The Blackhouse Bride (Bonnie Bride Series Book 4)

by Fiona Monroe

  The Marquess himself happened to be in the drawing room, keeping his wife company while she listened to Bridie reading, once again, the new novel by the authoress of Pride and Prejudice.

  Bridie had never quite got used to being in the presence of the Marquess. She had lost consciousness of Lady Crieff's grandeur, but Lord Crieff was a different matter. He was a rather silent, grave man, who usually spoke only when his wife prompted him to, and although Lady Crieff had intimated that this was shyness - with her story of his hesitant courtship and stammering proposal - Bridie could not help but find him intimidating. She kept her eyes fixed on the book, and read in a quieter voice than usual.

  Then she stopped entirely as abruptly, the Marquess spoke as if she had not been there. "John is still in bed?"

  "I think so, my dear. He arrived very late, and he must have been exhausted after his long journey."

  "Rousing half the household - just the inconsiderate damned fool he ever was, a coxcomb and a blackguard."

  "My love! He is your brother, you have not seen him for over five years, he may have changed a great deal. Changed or not, it is your natural duty to be kind and welcome him."

  The Marquess had risen to his feet in agitation, but when Lady Crieff quietly patted the spot on the sofa beside her, he dropped his shoulders and sat down again. "You are right, of course, my love. The fatted calf, and all that."

  "Indeed, yes. How does it go, Bridie?"

  Bridie was startled to be drawn into this. She had dipped her head and pretended not to be there, even though she was at the end of the same long sofa, adopting the usual blank demeanour of a servant affecting to be invisible when the great folk started to talk amongst themselves. "Um - " Her mind went blank for half a second. "Bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. Luke, er, 15, I think, my lady."

  "She is a marvel, isn't she?"

  Lord Crieff gave Bridie one brief, distracted frown, and said, "All the same, mark my words, I am quite sure it will turn out that he's in some kind of trouble, and that's why he left Italy in such a hurry. He'll be in debt, or will have got some woman with child. Please God he hasn't killed anyone."

  "Oh, my dear!"

  Before Lady Crieff could elaborate her remonstrance, the door at the far end of the drawing room was opened by a footman, and the object of their discussion himself swept in.

  Unaccountably, Bridie felt colour rise in her face. She meant to keep her head lowered, but she could not help watching as the tall, fair-haired gentleman strode down the long room towards them. He exuded confidence and energy and charm, with everything from his thick sweep of blond hair, to the loose and graceful way he moved, to the smile that beamed like sudden sunlight on an overcast day. Even the way he held out his arms, and the cuffs fell to reveal curiously bony wrists, intrigued and even troubled Bridie.

  He embraced his brother without a trace of embarrassment or apology, without any suggestion that he might think the Marquess less than delighted to welcome him.

  "James," he said, and his voice was rich and smooth. "By God, it is so good to see you after so long. And my new sister - " He turned his bright eyes to Lady Crieff, awaiting the introduction.

  Lord Crieff's voice trembled a little as he said, "My wife, Arabella, Marchioness of Crieff. My dear, my brother, Lord John Dunwoodie."

  It was as if, Bridie thought, he could still hardly believe that this beautiful and highly accomplished lady was really his own. He was rigid with pride, and yet at the same time slightly nervous and defensive.

  Lord John bowed deeply, took Lady Crieff's hand, kissed it and said something in a mellifluous foreign tongue. With a little thrill, Bridie realised it was probably Italian. She had never heard anyone speak Italian before.

  Lady Crieff smiled warmly and replied briefly in the same language, then said, "It's so lovely to meet you at last, and to welcome a new brother. I have no brother, or sister of my own. One of the many blessings of my marriage was the acquisition, all at once, of so many!"

  "There's plenty of us, that's for sure. There's two of me, you know! Have you met my dear twin, Gordon?"

  "No, I never was introduced to him in London, and he could not be at our wedding, as there was an important vote in Parliament that day."

  "Ah well, it used to be possible for us to stand in for each other, and we were forever doing that at school and suchlike, when we were boys. Then Gordon grew dull and worthy, and would have fun no longer, and now I doubt you'd even think us twins, if you saw us together. I've tanned brown as a negro in the Venetian sun, he's withered up behind the walls of Westminster."

  "Have you seen Gordon since coming from Venice?" Lord Crieff asked gruffly.

  "No. No, I landed at Southampton and found a boat going straight to Aberdeen. My feet barely touched English soil. I was keen to see how my brother looked as a peer of the realm, and I was especially keen to set eyes upon his lovely bride." He bowed again towards Lady Crieff.

  "Not so keen," said Lord Crieff, "that you troubled to make the journey either when I was married, or after our father died."

  "Ah! But I had business to detain me in Venice last year. I meant to come as soon as ever I could, and this is me here now, come as soon as ever I could."

  "So this is a wedding visit then, ten months late?"

  Lord John waved his hand, seeming unperturbed by his brother's evident ill-temper. "Not so much a visit, more a homecoming."

  "You do not intend to return to Italy?" said Lady Crieff.

  "No, I think La Serenissima and I have run our course. Our love is faded. The mask fell to reveal the pockmarked face behind. I have returned, to try the simple wholesome life in God's own country. I intend to walk, and read good books, and ride Satan across the fields."

  "Your horse is called Satan?" said Lord Crieff, spluttering.

  "The finest, biggest stallion you ever saw. I won him off Count Salviati in a card game last year, and his name came with him. I don't think the Italians entirely know what it means. But now, enough of horses! Who is this beautiful creature, shrinking there so timidly?"

  Bridie could actually feel her heart accelerating in her breast as his lordship turned his eyes, and his dazzling smile, full upon her.

  "This is Bridie," said Lady Crieff. "She reads to me and keeps me company. Her father is farrier at Bridge of Auchtie."

  Bridie slipped to her feet to curtsy to Lord John, and was taken aback when he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, as if she had been a lady.

  "Is he, by God. I've had a horse shod at Bridge of Auchtie more than once, and I remember no glorious beauty such as this. Where were you hiding, Bridie?"

  "I - I expect I was working in my father's house, my lord."

  "In old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name. I have found her - the Dark Lady of the sonnets."

  He had not released her hand. He kept it pressed between his long, delicate fingers.

  "Bridie is very fond of Shakespeare’s sonnets," said Lady Crieff. "She has many of them by heart."

  "Indeed! And where did a farrier's daughter acquire such learning?"

  "Dr Menzies, the rector at Kirkton, made her his pupil."

  "Ah! Guid auld mingin' Menzies. Smart fellow, good eye. Well, I hope I shall have the pleasure of your raven black eyes, Dark Lady, many a time."

  "John!" said Lord Crieff sharply. He had been huffing to himself throughout his brother's gallantries. "If you are to stay, I wish to see none of this. I do not want you to return to your old ways."

  "My old ways, brother?"

  "You know exactly what I mean. Now please leave my wife's maid be, and for pity's sake - no poetry."

  Lord John dropped Bridie's hand and pressed his own to his chest with an injured air. "You have no poetry in your soul, James. I cannot help that mine overbrims with it."

  The Marquess took his brother away not long after that, say
ing that he would show him around the grounds and point out the improvements he had made while he had been gone, and Bridie went on reading Northanger Abbey. Lady Crieff closed her eyes and listened with a placid smile of enjoyment, but Bridie could not relax again. Lord John's eyes, his smile, his touch - her fingers still tingled as if she had brushed them against the stove - had stirred a part of her to life for the first time ever. It was painful and delicious both at once.

  It was terrifying.

  #

  "Do you know sonnet number one hundred and twenty-nine, Bridie?"

  Bridie jumped, and her heart leapt into her mouth.

  She had been sitting alone in the comfortable armchair in her own little chamber, eagerly reading Rob Roy, a new novel by the author of Waverley, whom the Marchioness confidently declared to be the poet Walter Scott. Lady Crieff had gone after breakfast to dine with a family near Aberdeen, and would not be back until the next day. It was, she had told Bridie, the last social engagement she intended to fulfil until after her confinement. Bridie therefore had the whole of a day and most of the next to herself, and she had intended to make good use of it by reading as much of Rob Roy as she could get through. Her mistress wanted to hear it soon, and Bridie had become critical of her own reading skills; she felt that she could read the better for Lady Crieff's enjoyment if she familiarised herself with the work first.

  It was a beautiful day in early June, and she had thrown up all four windows as far as they would go to let in the warm, flower-scented air. Really, she would have loved to sit outside to read, but she was self-conscious about doing so; she did not want a gardener, or a kitchen maid sent out to fetch herbs for the cook, to see her sitting around idling with a book. It was true that this was exactly the work her mistress had ordered her to do, but she could not expect the other servants to understand that. They would censure her amongst themselves and talk about her, even if they could not challenge her directly. Bridie did not have the confidence to be indifferent to their opinion of her, and she still had difficulty overcoming the feeling that to read during daytime hours was lazy and wicked. So she hid, comfortably enough, in her own room, where she felt safe.

  Safe from observation, perhaps; but clearly, not safe from intrusion. He had not even knocked on the door. Bridie scrambled to her feet, letting the book tumble to the floor in her fright.

  He was leaning in the doorframe, arms folded, gazing at her.

  "My lord, I don't think - I don't think you should be here."

  "Why not? It's my house. Well, it's my poor stick of a brother's house, but we all belong here. I can go where I choose."

  "My lord, I'm very sorry, but my mistress gave me this room as my own."

  "Lady Crieff's not here, is she? She's gone to the Arbuthnotts', much joy may she find there. Sonnet one hundred and twenty-nine, Bridie. Do you know it?"

  He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  "No," Bridie whispered.

  "Don't lie. Don't demean yourself by lying, Bridie. Thou shalt not bear false witness, eh?"

  "Against thy neighbour," said Bridie, completing the quote. She was desperately trying to work out if she could rush past him to gain the door, though he was standing very squarely before it at the moment.

  "Say it," he said.

  "I - I do not know it, my lord."

  "I'll start. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame. Go on."

  "I - cannot, my lord."

  "Yes, you can. Say it."

  "It is not - fit for me to say."

  "What, the Bard? The Swan of Avon write words that a farrier's daughter may not utter? Go on. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame, Is lust in action..."

  He came towards her and stood over her.

  Falteringly, reluctant and longing, she recited, "and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated..."

  She trailed off as Lord John closed his eyes and let out a long breath, like a hiss. Her throat was dry, anyway, and felt as if it would close in a spasm. "My Dark Lady," he breathed. "If I could have you, I would not hate it, I swear by Heaven and Earth. Have mercy."

  "My lord - "

  "Mad in pursuit - ah, Bridie, you haunt my days and my nights - have mercy."

  She let herself look for just a moment too long into his dark blue eyes, and the moment of weakness was nearly her undoing. For she did not fight him off as he took her into his arms and kissed her until her head spun and her legs felt like water and a blazing, aching longing ignited between her thighs. She had no power to resist even when he lifted her from her feet and carried her the short distance to the bed, and dropped her there upon the coverlet.

  She tried then to scramble back up, but he was lying beside her and over her in an instant.

  "Sssh." He put a finger on her lips and twined his other hand into hers. "Just getting comfortable. Don't be afraid. I won't do anything amiss. I wouldn't hurt you. Just - a little taste, a glimpse, a morsel..."

  He kissed her again, hooking his knee between her skirts so that his weight was partly on her and his thigh was pressing between her legs. The hand that was laced into her fingers pushed her arm gently against the coverlet, then traced down to her shoulder and tugged at the neck of her gown.

  "My lord! Don't - please - "

  "Hush, hush. I told you. I won't do anything wrong. Just - a sweet taste - "

  Her left breast sprang suddenly free, and she felt a cool breeze from the window on the burning flesh. She tried to cover herself up again but he stopped her hand with his, not roughly but firmly, then with a groan deep in his throat he put his mouth to her exposed bosom.

  It was the most extraordinary sensation, and for a few breathless dizzying moments it robbed her of the power even of wanting to resist. The sweet throbbing deep between her legs intensified, and she found herself moving involuntarily against the insistent pressure of his thigh there, letting her knees fall apart.

  "Ah, my Dark Lady," he breathed, lifting his face from her breast and gazing with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes. "Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball..."

  His fingers began to tease the stocking beneath her skirt, and run up to her knee.

  With an enormous effort, both of will and of physical strength, Bridie rolled herself out from under him and half-fell off the bed to the floor.

  She scrambled to her feet, panting. Lord John did not attempt to catch her. He remained crouched on the bed, looking rather dazed and breathless.

  "My lord," she gasped, trying to make her voice firm and decisive. "I cannot - I will not."

  "Bridie - please - you want it, just as much as I. I know it. I've never been with an unwilling girl, never would. You are not unwilling."

  "That is hardly to my credit, my lord!" she cried. "I will not lose my eternal soul because my flesh is weak! You are unkind to tempt me to it!"

  "You think the Almighty cares whether you and I enjoy the pleasures he created us to desire in the first place? Don't you think he might have more important things to worry about?"

  "We will all make an account of ourselves on the Day of Judgement, we are all responsible for our own salvation."

  "You are a true little Calvinist, by God. In Italy, you'd sin as much as you pleased and trot along to the priest for absolution afterwards. Much better arrangement."

  She turned away in disgust, her way to the door and escape clear. She half expected him to make a grab for her, but he was still watching her from the bed. He did not seem to intend to pursue.

  Just as her hand was on the doorknob, it turned the other way. She struggled for a moment in panic, thinking that somehow Lord John had locked it; but as soon as she let go, the door sprang open and the little housemaid Birnie was on the other side, bearing a tray of refreshments. Her eyes were round and surprised.

  "Cook thought you might want something to eat be
fore supper, miss," she said, uncertainly, evidently sensing that something was amiss.

  Bridie took the tray from her in a daze and tried to shut the door again, but it was too late. There was nothing she could do to stop Birnie spotting Lord John, who had now stretched himself out full length on her bed and looked like he intended to stay.

  Bridie thrust the tray back into Birnie's hands, and fled the scene.

  Chapter NINE

  It was with a heart dark and troubled that Bridie set off, two days after, on the visit to her father. She wished that Lady Crieff had allowed her to walk, rather than sending her in the cart. She longed for the solitude, and the time to settle her churning thoughts, that a longish walk would have allowed her. She also felt that all the other servants at Dunwoodie, including the old coachman who was driving her, were looking at her with amusement and contempt.

  It was not a fancy of her imagination. She had certainly seen Ritchie, one of the parlour maids, whispering with Mrs Brown the cook as Bridie had passed them on her way to the upper servants' dining hall and watching her significantly. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that just as Kirkton and Bridge of Auchtie were talking about her betrothal to Callum Dobbie, Dunwoodie was talking about her defilement by the notorious Lord John. Her reputation was in tatters, and she had only the fact of her unimpeached virtue to wrap around herself in her own mind.

  But that was no consolation at all, because she could not fool herself and she could certainly not fool God. Technically, her virtue was intact, but Jesus's words in the Sermon on the Mount haunted her. Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart... As Lord John said, she had been willing.