The Devil Wears Tartan Page 13

  “I wouldn’t want to leave you, Your Ladyship,” Nora said, looking offended. “I won’t be leaving Ambrose without you, miss,” she said, and for once she didn’t use the ubiquitous title. “I’ve been asked to care for you, and care for you I will.”

  “I don’t need anyone to care for me, Nora,” Davina said softly. “I’m perfectly able to care for myself. But I thank you just the same. You take your responsibility seriously, and that is something for which you should be commended.”

  But she wasn’t a puppy in need of rescuing, or a poor, downtrodden woman of the street. She was a newly made countess, married to an earl of some renown, living in a magnificent home with dozens and dozens of servants to command. Anything she wanted would be given to her. Any task would be quickly and expertly performed.

  Why, then, did she interpret Nora’s look to be one of pity?

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to return to Edinburgh?” Davina asked.

  Nora merely clamped her lips together mulishly and shook her head.

  “Very well,” Davina said.

  This was the most intimate conversation the two women had ever had. Years of training on how to behave around servants came to her rescue then. She held her head up high and managed a small smile.

  “Thank you, Nora. That will be all.”

  Nora nodded once, and then turned and left the room without a backward glance or another word spoken. Davina watched as she opened and then closed the door behind her. Where was she going now? To the kitchen, perhaps, to seek out a new friend, someone who would listen to her complaints about her mistress? Or to the servants’ quarters?

  How very odd to be jealous of Nora suddenly. She wanted to switch roles with the young girl whose future would probably always be serving someone else. Yet the girl never seemed to suffer from lack of friendship, and she almost always had a smile on her face. Life was amusing for Nora. And wasn’t it a sad realization that she truly did envy the young girl?

  Davina turned her attention back to the day. The edges of the clouds were ragged, as if they were pages torn from a book and placed against the sky. Laid one atop the other, they were each a different tone of gray.

  The tops of the trees swayed in the wind, evidence of the storm’s renewed fury. The ornamental hedges and carefully planted flowers in the English garden shivered in the gusts. The rain began as a soft shower, a delicate patter that lasted for a few moments before heavier raindrops brought the smell both of dust and of fresh air.

  Suddenly the drumbeat of the rain drowned out every other sound. The rainspouts at the edge of the roof were flowing with water. The sky was dark gray, the clouds lowering.

  This was no pretty English shower. This was a Scottish storm, teaching the unwary to be more mindful of the changing weather. Lightning suddenly darted from the sky to the tip of a tree, as if God had extended a finger to prove His might. The crash of thunder was accompanied by a high-pitched sound, as if the tree screamed as it was being torn in two.

  Davina loved storms, and it seemed oddly fitting that this day was marked by such a display, as if nature—or God—understood how she felt and was replicating each one of her emotions in the rain and wind and thunder.

  When she was a little girl, days like this were magical to her. The sky opened up and transformed into something powerful, threatening, and awe-inspiring. Somehow, however, she was never afraid of storms. She recalled sitting in the middle of her bed cross-legged as a child, her arms folded around her waist, her eyes closed tight, reveling in the sounds of the storm around their secure haven of a house. The rumbling thunder or the crash of lightning close by never scared her. She was more enthralled with the power of God than she was frightened of it.

  Only later, when she realized that God wasn’t, perhaps, as protective as her father had always said, that bad things happened even if she said her prayers, only then had she become afraid. Not of storms, but of other things beyond her control. When her father wouldn’t wake, when her aunt didn’t return from London when she was expected. When a marriage to a stranger loomed. All events over which she had absolutely no power.

  She wanted to be angry instead of filled with sadness, but anger didn’t make the sorrow go away. Besides, at whom did she get mad? Marshall, for being himself? Herself, for her foolishness in Edinburgh? Her aunt, for insisting upon this marriage?

  Even if she chose to become mad at everyone and everything, it wouldn’t ease this day. Or make her feel less unwanted.

  Theresa stared at herself in the mirror, awaiting the inevitable summons. In a moment, the maid would come to announce that Garrow Ross had arrived.

  She’d sent him a message, inviting him to dinner. After all, they’d already met at Davina’s wedding. They’d even been seated together.

  Tonight she’d flirt outrageously, and maybe giggle like a schoolgirl. Thank heavens the man believed himself excessively handsome and more than a little charming. She’d deduced that during the wedding dinner.

  Her role would not be easy. It had been many years since she had lain with a man. How did a woman pretend pleasure? She wished there was a woman acquaintance she might consult. She almost smiled at that thought—she’d be even more of a scandal than Davina had been.

  Just as she predicted, the maid knocked on the door.

  “Show Mr. Ross into the sitting room and offer him some whiskey. I’ll be down shortly.”

  She was ready. She looked rested, attractive, her eyes possibly revealing a bit too much reluctance, but that was to be expected.

  For the Crown and the Empire. How very odd that the thought didn’t reassure her in the least.

  Chapter 13

  Davina awoke the next morning filled with a sense of purpose.

  She took great pride in learning, had often been intrigued by industry or a discovery about which she’d read. Therefore, she’d consider two avenues of investigation: Egypt and Marshall. If they overlay each other from time to time, then that was good. But she had absolutely no intention of remaining in her room, a dutiful bride. Nor had she any intention of being like Marshall’s mother.

  She picked up the latest journal, and the page fell open to where she’d finished reading last night.

  Today was a good day. The pain was manageable, and if I concentrate upon other things, I might even come to believe that I carry a child. This growth has rounded my belly as when I was heavy with Marshall. What halcyon days those turned out to be, and I never knew it. At the time I was too concerned with whether my appearance, as large as I had become, would repulse Aidan. Then there were the usual concerns shared by every soon-to-be mother. What if I make a dreadful mistake? What if I accidentally harmed my child? Would I have a boy or a girl? If it was a boy, would that mean that Aidan would no longer find a reason to come home from Egypt? His duty done, his chore finished, he would be free to stay in his beloved land.

  The answers came soon enough, and I was a good mother, I think. Marshall has grown to be a devoted son, a wondrous man. I am truly in awe of his accomplishments. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I gave birth to him, so filled with admiration for him am I.

  I am not with child, however, as much as I would like to pretend, or send my thoughts back to those better days. But I need to tell my child the enormity of this secret. As my time grows closer, I cannot say I face it with any more equanimity. In fact, I might even confess to be more afraid today than I was two months ago upon learning of my diagnosis.

  Adversity must come to us all. The kirk would have us all believe that it is our lot in life to suffer, the better that we should appreciate the approach of heaven. Heaven seems like such a faraway and unfriendly place now. I’d much rather remain at Ambrose.

  As for Aidan, I have not summoned him. I am afraid that if I do so he will not come, and I could not bear knowing that, at the last, it was all pretense.

  Davina put the journal away, tucking it into the drawer in the side table, and slid from the bed to stand at the window surveying
Ambrose.

  The air felt wet and heavy. On the horizon was a hint of a sunny day, but closer still the storm clouds hung low and nearly black.

  Her mood was a little bit of both as well: sun and storm. The courtyard was dotted with puddles where the stones were concave or well-worn. The morning sun would make quick work of them if another storm didn’t come.

  The lawn between Ambrose and the Egypt House would be wet; she’d need her sturdy shoes. Her dress? Something new, of course, but comfortable.

  She was going to find purpose for her new life.

  Marshall saw her coming down the hill, oblivious to the storm clouds. If pushed to honesty, he would admit to looking for her, to anticipating her arrival. The woman who’d come to the Egypt House the day before would not be content to remain cloistered at Ambrose.

  From the moment he’d seen her, he’d known she was different.

  He stared down at the blotter, but instead he saw the determined face of his bride. Part of him welcomed her intrusion into his life, exalted in the fact that she was stubborn, opinionated, and quite evidently used to getting her way. Another part, a section of his mind given up to protecting the rest of Marshall Ross, wished he had never agreed to this farce of a marriage.

  His arm, bandaged beneath his sleeve, still ached. There, a warning of what he could do if he let down his defenses.

  Still, she offered a form of companionship, and he was damnably lonely. His demons brought terror but never friendship.

  He took the back stairs to the main floor and waited for her. When she entered, she didn’t immediately call out for him. Instead she stood there a moment as if to get her bearings, her gaze drifting over some of the statuary and canopic jars.

  Marshall didn’t move, didn’t want to startle her further. Her self-imposed restraint reminded him, oddly, of himself. When he was at his most rigid, he was attempting to control his emotions. He wondered if she was doing the same. Was it anger that kept her so silent and still? He suspected, suddenly, that it was fear instead, a thought that shamed him.

  He took a few steps forward. The tension of her stance was greater than before. He wondered what prompted it, and felt as though he should know.

  She turned her head and unerringly found him among the statues.

  “Did you know that the Hundred Years War actually lasted one hundred sixteen years?”

  “I must confess my ignorance,” he said, coming to stand in front of her.

  “One of Egypt’s pharaohs was the longest reigning monarch in history. Did you know that? The second longest was France’s Louis XIV, who ruled from 1643 to 1715. I think that’s fascinating, don’t you?”

  “Do you never grow tired of knowing things?” Marshall asked.

  She didn’t look at him when she answered, concentrating instead on the statue in front of her.

  “I’ve been asked that question all my life. And always in such a tone. As if knowledge is something that was only allotted to a person in measures. Is it so bad to want to know things?” She glanced over at him. “I know a great deal. Unfortunately, I have no use for some of my knowledge, other than to claim that I know it. The seven wonders of the ancient world, for example. Can you imagine a conversation where that would be needed?”

  At his smile, she nodded. “You see?”

  “What are they?”

  She frowned at him. “Are you testing me? I do know them.”

  “Perhaps I would like to know them as well.” His smile grew brighter.

  “Very well.” She began to recite them. “One, the Egyptian pyramids at Giza. Two, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Three, the statue of Zeus at Olympia; four, the Colossus of Rhodes.” She glanced at him again. “A huge bronze statue near the harbor of Rhodes that honored the sun god Helios.”

  “I know what the Colossus of Rhodes is,” he said, his smile firmly moored in place.

  “Five,” she continued, “the temple of Artemis at Ephesus. That one is the most difficult for me to remember for some reason. Six, the mausoleum at Halicarnassus, and seven—the lighthouse at Alexandria.” She smiled in triumph.

  He applauded her, and she curtsied to him, still smiling.

  “If I allowed you to think, in any way,” he said, “that I was denigrating your curiosity, I apologize. Such was not my intent. In fact, I can’t but admire such a trait, since I, too, have been accused of it most of my life as well. However, in my case, I am supposed to be knowledgeable, being the Earl of Lorne.”

  “While I am simply Davina McLaren.” She amended her name a second later with a smile. “Davina McLaren Ross.”

  “The Countess of Lorne,” Marshall said.

  “You say that as if the position conveys a great deal of power. Does it?”

  His smile would have to suffice for an answer.

  “If I asked you any question in the world, would you feel compelled to answer?”

  “In the interest of scientific study?”

  “Because I’m the Countess of Lorne.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Then why do you not come to my bed?”

  She’d done it again. Flummoxed, he stared at her.

  What in hell did he say to that?

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, instead of answering her.

  “I’ve come to learn everything I can about Egypt,” she said, deciding to give him the truth. “I’m not allowed to be a wife, and I’ve found that decorating my suite has not taken any time at all. Mrs. Murray seems to resent my intrusion into her domain. Ergo, I have nothing to do but learn.”

  “Ambrose has a well-stocked library.”

  “Why should I learn from books when there is a museum at Ambrose? I will not be a bride confined to a tower, Marshall.” There, her famed stubbornness, the obstinacy of which she’d once been so proud.

  “This is not a fairy tale, Davina.”

  “Do you not think I realize that?” she asked, feeling an unexpected burst of amusement. “I’m not a princess, and, Marshall, you are not a prince.”

  She lowered her head and stared at a statue directly in front of her. Larger than life-size, the man seated on the throne looked as if he might well have given her the death penalty had he been alive. She felt like taking a hammer and breaking off one of his ancient toes.

  Reaching forward, she picked up a shard of a pot from a table, marveling at the colors still visible on the terra-cotta, faded aquamarine once brilliant teal, and amber once orange.

  “Were you here yesterday? When I came looking for you?”

  Silenced stretched between them, but he finally answered.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, having expected his response.

  The building was filled with beauty. One mask in particular captured her attention, lit as it was by an errant shaft of sunlight.

  “Is it gold?” she asked, reaching out to touch the edge of the mask.

  “Yes,” he said, grabbing her hand and enfolding her fingers with his.

  Of course. The mask was thousands of years old, and her touch, however gentle, might harm the object.

  “It looks like a man with a ram’s horns. That one,” she said, gesturing to a tall ebony statue of a woman, “has the head of a cat.”

  “Bastet,” he said.

  To her right, a young man in an ornate headdress stood holding a crook across his body, almost as if he were defending himself. Beside him, another statue depicted a woman attired in a gold garment kneeling on one knee. Her hands were outstretched to reveal her blue and green wings tipped in red. On her head was a red orb supported by two golden horns.

  “Isis,” he said, correctly interpreting her confusion.

  Everywhere she looked there was something fantastic, from the tables that looked formed of gold to the reed chairs painted in a design not unlike the mural. A sarcophagus shaped like a monkey rested next to one holding a mummified ibis. A golden urn, painted in vivid red and green stripes, stood next to a tall vase proudly displaying only a
staff.

  “It was once a peacock fan,” Marshall said, fingering the wood.

  “I’ve never seen the like, not even at the Grand Exhibition.”

  “A great many items you saw there were replicas,” he said.

  “And these aren’t?” she asked, surprised.

  He shook his head.

  “They are my father’s acquisitions. He loved Egypt.”

  She looked up, and then around the building, before fixing her gaze on him again. “It’s a beautiful place, but there’s nothing alive here.”

  When he didn’t speak, she asked the question that had been niggling at her.

  “How did you hurt your arm?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “Take that truth and use it as you will.”

  “How do you bear that? Not knowing?” She studied him. His eyes were bloodshot; his face drawn. Whatever had happened to him the night before last had not been pleasant.

  “Is that why you leave me? Is that why you’ve stayed away? Did you know that such a thing would happen?”

  He didn’t answer. When he did speak, it was to repeat a familiar refrain. “I told you this was not going to be a typical marriage. Now you know why.”

  “Because you’re mad.” She sighed and faced him. “I think something is wrong, and I don’t know what it is. But I don’t believe you’re mad.”

  “Or the Devil of Ambrose?”

  “Then we’re a pair, are we not?” she asked, feeling absurdly lighthearted. “I am the Sinner of Edinburgh.”

  There, she’d managed to startle him. He looked as if he would say something and then changed his mind.

  “If we’re strangers,” she said, “then rectify the situation. Teach me about yourself. I’ve always been an avid student.”

  “And the course is to be Marshall Ross? You would have me divulge all my secrets?”

  “Why not? I would tell you.”

  She stopped, struck by a thought so odd that she could only stare at him.