Fascination -and- Charmed (17 page)

“I owe you no explanations. I wanted to talk to you because I’m deeply suspicious of my cousin’s failure to appear on our doorstep. He—”

“Arran,” Struan said, interrupting. “What did you mean just now? About setting more than your eyes upon Miss Wren?”

“I meant nothing. There is something afoot with Mortimer, I tell you.”

“No, no,” Calum said, pursing his mobile mouth. “Don’t try to divert us.
Have
you seen her?”

Arran shrugged elaborately, turning up his palms and assuming a blank expression.

“You have,” Calum murmured, jutting his chin and beginning to smile. “Damn you for the slimy slyboots you are. When? Where?”

Damn him for the loose mouth he was. “When is Mortimer coming here?”

“What I’m hearing concerns me,” Struan said. “Am I to understand that you have kept secret company with Miss Wren?”

“Nothing a man does in his own house is secret ... not from himself ... and it is himself who is the law in that house.” Arran knew he blustered. “Answer me. When is Mortimer Cuthbert arriving?”

“Just yesterday afternoon Mrs. Wren approached me again on the matter of your refusal to meet with

Grace. And Struan can confirm that Grace asked the same question herself the previous morning. He was there.”

Arran frowned. “Hold your tongue, Calum! And do me the great favor of not calling my ... She is
Miss Wren
to you.”

Calum’s grin was smug. “Your ...? Your what, my lord? Oh, I will gladly call your ...? Certainly she shall be Miss Wren if it makes you jealous for me to address her otherwise.”

“It does
not
make me jealous.”

“There is something most unorthodox afoot here.” Struan shook his head slowly. “I’ll thank you to explain at once.”

“And I’ll thank you to keep your sanctified nose out of my affairs. Calum, Mortimer appears when, man? I have to know and I have to know now.”

“Because you wish to be married before he arrives?” Struan asked, not without a note of hope in his voice. “I’m sure that can be arranged. I know certain people. In fact, I could probably—”

“You could do
nothing.
For the last time, I wish to know exactly when my cousin is likely to bring his loathsomeness into my presence.”

“I don’t know,” Calum said.

“You must.” And Arran must know. Know exactly, so that he could decide on the best course to take with Grace. “Think, man. Work it out.”

“I told you I thought it likely he’d decide to come. I am not certain.”

“He’ll come. Calculate, Calum.
Calculate.
”

“Well, whenever he’s had time to gather his odious family and make the journey, I suppose.”

“And how long would that take?”

“For God’s ... Excuse me, Struan. You are unreasonable, Arran. I told you I had rashly allowed Mortimer to know that you would be married and

that I assumed he would come here to witness the event.”

“To try to halt the event, you mean,” Struan remarked.

Arran stared at him. So did Calum.

Struan continued, “We all know Mortimer would do anything that might put this fair estate, and the estate in Yorkshire, into his hands.”

“What could he do?” Calum asked. “If Arran chooses to marry and have a child, he chooses to marry and have a child.”

“Choice has no part of this,” Arran muttered.

Struan sighed. “For two worldly men, you are pathetically innocent. I think you would do well to watch our cousin, Arran. Marry in great haste. And bed your wife in great haste.” He coughed. “Please forgive my indelicacy.”

“The devil take your indelicacy,” Arran snapped. “I want to know Mortimer’s plans.
Immediately.
”

“What difference does it make?” The gray danced and Calum smoothed its neck.

“
Immediately!
”

“
Marry
the girl, damn you.” Calum caught at Allegro’s bridle. “And the devil take Mortimer.”

“Stay,” Struan said. “Both of you. There’s something Arran isn’t telling us. You’ve had some exchange with the girl. Doesn’t she please you?”

“That is of no consequence.”

“What kind of exchange did you have?” Calum asked.

He would not give them the information they wanted.

“Your silence leads me to believe the worst,” Struan said, pretending to study his nails. “You have already bedded her, haven’t you, my dear rakehell brother? I take it she is not to your liking between the sheets.”

“You take entirely too much,” Arran retorted.

“But I am correct?”

Arran made fists. “You are
not
correct.”

“Then what can possibly be holding you back from the obvious?” Struan said. “Hurry, man. She may already be with child.”

Calum sputtered. “Grace Wren has been here only a week. Less. Arran may be a potent bastard. He is not a wizard.”

“Wizardry is not required in the matter of impregnating a woman,” Struan said, moving to an examination of the back of one hand. “A fertile and receptive female—”

“In God’s name—”

“God’s name is frequently forgotten in these affairs, Arran. A fertile, receptive female and a man with a healthy, functioning rod and adequate seed is all that is required. Am I to take it that one or the other is missing in the case under examination?”

“Bloody hell!” Turning away, Arran covered his mouth with a gloved hand.

“Forgive me if I am too plain,” Struan said in silken tones. “But in the interest of expediting matters, it will help if we know which exact element is unsatisfactory.”

“What do you mean,
Father?
”

“Is it the female’s lack of receptiveness or fertility? Or your malfunctioning rod and lack of seed?”

“Get him away from me, Calum,” Arran ordered through his teeth.

“I think you should answer the question.”

“You conspire against me! You seek to make me a madman. All right. You want truth and you shall have it. I have
not
bedded Grace Wren. I have indeed spent time with her on three consecutive nights, but I have not bedded her.”

“Three
nights?
”
Struan and Calum chorused. “How did you ...? How?” Amazement colored Calum’s voice.

“It is far too complicated to explain. Suffice to say

that the young woman and I encountered one another and had three separate, er, discussions.”

“Discussions?” Calum said, blatantly
disbelieving.

“Discussions,” Arran insisted.

“On the subject of your marriage, no doubt?” Struan asked.

Damn them for the prodding fellows they were. “No. We spoke of ... art.”

Calum made a thoughtfully hissing sound and said, “Art?” as if it were a new word.

“Art, yes.”

“I see,” Calum said, but Arran knew full well that his friend and adviser was completely bemused. “So you had pleasant encounters and discovered that you have common grounds upon which to build an enduring relationship.”

“We did not.”

Calum released Allegro’s bridle. He threw up his hands. “I do not care whether or not you and Grace had a meaningful exchange on the artists upon whom you
cannot agree.
Time is running out. The important thing is that you are now
acquainted with one another—we will not continue to explore how well—and so the wedding can take place.”

“We are not acquainted.”

“You—”

“Calum, Calum,” Struan said consolingly. “Do not excite yourself further over this
dolt!
For the last time, Arran,
explain
yourself.”

There was no point in continuing the farce. “Grace is a fetching piece.” It was a start. “She
pleases me well enough—physically.”

“Yes?” Struan said encouragingly.

“We have—er—enjoyed certain small exchanges? Of the—er—fleshly variety.”

Calum laughed. “You slick devil. You haven’t lost your touch after all.” He chortled. “Five days and you have her eating out of your ... hand?”

Arran scowled.

“Or perhaps she is eating from whatever other part of you pleases her.”

“For God’s sake, Calum! Remember Struan.”

“You need not waste remembrance on me,” Struan said grimly. “God remains your primary concern. There appears to be nothing further to discuss here. We shall return at once to the castle and make the necessary preparations.”

“But she is an opinionated little
shrew,
”
Arran argued, growing irate. “And she has independent ideas quite unsuited to any wife of mine.”

“Nonsense. A strong woman is exactly what you need.”

“I need to know how long I have before Mortimer arrives,” Arran insisted.

Struan gestured impatiently. “It makes no difference now.”

“It makes every difference, I tell you,” Arran said. “I
need
time.”

Calum turned away and made to start back downhill. “Why?”

“Because there is still work to be done—on my situation with the girl.”

“Might I suggest that any further work of that nature be done
after
the marriage?” Struan said, and frowned. “I’ll allow it’s odd that Grace
hasn’t mentioned you.”

“I told her not to.”

Struan smiled approvingly. “Loyal to her future husband already. A most encouraging
sign.”

Encouraging sign, be damned! Grace thought Arran was Niall, her
friend,
and it was to him she’d come, not to the man she expected to marry.

“I have to know how much time I have before Mortimer arrives,” Arran said desperately. “He’ll have installed himself in the Charlotte Square house. Go to Edinburgh, Calum. If he is indeed there, detain him.”

“Will you explain yourself, man? Will you tell me why you want me to do this?”

“Because I’ve decided I
will
marry her. There. You have what you want. And if I’m to do so, it had better be before Mortimer appears and interferes.”

“He could not,” Struan said.

“He might. Unless I misjudge her, Grace will be in a formidable rage before she agrees to the wedding. If Mortimer arrives before I have dealt with that rage, he will have an advantage I would never choose to give him.”

“Enough of this twaddle.” Struan reached for Arran’s arm. “Speak plainly. What is afoot here?”

“Will no man allow me the honor of keeping at least part of my own counsel?” When neither Struan nor Calum answered, Arran’s blood began to pound in his ears. “I’ve placed myself in a pretty fix, dammit. The woman who is to become my wife thinks that I am another man.”

Two pairs of eyes stared blankly.

“She has spent hours with me alone. Without a chaperon. Allowed me certain
—liberties.
“

“Yes?”

“Good God!” Arran shouted to the skies. “You should sing together in the chapel choir. Miss Grace Wren has been keeping company with a man she thinks of as one of the marquess’s servants. She has suggested to that man that they become friends and remain
close
friends after her marriage to the marquess.”

Both men’s mouths dropped slightly open.

“She asked him to become her consolation whilst she suffers the decrepit old recluse she is to marry.”

“Are you ill?” Struan asked.

“
Listen
to me, you fuddle-head.
I
tricked her.
I
led

her to believe I was not the marquess, but his closest companion. She does not know that when she is finally called to meet with her future husband, she will be confronted with
me!
And when that confrontation takes place, she will know that I have deceived her. She will know that I have listened to her plans to use me and take the money I am expected to leave her just as soon as she can encourage me to draw my last breath.”

“
Mon Dieu,
”
Struan murmured.

Arran scowled. “Observe, Calum. Even in French, he prays.”

“We’ve got to get to Mortimer,” Calum said. “Hurry. I can’t go. I’d make him suspicious. So would Struan. More so. We’ll send Hector MacFie. Mortimer is always impressed by Hector. He can take some missive from you relating to estate business. It will be a sop to Mortimer’s ego, and Hector can use it to delay him.”

“How quickly the wind changes,” Arran said, his stomach clenching. “A moment ago there was no need to divert Mortimer. Now we must rush to head him off.”

Calum and Struan spurred their horses in a wild downhill scramble. “A moment ago,” Calum called, “we did not know that you’ll need all the time we can gain you to subdue a shamed woman.”

“How much time, do you think?” At his master’s urging, Allegro’s hoofs flew, spewing pebbles. “How much?”

Calum’s shout carried clearly. “Perhaps Hector should suggest that Mortimer visit the Indies plantations—for a year or so.”

Thirty-eight, blond, blue-eyed, and forceful in every move he made, Hector MacFie carried with him an air of absolute confidence. Estate commissioner to Arran for five years, since his father’s death, when old Amos Cameron had decided that he wasn’t interested in serving a new master, Hector was his own man, and a tough, hardheaded one. He was also the best estate commissioner in the land. Arran knew that many an envious landowner had tried to woo Hector away. A more than handsome wage and enough freedom in the matter of deciding policy for Arran’s holdings kept Hector on Rossmara lands.

Having been summoned to Arran’s study in Revelation at ten o’clock in the morning, Hector was regarding Arran with curiosity. “McWallop came for me,” he said. “A rare tear, he said you were in.”

Arran did not acknowledge that he knew what Hector was thinking. Their meetings took place in the early evening—always. The very fact of their being here now indicated some emergency.

“I find myself in a difficult position. I need your help.”

Hector bowed briefly. “Whatever I can do, I will do. You know that.”

“Yes. And I thank you.” Hector’s loyalty had been tested before and shown worthy of trust. “I want you to go to Edinburgh, to my Charlotte Square house. Mortimer and Theodora are probably in residence there. And Theodora’s sister, the delectable, short-heeled Melony Pincham. There is information I want you to gather there.”