An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (55 page)

There was a sudden silence, a silence in which Beatrice’s shining eyes and parted lips seemed to speak more eloquently than words. The Duke turned towards a chair on the far side of the fireplace and sat down.

“I regret that I am not good at conundrums,” he said quietly.

He did not look at Beatrice whose eyes, as they sought his, were burning with a strange hunger. At length in a voice so warm, so tender that it was hard to recognise it, she whispered,

“Oh, you fool, you dear sweet, glorious fool. Would you have me set aside all modesty to speak more plainly?”

The Duke made no reply and she rose to her feet to stand in front of him. She was almost blindingly beautiful in the firelight and her face, transfigured by emotion, was more radiant than it had ever been in her life before.

“I love you,” she said. “You are being deliberately obtuse, so I must tell you in words of one syllable. I love you, Ewan.”

The words seemed to quiver in the air like sudden music and then there was silence. Beatrice’s breath came quickly, her breasts rising and falling beneath the diaphanous lace of her negligée. Still the Duke did not speak but sat utterly motionless, looking not at Beatrice but into the fire.

“Will you not answer me?” she asked at last a little wildly. “Oh, my dearest, can you not see, can you not realise what has happened to me? I have fallen in love, and I never imagined, I never dreamed even in my wildest dreams that love could be like this. Now I have found you, there is such happiness ahead for us both.”

She moved forward as she spoke and knelt at his feet, her arms resting on his knees, her lovely face, quivering with passion, raised to his.

“You are mistaken!” The Duke’s voice was harsh.

“Mistaken!” Beatrice repeated. “I have never been so sure of anything in my whole life. Oh, my beloved, are you afraid? I promise you there is nothing to fear. The Marquis knows nothing about you – that was why he sent me to Scotland, because he was so ignorant both of your loyalties and your intentions. He may be angry when he hears that I have left him for you, but he can do nothing, nothing, I tell you, because he has no evidence of any kind against you. And there are other ways, too, in which I can help you and save you from your enemies. You are not even aware who they are, but I know, and I can protect you from those who would harm you. Your brother, Niall, for instance, is at this very moment plotting – ”

“Stop!”

The word was a command.

The Duke rose from his chair and, as he did so, he seized Beatrice by the wrist and drew her from her knees to stand beside him, his fingers hard against the softness of her skin.

“Understand this, I have no desire to listen to what you are about to tell me,” he said. “It concerns no one but my family and myself, and you may rest assured that the honour of the MacCraggan’s is safe in my keeping. What else you have said tonight in this room is from this moment forgotten. Your Ladyship is tired, you may even be suffering from a slight fever, which would be understandable after such a long and arduous journey. If you will permit me, I will ring the bell and ask that either your own Abigail or one of the other maids shall take you to your bedchamber.”

His voice was stem and his eyes were hard as he looked down into Beatrice’s startled face. When he had finished speaking, he released her arm and the marks of his fingers were livid against the pearly perfection of her skin. Beatrice stared at him in utter astonishment, then she said in a voice hardly above a whisper,

“Can – you mean – can it be possible that – you do not – want me?”

Her incredulity was so obvious and so sincere that for a moment the expression on the Duke’s face seemed to soften and he replied in a quiet tone,

“I have already told your Ladyship that anything that has been said between us this past hour is now forgotten.”

There was no possibility of Beatrice misunderstanding him this time. For a moment she stared, her eyes darkened, her whole air of shrinking fragility appeared to vanish. Her body stiffened, became strong, wiry and virulent.

“You insolent barbarian!”

Despite the venom in her tones her voice broke on a sob. At that moment there came a knock on the door. Both Beatrice and the Duke turned their heads towards it, but before the Duke could speak, the door opened and Lord Niall stood there, his face contorted with rage, his eyes dark and blazing with an ugly, unbridled fury.

He said nothing, only stood in the doorway looking across the room at Beatrice, taking in every detail of her transparent negligée, of her unbound hair, of her close proximity to the Duke and of the strange expression on both their faces.

The Duke spoke first.

“Did you wish to see me, Niall?” he inquired.

“No!”

The monosyllable rang out decisively

Lord Niall advanced slowly towards Beatrice. There was something fierce and menacing in the deliberate protraction of his movements, something primitive and uncivilised in the expression on his face.

But Beatrice could manage Lord Niall and all men like him. As he reached her side, she held out both her hands in a gesture of appeal, and there was a note of utter relief in her voice as she cried,

“Oh, Niall, Niall, thank Heaven you have come! Take me away from here, please take me away.”

She pressed herself nearer to him and instinctively, almost unaware of his action, Lord Niall put his arm around her waist.

“What does this mean?” he began, but her fingers were against his lips, soft, insistent and caressing.

“Say nothing now,” she whispered, her body weak and pliant against his. “I will tell you all later, but for the moment take me away – I beg of you.”

Her body was heavy against him. He could feel the soft, yielding warmth of her and his arm tightened fiercely. Some of the anger left his face, but as he turned to the Duke, his eyes were still smouldering with suspicion.

“Lady Wrexham is indisposed, Niall,” the Duke said quietly. “Will you escort her to her bedchamber?”

“Very well, but I will deal with you later,” Lord Niall snarled. His voice perceptibly altered as he looked down at Beatrice and asked, “Can you walk or shall I carry you?”

“I will walk. Let me take your arm.”

Together they turned towards the door and only as they reached it did Beatrice look back. For a moment her eyes met the Duke’s. It was for but a split second before she turned away and Lord Niall guided her into the passage and closed the door behind him, but in that instant the Duke knew that he had made an enemy, implacable, bitterly revengeful, who would never rest until he was utterly destroyed.

For a long time he stood looking across the room at the closed door, before his glance wandered to the sofa where Beatrice had lain, the cushions still hollowed by the weight of her head and body. Then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders as if he made a sudden decision. His hands reached for the bell rope and he tugged at it impatiently.

In her own bed chamber Beatrice, lying in the big four poster, her head and shoulders resting against a pile of lace pillows, related to Lord Niall her own version of what had occurred in the Duke’s room.

“I had to see him some time,” she told him as she ended her story. “There were things on which I had to question him, as you well know.”

“But why tonight and half naked?” Lord Niall inquired brutally.

While she talked, he had stridden up and down the room, his almost insane jealousy making him bite his fingers until they were raw.

“Actually I never thought of how I looked,” Beatrice replied simply. “I could not sleep and I thought that here was a good opportunity, when there was no one about and your stepmother was not listening, to talk with the Duke.”

“But he might have been in bed and asleep,” Lord Niall protested.

“I never thought of that,” Beatrice answered, her eyes round and innocent. “I had expected him to be in his sitting room. You remember he told me the other night how he always works late, reading and writing until the small hours of the morning.”

“I have no recollection of his saying anything of the sort.” Lord Niall said sullenly.

“Perhaps you were looking at me instead of attending to your half-brother,” Beatrice replied, adding, “Oh, Niall, I beg of you, do not be incensed with me, I have had enough to bear tonight. Yes, quite enough.”

For a moment her voice was shrill and then she continued, “But of one thing you can rest assured, there is no reason whatsoever for you to be jealous of the Duke. I will tell you this, and swear it on my honour, I hate him, I hate him with all my heart and soul, and I vow on all that I hold most sacred that only my own death shall prevent your becoming the Duke of Arkrae.”

There was no misunderstanding the vehemence of Beatrice’s voice, and Lord Niall was pacified. He stopped his restless pacing and moving to the bedside, took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

“I believe you,” he said, “but we return to the inevitable question – how can it be accomplished?”

“The way will reveal itself,” Beatrice answered, “I have never yet failed in anything I set out to do and I shall not fail to destroy the Duke.”

For a moment her lips were tight, then she forced a smile to them and turned her face towards Lord Niall.

“It is growing very late,” she said. “Your valet will be waiting for you.”

“Let him wait, it is what he is paid for,” Lord Niall replied.

“I was not thinking so much of your servant as of you,” Beatrice murmured. “You must be tired, that green velvet coat, elegant as it is, must be tight. Why not be comfortable?”

“You mean – ?” Lord Niall’s eyes were suddenly bright.

“If it pleases you – ”

“Oh, my dearest.”

His voice was hoarse with desire and he bent towards her, but she put out her hand to ward him off.

“I have not yet forgiven you,” she said lightly. “But I will endeavour to forget your spurious misjudgement of me before your return.”

Lord Niall laughed softly.

“I will teach you how to forgive me,” he said, “but never to forget. I would have you remember me always – even in your dreams.”

He kissed the point of her white shoulder, then turned and went from the room without another word.

Alone, Beatrice lay staring up at the canopy over her head. She did not see the clever, skilful stitches in the needlework embroidered so beautifully a hundred years earlier by industrious fingers. She did not see the shadows moving in the room with the flickering of her candle.

Her eyes felt hot, her lips were dry, and in her heart there was a pain so agonising that she could hardly believe that she was not wounded unto death. She felt suddenly very old, for something young, tender and infinitely beautiful, which had been born within her for but a very short while, was dead.

It had been murdered, she thought, murdered almost in the moment of its birth, and now she was crippled and deformed by the loss of it. Her eyes were hurting her, burning deep in their sockets until her very brain seemed on fire. Her heart was dead and she could not cry, for she was long past tears.

Lord Niall moved swiftly down the passage towards his own room. His suite was in the most ancient part of the castle facing north. The rooms were small and the panelling in them was dark with age, but they had their advantages and he preferred them.

Beatrice’s room, which faced south and overlooked the loch, was not far from the Duchess’s apartments. Big double doors divided them from the main passage, and as Lord Niall drew near them, the doors opened and his stepmother came into the passage.

Lord Niall was carrying a candle and his first instinct was to blow it out so that she would not see him, but before he could do so, he realised that he was already observed.

The Duchess was wearing the gown of stiff yellow brocade which she had worn at dinner, the wide hoops of her skirts effectively barred his way, her hair was still powdered and her neck and wrists heavily bejewelled. As he drew close to her, Lord Niall saw that her face was twitching as it invariably did when she was agitated.

“Why,
Belle mère,”
he exclaimed, “it is a very late hour to find you awake.”

“I was waiting for you,” she replied in a low voice. “Come into my sitting room, I must speak with you.”

“It is too late,” Lord Niall protested, “you must be tired and I know I am.”

“I must speak with you,” the Duchess repeated dully, “now and at once.”

There was something in her face which told him that it would be unwise to cross her further. Shrugging his shoulders, he said petulantly,

“Very well then, but if you have a migraine tomorrow, do not blame me.”

The Duchess made no reply and Lord Niall followed her through the doors of her suite into the big sitting room that opened off an inner passage.

Here the tapers in the chandeliers and sconces were guttering low, but the room was still bright. On a needlework stool in front of the fire and on the floor beside it were scattered a number of papers. Lord Null glanced at them and said impatiently,

“What the devil have you got all these things out for tonight?”

He snuffed his candle and put it down on a side table, then he walked across the room and poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter standing on the wine table in front of one of the windows.

The Duchess watched him.

She stood in the centre of the room, the twitch of her left eye becoming more pronounced. Lord Niall drank half the brandy and walked towards the fireplace.

“Well, why don’t you answer my question?” he said aggressively.

“It is for you to answer
my
questions,” the Duchess replied. “What were you doing in that woman’s room?”

Lord Niall’s fingers tightened round the stem of his glass and his eyes narrowed.

“So you were spying on me?”

“I was,” the Duchess replied. “Have I not the right?”

“No, by God, you have not!” Lord Niall put his glass down on the marble mantelpiece with a decisive bang. “Let us make this clear once and for all. I am not going to be questioned and badgered about my actions, however unusual or unconventional that may appear. Whatever I do, you can be assured I have a good reason for it.”