Fascination -and- Charmed (24 page)

“Why so surprised? Surely you did not suppose that all I wanted from you was what I can find with my mistress in Edinburgh. I assure you that she is more than capable of filling my needs—all except the one for which I require you. You will provide me with legitimate heirs.”

“Heirs? Children? You dare to suggest that you and I should become
parents
together?”

“I not only suggest, I
order
it.” He released her hands and swept up the green spencer. “And I have no doubt we shall take our pleasure in the process.”

“I find no pleasure in you.”

“Liar,” he said, and pulled her bodice over her breasts. “Take your bounty. You will earn it easily enough
—pleasantly
enough. I will not pretend that I do not intend to make you want me as you have never wanted. In time you will beg me not to leave you. I will become the only drug your body craves. And then I shall watch you hunger for me in vain. You will pay for every penny of your prize.”

Grace hurled the priceless girdle at him and fled.

Allegro’s sure hoofs found the way as certainly in the near darkness as they did by day. Arran lifted his face to the soft evening sky and willed the peace of the land to calm him.

He’d passed beyond the castle walls and through the tiny village of Kirkcaldy. With the reins loosely held in one hand, he all but slumped in the saddle and allowed his mount’s rhythm to sway him.

Peace.

Simplicity.

He had to find a way to purge himself of the anger and disgust he felt—not only for the girl, but for himself. More for himself. She’d been offered a fabulous match and accepted. What right did he have to expect her to hold fine feelings for a man she’d never met? Unless she continued to refuse to marry him, Grace could bring him pleasure and provide the heir he must have. What more did he want?
Nothing.
He must curb his rage at her duplicity. Rage made him vulnerable, and he would never be vulnerable again. How complicated a life could be made by wealth—the more wealth, the more complicated.

In his pockets were small offerings wrapped in pretty paper. The Mercers would be amazed to see him. He’d never come to them other than in daylight. And he’d never approached them for anything but practical reasons—as a neighbor.

On the hill above the Mercers’ cottage, Arran pulled Allegro up and sat, looking down upon the simple dwellings below. The moon, a fragile wafer edged with silver, iced thatched roofs with a pale sheen. Dusky threads of smoke streaked from chimneys.

He should not use these people to fill his own emptiness.

If the Mercers had visitors, he would not intrude.

He touched his heels to Allegro’s sides and moved slowly downhill until he could circle the Mercers’ place. No sound of laughter or music came from inside.

Arran swung silently to the ground and left the horse some yards distant.

A yipping set up and two dogs tore past. Then all was silent again.

He would give the paltry gifts and leave. Nothing more.

At the cottage door he paused to ruffle his loosened hair. The rough garb of Niall felt as comfortable as the fine clothes the Marquess of Stonehaven wore.

Arran knocked and immediately called out, “Robert! It’s Niall and there’s nothin’ amiss.”

Instantly the stout wooden door was thrown open and Robert Mercer looked anxiously up into Arran’s face. “What’s wrong, man? Are ye ailin’?”

“No, no.” Arran clapped the other man on the shoulder. “I’ve been busy and I’d promised a certain small treat, if ye remember.”

A slow smile spread over Robert’s spare features. He pushed back his own fair hair and beckoned Arran inside the cottage.

Arran swept off his shapeless hat. “Are ye sure I’m not intrudin’?”

“Och, no. My Gael’ll be so glad t’see ye. She’s not been out in—” he grimaced before continuing “—in far too long. It’s not goin’ too well with her, Niall,” he finished in low tones.

Awkwardly Arran entered. He’d had no experience with the intimate domestic details his tenant husbands and wives shared with natural ease.

“She’s not sleepin’,” Robert said softly. “Just restin’ with the little one.”

Gael Mercer’s long, loosely braided hair was the color of marigolds in the sun. With her back to Arran, she sat before the fire in a rocking chair fashioned from sturdy willow switches. Her head was bowed, and barely visible above her thin shoulder was the child’s mass of soft, flaxen curls. Gael rocked and sang, rocked and sang, and Arran had to stop himself from singing, too.

He walked soundlessly across the brushed earth floor and stood on the edge of a mat woven from river reeds.

Firelight made a shimmering nimbus about the heads of mother and child. Arran recalled that the little girl’s name was Kirsty and that her eyes were as dark a brown as her father’s.

Gael Mercer was engrossed in her song. “Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie, Will ye wed a moorland jockie?” She rocked. “I have mill and milk and plenty ... And I give it all t’thee.”

Arran had to go nearer.

“Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie ...” Her voice was high and sweet, like a Scottish harp. “But I want a wife like ye ...” Arran’s mother had sung the old song in much the same way.

He sang softly, “Haste ye lassie to my bosom,” and met Gael Mercer’s surprised blue eyes. She smiled and joined her clear soprano with his gentle baritone. “While the roses are in blossom, Time is precious, dinna lose them. Flowers will fade and so will ye.”

Kirsty squirmed around, a thumb firmly in her mouth, and promptly slid to the floor. She held tightly to a fistful of her mother’s shawl, but watched Arran with no sign of fear on her innocent face.

“It’s Niall,” Robert said. “He’s come t’see us awhile.”

“And ye’re more than welcome,” Gael said, shyly bobbing her head. “I’ll brew ye some tea.”

“No,” Arran said hastily. “I’ll not stay but a moment. How are ye, Gael?”

“Well. Verra well, thank ye.” Pink rose in her pale cheeks. Her swollen belly seemed a cruel burden for one so frail. “Robert takes good care o’ me.” Her smile was only for her husband, and what Arran saw in her eyes made his chest tighten.
Love.
Yes, despite his own failure to find it, there was love, and it was in this crude room.

“I’ve a little somethin’ stronger than tea,”
Robert said eagerly. “Will ye take a dram?”

Arran shook his head. “No, but thank ye kindly. Do ye have all ye need, Gael?” He’d long ago learned not to say too much.

“More than enough.” Again there was the trusting smile. Gael fluffed Kirsty’s long, fine curls. “Robert sees to everythin’.”

“I’d remembered these.” He pulled the packages from his pockets and instantly realized his mistake. Thinking rapidly, he said, “The silly flowery paper was in the Christmas basket from the great hoose. Couldn’t think what t’do with it
till today.”

“It’s pretty,” Gael said. “See the pretty paper, Kirsty.”

Arran went to one knee and offered a parcel to the child. She looked up and waited for her mother’s nod before taking and holding it in her hands.

Seconds passed and she only stared at Arran. “Open it,” he instructed gently.

Kirsty studied him, then the gift.

She
’
d never been given
a wrapped present before.
Smiling, Arran nestled her two small hands in one of his palms and parted rose-sprigged paper. “It’s soft,” he said. He’d not known what to bring. The small, jointed bear had been in the
nurseries, although he had no recollection of seeing it before. “Feel how soft it is against your face.”

Slowly Kirsty turned her cheek and lowered it to the bear’s wooly brown coat. “Soft,” she said, and hunched her shoulders with delight.

“Och, Niall,” Gael breathed. “God love ye. I dinna know where ye’d come by such a wondrous thing, but Kirsty’ll care for it well.”

Still on his knee and feeling like a clumsy
youth, he pressed the other two gifts he carried into Gael’s hands. “I’ve nothin’ for ye, Robert,” he said, laughing too loudly and getting to his feet. “It’s only ladies I bring presents to.”

“Aye, so I see,” Robert said with mock gruffness. “Well, since it’s
my
ladies ye’re good to, I’ll recover from my disappointment.”

Gael sat in her chair again and parted delicate paper as if it would break. “Och, it canna be.” Her voice faded to nothing. “Such fine lace as I never saw. Will ye look, Robert? Niall’s brought me a collar of lace!” She promptly pulled it about the neck of her shapeless brown wool dress. “Did ye ever see anythin’ so bonny?”

“It’s vena fine,” Robert said, drawing dose. “But it’d not be near so fine if it weren’t about your throat, Gael.”

She sat still, and Arran saw tears glisten in her eyes. She swallowed and flapped a hand. “Away with ye, Robert Mercer, for the silver-tongued one ye are.”

Arran would not let himself look away. He would carry this picture with him and remember it in the months ahead. If only Grace had been ...
He
could
have loved her. God, the moments of longing left their mark. A movement brought his attention back to the child. She cradled the bear like a baby and crooned meaningless words.

Gael caught his eye and put a finger to her lips before opening the last present. Her hands stilled atop its contents, and the bright color in her cheeks drained away.

He
’
d chosen unwisely.
This gift had made her suspicious. Arran held his breath and prayed for another excuse, another explanation.

“Was it your mother’s?” Gael asked, so low, Arran had to strain to hear.

Relief made him grin. “Yes,” he said, and it was true. “And it was her mother’s, too. It’s very old.”

“I always dreamed of owning a gold cross.” She threaded the worn old chain through her fingers and lifted it until firelight glittered on the thin filigree cross. “I canna let ye give it t’me, Niall. I thank ye with all my heart, but ye must keep it for your own wife.”

“I’ve another cross,” he said, also telling the truth. “My mother would have wanted ye to have this one. She always said it brought her peace to touch it. You wear it, Gael. Touch it when ye’re not feelin too brave. Tell her it’s right, Robert.”

Arran saw hesitation in Robert’s eyes, and smiled reassuringly. “It’s
right,
man,” he repeated.

Robert took the chain and stood behind his wife to fasten it about her neck. “Aye, it’s right,” he said, placing a light kiss on the top of her head. “Niall wouldna have brought ye this if he didn’t think he should. And we thank him, don’t we?”

“Aye,” Gael said, and wrapped an arm over her belly. She laughed. “The babbie’s tellin’ ye so, too. Will ye feel it, Niall?” she asked shyly.

“It’s a good thing, Niall,” Robert said. “The feeling o’ a new life.”

Before he could give in to his impulse to decline, Arran spread a hand on Gael’s stomach. He had to shut out the other memories, the memories of a woman who shrieked and cursed—cursed him for giving her the promise of a moment such as this.

“D’you feel it?” Gael peered up at him.

He became quite still. “Yes,” he whispered, and brought his other hand to rest where, as sure as if he could see it, an infant turned and kicked in its mother’s womb.

“That’s my babbie,” Robert said, his voice filled with possessive pride. “It’s time ye’d a wife and some bairns o’ your own, Niall. They’d be a comfort t’ye.”

Reluctantly Arran stepped away. “Ye already married the prettiest and best lassie in the land,” he told Robert. “There’d be no point in takin’ second best.”

Laughter, a few more innocent words, many more thank-yous, a promise to return, and Arran was once more alone in the night. He rode slowly toward Kirkcaldy, watching its shadowy bulk grow larger as he drew closer.

He was Arran Francis William Rossmara, Sixth Marquess of Stonehaven, lord of everything he could see and much that he could not.

He envied Robert Mercer.

Several hours later, as midnight drew near, Arran sat at his favorite piano in the music room.

Damn them.

Damn Mortimer Cuthbert and his bloodsucking clan. They had made him what he was—a desperate man driven to measures that sickened his soul.

The crashing notes he played brought his teeth grating together.

No. That was a piece he’d composed in anger and played in anger many times. He did not need more anger.

A woman’s hair, smooth, glinting by candlelight. He stroked the keys, picked up the tempo, stroked them again.

Play out of joy, Arran. You haven
’
t really forgotten how.

Hair the color of marigolds in the sun.

His left hand ran down the board.

Hair of silver, like clear springwater slipping over the many small falls in the river.

Rapidly the fingers of his right hand chased the left.

A waltz. A waltz to make silver hair fly like spun silk spraying wide on a summer’s breeze.

Sunshine through gold-edged clouds.

Faster. Faster. Satin-slippered feet flying over deep green grass. Muslin skirts swinging, twisting about slender legs, then puffing up and falling to cover elegant ankles once more.

Softer. Softer. The incline of a pale neck. The gentle curve of sweet, full lips, the lowering of smoky lashes over amber eyes.

Around. Around. Hands outstretched ... to him.

“
Dance with me, Arran. Come, dance with me,
Arran.
”

When his hands stilled, he felt his own smile, his own peaceful breathing. And the smile warmed the coldness inside.

He stood and pulled fresh sheets of paper before him atop the piano. As quickly as his hand would move—and it was not quick enough to keep up with the notes in his mind—he dashed the music down. He wrote, played more, and wrote again. Later, he forgot when he’d come into the gallery, and it no longer mattered.

At last—and amazingly in so short a time—it was done.

Bracing his hands, he wondered what to call the piece.