Till Next We Meet Read online

  “Meet with the vicar if you want proof.”

  He was too cold in his looks, too arrogant. His eyebrows were black slashes on his face, his eyes too intently blue. His looks were too arresting; a woman would have no comfort with this sort of man.

  “I would like to speak to the vicar.”

  He nodded. Because he so easily agreed, she was beginning to believe they were actually married.

  “Surely we can undo what was so quickly done. I am in no need of rescuing.” At the moment, however, she was not feeling so confident. The room was beginning to spin around her, and the chamber abruptly felt entirely too warm.

  He regarded her intently as if he knew how ill she suddenly felt.

  “I’m fine,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. “But I would appreciate it if you would assist me in undoing this marriage.”

  “You don’t look strong enough to sit there, madam, let alone to concern yourself with something that cannot be undone.”

  His words only strengthened her resolve that he would not see her become ill. He had evidently witnessed enough of her humiliation.

  “Please,” she said, waving her hand at the door, “if you would simply send the vicar to me when he arrives. I’d like to hear that from his lips.”

  She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the chair, wishing that the chamber wasn’t revolving around her. Or perhaps it was remaining in place, and she was the one spinning.

  Moncrief didn’t leave. Instead, he placed a cold compress on her forehead, then used another cloth dipped in water to gently wipe her face and her throat. She wanted to thank him or pull away from his ministrations, but she had no energy left to do either. All of her attention was directed at not becoming ferociously sick. The clink of china made her turn her head and open her eyes.

  He had placed an empty bowl on the table beside her. “I think you’re going to need that,” he said. “In the meantime, I can summon one of the servants to prepare you something warm to drink.”

  “Not an oatmeal posset.” Not this morning. Cook was forever sending up the drink for her. Now her stomach rolled just speaking of it.

  On the other side of the room the window heralded another gray morning. In the distance, she could hear the sound of the stable doors being opened. A wagon was coming in from the field. Water was being drawn from the well. Life was going on as it did at Colstin Hall, as if the house were a living entity, separate and apart from its owner. All who worked here served the manse and not simply her.

  If it had been another day, if it had been a normal day, she might call for breakfast now. She might have dressed and left her bedroom. She would have met with the vicar, of course, and Glynneth, arranging with her the chores of the week. Every season brought responsibilities. Life was on a schedule at Colstin Hall. But Harry’s death had altered everything.

  “Please leave me,” she said.

  Then he was gone, her nightmare or her husband, whichever was true.

  She sat still, the chair surrounding her. The upholstery was familiar, the shape of it known and remembered. She had sat there often, either engaged in sewing or reading, her fingers stroking over the rounded arms.

  When she was certain Moncrief wasn’t returning, Catherine stood and made her way to the trunk, arms wrapped around her aching stomach. Slowly, she opened the lid of Harry’s trunk and selected one of his letters. She needed him close to her now more than she had at any other time. She returned to her chair to hear Moncrief speaking in the hallway.

  “I’m afraid she’s going to be ill,” he said. “Which is just as well. The sooner she has the remainder of the poison out of her system, the better.” There was a moment of silence, then he spoke again, “You won’t be giving her any more of the laudanum?”

  Glynneth answered, her voice filled with irritation. “I never gave it to her before; I won’t give it to her now.”

  “Good, I’d hate to be made a widower a day after I’ve become a husband.”

  Catherine returned to the chair, pressed Harry’s letter against her chest, and began to weep.

  Chapter 5

  Three days later they left Colstin Hall, their destination Balidonough, the Duke of Lymond’s seat. Her servants would follow along with Moncrief’s aide, their luggage, and those possessions Catherine wished to bring to her new home.

  The dark clouds overhead were an omen as she walked to the carriage. The wind was blowing briskly, tossing her hair, chilling her skin, almost as if in punishment for leaving her home. She closed her eyes against the strength of it, felt the wind careen over her shoulders, around her folded arms, pressing her skirt against her legs.

  A storm was coming, and the wind was its herald. When it moaned through the trees, she wondered if nature itself was chastising her. If so, then it was in good company.

  Glynneth was angry with her. When hearing of Moncrief’s plans to travel to Balidonough, she’d disappeared for a day, and when she returned, the only thing she’d said was that she had business to attend to before she left the area.

  Nor was the vicar happy. He had been oddly distracted, wishing her well in her new home with an absent wave and a Bible quotation.

  Those servants she’d chosen to take to Balidonough with her were acting distressed to be chosen, but the staff left behind at Colstin Hall were equally unhappy.

  No one was pleased with her, including Moncrief, who entered the carriage and sat stonily silent opposite her. So much rancor in such an enclosed space did not bode well for the remainder of the journey.

  Balidonough was only two hours away, close enough that intrigues of the Dukes of Lymond had come to her ears, but distant enough that she could ignore them if she chose.

  As the carriage pulled away, Moncrief regarded the scenery, which was nothing to boast of, just the house, its environs, and a one-lane road. But it was her last glimpse of Colstin Hall and all its attendant memories. She had raced down that path beside the pines as a child, feeling joy and wonder, had stood in the gardens as a young woman, staring up at the stars and wondering if love came to all creatures as suddenly as it had to her. She had wandered there to stand beneath a tree in the fullness of a storm, and wept with the rain after Harry had died.

  Now Catherine closed her eyes against her tears and leaned her head back against the upholstered seat.

  “Are you feeling ill again?”

  The concern in Moncrief’s voice made her open her eyes and regard him.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not. I’m feeling very much better, thank you.”

  He nodded once at her answer, then went back to his contemplation of the view.

  Although he was a stranger to her, they were bound by law, the only silken cord that linked them the vicar’s words spoken on a night she could still not recall. But she remembered only too well her conversation with Thomas McLeod, the vicar, three days earlier.

  “I can assure you, Catherine, that the wedding did take place, with the whole of your servants as witnesses.”

  His usual plump face had been narrowed in displeasure, and some censure.

  “Surely I did not give my consent, vicar?”

  “But you did. Granted, it was not in your usual voice, but you agreed. I thought myself that you were eager for the union.”

  “I cannot be married to him. I cannot. Can you not annul this wedding?”

  “I can assure you, Catherine,” he said stiffly, “that I cannot. His Grace assured me that he had spent the night with you in your bed. Can you deny that?”

  No, she could not.

  She knew very little about Moncrief. He was the new Duke of Lymond. His home was Balidonough. In three days, he had taken control of her home. Her servants deferred to him, even the vicar chose to meet with him rather than her. He’d supervised her diet, according to Glynneth, insisted upon tasting her meals, but he’d left her alone and chose to sleep in her father’s room. This morning was the first time they’d been together since the day after their marriage.


  How strange to know nothing about a husband.

  “My companion does not like you,” she said, goading him a bit, if the truth be told. He didn’t answer, so she was emboldened even further. “Glynneth says you were rude to her.”

  This time, his gaze shot over to her, and she was nearly pinned to the bench by the intensity of it.

  “I’ve no doubt that she said as much. She was lax in her duties. I have no patience with those who are lazy, then claim they were not.”

  “I have always found her to be very diligent.”

  “She did not seem to care that you were close to death, which was her first mistake. But then she left you alone with me, not the actions of a worthwhile companion.”

  She had no rejoinder to that.

  “Tell me about our first meeting.”

  “You still do not remember?”

  She shook her head.

  “Perhaps you never will,” he said. “Laudanum takes away memory.”

  She didn’t wish to get into a discussion about her use of laudanum. It had never been as egregious as he thought. She’d always been very careful not to ingest too much. However, she couldn’t explain the loss of memory of the night they wed, or the fact that she’d lost two whole days of recollections.

  “I came to visit you,” he said, bracing himself against the corner of the coach, one elbow on the windowsill. His thumb brushed against his bottom lip as he concentrated on the view. “I was a friend of Harry’s.”

  “You never told me that before.”

  “Not that you remember.”

  She frowned at him, and then a second later smoothed out her expression.

  “Did Harry ever speak of me?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

  “Soldiers will always speak of those they love, those they left behind. Harry was no exception.”

  “What did he say?”

  For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Finally, he spoke. “He read your letters to me occasionally.”

  That was a surprise. Harry’s letters were inviolate to her, something that she would never share with another. She’d naturally thought he would regard them the same way. She felt a flush come to her cheeks and looked away.

  “They were very beautiful letters, Catherine.”

  The warmth was spreading throughout her whole body. She concentrated on the shape of her nails. They had grown longer; she needed to attend to them. Perhaps buff them a little. The moons were a curious color, a pale lavender, as if her whole body had been in mourning.

  She nodded and hoped he wouldn’t continue. A shame suffused her, not because of what she had written to Harry, but because her words were not meant for any eyes but his.

  He glanced at her. “It was a kindness he did, to share your letters. I did not have the volume of correspondence that Harry did. My father wrote me once before he died. My brother, however, was an abominable letter writer. I don’t believe I ever received one from him.”

  “Were you very close?”

  “Not truly,” he answered. “Colin was twelve years older and couldn’t be bothered with another younger brother.”

  Before she could ask, he answered her. “I had another brother. Dermott was five years older than I. He died when he was thirteen. An imbecilic accident taking a fence on an untried horse.”

  “You sound as if he deserved to die for his foolishness.”

  Once again, he pinned her with the intensity of his blue gaze. “There are causes and effects in life, Catherine.”

  How utterly arrogant he was.

  “You must be pleased to become duke, then. With two older brothers, you must not have expected it.”

  His face looked created for arrogance. The shape of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, the imperious, squared chin.

  “No, I didn’t expect it. But now that Colin has died, I have a responsibility, and duties to perform.”

  “Have you always been so noble?”

  “Is it nobility to do the right thing?”

  He had the disconcerting habit of asking her a question in response to her question. She switched the subject. “Do you not worry what your family will say when you return to Balidonough with a wife?”

  “I have not seen Balidonough for over fourteen years. My family, such as it is, has had nothing to do with my life for all that time, I have no concerns what they might think now.”

  “Have you always been so autocratic?”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “It isn’t arrogance to know one’s place. The last fourteen years have been spent earning my way in the world. Whatever accomplishments I’ve achieved have been of no interest to my family. My value to Balidonough is the fact that I have inherited the title. Everything I do from this moment on will be simply because I’m the twelfth Duke of Lymond.”

  “And what is my place?”

  “The Duchess of Lymond,” he said flatly.

  “I am not related to the peerage, other than a third cousin who’s an earl. But we’ve never met. My father was only a farmer. We might be considered minor gentry, if that.”

  “Is there reason for this litany of your genealogy?”

  “I do not see how a duke can marry just anyone. Are you not considered a prince?”

  “I am Moncrief,” he said, as if that were that, as if no further explanation was necessary or even desired.

  “Don’t you care that I’m just a farmer’s daughter?”

  His smile was bright, revealing white, even teeth. “I doubt you could be called that, madam. Your father owned more land than anyone in the shire. Neither is Colstin Hall a humble cottage.”

  “He was a modest man, however, who enjoined me never to think myself better than anyone else.”

  “In that case, he would be disappointed, no doubt, to find you married to a duke.”

  “He would be surprised,” she admitted.

  “It seems to me that if I am required to attend flocks of sheep, being a farmer’s daughter would be an asset and not a detriment. We have a great many sheep at Balidonough.”

  “Will you be serious, Moncrief?”

  “If your father had been a brewer or a distiller, you might be looked upon with greater favor by those at Balidonough. We are known for our whiskey and our ale, you see.”

  “And you see nothing wrong with this union?”

  “Should I?” His smile disappeared and in its place that curiously intent look. “If you are asking me if I am egalitarian, then the answer is no. I do not treat my aide as if he’s my friend. I have no desire to become a confidant of the maids. The footmen will not be my companions.”

  “And your wife? How will you treat me?”

  “Your behavior is the clue to that answer, madam.”

  “Why did you marry me, Moncrief?”

  “Because you needed rescuing.”

  That answer was not one she expected and for a few moments she was nonplussed, incapable of responding.

  She clenched her hands tighter. Nature came to her aid then. In a burst of fury, the storm opened up directly atop them. The noise was such that she would have had to shout to speak, which was just as well. She didn’t know what to say to him.

  According to Glynneth, she was very ill the night of her marriage and might conceivably have died. But the way Moncrief said the words, so nonchalantly and almost uncaring, made her feel that she was no more important than a dog he might have rescued on the side of the road, some poor creature that had gotten in the way of the carriage wheels.

  Granted, her life was not what she would have chosen for herself, but there were good days along with the bad. Gradually, in time, she would have come to accept the fact that Harry was not returning. The image of him would have faded, along with the love she felt for him. In time, she would have become reconciled to her grief.

  Time, however, had been taken from her, and so had the rightness of her mourning.

  Instead, this man with his air of command and his insistence the she w
as in danger from herself had stepped in and altered her life completely.

  Nor did anyone have one word to say to stop him.

  For long moments they remained silent, each captured in their own thoughts. The day was a brisk one, and she was grateful for the blanket she placed over her knees.

  Her first view of Balidonough was through a curtain of rain, her new home transformed to a watery painting of red brick set among the fading green of the grass. The castle sat perched on the highest hill in the area, overlooking the glen, a formidable reminder of Scotland’s tumultuous history.

  The Dukes of Lymond had held power in this part of Scotland for generations, and looking at their castle, Catherine knew why. No one would dare to invade such a place, or argue against its lord’s dictates.

  The structure was so large that it seemed to stretch across the horizon. On the corners of what looked to be a square courtyard, circular towers overlooked the hilly landscape. A river approached the castle and disappeared beneath the wall and into the very heart of Balidonough.

  How could she be expected to be mistress of something like that?

  They traveled for nearly a quarter hour down a gravel road, past closely cropped and manicured hills to Balidonough. In all that time, Moncrief said nothing, only stared impassively at the passing scenery. She had a strange and unwelcome thought that this homecoming might be difficult for him.

  “This is the first time you’ve been home since your brother died, isn’t it?”

  For a moment, she didn’t think he was going to answer her. Perhaps it might have been better if he hadn’t. She wouldn’t have noticed that his hand clenched on the edge of the window, or that in the faint light his face looked even sterner.

  “I have not been back to Balidonough for fourteen years. My father was alive then, and so was Colin.”

  He turned back to the window again, and she was effectively dismissed, but he’d given her more information about himself than he probably knew.

  “You didn’t like your father, did you?”

  His look of surprise was too quickly masked for her to be absolutely certain she’d witnessed it.

  “Why would you say that?”