The Devil Wears Tartan Read online

  Where was he? What was he doing? Were his thoughts as occupied with her as hers were with him?

  Why had he left her after their first night together? Should she have been more circumspect in her response to him? Should she have been silent? Or should she have praised him in some way? Or should she have revealed the extent of her behavior to him, confessed her shame in detail?

  This matter of being a bride was a great deal more complicated than it first appeared. Nor had she thought to ask her aunt such questions. Even now she didn’t know if she could go to Theresa. Who, then, could she ask?

  Dear heavens, what did she do now?

  Should she be thinking so much of him? Or should she be dismissive of the entire experience, and treat her first night as a married woman with no more importance than the liaison with Alisdair? Except, of course, that it had been nothing like that afternoon with Alisdair. Nothing.

  From this moment on, she’d never be the same. Her life would forever be labeled in two parts: before she was married, and afterward. Were there going to be other revelations in her marriage? Discoveries that would ultimately teach her as much about herself as about her husband?

  Being bedded by the Earl of Lorne had been a fascinating experience, one that ranged from the tactile to the emotional. Davina had loved the touch of his fingers and his lips on her skin. His kisses had almost made her faint in delight, and she’d disappeared to another place when he’d brought her to pleasure. She’d never expected her wedding night to be so enjoyable. Nor had she anticipated being assaulted by so many feelings: fear, joy, and sadness.

  “It’s a fair day, Miss Davina,” Nora said, interrupting her reverie. “Oh, Your Ladyship. You’re the Countess of Lorne now.”

  How very odd. She was, wasn’t she? How very strange that she’d not remembered until this moment. “Your Ladyship” didn’t sound quite right, though. Perhaps she simply had to become used to it

  “What about the peach gown, Your Ladyship?”

  On any other day Davina wouldn’t have cared about her attire. But she wanted to be dressed in her best today, to wear something that flattered her skin and brought out the color of her eyes. “I think the blue stripe, Nora.”

  Nora didn’t comment, but her eyes twinkled as if she bit back a remark. Very well, let her maid think her foolish. What did it matter? What did it matter if the whole world saw her as silly and vain?

  The fabric of her dress was a narrow greenish-blue stripe and fitted tightly in the bodice, a row of tiny black pearl buttons stretching from the neck to the waist. The pagoda sleeves were wide, ending in white cuffs at her wrists. The full shape of her dress was maintained by the balmoral skirt, comprised of a hoop topped by a woolen overskirt. All in all, it was heavier than a normal hoop cage, but at least it didn’t require that she wear two petticoats to ensure that the outline of the hoop couldn’t be seen.

  The white collar and the dark blue bow at her throat gave her the appearance of a girl not far from the schoolroom. But there was a look in her eyes that belied that impression. Did passion linger in the expression? Or did her eyes reveal something more?

  Nora had braided her hair, and the plaits were arranged in a coronet at the back of her head. With her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, she looked quite acceptable. Pretty, perhaps. Thinking she was more than that would simply be vanity.

  A moment later, Davina left the suite, holding her hand up when Nora would have accompanied her.

  “I’m going to find my husband,” she said. “I do not need a companion for that.”

  It was going to be difficult enough to view Marshall in the light of day; she didn’t want any witnesses to their meeting.

  Nora only nodded, but there was that look again, as if she knew quite well what Davina was thinking. Was her maid more experienced than she knew?

  Eagerness propelled her down the corridor and to the very top of the stairs. The house was built in the shape of an H, with a more formal façade facing the curving drive. The area she faced now was the courtyard for the family, less structured and more informal, as if the plants had been left to grow as they would.

  No one was in sight. No maid anywhere in view. Not a footman to be seen. She held herself still, listening for sound. Far away, she could hear laughter, but then it, too, faded. She might have been in an enchanted castle, so alone did she feel.

  Windows stretched upward from the entrance to the family courtyard to the second floor. They were left unadorned by curtains, the view from the outside allowed to become part of the majesty of Ambrose. A deep blue Scottish sky, an emerald green lawn, and a garden ablaze in colorful blooms served as a backdrop for a perfect day. Not a cloud marred the sky, and a breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees that dotted the expanse before her. The scenery was almost like a painting, and Davina felt as if she were the only thing alive in the landscape.

  Her attention was suddenly caught by something beyond the trees: a tall, pointed object that looked like a rooftop. Another building at Ambrose? The breeze wasn’t as cooperative for the next few moments, and even though she waited, she couldn’t see it again.

  Davina finally descended the curving stairs slowly, kicking her skirt discreetly out of the way as she held on to the banister with her right hand. Even at the base of the stairs she was alone. No maid came up to her. Nor was there a male servant in sight. And Marshall? Where might she find him?

  She probably should have sent him a note from her bedchamber and waited patiently for him to call upon her. Or sent for her aunt, to ask the proper behavior for the first morning as a countess. Theresa was steeped in propriety and would have known.

  Instead, Davina faced the tall carved door leading to the courtyard.

  The door looked, at first sight, to be so heavy that it would require two people to pull it ajar. But she found, when she turned the iron latch, that it opened without difficulty and closed easily.

  Three shallow steps led to a courtyard of large gray slate tiles laid in a tight cobblestone pattern. Here and there were stone benches cunningly placed to take advantage of the shade of the mature trees. Stone urns were placed near the benches and filled to overflowing with flowering plants.

  She might have been in Edinburgh, at The Meadows or any number of other public parks.

  But it wasn’t the sight of the courtyard that drew her onward, but the earlier vision she’d seen of something foreign to the landscape. She smoothed her forehead of its frown, ever conscious of her aunt’s words: A man does not like a woman who looks angry, my dear. She wasn’t angry; she was curious. Her father had once remarked that “curiosity is the bane of an intelligent mind, my child. It never ceases, nor lets up, but acts like a drug for the whole of your life.”

  She left the courtyard and picked her way across steppingstones set into the grass. Lifting her skirts to a modest height so they wouldn’t become coated with dew, she concentrated on her footing. She passed the herb gardens, each row of plants neatly labeled, and what looked like a maze crafted of ornamental yews. Another garden filled with breeze-tossed blooms perfumed the air with the scent of flowers.

  But there was another smell that was almost stronger than the summer morning. Something that hinted of dust and sun-baked earth.

  At the top of a small rise, she hesitated, wondering if she was actually seeing what she was seeing. In the middle of a large clearing in the forest sat another building. Two stories tall, it was constructed of the same stone as Ambrose, and so similar that it might have been a fifth wing of the house that had strayed from the larger structure. In front of it lay another courtyard, this one composed of yellow stone hewn into large squares and set into the earth.

  But it was the object in the middle of the courtyard that held her motionless in wonder and surprise. A massive obelisk was erected there, its pyramid-shaped top pointing toward the Scottish sky.

  She continued to walk toward the building, uncaring about her footing, her gaze fixed on the obelisk. As she reached the courtyard, a br
eeze plunged beneath her skirts, danced around the lace of her pantaloons, and brushed against her ankles. Davina placed her hand down flat against her skirts to keep them from becoming airborne. A moment later, the air was still, the courtyard bright and sun-drenched, the glare such that Davina had to shield her eyes with her hand.

  How could an obelisk be here? But there it was, standing proudly in the center of a stone courtyard as if she were in Egypt instead of Scotland. Approaching it carefully, she stopped some twenty feet from its base and followed the red granite pillar with her eyes all the way to the tip. Slowly she walked around the base, studying the pictographs incised in the stone.

  “It’s called Aidan’s Needle.”

  She turned to find Marshall standing at the door to the building.

  “It was carved at Aswan by order of Pharaoh Thotmes III in the fifteenth century B.C.,” he said. “The Romans removed it to Alexandria.”

  “And you acquired it from there?”

  “Actually, it was a gift to the Prince Regent from the Pasha of Egypt. The Prince Regent gave it to my father, who was happy to rescue it.”

  “And he brought it here.” She placed her hand on the granite, surprised to find that it felt warm, almost alive. “It must have been a massive undertaking.”

  He nodded. “It was. It weighs more than two hundred tons. The journey to Scotland required three ships and took two years.”

  What a very strange place Ambrose was and how very odd that she’d no inkling of it before arriving here a day earlier. Yet in that short amount of time, her life had changed even more dramatically than she’d thought it would.

  She looked around the courtyard. The obelisk was not the only strange ornament, although the other statuary certainly did not rival its height or dramatic impact. At the end of the courtyard were a pair of statues of men in stone chairs staring outward, their pose rigid, their pointed beards slightly curling at the end. On each head was a pointed hat with a serpent imposed on it, and both man and snake’s stare were fixed for all eternity toward Ambrose.

  “Did you know,” she asked in the silence, “that Wadjet was considered to be the wife of Hapi in Lower Egypt? She was always depicted as a woman with a snake’s head.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read a great deal,” she said. She turned toward him. “I’ve always been fascinated with Egypt, but I’d never thought to see something as strange as an obelisk in my new home.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Her bridegroom seemed a different man this morning. A stranger, rigid and arrogant. He was simply dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt open at the neck. His hair looked as if he’d run his fingers through it several times. His boots were well polished, the insides worn as if he also wore them for riding.

  The look in his eyes, however, decreed him an earl. The distance in that gaze announced him a stranger.

  She felt her face flush. What an utter fool she’d been to think that he might be eager to see her. But she didn’t move away, or seek an excuse to leave him.

  “Did I do anything wrong?” she asked, wondering if she was being too direct with him. If she was, then he’d simply have to become used to her idiosyncrasies. After all, that was part of marriage, was it not? To learn the foibles and flaws of another person and accept them? “Why did you leave me last night? Is it because I wouldn’t tell you about my scandal?”

  He looked startled at her question. “I would just as soon leave the past where it is, Davina. I have no desire to unearth it.”

  “Are we to have separate bedrooms, then? I had assumed we would sleep together.”

  He turned away from her and walked to the edge of the courtyard. He stared toward Ambrose for so long, Davina wondered if he’d dismissed her from his mind. Or was he just signaling his wish for her to be gone?

  She gripped her skirts with both hands, and decided that the very best thing to do would be to simply leave him, before she embarrassed herself further.

  He turned, just as she made the decision to leave. She released the grip on her skirts, smoothing her fingers over the covered wire of her hoops. A bad habit, and one for which her aunt had often chastised her. Davina, hoops are to give your skirts a pleasing aspect. But gripping the frame with your fingers only calls attention to a woman’s underpinnings.

  Surely, however, Marshall knew she had underpinnings? She knew exactly what he looked like naked.

  “My mother and father did not share a room,” he said now. He spoke in a normal voice, and yet she could hear him quite well despite the distance between them. Was the sound amplified because of the stone courtyard?

  “I believe they were happy with the arrangement.”

  “Did they like each other?” she asked.

  For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer her.

  “I do not believe so,” he said finally.

  “My parents adored each other,” she said. “My mother died when I was very young, but my father kept her miniature in his pocket until he, too, died. He only slept on the left side of the bed, as if her ghost would occupy the right side. And he never used the second pillow.”

  If she were saying the wrong thing, then she would simply have to say it. He would no doubt criticize her for it, or look down his handsome nose at her and make her wish she were a thousand miles and a thousand years away.

  “We do not know each other,” he said.

  “We are not likely to, if we occupy different rooms.”

  “Did my solicitor not explain to you the terms of this marriage?”

  Perhaps she really should leave now, before this conversation got any worse. Not that it could. How many women were so blatantly obvious and hungry for love and affection? How many women actually questioned why their husbands chose not to sleep with them? She’d never before been a bride, and she wasn’t entirely certain how one should act. But she had a sinking feeling that it was not proper to confront a husband the way she was doing now.

  It would not be the first time she’d ventured a strange comment or opinion. Her aunt was forever going on about how she should be more circumspect.

  “I only met your solicitor once,” she said. “He spoke mainly to my aunt. Are there special rules I need to know?”

  “I will come to you when I feel it’s right.”

  “When is that?” she asked. “When the moon is full? Or your mood dictates?” She looked around the courtyard. “Or would a long-dead Egyptian send you the information in some way?”

  She thought she saw a smile on his face, but it was gone so quickly she wasn’t entirely sure.

  When he didn’t answer her, she was tempted to stomp her foot on the stone beneath her shoes. Or perhaps indulge in a tantrum. How was a rejected bride supposed to act?

  “Do you always say exactly what you think? Or what you’re feeling at that particular moment?” he asked.

  “When you address another person, do you always refrain from using her name? Or looking at her?”

  He looked directly at her, his brown eyes unflinching, his gaze so intent that she almost glanced away. But she was no coward. If she had been, she would not be standing here now.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. She could tell that her comment surprised him. But when he smiled, she was equally startled. How utterly handsome he was.

  “Then you’re either a very stupid young woman,” he said amiably, “or a very brave one.”

  For a long moment she regarded him, uncertain of what to say or even to think. The strangest feeling overcame her, not unlike the sensation she had when reading one of her novels. It was as if his words had triggered some emotion deep inside her heart. Some yearning or some excitement for which she was unprepared.

  “I could be either,” she said, as affable as he. “My father used to say that I had no end to courage. But that courage, like chocolate, should be indulged in sparingly.”

  “He sounds like a wise man. Did you never heed his advice?”

&nb
sp; “As often as I could. However, that was not always.”

  She hesitated a moment, and then spoke again. “There is only my aunt left to me, and your uncle to you.” She pressed her hands flat against her skirts, conscious of her aunt’s words. “We’re orphans and nearly without relations. Wouldn’t it be a wondrous thing if we could find family in each other?”

  He turned away again, his gaze intent on the far horizon.

  Evidently she’d overstepped her boundaries.

  “Pardon me,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. “It is all too evident that you don’t feel the same. What, then, can I expect in the way of a marriage? Are there more rules?”

  “Only the most important one.”

  “Yes. Well.” She lifted her skirts, turned, and began to walk away.

  Perhaps she should say something in parting, but she couldn’t imagine that he’d be offended by the fact she’d left him so precipitously. In fact, she had the decided impression that he’d be more than happy to see her leave.

  “We have managed to achieve a significant level of firsts with each other, my lady wife,” he said, turning. “Be content with that.”

  She faced him. “Do you call me that because you can’t remember my name? It’s Davina. It’s common enough. I could go by something else, if you choose. And what firsts would those be, Your Lordship?”

  “I have bedded you, and you nearly fainted in my arms.”

  She really was annoyed at the flush traveling up her chest to her face. It was too warm and too prickly, like a rash instead of simple embarrassment.

  The grip on her skirt was so tight that she was sure she was ruining the fabric. She forced her hands wide, and patted the warm material she’d wrinkled a moment earlier.

  “Is that entirely proper? Bringing up what happened in our marriage bed, I mean.” She tilted her head back and straightened her shoulders.

  “This is not going to be a proper marriage.”

  She nodded as if she understood. In actuality, she didn’t understand anything, especially how a man who’d been so charming the night before could be so cold and distant the next morning.