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Prologue
Dunridge Castle, Scotland, 1576
He had loved her forever.
She was going to give him grief.
Fifteen-year-old Gordon Campbell marched across the torchlit great hall and stared at his eight-year-old bride. Nervous apprehension made his heart sink to his stomach and his clenched hands felt clammy with sweat, yet his unconcerned expression never altered. As the Marquess of Inverary and the Duke of Argyll's heir, Gordon had a reputation to safeguard, and he would never allow any eight-year-old to gain the upper hand with him. If the watching MacArthurs and Campbells guessed how uncertain he felt at that moment, Gordon knew he'd be the laughingstock of the Highlands until the day he died. God's balls, imagine the scandal of the Duke of Argyll's heir trembling before his future duchess—an eight-year-old bairn.
Not in this lifetime, Gordon vowed, fixing his gray-eyed gaze on her.
The lass was trouble all right. Gordon knew that as surely as he knew his own name.
Dressed in virginal white and wearing a wreath of orange blossoms in her ebony hair, the girl looked as innocent as an angel, but gleaming trouble leaped at him from the depths of her emerald green eyes. The tilt of her upturned nose and the stubborn chiseling of her chin gave proof to her less than passive temperament. The lass even had the audacity to star right back at him. Without blushing.
She gave him an ambiguous smile. Standing with her arms behind her back, the girl seemed as demure as a shy angel. In contrast, the thick mane of ebony that cascaded to her waist and those disarming emerald eyes with their thick fringe of sooty lashes lent her a seductive appearance beyond her years.
Feeling a hundred interested gazes on his back, Gordon decided to use his superior sophistication to win the girl's affection. He gave her his most charming smile, the same one that worked so successfully with Inverary Castle's maids.
In answer, the girl raised her perfectly shaped ebony brows at him. Did the wee witch know what he was thinking?
“Yer as cute as a kitten,” Gordon remarked, crouching down to be eye level with her.
“I'm a girl,” she said flatly.
Gordon forced himself to smile, “A verra bonny girl,” he complimented her, thinking flattery would soften her attitude. “I'm Gordon Campbell, the Marquess of Inverary.”
“I know who ye are,” she said, apparently unimpressed by his title.
“What's yer name?”
“Rob B. MacArthur.”
“Ye've a boy's name.”
“I'm a girl.”
“What's the B signify?” Gordon asked.
“Brat,” shouted the girl's three older brothers.
Rob turned her head and cast each of them a reproving look. She flicked a smile filled with love at her father, the earl, and then returned her attention to Gordon, saying, “The B stand for Bruce. My father named me in honor of his special hero, Robert the Bruce. Have ye ever heard of him?”
God's balls, Gordon thought in disgusted dismay. How could he hope to live down the fact that he'd married a girl named Rob Bruce? What kind of daft parents did the lass have?
“And I dinna give a tinker's damn if my name pleases ye or no,” she added.
“Rob is a lovely name,” Gordon said, wondering how she'd known what he was thinking. “As a matter of fact, Robert the Bruce is my own special hero.”
That made her smile. The sweetness of it tugged at his heartstrings. She really was as cute as a kitten and held the promise of growing into a great beauty.
“Did ye know I'm goin' to marry ye today?” Gordon asked.
Rob nodded, but asked in a loud whisper, “Dinna ye think yer a bit elderly to be my husband?”
Pockets of smothered laughter erupted in the hall. Embarrassed, Gordon cast his father a meaningful look.
“Dinna look to me for help,” Magnus Campbell called to him, apparently amused by his son's discomfort. “Each man makes his own way in the world.”
“Speak to yer daughter, Brie,” Iain MacArthur ordered his wife. “She's givin' the lad a hard time.”
Lady Brigette started forward.
“Brie, stay where ye are.” Magnus countermanded the order. “Gordon will be dealin' with her for his whole life. The lad may as well make a beginnin' of it now.”
“'Tis my father, the Duke of Argyll,” Gordon told Rob. “If ye marry me, I'll make ye a duchess someday.”
“I dinna want to be a duchess,” she replied.
“The devil take ye,” he exclaimed, but his piercing gray eyes flickered with interest. “What do ye—?”
“This is my hall,” Rob interrupted him. “I'll thank ye to keep a civil tongue in yer head when yer speakin' to me.”
“I do apologize,” Gordon said with laughter lurking in his voice. For a child of eight, the lass already issued orders like a seasoned duchess. “If ye dinna mind me askin', what would ye like to be?”
“An English lady like my mother.”
Holy horseshit, Gordon thought, his charming smile never wavering. “If ye marry me, I'll be yer knight,” he coaxed. “That means I'll slay yer dragons.”
Now her eyes flickered with interest. “What aboot the monster that lives under my bed?” she asked.
“Ye've a monster livin' beneath yer bed?” Gordon echoed, feigning shocked dismay.
Rob nodded gravely.
Drawing Gordon's attention, thirteen-year-old Ross MacArthur called, “The only monster in her room is the one who sleep in the bed.”
“Show the marquess yer devil's hand,” ten-year-old Jamie MacArthur added, then quickly sidestepped out of his father's reach.
“Both of ye shut yer mouths, or ye'll answer to me,” fifteen-year-old Dubh MacArthur threatened.
Gordon cast the three MacArthur brothers a long, measuring look and wondered at their words. When he turned back to the girl, his heart nearly broke at the starling transformation in her demeanor. One moment she'd been a proud Highland lass and the next moment a pathetic angel complete with quivering bottom lip as if she waged a fierce inner battle to prevent the flood of tears that threatened to spill. What would he do if she started to weep?
“Why dinna ye ask yer da to kill the monster?” Gordon asked.
“Old people canna see him,” she answered, making everyone but her father smile.
“What does he look like?”
“Da or the monster?”
Gordon swallowed the chuckle he felt bubbling up. The lass was more entertaining than a band of traveling players. “I meant the monster,” he said.
“I never saw him but—” Rob broke off, lowered her gaze, and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
“Share it with me, lass,” Gordon said in a soothing tone of voice.
“The monster touched me once,” she whispered, holding her left hand out for his inspection. “See what he did.”
A dark, flower-shaped birthmark stained the back of her left hand. The six-petaled flower of Aphrodite signified sin, or so the church authorities taught their faithful. Most people regarded the mark as a sure sign of the devil.
Gordon slowly raised his gray-eyed gaze to hers and noted the unshed tears glistening in her disarming eyes. Without forethought, he lifted the offending hand to his lips and kissed the birthmark.
“I'll kill that monster for darin' to touch ye,” Gordon promised, smiling at her surprised expression. “As soon as ye place yer mark on the marriage contract.”
Rob shook her head and said, “Ye must kill the monster first.”
“Dinna ye trust me to keep my word?”
“Everyone in the Highlands knows that Campbell means 'crooked mouth.'”
Gordon flushed when he heard the smothered chuckles emanating from the MacArthur section of their audience. “So ye'll wed me if I slay him first?” he asked.
Rob nodded.
“Dinna do it,” Ross MacArthur called.
“Yer a gonner for sure if ye do,” Jamie MacArthur warned.
Dubh MacArthur reached out and slapped first one brother and then the other. “Open yer mouths again,” he threatened them, “and Ma will be wearin' mournin' black in yer memory.”
Ignoring his future brothers-in-law, Gordon stood and offered the girl his hand. He glanced at his father who cast him a look that said “well done.” Together, the fifteen-year-old marquess and his eight-year-old bride left the hall.
“Ye'll wait here where 'tis safe,” Gordon ordered, halting at the bottom of the stairs. “Which chamber is yers?”
“The last door on the left.”
Gordon started up the stairs but stopped when he heard her speak.
“Ye'll be careful?” she called, sounding worried.
Gordon paused and turned around. He smiled at her and nodded, then continued up the stairs. Gordon walked into her chamber, leaned against the door and waited. He judged ten minutes would be the appropriate amount of time for monster slaying. Anything less would be suspect, anything more would bring the girl in search of him.
Glancing at the spartanly furnished chamber, Gordon assumed it was the usual little girl's room but didn't know for sure. As an only child, he'd never stepped inside a young girl's chamber.
Gordon reached up and ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair at the same moment his gaze touched the bed. For some unknown reason, Gordon pushed away from the door and sauntered across the chamber toward the bed. He dropped to his knees, lifted the coverlet, and peered beneath the bed. No monster.
Ten minutes later, Gordon emerged from the chamber and retraced his steps down the corridor to the stairs. He smiled when he caught sight of his bride-to-be.
Rob stood at the base of the stairs. With her eyes closed and a frightened expression fixed on her face, she moved her lips in a silent prayer.
Gordon flicked a glance toward the great hall. Lady Brigette stood outside the hall's entrance. When he looked in her direction, she mouthed the words thank you and then disappeared inside.
“'Tis done,” Gordon announced. “That nasty monster willna be botherin'ye again.”
Rob opened her eyes and gave him a relieved smile. “What did ye do with his body?” she asked.
“The thin' disappeared when he died.”
“Yer certain sure he isna hidin'?”
Gordon nodded and sat down on the bottom stair. He reached into his pocket and said, “I've a gift for ye.”
“I love receivin' gifts,” Rob cried, her emerald eyes sparkling with delight.
“I was certain ye did,” Gordon said dryly. He lifted her left hand and slipped a scrolled band of gold onto her third finger. “The ring has a secret message inside. Vous et Nul Autre means “Ye and No Other.” Yer my lady-wife, and I'll always be true to ye.”
Rob looked at the ring on her finger and then gazed at him, saying, “My mother told me ye'd bring me somethin' pretty, and ye did.” She batted her ebony lashes at him and smiled winsomely, adding, “I was hopin' for a new doll.”
Gordon burst out laughing. “I believe ye'll make me a grand duchess, and I promise to send ye a dolly as soon as I return to Inverary. Will that do?”
Rob nodded.
Several minutes later the Duke of Argyll's only son married the Earl of Dunridge's only daughter. With all of her heart and soul, Rob MacArthur loved her gallant husband for a long, long time. Gordon Campbell left Dunridge Castle and, in true fifteen-year-old fashion, dismissed his child bride from his mind as if she'd never existed.
He never sent her the promised doll.
Chapter 1
Devereux House, London, 1586
Autumn wore its most serene expression that final day of October. Clear blue skies kissed the distant horizon, and gentle breezes caressed the land.
The changing season painted vivid colors within the perfect setting of the Earl of Basildon's garden. In addition to nature's orange, gold, and red-leafed trees, an army of gardeners had landscaped the grounds in a rainbow of autumnal shades. Chrysanthemums in a variety of hues adorned the manicured lawns along with flowering cabbage, marigold, and sweet alyssum.
A shining white birch tree, and evergreen yew, and a majestic oak stood together like old friends in the rear of the earl's garden. The earl's five daughters, ranging in age from three to ten, and his countess circled the yew tree and stared up at the ebony-haired woman perched comfortably on its thickest branch.
“Are you listening?” called the eight-month-pregnant Countess of Basildon.
Rob MacArthur inhaled deeply of the mingling scents of the garden's flowers and then looked down at her audience. “I hear ye, Aunt Keely.”
The countess turned to her daughters and asked, “Are you listening?”
Rob smiled at the sight of the five young girls nodding their heads with exaggerated vigor, their ebony braids bobbing up and down with the movement. Having passed the previous year in England with Uncle Richard and his family, Rob loved her younger cousins and considered them the sisters she'd never had.
“All the participants around the bonfire tonight will receive a sprig of yew,” Lady Keely instructed. “Samhuinn—known in England as Halloween—is the festival of our ancestors, and the yew tree symbolizes death and rebirth. These sprigs of yew represent our ability to commune with those loved ones who have gone before us into the Great Adventure. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the five little girls chorused.
The countess looked up at her niece and asked, “Do you understand?”
“I ken what yer sayin', Aunt Keely.” Rob dropped a handful of yew sprigs, and her cousins scrambled to pick them up. She glanced toward the mansion and saw her uncle headed in their direction.
“Here comes yer father,” she announced.
In the distance behind the earl, Henry Talbot walked onto the Devereux estate. Spying the family gathering in the rear of the garden, the twenty-five-year-old Marquess of Ludlow sauntered in their direction.
Rob sighed when she saw him. “Isna he the handsomest man ye've ever seen?”
“'Tis one of the many reasons why I married him,” the countess replied.
“I dinna mean Uncle Richard.” Rob giggled at the absurd notion that her uncle was the handsomest man. “I meant yer brother Henry.”
“Rob loves Henry,” eight-year-old Bliss Devereux chanted in a singsong voice. “Rob loves Henry.”
“Quiet, Lady Blister,” Rob hushed her. “He'll hear ye.”
“I'm no blister,” Bliss replied.
“You're a terrible pain in the arse,” ten-year-old Blythe Devereux told her sister.
“'Tis unkind of you to say that,” Lady Keely chided her eldest.
“Cousin Blythe, lyin' is sometimes kinder than the truth,” Rob called, then smiled at her aunt's reproving frown.
“How are the Halloween preparations progressing?” asked the earl, reaching the yew tree.
“Fine.” The countess smiled and patted her swollen belly.” As ordered, I refrained from climbing the tree this year.”
“Daddy?”
Richard Devereux looked down at six-year-old Aurora, usually as silent as the hushed moments for which she'd been named. When the child offered him a sprig of yew, the earl smiled and crouched down to be eye level with her.
“Thank you, sweetling,” he said, accepting the sprig.
“Daddy,” two voiced chimed together.
Richard glanced first to the left and then to the right. On either side of him stood his three-year-old twins, Summer and Autumn.
“What do you call an Englishman who eats ants?” Summer asked.
“Uncle,” Autumn shouted.
Everyone but the earl laughed. “Who told you that?” Richard demanded.
“Uncle Henry,” Blythe, Bliss, and Aurora answered at the same time.
The earl stood and faced his wife, saying, “Tell your brother to refrain from spreading his wickedness to our daughters.”
“Great Bruce's ghost,” Rob cried indignantly from her perch in the tree. “Henry isna wicked.”
“Thank you for defending me, my lady,” said a husky voice behind the earl.
Rob smiled at Henry Talbot, and all of the tender affection she felt for him shone in her expression. Noting the grim set to her uncle's jaw, Rob prevented his intended tirade by calling, “Henry, will you help me down?”
“With pleasure.” Henry stood beneath the yew tree, and when she leaped off the branch, his arms were there to steady her. They stood so close their bodies touched.
The masculine feel and the clean scent of him made Rob's senses reel. Staring up into his sky-blue eyes, Rob became mesmerized by the tender emotion mirrored in them.
Silently refusing to relinquish her, Henry dipped his head toward her. His face inched closer, and his lips sought to claim hers.
Rob turned her head at the very last moment. Her heart pounded frantically within her breast at the near contact of their lips. How she wished she were free to succumb to his kiss.
Henry chuckled and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I almost had you that time,” he teased.
“Almost doesna count,” Rob replied. She glanced at her frowning uncle and blushed with embarrassment.
“Daddy?”
Richard Devereux turned away from his niece and his brother-in-law who were still clinging to each other like a couple of vines. He looked down at Aurora.
“Yesterday I seen Uncle Henry trying to kiss Cousin Rob,” the little girl told him. “She wouldn't let him.”
“Daughters, let your cousin's behavior be an example to you,” Richard said, beginning his favorite lecture on the inherent evil in men. “All men—like Uncle Henry—have wicked intentions. Never let them near you.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Blythe?”
“You're a man,” the ten-year-old observed. “Do you have wicked intentions too?”
Henry and Rob burst out laughing while the countess covered her smile with one hand. The earl cast them a quelling look, which only served to make Rob giggle even more.
“Daughters, if a man tries to kiss you,” Richard asked, “what are you going to say to him?”
“Yuch-yuch-yuch,” the five little girls chorused.
The earl cast the three watching adults a look of triumph and then asked his daughter, “If a man does kiss you, what are you going to do?”
“Slap his face,” they shouted.
“Daddy, Uncle Odo told us—” Blythe began.
“—to kick the gent's balls,” Bliss finished.
“What balls?” Aurora asked.
“Never mind,” the earl answered.
“Daughters, if you plan to celebrate tonight,” Lady Keely spoke up, “you must nap this afternoon. Mrs. Ashemole is waiting inside for you.”
The earl knelt in front of his three-year-old twins and put an arm around each. “Give Daddy a kiss good-bye,” he said.
“Yuch-yuch-yuch,” Summer and Autumn shouted.
Lady Keely, Rob, and Henry burst out laughing. Even the earl smiled.
Henry turned to Rob and asked, “Would you care to ride with me this afternoon?”
“There's nothin' I'd love more,” she answered, “but Isabelle will be here soon. Ye know she's comin' for an extended visit.”
“Then I'll wait with you at the quay,” Henry said.
Hand in hand, the two walked in the direction of the quay. The earl and the countess stared after them for a moment.
Richard and Keely exchanged concerned glances. The earl raised his brows at his wife in a silent question. She shrugged in answer and smiled.
“Henry fancies himself in love with her,” Lady Keely said. “Rob will have him if her parents can manage to win her an annulment.”
“Does your brother know about her previous marriage?” Richard asked.
Keely shook her head. “'Tisn't my place to tell him, and I doubt Rob has shared it. She's hoping for good news from Scotland.”
Both the earl and his lady watched the retreating couple. Appearing very much in love, Henry and Rob strolled across the lawns to the quay. At one point, the marquess tried to kiss her, but she managed to elude his lips and giggled at her victory.
“Send Henry to court for a few weeks,” Keely suggested, looping her arm through her husband's. “By the time he returns, we shall have heard if an annulment is possible.”
“You're very wise, dearest,” Richard said, escorting her to the house.
“You once told me I had no common sense,” she reminded him.
Richard smiled. “True, but you proved me wrong when you married me.”
Meanwhile, Rob sat beside Henry on a stone bench near the quay. Her right hand clasped his, and her left hand hid inside her pocket. When she peeked at the handsome marquess and found him watching her, Rob blushed and smiled.
“I saved ye from one of my uncle's tongue-lashin's,” she teased him. “Why do ye persist in tellin' his daughters vulgar jokes? They canna even understand them.”
“'Tis precisely the reason,” Henry told her. “For the past ten years, Richard has been obsessed with guarding his daughters' maidenheads. I love sending him into a high dudgeon,”
“'Tis cruel of ye to do so,” Rob said.
Henry chuckled. “Before he married my sister, your uncle was the wildest and most successful rake at the Tudor court.”
“Uncle Richard?” Rob couldn't credit that. “He seems so proper.”
“My sister tamed him.”
“How did she manage that?”
“By kissing him whenever he wished,” Henry lied. “You should strive to emulate her behavior. Besides, you wound me whenever you turn your lips away from mine.”
“Disappointment is a part of life, my lord,” Rob said, flicking a sidelong glance at him. “Ye'll survive.”
“Won't you feel guilty if I expire before your eyes?” he asked with a wicked grin.
“Yer incorrigible,” she replied, laughing. “I willna kiss ye until my previous betrothal is annulled. Remember, my lord, those who wait long at the ferry are bound to get across sometime.”
Henry slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her close, so close his well-muscled thigh teased her skirt. When she looked up at him, he gazed deeply and longingly into the fathomless pools of her emerald eyes and whispered in a seductively husky voice, “Darling, you do remind me of the thunderstorm at a picnic.”
Rob giggled. “You resemble a waistie wanis.”
Henry cocked an ebony brow at her. “What's that?”
“A spoiled child.”
“Sorry, darling. Let's kiss and make up.”
“Yer forgiven and may kiss my hand.” Rob offered him her right hand to kiss in a courtly manner.
“Uncle Henry!”
Both Rob and Henry looked over their shoulders. Blythe hurried across the lawns toward them.
“Uncle Henry,” Blythe called. “Daddy wants to see you. Now.”
Henry waved at his niece and then turned back to Rob. “Darling, I fear you only delayed your uncle's tongue-lashing. Will you accompany me to the house?'
Rob glanced toward the Thames River and shook her head. In the distance, a barge had just rounded the bend. “Isabelle is almost here.”
“I'll return in a few minutes,” Henry said, rising from the bench. “Be warned, my bonny lassie. I plan to steal one of your kisses at the Samhuinn celebration tonight.”
“Ye can always try,” she countered with a flirtatious smile.
Rob watched Henry and Blythe walk back to Devereux House. With his ebony hair and sky-blue eyes, the Marquess of Ludlow was every maiden's dream man. Rob sighed. She loved him, but why couldn't he understand that she wasn't going to allow him liberties with her person until her annulment was finalized?
Because he doesn't know I'm already married, Rob answered her own question. Guilty remorse coiled itself around her heart. Though she wasn't deceitful by nature, Rob couldn't chance losing Henry's tender regard by telling him the truth of the matter.
Gordon Campbell will welcome the opportunity to dissolve our marriage, Rob told herself. If he even remembers he has a wife. The Marquess of Inverary had never sent her any trinket or letter. When he left Dunridge Castle after their wedding, the man seemed to have fallen off the edge of the world.
Banishing the painful memory, Rob smiled inwardly. She had achieved her goal in life. Like her mother before her, she was a real English lady. Having found happiness in England, she vowed never to return to the Highlands.
Rob pulled her left hand out of her pocket and stared at the birthmark shaped like the devil's flower. She ran a finger across it. The mark felt no different from the skin on her right hand, yet it had brought her a lifetime of trouble. Amazing, how an innocuous-looking stain could create so much heartache.
“Rob?”
Rob focused on the voice, then leaped off the bench and cried, “Isabelle!”
The boatman helped the blonde disembark, and the two petite women flew into each other's arms. Materializing from nowhere, the earl's footmen carried the young woman's bags to the house.
“I missed you,” Rob exclaimed.
“I missed you more,” Isabelle Debrett said with a smile.
“'Tis warm today. Let's sit in the garden and chat,” Rob suggested, slipping her left hand into her pocket. “Or would ye prefer to rest awhile?”
“I'm too excited to rest,” Isabelle admitted. Then ordered, “Get that hand out of your pocket.”
“But—”
“Do as I say.”
When Rob reluctantly did as she was told, Isabelle took her blemished hand in hers. Together, they walked to one of the stone benches.
Uncomfortable with the other girl touching her marked hand, Rob sat stiffly beside her on the bench. She itched to yank her hand back and hide it in her pocket, but would never chance offending the other girl.
Without warning, Isabelle reached out with one finger and traced the six-petaled flower stain. “Delicately distinctive,.” she murmured, then looked up and smiled.
Horrified by the gesture and surprised by the words, Rob turned a stricken expression upon the other girl. Didn't she recognize the mark of the devil? What would she do if Isabelle suddenly made the sign of the cross to ward the evil eye off? How could she bear losing her only friend?
“I'm so glad we're friends,” Isabelle said.
Tears welled up in Rob's eyes. “I—I never had a friend before I met ye,” she confessed.
“That makes us even,” the other girl admitted. “You're the only real friend I ever had.”
“Ye've two sisters.”
“Stepsisters,” Isabelle qualified. “They never considered me their real sister.”
“'Tis pure jealousy,” Rob replied, indignant for her friend's sake. “Yer so bonny, and whenever Lobelia and Rue go out and aboot, their ugly faces scare wee bairns.”
“'Tis unkind of you to say that,” Isabelle said with a mischievous grin. “Lobelia and Rue are merely a tad plain.”
“Belle, how can ye sit there and defend them?” Rob asked. “They force ye to attend them as if yer their personal servant. Unpaid servant, I might add. Yer stepmother's no better.”
Isabelle shrugged. “Delphinia, Lobelia, and Rue are the only family I have now that Papa is gone.”
“What aboot yer cousin Roger?”
“I meant immediate family. Besides, accumulating a mountain of gold keeps Roger too busy to bother with me.” Isabelle spied the handsome man advancing on them and whispered, “Here comes the Marquess of Ludlow.”
Rob yanked her hand out of her friend's and slipped it into her pocket. Masking her abrupt gesture, she said, “I feel a bit chilled. Do ye?”
Isabelle shook her head and cast her friend a curious look. She flicked a glance at the marquess and then the pocket where her friend's blemished hand was hidden.
“Lady Isabelle, welcome to Devereux House.” Henry greeted the blonde with an easy smile. Before she could reply, he dismissed her presence just as easily. Turning to Rob, Henry said, “Your uncle needs me to go to court. I won't be here for tonight's celebration. How about an early Samhuinn kiss, sweetheart?”
Rob blushed, embarrassed that he would speak so boldly in front of her guest. “I'll consider givin' ye a welcome-home kiss when ye return,” she said, refusing him.
Henry lifted her right hand to his lips, gazed deeply into her eyes, and said, “Darling, you're making me daft.”
Isabelle burst out laughing.
Rob giggled and then parried, “My lord, ye already were daft when I met ye.”
As she watched the marquess walk toward the quay, a vague sense of relief surged through Rob. She loved him with all of her heart, but needed a bit of breathing space. Rob wanted to savor each moment with the only friend she'd ever had, and Henry's departure would give her that opportunity.
“Ludlow seems smitten,” Isabelle remarked.
“So he says,” Rob replied, her gaze still fixed on the retreating marquess. “I willna kiss him until I'm free.”
“Do you think Campbell will agree to that?” Isabelle asked.
“I dinna know.” Rob slipped her left hand out of her pocket, removed the scrolled band of gold that she now wore on her smallest finger, and stared at it.
Lifting the wedding ring from her hand, Isabelle admired it and then said, “There's something written inside.”
“'Ye and No Other,'” Rob supplied.
“How romantic,” Isabelle gushed, momentarily forgetting her friend's preference for Henry Talbot. “The Marquess of Inverary must love you. What did he say when he gave you the ring?”
“Somethin' aboot bein' his lady and how he'd always remain true to me,” Rob answered, hoping her friend proved wrong about the marquess's feelings. “What a crock of dung that was.”
“Campbell adores you,” the other girl disagreed. “No man would say such things to a lady unless he meant them.”
Rob gave her an affectionate smile. “Isabelle, ye always see the good in people. Campbell never even wrote me a letter during all those years.”
“Perhaps he's been busy.”
“For ten years?” Rob countered, cocking an ebony brow at her.
“'Tis possible,” Isabelle said with a nod, then sighed dreamily. “'Ye and No Other.' Aye, the Marquess of Inverary loves you madly. I warrant 'tis the very reason he's kept himself away. Campbell refused to tempt himself while you were growing into womanhood. Imagine, Rob. All those long, long years Gordon Campbell remained faithful to you . . .”
Holyroodhouse Palace, Edinburgh
“Come back to bed and warm me,” the Countess of Galbraith purred throatily.
Twenty-five-year-old Gordon Campbell ignored the blatantly sensual invitation. Dressed only in black breeches and boots, he stared out the bedchamber window that overlooked Holyrood Park.
That first morning of November had dawned depressingly gray and frosted. October's crowning glory of gold, orange, and red leaves lay scattered across the brown lawns. Bare branches etched stark silhouettes against a bleak sky.
Gordon studied the fallen leaves and the barren branches. “No wind” registered in his mind. The overcast day appeared ideal for his golf game with King James. Losing to the king without seeming to do so was much easier on the windless day.
“Gordy, did ye hear me?” twenty-two-year-old Lavinia Kerr asked in a whining voice. “I'm freezin'.”
Gordon turned around and smiled lazily at the voluptuous redhead snuggled beneath the coverlet on the four-poster, curtained bed. His latest mistress possessed all the qualities he liked best in a woman—stupid, shallow, and married to someone else.
No commitments was rule number one in Gordon's personal philosophy. He needed no tender attachments impeding his soaring ambitions and was glad he'd followed his father's advice by marrying MacArthur's daughter when he turned fifteen. His marriage to her had saved him from myriad pretty vultures like Lavinia. When doing so suited him, Gordon intended to end his affair with the fiery-haired beauty in his usual way. He'd gift her with an outrageously expensive trinket, give her adorable derriere a final pat, and send her on her way. To her next lover, no doubt.
“At what are ye starin'?” she asked, a flirtatious smile curving her full lips.
“I'm admirin' the most beautiful woman in Edinburgh,” Gordon answered, sauntering across the chamber to sit on the edge of the bed.
Lavinia sat up and let the coverlet drop to her waist, exposing her breasts. “Ye have a remarkable way with words,” she murmured, gliding the palm of her hand across his bare chest. “Take yer boots and breeches off. I have urgent need of ye.”
“When ye slipped into my bed this mornin',” Gordon reminded her, “I told ye I couldna linger. I'm golfin' with James.”
“The king willna golf in the rain,” she argued.
“'Tisna rainin',” he told her. “Why dinna ye join us?”
“I hate golfin'.”
“How unfortunate.” Gordon cast her a long look and added in feigned dismay, “Ye posses the perfect stance for an excellent golf game.”
“I do?”
“Aye, widespread legs.”
“Yer crude,” Lavinia said, lifting her nose into the air. Then, “When are ye goin' to marry me?”
Gordon leaned close and nuzzled the side of her neck. With laughter lurking in his voice, he reminded her, “Did ye forget, hinny? Ye've already got yerself a husband.
“Galbraith is an old man and canna last verra much longer,” Lavinia countered. “Challenge him to a duel and be done with it.”
“I expected better of ye,” Gordon replied, giving her a reproving look. “Where's the honor in challengin' a man too old to defend himself? Dinna forget, lovey, I have a wife.”
“The MacArthur chit?” Lavinia laughed derisively. “Annul her.”
Gordon opened his mouth to reply but heard a knock on the door. He flicked a measuring look at Lavinia and hoped this wasn't one of her tricks intended for Galbraith to find them together in a compromising position. Murdering a man old enough to be his grandfather wasn't something he'd enjoy. Perhaps he'd better shop for that farewell trinket after his round of golf.
“Gordy? Are ye in there?” The voice belonged to his friend, Mungo MacKinnon.
“Here's yer cousin. Cover yerself,” Gordon said to Lavinia. Then called, “Come in, Mungo.”
The door swung open, and twenty-six-year-old Mungo MacKinnon walked into the chamber. Standing well under six feet, Mungo was slenderly built and a good six inches shorter than Gordon. He sported a crown of pale blond hair and deep-set blue eyes. Mungo leaned his bag of gold clubs against the wall and then grinned at Lavinia.
“Cousin, ye look delightfully disheveled,” he teased her. “How's yer husaband?”
“Verra funny."
“Are ye almost ready?” Mungo asked Gordon. “We dare na keep Himself waitin'.”
Rising from his perch on the edge of the bed, Gordon pulled his white shirt on over his head and then reached for his black leather jerkin. “I was tryin' to persuade Lavinia to join us,” he said, his gray eyes sparkling with mischief.
Lavinia tossed the pillow at him, but in the movement, the coverlet dropped to reveal her breasts. She blushed prettily and yanked it up.
The two men hooted at her embarrassment, but an insistent knocking on the door cut their laughter short. While Mungo hastily pulled the bed draperies shut to hide his cousin, Gordon crossed the chamber and opened the door a crack. A man, dressed in the black and green Campbell plaid, stood there.
Recognizing the Marquess of Inverary, the Campbell courier offered him a sealed parchment, saying, “From His Grace.”
“I'll be returnin' to Campbell Mansion this afternoon,” Gordon said, accepting the parchment. “I'll see ye there later if this requires an answer.”
The courier nodded and left.
Gordon closed the door and leaned back against it. He started to break the wax seal on the missive.
“What's the news from Argyll?” Lavinia called. With the coverlet wrapped around herself, she emerged from the curtained bed.
Suppressing a smile, Gordon glanced at his friend. Mungo rolled his eyes as his cousin's curiosity.
Gordon opened the missive, and keeping its contents hidden from view, began to read. He'd been expecting this particular order, but actually seeing it in writing startled his senses. Ten years seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye.
Closing his eyes, Gordon tried to conjure the image of his bride as she would now appear, a full-grown woman. All he saw was an eight-year-old angel who feared the monster living under her bed. What did Rob MacArthur look like now? he wondered. Had the promise of beauty been fulfilled?
“Ye dinna look especially pleased,” Lavinia remarked.
Gordon stared at her for a long moment and hoped she wouldn't succumb to one of her tantrums. “My MacArthur bride is ripe,” he said. “Argyll orders me to fetch her.”
“Ye canna leave me,” Lavinia cried. Then, “Cousin, speak to him.”
“Livy, the man must do his father's biddin',” Mungo replied with a shrug.
“If ye dinna consummate yer vows,” Lavinia advised, “ye can annul the marriage.”
“I willna do that,” Gordon told her. “'Twould cause a breach between our families.”
“Why, ye never loved me at all,” Lavinia said in an accusing voice.
She has the right of that, Gordon thought. He didn't love her. Love was for women and fools.
Gordon reached out and pulled her close, saying, “Livy, love has naught to do with marriage. Ye know that as well as anyone.”
“Ye promised ye'd escort me to the king's masque tomorrow evenin',” she whined.
“Do ye see me leapin' on my horse and ridin' off to the Highlands?” Gordon asked. “The MacArthur brat has kept for ten years. Another couple of days willna matter.”
Lavinia smiled and entwined her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against his hard, muscular frame and asked, “So, ye'll leave me heartbroken in a couple of days?”
Her delicately seductive scent assiled his senses. Steeling himself against her wiles, Gordon set her back a pace.
“God's balls, Livy. Dinna wrap yerself around me,” he scolded. “Ye know I detest bein' smothered.”
Mungo burst out laughing. Gordon Campbell was the only man he knew who possessed the willpower to resist his beautiful cousin.
Glorious in her anger, Lavinia rounded on her MacKinnon cousin. “Yer laughin' at my heartache?”
The absurd thought of Lavinia being heartbroken over any man made Gordon chuckle. Lavinia whirled around and raised her hand to slap him.
Gordon was faster. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her against his unyielding body. His lips captured hers in a kiss that left her breathless and yearning for more.
“Dinna be daft,” Gordon whispered against her lips. “I'm plannin' to deposit the chit at Inverary Castle and then return to Edinburgh posthaste.”
Lavinia's expression cleared, and she smiled with satisfaction.
“Sneak back to yer own chamber after I leave,” Gordon ordered. “Be dressed for shoppin' by the time I return.”
“Shoppin'?” Lavinia echoed, her interest primed.
Gordon smiled. “Aye, lovey. I'll buy ye somethin' wildly extravagant.” At that, he lifted his bag of golf clubs and gestured to the other man.
“I'll ride with ye to Argyll,” Mungo said as the two of them walked out the door.
“I thought ye disliked the MacArthurs,” Gordon replied.
“My Edinburgh creditors are breathin' down my neck,” Mungo told him. “At the moment the MacArthurs seem the lesser of two evils.”
Gordon's chuckle ended abruptly when something heavy hit the door as it closed behind them. The two men stopped short and turned around to stare at it.
“Lavinia is ventin' her anger,” Mungo said. “The MacArthur lass is getting' the title to which she aspired.”
Gordon glanced at him. “She'll survive. To the best of my knowledge, disappointment never killed anyone.”
The two men lifted their golf bags to their shoulders and started down the corridor again.
“I'll be leavin' for Argll in the mornin',” Gordon informed his friend. “Be ready to ride at dawn if ye've a mind to accompany me.”
Mungo looked at him in surprise. “Ye told Lavinia—”
“Livy willna know until after I've gone.” Gordon winked at the other man and added, “The gift I buy her today will smooth her ruffled feathers . . . Ah, a double dose of trouble walks this way.”
Mungo glanced down the long length of the corridor. From the opposite direction, Lady Armstrong and Lady Elliott advanced on them and smiled when they spied the two men.
“Good mornin', ladies,” Gordon greeted his two former mistresses. He flashed them one of his most charming smiles.
“Will ye be attendin' the king's masque tomorrow evenin'?” Lady Elliott asked, giving Mungo her attention.
“We'll be leavin' Edinburgh in the mornin',” Gordon spoke up.
“Poor Lavinia will be so disappointed,” Lady Armstrong remarked, her insincerity apparent in her voice.
“To hell with Lavinia Kerr,” Lady Elliott quipped, her inviting gaze still fixed on Mungo. “I'm disappointed.”
“We've an appointment with His Majesty and dinna want to keep him waitin',” Gordon said, drawing his friend away. “Excuse us, ladies.”
“Why d'ye do that?” Mungo asked as they continued down the corridor. “Lady Elliott seemed interested in me.”
“Lady Elliot is married,” Gordon reminded him.
“Well, ye had her,” Mungo replied. “Her bein' married never bothered ye.”
“Married mistresses are a wealthy man's luxury,” Gordon informed him. “Beddin' other men's wives is a waste of yer time. Ye need to woo an heiress.”
“And how am I to do that when I've got no prospects?' Mungo asked.
“For one thing, always tell the ladies what they want to hear,” Gordon advised. “Tell a beautiful woman she's smart, and a smart woman she's beautiful.”
“What if the lady in question is both beautiful and smart?”
“Run in the other direction, my friend,” Gordon warned. “The point is give the ladies what they desire in their secret hearts, and they'll trip over their pretty feet to do yer biddin'. 'Tis a lot like dealin' with the king.”
Mungo cast his friend a sidelong glance and said, “I guess what they say is true.”
“What's that?”
“There are more reivers amongst the Campbells than honest men in other clans.”
Gordon grinned. “Thank ye for the high praise,” He reached out and put his arm around his friend's shoulder in easy camaraderie, saying, “Did ye hear the story aboot the Reverend John Knox playin' golf on the Sabbath?"
Mungo shook his head.
“One glorious Sabbath morn, that righteous reformer sneaked away for an illicit solo round,” Gordon told him. “God saw what the hypocrite was doin', so He punished the man be givin' him a hole in one.”
“That's no punishment,” Mungo remarked.
“Strange ye should say that,” Gordon replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “Saint Peter uttered those verra same words. God cocked one holy eyebrow at Saint Pete and replied, 'Oh, no? And whom can he be tellin'?'”
Mungo chuckled. “Serves the bastard right. My uncle told me Sunday was the best day of the week before John Knoxious had his way with it.”
Gordon burst out laughing. “My own father said the werra same thing . . . Let's hurry, or Himself will be waitin' for us. Ye know what that means.”
“Aye, partin' with more money than I can afford to lose.”
In their haste to reach the king, Gordon and Mungo quickened their pace. Turning down another passageway, the two men nearly crashed into someone rounding the corner from the opposite direction. In the dimly lit corridor, the man appeared as dark and sinister as Lucifer himself.
“The devil's bairns have the devil's own luck,” the stranger said, flashing the marquess a smile. “I've found ye without any trouble.”
Gordon noted the man's green and black, yellow-pin-striped plaid. A MacArthur clansman, he concluded, come to tell me my bride is ripe. Lifting his gaze to the stranger's dark eyes, Gordon realized he was looking at one of his brothers-in-law.
Six feet tall and muscularly built, Dubh MacArthur had hair and eyes as black as a moonless midnight and a devilish smile that could charm the chastity out of a nun. At twenty-five, this MacArthur son was the image of his father as a young man.
“Greetin's, Cousin Dubh,” Gordon said, returning the other man's smile. “What brings ye to Holyroodhouse?”
“Ye do.”
Gordon raised his eyebrows at him. He turned to introduce his companion, but faltered at the cold hatred gleaming at the other man from his friend's blue eyes. Why did MacKinnon harbor such a strong dislike for the MacArthurs? This aversion didn't bode well for their continued friendship. After all, his bride was the MacArthur laird's only daughter.
Recovering himself, Gordon pasted a gracious smile on his face and said, “Meet Mungo MacKinnon, one of my closest friends.”
“Are ye, perchance, related to my cousin Glenda?” Dubh asked the slight, blond man.
“Her mother Antonia was one of my late father's sisters,” Mungo answered.
Dubh offered the man his hand in friendship, saying, “Then I'm certainly pleased to make yer acquaintance.”
Mungo hesitated and dropped his gaze from MacArthur's dark eyes to his offered hand. Finally, he accepted the outstretched hand, but his smile did not reach his pale blue eyes.
“We're late for a round of golf with the king,” Gordon told Dubh. “Come with us, and I'll introduce ye to him. We can talk as we walk.”
As the three of them started down the corridor, Gordon cast his MacArthur kinsman a sidelong glance. When Dubh grinned broadly at him, Gordon suffered the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that he was the butt of a hilarious jest to which only his brother-in-law was privy.
“'Tis strange ye should arrive in Edinburgh today,” Gordon remarked. “Mungo and I are leaving for Dunridge Castle in the mornin'. 'Tis past time I fetched my wife to Inverary.”
“Dinna bother, brother-in-law.” Dubh gave him a long look. “Yer wife isna there.”
Gordon halted abruptly and turned to him. “What do ye mean? he asked, confused. “Is she dead?”
“Rob is in England,” Dubh told him. “She's been visitin' Uncle Richard for the past year.”
“Ye mean the Earl of Basildon?” Gordon asked.
“The English queen's Midas?” Mungo echoed, obviously impressed.
“Aye,” Dubh answered.
“When is the lass due home?” Gordon asked, relieved for the reprieve from the drudgery of beginning his married life.
Dubh hesitated. He flicked a glance at the blond man and then said to his cousin, “Send Mungo ahead, and we'll speak privately aboot this.”
“Ye can say whatever ye want in front of my friend,” Gordon told him. “Make it fast, though. We've kept the king waitin' long enough.”
Ignoring his kinsman's rudeness, Dubh inclined his head and smiled. “Rob says she's stayin' in England and wants yer marriage annulled.”
Mungo reacted first. He hooted with derisive laughter, but one quelling look from the surprised marquess ended it abruptly.
“She wants to annul me?” Gordon echoed, unable to credit what he'd heard. No woman had ever refused him. That the MacArthur twit even considered annulling him was shockingly humilitating.
Dubh grinned and nodded. “Ye've the gist of it, cousin,”
“I willna allow it,” Gordon said, masking his embarrassment with sternness. “Tell ye father to order her home.”
“With all due respect, my lord marquess, Rob is yer wife,” Dubh countered. “If ye want her, fetch her yerself.”
“The earl approves of her rebellion?” Gordon asked.
“I didna say that,” Dubh replied. “We MacArthurs havena heard a peep out of ye in ten years. How could we guess yer intentions? 'Tis the reason I'm here.”
Gordon had the good grace to flush but then defended himself, saying, “I've been makin' my way at court for the good of the clan.” He turned to his friend and asked, “Are ye up for ridin' to England?”
Mungo nodded. “Perhaps the king will have messages for his ambassadors.”
“I'll ride with ye,” Dubh said. “I've always been able to reason with my baby sister.”
Gordon grinned. “'Twill be the last adventure of my bachelor days. The three of us will go trystin' with the Sassenach devils.”
“My sweet mother is English,” Dubh reminded him. “The English are na devils, Gordy, merely men.”
“Only a devil would seduce an innocent bride into turning her tender regard away from her noble husband,” Gordon replied.
“Perhaps the husband lost the bride's tender regard without anyone else's help,” Dubh countered with an easy smile.
Mungo Mackinnon chuckled, earning a censorious look from the irritated marquess.
“Whatever the caused of my bride's waywardness,” Gordon told his kinsman, “I'm determined to take her in hand and set her straight.”
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