The Devil Wears Tartan (5 page)

“Give me your hand,” he said, his voice deep and dark.

She’d never been considered a biddable girl, but she did as he asked without question.

He placed her hand against his chest so that she could hear the booming beat of his heart. He said nothing further, only allowed the cadence of that organ to speak for him.

The night was suddenly silent. The wind had calmed, as if he’d decreed it. No birds called, no crickets chirped. No moths beat their wings against the silvery panes of glass. Even the moonlight was muted now, as if the disk of moon had disappeared behind a pocket of clouds.

“Davina.” He only spoke her name, but she knew it was a question. How should she respond? With a yes? With a please?

He leaned over her again, tracing the line of her chin with one finger. Still he didn’t speak, didn’t attempt to convince her. Nor did he kiss her again when it was all she wanted.

In the silence, she nodded slightly. Marshall smiled and reached over to pull her to him.

She’d not thought that this night would be so different from her previous experience. But it was like comparing silver to pewter or silk to linen. The excitement she’d felt with Alisdair had been, no doubt, because of the daring of her acts. Never before had she felt this heady warmth, this delightful intoxication of the senses. Almost as if Marshall were a snifter of brandy and she was inhaling him.

Oh my.

He watched her, as still and silent as the air around them.

“What do you want me to do?” She’d never before felt so young or foolish, for that matter.

“What do you want to do?”

“End this,” she said softly. “Finish it. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

“Sometimes anticipation can be part of the pleasure.”

Her anticipation was accompanied by a very real sense of dread. She knew what this act would entail. He’d enter her body. She’d feel the most incredible sense of discomfort, followed by an instant of something else, some indefinable sensation that might be pleasure if it lingered long enough. Then it would be gone, as simply as that. She’d no longer be an unmarried girl with foolishness in her past. She’d be a wife, a matron.

There was no reason to feel shame now. This act was sacrosanct and allowed. More than allowed, wasn’t she to do it as often as her husband wished?

“Do you not want to have it simply done with and over? I thought men felt that way.”

“Then shall we get to it?” His smile was soft, intriguing. “If you’re impatient, that is.”

She didn’t say anything as he stretched out his hand and placed his fingers on her throat.

“What do you do all day that makes your hands so hard?” she asked, and knew again, by his sudden startled look, that she’d surprised him.

“I ride every day. The reins produce calluses.”

“Every day?”

“Every day,” he said.

“Even today?”

“Are you delaying the inevitable, Davina? Or have you suddenly decided that you aren’t as impatient as you thought?”

“I’m not at all impatient,” she said. “I’m simply attempting to be courteous.”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “That is excessively sporting of you.”

She smiled back at him. “It is, isn’t it?”

Suddenly she was in the middle of the bed and he was leaning over her.

“I find that I’m impatient after all,” he said.

“Truly?”

“Excessively.”

“Oh.”

The palms of his hands were warm, the tips of his fingers delicate as they trailed over her limbs. What she had once thought inviolate, he invaded, intrusive and gentle all at once. He held her chin as he kissed her, his fingertips stroking against her throat as he did so. The outline of one ear, the rounded curve of her shoulder, the angle of her elbow, each was a target for his touch.

When her hips arched he was suddenly there, sliding inside her with such gentleness and skill that she could only moan slightly in response and surrender.

He whispered instructions to her and she obeyed, wishing that she were more experienced. Shouldn’t she hold something back of herself, be more circumspect or cautious? How could she? She’d never felt anything like what was happening to her, had never expected to. Her feet clung to his calves as he began to thrust rhythmically,

When she was a child, she’d seen a rainbow for the first time. It had stretched over Edinburgh in colors so brilliant that she’d been speechless in wonder. She felt the same now, awed by something she didn’t quite understand.

This, then, was what the poets meant when they spoke of hearts wishing to weep, or a soul feeling as if it were entwined with another. She didn’t know this man, but he knew her. When she sighed, his lips were there to capture the sound. When she placed her hand on his cheek in wonder, his hand pressed against the back of it as if to hold her spellbound.

In the next moment the world was gone, the night split by sunlight. She gasped, desperate for a breath. She wrapped her arms around Marshall’s shoulders and held on to him as pleasure raced through her, colored gold and yellow-white.

“You weren’t a virgin.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest, a tiny bird encaged by her skin. Slowly Davina slipped her hands below the covers and clenched them into fists.

“You weren’t a virgin,” he repeated, raising himself up on one elbow to study her in the light from the lamp.

How very strange that he was more handsome at this moment than he’d been before. There was a ruddy color on his cheeks, and his brown eyes appeared almost black. His lips were curved into a smile. For a moment she was fixated on his mouth, wishing that she were brave enough to reach up and kiss him.

Perhaps it was his handsomeness that made her feel strangely shy. Or was it the sudden realization that intimacy had not made him less of a stranger? She knew the touch of his hands, the softness of his lips, the heat of his skin, but nothing truly important about his character. What made him happy? Sad? Was he kind to his servants or cruel? Was he arrogant or humble?

Who was the Earl of Lorne?

“Do you have nothing to say?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, praying for guidance. Would God be annoyed at her petition? Had God become tired of listening to her prayers?

Once more, God, and I shall trouble you no more. Or at least today. Give me the words to reply to him. Let me be wise and yet not offer myself up for more criticism.

Dear heavens, she was tired of being pilloried.

“No,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t a virgin.”

Time stretched between them, measured in her slow and heavy breaths. She willed her heart to slow its frantic beat, pinned the corners of her mouth into the semblance of a smile.

“You have no explanation?” he asked.

“No,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. “You knew there was scandal surrounding me, that I had shamed my family. Had you no idea I might not come to you as an innocent?”

He didn’t speak. Neither did he look away.

“For what reason would I explain? For your approval?” She allowed the silence to stretch between them. “Is it necessary that you approve of me?”

“Have you always chosen your own path?”

She tried to bite back her smile, she truly did, but it was such an incongruous statement that she couldn’t help but be amused.

“I am naked in a bed with a stranger I’ve just married. Hardly a decision I would have made myself. Or a path I would have chosen.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” he said. The statement was almost smug.

“I did,” she admitted, looking away. “Should I be ashamed?”

“Do you feel shame?” he asked, moving to the edge of the bed and then standing.

A strange time to ask that question. Or was he simply calling attention to the fact that he was naked and nearly fully erect again. Had
he
no shame?

“Shame? It’s a word that seems to have a variety of definitions,” she said, “depending upon the person you ask. But it all comes down to behavior, does it not?”

“What do you decree as shameful behavior?” he asked.

Without thinking, she spoke. “Cruelty. Falsehoods.”

“Not flashing your ankles or being too forward?” His smile was not taunting but kind. “Who was cruel to you, Davina?”

When she was silent, his smile faded. “Another confession that I’ll not hear, I think,” he said. “Never mind. I don’t require that you share your mind with me. Just your body.”

He moved to the door, grabbing his clothing as he went. Did he not intend to dress before leaving her?

“Will you not shock the servants?” she asked.

He only laughed as he walked through the doorway. A moment later, she heard the door of her suite close behind him.

T
he morning sky was glowing richly pink and orange, bathing the world with celebratory colors. A tint of it touched the window, drifted shyly onto the sill, and brushed against Davina’s hand as she sat on the vanity stool and watched Nora arrange her hair.

Nora didn’t comment on her appearance, although she did smile occasionally as if attempting to stifle her amusement.

Davina stared at her reflection. Her eyes were different, sparkly somehow, and there was a pink mark on her chin. There were other places on her body that bore similar marks, but she’d powdered them and covered herself before allowing Nora into her room.

Nothing could lessen the heightened blush on her cheeks, however, and her lips appeared almost swollen. Anyone would know the extent of her experience if he looked hard enough.

Last night had been a revelation, but not simply a physical one. Somehow, Marshall had also invaded her mind, even occupying her dreams. As she sat patiently waiting for Nora to finish, she couldn’t help but remem
ber his touch. Without any difficulty at all, she could close her eyes and envision him beside her, wearing that strange half smile.

She opened her eyes, disappointed to find only Nora standing there.

Where was he? What was he doing? Were his thoughts as occupied with her as hers were with him?

Why had he left her after their first night together? Should she have been more circumspect in her response to him? Should she have been silent? Or should she have praised him in some way? Or should she have revealed the extent of her behavior to him, confessed her shame in detail?

This matter of being a bride was a great deal more complicated than it first appeared. Nor had she thought to ask her aunt such questions. Even now she didn’t know if she could go to Theresa. Who, then, could she ask?

Dear heavens, what did she do now?

Should she be thinking so much of him? Or should she be dismissive of the entire experience, and treat her first night as a married woman with no more importance than the liaison with Alisdair? Except, of course, that it had been nothing like that afternoon with Alisdair. Nothing.

From this moment on, she’d never be the same. Her life would forever be labeled in two parts: before she was married, and afterward. Were there going to be other revelations in her marriage? Discoveries that would ultimately teach her as much about herself as about her husband?

Being bedded by the Earl of Lorne had been a fascinating experience, one that ranged from the tactile to the emotional. Davina had loved the touch of his fingers and his lips on her skin. His kisses had almost made her faint in delight, and she’d disappeared to another place when he’d brought her to pleasure. She’d never expected her wedding night to be so enjoyable. Nor had she anticipated being assaulted by so many feelings: fear, joy, and sadness.

“It’s a fair day, Miss Davina,” Nora said, interrupting her reverie. “Oh, Your Ladyship. You’re the Countess of Lorne now.”

How very odd. She was, wasn’t she? How very strange that she’d not remembered until this moment. “Your Ladyship” didn’t sound quite right, though. Perhaps she simply had to become used to it

“What about the peach gown, Your Ladyship?”

On any other day Davina wouldn’t have cared about her attire. But she wanted to be dressed in her best today, to wear something that flattered her skin and brought out the color of her eyes. “I think the blue stripe, Nora.”

Nora didn’t comment, but her eyes twinkled as if she bit back a remark. Very well, let her maid think her foolish. What did it matter? What did it matter if the whole world saw her as silly and vain?

The fabric of her dress was a narrow greenish-blue stripe and fitted tightly in the bodice, a row of tiny black pearl buttons stretching from the neck to the waist. The pagoda sleeves were wide, ending in white cuffs at her wrists. The full shape of her dress was
maintained by the balmoral skirt, comprised of a hoop topped by a woolen overskirt. All in all, it was heavier than a normal hoop cage, but at least it didn’t require that she wear two petticoats to ensure that the outline of the hoop couldn’t be seen.

The white collar and the dark blue bow at her throat gave her the appearance of a girl not far from the schoolroom. But there was a look in her eyes that belied that impression. Did passion linger in the expression? Or did her eyes reveal something more?

Nora had braided her hair, and the plaits were arranged in a coronet at the back of her head. With her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, she looked quite acceptable. Pretty, perhaps. Thinking she was more than that would simply be vanity.

A moment later, Davina left the suite, holding her hand up when Nora would have accompanied her.

“I’m going to find my husband,” she said. “I do not need a companion for that.”

It was going to be difficult enough to view Marshall in the light of day; she didn’t want any witnesses to their meeting.

Nora only nodded, but there was that look again, as if she knew quite well what Davina was thinking. Was her maid more experienced than she knew?

Eagerness propelled her down the corridor and to the very top of the stairs. The house was built in the shape of an H, with a more formal façade facing the curving drive. The area she faced now was the courtyard for the family, less structured and more informal, as if the plants had been left to grow as they would.

No one was in sight. No maid anywhere in view. Not a footman to be seen. She held herself still, listening for sound. Far away, she could hear laughter, but then it, too, faded. She might have been in an enchanted castle, so alone did she feel.

Windows stretched upward from the entrance to the family courtyard to the second floor. They were left unadorned by curtains, the view from the outside allowed to become part of the majesty of Ambrose. A deep blue Scottish sky, an emerald green lawn, and a garden ablaze in colorful blooms served as a backdrop for a perfect day. Not a cloud marred the sky, and a breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees that dotted the expanse before her. The scenery was almost like a painting, and Davina felt as if she were the only thing alive in the landscape.

Her attention was suddenly caught by something beyond the trees: a tall, pointed object that looked like a rooftop. Another building at Ambrose? The breeze wasn’t as cooperative for the next few moments, and even though she waited, she couldn’t see it again.

Davina finally descended the curving stairs slowly, kicking her skirt discreetly out of the way as she held on to the banister with her right hand. Even at the base of the stairs she was alone. No maid came up to her. Nor was there a male servant in sight. And Marshall? Where might she find him?

She probably should have sent him a note from her bedchamber and waited patiently for him to call upon her. Or sent for her aunt, to ask the proper behavior for the first morning as a countess. Theresa was steeped in propriety and would have known.

Instead, Davina faced the tall carved door leading to the courtyard.

The door looked, at first sight, to be so heavy that it would require two people to pull it ajar. But she found, when she turned the iron latch, that it opened without difficulty and closed easily.

Three shallow steps led to a courtyard of large gray slate tiles laid in a tight cobblestone pattern. Here and there were stone benches cunningly placed to take advantage of the shade of the mature trees. Stone urns were placed near the benches and filled to overflowing with flowering plants.

She might have been in Edinburgh, at The Meadows or any number of other public parks.

But it wasn’t the sight of the courtyard that drew her onward, but the earlier vision she’d seen of something foreign to the landscape. She smoothed her forehead of its frown, ever conscious of her aunt’s words:
A man does not like a woman who looks angry, my dear.
She wasn’t angry; she was curious. Her father had once remarked that “curiosity is the bane of an intelligent mind, my child. It never ceases, nor lets up, but acts like a drug for the whole of your life.”

She left the courtyard and picked her way across steppingstones set into the grass. Lifting her skirts to a modest height so they wouldn’t become coated with dew, she concentrated on her footing. She passed the herb gardens, each row of plants neatly labeled, and what looked like a maze crafted of ornamental yews. Another garden filled with breeze-tossed blooms perfumed the air with the scent of flowers.

But there was another smell that was almost stronger than the summer morning. Something that hinted of dust and sun-baked earth.

At the top of a small rise, she hesitated, wondering if she was actually seeing what she was seeing. In the middle of a large clearing in the forest sat another building. Two stories tall, it was constructed of the same stone as Ambrose, and so similar that it might have been a fifth wing of the house that had strayed from the larger structure. In front of it lay another courtyard, this one composed of yellow stone hewn into large squares and set into the earth.

But it was the object in the middle of the courtyard that held her motionless in wonder and surprise. A massive obelisk was erected there, its pyramid-shaped top pointing toward the Scottish sky.

She continued to walk toward the building, uncaring about her footing, her gaze fixed on the obelisk. As she reached the courtyard, a breeze plunged beneath her skirts, danced around the lace of her pantaloons, and brushed against her ankles. Davina placed her hand down flat against her skirts to keep them from becoming airborne. A moment later, the air was still, the courtyard bright and sun-drenched, the glare such that Davina had to shield her eyes with her hand.

How could an obelisk be here? But there it was, standing proudly in the center of a stone courtyard as if she were in Egypt instead of Scotland. Approaching it carefully, she stopped some twenty feet from its base and followed the red granite pillar with
her eyes all the way to the tip. Slowly she walked around the base, studying the pictographs incised in the stone.

“It’s called Aidan’s Needle.”

She turned to find Marshall standing at the door to the building.

“It was carved at Aswan by order of Pharaoh Thotmes III in the fifteenth century
B.C
.,” he said. “The Romans removed it to Alexandria.”

“And you acquired it from there?”

“Actually, it was a gift to the Prince Regent from the Pasha of Egypt. The Prince Regent gave it to my father, who was happy to rescue it.”

“And he brought it here.” She placed her hand on the granite, surprised to find that it felt warm, almost alive. “It must have been a massive undertaking.”

He nodded. “It was. It weighs more than two hundred tons. The journey to Scotland required three ships and took two years.”

What a very strange place Ambrose was and how very odd that she’d no inkling of it before arriving here a day earlier. Yet in that short amount of time, her life had changed even more dramatically than she’d thought it would.

She looked around the courtyard. The obelisk was not the only strange ornament, although the other statuary certainly did not rival its height or dramatic impact. At the end of the courtyard were a pair of statues of men in stone chairs staring outward, their pose rigid, their pointed beards slightly curling at the end. On each head was a pointed hat with a serpent imposed
on it, and both man and snake’s stare were fixed for all eternity toward Ambrose.

“Did you know,” she asked in the silence, “that Wadjet was considered to be the wife of Hapi in Lower Egypt? She was always depicted as a woman with a snake’s head.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read a great deal,” she said. She turned toward him. “I’ve always been fascinated with Egypt, but I’d never thought to see something as strange as an obelisk in my new home.”

He didn’t respond.

Her bridegroom seemed a different man this morning. A stranger, rigid and arrogant. He was simply dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt open at the neck. His hair looked as if he’d run his fingers through it several times. His boots were well polished, the insides worn as if he also wore them for riding.

The look in his eyes, however, decreed him an earl. The distance in that gaze announced him a stranger.

She felt her face flush. What an utter fool she’d been to think that he might be eager to see her. But she didn’t move away, or seek an excuse to leave him.

“Did I do anything wrong?” she asked, wondering if she was being too direct with him. If she was, then he’d simply have to become used to her idiosyncrasies. After all, that was part of marriage, was it not? To learn the foibles and flaws of another person and accept them? “Why did you leave me last night? Is it because I wouldn’t tell you about my scandal?”

He looked startled at her question. “I would just as
soon leave the past where it is, Davina. I have no desire to unearth it.”

“Are we to have separate bedrooms, then? I had assumed we would sleep together.”

He turned away from her and walked to the edge of the courtyard. He stared toward Ambrose for so long, Davina wondered if he’d dismissed her from his mind. Or was he just signaling his wish for her to be gone?

She gripped her skirts with both hands, and decided that the very best thing to do would be to simply leave him, before she embarrassed herself further.

He turned, just as she made the decision to leave. She released the grip on her skirts, smoothing her fingers over the covered wire of her hoops. A bad habit, and one for which her aunt had often chastised her.
Davina, hoops are to give your skirts a pleasing aspect. But gripping the frame with your fingers only calls attention to a woman’s underpinnings.

Surely, however, Marshall knew she had underpinnings? She knew exactly what he looked like naked.

“My mother and father did not share a room,” he said now. He spoke in a normal voice, and yet she could hear him quite well despite the distance between them. Was the sound amplified because of the stone courtyard?

“I believe they were happy with the arrangement.”