaving.
She opened the coach door herself and unfolded the steps, urging Robert into the carriage. She followed him and sat next to him, taking his hand and holding it between her ungloved ones. The day was cold, the hint of snow still in the air, but someone had thought to furnish a brazier and it sat on the floor of the carriage, the glowing coals inside the pierced brass vessel radiating heat.
“I think someone’s trying to kill me, Miss Sinclair.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, her voice pure governess. “The incident in the woods was a hunter, and the poor birds outside the schoolroom window had just frozen to death. The temperature is cold enough for it.”
Robert didn’t look convinced.
Finally, she relented. He was too intelligent, and she’d been too dismissive. “I don’t know what’s happening, Robert. But I don’t like it.”
He nodded, as if he approved of her honesty.
She opened up the shade.
“I think it’s going to snow soon, Robert, perhaps during our journey to Edinburgh.”
He nodded and stared out the window. She would much rather have him be acting like the aristocratic little snob she’d first met than this silent waif.
“Do you like the snow, Robert?”
He shrugged, but otherwise didn’t answer her.
“I like the snow very much,” she said, well aware she was sounding a little like a woman she knew in her village. The poor dear had a comment about anything and everything, and couldn’t manage a quiet moment in the entire day. “I think it’s beautiful to see, especially when it clings to the branches of the trees. At night, when it snows, it’s like a full moon. The night is not quite so dark, is it? Snow seems to glow.”
A thought struck her, one tinged with horror. Had someone tried to kill Robert in his sleep? Was that why the child was plagued with wakefulness?
I think someone comes into my room at night.
Dear God.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the snow at night, Miss Sinclair,” he said, looking interested.
“Then we’ll just have to arrange it, won’t we?”
“My father used to say you can’t arrange nature. If we could get rain when we needed it, all farmers would be wealthy men.”
“I think I would’ve liked your father.” The eleventh Duke of Brechin sounded like a very pragmatic man with a generous spirit, a father who honestly loved his child.
The door opened, and Devlen stepped into the coach. Instantly, it felt warmer inside, and much smaller.
His fingers brushed against her skin in passing, alerting the fine golden hairs on her arms.
Gently, she pulled away, disliking the touch. No, liking the touch, but disliking the feeling of vulnerability being so close to him gave her.
He made her feel weak and feminine, as if she needed his strength and the very fact he was male. She wanted him to put his arm around her and hold her close, shelter her, protect her. She’d never before had such thoughts.
Devlen gave the signal to his driver, and the carriage began to move. Blessedly, he concentrated on the passing scenery and the faint flutter of snow.
“Do you still have your guns in here?” Robert suddenly asked.
Devlen smiled. “I do. I carry them with me at all times.”
“In case of robbers,” Robert said to Beatrice. “Devlen sometimes carries a lot of gold with him.”
“Really?”
“I only carry the pistols to protect myself.” He reached over and pushed against the wall of the carriage. Instantly, a small rectangular section popped open, revealing two gleaming guns mounted inside. “I dislike being unprepared.”
“Have you ever used them?”
“Once.”
“I trust you will not have to do so on this journey.”
“I will protect that which I believe to be valuable.”
What did he consider valuable? Or whom? His cousin, surely. Her? A woman who’d exchanged barbs with him, a village inhabitant with an expansive education taught by books but little experience in life. Would he consider her as valuable?
He said something to Robert, who smiled in return, the exchange one of longtime friends, confidants, almost brothers.
