Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “His lordship never saw the castle,” Grunyon said. “Poor country,” he added.

  Hawk would have said that it was a beautiful, wild, clean country, but he was tired, irritable, dirty, and so depressed that he could barely bring himself to be civil to anyone. They’d seen so few people, and the villages they’d passed through seemed out of the last century, not this one. It did remind him of Portugal, at least the stark poverty did. He wished he was Major Hawk again. Even the poverty of Portugal was preferable to what lay ahead for him.

  The sight of Loch Lomond, the largest freshwater lake in Britain, didn’t move him. Nor did the striking three-thousand-foot peaks at its northern end.

  Grunyon studied his master’s profile silently, feeling right sorry for him, to be sure. He’d been the earl’s batman in the army for five years, when he was Lord Philip Hawksbury, an officer Wellington could count on when the odds were rough, as they nearly always were. They’d been through battles together, seen more suffering and death than should be allowed, but now poor Hawk, as his friends still called him, all his military friends from the old days, that is, was ripe in the middle of a god-awful mess, a mess not of his making. And there was his father, perhaps in his last prayers.

  “I feel like I did just after the Battle of Talavera de la Reina,” said Hawk. “Well, dirty and tired, at least. I feel none of the elation.”

  “No, not likely,” said Grunyon. “But young ladies are young ladies, my lord, and like you told me, the marquess said they were all pretty.”

  “Senile and probably blind,” said Hawk. “They’re in all likelihood as toothsome as Macbeth’s hags. After all, my father was taking the word of Lord Ruthven for their collective beauty. Jesus, I don’t damned believe this!”

  Grunyon clucked in sympathy, then sniffed. Both he and his master were gamy as could be. “You could bathe in the loch, my lord. The water looks nice.”

  Hawk unconsciously scratched his ribs. “I think I will. That last inn we stayed in—if you could call that moldering pile an inn—had fleas, I’m sure of it.”

  “And other beasties as well, I imagine,” said Grunyon.

  Hawk’s left eyebrow shot up a good inch. “Speaking like a Scot now, Grunyon? Beasties?”

  “Wee beasties,” said Grunyon.

  “Your sense of humor will send you to the gallows. Oh, very well, I’ll bathe. After all, I want to be sweet-smelling for my future wife.”

  “I brought soap, my lord.”

  “I need to shave as well. Might as well have me as presentable as possible for my execution.”

  Hawk guided his equipage through the undergrowth that bordered the loch. The day was warm for March, the sun bright. The water did look inviting, and he was tired of his own stench.

  Frances had spent the past three hours delivering Cadmus’ only cow of her calf. Thank God both had survived. Cadmus and Mary needed milk for their new baby. She was sweaty, the sleeve of her old gown rolled to nearly her shoulder, and there was still dried blood on her arm. She knelt beside the loch and bathed her arm. Sophia would have a fit were she to see her stepdaughter looking like a dirty peasant. Then too, Frances thought as she rolled down her sleeve, she was putting off her return to the castle. She sat back on her heels a moment, thinking about the changes in her sisters over the past four days. All through dinner the previous evening, Viola had carried on about her new gown, green velvet to match her eyes, hastily sewn over the past two days, and her eyes had sparkled with anticipation of the earl’s male reaction. Even Clare was looking a bit smug, patting her lovely blond hair and speaking of the cucumber lotion she was using for her already perfect complexion. Thank God Clare no longer appeared to feel that Frances had betrayed her. It hadn’t been Frances’ fault that Ian Douglass had asked her to marry him, and not Clare. Well, she’d sent him to the rightabout quickly enough, and now his younger brother was sniffing after Viola! Of course, since their father’s announcement, Viola had ceased talking about Kenard.

  Dinner had continued. Viola chattered and preened, Clare altered her vague look to one of wistful complacency. As for Frances, she’d kept her mouth shut, tightly shut, and stared back and forth between her sisters. Finally she set down her fork. The haggis suddenly seemed the most unappetizing concoction in the world.

  “You really want to marry this man, this stranger? You want to leave Castle Kilbracken and Scotland?” she’d asked finally.

  Viola tossed her head, but she grinned impishly at her sister. “Yes,” she said, “I shall marry him, Frances, and yes, I shall leave Scotland.”

  “I shouldn’t make all your plans now,” said Sophia.

  “I think perhaps the earl will like a more mature lady,” said Clare, “one who exercises a bit more control over her tongue.”

  Not an ounce of vagueness in Clare now, thought Frances.

  “But Papa said that the earl preferred ladies with wit and charm,” said Viola. “And beauty, of course. Am I not blessed with all of those things, Clare?”

  “I should allow others to make that observation before I did,” said Adelaide, serenely taking another bite of her haggis.

  Viola ignored this mild stricture and said in great seriousness to her sisters, “I shall marry him, but you needn’t worry, Clare, or you, Frances. I shall find husbands for both of you, rich ones. There are so many rich Sassenachs, isn’t that so, Papa?”

  “A good deal more than are in Scotland,” said Ruthven, his eyes going toward Frances. She looked upset and he was sorry for it. As for himself, he was torn. If the earl chose her, he would lose the child who was closest to him in temperament, the child who rode beside him, free and easy as a boy, the child who hunted and swam with him, the child ... He frowned, realizing that her attitude would most certainly put off any gentleman. He couldn’t allow that. He supposed that he wanted the earl to choose Frances. He wanted the best for her, and he knew that in turn, she would care for her sisters. Hell, he thought, spearing a bite of boiled potato, he didn’t know which would be worse, losing her or providing for her.

  “I think, Viola,” Clare said, her voice becoming a bit more strident, “that you shouldn’t be so quick to announce your victory, just as Sophia said.”

  “Victory,” Frances repeated blankly. “We don’t know this man! He could be dreadful, mean and petty. He could be anything!”

  “Frances!” said Ruthven, pinning his daughter with a fierce look. “That is enough.”

  Frances immediately lowered her eyes. She shouldn’t have said anything, but her stupid, quick tongue ... She wanted no discussions, no questions, about her own feelings toward this unknown earl. Now, she knew, she was in for a lecture from both her father and her stepmother. Stupid twit!

  But neither of them had said a word to her. She sighed, looking out over the loch. She admitted now that she had been avoiding the lot of them. She laughed a bit, thinking that she was more conceited than Viola. All her machinations—she was in the way of believing that the earl would pick her! Goodness, she could probably appear a goddess and he wouldn’t want her. Still, as old Marta was wont to say, “ ‘Tis better to wear a kilt than parade about bare-assed.” Well, she was going to wear that kilt, in a manner of speaking. She would take no chances, none at all.

  Frances suddenly became aware that the birds had grown loud and nervous. She looked up, studying her surroundings. Was it a tinker perhaps? No, it wasn’t. Her eyes widened at the sight of a man—naked as a statue, but without the requisite fig leaf—climbing up some rocks that extended out over the loch. Dear God, he was going to dive in! She should tell him that the water, despite its inviting look, was cold enough to freeze off his ... She swallowed that thought. Lord, Clare should see him, she thought vaguely. If she didn’t faint from shock, she would be salivating to paint him. He was lovely, tall and muscular, his legs long and well-formed. Her eyes resolutely avoided the bush of thick hair at his groin and his male endowments. He was dark, his hair was as black as a raven’s wing, his complexion olive. His
chest was covered with tufts of equally black hair. Frances felt an odd warmth in her belly and rocked back on her heels. She was being a silly fool. She’d seen naked men before—well, actually, she amended, they’d been boys, swimming in the loch. He wasn’t a boy. She saw him dive cleanly into the loch. He broke the surface quickly, and she heard his howl. However, instead of wading quickly out, he caught a bar of soap tossed to him by another man standing at the loch’s edge.

  He has more fortitude than I do, Frances thought, watching him vigorously lather his chest, then his thick dark hair. She shivered when he ducked under the water to rinse himself.

  She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms in sympathy for him. He must be very dirty to stand that icy water.

  She gulped when the hand holding the soap dipped under the water. Who was he? she wondered. And then she knew. He turned his back at that moment and waded toward shore. She looked at the long, clean back, the sculpted buttocks. She heard him say something and saw a short, plump man standing on the shore, holding a towel. She heard him laugh, a rich, deep sound, filled with amusement at himself.

  The Earl of Rothermere had finally come. Her only thought as she sped back to the castle was that he wasn’t a troll.

  Hawk and Grunyon arrived at Castle Kilbracken an hour later. For the first time since he’d come out of that god-awful loch, Hawk felt warm. That kind of shock could kill a man, he thought, and again laughed at himself.

  Hawk pulled his tired horses to a halt in front of the gray-stone castle and looked about for the stable. He saw a long, narrow building off to the side whose slate roof looked dark red in the bright sunlight. A dozen or so chickens were squawking wildly at his intrusion. The two cows regarded him with mild interest at best, and the assortment of pigs snorted indignantly at the whipped-up dirt from his carriage wheels.

  As he climbed down from the carriage, he saw two women dressed in coarse woolen gowns eyeing him silently. Then one said something to the other behind her hand, and the other giggled.

  “See to the carriage, Grunyon,” Hawk said. “There doesn’t appear to be a stablehand about that I can see.” Hell, he thought, there didn’t appear to be anything civilized about. Suddenly a tall man who had that indefinable aura of authority about him appeared through the great front doors of the castle. He was dressed roughly, in well-worn riding clothes, his black boots dusty. They stared at each other a moment; then the man called out, “Rothermere?”

  The Earl of Ruthven, Hawk thought, and managed to plant a smile on his lips.

  “Yes,” he said, and strode forward. Ruthven extended his hand and Hawk clasped it. A strong hand, Hawk thought.

  “That your man?”

  “Yes.”

  Ruthven raised his head and roared, “Ethelard!”

  A scruffy boy appeared from behind the stables and raced forward. “See to the horses, boy. You, my lord, and your man come with me.”

  Hawk followed the earl through the great oak doors into an entrance hall that was in fact an old great hall, complete with blackened beams high overhead, and a cavernous fireplace that could roast an ox. There were ancient suits of armor lying about, and weapons fastened to the walls between huge flambeaux. The very air felt heavy and somehow old. Hawk felt as though he’d just stepped back in time.

  He waved his hand about him and asked, “How old is Kilbracken?”

  “Built back at the time of James IV, in the sixteenth century, you know. Tottle,” he continued to a rheumy-eyed individual who had come up behind them in utter silence, “see to his lordship’s man here. Feed him and show him his master’s room.”

  “Aye,” said Tottle.

  “Been drinking again, curse him,” Ruthven said under his breath. “Come my lord. The ladies are all in the drawing room. Used to be the armory long ago, you know, but things change. English wives and all that.”

  Hawk followed the earl silently across the huge expanse of hall toward another set of double doors. He flung them open and said grandly, “The Earl of Rothermere.”

  Hawk was aware of three sets of feminine eyes all trained on his person. One of the women rose and came forward, a smile on her face. “Hello, my lord, I am Lady Ruthven. Welcome to Castle Kilbracken and to Scotland.” An English wife, Hawk thought, and hoped devoutly that all the daughters spoke with such clipped, clear English speech.

  He kissed her offered hand and murmured something polite. She was much younger than Ruthven, in her mid-thirties, he guessed, and quite pretty. She had soft brown hair and large brown eyes, and, he saw with some appreciation, a very impressive bosom.

  He was introduced to Clare and thought: She’s lovely. As for Clare, she felt a moment of alarm. He was a large man, his jaw, her artist’s eyes noted, was stubborn. Not an easy man. But handsome.

  “My lord,” Clare said, giving him her slender hand, whiter now from all the cucumber lotion. Hawk, dutifully, kissed the hand.

  Hawk received a giggle when introduced to Viola, a little minx whose coloring was as lively as the gleam in her green eyes. “My lord,” she said in a lilting voice, “I—we—have awaited your coming with great interest. I wish to hear all about the ton.” There, Viola thought, seeing that he was a bit taken aback, I have shown him that I am not a provincial nobody. He will realize that I will fit perfectly into his life.

  “I will tell you all that I can,” said Hawk, grinning unwillingly at this charming confection of budding womanhood.

  “And here is Frances,” said Sophia, turning to greet her middle stepdaughter, who had just slipped into the room. Her eyes widened and she felt herself choke. She heard a snort from her husband, and felt for a moment an insane urge to laugh.

  The Earl of Rothermere’s thoughts didn’t show on his face as he turned to study the third daughter. But he was thinking as he took the tanned, somewhat roughened hand, a strong hand, he added to himself, that at least two of the three daughters were worthy of a second look. Good Lord, this one should be locked in a closet, a water closet.

  “Charmed,” he said shortly.

  Frances merely nodded, saying nothing. Nor did she raise her head to look at him.

  How is that apparition possible, Hawk wondered as he watched her move away from him. Her hair was scraped tightly back into a fierce bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes looked like little raisins behind the distorting glass of her ugly spectacles. And her gown—it was shapeless, the color a sickening puce. He could just hear Grunyon saying philosophically, “Well, my lord, all three of them pretty would have been heaven. Be thankful you’ve got two to choose between.”

  The moment he released her hand, Frances walked toward a chair she’d carefully placed in the corner early that morning. She sat down, picked up the stichery, only to find her eyes following the Earl of Rothermere. He was speaking to her father, and Viola and Clare were looking at him as if a Greek god had just come to earth. She heard swishing skirts and saw that Sophia was standing over her.

  “This is not at all amusing, Frances.”

  Frances said nothing.

  “You look like a ...” Words failed her. “What is the meaning of this, Frances?”

  “Of what, Sophia?” Frances said, striving for bravado. She stuck up her chin. “Adelaide has always told us that the good Lord loves us for what we are, not what we look like.”

  Sophia snorted. “We’re not talking theology, Frances! Your father will whip you for this, young lady, you may be certain of that!”

  Sophia marched away from Frances, striving to regain her polite-hostess manners. She saw that Viola and Clare were staring at their sister, and she heard Viola giggle. She shot them a look that threatened retribution and they immediately quieted. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering where the devil Frances had found those immensely hideous glasses that perched on her nose. And her hair! Pulled back from her face so severely that it looked painful, and plaited into the ugliest bun Sophia had ever seen. She’d stolen the old lace cap from one of her mother’s trunks, she imagined, and the gown
as well, a muslin puce that had seen better days twenty years ago. She saw that Alex kept glancing over at his daughter, his gaze questioning, then somber, then narrow with anger.

  English tea was served by Tottle, a relic, Hawk thought, that belonged firmly to the last century. He thought of Shippe, his father’s noble butler, and shuddered. I don’t believe this is happening! My God, surrounded by a gaggle of females, one of whom will be my wife!

  He couldn’t bring himself to look closely at any of the girls, save Viola. It was impossible not to notice her. She was young, as pretty as any young lady in London, and was staring at him with admiration and something akin to awe. Stiff, formal conversation floated about him, and he responded with all the breeding with which he’d been blessed, but very little of the charm for which he was noted. Somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself—an animal on the block, smiling at his butcher?

  Drinking his tea, he could fancy that he was in England. All the ladies spoke without a Scottish burr. The Earl of Ruthven spoke an odd mixture, interspersing his very English comments with Scottish idiom.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Hawk asked, suddenly aware that he’d been addressed by the Countess of Ruthven.

  “Please, call me Sophia, my lord. I was just telling you that our Clare here is something of a painter.”

  That was at least something, Hawk thought, and forced himself to study Lady Clare again. She was leaning toward him, her face rendered more lovely by its intensity.

  “What is it you paint?” he asked.

  “Mostly people, my lord,” said Clare.

  “Ah,” said Hawk.

  Frances looked at him, but he was blurred by the wretched spectacles. She allowed them to slide down to the tip of her nose, and squinted. At that moment, his eyes slide toward her, and she saw him wince at the sight.