After Sophia had left, Frances huddled under her covers, drawing her knees to her chest. She pictured him naked, striding out of the loch. She knew well enough that that male appendage swelled to a horrible size and was shoved between her legs. It was a ghastly thought, repellent and embarrassing. So utterly sordid. But he could, would do it, because it was his right. If she struggled, he would probably beat her. That was his right too. She didn’t seem to have any. None at all.
Frances hadn’t realized until that moment that she was crying. Angry with herself, she dashed the silly tears away with the back of her hand and sat up. She remembered clearly how he had looked at her with such distaste when he had proposed to her—no, she added angrily to herself, when he informed her of his decision. As for her decision, she’d made it. She would be as dowdy, timid, and stupid as could be until he left her, which she was certain he would do, as quickly as he could honorably manage it. She wanted him to leave her, preferably without laying a hand on her. No, a hand she could manage; it was that other thing she couldn’t bear to think of.
It won’t be bad, she told herself. I shall live in my own house and do as I please. He can go to London and enjoy all the charming, lively ladies he wishes to.
Hawk lay back, sated and sleepy. Georgina Morgan, a delectable bit of womanhood, snuggled beside him, her thigh thrown over his belly. She was a widow, several years older than Hawk, and very affectionate.
“Ye’re an excellent lover,” Georgina said.
“So are you,” Hawk said, and lightly kissed the top of her head. “I must leave before dawn. I have to return to Loch Lomond and Castle Kilbracken.”
“Ye have business with the Earl of Ruthven?”
Hawk should have told her it wasn’t any of her business, but he wasn’t in any mood to play the gentleman. He said, his voice cold and clipped, “Yes, indeed. I am to marry one of his daughters on the morrow.”
Georgina sucked in her breath at this unexpected news. She’d rather hoped that the earl would stay in Glasglow for a while longer, and in her bed. “Pity,” she said.
“I agree,” said Hawk. He felt her knee slowly move over his manhood. “You’ll wear me out, then?”
“Aye, ‘tis no more than ye deserve.”
Hawk glided his hand over her belly, his long fingers gently searching for her. “And what do you deserve, I wonder?”
“Frances, damn you, girl, I won’t allow this!”
Ruthven reached for the offensive spectacles, but Frances ducked out of the way. “No, Papa, leave be. I am marrying your precious Hawk, and that is all you can ask of me.”
“You look like a damned witch.”
“No, my lord, not a witch,” Adelaide said quietly, coming into the bedchamber, “more like a girl who is very frightened to be herself.”
That drew Ruthven up. “Is this true, Frances?”
“Leave be, Papa,” Frances said, sending Adelaide a wounded look. One tended to forget that Adelaide was so very perceptive. “The earl proposed to a mouse and that is what he will marry. I shan’t disillusion him.”
Ruthven gave her a long, searching look. “Very well, Frances. I shall say no more about it.”
“And you won’t say anything to the earl, Papa!”
“No, I won’t.”
When her father had left, Frances turned to Adelaide. “Is it time?”
“Yes, love. Frances, don’t cheat yourself out of what can rightfully be yours.”
Frances merely nodded, beyond words. “I shall be along in just a moment, Adelaide.”
When she was finally alone, Frances walked to the window and gazed out. The day was gray, cold, and it had begun to drizzle.
If I were of a romantic disposition, she thought dispassionately, I should keep a journal. And I should write in it that I am beginning a new life and that I am deliriously happy.
She meant to giggle at her foolishness, but instead, it was a sob that broke from her throat.
The Reverend Mr. George MacLeod, a longtime friend of the Earl of Ruthven, presided over the ceremony. The two men had spent many satisfying hours arguing the merits of Presbyterianism versus the Church of England. MacLeod thought the English groom was polite, a well-bred young gentleman. When Frances finally entered the drawing room, he saw the earl’s expression change. Now, MacLeod thought, he looked about as happy as a dead trout. His eyes went to Frances, and widened. Good gracious, he thought, stunned. She looked like a nightmare, and miserable to boot. What the devil was going on here? What had happened to his bright, laughing Frances? He knew this was an arranged marriage, but he’d had no idea that ... He shot a questioning look at Ruthven, but Alexander was smiling benignly.
The words were spoken and he blessed the couple.
The wedding breakfast was less festive than a funeral.
The Reverend Mr. MacLeod, who had held Frances on his knee when she was two years old, managed to catch her alone after she’d changed into traveling clothes. She looked sullen and pale. Where had she gotten those wretched spectacles? What was he to say to her?
“Good-bye, my dear,” he said, and lightly kissed her forehead. “I will pray for you and your new husband.”
“I should certainly appreciate that, sir,” Frances said, squinting up at him. “In fact, a bolt of well-placed lightning at this moment would be most welcome.”
“You marry against your will, Frances?”
“No,” she said, seeing clearly that he was worried for her. She saw her father frowning at her from the corner of her eye. She saw her husband impatiently slapping his gloves against his thigh.
“Good-bye, sir,” she said, and stepping to her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek.
Frances was thankful for the spectacles. They hid her brimming eyes. Viola, Clare, Sophia, and Adelaide each hugged her. She reached her father.
“Frances,” he said very quietly, “trust me, my girl. And trust yourself. You are strong.”
“Yes, Papa.” She took one last look around the hall. She wondered silently if she would ever see Kilbracken again. She followed her husband out of the castle. She eyed the closed carriage for a moment with dread. Then she turned and waved toward all the people she’d lived with for nineteen years. Doris, who had baked her wedding cake, was dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“Frances,” Hawk said sharply, his hand on the open carriage door. “We must be on our way now.”
6
Claret is the liquor for boys;
port for men;
But he who aspires to be a hero must
drink brandy.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
Hawk raised his silver flask of brandy and drank deep. Instant warmth hit his stomach and he didn’t move for a long moment, savoring the feeling. He turned in the saddle and saw the lurching carriage coming nearer.
His wife was inside that carriage. His wife.
He closed his eyes a moment, still disbelieving that it was done. He didn’t feel married, not even remotely. The Reverend Mr. MacLeod’s words had floated about his head, not really part of him, even though his responses had affirmed that they were.
It was drizzling again. The sky was a moldering gray. The little foliage that clung for life among the barren rocks and crags looked sodden, limp, and ready to collapse from fatigue. The damned road was little more than a jagged path littered with rocks and deep mud puddles. There were occasional crofts to be seen, thready lines of smoke circling from chimneys, but no people. Only utter fools would show their faces on a dismal day like this. He accepted being an utter fool. Anything was preferable to sharing the carriage with her—Frances Hawksbury, Countess of Rothermere.
He thought of his father, as he did many times every hour, an automatic prayer on his lips that the old autocrat still clung to life. Suddenly it occurred to him that his father might just take one look at Frances and keel over from the shock. He resolved that before he took his wife into his father’s bedchamber, he would make her rid herself of the spectacles, perh
aps remove the bilious cap she would probably be wearing. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t see his father clearly. It did matter that his father didn’t keel over at seeing a living nightmare that was his daughter-in-law.
He should have married Clare. No, he should have married Viola. Younger, more amenable, more pliable.
I must have been insane to attach myself to Frances.
He wasn’t being fair, he knew it, but somehow it didn’t make him feel more than a bit guilty. At least he’d spent the previous night burrowing himself into a lovely warm body. He didn’t feel more than a bit guilty about that either. That brought his thinking to his wedding night. His hands tightened on Ebony’s reins, and the stallion pranced to the side, his right-front hoof coming down in the middle of a mud puddle. Hawk cursed as the thick brown muck splashed his boots.
He heard Grunyon shout and wheeled Ebony about. When he reached the carriage, he turned his stallion to face Grunyon.
“What is it, Grunyon?”
Grunyon felt miserable, and so cold that he believed his very bones were frozen. “It will be dark soon,” he said. “I looked at a map. We should be nearing a town called Airdrie. There should be a decent inn there.”
Hawk vaguely remembered passing through Airdrie on his way to Kilbracken. It had seemed a quaint little town, but now he imagined it would look about as dismal as both he and Grunyon felt. Hawk looked at the darkening sky overhead. He didn’t want to stop, not yet. He wanted to keep going until they reached England. He wanted to keep going until he reached Greece.
“I also want to relieve myself,” Grunyon said. He nodded back toward the carriage. “It seems likely, my lord, that your poor wife must be in a similar difficulty.”
Hawk, who had taken care of his natural functions more than an hour before, felt a surge of guilt.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Let us find a marvelous accommodation at Airdrie,” he added, his voice filled with sarcasm.
Frances leaned back against the comfortable squabs, her lips drawn in a thin furious line. Miserable bastard! She was cold, hungry, and yes, she wanted to yell out the carriage window at her husband, she did need to relieve herself.
The carriage lurched forward once again.
Airdrie. She’d visited the small town the month before with her father to buy feed. There was an excellent inn there, the Devil’s Lair. Fitting, she thought, very fitting.
She wished she had some little beasties, the biting kind, to place in his bed. His bed. Oh dear, he wouldn’t, would he?
Frances squared her shoulders. No, he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t allow it. She found herself hoping her wretched husband caught a chill from his ride, then quickly reversed that thought. No, she wanted him to remain nauseatingly healthy. He would leave her all the sooner.
It occurred to her that her anger at her husband was keeping her from feeling utterly wretched about leaving Kilbracken.
The Devil’s Lair looked about as inviting as an old abbey ruin in the dull rainy evening light. Hawk dismounted and shouted for an ostler. A man the size of a stout oak barrel emerged from the inn and shouted, “What wish ye?”
“Rooms, dinner, and a warm stable for my horses,” Hawk called back in a tone of voice that would have brought all his men to startling attention in his army days.
“A Sassenach,” old Harmon grunted. “See ye to the gentleman’s horses, Enard,” he told a gangly youth whose head was covered by an old tattered scarf.
The carriage door opened and Grunyon smiled into the dim interior. “My lady?”
Frances, stiff-legged, cold, and in a foul humor, gave Grunyon her gloved hand and descended the carriage steps.
Hawk walked slowly toward the cloaked and hooded figure.
“We will stay here for the night,” he said.
Frances didn’t look up. She’d forgotten to put her spectacles back on.
“Excellent,” she said, her voice just as clipped and cool as his.
“I will see that your room is made ready for you.”
“Most gracious,” said Frances.
The tone was slightly acid, and Hawk frowned a bit. No, he thought, shaking his head as he strode into the inn, leaning over a bit to keep from hitting his head on the darkened oak beams, not acid. She was diffident and shy. Her voice was weary, that was it. She was probably very fatigued. He sighed, resolving to be more amiable over dinner.
There was no private parlor at the Devil’s Lair, but the miserable weather had kept all the usual habitués away. There was only one snoring old man in the corner, curled up next to the fireplace, and old Harmon quickly rousted him out and into the taproom. Frances, having scraped her hair into a ferocious bun, adjusted her spectacles and marched into the parlor. She paused, sniffing delicious smells. Her stomach growled loudly.
Hawk looked up and caught himself smiling at the sound.
“My lady,” he said, rose, and pulled back a chair for her.
Frances kept her head down and seated herself.
So much for a polite greeting, Hawk thought, and reseated himself. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
“Look, I’m sorry if you’re tired. It’s just that I want to get to my father as soon as possible.”
“I understand.” And I’m not tired; I’m bored from riding by myself in that awful carriage, and I don’t like you.
He poured wine into her goblet, and watched her wrap her fingers about the blunt stem. He found himself frowning a bit. Her hands were slender, the fingers long and graceful. The fingernails were buffed and short. Without thinking, Hawk reached out and took her hand in his. He turned her hand over. There were calluses and a few scratches. It was a strong hand, a capable hand.
Frances yanked her hand away and raised startled eyes to his face. For a moment she forgot to squint.
“You have lovely hands,” Hawk said.
“Oh?”
There was a wealth of sarcasm in that one word, and Hawk found himself surprised at it. He repeated again to himself that she was tired, and kept an equally stinging comment to himself.
Old Harmon’s wife, Nedda, entered carrying three huge covered trays.
Frances’ stomach growled again, and Hawk laughed.
“Oh,” she exclaimed as one tray was uncovered beneath her nose. “Clootie dumplings! How marvelous. And forfar bridies.”
What the devil were clooties and bridies? Hawk wondered, but the delicious smells dampened his revulsion at the bizarre names.
“Be that ye, Lady Frances?”
Frances, cursed herself, aware that Nedda was regarding her with something akin to horror. She managed to say calmly enough, “Aye, ‘tis I, Mrs. Rapple.”
“What do ye wi‘ this mon?”
Scots were known for their bluntness and their lack of class distinction, Frances thought, grinning to herself.
“He is my husband, Mrs. Rapple. I am leaving Scotland.”
“But, what do ye wi‘ yerself, ye don’t look—”
“Kippers with rice balls! I’m certain everything will be delicious, as usual.”
She shot Mrs. Rapple a pleading look, and the good lady, confused but sensitive to that look, merely nodded and left the parlor.
“You are acquainted with our good hostess?” Hawk asked as he served Frances’ plate.
“Yes, of course. We are not that far from Kilbracken. I should like a lot of everything, if you please, my lord.”
Hawk obliged. He took a gingerly bite of the bridies and nodded. “Quite acceptable. What is it?”
“Steak pies.”
“Ah.”
“Where is Grunyon?”
“In the kitchen eating his dinner. Incidentally, perhaps you should call me Philip or Hawk, as you wish.”
Frances’ hand halted its progress to her mouth. “Where did you get the nickname Hawk?”
“During my army days—in Spain, to be exact.”
She would have liked to know more, but was so hungry she didn’t
want to interrupt herself. How kind of him, she thought acidly as she chewed on a rather tough piece of steak. His lordship giving the pitiful savage permission to call him by his given name, or the name of a stupid bird. She swallowed the bite, then drank more of her wine. The meal continued in silence.
“I prefer Philip, I think,” she said sometime later.
“I shall try to answer to it,” Hawk said. “It’s been some time since anyone called me that. Do you prefer being called Frances?”
It’s better than “ugly hag,” which is what you’re thinking.
“Frances is fine,” she said.
Silence again.
Frances was licking her lips free of the thick sugar from the clooties when Hawk said suddenly, “After you have seen my father, we shall buy you some clothes.”
Frances stiffened as straight as a board. She swallowed at least three thoroughly insulting retorts. So now she was the poor little mouse whose husband didn’t want to be embarrassed if someone chanced to see her with him. She chose to say nothing.
Hawk found himself wondering aloud, “Both Clare and Viola dress beautifully. I find I am curious as to why—”
“I am very fatigued,” Frances said, pushing back her plate. No, she thought quickly, that wasn’t the way to proceed. She carefully schooled her features, her brain working furiously. Finally she said coldly, “I do not find lovely clothes at all desirable. ‘Tis sinful to turn oneself out in a gawdy fashion. It goes against all my ... religious beliefs.”
My God, Hawk thought, astounded, staring at her. I’ve got a religious bigot on my hands! He felt ill, and was uncertain if it was from the clooties or the frightful realization of the real woman he had married.
Take that, you bounder! Frances rose slowly and said, “I am going to my room now. I assume that you will wish to leave early on the morrow, my lord?”
It was nearly painful to look at her, but he did. Odd, he thought during the visual passage up to her face, but her body was really quite acceptable. She was slender—indeed, his hands could span her waist—and her breasts looked full and well-formed.
Frances wasn’t stupid, nor that ignorant. She understood that look, indeed had seen it on Ian’s face, and sucked in her breath, backing away. “Good night, my lord!”
Midsummer Magic Page 8
