The Devil Wears Tartan (16 page)

“Your father was never in China.”

“Have you never wished to continue traveling? Never wished that you were still in service to the Queen? Still a diplomat?”

He stared down at his hands before curling them into fists. “I’m hardly an example of successful diplomacy.”

“Salt and pepper,” she reminded him.

He nodded, but that was his only response.

There was a look in his eyes that she couldn’t fathom. A look of caution? For the first time, she had an inkling that his past might be something he would never discuss fully. The pain might be too deep, the agony of his experiences too great to ever share.

“Did you fornicate with her?”

He looked confused. “Who?”

She frowned at him. “Mrs. Murray. Last night, did you fornicate with her?”

“Fornicate?”

“Fornicate. Copulate. What do I call it, Marshall? There weren’t any books in my father’s library that addressed the act.”

“Thank God for that,” he said.

She stood.

“Is that the reason she was in your room last night?”

There was that damnable smile again.

“I did not fornicate with Mrs. Murray last night. If
she was in my room it was either to deliver something or pick something up, not because I was beset with lust for her.”

“But you did,” she said, the suspicion so strong that she began walking toward the door. “You did once, didn’t you?”

He looked away, but just when she thought she wouldn’t get an answer, he nodded. “It was a very long time ago, Davina. I was not yet earl, and she was not yet the housekeeper.”

She clenched the material of her skirt tightly, and then forced her fingers to relax.

“We both needed solace at the time. It doesn’t matter now. You’re my wife.”

She nodded. “A very strange wife,” she said. “You push me away with one hand, and pull me close with the other. Is that one of the rules of this marriage?”

He didn’t answer.

“Am I not to feel anything for you, Marshall? Nothing at all?”

“It would be easier if you didn’t.”

“For whom? You? Or me?”

“You knew from the first, Davina, that this would be no ordinary marriage. If you weren’t told before our marriage, I made a point of telling you afterward.”

“Yes, you did.”

Her own foolishness had made her think there might be something more between them.

“I broke the rules, though, Marshall,” she said.

Without a further word of explanation, she simply turned and walked away.

For a week Davina remained in her room. Her meals were brought to her on a tray from the kitchen. Her occupations were reading and sleeping.

She’d never been so thoroughly bored. Or heartsick.

Not once had Marshall sent word inquiring as to her health. Not once had he knocked on her door. Not once had he sent her a note.

She might as well have been a guest he’d forgotten was in residence.

After three days, she’d exhausted her supply of books brought from home. At night she descended to Ambrose’s massive library to take a few books. She did not encounter Marshall. Nor was the ever-present Mrs. Murray in sight. She returned to her room with an armful of volumes, some of which involved Egypt.

At the end of the week, she retrieved the last volume of Julianna’s journal. For days she’d thought about not reading it at all, especially the last entry. There was something so sad about knowing Julianna’s story from the ending first.

As she opened the last volume, she realized that the pages were written in a different handwriting. Still she kept reading, compelled to by the very nature of Julianna’s story.

There were no further entries.

M
ist clung to the ground and to the trunks of the old trees. From the courtyard, Davina could see only the beginning of the maze; the rest of the hedges disappeared into the white gloom. There was not a squirrel or bird to be seen, as if nature was holding a convocation somewhere and they’d all disappeared to gather together. Even the trees seemed to be only partially there, the tendrils of the fog curling around the lower branches and obscuring them from sight.

Why did it feel as if the landscape was waiting, as if Ambrose itself had paused? An immense quiet settled over the great estate. Davina could hear nothing—no maids, no noises from the stables, no gardeners, no footmen, nothing but a cushiony silence all around her. As if time itself had stopped.

Time—a commodity that had evidently fascinated the Earls of Lorne as well. If not, both father and son wouldn’t have been so intent upon Egypt’s history.

She began to walk, brushing her hand along her skirts as if to dislodge the most tenacious remnants of mist. According to a footman stationed at the door to
the family dining room, His Lordship had gone riding this morning.

A girlfriend’s mother had been badly injured in a carriage accident on a day such as this. Ever since then, Davina was mindful of how unpredictable horses could be in this kind of weather. One might be startled by the wisps of fog, or not see a rabbit hole until it was too late.

How like Marshall to take chances.

She walked as far as the obelisk and stood next to it, surveying the fog-ridden countryside. Today the obelisk looked even more foreign than usual, shrouded as it was at the base with thick Scottish fog. She put her hand flat against the stone, her thumb tracing a portion of the hieroglyphs inscribed there.

A few moments later, she heard the hoofbeats of a horse echoing in the fog, and Marshall was suddenly there, leaning forward on his black horse and taking the incline down into the glen as if he were being pursued by demons.

He was dressed as he often was, in a white shirt, black trousers, and boots. He was coatless and hatless, a brigand upon a magnificent ebony horse.

Finally he slowed the horse to a walk, dismounted, and stood beside the animal, leaning his forearms against the saddle. Long moments later, he turned and faced her.

“Exhausting myself doesn’t keep me from wanting you,” he said as a greeting.

Warmth shot through her.

“Should I apologize?”

“I doubt it would do any good,” he said, eyeing her as if she were a stranger.

She wished she’d taken more care with her appearance instead of simply grabbing the first dress her hand reached in the armoire. She’d not roused Nora to help her, intent upon this very confrontation.

Days had passed, and her anger had grown. Anger at being in love unwisely. Anger at being in love with a man who was insisting upon being a mystery. Anger at him for being so alone and refusing to share his life with her.

“You’re young and innocent and untried, unseasoned in the ways of the world. Ignorant.”

She almost took a step back at the unexpected attack, but she held her ground, folded her arms in front of her, and regarded him impassively. It was with some difficulty that she schooled her features to reveal nothing of the sudden hurt and shock she felt. How could he give her the most delightful of compliments in one moment and excoriate her in the next?

“You look terrible,” she said. “Have you slept at all in the past week?”

“Little enough,” he answered. “And you? Where the hell have you been for a week? Nora tells me that you’ve been eating, but that you haven’t spoken very much.”

“Perhaps I should consider myself blessed that you consulted Nora, and not Mrs. Murray.”

“Are you still angry? It happened years ago, Davina, almost beyond my memory.”

At that, she stared at him incredulously. “Is that what
you will say to your next wife? Poor Davina, I barely remember her. She was a mousy little thing. You know she wore spectacles. And she was forever given to quoting odd facts, always out of context.”

“Not quite out of context,” he countered, “but always amusing. And I doubt I would ever marry again after this experience. Are you dying? Is that why you’ve hidden yourself away?”

“You’re forever going on about harming me, Marshall. Perhaps you’ll kill me.”

He took a step toward her, and it was only too obvious that he was controlling his temper with some difficulty. Why should he bother now?

“You say you do not wish to cause me injury, Marshall, but you have caused me more injury in the last week than anyone has in my entire life.” She hated the fact that her voice quavered, but she faced him steadily.

He looked stunned by her admission.

“Is that why you’ve sought me out?” he asked, carefully stepping back from her. “To tell me how much I’ve harmed you?”

“No,” she said. “I finally believe you. You truly do not wish a marriage. You do not want a friendship, and you certainly do not crave a companion. Fornication, however, is necessary between us to provide you with an heir. It’s for this reason that I’m here.”

“It’s called fucking, Davina. If you refer to it at all, call it what it is. Fucking. A good, old-fashioned, Anglo-Saxon word.”

She turned and began walking toward the Egypt
House, unbuttoning the row of buttons down the bodice of her dress.

“Then shall we begin?” she called over her shoulder. “It’s nearly noon. And after a good, old-fashioned, Anglo-Saxon fucking, I’ll no doubt be hungry.”

Marshall stared after her, realizing that he’d never been rendered speechless by a woman. He’d challenged the might of the Emperor of China, had met with Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, and had been attaché at Paris, Lisbon, and Stuttgart. He’d been on Gladstone’s staff. Never before had he been absolutely flummoxed, and not by any woman, but by his wife.

For a week she’d disappeared, retreating into her suite of rooms as if she were avoiding him. Nor could he blame her. He’d spent the last week certain that she was regretting their marriage. Certain, too, that she’d emerge from her room and demand to return to Edinburgh.

For that, also, he couldn’t blame her.

Instead she’d become a termagant with flashing eyes.

He followed her into the Egypt House.

“Shall we do it here?” she said, looking for a bare spot on the floor. “Or in your office?”

Marshall grabbed her hand and pulled her with him, striding up the staircase that led to his office. Once there, he tapped on a door set into the wall so perfectly that it was nearly invisible. He opened it, revealing a small bedroom lit by the weak light from one narrow window. The door closed behind them slowly, almost as if giving her an opportunity to escape.

“What is this place?” she asked, looking around her.

The room was spartan, the furnishings only a narrow bed and one ladder-back chair.

He smiled. “A secret refuge. A place my father used when he didn’t choose to go back to Ambrose.”

“How absolutely clever. And so opportune. This way, we can fuck in the daylight and you can retreat to your chamber at night.”

She smiled sweetly, but he wasn’t fooled. She was blazingly angry.

“Why did you stay away for a week?” he asked.

“I simply did what you asked,” she said. “I was avoiding the madman I married.”

“And now?”

“Procreation,” she said patiently, as if he were a half-wit. “I cannot do it on my own.”

He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms.

“We should get it out of the way before gloaming, of course. Since you need to disappear at nightfall. I’m beginning to think that the moon must do something very strange to you.”

“I’ve already told you why I leave you.”

“Because you’re a madman?”

“Yes, damn it.”

“Then why don’t you act the lunatic with me?” she asked calmly.

He frowned at her.

“If you’re truly a madman, why aren’t you one all the time? Why not at breakfast? Why not now? Is it only at midnight? Or at dawn?”

He didn’t have an answer. Nor did he feel comfortable admitting that he’d never considered such a thing before this moment.

“You’ve evidently given my condition some thought.”

“I’ve had a week to think of nothing else,” she said airily. “Are you certain you don’t drink some tonic?”

He smiled faintly. “Something to render me a different creature?”

“Well, perhaps you should at least entertain the thought.”

“The only tonic I imbibe is wine.”

“Then you shouldn’t,” she said firmly.

At his silence she sighed. “It’s all right, Marshall. I’ve learned that I can deal quite well without you. I’ve grown quite accustomed to sleeping most of the day. And when that does not suit, I read. I’ve read a great deal in the last week, Marshall. I may trouble you to send to the jeweler’s for another pair of spectacles. I do believe that there might come a time when I wear the very glass from mine.”

“Should I succumb to base honesty? I’ve missed you, Davina. Even my footmen have commented to me about your absence, and Jacobs has mentioned your indisposition more than once.”

She lowered her head and stared fixedly at his shirt.

“I should not be fascinated with you,” he said.

She nodded. “In other words, I should be more experienced to have garnered your attention,” she said. “A woman of the world, perhaps. Not a mousy woman of Edinburgh. Someone with blond hair, perhaps?”

“Mousy? Are you daft? I know, for a fact, that there are dozens of mirrors at Ambrose.” He looked around the bedroom. “There’s one there,” he said, pointing to the far wall. “Look in the damn thing. You’ll see what I see. You’re a beautiful woman, Davina. But I’d never thought you to be so needful of reminding.”

She frowned at him. “And you claim to be a diplomat? Every woman needs to be reminded, Marshall.”

He took a step back, and was hit in the chest with a dozen hairpins. She unfastened the last of her buttons too forcefully, and then threw the button at him.

“I was wrong,” she said ridding herself of her chemise with surprising speed. “I’m hungrier than I thought I was. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. So, if you don’t mind, if we could do this quickly, I’d be very much obliged.”

She put her hands on her naked hips and surveyed him, obviously irritated.

“Is there anything I need to do? I would think that seeing a naked woman would be quite enough. But if it isn’t, please just advise me. After all, I’m not a woman of the world. However, I am a very good student. I can learn what I do not know. Once I make a mistake, I try not to repeat it. Therefore, we can suit very well if you’ll just tell me at what part of the act you consider me deficient.”

She bent and pulled off her stockings. Where had her shoes gone? Her hair was tumbling over her shoulders, and he didn’t think that he had ever seen such a delightful sight as Davina, naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg drawn up immodestly.

She noticed where he was looking and smiled back at him, an impish little smile that didn’t quite match the anger in her eyes.

“Should I cower beneath the sheets, Marshall? Should I pretend to tremble? Do you only like fearful women?”

Her voice was meant to be cutting, he was sure. The fact that she could not mask the small smile that tilted her lips somewhat softened her mood and her message.

He leaned against the wall, wondering just how far she’d go in this little demonstration.

Just for the sake of comfort, he toed off his boots, but more than that, he was not prepared to go.

She moved the pillows behind her and then sat up against the headboard, one leg angled in a slightly more modest pose than before. But he could still see her breasts, quite large breasts for a woman her size. They weren’t being modest at all. Instead, her nipples were pointing at him impudently.

“I’m getting hungrier,” she said. “Would you like me to lie down flat on the bed and spread my legs? Would that make it faster?”

The temperature was rather warm in there, so he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His pants were getting a little snug as well but he had no intention of removing them.

She slid down on the bed and contemplated the ceiling. “I wonder what the kitchen staff will bring me for lunch? I’ve asked them to serve me here. Do you mind?” She raised her head and looked at him. “I wouldn’t want the soup to grow cold.”

She smiled brightly at him, propped up on one elbow, and surveyed him intently. “You don’t look mad. You’re frowning quite fiercely, true, but is that how a madman is supposed to look?”

“What game are you playing, Davina?”

She looked absurdly innocent for a naked woman sprawled on his bed. His bed.

He’d barely slept during the last week and was incredibly tired. Why shouldn’t he sleep for an hour or two?

The next two buttons were easily unfastened, and the shirt was suddenly gone. The damn pants were next.

She tapped her bottom lip with a forefinger. “Does a madman foam at the mouth like a mad dog?”

He wasn’t entirely certain he was sane right at the moment, but he wasn’t thinking of harming her. Perhaps he should warn her, nonetheless.

“I’m going to join you on the bed, Davina, and no doubt shock our staff if they are foolish enough to deliver your lunch.”

“Oh?” She raised one eyebrow and smiled. “The act of a madman, Marshall?”

“Will you stop saying that?”

“Why?” she asked. “You use the term often enough. Too often, I think.”

“Shall we consider a moratorium, then? No mention of madness or insanity for an hour or so?”

“Because you want to fuck?”

“Let’s have a moratorium on that word as well,” he said, removing the last of his clothes and bounding onto the bed.

The mattress sagged with his weight, rolling her toward him.

He reached for his wife, climbed on top of her, and lowered himself until his body was barely touching hers.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to taunt the Devil?”

Her smile was luminous. “Oh, bother, Marshall, you’re not a devil. How could you be?”

“You’re impossible,” he said, but his voice sounded too kind.