His Duty, Her Destiny Read online

  She was, naturally, still as angry and contrary as she’d been as a young lass when she had refused to conform to anyone’s ideals of ladylike behaviour. Not even at eleven and twelve years old had she made the slightest effort to show him the docile good manners and obedience of a wife-in-the-making. He had never intended to oblige his father on that score, but she had done nothing to make him change his mind. Not then. Nor had he commended himself to her as he’d been instructed to do.

  But if he had known how she would blossom like an exotic flower, would he have felt differently about his father’s wishes? Would he have anticipated taking her to bed as he did now? Would he have looked forward to contests of fighting and loving, subduing her, making her yelp with pleasure instead of anger? God, how he wanted her. How he was intrigued by the tangled facets of her womanliness. Come what may, he would have to show her that he was not the unkind, unlikeable lout he had been all those years ago. And he had better make out a good case, here and now while he still had a chance, or she’d do something desperate rather than accept him.

  Picking up his patterned velvet jerkin with the fur-trimmed sleeves, he slipped it on, pulling its lower edge down over his hips. His feathered felt hat lay upon the cushion of the window-seat where he had left it earlier, so he sat down beside it to wait for George, knowing that he’d not be long. He would want to settle this business once and for all. They had promises to keep to their fathers, George’s being to see his sister taken well care of. But Fergus had been away on the high seas for some time, then up in Scotland to see to his own family affairs, and only recently had he been able to return to his house in London where his late father’s ships were docked. It would have been useful, he mused, if her father had been here to help persuade her, for she would take some persuading now.

  Behind him, a clatter of hooves in the courtyard announced someone’s arrival, and Fergus leapt to his feet, his face beaming for the first time that morning. The door swung open. ‘George…no, Lord Coldyngham now, isn’t it? Well met at last, old friend,’ he said.

  ‘Fergus! No, Sir Fergus now, eh? Well met indeed, man. You’re looking disgustingly fit. Were you not even wounded?’

  They hugged and back-slapped, sizing each other up as they had done since they were lads with more rivalry than friendship in mind. ‘Yes, I was,’ said Fergus, tapping the tawny velvet sleeve. ‘My left arm.’ She had not liked it when he had changed hands, for it was less than courteous. ‘I try to exercise it as much as I can. It’s mending nicely.’

  ‘Good. And the steward let you in, did he? Nicola not down yet? That’s unusual. She likes being her own mistress now, Ferg.’ Whether he intended it or not, there was the hint of a warning in his remark. ‘Sorry to hear about your father,’ he added. ‘Buried at sea, was he?’

  ‘Yes. Pirates. Last October. My lady mother sends her regards. And our condolences to you too, George. I see your father left his town house to Nicola.’

  ‘This place?’ George looked around him at the small but elegant panelled hall with a large tapestry at one end and two bay windows along one side. Above them, timber beams were painted in multi-coloured patterns, and underfoot a drop of red blood showed brightly on the stone-tiled floor. Quickly, Fergus placed his foot over it. At one end of the hall, a long table had been laid with pewter, silver, polished wood and a set of bone-handled knives. As they spoke, servants entered bearing jugs of ale, bread rolls and a dish of scrambled eggs, butter, cheese and a side of ham.

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘Father always used it when he came to sit in parliament. He left it to Nicola for her use instead of a dowry. I suppose he thought it would give her the independence she likes, but we really didn’t think she’d come to live in it full time, as she does. Oh, she has a complete household to look after all her needs,’ he went on, catching Fergus’s glance of mild surprise at this unusual arrangement, ‘and living next door to a priory gives the place an air of respectability but…well…you know the impression people get when a young woman lives independently. Especially in this kind of style.’ He looked across the table at the gleaming dishes reflected on the shining surface. ‘For all her ways, Nicola certainly knows how to manage a household, but neither Lotti nor I are too happy about the way she keeps open house as Father did. She doesn’t appear to see the dangers, and I can’t even get her to think about finding a mate. I suppose she’s enjoying herself too much the way things are.’

  Fergus cleared his throat, hearing a kind of warning in George’s words. ‘And Daniel?’ he said. ‘And Ramond?’

  ‘Daniel is running the Wiltshire estate for me while I’m in London, and Ramond is studying law at Gray’s Inn. I expect he’ll be a diplomat in a few more years.’

  ‘And Patrick?’

  ‘Ah…Patrick.’ George led the way to the table, taking the bench opposite Fergus and settling himself with the air of a prosperous London merchant about to negotiate a deal. Which was not far from the truth. As the eldest of the Coldyngham family, he was but one year older than Fergus, and whether his inherited haughty Roman nose had helped or not, he had become both noble and successful. With a large house and business here in the city, a lovely wife and two children, George had been his father’s pride, honest, sober, well liked and respected, wealthy and as darkly handsome as Fergus. Indeed, the two had occasionally been taken for brothers during their student days at Cambridge. ‘Young Patrick’s still at Oxford, but heaven knows why,’ he said. ‘I doubt he attends more than one lecture a week, and he’s spending money like water. He won’t come into his inheritance until he’s twenty-one late this year, so until then I’m having to advance it in bite-sized pieces.’

  ‘What kind of debts?’

  ‘Oh…’ George grinned ‘…he’s doing all the things that we did, only more so. But I don’t remember costing my father as much as Patrick does. As for Nicola—well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ He poured ale into two wooden beakers and passed one to Fergus. ‘I have to tell you, Ferg, that she prefers not to recall the agreement your father and mine made all those years ago, so I thought it was about time we made a decision one way or the other. I don’t really understand the reasons behind this promise of theirs. I suppose there must have been one. Wealth. Connections. Perhaps just friendship. I don’t know. But none of us can expect an old arrangement like that to stand unless you both want it. It’s not legally binding, after all.’ He looked at his friend over the top of his beaker before taking a long swig. ‘Well?’ he said, wiping his mouth and reaching for the ham. ‘Want some of this? Pass your plate.’ Deftly, he carved, trying not to notice Fergus’s lack of response.

  Absently, Fergus held out his plate and watched each pink layer pile up before he remembered to say stop. These were questions he could have answered, but chose not to. ‘Is there anyone else?’ he said. ‘Suitors?’

  ‘Oh, good lord, man, dozens,’ said George. ‘They’re here first thing in the morning till last thing at night. She has…’ he laughed ‘…her own way of getting rid of them. You know Nicola.’

  Yes, he had known how, as a child, she had been well able to deal with the local lads, beating them at most things. ‘What?’ he said.

  George took a bite of food and answered with his mouth full, which he would not have been allowed to do at home. ‘Trials and tests,’ he said, munching. ‘If they don’t come up to scratch, they’re out. Not much change there, Ferg.’

  So that was what the contest had been about earlier. Fergus could not help a flutter of concern that, although he had passed the first test with flying colours, it might have cost him too dearly. ‘But no one in particular?’ he insisted.

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’ George stopped eating and looked at his friend intently. ‘You really interested, after all this time?’

  ‘I promised my father before he died.’

  To George, this pronouncement lacked conviction. ‘Ferg,’ he said slowly, ‘putting promises aside, for a moment. With your wealth you could get any woman. Th
is agreement…promise…call it what you will, was conditional upon a contract when you both reached the age of consent, and while I’ve done my best to get Nicola to commit herself to my father’s wishes, she’s never been one to have her mind made up for her. You remember what she was like as a little ’un. As stubborn as hell and kicking over the traces even then.’

  ‘Vaguely. I must admit my contact with her over the years hasn’t been good.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. And she’s grown up. She’s made an impression.’

  ‘Then there is someone else, isn’t there?’

  ‘No one that matters, no.’

  ‘Then I have first call. And I’m calling, George. I intend to honour the agreement. It was my father’s last wish, and I promised him.’ Not for a moment did he expect George to be taken in by that, knowing what he did of Fergus’s resistance to his father’s control. They had not seen eye to eye until recently.

  As he suspected, George was not easily duped. He put down his knife and leaned forward. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Why else would you be so insistent, eh?’

  Fergus’s stillness was all the answer he needed.

  There was a silence between them as George, ever the merchant, assessed the balance of trade. ‘I suppose you know,’ he said at last, ‘that you’ll be starting at a disadvantage?’ When Fergus merely looked straight ahead, George felt it his duty to remind him. ‘For one thing you’ve left all this a mite too late. If you’d come when she was fifteen, Ferg, you might have found her easier to deal with. As it is…’

  ‘She’s been courted. Yes, but she’ll have to forget them, won’t she?’

  George leaned back and took a deep breath. ‘I think, my friend, that you are forgetting something. Nicola is not your average young miss with stars in her eyes, waiting for the masterful swain to sweep her off her little feet. Far from it. She’s quite capable of keeping herself on ice until she sees exactly what she wants. And considering how she used to hate your guts when you took us all away from her on your wild goose chases whenever you came to stay, I’d say you have as much chance of winning her as you have of flying. I know she’s a beauty, Ferg, but you’ll have to do more than pull her hair and hide her pet rabbit if you want to get her into your bed. She has a long memory you know.’

  Though his jaw tightened, still Fergus said nothing.

  ‘Did you think it was all cut and dried?’ said George.

  ‘No, I know I have my work cut out for me, but I have to try. I realise I want her, George. Will you help me?’ He dared not trust himself to say more, and for a moment, Fergus thought his old friend was going to refuse, so long was the pause before he replied.

  ‘I shall not see her hurt, Ferg. She may occasionally adopt the lad’s role when it pleases her, but that’s for a reason that’s gradually losing its validity. It doesn’t mean she’s tough or insensitive to pain. She’s not. She’s a woman now, with all a woman’s needs, and she’ll not be easily won over. The decision will be hers, believe me.’

  ‘I do believe you.’

  ‘So, you still think you have a chance?’

  ‘As I said, I have to try. You know my ways, George.’

  George, Lord Coldyngham, leaned forward intently, placing his hands palm-down on the table. ‘Yes, I know your ways well enough, Ferg,’ he said. ‘And they may have worked on Scottish lassies or even on Cambridge whores, but they’ll not do for Nicola. She’s different.’

  ‘I want her, George,’ Fergus insisted. ‘I have to find a way forward. I think she’ll respond to my way, eventually.’ She was different, he knew. In every way she was rare and priceless, and the sight of her half-naked on the bed, below him, wounded, was something that would stay in his mind for ever. Heaven knows what might have happened if the maids had not returned at that moment.

  ‘Oh? You’ve spoken, then?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘She’s still afraid of you?’

  ‘She’d not admit it, even if it were true. She still dislikes me, yes, but I cannot blame her for that. I gave her no reason to do otherwise, did I?’

  ‘Then, yes, you will have your work cut out. But I’ll help.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s the most I can expect after all this time. The rest is up to me.’

  ‘Er…no, Ferg. The rest is up to Nicola, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Wincing at his own clumsiness, Fergus nodded. ‘Yes, I do agree. But never fear, George, I shall win her even if it takes for ever.’

  George leaned back to watch his friend pour two more beakers of ale from a large jug with a smirking face modelled on its side. Fergus’s expression, he noted, was anything but amused, but held that grim determination he had shown as a youth when it was woe betide anyone who got in his way. Then, he had habitually won whatever he set out to win; now, George was not so sure. Nicola, he thought, might be in for a rough ride. And Fergus too.

  Fergus’s thoughts went along much the same lines, though it also crossed his mind that he would be expected to pay very dearly for that string of shining rubies he had placed upon Nicola’s beautiful breast only an hour ago.

  Chapter Two

  In the cosily panelled solar hung with tapestries and filled with morning light from a large pointed window, the sound of bells from St Helen’s Priory next door drowned out the constant thudding of Nicola’s heart as the two young maids went about the task of tending her wound. The thick oaken door had been locked and bolted since the departure of the unwelcome guest more as a gesture of defiance than necessity, for none of the three expected him to return, though the locks and bolts of Nicola’s heart could tell a different story.

  For many years, the thought of marriage into the house of Melrose had seemed too remote to be real, especially during her father’s long absences from home when, motherless, Nicola had been left to run wild with her brothers, cared for by a large household and one aged nurse. Eventually, he had sent her to York to join the household of another noble family, there to learn the manners and graces required of all such women aspiring to good marriages. Nicola’s aspirations, however, were to avoid one marriage at all costs, the one to Fergus Melrose that her father was set on. When her father had died fourteen months ago, leaving her a sizeable income from property and his comfortable house in London, she believed that at last she would be allowed to manage her own affairs.

  Stripped of the lad’s clothes and sitting almost naked on her bed, she gritted her teeth at the next application of the maid’s special salve, letting her breath out slowly. ‘Mannerless churl!’ she hissed. ‘Still as full of himself as ever. I should have worn my dirk and stabbed him with it. That would’ve wiped the smug look off his face. Ouch!’ She grabbed at Rosemary’s hand. ‘Stop now.’

  ‘And didn’t ye notice his fine figure, then?’ said Lavender, rinsing out a pink-stained cloth in a bowl of rosewater. ‘There’s many a maid would like a wee while in the dark with such a one, mistress. I didn’t see any in York with a face as comely as that. Nowhere near.’

  ‘Nor in London, either,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ said Nicola, pulling the fine linen chemise over her head and sucking in her breath at the touch of it upon her skin. ‘There’s nobody you’ve seen who’d have done this to me, either, and then walked away.’ The part in between was too shameful to speak of.

  Yet she remembered only too well his eyes and the flood of excitement and heat that had suffused her face and neck at his shameful scrutiny, and that almost imperceptible moment when she saw him struggling to stop himself from touching, when his voice had thickened like deep velvet even while saying something stupid about a scar. It was not only her wound his eyes had examined. She knew. She had been watching them. She had seen them widen, and his lips part.

  Slowly, carefully, she eased her chemise into place and then sat so still and quiet that Rosemary had to look hard to see if there were tears again. She was not weeping, but in answer to the gentle enquiry, Nicola
kept her hands close against her breast while a frown deepened in the centre of her lovely brow. ‘He meant it,’ she whispered. ‘He meant to hurt me. Again. Nothing’s changed, has it? Except that now he’s bigger and stronger than ever.’

  Lavender and Rosemary, their partnership being one of life’s coincidences, had been with Nicola for ten years since they were fifteen and eighteen respectively. Now they came to sit upon the soft coverlet at the end of her large curtained bed to offer their mistress some advice.

  ‘Of course things have changed,’ said Lavender, settling her large open blue eyes solemnly upon Nicola’s hands. ‘You’re obviously not the scruffy little lass you were when he last saw you, eleven…twelve years ago, are you?’ She reached behind her for the burnished steel mirror and passed it to Nicola. ‘Take a look. That’s a woman he’ll not have seen the like of in all his…what…thirty years, is it?’ It was twenty-nine, but addition was not Lavender’s strongest subject.

  Nicola grimaced, pushing the mirror away. ‘Oh, you’re prejudiced,’ she said. ‘But it’s made no difference, has it? And if my brother has invited him here to revive all that marriage nonsense, he can think again. He knows perfectly well what I feel about it. There was no formal betrothal and I’ll not be bound to him. Nor will I ever be. Not for his father’s sake, or mine.’

  ‘So now,’ said Rosemary, smoothing her white apron seductively over her thighs, ‘you have to show him how you’ve changed, even if he hasn’t.’ Privately, she doubted that Sir Fergus had cut such a dash at the age of sixteen, but there was no way of knowing. ‘You have fine manners now, and you know how to give a man the cold shoulder when he doesn’t please you. And if you were to wear your finest kirtle when you go down to meet them, he’s going to get the message, isn’t he? Perhaps it was the lad’s clothing that made him behave so badly. So what will it be, the grey satin? The red? The green silk with ribbons?’