“You will do nothing to bully my sister,” Calum told Arran.
“I am not in the habit of bullying women. Ask Grace.”
“Ah, yes.” Calum made a snorting sound. “She whose otherworldly notions you now follow so slavishly. Let us not forget the days when she first came to this castle. Let us not forget the shameful way you bullied her when you insisted upon judging her without as much as giving her a chance to speak for herself.”
Arran drew himself up to full and very impressive height. “History now,” he said shortly. “Understandable misunderstanding. Grace is the center of my life. There is no woman to compare with her—except your Philipa, of course. Charming creature.”
“Incredible creature,” Calum said, his eyes flashing. “Most beautiful, intelligent woman I ever met.”
“Certainly a great blessing to you,” Arran said, slapping his gloves against a palm. “Do I recall a certain reluctance in you to admit that blessing?”
“Never…” Calum sniffed. “Certainly not once I understood her true nature—and my own where she was concerned.”
“The minister is standing by,” Arran said, all brusque business. “Let us have no more of this disagreement between us.”
“We have no need of a minister,” Struan said, visually searching the area. “Send the man away.” If only he could rid himself of the certainty that hostile eyes watched from invisible hiding places.
“And that raises an issue you have avoided.” Calum pointed a long finger at Arran. “The wretch is a
Catholic.”
Arran struck a nonchalant pose. “If he were, it would make no difference. The fact is, for some fortuitous reason he did not choose to take his final vows. He was not
baptized
Catholic.”
“There is so much about him that has been hidden from us.” Calum's nostrils flared with suspicion. “I
feel
that secretiveness.”
Struan set his jaw. “I, my friends, do not give a damn what either of you do or do not think. I suggest you retrieve your mounts and go back to the castle.”
They dared to speak as if he had no part in this. As if Justine had no part. What, in God's name, had he done to that marvelous woman? Last night… He narrowed his eyes and strode across the stableyard. The sweet generosity—untouched generosity—he'd felt in her had disarmed him completely.
But he must insist she leave. Justine must be dispatched to Cornwall and a safe haven must be found for Ella and Max. “Justine loves him.”
Struan stood still. He did not trust himself to turn around.
“Poppycock,” Calum sputtered.
“And if the bounder would admit to such folly, I think he loves her, too.”
Very slowly, Struan rotated to face those who had decided to be his conscience, his brain… and his heart.
“Loves her,” Calum said. “She's old enough to be his… Well, his sister, dammit?”
“Philipa's old enough to be your sister,” Arran said, completely unruffled. “Grace is old enough to be mine.”
The two men stood, glaring at each other.
“They're old enough to be our younger sisters,” Calum retorted.
“And Justine is old enough to be Struan's wife,” Arran said. “She is a mere year his senior, and she is exactly what he needs.”
“And what,” Struan said, his voice tight, “do I need? Exactly?”
“A steadying influence,” Arran said promptly. “A woman to bring your life to some sort of order. Of course, you'll have to come clean about those—”
“Don't say that aloud. Ever.”
“Well, you will,” Arran said, undeterred. “You've had your share of running about the country doing God knows what.”
“God did know,” Struan reminded his brother. “God always knows.”
Calum and Arran exchanged a knowing glance before Calum said, “I'll not have my sister made a sacrifice to civilizing Struan. She's not strong. The whole notion is absolutely not on. You will release her at once and insist she come away with me to safety.”
“Safety?” Struan said. “Are you suggesting I have chosen to put Justine at risk?”
“You managed to get her here.”
“I didn't
manage
to get her here.”
Arran threaded one arm through Struan's right and the other through Calum's left and hauled them toward the building. “How Justine came to be here doesn't matter. She
is
here and that's that.”
“She's not staying,” Calum grumbled.
Arran marched on. “She
is
staying.”
“Will you stop trying to organize my life? I…” Struan pulled to a halt. Arran and Calum stopped just as abruptly. “Oh, my
God!”
Justine, dressed in the brilliant robe she'd worn when last he saw her, knelt on the earth beside a crumpled figure. On the ground lay a brass warming pan that had evidently broken free of the handle Justine still clutched.
Struan, Arran, and Calum ran forward.
“Justine,” Calum shouted. “I'm coming. Don't worry, I'm coming.”
Struan reached her first and went to one knee at her side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “My dear one. Oh, my poor, dear one. What happened here?”
She looked up, directly into his face. “I
hit
him.” Her mouth trembled and she held it tight over her teeth. “Is he dead?” Tears shimmered, but she blinked them back.
Her victim groaned.
“Not dead,” Struan said soothingly. “Only stunned.”
“Who is that bounder?” Calum asked. “By the devil, I knew I should have put a stop to this earlier.”
Arran said, “Good Lord,” very softly.
“You are insupportable,” Justine announced, her voice climbing higher with each word. She shook off Struan's arm. “I am utterly outraged by your irresponsibility.”
He flinched and attempted to help her up. The tears she'd suppressed suddenly overflowed.
“Look what you've done,” Calum said. “I've never seen Justine cry. Justine does not cry.”
“She's crying now,” Arran murmured.
“Shut up!” Struan and Calum said in unison.
“You may all shut up,” Justine announced. Without warning, she raised the handle above her head and wielded it at Struan.
He caught the wood easily enough with one hand and wrested it from her grasp.
“My gentle sister,” Calum lamented. “Not herself. Not herself at all.”
“Give that to me,” she demanded of Struan, reaching for the handle. She shook violently. “Give it to me at once. I must remain armed at all times so that I may protect those poor, innocent children you abandon with such ease. You, sir, are a heartless villain. You, sir, are no better than this creature who would have killed those children in their beds.”
For the first time Struan looked directly at the man on the ground, who had begun to stir.
“This is a pretty pickle,” Arran said, bending over and carefully rolling the man to his back. “Something tells me this is another of your impossible-to-explain fiascoes, brother.”
Robert Mercer, Gael's husband, pushed to sit up. Blood drizzled from a gash along his hairline.
“Restrain him!” Justine scrambled awkwardly to her feet and stood over Robert. “He was going into the lodge, I tell you. Struan, this must be the—”
“This is Robert Mercer,” Struan said rapidly. Sometimes the best one could do was try to minimize damage. “Robert very kindly agreed to keep a watch on the lodge while I visited Calum and Arran.”
“Robert Mercer?” Justine stared at Robert's pale face with abject horror. “Dear Gael's husband? Kirsty's father? Baby Niall's father?”
“I do believe you've identified the man adequately,” Calum murmured. “Can you stand, Robert?” He offered a hand.
Robert accepted Calum's help and stood up, blinking and obviously unsteady.
“Into the kitchens with him,” Arran said.
“Och, I'll do well enough,” Robert argued. “I'll away home now. Gael'll be wonderin’ if I'm a'right if I'm much longer.”
“You're not all right,” Arran said, putting an arm around the tenant's waist and all but lifting him from his feet. “You shall be properly patched up before you go another step. The stableboy from Kirkcaldy's on his way. He shall go and tell Gael you're with me. She won't worry then.”
For a moment Robert seemed disposed to argue. Then he said, “Aye,” and went silently into the building with Arran.
“Meeting with Arran and Calum before dawn?” Justine said. Her slender face had lost all color. “Are you certain you weren't—”
“It has been a habit of ours since we were boys here together,” Struan said. If necessary he would beg Justine not to mention the letters in front of Arran and Calum. “I would not have left if I'd suspected you might arise early and become afraid.”
Her chin arose. “I was not afraid. Not for myself. I only became disturbed when I saw that… when I saw Robert's face at the kitchen windows. Most disturbed.”
“How did you know Struan wasn't in the lodge?” Calum asked offhandedly. Not offhandedly enough to fool Struan.
“He wasn't in his apartments,” Justine said blithely.
“Do you mean you saw Robert outside, then went in search of Struan? Before coming outside to attend to matters yourself?”
Justine frowned and shook her head. “No. Struan had left his bed. Left the lodge. I knew that before…” Bright pink replaced pallor.
“Ah,” Calum said.
“You don't understand,” Justine said, her words tumbling together. “I went to Struan's bedchamber to see him. I mean…”
Calum turned dark, cold eyes on Struan. Coldly accusing eyes. “You damnable bounder,” he said, not quite under his breath.
“You are wrong,” Struan said, attempting a superior smile that didn't work at all. “None of this is as it seems.”
“Oh, no,” Justine agreed. “Absolutely not as it seems. You see, Struan helped me with the first phases of my book last night. He instructed me in—”
“Justine is quite serious about her project, Calum.”
Arran reappeared. “Mairi's up and tending Robert. Quite a blow to his noggin, Justine. One wouldn't expect such strength from one so delicately made.”
“I am not delicately made. Just because I'm a cripple—”
“You are not a cripple,” Struan said heatedly. “You are a lovely, exceedingly desirable woman who happens to limp a little. Do not let me hear you say such …”
Arran's black brows rose almost to his hair. Calum's brows pressed toward his eyes. Struan massaged his jaw.
“Justine was about to explain why she was in Struan's bedchamber this morning,” Calum announced. “And she was also going to reveal the interesting details of the instruction he gave her for the damnably foolish book she thinks she's going to write.”
“I am going to write it,” Justine said. “We dealt with the matter of the first meetings and the first kiss. And the first touches. These are not things a spinster is likely to know without instruction. Struan is very generous and supportive, and I for one consider him indispensable for the research I must conduct to complete my work. Without him I simply could not bring true veracity to the pages.”
Arran smiled, damn him.
Calum looked like a man who wished a pistol would miraculously appear in his hand.
Justine's brow puckered with concentration. “The kiss is a most complex, most interesting subject. I do not believe it will ever have been discussed in the depth I intend to present. There are so many nuances and—”
“Justine—”
“Hush, Struan. I do not want to lose my thought.”
Lose the thought. Please, God, let her lose the thought
.
“I am certain that if young females were aware of the sensations such touches can evoke. The inner stirrings brought about by fingers placed softly on—”
“Thank you
, Justine,” Calum said. “I do believe we have the general picture.”
Arran smirked. “Shall we continue this discussion inside? In the great hall Justine has made so habitable, perhaps?”
“That will probably be a fine idea,” Calum said. “After we greet the latest arrival.”
Preoccupation—and desperation—had caused Struan to ignore the sounds of approaching horses.
The gradual replacement of Justine's eager expression with something approaching disbelief—then despair—made him give his full attention to the newcomers.
“Oh, no,” Justine breathed.
Calum, his feet braced apart, let out an exasperated sigh. “We should have expected this.”
Drawn by two scruffy chestnut nags, a cart trundled into the stable yard. Perched inside, on a box, was a figure Struan would as well never have set eyes on again.
“Grandmama,” Calum said, crossing his arms.
Justine clutched her robe about her. “Sitting on a box. In the back of a cart.”
“Carriages don't make it along the track in its present condition,” Struan remarked to no one in particular. “Neglected. Too narrow and rough. Needs attention.”
The cart, driven by an exceedingly uncomfortable-looking Potts, drew to a halt. Potts climbed out and hurried to let down the backboard.
Calum cleared his throat and called, “Leave this to me, Potts,” as if his grandparent were goods to be handled.
The tiny, rigidly straight-backed figure in the cart rose majestically to her feet, stepped around the box, and approached the back of the cart in time to be met by Calum.
“The cane,” Justine moaned softly. “She's using her cane.”
“Is that so terrible?” Struan asked, thinking a lady of extremely advanced years might be expected to need considerably mo re help than a cane.
“She only uses it when she's incredibly angry.”
“Ah, yes.” Struan remembered a certain event in Cornwall when the old lady had felt obliged to carry the cane to underscore her authority. “She can be magnificently angry, can't she?”
“Yes. But I shall not be moved this time.”
Struan glanced sharply at Justine. Her features were set. Damn, but she was finally resolved to shake free of this tyrant—to “help” him—and he couldn't allow it.
Puffing, his thin face purplish and sweating, Potts produced steps. Calum held out his arms to the Dowager Duchess of Franchot. Dressed in heavy, rustling black with a shiny black straw bonnet covering most of her white hair, she rested one tiny, black-gloved hand on the back of his wrist and descended, utterly calmly, to the stable yard.
“Grandmama,” Justine said, abruptly rushing forward, her limp more pronounced than Struan had noted it to be since her arrival in Scotland. “My dear Grandmama. You should not have made such an arduous journey.”