Authors: Patricia; Grasso
Rob realized she needed to make the marquess understand that her rejection was nothing personal. How could she do that without revealing that her own MacArthur kinsmen had made her an outcast in her native land? Her happiness hinged on remaining in England, but she would never share that supreme humiliation with the marquess. She wanted no man’s pity.
Afternoon aged into long shadows as the sun drifted westward on its eternal journey. At Charing Cross, Gordon and Rob veered to the left and rode down the Strand, London’s most elite section, where the English nobility lived in their stately mansions.
Reaching the circular lane that led to Devereux House, Rob flicked the marquess a sidelong glance filled with regret. Bitter rejection had dogged her life for eighteen years because of the fear and the mistrust Old Clootie’s flower evoked in others. Now Rob understood that hurting another caused the perpetrator pain. She longed to recall her hasty outburst and to begin again, this time to speak more gently.
Two Devereux grooms rushed forward to take their horses when they reached her uncle’s courtyard. Gordon dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the men. Then he turned and, without a word, lifted her out of the saddle.
“I’m sincerely sorry for hurtin’ yer feelin’s,” Rob apologized, determined to make amends for her unpardonable behavior.
Gordon gave her a measuring look, an unrecognizable emotion flickering in his gray-eyed gaze. “Only a man who loved ye would be hurt by what ye revealed,” he told her. “True love — if there be such a thin’ — takes time. I scarcely know ye, lass.”
“Why are ye angry?” Rob asked, strangely disgruntled that he cared not a whit for her.
“Yer my wife,” Gordon answered. “No man takes what’s mine.”
“I belong to myself.”
“Ye spoke yer vows before God and man, lass. And, ye shouldna have played the English marquess for a fool. ’Twas ill done of ye.”
Rob opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed one finger across her lips in a gesture for silence. She stared up at him, mesmerized by the gleaming intensity in his eyes, oblivious to the effect her own disarming gaze was having on him at the moment.
“I’m sorry for frightenin’ ye,” Gordon apologized in a voice no louder than a husky whisper.
Rob straightened her back proudly, unable to cast her fierce heritage off completely. “’Twasna fear ye saw on my face, merely a smidgen of uneasiness,” she lied. “I knew ’twas yer anger talkin’ and didna believe ye’d do anythin’ rash.”
“Is that so?” Gordon raised his brows at her and warned, “I always mean what I say, and make no mistake aboot it.”
“An admirable trait that few men possess,” Rob said with a conciliatory smile, purposefully deflecting what could have become another argument.
“Thank ye, I think.”
“Would ye care to step inside and share a goblet of wine?” she invited him.
“Aye, lass.” Gordon flashed her one of his devastating smiles. “I love bein’ in yer company.”
Carelessly spoken words uttered by a sophisticated man of the world, Rob told herself as a warm, melting sensation heated the pit of her stomach and then spread through her body, making her limbs weak. Great Bruce’s ghost, his effect on her verged on sickening.
Rob dropped her gaze to the hand he offered her in truce and then peered up at him from beneath the fringe other sooty lashes. With a shy smile, she placed her hand in his.
At that hour of the afternoon, the great hall was nearly deserted. In fact, only the earl and his countess sat in chairs drawn up in front of the hearth. Earl Richard rose when they entered the hall and offered Rob his scat. As if on cue, Jennings arrived and nodded once at his lord’s unspoken command to bring refreshment.
“I assumed the girls would be aboot,” Rob remarked, feeling horribly awkward. She loved her aunt’s brother, yet here she sat in the company of her Scots husband and her aunt.
“Last night wearied them,” Lady Keely told her. “They willingly went down for a nap. Even Blythe and Bliss.”
Rob smiled. “Where’s Isabelle?”
“She’s gone,” the countess answered.
“Lady Delphinia recalled her to court,” Earl Richard explained. “The message arrived shortly after you’d ridden out.”
“I didna get the chance to bid her farewell,” Rob cried.
As she always did when upset, Rob traced a finger back and forth across her birthmark. She turned an angry glare on the marquess whom she blamed for taking her away from Devereux House. She should have been here with her friend.
The marquess missed her accusing glare. His interested gaze rested on the movement of her hands as she furiously ran a finger back and forth across the devil’s flower.
Rob despised anyone but family seeing the mark, and she quickly moved her right hand to cover the stain. When the marquess raised his gaze to hers, Rob flushed with embarrassment and looked away.
“Dubh escorted Isabelle to Hampton Court,” Earl Richard said, noting the byplay between them.
“Dubh too?” Rob echoed, her spirits sinking. Who would help her entertain the marquess? At least, her brother could have kept the man busy. If only Henry would come home from court . . .
Jennings chose that moment to return to the great hall. Instead of refreshments, the earl’s majordomo carried a scaled parchment and bouquet of flowers — a single, perfect orchid in the midst of six red roses.
“A courier just delivered these from Hampton Court,” Jennings announced, handing both to her.
“How lovely.” Rob opened the missive and read it. Without looking up at the others, she said in a voice filled with disappointment, “Elizabeth has chosen Henry to be this year’s Lord of Misrule. Plannin’ the Yule’s activities prevents him from returnin’ home for a visit.”
Uneasy about what she would see, Rob peeked at Gordon. His expression of satisfaction reminded her of a sleek predator with its quarry trapped. She quickly dropped her gaze.
“Roses signify love,” Earl Richard said to his wife in an unnecessarily loud voice. “What do orchids represent?”
“In the language of flowers,” Gordon answered before the countess could speak, “a man who gifts a woman with a single orchid means to seduce her.”
Staring at her hands in her lap, Rob refused to look at the marquess though she did feel his gaze upon her. She already knew what emotion would be written across his face. Henry’s sensuous message would certainly irritate him, and knowing that made her uneasy.
“Since Dubh has deserted you, stay with us at Devereux House,” Earl Richard invited the marquess.
Rob snapped her head up and stared in surprised dismay at her uncle. How could her own flesh and blood betray her? That the marquess slept next door disturbed her enough, but how could she survive with him in the same house? Just thinking about it was enough to give her the hives.
“Yes, do.” This encouragement came from Lady Keely.
Gordon smiled. “’Tis kind of ye . . . I’ll go next door and fetch my belongin’s.” Without even a glance in her direction, the marquess left the hall.
“How could ye do this to me?” Rob exclaimed. “I willna be able to get away from him.”
Earl Richard snapped his brows together at his niece’s impertinence and then, in a deceptively calm voice, reminded her, “You did promise to become acquainted with him.”
“A world of difference lies between becomin’ acquainted and livin’ beneath the same roof,” Rob protested. “I willna enjoy any privacy.”
“The Marquess of Inverary is a stranger in England,” the earl said. “’Twould be shameful to expect him to stay alone at the Dowager House. Where are your manners and your Highlander’s code of hospitality?”
“Gordon isna an ordinary traveler,” Rob argued. “He is —”
“— your husband,” the countess interrupted.
“I dinna want him,” Rob cried, frustrated with their logic. “Whether ye approve or no, I intend to remain in England and marry the man I love.”
“Do you want to remain in England because you love Henry?” Lady Keely asked in a quiet voice. “Or do you love Henry because you want to remain in England?”
That loaded question shocked the anger out of Rob. Before she could profess her love for Henry, Jennings returned to the hall.
“The Marquess of Inverary asked me to give you this,” the majordomo announced, handing her a bunch of sweet alyssum. The man turned to his mistress and whispered, “I think he stole them from your garden.”
Lady Keely bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. With a flick of her hand and a nod, she dismissed the majordomo.
“Look at the common flowers he sends me,” Rob complained, as if that were reason enough to banish him to the Dowager House.
Lady Keely smiled knowingly and then informed her, “In the language of flowers, sweet alyssum signify ‘worth beyond beauty.’”
The marquess’s sentiment surprised Rob. He didn’t seem like a man concerned with a woman’s worth. She gazed at the flowers in her hands and steeled herself against him. His sweet thoughtfulness was a ploy to get her to ride north where she would live unhappily ever after. Not only did she need to discourage Gordon Campbell but also to guard her heart against the arrogant Highlander. Danger to her peace of mind lurked in his gray-eyed gaze and his devastating smile.
Rob sighed. Too bad Gordon Campbell hadn’t been born English . . . Too bad she’d been cursed with Old Clootie’s flower . . . Too bad her aunt’s probing question was beginning to give her a headache.
Did she want to remain in England because she loved Henry? Or did she love Henry because she wanted to remain in England?
Chapter 4
Drinking Old Man’s milk . . . Riding her horse astride . . . Wearing a last resort strapped to her leg.
His MacArthur bride was a Highlander all right. Gordon knew that as surely as he knew he was standing in the English Earl of Basildon’s study and looking out the window at the River Thames.
Gordon lifted his gaze from the mist-shrouded river to the blazing sun dying in the western sky and wondered what motivated his bride’s behavior. Did the not-so-timid angel he’d married want to be an English lady because she truly loved the English marquess? Or was it something else that incited her to speak so disparagingly of her homeland? Sooner or later, he’d learn the answer to that. Time favored him. His bride had nowhere to run. Except into his arms.
Abruptly, Gordon turned away from the window. The bottom edge of his plaid whirled slightly with the sudden movement. He sat in the chair in front of the hearth and stretched his long legs out.
What would his reluctant bride do when she saw him dressed in the northern mode? That thought brought a hint of a smile to his lips. He could hardly wait for their next encounter, which would happen very soon now since he’d instructed the earl’s majordomo to direct Rob to the study where he’d be waiting. And just what was taking her so long to answer his summons? Was she perhaps preening in front of a pier glass to verify she appeared attractive enough to interest him?
Thoroughly relaxed by the warmth of the fire, Gordon yawned and stretched. He might as well steal a ten-minute catnap. Gordon closed his eyes and drifted off into a light slumber, but he’d only dozed five minutes when the sound of voices penetrated his mind.
“That’s him,” a voice said.
“Holy stones, he’s wearing a skirt.”
“’Tis his kilt,” came the explanation.
Gordon awakened, but kept his eyes closed in feigned sleep. The voices belonged to young girls, and he thought to learn new information regarding his bride. After all, children were notoriously honest. At times, brutally so.
“His knees are naked.”
“Yes, I see.”
Unable to resist the urge, Gordon opened his eyes a crack. From beneath his dark lashes, he spied two girls standing in front of him.
“He’s got dimples on them,” the younger of the two remarked, leaning closer to inspect his knees. “Do you think Uncle Iain also wears a skirt?”
“I suppose so,” the older girl replied. “’Tis their manner of dress in the Highlands.”
“Does Daddy have knees too?” a third child asked from where she stood beside his chair.
Like a multitude of cherubs, the angelic sound of giggling girls echoed within the study. Unable to feign sleep another moment, Gordon opened his eyes and sat up straight. He glanced around and saw that five ebony-haired, violet-eyed angels surrounded him.
“I’m Blythe,” said the oldest who appeared to be about ten years.
“And I’m Bliss,” the eight-year-old added.
“Summer and Autumn stand on your right,” Blythe said. “On your left is Aurora.”
“Summer and Autumn are twins,” Bliss told him.
“The man can see they’re twins,” Blythe informed her sister.
Six-year-old Aurora leaned close, and wearing a childishly flirtatious smile, asked, “What do you call a Highlander who eats ants?”
“Uncle!” shouted Summer and Autumn.
Gordon burst out laughing. “And I suppose yer the earl’s daughters?”
All five of them bobbed their heads in unison. “Do you love Cousin Rob?” Blythe asked baldly. Before he could reply. Bliss said, “Uncle Henry loves her too.”