by Eloisa James
“My dear,” he said, putting both his hands on hers. He had the rushing syllables of a Frenchman, but his English seemed impeccable. “This is a true pleasure. I had no idea when I sent Ewan to England that there was such a lovely Scotswoman to be found there.”
Annabel felt herself blushing. She never blushed!
He chuckled and turned to his right. “May I introduce my comrades, Miss Annabel? This is Brother Barbet, and Brother Dalmain.” The two monks smiled at her, and one of them was actually wearing a little cap. “Brother Dalmain,” he continued, “is Scots by birth, and so ’tis he who persuaded us to come to this country and take care of Rosy. And here is Rosy. I’m sure that Ewan has told you of her.”
He drew from behind him, rather like a mother cat pushing forward one of her kittens, one of the smallest, prettiest women Annabel had ever seen. She had her son’s creamy skin, and his soft black curls, but without any of the angularity of a young boy. Instead she looked about fifteen, if not younger. And yet—
Obviously she was older. She held Father Armailhac’s hand tightly, and now Annabel could see there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She smiled obediently, and then curtsied. Her eyes showed no curiosity, and she said nothing. She curtsied again, and Annabel realized with a start that she would have kept curtsying if Father Armailhac had not quietly told her to stop.
The idea of anyone hurting this fairylike child of a woman was agonizing. “Oh, dear,” she breathed, turning to Ewan. He was standing behind her, waiting. Rosy’s wandering eyes caught at his boots and a frown creased her face. Then slowly her eyes traveled up his trousers, and her fingers grew white on Father’s arm.
“It’s all right, Rosy,” he said to her. “It’s just Ewan, come back from England with his beautiful bride. Of course you know Ewan.”
But she didn’t stop frowning until her eyes reached Ewan’s face, and then slowly the pinched frown smoothed out and she smiled at him, as cheerful as any child on Christmas morn. And only then did he step forward and kiss her cheek.
Annabel swallowed.
But Father Armailhac bent his head to the side, like a curious robin, and said to her, “There’s no need to be sorry for Rosy, my dear.”
“I think there is,” Annabel said. “Why she—she—” She gestured, and she meant it all, all the things that Rosy had lost: Ewan, and Gregory, and the castle . . .
“God’s given her a wonderful gift in return,” he said, and he didn’t even sound preachy. “Joy.”
Annabel looked back at Rosy, and sure enough, her face was lit with laughter. After a moment she went over to take Gregory by the hand and began pulling him away.
“Oh, Rosy,” he groaned. “I don’t want to play now.”
But she reached up and touched his cheek, and smiled at him, and with a sheepish nod of his head, he allowed himself to be pulled away.
“Doesn’t she speak?” Annabel asked.
“Never. But I don’t think she misses it. Now, daughter, we must talk about your marriage.”
Annabel felt herself blushing again. Father Armailhac held out his arm, for all the world as if he were a French courtier, and she allowed herself to be drawn away from Ewan and all the servants whom he was greeting now, one by one, as if he’d been gone for years.
“Do you wish to marry our Ewan?” he asked, when they were walking under the shade of the looming firs that surrounded the castle on three sides.
“I . . . I do,” she said.
“Are you quite certain? May I call you Annabel?”
“Please do.” And then: “I wasn’t certain when I began this trip with Lord Ardmore but—” The blush was coming back again. She stopped, tongue-tied and not certain what she wanted to say.
They were following a small path that wound its way through the trees and suddenly opened up to show a tiny building made of stone, a small chapel set in the firs. Annabel had a pulse of anxiety. Likely he would ask her to say a prayer or something, and she’d say it wrong because she wasn’t a Papist.
“We needn’t go inside,” Father Armailhac said, his great peaceful llama face turned to her. “But if you ever did wish to join me, I would always be happy to see you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“A letter has arrived from your family,” he said, still clasping her arm. “It was brought by a man who took the mail coach from London to Edinburgh and then rode horseback all the way here. I believe he came the distance in only a week.”
“My sisters!” Annabel said, turning white.
“No, no, I asked him whether it contained unfortunate news,” he said, “and it doesn’t. But perhaps you should read that message, my dear. And if you still wish to marry Ewan, I will perform the ceremony whenever you wish. I think”—and he smiled at her, the gentle grin of a man who knew nothing of those kisses she and Ewan had traded so feverishly—“I think you two will make a remarkably happy couple. I shall probably have to pray for forgiveness tonight, since I am feeling prideful for sending Ewan to London. Wait for me one moment, my dear.”
He turned and hurried into the chapel, his tall, slightly bent figure almost stooping to enter the low door. When he returned, he held a rather battered letter.
“I shall leave you to read it in peace,” he told her. “If you follow that little path, it will take you back to Ewan. The servants are waiting to greet you, and I’m certain they will be furious with me for monopolizing your time.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the letter. And then remembered that there was one thing she did want to say to him: “Ewan has told me how much you mean to him, and how very helpful you were to him in overcoming his grief over the fire that took his parents.”
Father Armailhac was a great one for grinning. “He told you that, did he?”
“It seems to me,” Annabel said, “that he cannot remember his father well because you have become that father to him . . . he’s a rather wonderful person.”
“He is! He is!” Father Armailhac said, practically crowing. “But that’s none of my doing, my dear. ’Tis God’s hand in it, and I merely had the joy of watching him grow. He was nearly seventeen when I arrived here, you know. A grown man, he was, and a good one.”
Annabel’s eyes dropped to the letter she held. It was Tess’s handwriting on the direction.
“Read your letter,” Father Armailhac said to her. “Read your letter, dear, and then no matter what you decide, we’ll have a happy meal tonight. This place is always better when the earl is in residence. It’s an ancient superstition and a true one.”
He hurried away inside. Annabel turned the letter over in her hand and then ripped it open. For all the messenger’s assurances, she couldn’t help feeling a leaden pit of fear in her stomach. Why on earth would anyone send a man on horseback, all the way from London to Scotland, unless the news were—
Her breath caught in her chest at the thought and she ripped open the seal. The letter read:
Dear Annabel,
I am writing you with all haste. Do not marry Ardmore!
My husband has solved everything, in his usual inimical way. It turns out that a certain Miss Alice Ellerby (a Miss A.E.) is quite desperate to escape her parents’ grasp, and Lucius paid her a large sum of money that will enable her to do so. She penned a truly scintillating account of her “relationship” with Ardmore, publishing it in Bell’s Weekly Messenger, naturally . . . and then ran away to America with her beloved, a groom, as I understand it. Thanks to Felton, they will be able to set themselves up in comfort in New York.
So please, Annabel—don’t despair! I am sending this by man on horseback. He will try to intercept your carriage, but we decided it was most important for him to get the letter into your hands before the marriage is solemnized, so he will likely stop only to change horses.
Just stay calm, darling, and we’ll have you back in London in no time. I’m sure Ardmore, who seems a most reasonable man, will entirely understand. We are coming to you with all possible speed.
> There may be a bit of a palaver about your marriage that never was—but since it truly never was, we all believe that the scandal will die down. We will ask Ardmore to return with us and maintain the truth of your nonmarriage, of course. And I have every expectation that he will be agreeable. He will find his reputation as a rake has grown and blossomed in his absence: what with Imogen’s behavior on the dance floor, and now the ardent Miss Ellerby, he is quite the man of the moment.
In the expectation of seeing you within a few days at the most,
Your loving sister, Tess.
P.S. When I say that we are all coming, I truly mean it. I do hope that Ardmore has enough linens for a large group. Otherwise, perhaps there is an inn nearby?
Annabel drew a deep breath and looked around her. The chapel lay utterly silent before her, dusky sunshine filtering through the tall firs. She turned the letter over in her hands. Freedom lay before her: freedom to return to London and find a rich Englishman, a sleek, practical man who would understand the limitations of their obligations to each other. Who wouldn’t confuse her with talk of his soul or—worse—her soul. Who wouldn’t embarrass her by saying that she was the best of God’s creations, and other naive compliments along those lines.
What’s more, she had a suspicion that Father Armailhac would likely lure her into that chapel someday and before she knew it, she’d be out on the battlements in the rain, singing prayers with Gregory. She didn’t want to become a psalm-singing righteous type of woman. She’d always found them boring.
But—she reminded herself—marrying Ewan wasn’t a question of marrying Father Armailhac. It was about Ewan.
It was while thinking about Ewan that a smile grew on her lips that she didn’t even realize was there, not until Ewan himself came down the path. In a flash, she saw him with all that objectivity she’d lost since leaving London. He was tall, and wickedly handsome, and powerfully built. He had russet hair and green eyes. He spoke with a Scottish brogue. He was absurdly far from the rakish dissolute that Londoners now believed him to be, thanks to Tess and her husband. He’d lost his parents, brother and sister, and found another family for himself. He’d made Gregory into a son, and Rosy into a sister. He’d—
He’d made her fall in love with him.
Then Ewan stepped out from under the fir tree and smiled at her, that wicked little smile that said he was thinking about kissing her and damned with the questions, and she let the letter fall to the ground.
A second later he had her in his arms, and she had her hands buried in his hair and he was kissing her as if he were starved for her, as if they hadn’t kissed so much in the carriage that morning that her lips were bruised with it. He was rocking against her too . . . gently, just a reminder. And she didn’t leap away from him, brandish the letter, announce her freedom . . . no. She melted against him and relished the rasp of his breathing, and the way he was about to pull his mouth away—because she knew before he did it.
“Will he marry us soon?” he asked, his voice as rich as dark honey.
“I think so,” she said, smiling up at the Earl of Ardmore with such an open, happy grin that he almost closed his eyes against the beauty of her, all that rumpled hair, the color of gold coins falling over his arm, and her eyes, with their seductive laughter, and the intelligence of her face, and the courage there too—
He pulled himself upright, on the very edge of lowering her to the ground.
“Ah, Ewan,” Father Armailhac said, showing a sense of brilliant timing, “have you come to find Miss Annabel, then?” His gaze flashed to the letter crumpled on the ground, and then his smile grew. “My dear, am I to take it that you have come to a decision?”
“My family is coming to see us,” she told Ewan.
He shrugged that off, his eyes searching hers. “I didn’t realize that there was a decision to be made.”
Annabel blushed, wondering if a monk could possibly look as if he knew precisely how she felt. “I would . . .” She paused and looked up at Ewan. The gold glints in his eyes were shining. “I would like to marry you, Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore.”
“That’s Ewan to you,” he said, and took her in his arms again, heedless of the benevolently smiling monk, and gave her a hard kiss.
Chapter Twenty
The castle had great doors hewn from oak that swung open to reveal a vast antechamber, large enough to receive a king and all his court. The ceiling arched far above them, the stone looking solid, ancient, and dirty. The walls were hung with tapestries.
“The Battle of Flodden, 1513,” Ewan remarked, bringing her to the left wall. “My great-great-great grandfather had these tapestries woven in Brussels as a warning to all future Ardmores to avoid war. He lost two sons in the battle.”
Annabel peered at the tapestries, which were positively littered with men and horses. The light was not the best.
“The ground is covered with dead young men. This tapestry and the warning in it saved our lands from being taken over by the Butcher in 1745.”
A faint chill of ancient, raw stone hung in the air, and Annabel shivered. Suddenly living in a castle didn’t seem quite as romantic as it sounded. But Ewan was leading her through a door to the right, and then they were in a warm, cheerful parlor, heated by a trim iron stove set in the enormous stone fireplace, but otherwise not looking very different from any of Rees’s best sitting rooms.
“My father ruthlessly modernized,” Ewan explained. “He was fascinated by Count Rumford’s inventions, and had several Rumford stoves installed, and a Rumford range placed in the kitchen that provides heated water. You can look at all this later. For now, why don’t I show you our suite?” Considering that he was a Christian man, he had one of the most wicked glints in his eyes that Annabel had ever seen.
The bedchamber was dominated by an enormous bed. Over it hung a canopy of wildly entwined and colorful flowers, embroidered by a master.
“It’s lovely,” she said, awed.
“My parents brought it back from their wedding trip,” Ewan said. He hadn’t touched her since they entered the chamber, but his eyes held a caress. “Shall we travel to celebrate our wedding, Annabel? Perhaps up the Nile?”
But Annabel could hardly think past the wedding night, let alone consider trips. “I will go nowhere in a coach for the foreseeable future,” she said.
He laughed. “Then we’re stuck here for the moment. I’m afraid that the coastline is some distance.”
The most fascinating thing about the bedchamber was the bath. The walls were tiled blue and white, with a frieze of laughing mermaids, and the bath itself was made of white marble. “Mac had it sent from Italy,” Ewan said. “I do believe that it’s large enough for two.”
She looked up at him.
“Of course I’ve never tried that method.” He smiled wolfishly. “But I can think of several ways in which we might . . . christen it, so to speak.”
Annabel turned away, suddenly terrified that she would fail him. She’d never thought to marry a man who had been without a woman for years. A rake would have been different: more knowledgeable, and she would have had no part in the business but to follow along and see whether she enjoyed it. But with Ewan . . . for one thing, he had an uncanny ability to know everything she was feeling. All that advice she received from women in the village, about appearing to enjoy it no matter what one truly felt, was not going to work.
Her maid, Elsie, bustled into the chamber, followed by two footmen with Annabel’s trunks. Anxiety bristled in the air about her. “You don’t have a single white gown that won’t need to be bleached after all this dust, not but what that’s a newfangled idea anyway—”
“Anything will do,” Annabel told her.
Elsie gaped at her. “Anything will not do, Miss Annabel! This is your wedding, after all.” Elsie had originally been hired to be a nursemaid, and sometimes she seemed to forget that her charge had left the nursery long ago.
“I shall leave you to your preparations,” Ewan said. �
�Perhaps we might marry in a half hour?”
“A half hour?” Elsie half shrieked. “Certainly not! First, Miss Annabel has to decide on a gown, and it must be sponged and pressed, and she needs to bathe, and her hair—”
“Whenever you finish your ministrations,” Ewan said to her. “There’s no particular hurry.” It was clear to Annabel that he meant precisely the opposite.
As soon as he was gone, Elsie began clucking like a nervous chicken. “I’ll run the bath,” she decided. “Although whether that great behemoth will actually fill with hot water is another thing. I don’t believe it. I’ve no doubt but what I’ll have to call for buckets in the old-fashioned way.”
“I could wear the plum-colored sarsenet,” Annabel said.
“The one trimmed with swansdown?” Elsie said, thinking about it. “At least the trim would be white. And it has a nice long train.”
Annabel nodded. She wasn’t certain that the dress in question was really appropriate for a wedding. After all, Imogen had given it to her, and the bodice was low-cut. But the dress made Annabel feel beautiful. Majestic, even. And somehow, when one found oneself marrying an earl who lived in a castle with fifty servants, one felt the need to look regal.
Elsie thought for a moment and nodded. “That might work. It’s at the bottom of one of the trunks, and will have been protected from the worst of the dust. We can sponge the swansdown thoroughly and it will dry in a twinkle.”
She ran into the bathroom and then trotted directly back into the bedroom. “I’d better find the gown first, and perhaps the housekeeper might have someone sponge it for me. Although whether I’ll be able to find the housekeeper is another question. It’s monstrously large, this place.”
“There seem to be footmen everywhere who can direct you.”