She left a silent room behind her and walked determinedly through the red salon to the gallery beyond.
Struan caught up with her there. Without a word, he surrounded her waist and accompanied her downstairs to the vestibule.
“The new little carriage was delivered,” Caleb stated breathlessly, arriving behind them at a run. “I'll have it brought around. The track to the lodge is much improved.”
“My black would be preferable,” Struan said.
Caleb appeared confused. “Lady Justine will go alone in the carriage, my lord?”
“The viscountess will go with me, Caleb. On the black.”
The estate commissioner hurried away and Struan tilted up Justine's chin. “I should like to carry my bride to our home just as I carried her there when she first saw it.”
There were no words for what she felt.
“Soon I shall begin teaching you to ride yourself, Justine.”
“Ride?” she asked him, amazed.
“Yes, ride. I've told you I intend for you to do everything you can do, and you can learn to ride, my love.”
Just as I can be a wife to you in the way God intended a woman to be a wife to her husband
She must be patient. She must find a way to convince him that Grandmama had been wrong in her suggestions.
“I want to get away before the others come,” she told Struan, glancing upward toward the gallery.
Mairi came into view and hurried downstairs.
“The rest will not come,” Struan said. “Only Mairi because I told her to.”
“Here, m'lady.” Mairi draped a swansdown-trimmed ivory velvet cloak around Justine's shoulders. “All your needs have been attended to at the lodge.” She curtsied deeply and hurried away toward the kitchens.
Struan led Justine from the castle in time to be met by a groom walking the great black into the courtyard. While the boy held the animal steady, Struan mounted, reached down, and lifted Justine to sit sideways in front of him.
Clear skies met the tender April landscape. Scant sun warmed the early afternoon, but the air held a crystal snap that soothed Justine's cheeks. She narrowed her eyes against the breeze as the horse trotted from the courtyard.
Going home.
Going home with her husband.
Justine looked up at his lean face, at his tossed black hair. She had lain with him once, but not as she wished to lay with him. He had said
It
must wait for this day. Now this day was here. Surely he would not turn from their joining because of Grandmama's terrible warnings.
“I'm sorry about the cradle,” he said, his eyes trained on the path ahead.
She rested her face on his shoulder. “I'm not. It's a measure of how much the people of Kirkcaldy care for you and Arran. And it's very beautiful.”
“It made you unhappy.”
“Don't be silly.” She forced a little laugh. “I was overcome by the thought of our baby, is all.”
He took the reins in one hand and held her tightly with his free arm. He did not speak again on the way to the lodge.
This time they didn't enter by the kitchens. At the sound of the horse's hoofs, a man Justine had never seen before threw open the studded oak door leading from the front of the lodge into the center tower with its gilded crown of cavorting dragons. Behind the man filed a line of servants, male and female, to form a phalanx on the short flight of steps.
The tall, distinguished-looking man came toward them, but Struan had already dismounted and was lifting Justine to the ground. Her leg chose that moment to weaken, and she caught at Struan's arm.
“Welcome, my lord—your ladyship. I'm Nudge. Allow me to introduce—”
“Thank you,” Struan said shortly, supporting Justine's weight. “We'll save the introductions for later, Nudge. This is our new butler, my dear. I understand he came with high praise from Northcliff Hall.”
With that, and a brief nod to each servant they passed, he hurried Justine inside the lodge. She barely had time to smile at the little entourage, but she did hear murmured “oohs” from some of the maids and a whispered “what a bonnie gown.”
He wanted them to be alone.
Anticipation of being with him—really with him—sent her blood thundering through her veins. The weakness she felt now had nothing to do with her capricious leg.
She checked her stride, uncertain what was expected of her now.
“You are tired,” Struan said. “You should rest.”
How could she be tired. “I do not need to rest.”
“Your welfare is my responsibility. Come. Let us go to your apartments.”
For the first time Justine realized she had no idea how they should manage their married life. Ella and Max were to remain at the castle for a few days. Suitable household arrangements must be established before they returned.
In her sitting room, Struan removed the soft cloak and set it aside. He turned her to face him and said, “I should like a painting of you in that dress. Would you allow me that pleasure?”
She nodded. Speech seemed determined to desert her frequently.
“We will…” He played with pearls at her wrist. “We will do well enough, Justine. We must be patient.”
Her throat closed. It hurt.
“I told Mairi you would not need her assistance today. Was that all right?” “Yes.”
He raised his head. “Come. Let me help you”
At first she failed to understand him. When his meaning became clear, heat and cold crossed her skin by turns. She took his hand and went with him into her bedchamber.
Upon the counterpane rested a box. On the lid was the Princes Street, Edinburgh, address of the modiste who had made Justine's wedding gown. Struan removed the lid and drew forth a nightgown and robe of white silk broché, the satin figuring being in the form of lilies, each outline in thread of silver.
Justine gasped at the beauty of the garments.
Struan smiled, bringing back the devilish slant to his features. “I take it that means I chose well?”
“You chose?”
“Yes, I chose. Does it surprise you that I might be able to imagine what would please you?”
He had chosen her gown for their wedding night. “Nothing about you surprises me. I believe you can do anything.”
His smile fixed. He glanced away, then at the nightgown and robe. “I wish that were true,” he said. “I hope to God it
will
be true. Turn around. I will unfasten your gown.”
An instant rush of heat suffused Justine, but she did as he asked and stood obediently still while he undid the small pearl fastenings on the back of her bodice.
What could he mean,
he hoped to God he could do anything?
Was he referring to fear over what was about to happen? Fear that Grandmama's dire projections might prove true?
Struan took the heavy gown over her head and stretched it out carefully on the long ottoman at the foot of the bed. Then he guided her before her glass and made her sit while he began the process of dismantling her elaborate coiffure.
Justine tried not to see herself, tried not to see how transparent her chemise was over her breasts and how her nipples showed plainly, and thrust against the tucked lawn.
At last the strands of pearls were removed, and the small white rosebuds. Her hair came down heavily to curl against her back.
“I shall not brush it,” Struan said, using his fingers instead. “It pleases me to see it tumbled so. This is who you are, my love. The wide-eyed girl for whom the whole world is fascinating. Not the serious, distant woman some would have you be.”
“No.” He was right, so right.
He studied her in the glass, his gaze drifting down to her breasts. “I am a fortunate man. I cannot imagine why I've been blessed with you.”
“Struan—”
“Let me speak, my love. This is harder than you can imagine.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her hair. Slowly, he stroked her neck, and the soft rise at the tops of her breasts.
Justine caught her breath and leaned back against him.
“You will always be my only love. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” she told him. “And you shall be mine.”
“I should like to see you without the chemise,” he told her. “May I do that?”
Her gaze flew to his face in the glass. “It is still daylight.”
“Just so,” he agreed. “The better for me to see you.”
She would not cover her breasts.
She would not hide from him … entirely. “I told you I could never be naked before you.”
“Why?”
“You know the answer. I have a deformity. Grandmama told—”
“Do
not
mention that word—or that woman—to me again.”
Justine shrank before his ferocious outburst. “I cannot,” she whispered.
Struan crossed his wrists in front of her and grazed the tips of her peaked nipples with his palms. “You are perfect,” he told her, making agonizingly slow circles on her aching flesh. His fingers folded over her breasts and he brought his lips to her bare shoulder. “And it is for me to make certain that you know how perfect you are.”
She felt his hands tremble—and the answering shudder that blazed from those hands to the utmost depths of her body.
He helped her to her feet and led her to the bed where he had set the gown and robe. “Will you allow me to make you ready for rest?”
Rest? She shook so terribly that he must surely see. “You will turn away from me, Struan. I cannot bear to think of that.”
“Will you allow me to make you ready?”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
He removed the last of her clothing slowly. Justine did nothing to accommodate him. She waited, her eyelids squeezed together, for his withdrawal from her.
Gold air smote her, but she was too hot with shame to shiver. He placed her hands upon his shoulders. She drew her lips back from her teeth. He must be kneeling before her, and she was entirely revealed but for her stockings and slippers.
One by one, Struan took off her slippers, then her garters and the stockings.
The first touch was from his lips, from his lips upon her belly.
Justine drove her fingertips into the fine stuff of his coat and the hard muscle beneath.
He held her waist.
His mouth slid, leaving a trail of warm kisses, to her damaged hip.
She waited.
Despite her best attempts to restrain them, tears escaped the corners of her eyes.
Struan spread wide his fingers to traverse her sides, to trace the contours of her thighs, and while he did so his kisses passed on to the sensitive, puckered scars upon her leg.
A choked sob escaped her throat.
“Hush,” he said against her skin. “You are as I have told you. You are perfect and we shall share so much, you and I. Open your eyes.”
She shook her head.
“Yes,” he urged. “Do as I ask.”
Unwillingly, she did so but trained her gaze upon the wall. “How can you regard this as so terrible?” he asked, stroking her hip. “Look.
Do
you look at yourself?”
Justine shook her head again.
“Then do so now.”
She would please him, even if only by obeying his wishes. Her tears flowed more freely but she did look, and shudder afresh. The scar on her hip curved like a crescent moon, the skin very pale and drawn tight after so many years. A single, shiny welt slashed from one groin to the outside of her knee. The rocks had left sunken hollows there.
“You see,” Struan said. His strong, tanned fingers massaged the scars. “Not so terrible, hmm?”
She averted her eyes once more.
Struan rose to his feet. “A few scars, my love. And they will soften the more with loving. I love them because they are part of you and because the sea did nothing more than scratch you when it might have taken your life.” He tilted her face up to his and kissed her with lingering passion. She made fists at her sides, fists that slowly rose to rest upon his chest beneath his coat.
This was one of the wonderful kisses that caressed the inside as well as the outside of her mouth. Justine ran her hands around Struan's neck and gave herself up to the kiss. He did not find her repulsive. Her heart sang the amazing news. Struan did not find her scars repulsive!
He muttered something she could not understand and lifted his mouth from hers. Reaching behind her he took up the nightgown and slipped it over her head.
“Struan?” She felt him tense, grow subtly, amazingly
angry?
“You make me so happy,” she told him, her heart beginning to drum the harder.
“I
will
make you happy.” His eyes met hers. “I
will.
Only I must make certain … I must make certain of… of matters.”
“Matters?”
With fierce haste, Struan dressed her in the gown and then swung her up into his arms. He tossed back the covers and deposited her upon the mattress.
Puzzled, Justine told him, “It will be all right for us,” and smiled through the tears that still stung her eyes. “We must trust it will.”
Abruptly, he thrust a hand into his hair and began to pace beside her.
She sat up and reached for him. “Come. Come to me, Struan.”
He paused and stared at her. “I cannot,” he said, very low. “Damn it to
hell,
I cannot. I must think my love. Decide how to proceed.
“Let me help you.”
His snort of laughter wounded her.
“Is it what Grandmama said? Is that what keeps you from me?”
“Wrong,” he muttered. “So much wrong. I thought it could be overcome.”
“It
can.”
“I will not have the loss of innocent lives upon my hands.”
Ignoring her outstretched arms, he strode from the room.
D
usk inched over the day, spread a film of gossamer gray across the sky and the hills. Shadow painted the opposite bank of the river from where Struan's black lowered its head to drink.
Not as much as a breeze moved reeds at the water's edge.
The world seemed to wait.
Struan flipped the reins back and forth. He was waiting, waiting for inspiration—waiting for the unspeakable, praying for deliverance.
His wedding day.
Justine hadn't understood his behavior. How could she? How could she know that he was indeed afraid of harming her, but not only by making her with child? Almost more, he feared that she might be taken from him and exposed to abominable horrors.