Bride

by Stella Cameron

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Lady Justine Girvin, the Duke of Franchot's elegant spinster sister, decided to grab one last chance for happiness--by doing something incredibly scandalous. Defying convention, she traveled alone to a Scottish castle to find the mysterious Straun, her brother's friend, and to ask him to teach her all about love.

Release date: January 1, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 362

Sample

Chapter One

Scotland, 1824

I have lusted in my heart.

For an instant, Lady Justine Girvin's heart stood quite still beneath the hard surface of the small Bible she clasped to her breast.

“I have,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “And I do.”

And to do so is fruitless yet inescapable. I am blessed—and doomed—to love a man who would doubtless laugh with horror if he knew. But he will not know. I shall do everything in my power to remain close to him without his ever finding out my true feelings.

She started at the sound of the salon door opening behind her.

“Oh, dearie me. It's a fact, then, m'lady,” a girl's breathless voice announced. “Mr. Murray said ye were here and ye are. I can't think what happened t'your letter. The marquess and marchioness would never have left if they'd known ye were travelin’ all the way from Cornwall t'Scotland t'see them.”

No letter had been received because no letter had been sent. Justine slid the Bible inside her black velvet muff. She marshaled the courage she would need to continue on the dangerous course she'd begun, and turned to see a plump, pretty maid with round, anxious blue eyes.

“Och! Ye're so like your brother, m'lady. I'd heard tell it was so.”

“No doubt. I'm frequently told I could be my brother's twin.” Her brother, the Duke of Franchot, would doubtless have a great deal to say when he returned to Cornwall from London and learned of his “modest” sibling's escapade. Justine tried not to visualize Calum's outraged reaction to the news. She absolutely refused to consider her imperious grandmother's fury.

“There's none t'greet ye.” The girl pushed straying wisps of fine brown hair away from her face. “And on your first visit t'Kirkcaldy, too. I'm Mairi. I'd not be here mesel’ except the mistress wouldna hear o’ me leavin’ at a time like this.”

Justine had expected to see Struan, Viscount Hunsingore … had longed to see him … and yet feared she might faint if she did see him. “A time like this?” she inquired politely. She could not risk showing her hand by asking where Struan and his two motherless children were—not immediately. “The castle seems quite deserted. There even appears to be a scarcity of servants. Is there some problem?”

“Och!” Awe clung around the single word that hovered between them.

Justine smiled and inclined her head questioningly.

“Ye've such a beautiful voice, m'lady,” Mairi said, her words tumbling out. “Soft, like kelpie laughter. An’… Och, I'm doin’ it, as usual Forgive me. I'm such a blatherer. I say the first thing that comes into my head. Ye should hear my poor father speak o’ it. Happiest day o’ his life when her ladyship took me in. To tell you the truth …”

Two bright spots of color stamped the girl's cheeks and she clamped her lips tightly together. Justine decided she liked Mairi and her “blatherin’” very much. “Is something wrong at Castle Kirkcaldy?” she asked. “You mentioned certain, er, times?”

Mairi flapped a hand. “Think nothin’ o’ it. It's nothin’. But the marquess and the marchioness left for the Yorkshire estates weeks since. Wee Elizabeth's with them, o'course. And young Master Roger Cuthbert and his tutor. They've a mind t'spend a while there since his lordship's got some sort o’ business t'attend to. Not that I'd understand anythin’ about things o’ that nature.”

With a fire burning brightly at her back, Justine began to feel slightly warm inside the heavy travel garb she'd worn to shield her from bone-cold March winds. Trying not to favor her lame leg, she stepped to the center of the elegant rose and gilt room. “A person by the name of Shanks was instructing my coachman, Potts, to bring in my trunks. Mr. Murray must have been the dark-haired man whom I encountered upon my arrival. It was he who finally produced … He managed to find Mr. Shanks.”

“Mr. Caleb Murray is estate commissioner at Kirkcaldy.” Mairi's fingers made a crumpled disaster of her starched white apron. “Mr. McWallop—his lordship's steward—is in Yorkshire with the family. Mr. Shanks is the butler. Are ye truly plannin’ t'stay at the castle, then, m'lady?”

Justine accomplished a surprised little chuckle. “I've traveled all the way from Cornwall, child. Naturally I'm going to stay. I shall simply wait until Arran and Grace return.”

“But—as I've already told ye—the marquess and the marchioness'll no be returnin’ anytime soon.”

I know! That's why I chose to come now! In all her thirty-five years, Justine had never, ever set out to manipulate others for the sake of achieving her own ends. The lie she had embarked upon would surely singe the edges of her soul, if it didn't burn it up entirely.

Mairi smoothed the apron now. “Um. Forgive me, m'lady. No doubt ye've a great deal on your mind, but Mrs. Moggach—she's the housekeeper—she tends t'take a wee break from most o’ her duties when the family's not in residence. Truth t'tell, most o’ the staff … Well, I'll be more than happy t'direct your own maid until ye're rested enough t'go home.”

She would not be going home. Not soon.

Perhaps not ever.

“I didn't bring my maid.”

“Your companion, then, m'lady,” Mairi said, bobbing a belated curtsy. “I'll go an’ see t'her. Will ye take tea?”

“There is no companion. I came alone.”

Mairi's mouth dropped open and she whispered, “Ye're funnin’ me, m'lady. Ye'd never journey alone … all by yoursel’ … all the way from that foreign place?”

“From Cornwall,” Justine said, her apprehension squelching any amusement she might have felt at the maid's amazement. “Hardly a foreign place. And I wasn't alone. Potts has been with my family since I was a child. He looked after me very well.” And complained and warned of impending dire consequences at every opportunity.

“But—”

“I am not a fearful chit, Mairi.”

“But think o’ the terrible things that might happen to a lady travelin’ alone. Why, ye might have been kidnapped. Or ravished on the spot. Och!” The maid brought twined fingers to her mouth. “The very thought o’ it!”

“I am a mature woman, Mairi.” A confirmed spinster. A tabby … an ape leader … laid aside forever. “I have been perfectly safe, I assure you.”

“Well”—Mairi stepped backward—“well, then. If it'll please ye, I'll care for ye until tomorrow. Pray the Lord there'll be no trouble.” The girl looked over her shoulder. “Not that he'll come when he'd likely be seen.”

Justine set her muff carefully on the seat of a rose brocade chair and undid the satin frog at the neck of her cloak.

Mairi rushed to help. “Allow me, m'lady,” she said, gathering the heavy black velvet garment.

“Who's not likely to come when he might be seen?” Justine asked, deliberately offhand.

“Um”— Mairi curtsied again—“would ye care for that tea?”

There was definitely something wrong here. “That might be nice. Perhaps you should bring enough for two just in case this person does decide to come.”

“Och, no. The viscount never—” Mairi's pale skin flamed. “There, now. I've opened my silly mouth again. And I'm not supposed t'speak o’ it t'anyone.”

“The marquess's brother?” Justine said, feigning surprise while a thrill of excitement climbed her spine. “Struan's here? Viscount Hunsingore?” May she be forgiven for her deceit. She had been blameless until now.

“Aye. Viscount Hunsingore.” Mairi wound the cloak around her forearms. “Poor, troubled man.”

Justine grew still inside. “Why is the viscount troubled?”

“Dearie me.” Mairi swayed and puffed at the hair that refused to be restrained. “I shouldna be speakin’ o’ such things. Not that I know the nature o’ his trouble, except that he's here—or not exactly here—not at the castle. But he is about. And he's powerful angry at somethin’. Doesna speak. Hardly at all. Doesna even seem to see a body. Started a wee while after the marquess and marchioness left, it did.

“The marchioness wanted me t'stay because she feared he might be in need o’ some sort o’ help, but she didna know how it was likely t'be wi’ him and I'll not send word t'worry the dear thing. Wild, Grumpy says he is. But Grumpy'd find a bad thing to say about anybody, and—”

Mairi bowed her head and appeared so miserable that Justine went to the girl and pressed her hand. “Don't worry about anything you say to me, Mairi. I count it a blessing to pass time with an honest soul. Who's Grumpy?”

“Dearie me. I was talkin’ o’ Mrs. Moggach. Disrespectful o’ my betters, I know. It's only because I'm flustered—and worried. And I don't think young Miss Ella and Master Max are begat of the devil, either. Mr. Murray doesna either. He said people should watch their tongues. I think … Ye know the viscount's children, m'lady?”

Justine nodded. Anxiety built in equal portion with excitement. They were all here. Just as she'd planned. But she had not planned for Struan to be in some sort of trouble that might cause him to be branded “wild.” “Is it Mrs. Moggach who says Ella and Max are—what you said?”

“Aye. On account o’ the way Miss Ella spends all her days ridin’ alone, dressed in boy's breeches and wi’ her hair unbound, and wi'out a soul knowin’ where t'find her unless she wants t'be found.”

Justine swallowed. This information did not particularly surprise her. At least where the children were concerned her motives for being here sprang from genuine interest, and a determination to help. “And Max?” she asked, not at all certain she wanted to hear the answer.

A delighted grin transformed Mairi's worried expression. “Well, now, that one might try a body. If the body didn't understand the ways o’ young laddies, that is. Never still, Max. Runnin’ with the tenants’ bairns. He's a shadow t'Mr. Murray whenever there's a chance. And he's made friends wi’ the monk.”

“The monk?” Religious leanings would certainly be a welcome development where young Max was concerned.

“Aye,” Mairi said, smiling fondly. “I dinna know how the poor man stands all the questions, but he's good wi’ all the tenants and their bairns and he's uncommon fond o’ Max.”

Justine's heart lifted. “These are good things, Mairi. Children need firm but kindly guidance.”

Mairi still smiled. “That young Max's stories! Och, ye've never heard the like.”

“Oh, but I believe I have,” Justine said, remembering previous encounters with Max's outrageous imagination. “Surely the children are in the castle now, though.” She glanced through thick, wavering windowpanes at a sky turned to shades of smoke-streaked pewter.

“No,” Mairi said.

Justine regarded her seriously. “What does their nanny say to that?”

Mairi mumbled something unintelligible.

“Where is the nanny?”

“There's no nanny, m'lady. It's part o’ the trouble.”

Justine wasn't illuminated.

Mairi sighed a resigned sigh. “I'd as well tell ye everythin’ I know. At least I'll tell it true and ye'll not be hearin’ the lies o’ others.

“The viscount came a few weeks before the marquess and marchioness left. We'd not known about Miss Ella and Master Max until then. But there was some sort of… Och, I don't know. There was anger. Then the marquess decided to leave and asked his brother t'take care of Kirkcaldy the while.”

“Reasonable enough,” Justine remarked.

“Seemed t'be,” Mairi agreed. “Although the viscount dinna want t'stay at first. That's why I was t’ remain behind—in case I could be o’ use wi the children. Everythin’ went well enough once the marquess left. Until the letters started coming.”

“Letters?”

A fresh tide of scarlet washed Mairi's cheeks. “Now I really have forgot my place. I don't know anythin’ more about those letters, but they started him off like … like a wild man, all right. Now he's livin’ in the old marquess's huntin’ lodge—his grandfather built it—and if anyone was to come askin’, none o’ us is t'let on he's there.”

“I see,” Justine said. She didn't.

Mairi trod determinedly to the door. “The children live at the lodge wi’ him. Alone. There's no nanny. No servants at all. I think he rides here in the night t'check the vestibule for more o’ the letters. They're t'be left there for him. And we're t'say not a word t'anyone on the matter. Not even to the master when he returns. There. I've told the truth— though I'd better have held my silence. Holdin’ it all in and fearin’ someone ought t'know was troublin’ me. If I've done wrong in tellin’ ye, I've done wrong. But I'll not say another word.”

Justine held her breath before asking, “Are there any letters awaiting the viscount now?”

“One,” Mairi said, letting herself out of the room. “And it's just like the others. Scented like holy incense and sealed with a bloody fingertip. I'll get the tea.”

Later in the evening Mairi had settled Kirkcaldy's new visitor in comfortable apartments. Convincing the maid that her charge preferred to attend herself had taken more persuasive talent than Justine had known she possessed. The dear girl had finally left, still shaking her head, and making Justine promise to ring for assistance at any hour of the night.

Justine had waited until midnight passed before slipping out of her rooms. The gray stones of the ancient castle seemed to settle more tightly and deeply as they waited out the night. Moving toward her goal, Justine shivered, but not from cold. She could almost hear the rustle of dresses and the scuff of shoes from the many others, living and dead, who had passed this way before her.

For once her wretched leg had proved an advantage. Naturally no direct mention of Justine's limp had been made, but she had been discreetly and solicitously ushered into rooms only one flight of stairs from the ground floor and a fairly short distance from the great entrance to the castle. Having spent her life in homes as large and larger than Kirkcaldy, she was accustomed to finding her way among endless twisting corridors and hundreds of rooms.

But not in near darkness.

Still fully dressed in rustling black gros de Naples, she moved as swiftly and silently as she dared, holding the bannister with both hands as she descended the stairs to a dim corridor leading to the vestibule.

He wouldn't come. What would she say if he did? What would he say if he saw her?

She would simply say, “Hello, Struan.” Yes, that would be perfectly appropriate.

The corridor opened into the vestibule where standing suits of armor gleamed dully on all sides. A massive battle relief, in white plaster and placed aloft above a great, bare fireplace, gave off an eerie glow. The wall sconces had been allowed to burn out and the candles never replenished—another evidence of servants slacking about their duties while their employers were not in residence.

Struan should … But Struan obviously had larger concerns than burned-out candles and slothful servants.

Justine reached the cold flagstone floor and crossed an expanse of carpet she remembered from her arrival as red Persian.

She stopped, pressed her fists into her stomach, aware of being cold but not caring.

He wouldn't come.

If she was seen here by a servant she'd be the one causing mean whispers belowstairs.

To the left of the huge double front doors, a black archway suggested a porter's nook. Justine approached cautiously and peered inside. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a wooden bench where some appropriate servant should have been ensconced and ready to perform his duties at all times.

She would rest on the bench—for a few moments—then return to her apartments and sleep. The journey from Cornwall had been long and tedious.

But she would rest here first. For a few moments.

She settled herself.

A clock ticked. Not loudly—but definitely. She could discern the instrument only as a corner shadow.

When she moved, the bench creaked.

The darkness seemed to have a substance, a thickness that settled around her, cool and oppressive—and alive.

Darkness was not alive; she was not a fanciful woman.

“Modest, circumspect, pious, and above reproach.” How often had she been complimented on her virtues by Grand-mama's friends?

Virtues! The devil take virtues. The time had come to make one last grab for happiness, and Justine was willing—no, glad to toss her virtues to anyone in need of them in exchange for freedom.

She could stay at Castle Kirkcaldy if she wanted to. No one would be rude enough to tell her she wasn't welcome.

Ooh, what a moonstruck widgeon she was. She stood up. Why had she thought Struan might be glad to see her? Why had she thought he'd welcome the proposition she'd decided to make him?

Footsteps sounded on stone outside the castle doors.

Justine plopped back down and held her breath.

An echoing grind meant the iron ring handles were being turned. A scrape, followed by a rush of icy air, told Justine someone had opened the doors.

Why had she dared to come?

She would hold very still, make not a sound, and return to her rooms the instant she could do so without being seen—by anyone.

Heavy steps clanged on flagstones. Scrabbling sounded and light flared from a candle atop an ancient chest opposite Justine's hiding place. Before the chest, his back to her, stood a tall, cloaked figure.

She heard a drawer opening and the rustle of something being removed. Then she heard a low, angry oath and tried to grow at once smaller.

The man paced out of her sight, then back again, his boots cracking on stone, his cloak swinging away from his powerful shoulders. His voice came to her in a low, rumbling, unintelligible stream. It was Struan's voice.

Then he stopped pacing and stood, in profile, his sharply defined jaw outlined against the candle's light.

And this time Justine's heart did stop beating entirely.

Struan bore with him the very wind that streamed through the still-open doors. The cold air, snapping with scents of moor and mountain and crystal night, flowed about the folds of his cloak and settled in his ruffled black hair.

Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, appeared a man at one with the night. The flickering flame caught the glitter of eyes as black as his hair and his slanting brows. Shadows found the lean planes of his face, the slash of high cheekbone and straight, narrow-bridged nose. The same flame glimmered on white teeth between flaring, drawn-back lips.

Night became the man, even when rage made of his features a stark mask. Perhaps especially then.

She was not herself.

Without thinking, she walked into the archway to see the man she loved more clearly.

His head snapped toward her.

Justine took a backward step and stumbled. The cold had stiffened her leg.

His eyes narrowed, but then he moved. Swiftly. He strode toward her as she moved farther into the tiny porter's room.

“My God,” he exclaimed, reaching for her.

She felt her lips part, but she couldn't form a word.

His strong hands clasped her waist, lifted her, swung her. Justine was a tall woman, but Struan was so very much taller.

She was sure he was angry with her. He'd found her spying on him in whatever this trouble was that turned his eyes the shade of devils’ designs.

He swung her around and up into his arms. “Justine,” was all he said, his voice breaking a little in its depths.

She still could not speak.

“I cannot believe this,” he said, holding her against his wide chest.

Justine dared look no higher than his beautiful mouth. The scents of the untamed Scottish country prickled in her eyes and wrinkled her nose. His hair—longer than when she'd last seen him—curled at the high collar of his cloak.

At last she managed to say, “I did not mean to startle you.”

“You almost fell,” he said. “It's too cold for your leg here. You should be in your bed.”

He didn't ask why she was here, why she'd come when she ought to know Arran and Grace weren't here.

“Oh, Justine,” Struan said, and when she raised her eyes to his, she almost gasped at the intensity she saw there. He didn't smile. “Praise the Lord for letting me find you in this place on this hellish night, my lady.”

Words deserted her once more.

He was about to speak again, but blinked and seemed to realize he held her in his arms and that such a thing was extraordinary—and inappropriate.

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head. “I forgot myself.” Very carefully, he carried her to the bench, set her gently down, and sat beside her.

Struan took her cold hands into his own and chafed them with long, supple fingers. “I cannot believe my good fortune. You cannot know how I needed to set my eyes upon you.”

Her mouth turned dry and she struggled to think why be should seem so delighted to find her here.

“Please tell me you'll spare just a little time for a man in need.”

A little time? She'd spare him her entire life. “Of course,” she told him. “Tell me, Struan. Tell me what you need.” She had undoubtedly been wrong to employ falsehood to bring about this meeting, yet it appeared a nobler cause than her own might be served.

Struan simply looked at her. Holding both of her hands in one of his, he touched her cheek, rested a thumb on her lips.

Justine could not draw a breath. Surely he gazed at her with affection?

“I need very little, my dear one,” he said at last. “All my soul requires is this chance to look upon a woman beyond reproach and above deceit.”

Chapter Two

Struan bent forward, surrounding the woman who sat sideways before him on his horse, shielding her from the gale with his cloak and the heat of his body.

She had refused to allow him to leave the castle without her. “A mature female may choose to come and go as she pleases,” she'd informed him tartly when he'd reminded her that her absence would be questioned. “I shall take a warm outer garment and write a message for the maid. Since none seemed particularly pleased at my arrival, none should be less pleased by my departure.”

He smiled into the unkind night. From the moment he'd first met Lady Justine Girvin, he'd felt her quiet, patient strength, but he would never have wagered her stubborn.

They'd traveled some miles. The big black he'd appropriated from the castle stables several weeks since, followed the narrow trail north with unerring ease. Their destination lay beyond Castle Kirkcaldy's outermost fortifications, in the hilly area of the estate where Struan's grandfather had built his hunting lodge.

“Your leg?” Struan shouted against Justine's ear. “Are you too uncomfortable?”

She shook her head but made no attempt at a reply. There had been no question of alerting attention by going to the stables for a second mount.

Apart from her final pronouncement that she would go with him whether he approved or not, Justine hadn't spoken at all since he'd confessed how glad he was to see her. In fact, if he didn't know her to be a woman of few words by nature, he'd wonder if she'd had some recent and deeply disturbing experience. Perhaps his inappropriate exuberance at the castle had embarrassed her.

They climbed upward and entered a forest of sycamore and oak. By daylight budding leaves were visible. In the vague glimmering of the cloud-veiled moon, gnarled tree limbs laced overhead to fashion an arching canopy that swayed, snapped, and whined.

On the far side of the forest lay a slope where the trail wound downward in wide switchbacks to a slim valley, then uphill again to a pine-crowned knoll. The huge hunting lodge, his grandfather's only known act of fanciful extravagance, sprawled amid the shielding barrier of those pines.

Tossing his head and blowing clouds of vaporous breath, the black toiled a little on the final uphill pull. Justine sat rigidly before Struan, and he reached past her to lay a gentling hand on the animal's neck.

“Not much farther,” he shouted.

She only nodded.

Cloud slipped across the moon, turning out the light over Kirkcaldy. The faintest touch of silver struggled to keep its hold beneath a lowering sky—then faded completely. Soon there would be rain in the wind. Struan could feel it.

He was glad Justine was here—puzzled, yet very, very glad. But he should not have allowed her to travel through such a night to the lodge. The act was selfish and unsuitable. Mature she might be, but some might find fault with a beautiful and unmarried woman riding alone with a man to whom she was unrelated.

There was no one in the area to know; none in a position to express disapproval.

And he needed Justine. He needed an honest friend, if only to be reunited for a short while with the sane world that he fled with the arrival of the first, damnable letter.

Struan tightened his arms around Justine and closed his eyes. The horse knew the way and this rider was unutterably tired. Justine smelled faintly of roses and her slight body felt strangely comforting pressed to his own.

The letters.

His wretched past contained a lapse in good judgment that had cost him what he had so dearly prized—his integrity and his belief in his own strength of character.

The letters.

Another rested in his waistcoat pocket. Even through the wind he would swear he could catch the scent of incense from its pages. Once that mysterious aroma had led him deep into himself, to a place where he was at one with God and with his own soul. Or had that merely been an illusion, the dramatic imagining of a fervent young man bent on finding the way to his own essential goodness?

Essential goodness? He almost laughed but made certain he held back the evil, hollow, hopeless sound such laughter would be in his gentle friend's ears.

Again the envelope bore the seal of the fingertip dipped in blood. Blood from where; from whom? And how did the unknown demon manage to deliver his foul messages without being seen? Struan shuddered. He must stop recalling the images of his past. How else could he heal himself and make a life again?

Justine slid a little sideways and instantly clutched at his hands on the reins. Struan surrounded her waist with one arm and held her tightly.

“You're all right,” he called. “I won't let you fall.” Fool that he was, for all he knew, she'd never mounted a horse since a childhood accident had left her leg so badly damaged.

After a moment, Justine settled one of her hands atop his at her waist.

She was a slender creature. Elegantly slender and tall and very, very feminine in her quiet, self-contained manner. When he'd first met her, barely a year earlier in Cornwall, he'd been instantly enchanted. Despite knowing that Justine was a year his senior he'd nevertheless entertained thoughts of courting her. Thank God he'd waited. The letters had proved how right he'd been in his reticence.

They quickly covered the needle-strewn path through the trees on the knoll. Before them rose the concoction of towers with castellated crowns, of spires, columns and statuary and, fantastically, a single pagoda joined to the main structure by an ornate covered bridge. The whole had been the result of Grandfather's travels to faraway places.

Now the place was Struan's haven, and his prison.

Urging the horse on, they clattered beneath the bridge into the stable yard. For the first time since he'd come here with Ella and Max, Struan regretted the absence of staff. He was forced to take Justine with him while he stabled his animal. She stood patiently by and he noticed how she seemed to want to wait close to the horse, and how she smiled and murmured and stroked its head until Struan had accomplished the essentials.

He considered lifting and carrying her again, but their eyes met and he knew she'd read his thoughts. Very firmly, she slipped a hand under his elbow and held on, limping badly enough to make him wince, but leaving him in no doubt that this was all the assistance she wanted.

“I can hardly wait to see Ella and Max,” Justine said, raising her voice above the storm's gathering babble. “I expect they rise early enough.”

He set his teeth. “Indeed. When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. I find I am not at all tired, Struan. I think I shall sit by the fire and wait for the children.”

He swallowed with difficulty. “The quickest way into the house from here is through the kitchens. Will you forgive the informality?” Informality? Good Lord, he was becoming accomplished in the art of understatement.

“Of course. What a delightful building, Struan. Calum mentioned a hunting lodge, but he never described it.”

How could one describe the almost indescribable? “Is my old friend well?” Struan asked, desperate to find safe territory for discussion. “And his lady?”

“Remarkably well. Both of them. Philipa only grows more energetic. Everyone loves her.” Justine stopped walking and arched her neck to gaze up a belfry banded with fanciful terracotta friezes. The blue and red tiled structure flanked the door to the kitchens.

“My grandmother was reluctant to add—er—unusual elements to the castle, so my grandfather simply put them all here—all the things he'd seen and wanted to be reminded of from his travels, that is. The Lords of Stonehaven had not formerly been known for fanciful excesses. I think this was his small—or should I say, rather extravagant—rebellion.”

“I see.”

“The belfry isn't entirely useless. The dairy's in its basement.” Not that the dairy was used—or much else about the lodge.

“How delightfully resourceful.”

And how delightfully kind and circumspect she