Philip was twitching in his sleep. He was dreaming about a large fighting trout he’d caught in Loch Leven the previous week, when he’d gone with Murdock the Stunted. The trout grew as his dream lengthened. It got bigger and bigger and its mouth seemed now the size of an open door. Then Murdock the Stunted was touching him, telling him what a fine fisherman he was, his voice soft and softer still . . .
But it wasn’t Murdock the Stunted’s fingers or his voice. Suddenly the trout was gone and he was back in his own bed, but he wasn’t alone. He felt it again, like soft fingers on the back of his neck, and he heard the soft voice saying, “You’re a bright lad, Philip, so bright and so kind. Och, aye, a good lad.” He lurched upright and there, beside his bed, hand still outstretched, was a dead lady.
She had long, nearly white hair and wore a flowing white gown. She was young and beautiful, but she looked ghastly. Her hand was but inches from him and that hand and all its dead fingers were whiter than her gown.
Philip swallowed, then yelled at the top of his lungs. He grabbed his covers and yanked them over his head. It was a nightmare, his brain had made the trout into a ghost, that was all, but he burrowed farther down into the feather mattress, clutching the covers over him like a lifeline.
There was the soft voice again. “Philip, I’m the Virgin Bride. Your new stepmother told you about me. I protect her, Philip. Your Pearlin’ Jane is afraid of me. She doesn’t like the way you and Dahling are trying to scare off Sinjun.”
Just as suddenly the voice stopped. Philip didn’t move. Since he couldn’t breathe, he made a small tunnel beneath the bedclothes to the edge of the bed. He waited, his breath coming in huge gasps.
It wasn’t until dawn that he eased his head out from under the covers. Dull morning light was seeping into his bedchamber. There was no sign of anything or anyone. Not a sign of the Virgin Bride.
* * *
Sinjun went about her usual duties, outwardly serene, smiling, wishing Aunt Arleth would drop into a deep well. Colin had been gone four days now, and she was so angry with him that she occasionally shook with it.
She was very tempted to go to Edinburgh. Or would he now be in Clackmannanshire or Berwick? Damned man.
Her trunks and Fanny her mare arrived late that morning, delivered by James, one of the head Northcliffe Hall stable lads, and three of his companions, stable lads all. She danced about like a child, so excited that she even kissed James and hugged the other stable lads. All was well at Northcliffe Hall, including her mother, the dowager countess, who was, nevertheless, according to James, a bit downpin because there was no one else about for her to improve upon. James delivered letters to Sinjun, saw Dulcie smiling at him as if he were a prince, and was more than delighted to spend the night at Vere Castle.
After she saw James and the stable lads off the next morning, their satchels filled with food for them and letters for her family, she went to the stables and saddled Fanny herself.
“She be a foine mare,” said Murdock the Stunted. Young Ostle, all of twenty-two years old, agreed fervently. George II, a mongrel of indeterminate lineage, barked wildly at the scent of the new animal, and Crocker yelled at him in language so colorful Sinjun vowed to make him her teacher.
The day was warm, the sun bright overhead. Sinjun click-clicked Fanny onto the gravel drive, now widened and newly regraveled—with the assurance, naturally, that the laird would pay for it upon his return. She was smiling. She’d ordered other things done as well the same day that Colin had left again. Three of the crofters’ huts were getting new roofs. She’d purchased seven goats and distributed them to all the crofters with children and babies. She’d sent Mr. Seton—never loath to impress his neighbors and the tradesmen with his importance—to Kinross to purchase more grain and sorely needed farming implements. A score of barrels and several dozen chickens had been duly distributed to the crofters. Ah, yes, she’d been busy, she’d meddled to her heart’s content, and if Colin didn’t return home soon, she fancied she would begin another wing to Vere Castle. She’d also set the local seamstress to work on pennants for the four Vere Castle towers. The Kinross tartan pattern was of red, dark forest green, and black. She wished she could see Colin garbed in a Highland kilt, but they’d been outlawed after Culloden in 1746. It was a pity, but the pennants would proudly fly the Kinross tartan.
Sinjun set Fanny into a gallop all the way to the very edge of Loch Leven and loosed the reins so her mare could drink the cold water. She looked toward the eastern moors that stretched up the sides of the Lomond Hills themselves. Barren and empty and immensely savage. Even at this distance she could see patches of purple heather, sprouting up between rocks and out of deep crevices in the land. And to the west, the land was verdant, rich and lush, and every acre of it tilled and flowering with growing wheat and barley and rye. A land of contradictions, a land of beauty so profound she felt it touch the deepest part of her. It was now her land, and there was no going back.
She patted Fanny’s sleek neck. “I’m being a romantic and you’re fat,” she said, sniffing in the clear sweet air, the scent of honeysuckle and heather light and teasing. “Douglas has been letting you eat your head off in the stables, hasn’t he? A good gallop is just what you need, my girl.”
“I occasionally say that to my women.”
Sinjun turned slowly in her saddle. A man was seated on a magnificent bay barb not six feet from her. Why hadn’t Fanny whinnied?
“I wonder why my mare didn’t alert me to your presence,” she said aloud, straightening now and looking at him.
He frowned. A bit of fear would have pleased him. At least a show of surprise at his unexpected appearance. Perhaps her wits were slow and she hadn’t understood his small jest.
“Your mare didn’t alert you because she’s drinking from the loch. The loch water is magical, ’tis said, and a mare will drink until her stomach bloats.”
“Then I should stop her.” Sinjun gently tugged the reins back, forcing Fanny’s muzzle from the water. “Who are you, sir? A neighbor, perhaps?”
“I suppose I’m a neighbor. You are the new countess of Ashburnham.”
She nodded.
“You’re quite lovely. I expected a rabbit-toothed hag, truth be told, since you’re such a full-blooded heiress. Colin must believe he’s the luckiest bastard alive.”
“I’m pleased I’m not a hag, for Colin never would have wed me, regardless of the number
and weight of my groats. As for his feelings of luck, I cannot attest to that.”
He frowned at her. “Colin is a fool. He’s not worthy of any woman’s regard.”
She looked at him more closely now as he spoke. He was tall, perhaps taller than Colin, though it was difficult to be certain, since he was sitting atop his stallion, his posture indolent, his expression amused, his clothing of the best quality and fitting him perfectly. And he was very slender, to the point of delicateness, but surely that was an absurd thought to apply to a man. He had a full head of very soft blond hair and his forehead was high and wide. If anything, his features were too refined, too soft, almost feminine. His complexion was fair, his eyes a pale blue, his jawline and his chin as soft and delicate as a woman’s. This quite pretty man was vicious?
“Who are you?” she asked.