The Devil Wears Tartan (18 page)

“I think that knowledge is worth a trade. What happened in China?”

His face changed. Just as quickly as that, his smile slipped, and there was an expression in his eyes that she’d never before seen, one that warned her that the topic would not be a good one to pursue.

“How do you manage to look startled and angry at the same time?” she asked.

“Why do you insist on knowing?”

“You can be a very formidable man when you wish to be, did you know that?”

“To anyone but you,” he said. “You have no shyness whatsoever when it comes to addressing me on a variety of matters, my lady wife.”

“Should I be shy, Your Lordship?”

Abruptly he sat up and swung his legs over the bed. She turned and stretched out her hand toward him, but Marshall was already putting on his trousers, and then his shirt.

Only once did he glance back at her, and when he did, his face was shuttered. “I do not discuss China with anyone, Davina, not even you.”

When she didn’t comment, he looked over at her again.

“Do you want to know why I’ll never take anything for pain, Davina? I was fed opium in my food day and night in China. Days passed when all I did was sit in a corner nearly unconscious, certainly unaware. Then my jailers would amuse themselves by taking it away from me for weeks at a time. My body was on fire, and my mind was useless. I would have done anything for the opium. I would have killed my own mother.”

Silenced stretched between them.

“Is that why you think you’re going mad?”

He didn’t look at her, intent on his task of fastening his shoes. “It’s been too long. I’ve been free of the opium for nearly a year. I shouldn’t be experiencing the delirium or the hallucinations.”

“And you fault yourself, Marshall? Is that entirely logical?”

He gave her another look.

“Should you not simply be grateful that you survived and came home?” she asked.

“You’re determined to see me as some type of hero, aren’t you?”

She thought about his question for a moment. “I don’t think so. I think you’re fallible like any human being. I think you take a certain type of pride in being mysterious, in being reclusive. I think it suits your purposes very well to be thought of as the Devil of Ambrose. I don’t think you like the company of people very much, but that’s not part of your nature. I think it’s because you’ve disappointed yourself. You’ve not lived up to your own standards. And the standards we set for ourselves are sometimes much
higher than the standards anyone else would set for us.”

“You’re too young to be so philosophical.”

“I’m not at all philosophical,” she said. “I’m just interested in you. You’re my husband, after all. I want to know why you’ve chosen to barricade yourself at Ambrose. At this moment, I’ve come closer to learning the truth that I ever have before.”

He stood, looking down at her. “You don’t understand, Davina. You do not know what I’m capable of,” he said. “What I’ve done. You only see what you want to see, and while it might be a virtue to be so naïve in some situations, it can be dangerous here and now.”

She sat up. “Are you warning me, Marshall, that you could do harm to me? If so, I don’t believe it. I think you would harm yourself first, rather than hurt another human being.”

“Tell that to the men who died under my command. Tell that to their ghosts, who haunt me regularly. Tell that to their wives and mothers.”

She clenched her hands together and arranged her features to reflect only a calm acceptance of his words. Inside, however, she wanted to weep at the look on his face. He wouldn’t accept her comfort at this moment, and so she didn’t offer it.

“I don’t believe you were responsible,” she said.

“Davina, you’ve ignored the truth of what I’ve said. Are you that much a romantic? There’s nothing good or decent or pure about what I’ve told you. It’s ugly and frightening.”

She nodded. “I’m not afraid of you, Marshall. If
it would make you feel better, I’ll try to summon up some fear. I’ll counsel myself that you’re despicable, the Devil of Ambrose. I’ll even write myself little notes to remind me.”

“Stop smiling at me, and I might believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time I call you lady wife, you refer to me as Your Lordship. You’re not at all subtle.”

He held out his hand to her.

She took it and stood naked in front of him. “If I cannot make a point in one way, Marshall, I have to make it in another.”

“I did call you obstinate, did I not?”

She ignored the comment with a smile.

“May I stay with you, today?”

“Do you think to be my talisman, Davina? As long as you’re here, I’ll not see visions? I’ll not hear any other voice but yours?”

“When you’re with me, Marshall,” she calmly pointed out, “you do none of those things.” She shook her head as if to emphasize the point. “All you are is a tender lover, a most considerate man. The perfect husband. When you’re with me.”

“Then you don’t know the true Marshall Ross.”

She waved her hand in the air as if his comment was foolishness. “Let me stay with you. I’ll show you what I’ve learned of hieroglyphs and you can teach me more.”

“I’m tired of Egypt,” he said abruptly. “Let’s do something Scottish.”

She tilted her head and looked at him, and then smiled.

“Scottish?”

He pulled her to him, the sensation of his clothing against her nakedness oddly arousing.

She linked her arms around his neck and pushed her body against his.

“I’ll play any game you want, Marshall,” she said with a smile.

“D
avina, you have to concentrate on the ball,” Marshall said. “When you swing, keep your eyes on the ball.”

She swung the golf club and barely tapped the ball.

Turning, she fixed Marshall with an annoyed look.

Because of the rain, Marshall had constructed a makeshift golf course in the middle of the Great Hall, insisting that Davina learn the finer points of the game. Now he sat behind her, judging her form.

“You’re pulling back on the downswing.”

“I’m hitting it,” she said, turning and placing both hands on the hilt of the club. “That’s better than I was doing.”

“I’m surprised you’ve never played before, Davina. It’s a Scottish tradition.”

“I know,” she interrupted. “The first rules of the game were written in 1744. I know
that
, but that doesn’t mean I know how to play. The lamentable truth is that I don’t think I’m very good at it, Marshall.” She turned and frowned down at the ball, focused on it, and then swung with all her might. The ball soared into the air,
hit one of the beams, and fell with a thud on one of the overstuffed chairs. “There! I made it to the fourth hole.”

“I’m still winning,” he said, not at all modestly.

A knock on the door interrupted her response.

When Marshall called out, Jacobs opened the door and stood in the threshold, staring at both of them.

“Sir,” he said, his round face bearing a worried expression. “I have been recruited to speak with you.”

“By whom, Jacobs?”

“The majordomo, Your Lordship, and three of the maids.”

“Not the housekeeper?” Davina asked.

“No one wished to bother her, Your Ladyship,” Jacobs said, sending a bow in her direction.

“Is everyone afraid of that woman?” Davina asked. For a moment she thought Jacobs was going to answer in the affirmative, but then he stopped himself, giving her only a little smile instead.

“I have been tasked, Your Lordship, with the obligation of attempting to protect Ambrose’s miscellany, all of an historical nature.”

“Miscellany?” Marshall asked.

“Your Lordship, shall I move some of the vases? Or cover the more valuable windows?”

Jacobs looked northward to a particularly beautiful example of stained glass art. “A bit of batting, sir? The window is three hundred years old.”

“We are being chastised, Davina,” Marshall said, turning to her.

“Put in our place,” she said, lowering the golf club.
“What about the chandelier, Jacobs?” Davina asked. “I do believe Marshall nearly decimated that.” A few crystals on the bottom tier looked sadly shattered.

“Would you like to give me some advice, Jacobs?” Davina asked. “I’m not entirely sure that Marshall is playing fair.”

Jacobs looked horrified. “Thank you, Your Ladyship, no. I don’t play golf.”

“Good man, Jacobs,” Marshall said.

Jacobs backed out of the room, his orders to the maids to fetch some batting clearly audible.

Davina and Marshall smiled at each other.

“Tell me what a birdie is again,” Davina said. “And eagle and albatross.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about any of those,” he said with a smile. “They all refer to excellent scores.”

She sent him another irritated look.

“I could practice, you know. Then I’m certain I could beat you.”

“Are you ready?” Marshall asked, smiling. “It’s my turn.”

“It’s not very gentlemanly to look so enthusiastic about trouncing me.”

“I’m excessively competitive,” he admitted, his smile still evident.

“In fact, I think I should practice,” she said. “I would very much like to beat you.”

“It is not going to happen today,” he said, and laughed when she hit him on the shoulder with her open hand.

She flounced to a chair and sat hard. “Go on, swing.”

He propped the club against a small table, came to her side, and offered her a hand. When he pulled her up, he smiled at her. “You’ve been a very good student. For that you should be rewarded. I’ll do whatever you want for an hour.”

“Just an hour? I demand an afternoon. Better yet,” she said, regarding him, “I crave one whole night. For one whole night you’ll sleep at my side.”

“Davina.”

His embrace was loose, arms draped around her waist. He bent down until his nose brushed hers.

“Has anyone ever told you how intractable you are?”

She smiled at him. “Incessantly. Constantly. Forever.”

“It’s not yet night.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s a very, very rainy day and the thunder sounds as if it might go on for hours.”

“What shall we do with the time we have?” he asked before kissing the curve of her ear. “We could adjourn to a quieter, more private place and discuss what we could possibly find to occupy us.”

“Oh, but it’s my choice,” she teased.

“And what would you have me do?”

“Kiss me everywhere,” she said somberly, not a hint of smile on her face. “Pretend I’m a hieroglyph,” she added. “Learn my curves and symbols. What each means.”

He glanced around, no doubt to ensure no one was
in the room other than the two of them and then he cupped her breast outside her dress. “This curve? What do you think is the greater meaning there?”

“Sustenance? Fertility?”

He surprised her by pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her. He made no further movements, simply surrounded her with his body, as if she were a precious artifact that needed to be protected.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Holding you,” he said in the same soft tone.

He pressed his hands flat against the small of her back. His fingers splayed, reaching out on either side of her waist.

“Do not lace yourself so tightly,” he said. “You’ve no need of it.”

She smiled. “Would you have me be a wanton, Marshall?”

“With me, yes.”

Her hands reached up and gripped his arms as her cheek rested against his chest.

The silence in the Great Hall was encompassing; the moment was oddly beautiful. She wanted to thank him for his care of her, but how did such a thought ever get verbalized?

Would he understand?

She wanted to tell him everything that he didn’t know about her, those details about her life he didn’t already know. Yet Marshall divulged information about himself with excruciating reserve. As if she’d judge him, or feel horror over what he’d done.

How could she feel anything but love for this man?

“Stay the night with me,” she whispered against his throat. “Please, Marshall.”

“Davina.”

“You’ll not hurt me. I know it. Believe me as I believe in you.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t answer her, only held her within the circle of his arms. In that moment, she felt the faint stirrings of hope.

Marshall accompanied her to her chamber, opened the door, and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Facing her, he began to remove his clothing.

“Should I be shocked?” she asked.

“Should you be? You’ve seen me naked before.”

“This is what I get for being brazen this morning?”

“Punishment by lovemaking? It’s an idea. Would it work?”

“Very possibly,” she said calmly. “I quite like bedding you.” The very word was titillating.

“Shall I undress? Or would you prefer to disrobe me?”

“On the contrary,” he said, his fingers halting in the act of undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I would much rather see you perform the honors.”

“I have ugly feet,” she said. “I’ve often despaired of them. I can never find shoes that fit me well enough, so consequently they are very large and ungainly. Plus I have very small and pudgy toes.”

“I’m not interested in your feet.”

She wished she could have begun this chore with a
great deal more equanimity, but Davina knew she was blushing. Warmth trickled down her skin to encompass the whole of her chest and shoulders. How odd that her fingertips felt cold.

Marshall crossed the room to sit in the overstuffed chair beside the window, still watching her.

He sat there fully dressed; his only concession to disrobing was his open shirt.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” she asked.

“Impatient?”

She’d already dispensed with her hoops, her laces, and was in the process of gathering up her chemise. She hesitated when the garment reached her knees and stared at him. “I’m beginning to think that you deliberately goad me with words, only to see what I’ll say in response.”

“If that’s the case,” he said, smiling, “then you’ve not disappointed me.”

She pulled off the remainder of her clothing and stood before him naked.

“I’ve never thought of myself as avant-garde, or an iconoclast. I might have caused a scandal, but it wasn’t intentional. Nor was I all that brazen in my thoughts or actions as a girl. How odd that I’ve changed in the last two weeks. Just when a girl should be on the verge of becoming matronly and proper, I’ve become shocking.”

“Hardly shocking to the world, Davina. Unless, of course, you intend to discuss what happens within this room. I myself would prefer that you not do so.”

“Why ever not? The rumors that would accompany
your name would be very favorable indeed.”

How very strange to see his cheeks deepen in color. Not a blush exactly, but enough color to give her the impression that she’d discomfited him.

How had she lived without him?

Dear heavens, what if she’d agreed to marry anyone else? Dear God, what if she’d married Alisdair? She would never have felt for Alisdair what she did for Marshall. She’d never have experienced this heady sensation of freedom that each day brought.

“You would let me do anything I wished, wouldn’t you, Marshall?” she asked.

He looked surprised by the question, but answered just the same. “In what context?”

“If I came to you and told you that it was very important to me that we have swans and a lake, would you allow it?”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “This is your home, Davina. If swans are important to you, then how could I refuse?”

“And dresses? May I fetch some of the modistes from France to Ambrose?”

“Are you planning on beggaring us, Davina? I warn you that it would be quite an undertaking.”

“Or trunks of books?”

“Do we need new shelves in the library?” he asked, a half smile back in place.

How silly to feel tears peppering her eyes.

She went to him and knelt beside the chair, taking his hands in hers. “It is a good thing I married you,” she said. “Otherwise you would have been too gener
ous and giving.” She smiled teasingly. “As it is, I’m excessively frugal by nature.”

“No swans or modistes?”

“Except for books and shoes, I’m excessively frugal,” she admitted.

He leaned forward, removing one hand from her grip, and tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Then we shall have to enlarge Ambrose’s library and find you another armoire or two for your new shoes.”

He kissed her then, a light, friendly kiss that hinted at more.

She stood, and he did as well, removing his shirt and beginning on his trousers. A few more garments and he was gloriously naked. Gloriously. Naked.

What an absolutely beautiful instrument. Was that what it was called? It looked like a spear jutting out from his body, the shaft taut and firm, the end almost pointed.

“You have your own obelisk,” she said, and smiled when his laughter echoed throughout the room.

She wanted to touch him, to stroke her hands the length of him. She wanted very much to study that absolutely fascinating appendage.

Marshall was looking at her, and that made her skin feel strange and tight and her blood heat. In fact, he was looking at her with the same hunger with which she no doubt looked at him. Is this what God had done, created in each gender such curiosity about the other that making love was a natural completion?

“Is it the same size with every man?”

She still had not moved, and neither had he. No more
than a few feet separated them, but it felt as wide as Scotland.

“Or is it in proportion to a man’s body? Like an arm or leg?”

With one hand he lifted himself, as if in offering. “So you’re satisfied, are you?”

“Should I truly answer that? Wouldn’t it make you even more insufferable than winning at golf?”

“I promise not to become insufferable.”

“Then of course you know I’m satisfied,” she said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea how I rank among men,” he said. “Perhaps I’m a little larger than most. Or simply average.”

“Does it always stay that way? How on earth does it fit in your pants?”

He was smiling broadly now, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that had an edge of ridicule to it. She had pleased him, she could tell.

Two of his fingers slid up the shaft, and she wanted to replace his hand with hers.

“It doesn’t always stay this way,” he said. “Seeing you naked has an effect on it.”

She shook her head as if to negate what he was saying. “It was that way before I was naked.”

“Talking about it with you has that effect as well.”

“Can you find pleasure simply with words?”

She lifted her gaze to find that he was looking at her intently. “Words don’t affect me as much as images. Remembering you, remembering entering you, now that affects me.”

“The first few times were different,” she said, taking a few steps closer to him. “Not like now.”

“That’s because you were innocent.”

“I wasn’t, actually.”

“You were, more than you know. Or if you do not choose to recognize yourself as an innocent, then perhaps another word would suffice. Unaccustomed.”

“Unaccustomed?” she said.

“To me.”

He reached out and pulled her closer with one hand. His hands were on her shoulders, and his eyes were on her breasts, but she ignored what he was doing in favor of placing her hands on that beautiful instrument, hot to her touch. It quivered as if it recognized that she was there, nearly bobbing up and down in eagerness.

She felt breathless and yet utterly calm.

“Lovers must become accustomed to each other,” he said softly.