Chapter Fourteen
ROBERT STOOD ON the jetty staring out to sea.
It was late. The ocean had fallen into darkness and only the roar and hiss of the waves hinted at its endless ebb and flow.
Somewhere out on the northern horizon floated Golden Isle, the one part of his patrimony he had shamefully neglected since his brother had died.
Since inheriting the Methven marquisate, Robert had diligently visited every one of his estates and spoken to as many of his people as he could.
He had poured endless time, money and effort into tending to their welfare.
He had defended these northern lands against Wilfred Cardross’s incursions, but Golden Isle was the one place he had never set foot.
It was the one place he never wanted to see again.
It held too many memories; memories of Gregor’s death, memories of his quarrel with his grandfather and his estrangement from all he had held dear.
He had a factor, an estate manager who undertook all the business of the islands.
As far as he was concerned, that was good enough.
It had to be because he was not prepared to do more.
He never asked McTavish for a report on Golden Isle, and the man never offered any.
It was as though the place did not exist.
Tomorrow he would leave Findon with his bride and travel south and never think about Golden Isle again.
He shifted as guilt scored him like a knife.
That is not good enough.
It was Lucy’s face he could see, Lucy’s words he could hear, as clearly as if she had spoken them to his face.
Over dinner she had tried to draw him out on the subject of his brother’s death and that painful quarrel and estrangement from his grandfather.
He had rejected her attempts because he was ashamed of the stubborn boy he had been, sacrificing so much for his pride.
He had not wanted her to see his weakness.
He had not wanted her to know he had been so rash and reckless, so determined to prove to his grandfather that he cared nothing for Methven, that he was prepared to go thousands of miles away and hurt those he loved in the process.
He did not want her to know that it was his fault that Wilfred Cardross had the means to claim Methven land because he had been abroad and thereby given his enemy the advantage.
Lucy was gallant and strong and brave. Now, having heard her story, he was astounded by her courage.
Lucy, he knew, would not approve of him neglecting even one acre of his estate.
She was prepared to risk all on marrying him to thwart Wilfred’s greed and cruelty.
If she had the faith to do that, he should have the courage to lay his own ghosts to rest and visit Golden Isle again.
Cursing softly under his breath, he bent and picked up a pebble and shied it into the water, listening to the splash it made and the hiss and the pull of the waves on the beach. As a boy he had loved Golden Isle. He and Gregor had spent so much time there.
There were no lights showing out at sea tonight. In times of war the islanders used a chain of beacons to warn of danger and summon help, but now all was calm and quiet.
Suddenly restless, he turned his back on the sea and set off back toward the inn.
The cobbled streets were wet with rain. The warm candlelight showing behind the inn’s diamond panes drew him, but the window of Lucy’s chamber was dark.
He wondered if she was asleep or if, like him, she felt restless tonight.
He felt a sudden rush of possessive pride that on the morrow she was to marry him.
Lucy MacMorlan was everything he wanted in a wife, but he could see how profoundly terrified she had been by the experience of her sister’s pregnancy and death in childbirth.
It was little wonder if she was petrified to face the same perils as Alice had when she had gone through such an ordeal at the age of only sixteen.
It made sense of the perfection she had striven to achieve.
In trying to atone for what she saw as her failure in causing her sister’s death, she had forced herself into a pattern-card existence that no one could maintain, so her passion had escaped in other ways.
And now she was lost and confused because she felt such a strong attraction to him—he knew she did—yet she was too afraid of the consequences to give herself up to it, to give herself to him.
He drove his clenched fists into the pockets of his coat. It was fortunate that Hamish Purnell was already dead or he would have hunted the man down and killed him for the way that he had ruined Lucy’s future as well as betrayed her sister.
With a sigh Robert lifted the latch and went inside.
He wanted to see Lucy. He was taken aback by how strong was the desire to hammer on her door and demand she let him in.
He needed her, and not simply to fulfill the terms of his inheritance.
He needed Lucy in ways far more profound and disturbing.
He scowled. Such vulnerability was alien to him and he did not care for it.
There was only one solution. He pushed open the door of the taproom and went in search of the brandy bottle in lieu of his bride.
* * *
LUCY WAS DREAMING. She was running down dark corridors with no ending and no way out, desperately seeking something she could not find, her heart racing, dread snapping at her heels like a hunting dog.
She woke panting and drenched in sweat, tears wet on her cheeks. The blood was pounding in her ears, the bedclothes tangled about her limbs like shackles. Gradually the terrified flutter of her heart steadied and she started to breathe more easily, but the rags of the nightmare clung to her senses.
Alice.
She was swamped by an enormous sense of loss and grief. She felt sick and frightened.
Blinking, she could see the gray light of morning edging its way around the bed curtains.
The shreds of the nightmare faded. It was her wedding day.
Immediately the nausea and fear swamped her again.
It was her wedding day and all she could think was that she felt terrified: terrified that Robert would not keep his word and that he would insist on consummating the marriage and that she would suffer, as Alice had, and lose her life and fail her child.
Her heart was starting to pound again. She could feel the familiar panic welling in her chest, threatening to smother her.
She lay still and breathed deeply. She tried to tell herself that she trusted Robert and that he was a good man, but the words of reassurance were like a bat squeak in the dark compared to her fear.
She felt trapped and panicked. She had to find a way out.
And then she remembered Mairi’s words: “There are ways to be safe....”
She stilled, thinking. Isobel McLain had said that there was a wise woman in the village, out on the Thurso Road, a woman who treated the ills of the townspeople with tinctures and medications.
Perhaps that same woman also brewed medicines that were sovereign against pregnancy.
Perhaps that was the way to ensure that she would be safe.
She slid from the bed, shivering in the cold morning air. The servant had not yet been in to light the fire, and the room felt chilled. Her bare feet winced at the cold of the floor.
She pulled on her clothes haphazardly, opened the door of her chamber and trod quietly down the stair. The inn was awakening slowly. There were clatters and crashes from the kitchen and the sound of voices. She knew she would have to be quick.
She let herself out of the main door, giving silent thanks for the fact that the hinges were well oiled and the door did not creak.
The morning air was fresh and cold. A sea mist had blown in and it clung around the houses like a shroud, muffling all sound.
Damp tendrils of mist soon soaked Lucy’s pelisse.
The light was strange, pale gray and eerie.
No birds sang in the silence. It felt extraordinarily lonely.
Before long the press of houses and shops thinned out and the road snaked away into the mist toward Thurso.
There were only a couple of crofts here, still and quiet.
A few lights glowed behind the shutters, but they were all barred against the weather.
Lucy trudged up the track toward the last cottage.
A chicken was scratching in the pen. The ducks ran quacking ahead of her, the noise suddenly loud in the silence.
She knocked at the wooden door and waited.
There was no answer. Nervousness rose in her and she was about to turn and run when the door swung open.
A woman stood there, younger than Lucy had imagined, her face serene, her smile warm.
She showed absolutely no surprise to be disturbed so early on such an inclement day.
She did not curtsy but she inclined her head.
“My lady.”
She knows who I am.... That alone was almost enough to make Lucy turn and run, but the woman had drawn back and Lucy found herself stepping over the threshold after her.
Inside, the croft was warm and dark, lit by a peat fire smoldering in the grate and with one lamp burning on the dresser.
There were leaves drying in baskets before the fire.
The woman gestured her toward one of the high-backed chairs made from woven rushes.
They were filled with brightly colored cushions.
The whole croft was neat and cosy and such a contrast to the cold misery that filled Lucy that it felt quite incongruous.
She did not want to sit. She felt too on edge. She pressed her gloved hands together.
“Some tea, my lady?” The woman nodded toward the kettle that was humming softly on the hob.
“Oh,” Lucy said, “no, thank you. I—” The words stuck in her throat. Now that the moment had come she had absolutely no idea how to ask for what she needed.