Mia Marlowe (15 page)

“Don’t worry. I intend to,” Alex said quickly.

Her gaze snapped to him at that. She had her suspicions about Dougal. Did Alex have them too? And if he learned Dougal had been mixed up with the Radicals was Alex English enough to act upon his suspicions?

“Beans” MacFee lived up to his pungent nickname. The garrulous ferryman reeked of the thick pottage he kept bubbling in the little boathouse on the bank of the River Tay near where his barge was tied up. A miasmatic cloud of onion, garlic, leeks, and legumes and their accompanying gasses oozed from the layers of his plaid with every swinging stride. However, as long as Alexander stayed upwind, Beans seemed a jolly enough soul and an entertaining companion.

“Don’t get many wishin’ to go to Bonniebroch, ye ken,” he told them when Alexander bespoke their passage up river.

“Yes, we know,” Alex said as he counted out the coin into MacFee’s grimy palm. “I’ve heard the people there keep to themselves.”

Beans laughed. “Aye, the castle’s shut up tight as an oyster most times. Nane go in. Nane come out.”

That was an exaggeration surely. The people from Bonniebroch couldn’t stay behind its walls all the time. After all, Callum Farquhar had called on Alex at Dalkeith, however briefly.

“Why is it that the folk there dinna go abroad in the wide world, d’ye think?” Lucinda asked.

“Because o’ the curse, I reckon,” Beans said as he finished loading the last of their trunks and cast off his lines.

“Curse?” Lucinda’s eyes widened. “What curse?”

“Och, there’s always two or three versions of it floatin’ about at any given time. The details are lost in the past, ye ken, so it does nae harm for folk to make up what they dinna know for certain.” Beans scratched his head, giving the lice that called his gray, matted locks home an excuse to scurry around. “Mostly, the gist of the tale is that because of some sort of treachery, and I dinna quite know what it was exactly, mind ye, but this particular foul deed was committed back in . . . och, I forget how many hundred years ago . . . and as I said, nane can say for sure what it was as happened, but in any case, it were a most grievous thing as was done. Most grievous.”

MacFee shook his head to accentuate his point and, like any raconteur worth his salt, waited for his audience to ask for more. When Lucinda obliged, he favored her with an alarming black-toothed smile.

“Since the guilty party wouldna step forward to admit to the offense, the whole of the castle was set to pay dearly for it. Then just when it appeared all was hopeless, a fellow who hadn’t anything to do with the original misdeed took the punishment. And that great-hearted deed saved all the souls in the castle at the time.”

“That sounds as if all’s well that ends well,” Lucinda said, her smile tentatively hopeful.

“It do, don’t it?” Beans said agreeably.

Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “It ended well for everyone except for the poor blighter who paid for someone else’s treachery.”

“Aye, there’s the rub.” A cunning smile spread over Beans MacFee’s weathered face. He tapped the end of his nose, and then pointed to Alex in agreement. “Even good deeds can bring down a sort o’ punishment of their own. After all, they didna kill saints for evil-doing, did they?”

“No, I suppose not,” Lucinda said as she settled on one of their traveling trunks. “What happened then?”

“The powerful sorcerer what set about to punish the original culprit was unhappy that the folk of Bonniebroch had escaped the end he’d intended for them, so he cursed ’em, each and every man, woman, and child what called Bonniebroch home.”

“That’s enough nonsense,” Alex said crossly. “My lady doesn’t wish to hear about curses.”

“Aye, she does,” Lucinda contradicted with a tart grin, then turned back to Beans. “What sort of curse?”

“Och, it’d be a wise man as knows that,” Beans said. “Nane save the folk who bide there are privy to the particulars and they’re no’ sayin’. But so long as ye dinna intend to stay long, I imagine the curse will no’ apply to the pair o’ you.”

“We’ll stay there as long as we like,” Alexander snapped, hoping to shut the man up. The next thing he’d probably tell them was that the castle was haunted or infested with boggles or some other Scottish demon. “We are Lord and Lady Bonniebroch.”

“Och, ye have me condolences then,” was the last thing Beans MacFee said for the rest of the trip.

 

 

As they rounded a bend in the River Tay, a thick bare-limbed forest of black alder, ash, and silver birch crowded the declivity between two bleak hills. A stand of blackthorn hovered near the river’s edge, gnarled and twisted. Like a coven of witches dipping their toes in the water, their threatening prickles were ready to snatch at anyone unwise enough to pass close by.

A gray stone castle rose behind these woodsy sentinels. Its crenellated top and lofty tower were the only visible evidence of human settlement, save for the listing dock toward which Mr. MacFee steered his craft.

“Here ye be,” Beans said as he looped a line around a moss-furred piling. “Fetched ye up at Bonnie--broch, as promised.”

Lucinda drew her cloak tighter around herself. The estate looked daunting enough from the ferry barge without the dubious bonus of a curse attached to it. After her experience with Brodie MacIver, she knew there were spirits abroad in the world, most of them trapped near the places where they’d met their end. And Brodie had warned her once that not all of them were so blithe a spirit as he. If she were to catalogue places that looked as if they were home to malevolent ghosts, Bonniebroch would make the top of the list. The raucous
cry
of a raven split the silence and made her jump.

Alexander’s hand on the small of her back settled her somewhat as he helped her out of the craft. She waited on the dock while Mr. MacFee unloaded their trunks. No one seemed to be stirring inland, though she’d made out a trail broad enough to accommodate a small gig cutting through the trees.

“No one guards the dock?” Alexander asked.

“No need,” MacFee said. “Your things will be safe enough here till the servants come to retrieve them. No one’s daft enough to steal from Bonniebroch.”

Since the sun was setting, Lucinda decided they wouldn’t have long to wait.

MacFee liberated a small leather pouch that was tied to the dock. He fingered the contents, setting the coins clinking, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“An order for provisions,” he explained though neither Lucinda nor Alexander had asked. Then Beans turned away, clambered back into his barge, and lost no time in slipping the cable. As he pushed off with his long pole, he tugged the brim of his hat. “I’ll be back this way before sundown on Twelfth Night. Put up a flag if ye wish to leave. But watch ye for me. I’ll no’ wait long.”

 

 

“Well, milady.” Alexander offered Lucinda his arm. “Shall we see what sort of castle you’ll be chatelaine of?”

“Ye dinna think we should wait with the baggage?” she asked doubtfully, eyeing the darkening forest.

“No.” Judging from Lucinda’s chattering teeth, it was high time they found shelter. And besides, he’d rather walk through this wood with a bit of daylight to spare. Wolves hadn’t been seen in Britain since the reign of Henry VII, but this was Scotland and a wild bit of it to boot. Alexander wouldn’t discount finding a pack of the slavering creatures in that shadowy forest.

Leaving their trunks on the dock, they started down the path through the wood. A thin skiff of snow crunched underfoot and the promise of more swirled in the frosty air. The last rays of daylight faded and the forest sank into twilight.

They hadn’t gone far when Alex became aware of a low rhythmic thudding, like the tramping sound of an army on the march. The woods were too thick to see anything headed their way. Whatever it was, it was approaching rapidly.

There was no place to run. Not even a defensible outcropping of rock near the path. He didn’t think Lucinda seemed the type to climb a tree. The forest floor was thick with brambles so they couldn’t flee to the deeper woods to hide without being cut to ribbons by thorns.

“Get behind me,” he ordered bluntly and positioned himself in front of Lucinda. His gut clenched. It was a novel sensation. Usually the hint of danger merely put all his senses on high alert and made him feel more vibrantly alive than at any other time.

Now he knew what fear tasted like. Hot and acrid, it burned down his gullet.

It wasn’t fear for himself, but for
her.

He swallowed back several choice swear words. This sort of thing just reinforced why he wasn’t meant to be a married man. He was expected to venture into unknown places and face equally unknown danger during the commission of his work.

She was not.

He pulled out his pistol, thankful he’d decided to bear it on his person instead of packing it in his baggage. The flintlock was only worth a single shot and if the sound of stamping feet was any indication, they were about to be confronted by many. Still, an armed man was more intimidating than one with nothing but a handful of fingers, so he drew out his boot knife for good measure.

“Dinna ye think talkin’ to them first would be better than waving yer wee gun at them?” Lucinda asked, gripping his shoulders and peering around him.

Wee gun!
Did it mean nothing to her that his first instinct was to protect her with whatever he had on hand?

“Trust me, madam, I can talk to them just fine from behind the barrel of this ‘wee gun.’” If he could convince the leader of the approaching band that his would be the head Alex would drill with a lead ball should it come to that, he might be able to hold the whole company at bay. “Now keep still. If I tell you to flee, I expect you to do so without argument. And don’t look back.”

A splash of yellowish light broke through the trees ahead of Alexander and Lucinda. It spilled across the snow-covered trail like melted butter. A man holding a lantern at shoulder height rounded a bend in the path with a gaggle of folks at his heels. He stopped dead when he saw Alex and Lucinda. Bug-eyed and pug-nosed, his face would put a Notre Dame gargoyle to shame. Then a smile burst over his ugly features, rendering them honest and good-natured instead of off-putting.

“My Lord Bonniebroch, I presume. And my Lady Bonniebroch, a thousand welcomes!” The man gave an elegant sweeping bow and all those behind him followed suit. “Lyall Lyttle, head butler and yer servant, an’ it please ye.”

Mr. Lyttle didn’t have a fighting force at his heels. It was a regiment of household retainers. Fortunately, they were not armed with pitchforks and cleavers.

There were footmen in full livery that made them look as if they’d stepped from a previous century. Housemaids in homespun with voluminous mobcaps and thick shawls crowded around men-of-all-work types in coarser garments, long tunics swathed with faded plaids, and argyle stockings tucked into heavy boots. Every face was alight with expectation, greeting, and more than a little curiosity.

Feeling foolish, Alex tucked his pistol back into the waist of his trousers and sheathed his knife.

“My lord is quite right to go armed in the woods,” Mr. Lyttle said. “Never know what one might meet on these trails. But ye’re quite safe now. If needs be, there’s no’ a man-jack of us as wouldna lay down our lives for ye and yer good lady.” He turned back to the assemblage behind him to deliver orders. “Davey, take Jock and Angus and nip down to the dock for our laird’s effects. Mrs. Fletcher, do ye take her ladyship and see to her comfort.”

Mrs. Fletcher, who appeared to be the housekeeper, was a round, merry-looking woman. She greeted them with another bobbing curtsey and started to lead Lucinda away with promises of a hot bath and a hot supper, in that order. Alex almost rescinded Lyttle’s command so he could keep her with him, but it seemed daft to mistrust such an open welcome. But the servants’ very presence in the wood begged a question.

“How did you know we were on our way here?” Alexander asked. He’d spotted no guard, no lookout on the dock.

“Och, we’ve been preparing for yer arrival for days. Mr. Farquhar ordered us to come greet ye.”

And how on earth could Farquhar have known? Maybe Farquhar was keen enough of nose that, if the prevailing wind was right, the odiferous MacFee’s mere presence on the dock was warning of impending guests.

“Where is Mr. Farquhar?” Alex asked, looking around. If he organized this welcome, why wasn’t the steward leading it? “I don’t see him here.”

Everyone stopped in mid-step. There were several sharp intakes of breath, as if Alex had uttered the most heinous blasphemy. Mrs. Fletcher turned back to face him.

“Ye’ve
seen
Mr. Farquhar?” Her eyes narrowed to disbelieving slits, nearly disappearing behind her ruddy, round cheeks.

“Yes. I spoke with him at some length.” It wasn’t a very satisfying conversation though. Alex had never met a less servile servant than his new estate steward.

A buzz of whispers erupted around him though he only caught snippets of the conversations.

After that blasted MacFee’s talk about curses and such, Alexander was mortally tired of all this strangeness. He was laird of the place. It was time he acted like one.

“I’m sure you all have duties which require your attention. Apply yourselves to them immediately or I’ll find more work to keep you occupied.” He strode forward to Lucinda and the crowd parted around him. He held out his arm. “Mrs. Fletcher, you may see to baths and board, but I’ll escort Lady Bonniebroch to her new home.”

 

 

Lucinda hadn’t expected joy in this homecoming, but when she tucked her frigid hand into Alexander’s elbow and he covered it with his warm one, she felt cosseted and cherished and slightly feverish all over. It was a nice change from feeling like part of her husband’s baggage all day, something to be transported safely, but not concerned about over much. As she and Alex passed, the servants dipped in bows and curtseys.

So must a queen feel,
she mused.

The path before them widened and they entered a clear space where the castle rose behind a frozen moat and a lowered drawbridge. A candle gleamed in every window on the upper stories and light spilled even from the arrow slits on the lower sections of gray stone. The sun had set and the moon had risen during their journey through the forest. Flecks of mica in the granite of the castle glittered in a million pinpoints of reflected glory. Bonniebroch’s proud tower stood to one side, straight as an arrow aimed at heaven. Pennants flapped along the battlements, snapping in the stiff breeze.

“Now that I can see it clear, ’tis like a faery castle,” Lucinda said in wonderment. How could such an enchanting place be kept such a secret?

“Well, there are no sheep on the roof, that’s for sure,” Alex muttered. “Let’s see if there are any pigs in the bailey.”

There were, but they were neatly penned in one of the clean stalls that were pressed up against the outer wall, alongside all the other animals. A small herd of cows, assorted goats, three pairs of great draft horses, and a brooding flock of hens bided within the keep. The boys who tended them doffed their caps as Alex and Lucinda passed by.

There was a little jewel of a chapel set to the right side of the bailey, its steeple crowned with an ornate cross. The Great Hall rose on the other side of the courtyard. The tall double doors leading into the hall were twice a man’s height. Someone had already adorned them with evergreen boughs and sprigs of holly.

“Just in time for Christmas.” Lucinda ran a hand over soft needles of fir as they entered. The evergreens released afresh breath of their crisp perfume.

Inside, the hall blazed with torchlight. Long tables were set up with benches on each side. Wooden trenchers and pewter mugs were arranged neatly at each place. A fireplace large enough to roast an ox whole blazed along one side of the room, banishing the cold.

A smaller table was positioned on a raised dais at the far end of the room. Fine porcelain, silver salt cellars, and goblets of dear Frankish glass graced this table. A festive kissing bough dangled above it with plenty of white mistletoe berries to ensure a generous number of kisses stolen beneath it.

“This way, my lord, my lady,” Mrs. Fletcher said, beckoning them to follow her up a curving stone staircase. There were no cobwebs, no grit in any corners. Everything was meticulously clean.

When they reached the second story, Mrs. Fletcher opened the first door they came to. “This is the laird’s chamber. I’m hopin’ it meets with yer approval.”

“It’ll be fine,” Alex said without a glance through the open door.

“And yer room is just down the hall a wee bit, my lady, if ye’d care to inspect it.” Mrs. Fletcher waddled ahead of them down the corridor, her boat-sized slippers shushing along on the thick runner that warmed the stone floors. “The girls have yer bath waiting, I’ll be bound.”

Lucinda held her breath, waiting for Alexander to say there’d be no need for separate chambers. They were on their honeymoon. He couldn’t bear to be parted from her. He was her “Much of a Muchness” and she was his “soft little rabbit.”

But Alex didn’t say a word.

Separate chambers.
An empty ache throbbed in her chest and Lucinda’s shoulders sagged a bit. She supposed she ought to have expected it. The upper crust was required to maintain decorum at all times and private rooms for wellborn husbands and wives was part of the scheme of things.

But the promise of a bath was a potent lure and she followed Mrs. Fletcher without a backward glance to Alex. If the man wanted matters arranged differently, he’d have said so. She shoved her hurt down where no one could see it.

Her chamber turned out to be a full suite of rooms, a sitting room with a merry blaze in the hearth and comfortable stuffed chairs arrayed before it. There was a separate chamber that boasted nothing but wardrobes and storage for her trunks and a room with a bed large enough to accommodate a family of twelve. By far the finest thing was the bath with its own copper tub filled with steaming water and a toilet Mrs. Fletcher called a “garderobe” for Lucinda’s personal use. The furnishings and tapestries smacked of the medieval but the suite was the finest the castle offered.

Barring the laird’s, of course.

“Och, and here are Jane and Janet,” Mrs. Fletcher said when two girls arrived in striped skirts and matching mobcaps. “I’m needed below the now, but they’ll put ye to rights in time for the supper, my lady. Ring if ye wish for anything else.”

The pair of lady’s maids, who were as like as two peas, fluttered about Lucinda, helping her disrobe, bathe, and dress in a stiff brocade that might have been in fashion when Queen Mary was on the throne.

“Did ye ever see such a fine head of hair?” Jane asked Janet as they dressed Lucinda’s tresses and cooed over her reflection in the looking glass.

“Never in all me livin’ life,” Janet agreed. “And did ye ever see such a handsome man—”

“As our own new laird?” Jane finished for her. They erupted in nearly identical giggles, a high irritating twitter that scraped Lucinda’s spine.

Jane and Janet did everything in almost perfect unison, as if there was but one brain between the pair of them, which Lucinda began to suspect was the truth. When she finally dismissed them because she craved a little quiet, she wasn’t the least surprised when Jane and Janet curtseyed as one and tripped lightly to the door in step with each other.

Once blessed silence settled in her chamber, Lucinda walked to the multi-paned window and looked out over the bailey and curtain wall to the forest beyond. Filtered through the green and violet glass, Bonniebroch was beautiful, in a stark, forbidding sort of way. Surely she and Alexander could find a way to be happy there.

The hurt over Alex’s dismissal rose afresh. The empty ache in her chest pounded. She was so very alone, more alone than she’d ever been in her life. Memories of her mother were hazy, but she’d always felt encircled by the care of her father and her sisters. Now she was cut off from those whose love she never doubted. At this point, she’d even welcome seeing Great-Aunt Hester.

But not only was she parted from her family, she had lost Brodie MacIver as well.

If Alexander had been prepared to be a husband to her, perhaps those losses wouldn’t have stung so badly. She’d let herself hope for happiness with him when he’d moved to defend her so gallantly in the forest, but then he shuffled her off to the servants’ care. The fact that he still didn’t want to share her bed made her heart hurt, a low keening thrum that wouldn’t be stilled.

Lucinda was so tired of hoping and then being disappointed. If only she’d kept to the spirit of this marriage as a mere contract, a gentleman’s agreement between her father’s attorney and Bonniebroch’s lawyers . . . If she abandoned her desire for a normal life, for a husband who might love her a little and cherish the home and family they built together . . . If only she’d never tripped before Alexander Mallory and looked up into his damnably handsome face . . .

Unshed tears washed the view of Bonniebroch’s forest from her vision, so she closed her eyes.

Lucinda couldn’t bear to offer her heart and not have it accepted any longer. She decided to give up on Alexander, to force herself not to care.

She covered her face with her hands and wept. Broken dreams smelled of lime-washed stone and freshly aired bedding that would never see a night of passion. Gray, the color of Bonniebroch’s granite walls, was the color of surrender and she laid aside her hopes. She folded them up, tucked them into the deepest corner of her soul, and resolved never to take them out again.

When Lucinda was all cried out, she looked up and saw a white handkerchief floating across the room toward her. A familiar voice curled around her ear.

“If that blatherskite of a husband o’ yers is the cause of those tears, he’ll find a spider in his coffee at breakfast.”
Brodie MacIver’s pale form materialized behind the handkerchief.

“Brodie!” She ran toward him, wishing she could hug him and plant a tear-salted kiss on his pale cheek. Instead she snatched up the handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. “How did you ever find your way here without me?”

“Weel, now that’s a good trick, an’ I do say it meself.”
The ghost preened a bit, brushing his long nails on his jacket lapel and then examining them for a nonexistent speck of dust.
“Ye’ll mind how I told ye there was more than one spirit hoverin’ about Dalkeith.”

She nodded, too happy to see him to trust her voice further.

“Why Alexander’s room?” She sensed her husband had secrets. Maybe this ghost was one of them. Perhaps if she shared Brodie’s place in her life with Alex, he would . . . no, she’d given up, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to try to make a real marriage any longer. She only made herself vulnerable with hopes like that.