Bride (6 page)

Too late.

The hard pounding of boots on stone heralded the arrival of a tall man with curling, dark red-brown hair. He burst into the hall and strode to the daybed.

Struan's tension fled instantly. He grinned up into the handsome face of his oldest friend, Calum, Duke of Franchot. “Welcome!” he said. “By God, this is a night to remember.”

“It may be a night you never forget,
friend,”
Calum said, white lines forming around his thinned lips. “If you have seduced my sister, this is the night you finally put your precious bachelorhood behind you.”

Calum forced his fingers to uncurl. “I ought to call you out on the spot, damn you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Better yet, I ought to beat the life out of you where you sit, you filthy—” He caught Justine's horrified eyes and managed to swallow the rest of what he had every right and every responsibility to say.

“Look here, old man,” Struan said. “I know how this must look, but—”

“But?”
Calum roared. “But, you son of the devil? You blackguard! You and my dear, innocent, virtuous sister lie together before my very eyes. I have only to look at her, at both of you, to see what has occurred here.”

“Calum, please, you are wrong to speak—”.

“Silence,” he ordered Justine. Her heavy hair, usually brushed to shining, red-tinged brilliance—the profusion of curls smoothly restrained—lay in riotous confusion about her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown eyes bright and, beneath the tumble of cloaks and vulgar silk shawls, her body and Struan's were pressed together, the bodice of her rumpled black gown stark against his disheveled white linen.

When Justine would have shifted away from him, Struan tightened his possessive hold on her shoulders. His hand curled over Justine's bare flesh.

“She had traveled far,” Struan told Calum, his handsome face set in the hard, flamboyant planes that stamped him a Rossmara—brother of Arran Rossmara, Marquess of Stonehaven. Struan said, “I confess I may have shown poor judgment in bringing her to the lodge so late at night, but evidently there was none at Kirkcaldy particularly interested in making her comfortable. And we had much to share. We are old friends, dammit, man!”

“Friends? Much to share?” Calum paced to the door and returned to stand over the evidence that “friends” hardly described the relationship between these two. What they had so recently shared didn't bear thinking about. “Our grandmother and I returned from London to Cornwall earlier than expected. But unfortunately not early enough. One day previous and I could have stopped this. Philipa tried to blame herself for having allowed you to leave, Justine.”

“But she had nothing to do with my decision,” Justine said, finally separating herself from Struan, if only slightly. “Pippa advised against my making the trip. Please do not in any way condemn her for my actions.”

“Hah!” He raised his chin and filled his lungs with air that did nothing to calm him. “I do not condemn my beloved Pippa, I assure you. She is too good to have had any part in this debacle. There is only one who deserves to bear the stain here.”

“And Potts,” Justine continued as if Calum had said nothing. “Please do not castigate Potts. He was most unhappy at my decision. Most unhappy. Loyalty—and his position—forced him to comply.”

“Potts,” Calum said darkly. “I might have known you'd coerce Potts into helping with Struan's scheme.”

“It was not Struan's—”

“Enough!” Rubbing his eyes, willing weariness from muscles that had ridden too far and too long without rest, Calum turned and bent to toss wood on the dying fire. “What in God's name has possessed you, Struan? And in this place of all places. To bring my gentle sister to this monstrosity and … and …” He could not bring himself to say the words. “I must think clearly. I must decide what is to be done.”

“Perhaps it is not for you to decide,” Struan said quietly. “You always were a righteous bastard—”

“I was always righteous?” Calum's black glare silenced the other man. “What are you doing in this place? Tell me that. Your grandfather's folly was always ignored. Look at it. A gaudy, moldering disaster, just as it has been since we were boys together here. Shanks—who ought to have been dismissed years ago—Shanks had the audacity to try to pretend he didn't know where you were. That silent estate commissioner of yours—Caleb Murray—he admitted to seeing Justine but couldn't bloody well say whether or not she'd disappeared. I'd be ignorant yet if that poor Mairi hadn't started babbling about Justine's trunks being at the castle even if she wasn't—and if some vapid creature called Buttercup hadn't piped up that the
lovely
viscount lived here. Good God!”

“The quality and nature of Kirkcaldy's staff is no affair of yours, Calum,” Struan said with infuriating calm. He rubbed Justine's shoulder. “Shanks in particular was merely trying to do what he'd been told to do. I have had some slight inconvenience that has made it necessary for discretion in the area of my whereabouts.”

“I have no further interest in your intrigues,” Calum told him shortly. “Arran and I have spent far too many hours concerning ourselves with your petty mysteries. Keep them to yourself. But do not involve Justine.”

“He did not involve me.”

“Do you try to tell me that coming here was your own idea, my lady?”

Color left Justine's cheeks, but she sat up quite straight. “I do, indeed.”

“Hah! He always had a way with women. He could always make them do his will. Now he has the most honest woman I ever met lying for him.”

Struan shot to his feet and advanced upon Calum. “That is enough. Brothers in all but blood we may be, but I'll not allow you to insult the sweetest lady ever to draw breath.”

“Pretty words,” Calum said softly, standing toe-to-toe with one of the two men who meant as much to him as his own life. “Tell me you did not wait until you knew I had to accompany my grandmother to London. Tell me you failed to calculate Arran and Grace's proposed absence from Kirkcaldy for some weeks, then managed—by what means I cannot imagine—to lure Justine to Scotland.”

“He did not.”

Calum ignored Justine. “What evil lies did you tell her? That you were ill and needed her cool hand upon your brow? You know well how softhearted she is. Or could it be that you used those two—”

“Hold your tongue,” Struan snapped. “Leave my children out of this.”

Calum paused when he realized that lie was yet in place. He glanced at Justine, who was attempting to smooth her skirts. The story that Ella and Max were Struan's children by a very early marriage ended by his wife's death, had been invented to cause Justine and others to accept them at Franchot Castle. Calum himself must bear some of the blame for the deceit. He and Pippa had concocted the tale together, never expecting Struan to embrace the falsehood about the two waifs he'd befriended so wholeheartedly as to eventually appear to believe it true.

“Very well.” Calum made up his mind what had to be done. “At least be responsible in this, man. Come clean. What has occurred between you and my sister?”

“I …” Struan turned back to Justine, whose eyes had grown bright again, this time suspiciously so. “Oh, my dear one. Do not cry. You are blameless.”

To Calum's amazement and ire, Struan dropped to one knee before Justine and began to straighten her hair with his fingers. All the while he murmured to her in soothing, unintelligible sounds. And she looked at him as if he were sent as a gift from God!

“Unhand her,” Calum demanded.

Struan finished his smoothing of Justine's hair at his own pace, drawing it back to rest behind her neck. Then, as calmly as you please, he settled the neck of her gown more tidily. He plucked at the velvet pleated trim, set it to rights across the tops of her breasts!

And she still smiled at him.

“Give me strength,” Calum said, to God and to himself. “I do not believe what I see.”

“There, dear one,” Struan said. “You are as close to your demure self as is possible at this moment.” With a final, capable brushing at her skirts over her thighs, he stood and faced Calum again. “Perhaps we should go outside to continue this discussion,” he said.

“You shall not,” Justine said firmly. “If you leave this room, I go with you.”

She was quite unlike herself. “Kindly remember that I am the head of the household,” Calum told her. “In matters of your welfare, I must decide what is best.”

“Piffle.”

He gaped. “Has he fed you strong drink? Is that it? You are drunk, my lady?”

“Sin's ears!
You, dear brother, are a turnip head.”

“Good Lord. Obviously you are not yourself. Struan, I will have the truth now. Explain exactly what passed between yourself and my sister while you were alone.”

“We comforted each other,” Struan said quietly and Calum could not help but notice how weary his friend appeared. “I encountered Justine at Kirkcaldy and persuaded her to offer me solace. I needed someone I could trust. I trust Justine, Calum, just as I trust you.”

Calum swallowed. He could not allow old loyalties to sway him from duty. “And what, pray, was the exact form of this comfort and solace?”

“Not what you think,” Struan said, very low, inclining his head significantly in Justine's direction.

“So you say,” Calum said, but the leaden ball of anger began to lift from his heart. “What proof do you offer?”

Suddenly Struan's old, wicked smile split wide over his white teeth. Dimples drove into his beard-stubbled cheeks. “What proof should you like me to offer?” he asked softly. “Might it not be a trifle difficult to offer any at all?”

Calum glowered but could not stop his lips from twitching. “You say, then, that you expect me to believe my sister's virtue is intact?”

One of Struan's dark brows rose. “I do indeed.”

“Then I shall remove her at once, before more damage can be done to her reputation, and return her to her rightful place.”

“You will do no such thing!”

At the sound of Justine's sharp announcement, both men swiveled toward her.

“You, Calum, may think what you will. I am here and shall remain. I intend to do as I wish.”

“Justine, you forget yourself. You—”

“On the contrary. I have finally remembered myself. I have finally noted that if I am not exceedingly careful I shall end my days without ever having counted for a single matter of importance. Pah on that, I say. Piffle, I repeat.”

“You are a woman of high moral character. Virtuous—”

“Virtuous be … Virtue be
discarded.
I am a new woman about to emerge from the foolishness of my past. I have things to do, brother. Things destined to change the future of other woman. And I choose to do them here.”

Women. Calum looked at Justine as if to say he would never, ever, understand the creatures. “I managed to dissuade Grandmama from accompanying me by assuring her you would return with me.”

“I do not belong to Grandmama. Let her find another servant.”

Calum could not believe what he heard, but he rather liked parts of this newly confident Justine. “I shall be happy to help you establish a more satisfactory relationship with Grandmama, my dear. But we should leave at once.”

“That will not be possible.”

“Dearest Justine. Your virtue is—”

“I will say it again. I throw my virtue away. Virtue be gone. Virtue be tossed to any passing wind. Virtue, I want no part of your bonds from this day forth.”

Calum looked to Struan. “Now I think I must truly question the
comfort
you sought in Justine,” he said. “Did you? …”

Struan narrowed his eyes but did not respond.

To Justine Calum said, “Did he? …”

Justine frowned.

“Did you, Struan?” Calum pressed. He puffed up his cheeks and said, “Do it, did you?” Struan made fists upon his hips. “I did not.”

“You swear?”

Struan averted his face.

“Justine, I choose to believe Struan,” Calum said. “Quickly. Gather your cloak. We will return to the castle to retrieve your trunks. I will think of some excuse for your absence.”

Justine didn't move.

“Come,” Calum urged. “There is no time to waste. Please make haste.”

“No.”

“You must.”

“I cannot.”

“My dear sister. Please do not persist in this foolishness.”

Justine lifted her pointed chin. “This has nothing to do with foolishness, only necessity. I cannot come with you. I cannot leave.”

Calum approached and offered her his hand. “Why would you say such a thing?”

She ignored his hand. “The fact is that he did.”

“He did?”

“Struan did. And so did I.”

“Justine,” Struan said.

She ignored the plea in his voice.

Calum brought his face lower over hers. “You and Struan did what?”

“You know,” she said airily. “You asked and I'm answering. We did
It.”

To Justine's dismay, Calum rounded on Struan, made fists, and drew back one powerful arm.

She pushed to her feet, threw herself between Calum and Struan—tripped, and found herself once more swept up into Struan's arms.

One more moment and Calum would have hit poor Struan.

“Put her down,” Calum ground out. “I shall take Justine away from here this instant and pray no permanent damage has been done to anything other than her good sense.”

“But we did
It,”
Justine argued.

Calum held up a hand. “Never—not ever—do not say that to me again. I cannot bear to as much as consider such a possibility.”

“Dash it,” Struan said. “I begin to take offense at your tone,
and
your suggestions.”

“Put my—” At the sound of approaching footsteps—an apparent herd of footsteps—Calum stopped speaking. Then he whispered,
“Down,
I tell you,” urgently.

Too late.

Even had Justine not been holding Struan firmly about the neck, he could not have set her down before a whirlwind of young energy erupted through the open doorway.

“We've come!” Max announced, his overlong, shockingly red hair springing away in all directions from a slim, freckled face. A little blond girl clutched his loose shirttails. “Ella's in the kitchens with Mrs. Mercer and bubbly, bouncy Buttercup Likely. There's t'be porridge …” His green eyes settled on the spectacle of Struan with Justine in his arms.