Imposter Bride (28 page)

It was a price many women paid.

They rode in silence for an hour as the intense
morning fog gradually dissipated. Around two o’clock, Edward
stirred across from her and pointed toward the window near her
head. “Your grandmother’s estate,” he announced.

“Really?” Sophie strained her eyes to see what
looked like a Tudor style house in the distance, sitting on a knoll
at the end of a lake.

“What a spectacular view she must have!”

“Not nearly as fine as the view Highclyffe affords.
Can you see it on the right?”

“Where?”

“Across the lake.”

“I see gray cliffs, nothing more.”

“Highclyffe is built atop those cliffs. Can you see
it now?”

“No, it’s too far away.”

“It is built of the same stone it sits upon, so you
may not be able to distinguish one from the other.” He sat back. “I
can’t say Highclyffe is a thing of beauty, but it does cast a
certain rough spell on a person. My father liked to come up here to
hunt.”

“And you? Did you spend much time up here?”

“Hardly. I’m not partial to the countryside.” He
took a pinch of snuff, and Sophie noticed how large and
unattractive his nostril appeared when he inhaled the tobacco. She
knew all such habits and dislikes would magnify with marriage. She
shuddered, but Edward continued to chat, unaware of her reaction to
him. “There’s not much to do up here in the wilderness. I suppose
one would say I’m a creature of the city.”

“What about riding?” she asked. “It looks like a
wonderful place to ride.”

“I loathe horses. Absolutely can’t bear the smell of
them.”

“Oh. Well, what about hunting?”

“Never liked the sight of blood. I would think you
would find that admirable about me, Katherine.”

“Indeed.” She nodded.

He pulled open a compartment near his feet and took
out a small leather case, not much larger than a writing table.
“When I was fourteen, my father made me go on a hunt with him. He
brought down a boar that day. When I made some perfectly sensible
remark about the barbarity of the sport, he flew into one of his
rages. He made me finish off the poor beast and gut it. It ruined
my best country coat and breeches—they were covered in blood by the
time I was done. I’ve never hunted since. And I never forgave my
father for humiliating me.”

“He thought to teach you a lesson, perhaps.”

“One that I had no use for.”

Sophie thought back to her harsh life of servitude.
How different her life would be right now if she had had a father
and mother to take care of her, to look out for her, to teach her.
She felt a hot flood of loneliness wash over her, and kept from
weeping only by forcing herself to continue the conversation.

“Perhaps the lesson to be learned from the
experience was how to be a more understanding father yourself.”

“A father?” Edward stared at her. “Me? I haven’t the
stomach for such a career.”

“You don’t want children?”

“Heavens, no! How tedious.”

Sophie sat back, stunned. She could bear the thought
of marriage to a man she didn’t love, but she had never dreamed she
would have to accept a life without children as part of the
bargain.

“What about an heir? Don’t you want a son to carry
on your family name?”

“My younger brother has taken care of that.”

“Younger brother?”

“He’s a clergyman. You haven’t met him yet. He has
six children already, a veritable pack of screaming little
vermin.”

Edward opened the case and took out a silver flask
from which he expertly poured himself a drink, despite the jostling
of the coach upon the rough highway. Sophie watched him, worried
that he felt the need to drink before noon, and alarmed at his
opinion of children.

“My plan,” he drawled, crossing his legs and
relaxing with an arm along the back of the seat, “Is to take his
eldest son, George, I believe his name is, give him a proper
education, and announce him as my heir when he’s come of age.”

“And how old is he now?”

“Five, as I recall. We don’t see them much, they’re
so busy with their flock.”

Sophie looked down, “I always fancied myself having
a child or two.”

“Why?” Edward laughed. “Childbearing ruins a woman’s
figure, not to mention endangers her life. I wouldn’t want anything
to happen to you, Katherine. You are far too beautiful to put your
looks and health at risk. Besides, I find women with children to be
complete bores. Their brats— that’s all they ever talk about.”

Sophie knew better than to argue with him or mention
that other people were equally boring, including him.

“How do you propose to keep from having children?”
she asked.

“You can see to that,” he answered. “There are
medicines you can take, surely you must know.”

“But I’ve heard such measures are not
foolproof.”

“If a mistake occurs, then you will see a
surgeon.”

Sophie felt her face go white. “To have the child
cut out?”

“I know women who have it done all the time. ‘Tis
nothing.”

“But what if I don’t want to go through such a
procedure?”

Edward lowered his glass. “Then I would have to
consider the child a bastard, wouldn’t I? And you would have to put
it out to nurse. And that would be the end of that.”

Sophie stared at the window, stunned by the turn in
the conversation but more so by her soon-to-be-husband’s shocking
sangfroid.

She heard him chuckle.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, my dear. Really, I’m doing
this for your own good. We’re going to enjoy life without being
saddled by responsibilities. We will travel, see Italy, see Egypt.
Go to parties, take up any kind of hobby. Wouldn’t you like
that?”

“Of course. But I never dreamed I wouldn’t have a
family.”

“George will be like our son. You’ll grow fond of
him. You’ll see. And you’ll thank me later, when you still turn
heads while the rest of the women your age become bloated
insufferable cows.”

Sophie spent the rest of the journey in silence,
concentrating on the gradually-appearing details of Highclyffe,
watching the fortress take form before her eyes so she wouldn’t
burst into tears at the thought of the path she’d decided to take
for herself.

Highclyffe rose from the mist, a bastion of granite
topped by square towers on each corner, and a fifth central tower
at the entrance. Up a steep winding drive they crept, a lane easily
defended because of the sheer drop to the lake below on one side
and the stark rock walls on the other.

“It looks deserted,” Sophie commented, gazing up at
the dark windows.

“It isn’t. A caretaker and his wife live here year
round and look after the place. She’s a passable cook but doesn’t
have much of an imagination. Can’t blame her, though, poor heathen.
I expect her kin’s idea of a kitchen was a spit and a bonfire up in
the hills somewhere.”

“She’s Scottish?”

“They both are. Willing to work for a pittance, too.
I pay them for half a year what I pay my valet for a single month!”
He finished his drink. “They’re lucky to live here, and they know
it.”

“I’ve heard that many Scotsmen come south to look
for work because times are so hard.”

“Yes, well, they’d best stay in their own damned
country. We don’t need a pack of savages snatching up the jobs of
good hardworking Englishmen.”

He put away his small silver glass and returned the
case to its compartment while Sophie digested the harshness of his
words. She watched him slide the leather case into place beside
another smaller one. What did the other case contain? More whisky?
She hadn’t been around Edward enough to become aware of his
drinking habits. Was she about to marry a wastrel?

Edward sat back and smiled, unaware of her concern.
“We’ve made good time today. What say I go into the village and
make arrangements with the magistrate. Then, in the morning, we’ll
get dressed, get married, and have a nice dinner—such as can be had
around here.”

“You don’t feel the need to press on tonight with
the wedding?”

“Worried, my dove?” He reached out to pat her knee.
“No one will be here to stop us. And if someone were to be in
pursuit of us, they wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning at the
earliest. Your grandmother couldn’t have discovered us missing all
that quickly. And who would brave such roads?”

“I suppose you’re right. I’m just a bit
anxious.”

“So am I, so am I.” He winked at her. “But I don’t
want to rush through the ceremony tonight and have you too tired to
enjoy the evening to come. After the long wait, I want us both
well-rested for the marriage bed.”

“Of course.”

Ramsay made good time on the muddy road and by three
o’clock had ridden past Dunure and around the lake, his heart
lifting as he recognized the shoreline and hills of his childhood
home. Yet in the winter, the hills were dark and forbidding and the
wind stiff, with no other rider or wanderer upon the highway, a
reminder of the loneliness he would face once he actually saw the
ramparts of Highclyffe, for the fortress was no longer the haven of
the clan MacMarrie.

He had no idea what had been done to the fortress
during his twenty-year absence, or if its English masters had made
any mark upon it at all. The Metcalfs may have completely changed
its appearance. He prayed that financial problems might have stayed
Edward Metcalf’s hand at least. In the distance, Ramsay could just
make out the silhouette of the towers rising from the granite cliff
above the lake. From what he could see, the outward lines had not
been altered.

A half hour later, reluctant to show himself to
anyone at Highclyffe until he had time to inquire at the village as
to whom might be occupying the place, he took the back path, so
overgrown as to be almost invisible. He walked his horse through
the ankle-deep snow and matted grass, his gaze never leaving the
dark stones of Highclyffe, his thoughts never straying from the
last black hours he had spent here. He could still hear the
screams, still hear the roar of the fire and smell the stench of
burning flesh.

He tried to shut off the memory by inspecting the
outer walls of the fortress. Not much had changed about the place,
except for a general state of disrepair which shrouded Highclyffe
like a tattered garment. Many of the stones needed dressed, windows
were broken, casements were cracked and covered with moss, and the
grounds appeared forlorn and unkempt—or maybe they appeared so only
to a troubled man who had arrived in the dead of winter.

Heart heavy, Ramsay decided to continue down the
path to the shore of the lake, to a spot he’d always loved. There
he would watch the sun go down on his beloved Highclyffe, the home
for which he planned to barter a woman’s soul. He turned his
mount’s head for the lake.

After meeting the caretakers of Highclyffe, John and
Jessie MacEwan, Sophie ate a small afternoon meal of cold pullet
and buttered bread while Edward dressed and left for the village.
Sophie wandered through the chilly deserted rooms of Highclyffe,
haunted by the solemn echo of her own footsteps. Ancient
tapestries, likely centuries old, hung from the walls in the great
hall, but other than that the few pieces of furniture in the
fortress seemed like recent afterthoughts, and were woefully out of
place.

Sadness permeated the shadowy halls, and Sophie
caught herself looking over her shoulder, certain she had felt
something or had seen something move, only to find herself alone.
One grand stairway rose in the main hall, while other narrow steps
curved up into darkness to the floor above. She took one of the
corner stairs, only to be frightened nearly out of her wits when
Mr. MacEwan pulled open the door of the second level, just as she
reached for it.

“Good heavens!” she gasped, collapsing against the
cold wall behind her. “You gave me a fright!”

“Sorry, lass.” He held open the door and motioned
her through.

“Thank you,” she commented, stepping through the
doorway. “This place has quite unnerved me.”

“You’d best be careful.” He glanced over his
shoulder and held up the brace of candles he carried to throw more
light on the stairs. “There’s spirits about. And not all bonny
ones.”

“Spirits?” The flesh on the back of her neck and
arms prickled.

“Aye.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper.
“Of the Clan MacMarrie.”

“Who are they?”

“The rightful owners of the place. Had they
lived.”

“What happened to them?”

“Hanged or burned. The whole lot of ‘em.”

“How awful!” She felt her hands go cold. “Everyone?
Even the women and children?”

“Well, the rumor flew for a while that the laird’s
son had escaped. But nothin’ was ever seen of the lad after the
fire. He either died, or had sense enough to go into hidin.’”

Sophie could think of nothing to say in reply. The
story was too grim for further comment.

John MacEwan nodded, his gaze trailing upward toward
the ceiling. “Sometimes I see the laird of the place walkin’ on the
battlements, his black hair a-blowin’ in the wind off the lake, and
him looking south t’ England, bidin’ his time, just bidin’ his
time.”

“You mean to say you see the
dead
lord—a
ghost?”

“Aye. His shade haunts the place. He can’t sleep for
the injustice of it, ye see.”

Sophie hugged her arms, suddenly and uncomfortably
cold. “Who killed him? The English?”

“Aye. Durin’ the rebellion. Highclyffe’s sorriest
hour.”

“And now they own his castle.”

“And are letting it go to ruin as well.” MacEwan
frowned. “I gave Lord Metcalf a whole list of things that must be
repaired and replaced the last time he was here, and he just threw
it in the fire. Laughed in my face, he did. The whole place is
going to crumble to mold one of these days, if they don’t take
care!”