Lost Bride Chapter 5

THREE

A CASTLE OF GHOSTS

Now properly dressed, she descended the wide stairway. No one was about except for a housemaid who was busily dusting. Lucy walked along a long corridor lined with antlers until she came to an open door. Thick carpet lay on the floor, and the walls were practically covered in paintings, most of them portraits. It was not unlike the castles she’d toured, except furniture and other items that ought to be old were quite new. A man in a kilt seemed to look down at her from across the room. She drew closer and studied the painting. He looked awfully stern. She moved on to the next. The man in that portrait was younger, and not all that bad looking for a dude in a portrait.

“He was my grandfather.” How long Rory had been standing there, watching, she couldn’t begin to guess.

“He looks nice.” What else could she say? He didn’t look half as sour as the pruney guy next to him.

Rory’s mouth twitched with a hint of a grin. “He had his moments.”

Lucy’s eyes wandered along to the next portrait. That man looked like Rory, although not quite as broad in the shoulders, and with lighter chestnut-colored hair. Lucy looked from the painting to Rory, comparing.

“My father. He was about my age when that was painted. He’s rather ill at the moment, but when he’s feeling better, I’ll introduce you.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“As should he.”

She glanced down as if his admiring smile were like the sun, too much to take in directly. Color tinted her cheeks. Wow, she was easy—and foolish. He was just being a charming host. And there she was, acting as though he’d just asked her to the junior prom. She took a step toward the next portrait. The sooner she moved the discussion forward, the less likely he would be to notice her schoolgirl blush. She looked up at a young woman in a simple and elegant gown. “She’s very beautiful.”

His eyes darkened as he looked at the portrait.

“Who is she?” When he failed to answer, Lucy turned from the portrait.

Rory’s jaw tightened but just as quickly relaxed. “Margery.”

“Another Munro?” Lucy asked as she continued to admire the portrait. “And she is…”

“My wife.”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. There was something about the way he had said it that gave her a chill. “Oh. I didn’t know you were married.”

“

Was

married. She’s dead,” he said bluntly.

“I’m so sorry.”

He met her eyes to acknowledge the thought then looked quickly away. “I think dinner must be ready.” He turned and walked with such long strides that he left Lucy trailing behind. So dinner was lunch, she surmised while she walked, and someone had mood swings. She found herself in a dining room as she’d expected. What she didn’t expect was that they would be alone. “Won’t your brother be joining us?”

“I doubt it. I imagine he’s sleeping off last night’s whisky. I’m sorry if my bluntness disturbs you.”

“It doesn’t.” What she left out was that Rory’s gruff manner did.

Rory continued. “My—what was it you called him?—oh yes, my bastard of a brother tends to do most of his sleeping by daylight.”

“So he’s part vampire, is he?”

With a grimace, he dismissed the topic.

“I was kidding.” Apparently humor wasn’t his thing.

A brusque nod and awkward silence followed, broken only by the scurry of servants about them, serving their meal.

Lucy was lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips when the door opened. A man of about Rory’s age stood in the doorway and stared straight at Lucy. He had the same hair color but with more waves, and his features were finer.

“Mr. Angus Munro, allow me to introduce Miss Lucy Buchanan.”

Angus lowered his chin and smiled slyly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Buchanan.” He eyed Rory with a raised eyebrow. “Margery’s dress fits her well.”

Rory’s eyes flashed as Angus swaggered to his seat. When he was settled, Rory said, “Miss Buchanan is my honored guest. I expect her to be treated as such.”

Angus’s mouth twitched, half smiling. “Would I do otherwise?”

Rory’s eyes narrowed, which seemed to amuse Angus. He settled his gaze upon Lucy. “How is it I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the charming Miss Lucy Buchanan?”

“I’ve just arrived.” She stopped short when Rory flashed her a look of warning.

“Miss Buchanan is a distant cousin by marriage,” Rory said. “I willnae bore you with the details.”

“Thank you for that,” Angus drawled then took a drink of wine. When he set his glass down, he lifted his eyes to meet Lucy’s.

There was no denying his charm, but it appeared too well practiced from Lucy’s perspective. Perhaps that was due to his assessing eye, which made her uneasy. She glanced down at her dress—Margery’s dress. Looking up at Rory, she asked, “How long were you married?”

Angus leaned back in his chair and observed their interaction with a glint in his eyes. Setting down his soupspoon with a clink, Rory stood and dropped his napkin to his chair. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite. If you’ll excuse me.”

If

clearly wasn’t an option since he was already halfway to the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Och! They were only married a few months. He’s had five years to get over it.” Angus resumed eating.

“Only a few months? How sad.” She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to get married and lose your true love so quickly. Of course, she hadn’t married at all before losing hers, but Rory had lost his to death. Lucy wouldn’t wish that even on Tyler.

A faraway look passed over Angus’s face, but his eyes brightened as he turned back to Lucy. “He needs to get on with his life, but he refuses to let go of the past.”

“He must have loved her very much.”

With a nod, Angus said, “She was a beauty.”

“I feel terrible for upsetting him.”

“Oh, I wouldnae worry about Rory.”

But she did. She couldn’t help but be curious about Margery’s death, but she’d done enough damage to dare say any more. Still, she wondered. How young she must have been. And what a tragedy when modern medicine probably held the cure. But these were not modern times. Rory was an uncommon man, whose love was deep and everlasting. He had clearly been devastated by his wife’s death, and Lucy had opened the wound.

Mercifully, the next course arrived, and her conversation with Angus moved on.

Lucy spent

the rest of the afternoon on her own. After choosing a book from the library, she went to her room and sat down to read. With a sigh, she gave up, too distracted to focus on her book. She could not stop thinking about what had happened at dinner. She supposed she’d known at the time that she was treading on dangerous ground, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. Lesson learned. Rory Munro seemed to guard his privacy like Fort Knox. Why she had bothered to ask in the first place, she couldn’t really say, except that she had been genuinely curious about him. There was no sensible reason for that. She was leaving tomorrow, so his personal life should have been left on a need-to-know basis. And yet, for the sake of her selfish curiosity, she’d asked him, effectively poking a stick at an unhealed wound. She vowed to proceed with more care in the future. After all, she was in a strange place with manners and customs and a host whom she could not decipher. Wasn’t it enough that he’d welcomed her into his home? Otherwise, she would have wandered the Highlands alone. His life was his own. She had no business prying.

There was

little daylight left by the time Effie knocked on the door and informed her that Mr. Rory Monroe would not be joining her for supper and Mr. Angus Munro had gone out. The housemaid then asked if she would care for a tray in her room. Lucy welcomed the chance to dine without having to worry what she might say or do next to offend her host.

A storm blew in, bringing wind that howled and rattled the window. Lucy finished her supper and read a few chapters of her book. Sometime later, she stood by the fire in a nightgown and robe, warming herself. A quiet knock sounded on her door.

She opened it to find Rory standing there, looking far more composed than the last time she’d seen him. “Are you comfortable, lass?”

“Yes, I am. You’ve been very kind.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

“But you did, and I thank you.”

He gave her a slight nod. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the cairn.” He lingered for a moment then turned to leave.

“Rory, I’m sorry about before. It was none of my business.”

He shook his head to dismiss her concerns. With a warm smile, he bade her good night.

“Goodnight, Rory.”

After the door had closed between them, she sat down by the fire and breathed in the pungent aroma of peat. Tomorrow, she would be home.

Rory returned to his room,

poured a whisky, and sank into a chair by the fire. He had neglected to tell Lucy how many times he had gone to the cairn and tried to find a way back in time so he could fix what had gone wrong in his own life. He had come to accept that, for him, it was not meant to be. Tomorrow, she would expect to walk through the cairn and go back to her life as though nothing had happened. For her sake, he hoped she would fare better than he had.

He’d been stuck for so long in his purgatory on earth that he’d long ago given up hope of escaping his fate. He’d even gone off to war with the Black Watch and fought in Flanders, but not out of bravery. On the contrary, he’d lacked the courage to take his own life, so he had hoped someone else might do it for him. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten used to existing. As long as his days had routine and purpose, he managed to get through them, one by one. He was hailed as a fearless member of the Black Watch, who’d run headlong into danger without flinching. Little did anyone know that the thing he feared most was his future, for he was destined to spend it alone.

He let out a derisive laugh at the thought of his future, of fate, and of time itself. Everyone always thought they had time to build the life they sought. But time was a myth meant to assuage people. He took another drink.

Why did he persist in going around and around the same thoughts, only to wind up in the same place? At least, for the moment, he had someone to think about other than himself. In truth, he liked Lucy, and he worried about her. He wouldn’t wish his family on anyone, but there was a good chance she would be forced to remain and become part of the household. She was better off here than out wandering the Highlands alone—but not much.

He admired how she’d managed so far. She hadn’t sniveled or whined. Had she done so, he would have dropped her off up in the hills and left her to wander the wild Highlands alone. Then he smiled to himself. No, he never would have done that. His heart may have grown cold, but it had not grown as hard as all that. In truth, he felt a softness toward Miss Lucy Buchanan. The lass touched him in a way he hadn’t felt since Margery. He swallowed down an unwelcome surge of emotion. The feelings came back even now in odd moments when he didn’t expect them. Love was like that. And that was why he could not let himself love again.

That was Angus’s duty. As the oldest, it fell to him to marry and produce an heir, although he’d shown no signs of fulfilling that duty. Given Rory’s past dealings with fate, he could fully envision going through all the trouble of marrying without love simply to produce an heir in Angus’s stead, only for Angus to suddenly marry and have his own son, leaving Rory to suffer with a wife he didn’t love. He wouldn’t put it past Angus to do such a thing solely for his own amusement. So no, that was one responsibility Rory would not take on in Angus’s behalf.

Plumes of smoke drifted up from the fire. Rory watched them, transfixed, and slowly exhaled. His father lay sick, and his rake of a brother was busy with his own self-indulgent pursuits. So it had fallen to Rory to manage the estate and perform all the duties his brother neglected. He couldn’t remember when that hadn’t been the case. Even when they were young, the less Angus had done, the more he had been adored. When his mother was alive, she would often pull Rory aside and gently try to explain the unexplainable: why Rory could not please his father enough. His mother had all but made up for it with her warmth and her devotion. Then the cholera had come and taken her from him. From age ten, all he had left to take with him through life was the memory from his mother of what love could be and the reminder from his father of what it was not. Someday his father would die, never knowing in what little regard his beloved first son had held him. And Rory’s regard—Rory’s love—would mean nothing.

So that was the existence to which Rory was destined, to live in a castle of ghosts and misplaced affection. Surrounded by specters of love and belonging, Rory persevered with a deeply ingrained sense of duty he could not seem to shake. But in the midst of it all, he was alone.