Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  Arran looked at Calum and Struan. “I haven’t done any of this as I should. I’m supposed to ask—”

  “Calum will stand for you,” Struan said, smiling and backing away. “I’m the lucky man who will give away your bride. Be good to her.”

  “Isn’t it late for that lecture?”

  “I think not,” Struan said. “She is gentle and kind.”

  “And heartbreakingly untouched,” Calum added. “A generous soul like Grace’s is easily crushed.”

  Arran’s lips twitched. “She should be perfectly safe with champions such as you.”

  “I doubt we shall be welcome to accompany her to your wedding night.”

  “Good God!” Fists on hips, Arran looked upward into the chapel’s lushly painted domed ceiling. “I am not an animal bent on tearing her apart. Go, Stuan. I’m impatient.”

  Struan left. Calum fidgeted at Arran’s side.

  “You have the ring?” Arran asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The license is in order?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our wedding supper is prepared and ready in my rooms?”

  “Yes. Damned strange, too.”

  “Strange?”

  “Not sharing the moment with friends and relations. Locking yourself away.”

  Arran smiled broadly. “Locking myself away with my bride? Strange? I believe, Calum, that you and I have entirely different interpretations of what is most desirable at such times.”

  “They’re coming.”

  Arran’s stomach swooped and didn’t seem inclined to return to its correct position. “Good God.”

  “What is it?” Calum whispered.

  “Nothing ... Everything. I’m ... Dammit, this is most unsettling.”

  “Terrifying, d’you mean?”

  “I’ll thank you—” He stopped, absolutely unable to continue. Grace entered the chapel on Struan’s arm.

  Arran noted his brother as if for the first time. Tall, broad-shouldered—too handsome and youthful to have committed himself to so limited a life.

  But it was Grace who smote a near fatal blow to Arran’s heart. A garland of deep blue forget-me-nots wound through the crown of silver braids atop her proudly held head. She was soon close enough for him to see her trembling smile, the light in her eyes, the bloom on her smooth skin.

  Despite her protests, he’d insisted upon seeing the wedding gown the wretched Cuthbert woman had chosen, and had pronounced it impossible. Grace had promptly told him she would choose a suitable dress from among those she owned.

  “Look at her,” Calum murmured.

  “What man could do otherwise?” Arran replied.

  Grace’s gown was ice white satin with its own almost blue sheen and overlayed with patent net. As she moved toward him, he recognized the gown as the one Theodora had selected, but that tasteless woman could never have envisioned it like this.

  Gone was every frill and bow, every loop of satin ribbon. By stripping away fussy ornamentation, a gown of startling simplicity had been created. Sleeves tightly fitted to the wrist, the bodice hugging small breasts, the skirt a slim fall that spread to a modest train behind; more could only have made the gown less.

  She arrived before him and stood, looking up into his face.

  Arran drew his bottom lip between his teeth. Trust, the trust of a tender creature, was an awesome burden.

  By the device of adding a piece of pleated muslin, her neckline had been made demurely high. Arran almost smiled. She would do well to hide her most female skin from him, not that she would be successful once they were married and alone.

  He picked up the enameled bluebird on its simple chain around her neck. “The lady has rubies, yet she chooses her little bluebird.” Not waiting for her response, he added. “Of course she does. The lady is not concerned with things, is she?”

  “I am concerned only with you, my lord.”

  His skin prickled.

  “Are we ready?” the vicar asked.

  They were ready. Arran had not thought his jaded heart could beat so, or that it could swell with the wanting of his soul for the woman who took him as her husband. Her clear voice accepted him and her golden eyes did not flinch away from his when he gave her his name, his protection, and his body for as long as they both might live.

  “Take her and feed her,” Calum said, but Arran continued to kiss his wife’s soft lips.

  Whispering, a few feminine giggles, and the rustle of skirts finally made him raise his head. The servants of Kirkcaldy were assembled at the back of the chapel. Arran bowed to them, and Grace turned to dip a little curtsy. The girls giggled afresh and the men smiled. Even Mrs. Moggach and Shanks appeared enormously pleased.

  Arran offered Grace his arm. “Shall we, Lady Stonehaven?”

  Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, but she placed her hand on his.

  “A moment, my friend.” Calum slanted glinting dark eyes at Arran. “A kiss for the bride, I think.” He touched her cheek and brushed his mouth lightly over her brow. “If this fiend is ever anything but your champion, you have only to tell me, Grace. It will be my pleasure to steal you from him.”

  She laughed gaily, accepted Struan’s formal kiss on her hand, and made a royal procession at Arran’s side past the Kirkcaldy staff.

  The chapel was in the west wing. By the time Arran had ushered Grace through many long corridors toward those leading past the Eve and Adam Towers and on to Revelation, Calum and Struan had absented themselves, as had the staff. The only sound to break the silence was the click of Arran’s boots on stone, the soft shush of Grace’s skirts—and his own breathing, which he was almost certain she must hear.

  Soon they would be together.

  “I am sorry your mother ... You should have had some family in the chapel.”

  Her step checked, but only for an instant. “I hope Mama will be happy with her Felix. The only one I needed was in the chapel.”

  He did not deserve this joy. Even now he knew the lingering shreds of dark fear that this perfect creature would somehow be torn from him.

  “I have something for you,” Grace said as they emerged into the entrance hall. “May I give you a present now? You have given me so much.”

  “I have not begun to give to you.”

  From a tiny pocket in a seam of her gown, she withdrew a little leather pouch. This she placed in his palm. “It has no worth, but you may like it.”

  The pouch yielded a perfectly smooth shell, its surface delicately striped pink and brown. Arran looked expectantly at Grace.

  “Once, when I was very small, my father took Mama and me to the beach, and I found that shell. It has been a great treasure. Hold it to your ear.”

  He did so and heard the lightest whispering, as of surf upon sand. “I never heard anything like it,” he told her.

  “Oh, yes.” Her face was serious and she sounded most matter-of-fact. “It is quite like one of your pieces of music, the second one Mr. Plethero played at the Muirs’ last night. Can that have been only last night?”

  “Only last night,” he agreed, drawing her into his arms and kissing her deeply. When he paused for breath he said, “How well you understand me. I wrote that piece after a visit to the seashore.”

  A gust of cool air whipped about them, and Arran straightened. No member of the staff was in sight, but the door had been flung open.

  “Dash me,” Mortimer said, waving Theodora and Melony before him into the castle. “It’s cold out there.”

  “Oh!” Theodora stopped before Arran and Grace. “Are we just in time for the ceremony? What are you doing together here—alone?”

  Arran felt the blackest rage he had felt since learning of the loss of the daughter he would never know. But satisfaction tempered that rage, and he managed a parody of a smile. “You are just in time to congratulate us on our marriage, Theodora. The ceremony is over.”

  “Oh, I do not believe this. Your own family, Arran. How could you exclude us? You said
you intended to be married as quickly as possible, but this?” Theodora clapped her hands to her cheeks and rocked as if in pain.

  “I say, old chap,” Mortimer said. “Bit highhanded, what? Not that I blame you for being in a hurry to—well—in a hurry?” He aimed a lascivious grimace at Arran.

  “I do not recall inviting you to return to Kirkcaldy.”

  Grace drew in a sharp breath.

  This wife of his was far too gentle a soul. “In fact, I’m sure I did not.”

  “Well!” Theodora’s response was to snap her bonnet strings undone. “The slight of being excluded from your wedding is bad enough. But did you honestly think I would not return to ensure that my diamonds are found and returned to me?”

  He’d forgotten the diamonds. A glance at Grace confirmed that she had also forgotten them. They had not been among the items Blanche produced.

  “Mortie’s convinced I misplaced them somewhere here. I can’t begin to imagine how that could have happened, but we must certainly search. And if they are not found, then further steps must be taken.”

  “By all means,” Arran said. “Search away. I’m sure you’ll understand if my wife and I excuse ourselves.”

  Mortimer guffawed. “Excuse away. We men understand these things, what?” He frowned and raised a forefinger. “But before you go, there was a message I was supposed to give you—from a Mrs. Foster?”

  Arran locked his knees. “This is my wedding night, Mortimer. I am hearing messages from no one.” How the hell did Mortimer know Mrs. Foster?

  “Oh, won’t take but a moment. She came to Charlotte Square to let you know she wouldn’t be, er, available to you in future.” Mortimer leered. “Too bad from what I could see. Fetching piece.”

  Arran felt Grace shift. “Thank you for the message,” he said shortly, and made to walk on.

  “The lady seemed particularly keen that you should know she’s also about to be married. ‘Tell him we’ll each be finding solace elsewhere,’ is what she said. But she’ll miss your times together. Yes, that was all of it.”

  Melony Pincham had remained quietly near the door. She wore unusually subdued colors, and her hair was drawn severely back. Now she came forward, her eyes downcast. “Come, Mortimer. Theodora. We should leave these people to make the best they can of this arrangement of theirs.”

  The movement Arran saw was Grace’s hand winding in the folds of her skirts. He knew she was watching his face but avoided looking at her. Getting her away from these people was essential, but it must be done with the minimum of fuss.

  “I’m sure your rooms are still in readiness,” he said, controlling his voice with the greatest difficulty. “We bid you a good night.”

  “Oh, you poor, poor things,” Melony wailed suddenly. “Caught by such sad circumstances.”

  The woman was insane. “Good night, Mrs. Pincham,” Arran said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Melony said with evident deep dejection. “Good night—although I know you will not sleep with the bliss that should be yours on the night of your marriage.” Abruptly she grasped Grace in a tight embrace. “You poor, dear thing. You have my sympathies.”

  “Did someone die?” Arran asked, almost inaudibly.

  “Fate can be so evil,” La Pincham droned on. “But for one as gentle and dear as you, it is truly not to be borne. You of all women should not have been forced by circumstance to enter into a loveless marriage.”

  Arran saw Grace grow stiff in the other’s arms. Her face had lost every trace of color. “Why would you presume to call our marriage loveless?” she asked in a small, clear voice.

  “What else would you call an alliance made with a man who only wants one thing?”

  “Come, Grace,” Arran said, but she continued to stare at Melony.

  “It will be all right, Grace,” Melony continued. “Arran is not as hard a man as he makes most people believe. He will not be unduly unkind to you ... as long as he gets what he must have from you ... very soon.”

  “What is that?” Grace’s gaze moved to Arran.

  He offered her his hand.

  “He hasn’t ... Oh, of course he’s told you why he’s in such a hurry to marry, dearest one. And who can blame him with all this to lose.” Melony’s gesture took in her surroundings. “Any man of three and thirty who stood to lose control of his estate if he failed to produce an heir within two years—or rather less than two now, I suppose—would rush to marry the first potentially fertile female he could procure.”

  Grace’s features were like carved ice. She pushed Melony from her. “Arran, when ... On the night when you first sent for me, you said you wanted heirs. But you were angry and I did not think—that is, I had come to believe you wanted me. You will lose your castle if you have no heir by the time you are five and thirty?”

  “He will be answerable to others for everything that is now his,” Melony said promptly.

  “Is this true, Arran?”

  “No! Well, yes, in part. But I no longer feel—”

  Grace gave him no chance to finish. “I must take my leave of you all. I need to go to my chamber.” She hurried toward a nearby passage.

  He followed her from the hall. “Grace—”

  “Don’t worry, Arran, I shall do my best to be whatever you need me to be. But may I first spend another night alone? I shall come to you tomorrow, if that’s agreeable.”

  “Of course.” He made a formal bow. “I’ll await you until then.”

  Black fury entered his brain, but when he turned back to the hall, it was to find that the Cuthberts and their venomous relation had fled.

  He opened his curled hand and saw how the shell Grace had given him had made deep creases in his palm. They would fade. His need for Grace’s love would not.

  “God help me,” he said to the emptiness. He should have kept the solitary promise he’d made five years ago and never allowed himself to love another woman.

  “Sickenin’,” Mortimer said. “Most sickenin’ thing I ever saw.”

  “Hush. We don’t want to be heard.” Melony giggled and hurried him from the stable yard and into the castle by way of a door no one seemed to use and which she’d previously ensured was unlocked. “Hurry. There is a great deal to be done tonight.”

  Mortimer grumbled and muttered all the way to her chamber. Once inside, she quickly lighted several candles and poked the fire to brighter life. “Sit down and listen to me.”

  “Disgustin’. Woman of her years carryin’ on like that.”

  Melony hugged her cape about her. It was all too perfect. “I did not want you to witness such a sight, but you would not have believed me if I had not insisted you go with me.”

  Mortimer threw off his own cloak and loosened his neckcloth. “Did you see her ...? She all but swallowed ...” He sprawled in a chair and spread his legs. “MacFie, in God’s name. My wife having at it with a servant.”

  “Hector is the best estate commissioner in the land, Mortimer.”

  “She told him he was the best at ... at a whole lot more than managin’ land.” He tore the neckcloth off and let it fall. “Depraved. What they did doesn’t bear thinkin’ about—not between an animal like MacFie and my lovie—my wife.”

  Melony kept her smile in place. She would teach Mortimer that his lovie was a pale shadow of her younger sister when it came to driving a man to sexual madness.

  “We don’t have time for this,” she told him sharply. “Things have gone well tonight.”

  “Well?”

  “Forget Theodora for now. We did what I wanted done. We made certain that Arran and Grace did not go together into a night of wedded bliss. It was essential that we kept them apart until I can put my plan into action.”

  “See here—”

  “You see here,” she said, standing before him. “Do you know how to ensure that we get what we want? That we get all that is Stonehaven’s?”

  “Well ... not exactly.”

  “No. But I do. Speed is everything.”

&n
bsp; “That’s all very well, but I need a little comfort. If you know what I mean, lovie.”

  Lovie. Again he called her by the endearment he used for Theodora. She would make him pay and pay and pay for that—and for so much more. “And you shall have that comfort.” With a single tug, she undid the cord closing the neck of her cloak and let the garment fall.

  Mortimer fell back. “Naked! You’re incredible. Come here. Now.” His eyes ran over her, and his tongue darted in and out of his mouth.

  Melony smiled and passed her hands up her thighs, over her belly to her breasts. She pushed them up and laughed aloud.

  When Mortimer made a grab for her, she dodged away. “How do they look?”

  “Wonderful. Let me taste them.”

  “I was referring to Theodora’s diamonds,” she said, fingering the flashing collar she’d stolen and which she never intended to return. “Now, go to your rooms until I send for you.”

  “But, lovie, I—”

  “Go.” It would take a very long time for Mortimer to pay all he owed her. “Before this night is out, I will have ensured that Kirkcaldy is a jewel in the crown that is to become ours.”

  Intelligent people recognized when a cause was lost and looked for alternatives.

  Theodora hummed as she strolled toward her chambers. Such a perfect evening after all. It just showed how—with a little determination—one could turn a bad thing into something quite wonderful.

  Hector was wonderful. What she wanted more than anything was to be close to him ... available to him ... all the time. Arran had married that plain little chit. That was fact. Mortimer and Melony could hope to do no more than put off the day when Arran would produce an heir. Chances were that the event would occur in time to steal Roger’s inheritance—Theodora’s inheritance.

  But ... fa la la, she would make the best of the situation. Ingratiate herself with Arran’s colorless wife; persuade Mortimer to make the best of things also, and ensure that they could all remain at Kirkcaldy indefinitely. Yes, that could become a most pleasant arrangement after all.

  Undoing her cape, she walked into her sitting room.