“In that case,” his father said briskly, looking him dead in the eye, “consider it done.”
Simon straightened and started to turn away, ridiculously relieved to escape his father’s presence. But then he realized this would be his last chance to ask the question that had haunted him since he was a boy in this house.
He turned back to the desk. “Why did you hate my mother so much?”
“Already going back on your word, are you? As I recall, you just promised me that this”—his father tapped the piece of stationery—“was the last thing you’d ever ask of me.”
Simon shook his head at his own foolishness and strode toward the door, as eager to be free of this place as his father was to be rid of him.
He was only a few steps from that freedom when his father spoke, his voice so low Simon almost didn’t hear him. “I didn’t hate your mother. I adored her.”
Simon slowly turned and drifted back toward the desk, each step taken as if in a dream. His father was reaching into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and withdrawing a shiny brass fob. A locket dangled from the end of it.
He offered the locket to Simon with a palsied hand. Simon took it and snapped it open to find a miniature of his mother tucked into the oval frame. She looked exactly as he remembered her—her lustrous blond hair curling around her face, her cheeks dimpled in a teasing smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
His father’s eyes had gone curiously misty. “My wife turned me out of her bed after Richard was conceived. She felt she’d done her duty by providing me with an heir.” He shrugged. “She could barely endure that part of our relationship anyway.
“Then I met your mother at the theater one night. I never meant for anything to happen between us, but she was so beautiful, so funny, so warm…so loving. I wanted to leave my wife. I begged your mother to run away with me. But she refused, saying it would create a terrible scandal that would ruin me and my family’s good name forever. She swore she loved me, yet she sent me away that night and told me to never come back.”
“What if she believed she was doing what was best for you, even if it broke her own heart?” Simon asked, echoing the words Catriona had once said to him.
As his father lifted his eyes, the mist in them faded, leaving only contempt. “Every time I looked at you, I saw her and I remembered the night she sent me away.” He pounded his fist weakly on the desk, looking more like a petulant child than like one of the most powerful men in London. “She was a selfish, cruel, heartless woman! It wasn’t right for her to keep you from me for all those years. By the time she sent you here, you were nothing more than a stranger!”
“I was never a stranger, Father,” Simon said softly. “I was always your son.”
Slipping the miniature into his own pocket, he turned and walked out of his father’s library for the last time.
Catriona stood on the landing at the top of the ballroom steps, fighting the desperate urge to duck behind a potted palm. The Argyle Rooms boasted one of the most beautiful ballrooms in London. The elegant theater was over a hundred feet long. A grand screen of Corinthian columns lined the walls, supporting the cove of a ceiling painted to resemble the sky. The ethereal blue daubed with fluffy white clouds reminded her of the Highland sky on a spring day.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying not to remember that at that very moment Eddingham and his men might be reducing to rubble all that was left of her ancestral home.
A half dozen cut-glass chandeliers, each containing a dozen pink wax lights, cast a soft glow over the milling crush below. Some of the ballroom’s occupants were dancing an intricate minuet to the genteel strains of Mozart wafting out from the orchestra. Others were clustered in cozy groups, fluttering their fans and sipping punch from crystal goblets. A few black-garbed dowagers were hunched over in the chairs lining the walls, whispering to each other and squinting disapprovingly through their quizzing glasses at the young people who were laughing too loudly or dancing too closely.
And in just a few minutes, they would all be whispering about her.
Catriona drew in a sharp breath and flattened a hand against her corset-clad waist, wondering how she could have allowed Georgina and Uncle Ross to talk her into this madness. When they had first presented the idea to her, she would have sworn it had merit. Since her annulment was to be final on the morrow, what better way to show all of London that her heart and pride were unscathed than to appear at an assembly ball with her head held high and a smile on her lips?
Georgina had even ordered her a special gown for the occasion from her favorite York Street modiste—a high-waisted confection of softly woven silk in virginal white.
Catriona was not immune to the irony.
In keeping with the elegant simplicity of the dress, she had woven a borrowed string of Aunt Margaret’s pearls through her upswept curls.
As she scanned the crowd, she knew she ought to take comfort in the fact that there was absolutely no chance of running into Simon. It wasn’t as if they would ever travel in the same social circles. He might be the son of a powerful duke, but he was still a bastard, which meant that there were some doors that would be forever closed to him.
Instead of giving her comfort, the thought made her heart feel as if the very last drop of blood were being squeezed from it.
She was turning blindly away from the ballroom, determined to flee before Georgina saw her, when Uncle Ross appeared on the landing beside her.
He linked an arm through hers and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “Not thinking of bolting, are you, my dear?”
“How did you know?” she asked, eyeing him sheepishly.
He puffed out his cheeks in a rueful sigh. “I saw the same look in your aunt Margaret’s eyes on our wedding night.”
“Are you sure you want to be seen with a woman with such a scandalous past? It might cast a stain on the noble Kincaid name.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, giving her arm a heartening squeeze. “I’m very proud to have such a bright and lovely young woman on my arm.”
Catriona blinked up at him, surprised to feel the sting of tears in her eyes.
“Besides,” he added, a corner of his mouth quirking in a grin, “you’re too young to spend the rest of your life listening to Alice whine and beating me at chess.”
As they descended the stairs arm in arm, her uncle’s words gave her the courage she needed to lift her chin and fix a gracious smile on her lips.
Just as she had feared, the minute she was recognized most conversations lurched to a halt. Even the musicians faltered, striking several discordant notes in a row before resuming the tinkling notes of the dance. The conversations resumed at a much lower level, most of them accompanied by sharp nudges and nods in their direction.
Uncle Ross remained unfazed. Catriona followed his lead, her smile frozen on her face as they joined the dance. Her uncle was surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size.
She caught a glimpse of Georgina and her husband Stephen beaming at them from one of the scarlet-lined boxes overlooking the theater floor, then pivoted to find Alice glaring at her with a malice equal to her sister’s goodwill. Alice was partnered by a handsome young militiaman with short-cropped hair and an impressive set of side-whiskers. It seemed her cousin still couldn’t resist a man in uniform.
A scattering of light applause greeted the end of the minuet. “Would you care for some punch?” her uncle offered.
Catriona regretted her nod almost immediately, as his departure left her standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor.
Like a vulture sensing a fresh corpse, Alice came swooping down out of the crowd. “I can’t believe you’d dare show your face in public after you’ve dragged our good name through the mud by making such spiteful accusations,” she hissed. “Simon certainly had no problems performing with me.”
“He never had the chance,” Catriona replied coolly. “I was there. Remember?”
With a scathing “Harrumph,
” Alice melted back into the crowd, tossing her yellow curls.
Catriona shook her head, thinking what a shame it was that her cousin and Eddingham hadn’t wed after all. They would have made a perfect match.
She glanced around to discover that her uncle had been waylaid by an old acquaintance with a reputation for repeating the same long-winded stories at every social occasion. Uncle Ross shot her an apologetic glance, but the man had already seized his arm, offering him little chance of escape and Catriona little hope of rescue.
When someone bumped her from behind, she whipped around, convinced Alice had returned after finally thinking up a witty retort. But the offenders turned out to be a blushing young couple.
“So sorry, miss,” the gentleman said, tugging at his fashionable forelock.
The girl giggled and bobbed a charming curtsy. “Please do forgive us.”
As they proceeded on their way, hand in hand, it was easy to see why they had nearly trampled her—they were too busy gazing adoringly at each other to watch where they were going. Judging by their youth and the simple gold band flashing on the girl’s finger, they were also recently wed.
Something about the way they looked at each other reminded Catriona of Jem and Bess ducking into the forge on her wedding day, soaked to the skin but glowing with joy.
She closed her eyes against a blinding rush of sorrow. She didn’t belong here any more than Simon did. There were doors that would be forever closed to her as well. Doors that led to long, snowy winter nights snuggled beneath the blankets in her lover’s arms. Doors that led to a houseful of laughing, golden-haired children who looked like cherubs but had devilish green eyes. Doors that led to a lifetime of love.
Desperate to escape the prying eyes that were still watching her every move, she turned and began to wend her way toward an arch at the far end of the ballroom.
The first note from the bagpipes cut straight through her heart. She couldn’t have moved if a chandelier had been about to crash down onto her head.
The ancient instrument’s song soared in passionate abandon within the confines of the ballroom walls, mocking everything that had come before it as only a pale imitation of music.
Catriona slowly turned to find a grizzled old man standing at the top of the stairs, working the pipes with every last ounce of his strength. Everyone in the ballroom looked flabbergasted. Her own astonishment grew when a dozen men, all garbed in green and black tartan kilts and plaids, came marching down the stairs in regimental precision, their shoulders thrown back and their heads held high. They formed a double row at the bottom of the stairs, creating a human passageway for whoever chose to descend next.
As the piper finished his tune, leaving his final triumphant note hanging in the air, everyone stood in stunned silence for a moment, then erupted in thunderous applause. Believing the entire exhibition to be part of the evening’s entertainment, the men began to whistle and stomp and shout, “Capital idea!” and “Simply smashing!”
Another man appeared at the top of the stairs. Their applause faded.
The silence was so profound that all Catriona could hear was the thundering of her heart in her ears as she gazed up into her husband’s narrowed green eyes.
Chapter 22
This was the Simon she remembered from the barn—clean-shaven, clear-eyed, his hair neatly trimmed and barely brushing his collar. He was dressed as finely as any other gentleman in the ballroom, but he wore her beloved old tartan—the Kincaid plaid—draped over one broad shoulder and pinned with a silver brooch.
As the crowd recognized him, a shocked murmur went up, quickly rising to a swell that rippled from one end of the ballroom to the other.
One might be offended by his parentage if one was so inclined, but there was no denying that Simon Wescott was a gorgeous specimen of masculinity. Several of the women whipped out fans and began to frantically fan themselves, while others gripped the arm of whoever was standing closest to them, near to swooning.
As Simon started down the steps, heading straight for her, Catriona was afraid she was about to be included in the latter category. Only she had no arm to grip. No one to catch her should she fall.
This was the Simon she remembered from the docks—dashing, dangerous, an element of natural command in his every step. He looked every inch the conquering hero, determined to claim whatever prize he had won. A path magically opened between them as the Highlanders fell into step behind him.
She glanced around frantically, expecting Uncle Ross to come charging to her rescue, to denounce Simon for the scoundrel he was and whisk her away to a safe, boring life that contained no risk of having her heart broken all over again by this silver-tongued Adonis. But her uncle was watching the proceedings with as much avid interest as the rest of the crowd.
Simon stopped right in front of her, his green eyes smoldering with a passion she remembered only too well.
This was the Simon she remembered from her bed—confident in his own prowess, wildly naughty…and utterly irresistible.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, wishing she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.
“I’ve come to inform you that you’re not entitled to an annulment. As your husband, I did fulfill my marital duties to your satisfaction—and to mine—not just once, but numerous times.”
A round of shocked gasps went up from the crowd. Uncle Ross hid his face behind his hand, but it was impossible to tell if he was on the verge of laughter or tears.
Catriona folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “How do you know I was satisfied?”
Simon’s lazy smile set off a fresh fluttering of eyelashes and fans. “You might want to withdraw that question, Mrs. Wescott. A gentleman wouldn’t divulge those details…but I just might.”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway. You’re too late. The bishop has already called an ecclesiastical council. By nine o’clock in the morning, our marriage will be over.”
“If it’s my virility in question, I’d be more than glad to provide proof. All you have to do is step over to that curtained alcove with me for a quarter of an hour—that is, if we skip the pleasantries.”
Several of the women tittered behind their fans. Catriona felt her own cheeks heat as she remembered just how exquisitely pleasant some of those pleasantries had been.
“Of course, the bishop might require some witnesses,” Simon added. He politely scanned the crowd, raising his voice. “May we have some volunteers?”
Several hands shot into the air, all belonging to men.
“Hoot, mon, if this is how ye English go about wooin’ a lass into yer bed, I’m surprised yer race hasn’t completely died out by now.”
Catriona blinked in shock as Kieran stepped out from behind Simon, scowling in disgust.
“If I may interrupt this touchin’ little reunion before it brings a sentimental tear to me eye, I’d like to tell ye the real reason we’re here. We’re on our way back to the Highlands. We’re goin’ to drive this Eddin’ham fellow off the Kincaid lands once and for all.”
Catriona scowled right back at him, beginning to feel woefully outnumbered. “And why should I care? You made it quite clear that you don’t want or need my help.” She waved a hand at Simon. “Why, you already have the chieftain you wanted right here in front of you!”
Kieran and Simon exchanged a glance. Simon nodded.
Clearing his throat, Kieran awkwardly dropped to one knee, the proud set of his shoulders unyielding. Gazing up at her, he said, “Catriona Kincaid, we swear our fealty to ye as the one true chieftain o’ Clan Kincaid. Ye have our loyalty, our swords, our hearts and our very lives if ye require them to serve ye and protect ye for as long as we—and ye—may live.”
As he bowed his head, the other Highlanders went to their knees, one by one. The grizzled old piper was the last to bow, his knees creaking with the effort.
Catriona stood paralyzed with shock, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, as Simon unfastened the pla
id from his own shoulder and gently laid it over hers before dropping to one knee in front of her.
Instead of bowing his head, he took her hand in his and gazed up into her eyes, just as he had in her bedchamber on the morning they left for Gretna Green. “Catriona Kincaid,” he said solemnly, “from the first moment I laid eyes on you, I should have known you were the only woman in the world for me. I was too stupid and stubborn to realize it, but I fell in love with your courage, your spirit, your beauty, your wit, and now I can think of nothing and no one else. If I were a better man, I would have confessed my love to you—and to myself—before taking you to my bed. But my hunger for you was so great that no power in heaven or hell could have stopped me from making you my own.”
There was a brief commotion as a woman near the punch bowl finally succumbed to a swoon.
Simon gently caressed Catriona’s knuckles with his thumb. “I can only pray that you’ll forgive me for taking such ruthless advantage of our bargain and will allow me to make amends by doing me the honor of agreeing to share my life, my future and my name by remaining my wife. You told me once that you felt there was no place in this world for you. Well, I’m here to tell you that there is. And that place is in my arms.”
He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tender fierceness that made her heart clutch, then lifted his beseeching gaze to her face. His next words were so deep and soft that only she could hear them. “I know you loved me once, Catriona. Please tell me it’s not too late for you to love me again.”
Too late.
The words seemed to toll through her mind like a dirge.
They were offering her everything she’d ever wanted, and for the first time in her life she was afraid to take it. She had believed for so long, hoped for so long, guarded her dreams as if they were priceless treasures. How could it be that now—when she needed it the most—her faith was spent?
How could she ever trust a man like Simon to be constant in his affections? How could she ever be sure that his words came from the heart and weren’t just a stanza of some pretty speech he’d memorized in the theater? How could she keep her heart—and her dreams—from being crushed beneath his polished bootheels once again?