by Karen Ranney
She closed her eyes, breaking the bond between them.
“Please, Moncrief,” she whispered, and she felt his fingers move on her ankle again. His fingers gently caressed her toes, examined her foot with tender fingers.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” she said again.
Once again he didn’t respond.
Slowly, he elevated her foot, his hands warm on her heel. A few probing touches brought about a gasp of pain, and she clamped her lips shut.
“Have I hurt you?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “It would simply be foolish to complain about something you’re doing to assist me.”
He studied her for a moment, then concentrated once again on her foot.
“We need to wrap your ankle,” he said. “Whether it’s broken or simply sprained, the treatment is the same.”
She nodded.
“Would you like something for the pain?”
“And have you accuse me of being addicted to laudanum? No.”
He didn’t respond to her taunt, and for a moment she was almost disappointed.
“One of my relatives had gout. I’m sure we have a pair of crutches somewhere in the attic.”
“Everything else is there,” she said, having more than a passing acquaintance with the attics of Balidonough.
“My family has always had a sense of the future. My grandfather seven times removed walked these halls, no doubt thinking of me and my brothers. Plans were made for us before our great-grandfathers were ever born.” He glanced at her. “Just as I must plan for my grandchildren.”
The conversation had taken a delicate turn, and it had so innocently begun. She looked down at her ankle. “The pain is not all that great. I’m sure if I remain off my foot, it will heal shortly.”
“Tell me about the accident.”
She glanced up him, surprised.
“Someone brushed by me. They had evidently been on the second floor when I entered.”
“Did you see who it was?”
She shook her head.
He moved to the head of the bed and turned down the counterpane. “Why don’t you rest while I gather up something to wrap your ankle.”
“I’m really not tired,” she said, facing forward.
Suddenly, he was there again and scooping her up in his arms. He carried her to the head of the bed and sat her down against a pillow. A glint of a memory made her frown. “You’ve done that before,” she said.
“The night you nearly died.”
“You didn’t exaggerate, Moncrief? Was I truly that ill?”
“Why would I exaggerate? So that I would have an opportunity to marry a woman who chooses to forget it at every opportunity?”
She looked away. “I didn’t mean to die,” she said slowly. “True, life had become unbearable, but I don’t think I wanted to die.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.” She glanced up at him. “Nor did I take too much laudanum by choice.”
He surprised her by bending down and kissing her lightly on the lips before leaving her. She watched him walk toward the door and decided that no one could be as confusing as Moncrief deliberately.
She had been an only child, comfortable with being alone. Only since Harry’s death had she begun to rely on other people, and probably too much.
Being dependent upon Moncrief was a disconcerting feeling.
Her ankle was rapidly swelling, and she wondered if she should go in search of some bandages. Before she could even attempt it, Moncrief returned to the room followed by two maids. One was carrying a tray and the other an ornately carved wooden chest with an arched top and a brass lock. After placing their burdens on the table beside the bed, they both curtsied nervously to Moncrief, who paid them not one whit of attention.
She mouthed a soft, “Thank you,” to the maids, one of whom hurriedly closed the door behind her.
“The least you could do is notice when people serve you.”
“They hate it when I notice them,” he said, not glancing at her. “They’d prefer to remain invisible, at least to me.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “This is not Colstin Hall, Catherine. People aren’t used to seeing you in all sorts of roles. At Balidonough they expect certain things of their dukes, and I try to oblige them.”
“Such as?”
“A certain distance, for one. If I called any of them by their first names, they’d faint first and complain to Glynneth or Wallace as soon as they awoke.” He began to unroll a length of linen bandage, rolled ahead of time for just such a use as this.
“And the other things they expect of you?”
“To be the same as I was yesterday. Balidonough has been here for centuries and almost demands a constancy of behavior.”
“Do you serve the castle, or does the castle serve you?”
He didn’t answer, only gently elevated her ankle and continued to wrap it with the sure and certain touch of someone who had done this many times before.
“Now you will tell me,” she said, forcing a smile, “that you have acted as a medical practitioner to your troops.”
“I did what was necessary at the time,” he said, his attention still on her ankle. He was like that, focused and determined. Suddenly, she wondered if she were up to the task of being married to Moncrief.
His touch was gentle, more so than she expected, and when he finished and tied off the bandage neatly to the side, she was impressed by the results of his handiwork. The bandage was tight, but she didn’t complain, knowing that it was better to be as snug as she could bear.
“Thank you, Moncrief.”
He slid a pillow below her calf so that her ankle was elevated, and stood.
“It should feel better in a little while.”
“It feels better now.”
After opening the ornately carved wooden chest, he withdrew something that looked like a twig, together with a small, round ceramic dish. He inserted the twig into the dish and then lit it with the tinder. He allowed it to flare for a moment, then blew out the flame. Immediately, the room was filled with an exotic scent.
“Incense,” he said. “Something to relax you, without being an opiate. It has no addictive properties.”
“What would you consider your most onerous faults, Moncrief? Other than refusing to believe me about the laudanum?”
He smiled at her, an expression so lacking in mockery and filled with such gentleness that she was unable to form another sentence.
“I meant no insult, Catherine. I know that you don’t want to take anything for the pain, just as I know that your ankle must be hurting you. My most onerous faults, however, are ones that you’ve no doubt already witnessed.” He closed the chest and moved it to the top of the dresser and did the same with the tray containing the bandages and scissors. “I feel responsible for those under my care.”
“That could be considered an asset.”
“Except that my idea of caring for them and theirs sometimes come into conflict. I’m not always right, yet I have to convince myself of that fact occasionally.”
“It has not escaped my attention that you are sometimes arrogant, Moncrief. Not to mention stubborn.”
When he came back to the bed, he sat at the end of it, careful not to dislodge her ankle. Gently, he covered her foot with a small blanket.
“I have been trained all my life to anticipate the worst, and to plan against it. Therefore, I sometimes forget to anticipate the best.”
“So you are not an optimist by nature.”
“Perhaps. But neither am I dour. Also, I will admit to being tenacious. Even when I have the most limited chance of success, I will grasp it and hold on. Such an attitude is an asset in battle, but it has a tendency to annoy other people.”
The fact that he was admitting to his own weaknesses surprised her. So, too, was the reemergence of that twinkle in his eyes.
“Are those your only flaws?”
He shook his he
ad. “My major ones. The others I’d prefer you discover as time passed.” He reached over and took one of her hands, placing it between his. “I intend to make this a real marriage between us, Catherine, given enough time and our joint willingness.”
She didn’t know how to answer him, but then it seemed as if he didn’t expect an answer. “Be angry at me if you will, be furious if you must, but don’t hide what you feel. Perhaps one day the emotions between us will turn to softer ones, but I doubt we will ever be indifferent to each other.”
“And sadness, Moncrief? What about sadness?”
“You’ve had your share of it, I think. Or will you wallow in it long after you should have healed?”
“Have you never lost someone, Moncrief?”
He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “A woman I loved.”
She wanted, suddenly, to ask questions about this unknown woman, but she didn’t. Instead, she breached their fragile truce by asking a favor of him.
“Would you fetch one of my letters, please?”
For a moment, she expected him to refuse, but he surprised her by standing and moving to Harry’s trunk at the foot of the bed.
“Which one?”
She had taken to rereading them in chronological order. “The one on the top, please.”
He bent over the trunk and pulled the letter free of its ribbon, closed the trunk, and returned to her side, handing it to her. He didn’t speak, but neither did he look pleased at his chore.
“Will you sleep with it pressed to your bosom?”
“Does it matter to you if I do?”
“More than you know.”
Silence stretched between them as she fought the urge to ask why. Finally, she placed the letter on the bed beside her, content to have it nearby. She would read it later.
“Thank you for your kindness.”
He only nodded before leaving the room.
Chapter 14
Moncrief left the ducal chambers before he ravished his wife. He nodded to a footman standing in the corridor and vowed to lessen the presence of the servants, especially in this wing.
Descending the staircase, he heard Wallace’s voice first, then the others. Four voices were raised, hardly the behavior he expected at Balidonough’s front entrance. At the foot of the staircase he found himself face-to-face with the vicar. An unlikely guest and, if the truth be told, an unwelcome one, especially now.
He forced a smile to his face and extended his hand in greeting. The vicar immediately fawned and bowed so low Moncrief thought he’d never be able to straighten again.
“Your Grace,” the older man said. “I beg that you will forgive this intrusion, especially with no notice to you, sir, and your staff.” He sent a heated glance toward Wallace. “But it is prompted by the greatest concern, Your Grace.”
“We are her family, sir,” a woman said, pushing herself to the front. “Her only kin in this harsh world.”
Behind her stood a tall man with silvery blond hair. The man’s appearance instantly told him who the couple was. Harry would have looked the same in thirty years.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dunnan?” Moncrief asked, cutting through the vicar’s stammering introductions.
“Indeed we are, Your Grace,” the woman said. “It is our intention to see dearest Catherine. The vicar informed us that she has wed you, and we are here to see for ourselves that she is pleased with her lot.” She pressed a handkerchief to the corner of one dry eye. “I cannot believe that she is ready to desert poor Harry.”
Poor Harry, who had been dead these past months. Moncrief was heartily tired of poor, dead Harry.
However, he inclined his head and motioned to Wallace. “Send for Glynneth,” he said in an aside, “and inform her that two chambers need to be readied for our guests.”
Wallace nodded and bowed himself out of the group. Moncrief turned his attention back to the vicar and Harry’s parents.
“Catherine has suffered an accident, so perhaps we can schedule your reunion for later this evening. At dinner, perhaps?”
“An accident?”
He turned to Mrs. Dunnan. “She has injured her ankle.”
“I want to see her.”
He forced an amenable smile to his face. “She’s resting. You will, of course, be my guests for a few days?” Since no inn was nearby, he had little choice in the matter but to extend hospitality he didn’t want to give.
A murmur of assent from the vicar and the Dunnans solidified Moncrief’s dread.
He saw Wallace out of the corner of his eye, followed by a smiling Glynneth. The moment she saw him, her faced changed. Gone was the hint of her smile and in its place a sober expression. She stood off to the side, coming forward only when he gestured to her.
“My housekeeper will show you to your rooms.” A quick questioning glance toward Glynneth and her answering nod assured him there were two guest chambers in readiness.
He had thought to order a tray for Catherine, but that had been changed with the vicar’s arrival. He should’ve known that the man would not let Catherine go so easily. She had proven to be a generous asset to Thomas McLeod’s congregation. Why, however, hadn’t Moncrief heard of Dunnan’s parents in all this time?
He watched as the group climbed the staircase, Mrs. Dunnan still in possession of her handkerchief. If the night ahead proved anything like this short meeting, he would be regaled with Harry stories. All the while, he would need to guard his responses, just as he did when thinking of Catherine’s devotion to her dead husband and his letters.
Moncrief wanted to tell her that she mourned the wrong man. But she was so immersed in the pleasure of her grief that she couldn’t see anything else.
Perhaps he had had the right idea after all, and should simply write her a letter.
My dearest lonely wife, look up from tracing your hands across words I wrote a lifetime ago. Hear me breathe, see me move toward you, touch my hand, my chest, my face. Embrace me. Laugh with me, tell me the stories of your days. Give to me what hides in your heart.
He wondered if she would ever come to his bed. Perhaps he could show her with his hands and his lips what he couldn’t say with words.
He retreated to his library, sending for Glynneth after their guests were established in their rooms.
Balidonough’s new housekeeper entered his library after a resounding knock. He studied her as she walked toward the desk. She didn’t look the least bit circumspect. In fact, she looked more the lady of the manor than one of its servants.
He couldn’t imagine why Catherine considered her a friend, not when it was patently clear that she didn’t have Catherine’s best interest at heart, only her own.
“Where have you put them?” he asked, making no effort whatsoever at polite conversation. Had it been his previous housekeeper, he would have spent a few moments inquiring as to her health, and that of her widowed sister. Glynneth was an entirely different situation. He didn’t like the woman, and he saw no reason to lie about it.
“In the west wing, Your Grace. The Blue Room and the Lady’s Suite.”
He nodded. The Blue Room overlooked Balidonough’s chapel and was an apt place for the vicar. The Lady’s Suite was nearby and was a comfortable choice for Mr. and Mrs. Dunnan.
“I don’t know your surname,” he said.
“Rowan, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rowan. You’ve chosen well.”
Instead of turning and leaving the room, she hesitated.
She clasped her hands together and addressed him. “I appreciate the fact that you have allowed me to keep this position, Your Grace.”
“It was my wife’s choice, Mrs. Rowan. Not mine.”
She didn’t flinch beneath his honesty.
“But you could have as easily revoked her decision.”
He nodded, and she left the room. What Glynneth didn’t know was that he would have done anything for Catherine, including allowing her to promote the pig farmer as Keeper of the Silver.
>
Moncrief sat in his library until after sundown, performing those duties that came with being Duke of Lymond. He had decisions to make, and orders to give, all of which needed to be conveyed either to his steward or to his solicitor. The chiming of the clock was the only reminder that he had other duties as well. No one came to his door, no one questioned his delay. Even Peter, who had once been responsible for seeing that Moncrief was where he needed to be when he needed to be there, chose not to interrupt the duke.
Finally, his work done, he strode up the stairs and into his apartment, half-expecting Catherine to be dressed for dinner. Instead, she was asleep, curved around the pillows, one arm draped over them, the other below the counterpane.
He stood at the end of the bed and watched her, thinking that she looked too voluptuous to be in his bed alone. Her curves pressed against the material of her clothing, reminding him of firelit limbs and a body so beautiful that memories of it had never left his mind.
Every night he wanted her, and every morning he desired her, and the pain of it was so constant that he had almost become used to it.
“Catherine,” he said, not truly wishing to wake her, but knowing he must. Damn the vicar and Harry’s parents while he was at it.
He walked around the bed, bent over her, breathing her name against her ear.
“Catherine,” he whispered again, and she slowly roused, blinking a few times, then turning her head as she began to stretch. All movements ceased as she opened her eyes wide, their faces but a few inches apart. In that instant when she went from sleepy pleasure to recognition and wariness, he saw just how great a journey lay between them.
“We have guests,” he said, stepping back.
“Who?”
“The vicar and Harry’s parents.”
She looked surprised. “Why are they here?”
“Evidently, they’re curious about your well-being. They want to know that you’re here at your own instigation. That I didn’t drug you senseless in order to marry you.”
“They never had much concern for my well-being at Colstin Hall,” she said. “Why now?”
“Perhaps they missed you only after you left. It’s a common occurrence. People often don’t realize what they have until it’s no longer there.”
