Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Octavia had assumed that saying goodbye to her brother and Evelyn, as well as her friends, would be the hardest part of this marriage endeavor.
What she had not considered was the terrifying anticipation that came with spending days alone and confined in a carriage, heading ever northward, realizing with each endless mile just how far away she would be from the people she loved.
Malcolm had chosen to ride ahead of the carriage, and though they stopped each evening at roadside inns, she had not seen her husband since they left the church.
At those inns, he had already retired to his own chambers by the time she arrived, and had set out in the morning before she re-entered the wretched suffocation of that carriage.
Would he even notice if I just asked the driver to turn around and take me home?
She doubted it.
By the time the carriage passed through tall, towering gates of black iron, Octavia had lost all sense of time and distance. Had it been days, weeks, months, since she left her family? She could not say.
Hesitantly, she peered out of the carriage window to discover a misty glen, crooked oaks lurching out of the fog like monsters.
She withdrew back into the safety of ignorance and squeezed her eyes shut until the carriage came to a standstill, and a footman came to help her out, leaving her with no choice but to exit.
The estate of Highcastle was well-named. Spires protruded from the dense fog, the shadow of a castle glimpsed here and there as the wind temporarily thinned the mist, but there was no sign of her husband.
Instead, she walked alone across white gravel to an arched porch, heavy doors creaking as she stepped into what would be her new home.
Antlers hung on the walls alongside gloomy landscapes, a chandelier of dripping candles illuminating the entrance hall. Ahead, a curving stairwell tongued upward, a wooden-railed landing leading to gaping hallways.
Just then, Malcolm appeared, striding across the landing to stand at the top of the staircase. He cut a formidable figure, the very presence of him causing the temperature to drop, setting Octavia’s nerves on edge.
“Welcome,” he said gruffly in his mild Scottish brogue.
Octavia swallowed. “You have… a lovely home.”
He sniffed, dismissive. “Make yerself comfortable. The servants are at yer disposal.” He paused, those green eyes seeming to burn. “I will come to ye tonight.”
With that, he turned and walked back the way he had come, vanishing into the darkness of one of those hallways.
Octavia trembled there in the entrance hall, her legs weak, her heart thundering in her chest. After so many days upon the road, spending her nights alone in her own chambers at the various inns, she had almost forgotten about the wedding night that they had not yet had.
This was the deal, she told herself, taking a deep breath. This was what you wanted.
She could not lose her nerve now, even if every instinct within her was telling her to turn around and run.
“Yer Grace?” a kindly, Scottish voice snapped her out of her fearful reverie.
Glancing toward an archway on the left, she discovered an elderly woman, neat as a pin, standing with her hands folded. An encouraging smile graced the old woman’s face; the first sight of benevolence that Octavia had seen in days.
“Y-Yes,” Octavia said. “That is me.”
The woman approached and bowed her head. “Ye are welcome here at Highcastle, Yer Grace. Please, let me show ye to yer rooms. I expect ye’ll be hungry and ye’ll be wantin’ a bath to soothe yer stiff bones. Some tea too, perhaps, to warm ye?”
“I feel as if I was travelling for so long that the seasons changed,” Octavia replied with a tight laugh.
When she had departed Ravenvale, it had been summer, the skies blue and beautiful. Here at Highcastle, it was as cold as autumn, the fog chilling her bones, the stone interior of the castle offering no warmth at all.
The old woman chuckled. “Believe it or nae, it is summer still.” She moved toward the stairs and beckoned for Octavia to follow. “Come, let’s get ye settled.”
Glancing back over her shoulder to the open door, where a fine drizzle seemed to be joining the fog, trying to creep into the castle, Octavia knew it was more than too late to undo this now.
She was the Duchess of Highcastle, the wife of Malcolm Gale.
All she could do now was hope that he held up his end of the bargain, granting her the children and the separate lives that had been promised.
Despite a hearty dinner of venison stew, endless cups of rosehip tea to soothe her, and a long, steaming bath that had unraveled all of the knots in her muscles, Octavia had not been able to rest. She had not even managed to take a nap, fretting about the evening to come…
and the visitor who would appear at her chamber door.
If he had sent word about what time he might come to call upon her, perhaps it would have been better, but the expansive castle seemed to have swallowed him up. A vanishing act, and she did not know when he might suddenly pop up again.
All will be well. He is indifferent to you. This is just part of the deal.
She perched on the edge of the bed and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece for the hundredth time. It was almost midnight.
Outside the windows of her large, finely decorated room, the world was unnervingly silent.
The fog had not lifted all day, and it continued to shroud the landscape, dulling every sound, making her feel as if she were entirely alone in that place.
As if she had not merely crossed borders between England and Scotland, but borders between realms, into some sort of otherworldly domain.
“I hope he will not be cruel,” she said, hands clasped in prayer. “I hope he will not… hurt me.”
She gulped, remembering the size of him, the power in his body, the immense muscles that could surely crush her if he wanted to.
What have I done?
She could not shake the sudden fear that this might all be a ruse, a trick to lure her to a faraway castle where no one would hear of her torment and no one would come to save her. She would be his prisoner, and he could do whatever he liked to her, being as cruel as he pleased.
Nonsense. That is nonsense. You must not think that way!
He might not have spoken to her much or shown her any affection or warmth, but he had kept a polite distance. Not just on the ride to Highcastle but at the wedding, too. As she had asked in their letters, he was abiding by her wishes to treat this as a business arrangement.
Strangely, that comforted her, as she continued to watch the clock.
At five minutes to midnight, a knock came at the door… and Octavia’s nerves surged afresh.
Her husband was here.
“C-Come in,” she stammered, wincing at the sound.
The door swung open, and Malcolm walked in, his footfalls heavy on the worn oak floor. He wore a clean shirt and kilt, his hair damp as if he had just bathed, the fabric of his shirt sticking to the carved contours of his muscular chest and arms.
She noted that he had not shaved, a surprisingly pleasing shadow of stubble highlighting the strength of his jaw and the full shape of his lips.
As he drew closer, she smelled lavender soap and something deeper, spicier. A fragrance that infiltrated her senses.
He paused in front of her, looming over her by nature of his towering height.
“You smell nice,” she croaked, feeling somewhat exposed in her comfortable nightdress.
His stony expression did not alter, his green eyes fixed upon her face.
“Have you been well tended to?” he asked flatly.
She nodded. “I have.” She hesitated. “I was worried you might not come.”
He said nothing, standing perfectly still, his posture rigid.
“But please, do not forget your promise to me,” she added, her nerves tightening her throat.
He dipped his head in a small nod. “I will be leaving in a week.”
“A week?” Her eyes bulged. “But… you are supposed to stay for the duration of our honeymoon.”
“Ye can stay here until we ken if ye’re with-child,” he replied in that same emotionless tone. “If ye are, ye can return to England. I have a manor there; it’s yers now. Ye need never come back to Scotland again.”
It was not quite what they had agreed before. He had made no mention of an English manor.
“If you have a residence closer to my family, why are we not there?”
It would have saved her the trouble of traveling for so many days.
He glanced toward the window. “I have things to attend to while we wait to hear if ye’re with-child. I couldn’t remain in England.”
“And what of your… um… yearly visits?” she asked, her face as hot as a poker fresh from the fire.
“That is a discussion for another time.” His voice brooked no argument.
Yet, despite the slight change in what she had expected, there was a part of her that trusted him. It might not have seemed like it, but the arrangements he had clearly made showed a level of care, even if just in the practical sense.
And I shall be closer to my family again. That is nothing to complain about.
She doubted she would ever grow accustomed to such a cold, drafty, silent place as Highcastle.
“Very well,” she said.
There was nothing more to say, no more reason to delay the inevitable, no more excuses. The time had come.
Despite her determination to go through with her plan, and the hope of children that soared in her heart, she could not seem to stop her hands from shaking as she peered up at her husband. Even standing so still and calm, he radiated power, so intimidating that she could not catch her breath.
He might yet be cruel. I might be in terrible danger.
As if he could sense her fear, he slowly lowered himself to the floor, sinking to his knees right in front of her. His hand lifted… and she flinched, her eyes scrunching shut.
Shock rippled through her as she felt his thumb gently caress her cheek, her ears tingling as he whispered, “Relax, lass.”
It was a command, however soft, and her entire being obeyed.
She could not explain why or how, but with those words and the light touch of his thumb and the strange comfort of him kneeling before her, her nerves began to recede, her shoulders sinking down, the tension leaving her body, each breath coming more easily.
“Aye, like that. Relax.” His whispered command came again.
She still could not open her eyes, but she was not afraid anymore. She had chosen to trust him, to rest her hopes for children upon him, and though he might have looked like a beast, there was tenderness in his hands.
Eyes still closed, she tried to imagine his expression.
Was he staring at her with curiosity? Pity?
Impatience? She could not feel anything cruel or cold radiating from him.
All she could feel was that reassuring touch, soon joined by his other hand coming up to cradle the side of her neck, his other thumb gently caressing the sensitive spot right in front of her ear.
His palm was rough, his touch was not.
All of a sudden, she was aware of him leaning in, the pressure of the air between them changing.
What is he doing? What is he—Oh…
A gasp caught in her throat as his lips brushed hers in a slow graze, neither hurried nor forceful. Instead, there was a question in that first kiss: Would you like me to continue?
Despite their agreement, she got the immediate sense that he would leave if she asked him to. He was guiding the kiss, but whether the night proceeded as planned was up to her. At least, that was how it felt.
His mouth caught hers again, his kiss slow and soft and inquisitive, the stirring press of his full lips and the slight roughness of his stubble commanding any residual tension to relax.
Before she knew it, she was kissing him back, hesitant at first, learning from the ebb and flow of his lips, with him as her patient teacher.
And as her confidence grew, she tentatively brought her hands up, feeling her way to the broad ledge of his shoulders, steadying herself as she sank deeper into her first kiss. Shared with a man she did not love, did not even know, but was precisely the husband she needed.
A man who, it seemed, truly intended to keep his promises.