The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “An analogy that is perhaps amusing but nothing more. No, if you were too sore, I would carry you before me. You would rest on my thighs and ease the pain you perhaps might be feeling.”

  “I would prefer to ride by myself, thank you, Colin.”

  “As you wish, Joan.”

  “I would also prefer that we had not yet left Edinburgh.”

  “You have already expressed yourself at some length on that subject. I’ve told you why we left so quickly. There is danger and I don’t want you exposed to it. I am taking you to Vere Castle. I will return to Edinburgh. There is much that both of us need to do.”

  “I don’t really want to be left alone in a castle with people I don’t know, Colin.”

  “Since you are the mistress, what should it matter? If something displeases you, you may discuss changing it with me when I return. You may even make lists, and I will certainly review them.”

  “I sound like your child, not your wife. If a servant displeases me, do I dismiss the servant or just add it to the list so that the master—”

  “I’m the laird.”

  “ . . . so that the laird may review it like a judge and issue forth a decision?”

  “You are the countess of Ashburnham.”

  “Ah, and what does that entail, other than making lists and learning how to plead my cases before you?”

  “You are being purposefully annoying, Joan. Look at that bird, it’s a dunlin. On your English coast you call them sandpipers.”

  “How knowledgeable you are. Did you know they get a black stripe on their bellies when they wish to mate? No? Well, they certainly didn’t do all that well with your education at Oxford, did they? But perhaps some of it was your fault. You spent far too much time tupping all your ladies at the inn in Chipping Norton.”

  “Your memory is lamentable. Tupping is crude. You won’t use it again. Your tongue also runs too smoothly, Joan, so smoothly that you are in danger of being tossed overboard.”

  She continued, not hesitating, “Now, let me present my only item to you—the judging laird. I wish to remain with you. I’m your wife, despite everything.”

  “What do you mean, despite everything? Are you referring to your less than wonderful experience in our marriage bed? All right, so you weren’t that pleased with the result of our union. You are small and I was too enthusiastic. I shouldn’t have forced it that third time. I have apologized to you several times. I have told you it will get better. Can you not trust me?”

  “No. You will remain as you are, and that is too rough and too big.”

  “A bit salty of tongue now, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, go to the devil, Colin!”

  “Have you looked at your face, Joan? ’Tis still red from the stone that slashed across it. That was a bullet. You could have been hurt, killed even. You will stay at Vere Castle until I have seen that it will stop and that you will be in no more danger.”

  “But I didn’t even get to visit Edinburgh Castle!”

  “Since you will live in Scotland for the rest of your life, I daresay that you will see the Castle as often as you wish.”

  “The MacPhersons live in Edinburgh?”

  “No, they are some fifteen miles from my lands, but the old laird is there, I was told. They’ve a comfortable house near the Parliament Building. I must see him. There are also, as I’ve already told you several times, many things for me to see to. Bankers and builders to speak to. New furnishings to consider. Sheep to buy and have transported to Vere and—”

  He fell silent when she simply turned away from him. Damn him, as if she didn’t care about new furnishings, new stock for the land, new plans for building. But no, he was excluding her. She’d already given him all her arguments. None seemed to matter.

  She sat down on a valise. It collapsed under her weight and she remained seated on the smashed-down valise, and tucked her legs under her. She said nothing more to her husband. At least he hadn’t attacked her again before they’d left Kinross House. She was sore, very sore, but she would never admit it to him. She would ride and she wouldn’t say a word, not if it killed her, which she hoped it wouldn’t.

  An hour later they had debarked from the Forth Star and were on their way to Kinross land and Vere Castle, their valises strapped on the backs of their saddles.

  “Perhaps later in the summer we can travel into the Highlands. The scenery is dramatic. It is like going from a calm lake into a stormy sea; everything is churned about, its civilized trappings stripped away. You will like it.”

  “Yes,” Sinjun said, her voice abrupt. She hurt from the horse’s gait. She was an excellent rider but the pain was something out of her experience, and no matter how she shifted her position, the saddle seemed to grind into her.

  Colin looked over at her. She was staring straight between her horse’s ears, her chin high, as it had been now for the past two days. She was wearing the same dark blue riding habit she’d worn since she’d begun riding beside him during their elopement, a beautiful, starkly fashioned outfit that suited her, for she was tall and elegant, this wife of his, and pale-skinned, her hair tucked neatly beneath the matching blue velvet riding hat, the ostrich feather curling gently around her right cheek. It was dusty and looked a bit worse for wear, but still, he liked it. Now that he had money, he would be able to buy her lovely things. He thought of her long white legs, the sleek muscles of her thighs, and his guts knotted.

  “We will stop for lunch at an inn near Lanark. You can have your first real taste of our local dishes. Agnes at Kinross House has always fancied herself above all our native dishes. Her mother was Yorkshire-bred, you know, and thus it is English beef and boiled potatoes for her, quite good but not Scottish. Perhaps you can try some broonies.”

  He was trying, she’d give him that, but she didn’t care at the moment. She simply hurt too much. “How far is the inn?”

  “Two miles or so.”

  Two miles! She didn’t think she would make another two feet. The road was well worn, wide, surrounded by rolling hills and more larch and pine trees than she could begin to count. There were farms and carefully tilled lands, reminding her of England, and grazing cattle. They were riding northward through the Fife Peninsula that lay between the Firth of Forth and the Firth of Tay, Colin had told her earlier, a region protected from the Highlanders from the north and the English invaders from the south, which had thus been the historical cradle for religion and authority. Again, she recognized that the land was beautiful, and again, she simply didn’t care.

  “Over there are some strange-looking hills—they’re basalt thrown up by old volcanoes. They become quite thick soon and they cover a lot of land and go quite high. There are even lochs scattered in amongst them. There is some good fishing to be had in many of them. We haven’t time today, but soon we’ll ride to the coast. It’s rugged, strewn with rocks, and the North Sea batters against the land with the fury of an enraged giant. There’s a string of tiny fishing villages, many of which are very picturesque. I’ll take you climbing up West Lomond, the highest point. It’s shaped like a bell, and the view from the top is spectacular.”

  “Your lectures are very edifying, Colin. However, I should prefer hearing about Vere Castle—this dumping ground you’re taking me to.”

  “West Lomond is just southwest of Auchtermuchty.”

  Sinjun yawned.

  His jaw tightened. “I am rather trying to entertain you, Joan, to teach you something of your new country. Your continued sarcasm doesn’t sit well with me. Don’t make me regret our alliance.”

  She twisted about in her sidesaddle to stare at him. “Why not? You have certainly made me regret it.” She saw the anger build in his eyes, and she felt her own anger building apace. She urged her horse forward into a gallop, away from him. She regretted it instantly, for she slammed up and down on the saddle. The pain rocketed through her. She bit her lip. She felt tears sting her eyes, but she didn’t slow down.

  The Plucked Goose—surely
an odd name for an inn—lay in a small village at the base of some of those damned steep basalt hills. The large, freshly painted sign that swung from its chains was of a large goose with a small head and a long neck and utterly bare of feathers. The inn was quite new, which surprised Sinjun, who thought every inn in England and Scotland must go back at least to Elizabeth I, and the yard was clean. She heard Scottish coming from every window and door in the inn, but this was a different accent, and despite her misery she smiled.

  She pulled her horse to a halt and just sat there for a moment, trying to calm her body from its assault. She looked over to see Colin standing beside her, his hands outstretched to lift her down. Normally she would have simply laughed and jumped from her horse. Not today. She allowed the courtesy. He eased her down the length of his body as he lowered her. And when she was finally on her feet, he said, “I’ve missed you,” and he leaned down to kiss her.

  He felt her stiffen and released her. They were, after all, in the public yard of a very public inn. The innkeeper’s wife, Girtha by name, who welcomed Colin as if he were her long-lost nephew, exclaimed how thin he was and how pretty Sinjun was, how sleek their horses looked even though they were obviously rented hacks, commented on how the blue of Sinjun’s riding habit matched her eyes, all without taking a breath.

  The taproom in the inn was dark and cool and smelled of ale and beer, very pleasant really. There were only a half dozen locals drinking there, and they were quietly talking, paying the earl and countess no heed.

  Colin ordered broonies for himself and for Sinjun. When they came, he watched as she bit into the oatmeal gingerbread. They were wonderful, and she nodded her enthusiasm to the hovering innkeeper’s wife.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s have some haggis.”

  “I know what’s in it. I asked Agnes. It doesn’t sound very appetizing, Colin.”

  “You will accustom yourself. Everyone around you will eat it and enjoy it. Our children will be weaned on it. Thus, I suggest you try it now.”

  Their children! She stared at him, her mouth open. Children! Good God, they’d been married less than a week.

  He grinned at her, understanding her reaction. “I worked you too hard, very true, but I did spill my seed in you three times, Joan. It’s possible you are already carrying my child.”

  “No,” she said very firmly. “No, I am too young. Besides, I’m not at all certain I want to do it yet. When poor Alex was pregnant she vomited all the time, at least at first. She would suddenly turn white and simply be sick. Hollis, our butler, had a sick pan placed discreetly in every room at Northcliffe Hall.” She looked pained at the memories and shook her head again. “No, I won’t do it, Colin. No, not yet.”

  “I fear you have no choice in the matter. It is many times the result of lovemaking and—”

  That got her attention. She dropped her fork and stared at him. “Lovemaking. What an odd way to refer to what you did to me. Surely there is something else more appropriate to call it. Like your infamous tupping.”

  “There are many words that are used to refer to the sex act,” he said in a pedantic voice, ignoring her sarcasm. “However, in my experience, ladies prefer poetry and euphemisms, so lovemaking is the more accepted form of reference. Now, you will lower your voice, madam. If you haven’t noticed, there are people around us and they may be savages in your aristocratic English eyes, but they are my people and not at all deaf.”

  “I didn’t ever say that. You’re being—”

  “I’m being realistic. You could be pregnant and you’d best face up to it.”

  Sinjun swallowed. “No,” she said. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Here, have some haggis.”

  It was a bagged mess of livers and heart and beef suet and oatmeal all served up with potatoes and rutabagas. Sinjun took one look at the bloated sheep stomach it was served in and wanted to run.

  “You didn’t order it from the innkeeper’s wife,” she said slowly, just staring at that foreign-looking stretched hot bag filled with things she’d just as soon never see in her life. “There hasn’t been time.”

  “I didn’t have to. It’s the main dish served here and has been since the inn opened five years ago. Eat.” So saying, he cut into the skin and forked down a goodly bite.

  “No, I can’t. Give me time, Colin.”

  He smiled at her. “Very well. Would you like to try some clapshot? It’s a dish from the Orkneys, supposedly coming to us from the Vikings. All vegetables. It’s usually served with haggis, but eat it by itself and see if it settles nicely in your belly.”

  She was grateful. The rutabagas were nasty things, but she could shove them to the sides of the plate. The potatoes were good, and the hint of nutmeg and cream made it quite tasty. There was no more conversation between her and Colin.

  Sinjun spent the next hour and a half in a daze of pain. She didn’t notice the damned countryside, even though Colin kept up a stream of travel commentary. She was nearly to the point of telling him she couldn’t ride another yard, another foot even, when he said, “Pull up, Joan. Yon is Vere Castle.”

  There was a wealth of pride and affection in his voice. She craned up in her saddle. Before her, sprawled out over an entire low hillock, was an edifice that was the size of Northcliffe Hall. There all similarities ended. The west end was a true fairy-tale castle, with crenellated walls, round towers, and cone-topped roofs that rose three stories. It was a castle from a children’s storybook. It needed but flags flying from all the towers, a drawbridge, a moat, and a knight in silver armor. It wasn’t massive, like Northcliffe Hall, but it was magical. It was connected to a Tudor home by a two-story stone building that resembled a long arm with a fist at each end. A fairy castle at one end and a Tudor manor at the other—in this modern day two such disparate styles should have been a jest, but in reality the whole was magnificent. It was now her home.

  “The family lives primarily in the Tudor section, although the castle part is the newest, built back at the turn of the seventeenth century. That earl, though, didn’t have quite enough money to do it right, thus it is rotting at a faster pace than the Tudor section, which is nearly one hundred and fifty years older. Still, I love it. I spend much of my time there, in the north tower. When we entertain, it’s always in the castle.”

  Sinjun stared. “I hadn’t expected this,” she said slowly. “It’s massive and all its parts, well, they’re so different from each other.”

  “Of course there are different parts. The original Tudor hall dates back to the beginning of the sixteenth century. It has a fireplace large enough to roast a large cow. In the Tudor wing there’s a minstrel’s gallery that would rival the one at your Castle Braith in Yorkshire. Oh, I understand. You expected something of a hovel, something low and squalid and probably smelly, since Scots, of course, have their animals living with them. Something not nearly as impressive as your wondrous Northcliffe Hall. It isn’t stately, but it’s real and it’s large, and it’s mine.” He fidgeted a moment. “The crofters many times have their animals in their houses with them during the winter. That is true, but we don’t at Vere Castle.”

  “You know, Colin,” she said mildly, looking at him squarely, “if I indeed were expecting a ratty hovel, why, then, wouldn’t that prove how much I wanted to marry you?”

  He looked nonplussed at that. He opened his mouth, then closed it. She turned away from him but not before he saw, for the first time, the utter weariness and pain in her eyes that she’d kept hidden from him. At least this was something tangible, something he could get his teeth into. “Sweet Lord,” he bellowed, “why the devil didn’t you say anything to me?” He sounded utterly furious, which he was. “You’re in pain, aren’t you? Yes, you are, and you didn’t say a damned word to me. Your stubbornness passes all bounds, Joan, and I won’t have it, do you understand me?”

  “Oh, be quiet. I’m fine. I wish to—”

  “Just shut up, Joan. Not too sore, are you? You look ready to fall down and expi
re. Are you bleeding? Have you managed to rub yourself raw?”

  She knew she wasn’t going to stay on her horse’s back for another moment. She simply couldn’t. She pulled her leg free and slid off her horse’s back. She leaned against the horse until she could get control of herself. When she had control, she said, “I will walk to your castle, Colin. It’s a beautiful day. I wish to smell the daisies.”

  “There aren’t any damned daisies.”

  “I will smell the crocuses, then.”

  “You will just stop it, Joan.” He looked enraged. He cursed, then he dismounted.

  “Stay away from me!”

  He drew up three feet from her. “Is this the girl who wanted me to kiss her in the entrance hall of her brother’s home in London? Is this the girl who walked up to me at the theater, thrust out her hand, and informed me she was an heiress? Is this the girl who kept insisting that I bed her immediately? Even in the carriage? Where is she, I ask you?”

  Sinjun didn’t answer. She didn’t care. She turned away from him and took a step. She felt pain grind through her. She stumbled.

  “Oh damnation, just hold still and be quiet.”

  He grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. He saw that damned pain again in her eyes and it struck him silent. Gently now, he drew her against him, supporting her with his arms around her waist. “Just rest a moment,” he said against her hair. “Just rest and then allow me to hold you. I’m sorry, Joan.” He pressed her face against his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of him.

  She didn’t say a word.

  She arrived at her new home in the arms of her husband atop his horse, just like a fairy princess being brought to her prince’s castle. However, unlike that fairy princess, Sinjun was wrinkled and dusty and painfully aware that she looked a wreck.

  “Shush, don’t stiffen up on me,” he said in a low voice, his breath warm on her cheek. “I don’t believe that you’re frightened, not you, a Sherbrooke of Northcliffe Hall. My family and my people will all welcome you. You will be their mistress.”