Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (34 page)

Quince saved her breath to cool her porridge after that remarkably combative conversation. But it taught her that there would be no blank slate, with all her past deeds erased. There would be no forgive and forget. Strathcairn clearly meant to remember every one of her misdeeds, as if there were a tally sheet in his clever, ginger head.

And so she would give herself the small revenge of not telling him all. He may have married her to keep them both from scandal, but he had not married Jeannie or Charlie. She would be mad to confess anything about them.

And luckily, Strathcairn let go of his bone of contention, turning his attention to the countryside. The coach was rolling out of a wood and into the bright, crystalline sunshine of a wide valley, and all seemed instantly forgotten—Strathcairn’s whole attitude changed dramatically. He sat up from his ease against the padded seat, and leaned forward toward the window, all avid eagerness, almost as if he were scenting the air. “This is the strath.”
 

There was an intriguing reverence in his voice, as well as a hint of excitement.

“
The
strath?” she asked.

“A strath is a wide u-shaped valley,” he explained, never once taking his eyes from the green and gold patchwork of fields. “While a glen is a narrow v-shaped valley. All of our place-names are determined by geography. How do you not know that, and call yourself Scots?”

“I ken enough,” she humphed. “I ken a cairn is a heap of rocks. So Strathcairn is a heap of rocks in the middle of the valley. How fitting for you, Lord Cairn. The rock is granite, clearly.”

His smile was all in the corners of his clear green eyes. “That warms the cockles of my auld Scot’s heart, it does.”
 

He was rather harder to resist when he was all smiling and golden and charming. But her resistance was running high. And she was still herself. “You look like the sort of fellow who would have cockles. You must keep them with your scruples.”

“In a jar, by my bed.”

A huff of laughter escaped, in spite of herself and her resentment. In fact, they were both smiling now, almost as if they were enjoying each other’s company. Almost. There was still a healthy dose of something that had to be distrust—or at least wariness—in his smile. And it wouldn’t do for her to repent, and see the error of her thieving ways too soon—where would be the challenge in that?

Quince turned her gaze to the bright summer countryside, where the rolling heather-clad hills were a haze of purple in the sunshine.

“You know,” Strathcairn said from somewhere across the carriage. “You could probably like me if you weren’t trying so hard not to do otherwise.”

“We’re already married, Strathcairn. There’s no need to—”

“Alasdair,” he corrected. “We’ve been married for two days now. You really ought to give my actual name a try.”

She would do nothing of the kind at the present time. “—to turn me up sweet.”

“I think I had best do,” he mused. “Arguing didn’t help, so I think I ought to give turning up sweet at least a try.”

She said nothing to that particular piece of provocation, because they were rolling up and over a charming little stone bridge, and entering through the turreted stone gates of an estate. And Strathcairn went still with pleasure.
 

“We’re here.”

Quince was torn between looking at the scenery of this place she had so long imagined, or looking at the remarkable sight of Strathcairn looking eager—and, dare she say it, boyish—as he put the window down and leaned nearly all the way out. He was as close to avid as she had ever seen him.
 

There was no carefully curated veneer to him now. This was the man in full—eager, engaged and ready for every challenge. And entirely, whole-heartedly happy.

The coach ground to a stop in the large gravel forecourt, and Strathcairn flung open the door and bounded down without waiting for assistance. “We are home.”

“My Lord Cairn.” A retainer liveried in plaid came forward from the ranks of servants mustered in front of a massive stone building that seemed to rise straight up into the air like a monolith. “Welcome home.”
 

Behind him, Castle Cairn stood six stories high, softened here and there by the reflection from the odd window, like the glint in a giant’s eye.

How apt a place for her husband—the man who was Cairn.
 

“Thank you, McNab.” Strathcairn—Cairn—Alasdair—grasped the man’s hand. “Let me present to you your new Marchioness.” He turned to her in expectation.

Oh, holy stone castles. He was talking about her.
 

Quince scrambled out of the carriage and took the hand Strathcairn had politely extended, and immediately wished that she had taken greater care of her appearance this morning—at least enough to look more like a marchioness, and less like a gammy injured highwayman and thief who had married their laird under dicey circumstances.

But if the servants were shocked by her bandaged arm, and frankly rather shabby appearance without Plum to keep her from fashion ignominy, they hid it marvelously well. In fact, most were smiling as if she were not some scaffy, larcenous unknown, but a local favorite.

It almost made her want to be good, and worthy of their trust.

“My Lady Cairn, this is McNab, Steward of Castle Cairn.”

The weathered-looking gentleman in tartan trews bowed deeply before her. “Welcome to Castle Cairn, my leddy.”

“Thank you, sir.” Quince tried to surreptitiously shake a crease out of her skirt.

“Just McNab, my leddy.” The steward corrected her with a deferential bow.

“Oh, aye.” What a splendidly medieval beginning. Quince didn’t know which would take more getting used to—her to them, or them to her. “I thank you.”
 

But Strathcairn— No, Cairn—it was time she thought of him as Cairn, and as her husband. Her husband, Lord Cairn, was already leading her across the gravel forecourt to a plump, spry woman with a ring of ancient keys clasped on her belt, and a beacon of a smile lighting up her mouth. “Castle Cairn’s housekeeper, Mrs. Broom. My Marchioness, Quince, Lady Cairn.”
 

“My leddy.” The housekeeper sank into a deeply reverential curtsey, but seemed to be immediately lifted up by the natural buoyancy of her smile. “We’re that pleased tae welcome ye to Cairn. It’s sech a pleasure tae have wee Lord Alasdair—I beg yer pardon, yer lordship. It’s sech a pleasure tae no’ only have Lord Cairn come back tae us, but fra’ him tae gee us a new mistress as weel.”

Oh, this was better. Far less medieval, and a great deal little less feudally deferential. “Mrs. Broom.” Quince returned her inviting smile. “Wee Lord Alasdair, was he?”

“Aye, he was a grand wee rascal, our laird was as a lad.” She turned the warm ray of her smile upon him. “Just like his grandfather, God rest him. Loved tae roar with laughter all the day long with the wee lad. We could do with a bit of laughter here. But now ye’ve come back, and all will be sunshine and heather.”

“Just so.” Quince was delighted by Mrs. Broom’s marvelous ability to make a blushing tinge of red creep over her new husband’s shirt collar. “Sunshine and heather,” she informed him.

Her husband pretended he heard nothing of irony in her tone. “You have your marching orders, Lady Cairn.”

“Me? I rather think it’s you, wee, scrupulous, staid Lord Alasdair, who have been given yours.”

That hit of riddy color spilled nicely across his cheeks. It was marvelous to know he was not so stony and immune as he wanted her to think. “So I have. Let us show you into the house.”

“Strathcairn.” She could not seem to break herself of the pleasantly irreverent habit of calling him by his lesser title. But he did not seem to object, even in front of his people, so she gifted him with amusement. “This”—she gestured theatrically to the battlements rising several hundred feet above them—“can in no way be accurately described as a mere house.”

He laughed. “Welcome to Cairn Castle, my dear. And welcome home.”
 

My dear? She knew the endearment was only for the onlookers—a piece of domestic theater—but something warm and treacherous fluttered around in her belly, like moths drawn to the lethal warmth of his light.
 

Hope. That was what it was. Hope that perhaps, just this once, she might not be as bad as she pretended, or as bad as she had worked to become. Hope that maybe, just maybe, they might learn to rub along together just fine.

Her husband was every bit the gentlemanly bridegroom as he led her along the ranks of smiling, curtseying, bowing servants, whose names and faces she was trying to imprint upon her brain.
 

Until she came to the last, who stood between her and the wide oak door. Whose face was already imprinted upon her brain—the African gentleman.

Oh, holy stony silence. The very man whose purse had precipitated
everything,
was standing on the doorstep of her new home looking as severe and unsmiling as a hanging judge.

Heat and humiliation replaced the hope, scorching up her neck and across her face. There would definitely be no forgetting, no blank slate—if ever Alasdair was tempted to forget her sins, this man would remember and remind him. In fact, she would lay odds that every servant in the place, every last gardener, gamekeeper and shepherd high on the dotted hills would know her secrets and sins within the week. Perhaps they already did. Perhaps that was the reason for the smiles.

The scorch of embarrassment cooled into a chill that crept down her spine. She could lie, of course, just as she had always done, staying one step ahead of the innuendo with her own campaign of misdirection. But that would never work with Strathcairn and his scruples and abhorrence of deception.
 

There was really nothing for it but to put up her chin and endure the humiliation. And what could not be avoided must be tackled straightaway. And there was no avoiding the man—Strathcairn’s hand was at the small of her back, propelling her forward on legs that had gone treacherously shaky.

“My lady.” The African gentleman made a stately, but shallow declination of his head, but his eyes were everything narrow and knowing, as if he didn’t like what he saw, and he didn’t care who knew it. “We meet again.”

She knew that controlled, lawyer-like voice—he had been in the house with Strathcairn the night he had been accused of being the highwayman himself. No wonder he looked resentful. But he wasn’t the only one who could nurse resentment.

Endurance be damned. Since there was nothing she could say with Strathcairn by her side, letting the man humiliate her, saying nothing in her defense, she said nothing. And walked on, into the castle.

“Quince?” The caution in Strathcairn’s voice did not stop her, but in another moment, his ridiculously unfailing grip upon her wrist did. “Lady Cairn.” His voice had already become several degrees chillier. “What do you think you are doing?”
 

They were alone in the cavernous entry, with a dark carved staircase rising like scaffolding above their heads.
 

She rounded her hand from his grasp, and asked a question of her own. “Who is that African mon?”

Strathcairn did not have to ask to whom she referred. “I assume you mean my secretary, Mr. Sebastian Oistins.”

His secretary—a man permanently in his employ. A man who would permanently be part of
her
new life. But Strathcairn’s use of the man’s first name hinted at something beyond a disinterested business arrangement. This man—this man with whom he had obviously conspired to entrap her, this man who had witnessed Strathcairn shooting her—was his friend.

And Strathcairn was acting as such. “For your ignorant information, he is not African, but West Indian. And I will not stand idly by and see him suffer from such atrocious behavior. I expected better from you, of all people.”

“Atrocious?” He was talking about her—her behavior? Oh, holy stone deaf statues. “If you expected me to submit meekly to this humiliation, my lord, then you have misjudged my character.”

“Your character, Lady Cairn, is exactly what needs reforming.” His voice was growing louder with every word, working up to a growling roar. “And that reformation will begin now, this instant, when you will turn around and go back outside and speak to Mr. Oistins in a civil voice, with every ounce of courtesy you possess, regardless of your prejudices against the color of his skin. You will behave in a manner worthy of the House of Cairn. Do you understand me, my lady?”