DISCUSSING A SECRET
“So,” the earl of Duncliffe said in a soft voice. “We will have the feast here, and then a detachment of my men will ride with yours to Grayling. What say you?”
“Aye, Duncliffe.” Alec Grayling's voice was hard.
Arabella, standing in the doorway of her father's office, felt her fingers tighten in rage and affront. She forced her hands to uncurl, her breathing to slow. Made herself look away.
I can do nothing about this.
Across the room from her, Bruce was standing. His dark blonde hair was lit softly by the light from the window. He seemed to catch sight of her just then, for his handsome face changed and Arabella shivered, feeling her whole body tense with revulsion.
He might, she thought distantly, have the looks of a prince. It seemed to her he had the character of a demon – they had met once or twice in the past and she'd disliked him intensely then. It hadn't changed with time.
He smiled at her now, a mild smile, though she could see the expression in his eyes. It was not simply the lust that made her stomach twinge. That alone would not have turned her stomach. It was the curiosity.
I feel as if I was a mechanism he wants to disassemble, to determine how it works. That inquisitive gaze made her want to run, very far, and never come back. However, that was not an option for her now. Her father, his dark eyes serious, turned toward her.
“So, Daughter?” he said mildly. “Anything to add?”
She swallowed hard. Looked at her hands. Whatever he expected her to say – some welcoming statement to the earl and his son, some politesse – she wouldn't do it. This might be the plans for her wedding but she had nothing whatsoever to say to anyone about it.
“My lord, I feel unwell,” she said. “I would like to retire.”
She saw her father's thick eyebrow shoot up in surprise, his jaw clenching. However, what could he say?
“Aye, Daughter,” he said harshly.
“Thank you, Father.”
Arabella turned and walked quickly and quietly from the room.
Outside in the hallway, she turned quickly right and fled up the second staircase toward her bedchamber. She threw herself down on the bed and lay there. She was too shocked to weep. She heard a knock at the door a few minutes later.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Milady, it's me,” her maid's voice carried through the wood. “Begging your pardon, but a gentleman wishes to speak with you.”
“What manner of gentleman?” she called. “If it's Lord Grayling or his son, tell them I am indisposed.”
“It's no' his lordship, milady.”
“What?” Arabella sat bolt upright, her heart pounding hard. If not Lord Grayling, then who?
“I said, it's not his lordship,” her maid called through the door. “He's in the hallway by the kitchens. I said he should go, but he wouldn't listen. He's from the Lowlands, milady, if that helps. I won't leave you alone with him...” she trailed off.
It was an offer of safety. With a chaperone, however unreliable, at least the fellow was unlikely to try to harm her. Arabella swung her legs to the edge of the bed and stood quickly.
“I'll be there directly.”
Heart beating faster, she glanced quickly into the mirror. Her hair had come loose as she ran to her bedchamber and hung about her shoulders, an auburn cloud. She reached up and tucked it carefully away. Her face was pale and gaunt, eyes huge. The last few days had worn on her.
It's this place. The whole castle seems to have lost its senses with the murders.
Ever since then everyone, from the sentries to the gardeners, were on edge. The threat of retribution hung palpably in the air. They were all waiting for it to fall on them. Things had changed in the fortress – where the guards had changed four times a day, mostly spending their eight-hour watches dicing or playing word games to while away time, they now changed eight times. They stood crisp and alert at their posts, almost silent.
It's enough to make a person go mad. It wasn't just the tension in the castle. Arabella's own life had changed. The servants were hushed around her, mostly sympathetic, though since her disappearance they seemed to regard her suspiciously.
Either they think I was brutalized, or they think I am some sort of sorcerer for having escaped.
Whichever they thought, the uneasy silence and surreptitious observation were going to make her go mad.
“And now a visitor.”
As she hurried down the servant's corridor – it was faster, and she herself had no qualms about using it – behind her maid, she spoke aloud to herself. She also wondered who the visitor might be.
There was one thought that lingered. One possibility that she hoped against hope was true, though she had no means of knowing it. What if it was true?
“Oh, sir! Upon my word, did I not warn you not to wander about?” Glenna's voice was tight with horror. Arabella, rounding the bend just after her, felt her heart flutter and then she stared as the voice replied.
“I apologize, Miss Glenna. It was cold and I moved to avoid the wind. Pray forgive me.” His voice was winters cold, but she recognized it instantly.
“Richard?”
Arabella rounded the corner and stared. It was Richard.
“Milady,” he whispered.
As they stared at each other, Glenna, clearly confused and worried, looked from one to the other.
“Milady? Sir?” she said urgently. “If you must talk, I must ask ye to do it away from the kitchen? If that lot in there get's word of it, we're all as good as ruined.”
Arabella swallowed hard. She knew her maid was right. If the kitchen staff heard her talking to a man in the hallway – Jacobite or Hanoverian or anything, it mattered not – she would suffer for it. If any of them guessed what he was, they were likely dead.
“She's right,” she whispered. They spoke Lowland Scots, though she ached to speak to him in his native tongue, or hers. They could discuss more things then. “Let's go.”
What had possessed him to risk death, to come here now? Her heart thudding, she walked ahead. Looking for somewhere safer.
Richard bowed to her, a small frown betraying his own concern. He nodded. Silently, he stood back and let her lead them to a storehouse.
“Now,” Arabella said, as Glenna unhappily closed the door on them. “Why are you here?”
Her heart thumped painfully in her chest and she tried to master her breathing. How had he got in here? What in perdition's name was she going to do with him now that he was? He could die.
“My lady, I had to visit,” he said gravely. “I...forgive me. But I heard news of a most alarming nature and I had to inquire of it directly.”
“Alarming?” Arabella swallowed hard.
“You are marrying, yes?” He asked it gently and Arabella was surprised to feel tears prick at her eyelids.
“I would do anything not to,” she said. She hadn't meant to say it, but it came out before she could do aught to stop it.
He stared at her.
“My lady,” he said softly. “What...who?”
“Bruce Grayling, son of my father's ally,” she said swiftly. “He wants to cement the allegiance and get a...tainted daughter from the castle.” She looked down as she said it, noting a strand of thread clinging to the ocher brocade of her skirt. She plucked it aside, forcing herself into distraction. The words she'd said were too painful to consider.
“No!” Richard breathed. He took her hand. Looked into her eyes. His gaze was intense and Arabella felt a slow shiver creep up her body, starting in her abdomen and ending at the base of her neck. “No,” he whispered again, more softly. “You are a rose without blemish. There is nothing tainted about you.”
Arabella stared into his eyes. She felt her heart melting at his words. “Oh, Richard,” she whispered.
He leaned forward and she leaned forward and, before either of them had thought about it, their lips brushed.
She froze.
Here, in the close mustiness of the storeroom, its comfortable clutter pressing close, she had just been kissed.
Her whole body melted as he looked into her eyes, hand in her hair. He smiled, a tender expression.
“Forgive me, milady,” he whispered. “I couldn't help myself.”
She blushed and looked down. Inside her, it felt as if gunpowder had been lit, a wild, white explosion flooding her body with light and sensation, tingling right down to her toes.
“I too could not,” she whispered.
He smiled with a particular sweetness. “Well, milady Arabella,” he said. That was all he said, though it seemed to her his eyes held more words and she frowned, inquiring.
“Well, sir?” she asked, heart thudding.
“Well,” he said softly. “You are resigned to this marriage?”
Arabella swallowed hard. “I...” she paused, throat working. So many phrases went through her mind at that moment. Refusal, shock, outrage. She should of course simply lie to him. Tell him that yes, she was resigned to that fate. It was her duty to her father, to her house.
And after I am dead, what then? There will be another generation at Duncliffe, and all will be as it was. My life cannot change the course of events for any but myself.
“I am not,” she whispered softly.
When he looked into her eyes, he was not smiling. His own eyes were instead kindled with a dark fire that matched the warmth that spread through her belly.
“Oh, milady,” he whispered.
They kissed. His lips moved over hers, gently parting them to allow access to his tongue. As it slid between her pink lips, Arabella felt her whole body catch fire with the sweet intimacy of it. His arms wrapped round her and drew her, crushingly, to him. Arabella clung to him, reveling in the sweetness of his body pressed against her breasts.
If this is what it means to want a man, she thought, face incandescent with sweet shyness as she thought it, then I know I will never want Bruce.
She had never known such intensity, such sweetness of feeling. It felt like every nerve of her body called to him and every fiber of her was aching for him.
He moved back and she moved back, gasping, her eyes unseeing. Her gaze met his and she felt herself melting, her whole body consumed by the feelings that coursed through her. She looked round to the door, at once knowing they must leave and wishing never to.
“Milady,” he whispered. “I should go. However, before I do, I promise that I will come to find you. The night before the wedding day, I'll be here.”
“The night before,” she echoed. “At the stables?”
“I will,” he promised.
When he had left, Arabella went upstairs to her bedroom, feeling dazed. She sat down heavily on the tapestry-covered coverlet, feeling her legs weak. She sighed. Her whole body tingled and raced with feeling, her heart thumping with her need. Whatever happened now, she knew she would never feel the same again.
* * *
Later, as the day drew on, she sneaked from her chamber to the solar. Dusk had settled on the place and she tiptoed through silent, deserted hallways. It was safe to come out then, without any risk of her father or the visiting Laird waylaying her.
In the solar, she sank down wearily before the hearth fire, the flames flooding richly orange across her face. She closed her eyes and let the warmth seep into her bones, restoring her.
As she reached for her embroidery, she heard a step in the hallway behind her.
“Arabella?”
She jumped, and then recognized the voice. “Francine?”
“Sister, there you are. I was worried. When you weren't at dinner, I thought maybe you were sick,” Francine said softly. She met her gaze and Arabella read in her eyes that she understood – she knew she was avoiding the Grayling's.
If she could only understand why! It isn't only that I loathe Bruce Grayling. It's because now I know what it is to want a man, I could not let that knave touch me.
She looked at her sorrowfully.
“I was unwell, sister,” she whispered. “You must know how I feel about Bruce,” she added, swallowing her bile.
“I know, Arabella,” Francine nodded. “I had a plan – mayhap if Mrs. Merrick could put something in his food – to give him an upset of the stomach or something like that – we could postpone this...arrangement.”
Arabella stared. She had been about to dismiss the idea as folly, but it suddenly occurred to her that it would make sense. If Bruce Grayling were indisposed, it would give everyone at their table pause. It would create enough diversion, she thought, thinking hurriedly, for her and Richard to escape. That had been the one difficult point in their plan.
“You know, Francine,” she said with a slow smile, “I think that is a brilliant idea. Yes,” she added, nodding briskly as she thought more about it. “Yes. Let's.”
Francine raised her brow, her slim face shining and it seemed, suddenly to Arabella, as if they were both children again, playing in the vast fastness of Duncliffe. She recalled the endless games of hide-and-go-seek in the gallery, the imaginary games they'd played out in the stables. When she'd been a princess of a distant land – the one where the silks and spices came from – and Francine had been a sprite.
Now, the game was no game, but deadly earnest. To succeed, they'd need all the skills at dissembling they had, and all the wisdom. To say nothing, she thought, a mix of disbelief and wonder welling up, of a very acute judge of dosages. They were going to poison the earl’s son. However, not too much, mind. Just enough to give her time to get away. With Richard. Her heart sang.