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  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1995 by Stella Cameron

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Diane Lugar and Elaine Groh

  Cover art by Bob Maguire

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  A time Warner Company

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: December, 1995

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2043-1

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  Stella Cameron

  THE FIRST LESSON

  Gradually, he lowered his face toward her and saw her eyes slowly close. Her lips, when he touched them with his own, were warm and sweet—and moist. Careful of the slightest movement, he made no attempt to part her lips farther. Instead he kissed her as he might have had it been his first kiss, and she a girl being kissed for the first time. He kissed her with his heart and soul and it was the sweetest thing, sweeter with all the years of his experience and the power of his restrained mastery, than any first kiss could be.

  Pink flooded her cheeks. Candlelight picked out hints of red in the curls that had now entirely fallen from their coiffeur. She looked young, eager, quite kissed—and ready for far more.

  “Justine?”

  “Thank you,” Justine said. “Thank you so much.”

  And Struan knew it was just a beginning.

  The beginning of heaven?

  The beginning of hell?

  “The pleasure. I assure you, is entirely mine.” And with this pleasure pain was almost certain to follow.

  Books By Stella Cameron

  Historical Romance

  Only By Your Touch

  His Magic Touch

  Fascination*

  Charmed*

  Bride*

  Beloved*(coming in 1996)

  * Titles in the Rossmara Quartet

  Contemporary Romance

  Breathless

  Pure Delights

  Sheer Pleasures

  True Bliss (coming in 1996)

  For our daughter, Kirsten.

  Loving, loyal, honest, and above all,

  a faithful optimist.

  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 s
ervants 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.