by Anne Greene
Jenny winked slyly, raised her rust-colored brows, and lifted both her hands in question.
Cailin let her obvious contentment answer.
In the years Jenny had served her, the maid proved far too free with her tongue. But what harm could knowing she was a happy wife be?
And the moment she glimpsed Avondale’s face, she would find the answer to her own question clearly written there. Pray God she would read the answer she sought.
She threw up her arms in sheer joy and twirled around the room. Surely she’d pleased him. How could she not have?
****
Driving rain had blotted out the sunlight. While the dreary afternoon wore on, Cailin tried hard to hide her irritation from the few ladies in the drawing room as she ran her fingers lightly over the harp strings.
Early on, the promise of a sunny day evaporated into storm clouds. Although rain slanted smartly against the thick window panes, Avondale had not yet returned from the wedding hunt.
“I suppose Megan is still out following the hounds.” Aunty Aley gave a petulant sniff. “And in this weather. Such a handful, that child.” If it was possible, she held her plump figure even stiffer than its usual rigidity an inch from the back of the damask sofa.
Her widowed aunt relished stirring up gossip. Rather than answering, Cailin plucked the notes of a tune Aunt Aley particularly favored.
“His Grace is a sportsman?” Lorna doodled at her drawing board.
“Yes. I understand he’s quite dedicated.”
Cailin strummed harder, but paid scant attention to the melody she played. Thoughts pounded her mind much like the drumming rain slammed the window.
Where was Avondale?
All the other guests returned before the deluge started, and his absence had grown embarrassing. As guests trudged in, tired and muddy, each asked about him, gave her a deeply questioning gaze, and then retired to bathe and change for dinner.
Lorna slashed her quill viciously against her parchment. “During his wedding week? I think Avondale neglects his bride.”
Cailin winced and played a sour note.
“La, la, ladies. Men enjoy doing the unexpected.” Aunty Moira wet green floss between her rosy lips and re-threaded her needle. “I’m sure the rain delayed His Grace. More than likely he took shelter someplace and will return directly when the downpour ceases.”
“It looks as if the rain will never stop.” Cailin rested her cheek against the smooth curve in the rosewood harp and tried not to frown.
Had Avondale been hurt? Or lost somewhere on their vast estate? Why did he not return?
“His Grace seemed so attentive to you when he said his vows.” Lorna’s big gray-green eyes looked dreamy as she stared out the window at the blowing rain. “Perhaps he’s not—”
“And he shall soon be at your side again. Do not fret, lamb. Men will behave like men. Would we wish them different?” Aunty Moira plied her needle through her tapestry panel and looked as content as a kitten curled inside a willow basket, her dainty slippered feet, peeking beneath dark blue satin flounces, tucked close to the fire crackling in the wide fireplace.
Cailin plucked another false chord and dropped her hands to her lap. She scooted her chair back from the harp and rose to pace the shadowed room.
Why had her new husband disappeared so quickly this morning? She puckered her forehead. What could lure him away from her arms? Was this his way of telling her she’d not pleased him? Now he was conspicuously absent. Guests were whispering.
“His Grace is accustomed to so much more society than our country castle affords. London has sparkling soirées.” Aunt Aley waved her hand dramatically. “As well as the theatre and smart entertainment.” Her round cheeks waggled with an aggravating air of knowing things the rest of them could only imagine. “We country folk must seem quite boring.”
To what else was Avondale accustomed? Cailin gripped her arms under the folds of her loose silken sleeves and continued pacing. Perhaps he kept a secret lady friend whose company he sought. She let her hands droop motionless on the arched neck of the harp. She’d heard titled Englishmen, more often than not, kept mistresses.
“Yes. Oft times His Grace attends court.” Aunt Aley stabbed her needle threaded with black floss into her section of the tapestry panel. “I understand all manner of unspeakable acts occur with the German majesties. And the English at court are little better.”
The heels of Cailin’s hands jerked against the heavy harp, knocking it off balance. She grabbed the wood and fumbled the instrument upright before it fell to the polished granite. She lowered her chin and hid her horrified expression behind her veil of golden hair. Despite courtly customs, she would not share her husband.
“Thank God for your beauty, lamb.” Dear Aunt Moira’s hazel eyes silently expressed sympathy. “Although you have not yet been to court, when you do you will be prized by the nobles there.”
Aunty Moira’s words didn’t ease the anxiety curdling her stomach. She yearned to be prized by only one noble. She could still feel the magic of his hands on her skin.
“Do you have a headache, Cailin?” Aunt Aley’s yellow teeth gleamed across the gloomy room. “You look positively ill. Last night must have been quite trying.” She thinned her lips. “We do understand. Except Moira, of course.” She glanced around the drawing room. “And Lorna.”
Cailin’s stomach clenched.
Obviously, Aley hadn’t enjoyed her husband.
“On the contrary.” She rose, wandered to the window and gazed out onto the dark, rain-drenched moor. “Last night was perfect.”
Today was the problem. Why was Avondale doing this to her? Was English society so different that a man wasn’t considered scandalous if he ignored his wife the day after they wed? She clenched her hands behind her back and stared out the tear-stained window.
“Oh, do stop drooping about like a love-sick turtledove and play for us.” Aunt Aley stamped her foot. “Now, lass.”
She refused to let Aley taunt her into a spat. Gliding back to the harp, Cailin slid into the chair, and plunked a few random strings. She would let neither Aley, nor Avondale upset her. Her frown softened and her fingers moved into “Beautiful Savior” of their own accord.
Father, only You could arrange such a fine marriage for me in such a breathtakingly short time. You promised, Your plans for me are plans for good and not for evil. I rest in Your goodness.
And she did rest—as best she could. After all, God was sovereign. He remained in control. Nothing could happen to her outside His will. But the tension remained in her neck, and each passing moment stiffened the muscles in her shoulders until her head began to ache.
As if they had a mind of their own, her fingers plucked a new song. After only a few seconds, she realized she played a love ballad. She smiled, and the sweetness inside her chest almost relaxed her stiff muscles.
Certainly Avondale pleased her last night. And he would surely return by dark. Would their second night together be as delightful as their first?
The mother-of-pearl inlaid, double drawing room doors opened.
Jenny pushed the tea cart into the room and paused.
“Over here.” With a ring-laden hand, Aunt Aley patted the brocade cushions of the sofa. “Come, sit next to me, Cailin. As long as His Grace is not here, I’ll do the honors.”
“Yes, Aunty.” Cailin rose from the needlepoint chair behind the harp, skirted around the rosewood instrument, and settled beside her aunt.
Aunt Aley was in one of her moods. She would have stood up to her overbearing aunt, but she didn’t give a fig who presided at tea.
But she did so want her husband. Sitting here, beside her where he belonged. With her, every day during her wedding week. How could he snub her so?
With a clink of tongs on the good porcelain, Aunt Aley dropped two morsels of sugar into a cup of tea and passed it to her. “Don’t be such a dreamer.” Her voice sounded sharp above the homey crackling of the fire. “Weddings aren’t made in heaven. His
Grace would not have married you at all had he not wasted his inheritance on self-indulgence.”
She winced. Tea spilled into her saucer and burned her thumb.
“Aley, everyone knows the truth of what you say, but no one need repeat it.” Aunty Moira clucked her tongue. “True, His Grace’s income disappeared. But who is to say his wealth went for decadence? Let’s just praise God that the duke’s presence protects us from the English, and for whatever reason, Cailin makes a charming duchess. His Grace is fortunate indeed.”
She shuddered. Papa didn’t believe Avondale’s money was gone.
“Decadence in the worst form. So say all the reports I’ve heard from England.”
“Gossip you mean. Fie, Aley, hold your tongue.” Moira shook a finger at her older sister.
“But we know little of the man except he has an unparalleled pedigree, five titles, and extensive lands near Stirling, as well as throughout England.” Aunt Aley passed a particularly inviting plate of flaky scones. “His Grace shows excellent manners, makes a fine appearance, and has lived his entire life in the lap of luxury.” She slapped the tongs onto the inlaid table and smiled, showing just how much she enjoyed gossip, hang whomever it hurt. “You know there are a great many stories of irresponsibility.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “And shadowy deeds. And he does spend a good deal of time at court. I have heard worse—”
“Rumors.” Aunty Moira bit delicately into a scone doused in clotted cream.
Cailin pinched her lips.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Aunt Aley smacked a scone into her mouth and licked her lips. “I’ve heard—”
“The duke rides horses well, and he flirts only the least little bit,” Lorna interrupted, helping herself to a teaspoonful of clotted cream. “Just enough to give the impression he’s a rogue. That’s so romantic.”
Cailin stirred her tea, glad her friend had chosen not to ride on the hunt with the rest of the wedding guests. She needed all the bolstering she could get. Hearing that Avondale didn’t flirt raised her spirits. Perhaps there was no mistress. Or perhaps he had no need to flirt because he had a mistress who—
No, no, no. She would not think along those lines.
Still—she stirred her tea so fast the best part of it slurped into her saucer. Why had she slept so late as to miss riding on the hunt with him and the wedding guests? And why hadn’t Avondale awakened her? Now that dark had fully come, why was he staying away?
“Does he attend church?” Aunty Moira passed the scones without taking one.
“I understand his attendance is sporadic.” Cheeks full of scone, Aunt Aley pinched her mouth together, making her double chin more prominent, and helped herself to the largest pastry left on the tea platter.
“If anyone has her ear to the keyhole, it’s you, dear sister.” Aunty Moira huffed and reached for the jelly platter. “Lorna, I would think one dollop of raspberry jam is adequate over your clotted cream. You shall spoil your girlish figure.”
Cailin could have kissed her aunty for changing the subject.
Aunt Aley would pounce on this new topic like a hawk on a mouse.
“Moira, you may as well eat. Retaining your slim figure won’t provide you any more opportunities to marry. What silliness for you to catch that bridal bouquet. Depriving yourself is a useless discipline.” Aunt Aley’s steely eyes sparkled. “You may as well eat your fill.”
Aunty Moira winked at Cailin.
Cailin found it hard to believe the plump, disagreeable Aley was Mums’s middle sister.
“Nothing done to God’s glory is useless.” Aunty Moira sipped her sugarless tea, her gray eyes twinkling.
“You have always been such a dreamy dolt. Retaining a girlish figure isn’t…”
Cailin let their chatter fade until it became little louder inside her mind than the driving rain on the slate windowsill. She refused to believe the whispered stories about Avondale. Yet, there had to be a grain of truth in the rumors, else they would not have traveled all the way from London to their country place in the borderlands.
Her hand trembled as she sipped the spicy tea. Where was he? She had run eagerly to the long window in Avondale’s bedchamber and stared out for hours after the downpour started. Finally, she came downstairs to the drawing room and waited as all the other guests streamed in.
Still, Avondale had failed to return. Cailin fiddled with the teacup handle. One would expect a new husband to be impatient to rejoin his bride. She kept her gaze fixed on the delicate, blue flowers painted on her teacup.
At least Aunt Moira and Lorna took up for Avondale.
Mums had retired to her room with a reproachful look and an ice cap on her head.
She, too, should have begged off with a headache, but she had expected Avondale any minute. And she preferred company rather than face her husband’s empty bedchamber. Perhaps she should have chosen the lonely room. Aley’s gossip set her imagination on things far better left alone.
Surely he would return tonight for dinner. He must realize his absence made tongues wag, even if he cared not a sniffle about her feelings. Every guest here recognized his insult.
She slapped the dainty hand-painted cup against the cart’s gold-gilded railing, spilling most of the remaining tea into her saucer. She didn’t care. What motive could Avondale have for insulting her?
Aunty Aley glared. “Cailin, whatever are you doing?”
Her feeling of loss, regardless of how cheerfully she fought it, grew until her pasted-on smile felt as heavy as the muddy boots the guests had left in the entry. True, she hailed from the country, but she’d never heard of another groom ignoring his bride quite so blatantly.
“Perhaps the king summoned His Grace.” Aunty Aley smirked. “I’ve heard they visit brothels together.”
Cailin stood and stalked from the drawing room.
Avondale had some answering to do.
****
Thankful he’d not left his favorite black stallion in England, Avondale jumped into the saddle and took command of the prancing animal. He never used the decorative spurs attached to his knee-high boots. Instead he leaned forward in the small saddle. “Go boy, go.”
The beautiful animal surged forward. Just as dawn broke, Avondale headed him on a direct line to the rugged loneliness of the Highlands. His thoughts clattered inside his head louder than the horse’s thundering hooves against the rocky soil.
Cailin was so sweet. So beautiful. So loving. But she’d wanted answers.
Beneath his scarlet riding jacket, rivulets of sweat formed between his shoulder blades.
He couldn’t give her answers. Not now. Maybe never.
When he’d refused, she’d asked if they could read that old black book together. He swiped an arm across his forehead. He could give her that much.
5
Cailin tossed restlessly in the luxurious bed. Avondale had still not returned from wherever he had gone. Her head pounded. She gritted her teeth and knotted her fists against the anger swirling in her veins.
Finally, she rose and padded barefoot to the wash bowl in the dressing room and brushed her teeth again. She returned to the dark, cavernous bedchamber and threw open a window.
Moonlight had faded into deep shadows when dark clouds rolled in. She thrust her head out the window and let the wind caress her waist-length hair, but the coolness couldn’t blow away her frown. The wind was no substitute for the caresses she yearned for. Nor did her anger fade.
Avondale had come to bed so late last night. And tonight, he was even later.
She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Even had she been sleepy, she would have stayed awake. Tonight she would ask him again. Insist he answer.
She left the window open, hurried across the cold granite, and crawled back into the warm bed to snuggle beneath the sheets. The big clock in the corner ticked second by second, still he did not come. She would creep downstairs and peek into Papa’s study. She slung her legs over the side of the bed.
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The door swung open.
Avondale tiptoed into the room, moved silently across the rug into the dressing room, and closed the door behind him. His clothes rustled as he undressed.
She sprang up and her fingers trembled as she lit a candle. She opened the door.
He spun to her, eyes wide, mouth open, his face a mask of startled guilt. “Blow out that candle.” His voice sounded rough.
“But the dark—”
“Snuff out the candle. I like the dark. Blackness is a friend.”
She did as he bade her. “Where—?”
“I thought you’d be sleeping, dear Cailin.”
“I waited for you.”
“You shouldn’t.” He stepped close and pulled her into his arms. With his lips on her hair, he whispered, “I fell in love with you on our wedding night. So, despite what others may tell you, know that I love you, my beautiful, sweet wife. No matter what happens, always remember I love you.”
Anger slipped away as if it had never been.
He wrapped her in his arms and carried her to their bed.
She nestled against him, her ear just above his racing heart.
He loved her. Tonight, that was enough.
She wanted more of that incredible love. Yet, she would question him. When the time was right. She was his wife and had every right to know about his disappearances.
6
But the following night Avondale did not come to bed at all.
Cailin spent the next day busying herself with tasks around the castle, counting every moment until nightfall.
As the sun was setting, the door to the bedchamber creaked open. She turned from her dressing table, yelped, jumped up, ran across the room, and plunged into Avondale’s strong, open arms. He’d come early.
“Ah. I see you’ve changed for dinner, sweet. You look smashing.” He nuzzled her bare neck with warm lips, and deposited a kiss just where it sent a tingle straight to her heart. “You are truly a jewel. That deep blue silk matches your incredible eyes.”
Leaning back in his embrace, she smiled into his warm brown gaze. Why did she doubt Avondale? Could not a man live his life as he liked? Did a wife need to know every move a man made? A chill shivered the hairs on the nape of her neck. But a wife should know something of the man she married. Still, she refused to nag. “Did you bag a fox today?”
