She felt his touch, felt the power. She felt the slight rippling of his muscles beneath the civilized elegance of his apparel, and she felt the lightning probe of his eyes.
“It is only the living I fear,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “When I am threatened.”
He smiled slowly, wickedly, a raven-black brow arched, and Martise knew then that he was very much aware she was afraid of the living. She was afraid of him.
Or afraid of herself.
She really knew not which.
3
The hall seemed very different for supper that evening.
Martise dressed carefully for the occasion. Holly had seen to the pressing of many of her garments that afternoon. Styles had made numerous subtle changes between the beginning of the war and the end of it, what with the bustle coming in and the petticoats toning down ever so slightly. She hadn’t been able to afford any of the new fashions being shown in Lady Godoy’s, but she had managed to taper down her old skirts and create bustle effects from the extra material. That evening she was able to dress in an elegant royal-blue velvet bodice and overgown with an underskirt of flower-strewn linen. She weaved blue ribbons through her hair and stood back, pleased with the effect. Her eyes seemed larger, wider, and more luminescent. Her cheeks were naturally flushed and she realized that it was with excitement. She was about to meet with Bruce Creeghan again, be it in challenge or battle, and although she was still made uneasy by his probing eyes and questions, she could not deny the fascination.
“Forgive me, Mary!” she thought, giving her reflection one last glance before leaving her room.
Coming down the stairs, she was certain that Bruce was already in the room when she saw a tall man standing before the fire. He was immaculately dressed in fawn trousers, a rich frilled shirt, and a handsome maroon frock coat. When he turned about, though, she saw that he was not Bruce at all, but a younger version of the lord of Creeghan. His light, dancing green eyes had a definite mischief to them.
“Lady St. James,” he said gallantly, and came up several of the steps to take her hand and assist her down, making no pretense of hiding his intense interest in her. “I do admit to being highly intrigued. Bruce was so quiet about you, keeping his own counsel, that I was quite fascinated to meet you. And then Elaina told me that we had a true creation of an elegant, beautiful, and glorious Southern belle in our presence—of course, dear lady, you really are an Englishwoman, aren’t you?—well, never mind, the fascination was there. And you are astonishingly lovely, but then you must know that, don’t you? No matter, how rude. We’re delighted to have you, and ever so sorry you have come under such circumstances.”
“Thank you,” Martise said, smiling, and trying not to laugh. She still didn’t know who the man was, but he was definitely handsome and far more welcoming than ye olde lord of the castle.
“I’m Ian,” he informed her hastily. “Bruce’s cousin. The poor relation. Well, not so terribly poor, really, I’m just not as rich as Bruce the Laird, you see. I own an estate about fifty miles from here, but we keep our livestock pooled and use Bruce’s land. Since I am a single gent with no wife or wee bairns as yet to care for, I’m glad enough to keep my rooms here in the castle.”
“Ian,” she said, spinning around as they reached the landing to study him. She held his hand still and told him, “It’s a pleasure, Ian. I am delighted that you are at the castle.”
“Aye, as well Lady St. James should be!” Bruce Creeghan’s rich, softly burred voice came to her from across the room. He strode toward her, inches taller than his charming cousin, and seeming to ignite the air with his dark presence. He smiled at Ian.
“Lady St. James must not feel that her welcome on her first night here was the poorest. I felt compelled to warn her that Creeghan is rumored to be full of haunts and evil beasties.”
Ian grinned. “Take no heed. Bruce is the evil beastie here, as any man can tell you.”
“Ah, cousin, you mustn’t joke with her so,” Bruce said, watching Martise’s eyes. “I’m quite certain that she came here believing I was a beast or dragon as it is, and that I did, perhaps, devour my poor wife, her sister.”
Elaina, entering the room, gasped, and stood deathly still. Bruce looked to her swiftly and strode the few steps to the stair to take her hand. “Elaina—”
“It isn’t true, you know!” Elaina said, looking desperately to Martise. “None of what has been said is true, and you mustn’t believe it!”
Ian cleared his throat. “Elaina, I don’t believe that Martise had heard anything.”
“Whatever she has heard,” Bruce said, leading his sister to her seat at the table, “she must judge for herself. Don’t you think that is only fair?”
“Ah, fair!” came another voice, and Martise turned to see that an older man had entered the room. Unlike the others, he was light, his blond hair turning white, rich and thick, though, and a handsome complement to his gray eyes. And unlike the others, he was dressed in Highland style, wearing a kilt with his plaid draped well over his shoulder, a traditional sporan swinging from his waist.
The older man came to her, taking her hand, eyes dancing as he kissed it then introduced himself. “I am Peter, father to that rascal yonder”—he indicated Ian—“and uncle to the laird, Bruce. And I’m mighty glad to have ye, lass, but I’ll give ye a warning meself. We’re here in the Highlands”—he pronounced the word as “helands”—“and superstition runs fast and furious, and the tales that ye’ll hear can curdle milk, I swear it. So keep that in mind when ye hear tales of Castle Creeghan, and maybe ye’ll not find us all so sorry a lot as ye imagine at first.”
“Well, I thank you for that, Peter,” Bruce Creeghan said, not addressing the older man as “uncle,” but nodding to him politely. Elaina was already sitting, and Bruce stood at the head of the table, opening the bottle of Burgundy that had been set at the table for them. The room seemed truly gracious this evening, the table set with a snowy-white linen cloth, and the silver so well polished that it shimmered in the candlelight.
“Shall we sit?” Lord Creeghan suggested. He poured out a glass of wine, tasted it, and began to pour the others as his family members took their seats, Peter guiding Martise to a place at Bruce’s left. Hogarth made his silent appearance and took over the task of pouring the wine when Bruce took his seat. Freya joined him, and the meal, an aromatic stew, was swiftly served.
Frowning, Bruce asked, “Where’s Conar?”
“Running late, I imagine,” Ian offered. As Bruce’s frown deepened, Ian added, “Bruce, you asked him to see Father Martin about the memorial service.”
Bruce nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I imagine he stopped off then for a wee spot of whisky.”
Ian said nothing more to defend his brother, nor did Peter rise to speak for the missing Conar.
Her first start of the evening over, Elaina seemed determined to ignore her brother’s ill temper and poor manners and recapture the warmth. “I do hope you’ll still be here for the Highland games, Martise. They’re coming up soon and I’m sure you will find them quaint and so much fun.”
“I’m quite sure that Lady St. James will be gone by then,” Bruce said coolly.
“Perhaps not,” Peter said. “And ye would enjoy the day, lass. There is dancing and singing and the endless cry of the pipes and there’ll be dishes I’ll wager ye’ll not see again, anywhere. And all the lads and lasses wear their colors—”
“And that’s important!” Elaina said, her cheeks flushed with excitement, heedless that she had interrupted her uncle. “You see, Martise, after the Jacobite uprising, the men were not allowed to wear their plaids, their colors. Many rushed off to America to fight in the Revolution, because there, in British regiments, they were allowed to wear their plaids.”
“Aye, and for all of that,” Bruce continued, a touch of bitterness in his voice, “many of the Scotsmen were deserted there when the war was lost.”
“Or won,” Martise reminded him pleasantly, “d
epending upon one’s point of view.”
“Aye, of course,” Bruce agreed. “Except that you are a born Englishwoman, Lady St. James. Did your years with the Yanks convince you otherwise?”
Martise carefully cut a piece of carrot that lay within her stew. “Yanks?” She smiled sweetly. “I lived in the Confederacy, Lord Creeghan. Yanks referred to the Americans in general of nearly a hundred years ago. Southern gentlemen highly resent the term ‘Yank’ being tossed upon them, I do assure you.”
“That’s right, we’ve welcomed a little Rebel into our midst, I had quite forgotten,” Bruce said. Martise sensed the tension in his voice, the same tension that had tightened her own.
“Bruce!” Elaina exclaimed, distressed. “How can you—?” She broke off and turned to Martise. “Don’t let him taunt you so. He is very much aware of the American situation, and I assure you, all of us here had our hearts with you in the South.” Tears shimmered in her eyes as she challenged her brother. “Isn’t that true, Bruce? Isn’t it, please?”
If Bruce Creeghan had anything whatsoever that might be considered a soft spot, that soft spot was Elaina. The tension left his features. Across the candlelit table he stared at his sister, and Martise felt a warmth at her spine as she wondered what it would be like to feel the tenderness he cast upon Elaina turned her way just slightly. The years left his features, and the fire of his eyes seemed amber with warmth. His appearance was ever more striking.
“Aye, Elaina,” he said softly. “We have sympathized with the South. And we have prayed. And all will come well.”
All would not come well! Martise wanted to scream. The war was lost; the land was ravaged and bathed in blood.
“Martise lost her husband,” Elaina reminded him. “Fighting for the Confederacy.”
“Indeed,” Bruce agreed. But he said no more, and gave no apology, and Martise felt the fire of his eyes upon her once again. He did not seem to sympathize with her at all. He did not even seem to believe that she had lost a husband in the war.
There was an awkward silence.
“Well, the war is over,” Martise said. She sipped her wine, ignoring the laird’s eyes as she felt them sizzling upon her. She smiled down at Elaina. “The games do sound wonderful. Once, when I was very young, I went to something similar in North Carolina. Some of the Highlanders left over from the Revolution must have planned them.”
“You were in the States when you were young?” Bruce asked politely.
She froze, then felt heat flush her cheeks. She fought against the color and made herself smile. “Yes, you see my father had a brother who moved to the States, and we visited there that one year.”
Elaina saved her then, plunging in once again with enthusiasm. “The bad is all in the past, isn’t it? The Jacobite uprising and both of the American wars are over, and now, in the Highlands, we wear our colors and play our games. Mary loved the plaid, you know, the Creeghan plaid. And Bruce plays the pipes wonderfully—well, so does Uncle Peter, and Conar and Ian, for that matter! But it’s the caber throw where we are known to excel. The laird of Creeghan always wins the caber throw.”
“The caber?” Martise asked.
“It was quite important once,” Bruce said. “The caber is a great log, and the laird who could throw it the farthest would be deemed the strongest. In the days when we were known for our endless feuds—and when we battled the English with swords instead of words—it was important to prove our strength.”
“But now it is fun,” Elaina said. “We shall have to find some colors for Martise to wear. We’ll have a kilt made for her.”
“Ah!” Uncle Peter said. “Shall we get her a kilt, or have her kilted?”
“What’s the difference?” Martise asked.
“A kilt is a skirt, lass, a garment, made and ready. To be kilted, a man rolls in his fabric, and in the rolling, creates his skirt and his scarf from the one piece, as I be awearin’ it now. But the lasses, they choose their colors as they would, some making fine long woolen skirts, and some choosing only to have scarves about their necks. But indeed, lass, ye’ll have to come in colors of some sort! What shall they be?” he asked Bruce.
The master of Creeghan lifted his wine glass to his lips, watching Martise with his burning gaze. “Why, she must wear the plaid of Creeghan, of course. She is a guest in this castle, and Mary’s sister. She must take Mary’s things.”
“Then it is settled!” Elaina said delightedly. “And she will stay until the games, at the very least.”
“Aye,” Bruce agreed. “She will stay until the games, at the very least.”
He did not ask her, Martise noted. It seemed he did not ask much, but assumed that when his will was determined, it would be as he said.
Not with her.
“We shall have to see,” she told Elaina. “I’m not sure how long I can stay.”
“Oh? Do you have a pressing engagement awaiting you elsewhere?” Bruce asked, courteously enough. Why did his every question seem double-edged? she wondered.
“We shall see,” she repeated firmly, and once again it seemed that another member of the household saved her, or saved her pride, for at that moment the great outer doors opened, and then were closed, and they heard footsteps upon the stone. Seconds later a man appeared in the hallway, unbuttoning his heavy overcoat and apologizing as he did so.
“Sorry that I am late, but Father Martin was not so easy to find this night,” he told Bruce. With his coat gone, the man resembled Ian. His eyes were lighter, his hair had a reddish tint to it, and he was, perhaps, a few years older. He, too, was a handsome man, and his smile, when it touched upon Martise, was warm.
“Conar,” Bruce told her, rising to his feet. “Lady St. James, I give you my cousin Conar, and the last resident here within the castle.”
Conar came around the table, his smile open and pleasant when he welcomed her. His hand was cold upon hers, but he had come from outside. “How delightful, and yet how sorry we are, Lady St. James.”
“Martise,” she said softly. “And thank you.”
Conar took the empty chair at the other end of the table. Hogarth seemed instinctively to know Conar had arrived, and within seconds the old man was back in the room, serving him. Martise was glad to see his comfort and ease with the servant as Conar thanked the man and apologized again for being late.
Martise was glad, too, that she had smelled no whisky on the man’s breath, for he probably would have gained the wrath of Lord Creeghan.
She didn’t need to defend these people, she thought to herself. They had lived with one another for years and seemed to do well enough.
“Did he say when he would come?” Bruce asked Conar.
“Aye, he agreed that tomorrow would be fine.”
“Good,” Bruce said. He turned his attention to Martise, smiling. “I had assumed you were anxious to leave us. And I was quite certain you would want a service for your sister while you were here. That is why Conar went for the father. Tomorrow afternoon at five, we will have a memorial in our own chapel below. For Mary.”
“Oh! That—that was very thoughtful of you,” Martise said.
“Not so thoughtful, merely proper,” Creeghan said abruptly. “Tell me, Conar, what is our status with the Flemish wool merchants?”
The tone of the evening meal changed to one of business. Martise soon realized that castles were difficult to maintain these days and that Lord Creeghan was involved in many and diverse enterprises. Wool was their largest export, but they were also involved with certain fishing industries and owned a harness-making shop, which Ian spoke to Bruce about.
“’Tis doing poorly, the shop,” Ian informed Bruce. “We should pull out.”
“We can’t pull out. At least twenty families in the village are dependent on that shop. We’ll have to find a way to make it work, and that’s that.” He rose suddenly, staring down at Conar. “If you’ve had time to finish, we’ll take our brandy in the office and continue there.”
Creeghan r
ose and bade Martise a good evening. Conar, Ian, and Peter did the same, leaving her and Elaina alone.
“Truly, I am so glad you have come, Martise!” Elaina told her.
The welcome was real. “Then I am glad, too,” Martise responded. She smiled. “Tell me, what are we to do now?”
“Well, I know that I, for one, am going to indulge in more sherry,” Elaina said, and rising, she went to the sideboard for the sherry bottle. She smiled, and poured the sherry into her wine glass. “Hogarth will bring us tea. Shall we have it by the fire?”
“Lovely,” Martise agreed. “Except that I’ve a better idea. Let’s have it in my room and we’ll steal the sherry bottle and have that, too.”
Elaina was delighted. When Hogarth came, Martise informed him that they would like the tea in her room. Hogarth seemed surprised at first, and then very glad that Elaina seemed so happy.
Up in her room, Martise did her best to draw Elaina out, but Elaina proved herself to be quite a Creeghan, subtly evading questions while asking Martise many of her own: what had the war been like, what had the South been like, there had been so much said, and so much romanticized. Martise tried to answer many things honestly, but when Elaina turned her questions to Africa, Martise found herself in trouble once again. She shifted the conversation back to Elaina.
“Why were you so distressed at dinner this evening? With your brother. When he seemed not to know that my husband was a Confederate—and definitely not a Yank.”
“Oh!” Elaina said. “Oh …” She rose, agitated. “It’s quite a long story, truly it is. And it’s late, really late. I hadn’t begun to realize just how late it had gotten. I’m quite exhausted. You must forgive me. I’ve had a wonderful night. I haven’t had a friend such as yourself in so long now … since Mary. Oh, I am sorry, I—”
“Elaina, you must not apologize each time her name is mentioned. I loved her dearly, but then I believe you did, too, and truly, you were the one most frequently with her at the end, so, you see, your loss is all the greater.”
“How very kind,” Elaina murmured. Impulsively, she hugged Martise, but before Martise could say another word, Elaina fled. “We’ll talk soon, sometime soon, I promise. Good night, now.”
Emerald Embrace Page 5
