The Devil Wears Tartan (3 page)

Was the earl such a hideous creature that everyone was worried she would bolt if she inadvertently saw him before the wedding? Despite all her thoughts of being brave on this most terrifying of days, she didn’t have the courage to broach the question to her aunt.

What if the answer was yes?

T
his chapel was an addition to the older part of Ambrose, added when his ancestors had unexpectedly become aware that there was a God and His name wasn’t Ross. The room was small and slightly off-kilter. The wooden floorboards were warped, and tilted at an angle from the arched door to the stained glass windows on the outer wall. The ceiling and the walls had recently been repainted in a blinding white, but the pews dated back two centuries or more, their scarred wooden surfaces now covered in crimson velvet.

The ceiling sagged a bit in places; the gouge in the wooden floor had been made when a drunken laird had put a sword through the boards during the funeral of his son; the small hole under the window was caused by dry rot, repaired of course, but a bane to all five-hundred-year-old homes. Over the past twenty years, restoration efforts had prevented the further crumbling of bricks on the chapel’s exterior.

Behind the altar was a stained glass window, depicting not a religious scene but a strange figure resembling a lizard. His mother had always likened the
image to St. George battling the dragon, but his father had countered that it was probably the Fuath, a legendary water spirit with yellow hair and a tail, attired in green and possessing an evil nature. The window was either a wordless challenge to God in His own house, or a message to all worshippers that God can even protect the Ross family from the unnatural.

Would God protect Davina McLaren from the Devil of Ambrose?

His bride was late, Marshall had been informed, a fact that, strangely enough, didn’t seem to concern him overmuch.

He arranged himself beside the altar as was customary, in the secluded nave where the bridegrooms of two hundred years had waited. He wondered how many of them had begun to second-guess their unions as he was doing at this moment.

His uncle stood behind him, also following custom. A few hundred years ago, the man in that position would have held his sword at the ready, defender of the laird, protector from any rival, bloodthirsty, cattle-stealing clan who might send a member to rob him of his life or his bride on this day.

The Ross family had been civilized for so long that it was difficult for Marshall to conjure such a scene ever happening—although he knew for a fact that it had. His family history was replete with stories of his ancestors’ great heroism and even greater audacity.

What would they say, these forebearers of his, if they looked either downward from heaven or upward from hell to witness this day? Would they fault him for his
actions of the past? Or judge that today he was reaping the full measure of his punishment for what had happened in China?

Outside, the pipers began to play “The Rowan Tree.” He stood at attention, preparing himself by forcing a diplomat’s smile to his face. So must he have looked as they sailed into Canton Harbor. He clenched his left hand tightly.

His bride was walking down the aisle toward him, her white lace dress and elbow-length gloves much too elaborate for this small chapel.

Her gaze was on the front of the chapel, and he knew when she saw him. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and her footsteps slowed.

His solicitor had said she was pretty.

She wasn’t.

His bride was radiant. Glorious. Perfect. There was color to her face, a flush that lent her pearlized skin a soft glow. Her auburn hair was riotous around her shoulders, a mass of tendrils held back from her face with tortoiseshell combs. She looked like a Florentine Venus.

No, she was more than pretty. She was crafted of alabaster and porcelain, with delicate pink lips and finely arched brows. He’d never actually thought about a woman’s nose before, but hers was perfect. That chin was remarkably firm, however, hinting at stubbornness.

What color were her eyes? Surely not brown. They had to be some magnificent color to match her face.

Dear God, they were bluish green, the color of Bahamian seas.

He took a step forward and then stopped himself. He
should remain here beside the altar and wait for her to travel to him. Wasn’t that the way these ceremonies went? The bride walked slowly past friends and family, clad in her pristine white dress with its acres and acres of lace, demonstrating her courageous sacrifice to the monster.

He realized he didn’t want to wait, and before his uncle could stop him, Marshall took the two steps down to the aisle and advanced on Davina McLaren.

She halted in the middle of the aisle, ten steps or so from the altar. She didn’t flinch when he approached her. Nor did she look away.

Brave girl.

When he was close enough that their conversation couldn’t be overheard, he spoke to her.

“You look terrified,” he said.

Her brows drew together, but she didn’t comment. Fascinated, he continued to stare at her. After a moment, he was surprised to see her blush. The faint color, oddly enough, detracted from her appearance rather than adding to it.

“You should never blush,” he said.

She looked startled at his comment. “I normally do not. But then, I’m rarely married.”

“Are you afraid?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Of me? Or marriage?”

She seemed to consider the question, and as she did, he came to her side, turned, and extended his arm.

“Have you noticed that the entire chapel is filled with people staring at us as if we’ve lost our minds?” he asked.

Davina smiled. “I suspect they’re waiting for me to turn around and run down the aisle.”

She placed her small bouquet of heather and white roses in her right hand, and placed her left hand on his arm.

“Are you often given to such displays?”

“As often as I am married,” she said.

How very odd that he felt like smiling.

She turned her head and regarded him somberly. “Of you, I think,” she said, answering his earlier question. “And marriage. But more you. You’re called Devil, you know. Why?”

She
was
brave. No one else had ever come out and asked him that question, even though he was sure they thought it.

He wanted to reassure her, keep her with him somehow, which meant he wouldn’t give her the whole truth.

“Why does anyone get a reputation? People are curious, and when they can’t find anything to say, they invent stories.”

In silence she considered him. He wondered what she thought, and then realized that such speculation was unwise. Did he really want to know what she thought of him?

Finally she spoke. “No one told me you were so handsome,” she said. “They shouldn’t call you Devil, unless you’re like Lucifer. Are you as evil?”

Yes. That wasn’t an answer he had any intention of giving her. Instead he only smiled and led her to the altar and to her fate.

I
n moments, it was done. In moments, she’d gone from being Davina McLaren, slightly older spinster, to Davina McLaren Ross, the Countess of Lorne.

Shouldn’t such a change have taken longer? Shouldn’t there have been a symphony to accompany such a momentous undertaking—instead of a lone piper whose music accompanied their departure from the chapel and their arrival in this room?

The magnificent receiving room of Ambrose was reminiscent of a palace. The ceilings were frescoed with dancing nymph-like cupids painted in the Raphael style. Thick blue draperies hung in swags from gold cornice boards. A series of gilt-edged mirrors stretched the length and width of the room. In front of them sat a sideboard of marble and gold, topped with blue frosted glass. The wooden boards of the floor were polished to a high sheen, half covered with a magnificent carpet in shades of blue and green. The receiving chairs were upholstered in blue silk, the mahogany wood of the chair burnished with gold.

She and Marshall were seated together at the end
of the room like royalty, greeting the assembled guests who stretched in a line around the room.

No one had prepared her for this. But then, no one had told her about her new husband, either. No one had warned her how magnificent he would look attired in a kilt, a garment that left absolutely no doubt as to a man’s masculinity. Or the shape of his legs.

“You’re the most beautiful bride, my dearest girl,” her aunt said, sweeping Davina up into a hug before she was led away.

Davina only nodded in response. The moments were going by too swiftly. The ceremony had been too brief, the circumstances too odd.

One by one people were introduced to her, names she’d never heard before, and faces she wouldn’t remember. She hoped she was gracious and polite. She heard herself saying words, and felt her lips curved into a smile. How very odd to feel that she was here and was not at the same time.

After another hour she was whisked away to the dining hall, and found herself seated at a long table at the head of the room. Only two places had been set among the profusion of silver candelabra, silver salvers, and charger plates. Three crystal goblets in varying heights sat at the right of both porcelain plates bearing the Ross crest and surrounded by a dizzying array of silverware. Around them sparkled at least four dozen pale yellow beeswax candles, their delicate scent eclipsed beneath the roses and dahlias clustered in small vases all over the table.

The guests were seated at long tables in front of them, and from her vantage point, Davina could see
her aunt and Marshall’s uncle in pride of place at one of the first tables. Most of the other people were strangers, yet despite her ignorance of their names or why they were attending her wedding, it was all too obvious that she was a source of fascination for them. Perhaps some other time she would be concerned about all those interested eyes. Right at the moment, however, she could not help but concentrate on the man to her left.

Instead of speaking about his accomplishments or his title, her aunt should have mentioned that Marshall Ross, Earl of Lorne, had brown eyes so dark they appeared as black as his hair. Or that he was tall, easily towering over her, and that each of his features was perfect and arranged handsomely.

If she didn’t stop herself, she’d spend the whole night in rapt silence, studying him. She finally fixed her gaze on her folded hands, forcing herself to listen to the minister. He was reading some kind of blessing. She should spend the time heeding his words rather than musing on how attractive Marshall was. Or wondering about what was to come.

Would the act be different if the man was handsome?

Dear heavens, was she blushing again? She rarely blushed. Yet the idea of being alone in a room with this man was occasion enough to incite a warm flush traveling through her body. The idea of being made a wife seemed, well, impossible. It could not happen. Not with him. She would die of embarrassment.

“Why are you blushing?” Marshall asked from beside her.

“Did you know that there are people who are afraid
of homilies?” she asked, glancing at the minister. “Do you think a sermon is frightening?”

“It depends on the subject matter. Are you afraid of them?”

“No,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. He was smiling, and for a moment—barely more than a second, actually—she was struck dumb by how handsome he truly was. “I’m not afraid of very much. I quite like storms, for example. And winter. And roses.”

“That’s good to know,” he said softly. His voice was very low, very seductive, and sounded oddly enough like the J. S. Fry & Sons chocolate her aunt occasionally brought her from London.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Davina said, with more bravado than truth. “Or marriage. Truly. It’s simply a different experience, and I’m not used to being married. I shall have to adjust. Did you know that in Africa it’s tradition to pay for a bride with livestock?”

“Ambrose has quite a few cattle,” Marshall said. “Sheep as well. We would not have been averse to paying your dowry.”

She looked at him fully then, startled by two facts. He hadn’t questioned her knowledge of obscure African tribes. And he was teasing her.

“I wear spectacles,” she said in the silence. “‘Honesty is best, don’t you think? If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.’”

He looked a little bemused. “Shakespeare?”

She nodded.

“I can’t read without them,” she added. “You should know that now. I’m almost blind. Not normally, but
when I try to read, I mean. The words go all squiggly.” She blinked a few times. “Did you know that a frog has four fingers?”

“I don’t mind that you wear spectacles,” he said, his smile back in place. “And I did know about frog fingers. I was quite the adventurer as a boy.”

When their meal arrived, she gratefully paid attention to it, eating slowly and with great deliberation, the better to lengthen the meal.

Only to herself would she admit the degree of her trepidation. Very well, fear.

How did he reassure her? Or was there anything he could say? Were the moments between them to be punctuated by this awkward, stilted silence? He sat back, his appetite as poor as it had been for months, his interest spurred instead by his new wife.

Perhaps he should simply retreat to his chamber and recognize that he’d made a mistake. He glanced at her to find her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Just as quickly, she stared down at her lap again.

He’d be an idiot to retreat to his chamber and a fool to go to hers.

Still, awareness thrummed between them, something oddly arousing. He wanted her—he was not so much of a fool that he would ignore that. He was a man, after all, despite his past or his tormented present.

A footman stopped before him, bowed low, and proffered a salver on which a wineglass and carafe rested. He shook his head to the footman’s obvious surprise. The man hesitated, and then finally moved away.

“Thank you,” he said, “for agreeing to be married at Ambrose.”

She put down her fork and glanced at him. “I do not believe that I was given much choice in the matter, Your Lordship,” she said.

“My name is Marshall,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“Ambrose is a beautiful place,” she said. “From the number of guests, however, you must have a great many friends. I’d heard that you were a recluse.”

He smiled. What other rumors had she heard? Perhaps a wiser man would ask her, but he wasn’t all that eager to hear her answer.

“I think there are fewer friends here than relatives. That is Lady Ethel,” he said, nodding toward an aging matron dressed in ivory. “She is a second cousin and was once a maid of honor to Her Majesty. Unfortunately, she never lets anyone forget it. I don’t recognize most of the guests myself. Probably some of them are related to my mother. She came from a family of six brothers and four sisters. Some of the guests are no doubt cousins or second cousins.

“As for the rest,” he added, “I suspect that they are neighbors, people who live near Ambrose. Once we were known for our hospitality.”

“Not anymore?”

“I crave my privacy more than a reputation for hospitality,” he said. There was more he could tell her, but perhaps any further revelations should wait until they were married a few weeks. He would feed her the truth a sentence at a time. What would she do once she
learned the whole of it? No doubt run screaming from Ambrose.

“You appear perfectly healthy, Your Lordship. Surely you were physically able to travel to Edinburgh.”

Her comment was more a question than a statement, but he chose to discuss neither the reason for the change of location nor his physical condition. Instead Marshall only smiled in response and waved away the next footman with another decanter of wine. Had his servants become used to repeatedly filling his glass?

Poor Davina McLaren Ross. Wed to a sotted lunatic.

“You’re remarkably lovely,” he said. “Why have you never married?”

She looked surprised at the compliment. Or perhaps it was the question.

“My father died.”

“My condolences.”

She accepted his comment with a nod. “I was in mourning.”

“But before that?” he asked.

“Is it necessary that you know? Is it not enough that we are married now?”

He allowed himself to smile at the edge in her voice. He’d evidently irritated his bride. Good. Perhaps if he annoyed her sufficiently, there would be a valid reason for him to remain in his own suite of rooms tonight. He wouldn’t inflict himself on an innocent woman whose only sin had been to marry him. He clenched his hand, and then forced himself to relax.

“Why did you marry now? Why me?”

This time there was no doubt that it was the ques
tion that discomfited her. Was she going to speak of the scandal that made her willing to wed a stranger? Or was she simply greedy for his wealth?

“I didn’t want to remain alone for the whole of my life. I want a family. Children,” she said, her cheeks turning crimson. He’d never before seen anyone who blushed so unbecomingly.

He decided that he wouldn’t continue with the questions. Not when it was only too obvious that his bride had her secrets, just as he had his.

The rest of their dinner passed quickly enough. Too quickly for his peace of mind. All too soon her aunt was there, with assorted women he thought he recognized. One of them, a young female with a particularly odd walk, led his bride away amid the chattering and giggling women.

“It’s a custom, Davina,” Theresa said. “Think of it as a good omen, a bit of luck for your bridal bed.”

“Haven’t we progressed beyond this, Aunt?” Davina asked, watching as a group of strangers prepared her chamber for the night ahead. The fact that one of them was heavily with child was supposed to bring fecundity. “It’s a Scottish version of Lupercalia.”

Her aunt eyed her, and Davina knew she was weighing whether to ask the question.

“Lupercalia was an ancient Roman ritual of fertility and purification,” Davina said. “It involved the sacrifice of a goat and scourging.”

As she’d anticipated, Theresa held up her hand to prevent any more revelations.

“The women are just making your bed, my dear. Not slinging entrails all over the room.”

The chamber might benefit from a few entrails, but that was not a comment she’d make to her aunt. But it had been difficult to enter the countess’s suite without gasping aloud.

The bed was high and wide, graced with four massive mahogany posts heavily carved with flowers, thistles, and leaves, and a headboard that was nearly as tall as the posts. The other furniture was mahogany as well, and polished so well that she could see the gleam of the lamps on the surfaces of the bureau, vanity, and bedside table. What distinguished the room from any other room she’d ever seen was the crimson Chinese silk on the walls. Not only was it a vibrant shade of red, but it was heavily embroidered with green vines and startlingly white chrysanthemums.

How was anyone expected to sleep in such a room?

“I shall never be able to close my eyes,” she said in a whispered aside to her aunt. “It’s so very, well, garish.”

Theresa looked around the room with the practiced gaze of someone looking for the best in every situation.

“You know Marshall is a diplomat. A very learned man. I’ve heard that he can speak six languages with some fluidity.” She took a deep breath. “It’s to be expected that he has tastes that are somewhat different from most Scots. It’d up to you, Davina, to accept those differences. Indeed, to make the most of them.”

She slapped her hands together as if finished with
a particularly troubling task, and turned with a determined smile toward the other five women.

“Are we nearly done? We must prepare the bride and then give her a few moments to compose herself, don’t you think, ladies?”

With a minimum of fuss, the bedclothes were turned down, her dress was removed, and Davina was attired in a froth of white lace not unlike her wedding dress. The difference being, of course, that she had no stays, no undergarments at all. Even her garters were gone, as were the delicate stockings knitted for her by nuns in the south of France. Beneath the layers of lace Davina was quite naked, feeling vulnerable and not unlike a sacrifice.

Had women ever been sacrificed in Scotland? Davina realized she didn’t know, at the same time she realized something else. She couldn’t remember anything. Not one Latin declination occurred to her. Nor was she able to envision a map of the Empire in her mind. What was her middle name? She shared it with her aunt. Aunt…?

Dear God, she couldn’t remember her aunt’s name.

Why, exactly, was it so cold in here? Ambrose was supposedly known for its comforts, but this room was freezing. Was this a taste of what she was to endure in winter?

Endurance. She’d been remarkably blessed in her life. Granted, she’d lost her mother when she was four, but the loss had faded. She’d always had her father’s love and affection, and Aunt Theresa’s as well. Theresa, that was her aunt’s name. Theresa Rowle. And her own? Davina McLaren. Ross.