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Strangers at the Altar
Marguerite Kaye
The secrets behind the wedding veil.For penniless widow Ainsley McBrayne marriage is the only solution. Vulnerable, yet fiercely independent, she thinks shackling herself to another man seems horrifying! Until handsome stranger Innes Drummond tempts Ainsley to become his temporary wife.Once they’re married, Ainsley hardly recognises the rugged Highlander Innes is transformed into! He sets her long-dormant pulse racing, and she’s soon craving the enticing delights of their marriage bed. She has until Hogmanay to show Innes that their fake marriage could be for real…
‘If only you could find a woman to marry who has no interest in actually being your wife, your problems would be solved.’
She spoke flippantly, more to divert his attention from her own tragic situation than anything else, but Innes, who had been in the act of taking another sip of whisky, stopped, the glass half-way to his lips, an arrested look in his eyes.
‘Say that again.’
‘What? That you need to marry…?’
‘A woman who has no interest in being my wife,’ he finished for her with a dawning smile. ‘A woman who is in need of a home and has no fixed plans, who might actually be looking for a respite from her current life for a wee while. You’re right—that’s exactly what I need. And I know exactly the woman.’
‘You do? You cannot possibly mean…’
His smile had a wicked light in it. ‘I do,’ Innes said. ‘I mean you.’
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_4555bf0e-d4de-5f64-8f0b-f9d80d31139a)
After I finished writing UNWED AND UNREPENTANT, which had a Clyde shipbuilder as its hero, I decided I wanted to stay close to home for my next story.
I started in Edinburgh, my favourite city second only to Paris, but the majority of Ainsley and Innes’s story is set in Tighnabruaich, on the west coast of Argyll. I renamed it Strone Bridge, but anyone familiar with the area will recognise it. The view of the Kyles of Bute which Ainsley comes to love is one of my own favourites. Ostell Bay, with its golden sands and crystal-clear though icy sea, is a childhood haunt. And the weather—the wet, driech, grey west-coast weather—that’s very true to life.
I hope that my love for the place where I was brought up, and where I now live and write, resonates in Ainsley and Innes’s story. I hope it will inspire some of you to visit. More than anything, I hope that I’ve done justice to it, and that the romance of the place has enhanced the romance I’ve written.
Enormous thanks once again to all my Facebook and Twitter friends who have helped and encouraged me while writing this book. Thanks to all who suggested names for Ainsley’s Agony Aunt alter ego, and in particular to Keira, who gave me Madame Hera, whose letters I had such fun dreaming up.
Strangers at the Altar
Marguerite Kaye
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon
. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since.
You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com (http://www.margueritekaye.com)
HISTORICAL NOTE (#ulink_2d45ac98-8f7a-5536-8f77-54ae00511ed1)
Paddle steamers and the railways brought tourism to the west coast of Scotland at around the time when Ainsley and Innes decided to set up their hotel. Though the original and most popular destinations ‘doon the watter’ on the Clyde were Rothesay, Largs and Dunoon, Tighnabruaich (aka Strone Bridge) had its share of excursionists. The engineer David Napier, whose Loch Eck tours inspired Ainsley, built a pier on the Holy Loch in the 1830s, not far from my own home.
Numerous versions of the Rothesay Castle paddle steamer made the journey from Glasgow, Gourock and eventually Wemyss Bay railway terminals to the Isle of Bute. Today, the last sea-going paddle steamer, the Waverley, makes the same journey from Glasgow to Bute and down the beautiful Kyles all the way to Tighnabruaich.
Strone Bridge Castle is actually based on Panmure House, the seat of the Maules near Dundee, which was demolished in 1955. The story which Innes tells Ainsley of the locked gates following the 1715 Jacobite rebellion belongs to Panmure, details and pictures of which are in Ian Gow’s beautiful book Scotland’s Lost Houses. The chapel attached to Strone Bridge Castle, though, is based on the one belonging to Mount Stuart in Rothesay.
Agony Aunts existed, astonishingly, as far back as the seventeenth century, though they reached their peak in the mid-Victorian era—a little after Madame Hera was writing. There are some fantastic examples of their letters in Tanith Carey’s book Never Kiss a Man in a Canoe.
As to the traditions and customs in this book—well, I must admit that I’ve let my imagination loose a wee bit. All the Hogmanay customs are traditional, but the Rescinding ceremony is not. I actually invented it for an earlier book set in Argyll, THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION, and I liked it so much I thought I’d start a tradition of my own and re-use it.
Contents
Cover (#u582d62a2-b6d1-53c6-93e8-1eb7252c11ae)
Introduction (#u98ff1a8c-7008-53c6-9fb2-136aac6cfc5b)
Author Note (#u2f30d55d-42a5-5356-81c8-27e07735ac76)
Title Page (#uffffa166-95f6-569e-9e26-eb0102d44da4)
About the Author (#u0d557c3e-f1d6-57b3-9568-409804117258)
Historical Note (#u04e3bf93-6a7a-596f-93da-82ede8b66259)
Contents (#uaa43ddc2-3c9d-5dc4-8ed0-48a17b83524b)
Chapter One (#u95a35117-a249-51b6-b4fe-05a42c980662)
Chapter Two (#uef5e7723-0e1e-550b-9bdc-13ccc1904b56)
Chapter Three (#u11f9f873-9757-56d3-85b3-82a3271bf22d)
Chapter Four (#u2035a8be-d96a-5979-ae9b-19083fdd9098)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_3e2d1d5e-de38-5b38-99b2-19ab0c5a5561)
Dear Madame Hera,
The other day, while taking a walk in the Cowgate district of Edinburgh, I was approached by a young man who gave me some assistance with my umbrella. Since he was very well dressed, seemed most polite, and the rain was coming down in torrents, it seemed churlish of me not to offer to share my shelter. He accepted with some alacrity, but the small circumference of my umbrella forced us into a somewhat compromising intimacy, of which the gentleman was not slow to take advantage. He stole a kiss from me, and I permitted him to take several more while we found respite from the downpour in the close of a nearby tenement. By the time the rain stopped, we were rather better acquainted than we ought to have been.
We parted without exchanging details. Alack, when he left me, the young man took not only my virtue but my umbrella. It was a gift from another gentleman, who is bound to question me most closely when he discovers its loss. I fear he will not understand the peculiar effect the combination of rain, a good-looking young man and a very small umbrella can have on a woman’s willpower. What should I do?
Drookit Miss
Edinburgh—June 1840
‘I am very sorry, Mrs McBrayne, but there is nothing to be done. Both your father’s will and the law are perfectly clear upon the matter. Could not be clearer, in actual fact, though if you insist upon a second opinion, I believe my partner is now free.’
‘You, Mr Thomson, are my second opinion,’ the woman said scornfully. ‘I have no intentions of spending more money I don’t have, thanks to that spendthrift husband of mine and that trust of my father’s, simply to hear what you have already made perfectly plain. The law is written by men for men and administered by men, too. Be damned to the law, Mr Thomson, for it seems to be forcing me to earn my living in a profession even older than your own, down in the Cowgate. I bid you good day.’
‘Mrs McBrayne! Madam, I must beg you...’
The Fury merely tossed her head at the lawyer’s outraged countenance and swept across the narrow reception hall of the office, heading for the door. Innes Drummond, who had just completed a similarly entirely unsatisfactory interview with Thomson’s partner, watched her dramatic exit admiringly. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the pane of glass on which the names Thomson & Ballard were etched. Innes could hear her footsteps descending the rackety stairs that led out into Parliament Square. She was as anxious to quit the place as he was himself. It struck him, as he flung the door behind him with equal and satisfying force, how ironic it was, that they both, he and the incandescent Mrs McBrayne, seemed to be victims of very similar circumstances.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and heaved open the heavy wooden door, only to collide with the person standing on the step. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ Innes said.
‘No, it was my fault.’
She stood aside, and as she did so, he saw tears glistening on her lashes. Mortified, she saw him noticing, and scrubbed at her eyes with her glove, averting her face as she pushed past him.
‘Wait!’ Instinctively knowing she would not, Innes caught her arm. ‘Madam, you are upset.’
She glared at him, shaking herself free of his reflexive grip. ‘I am not upset. Not that it’s any of your business, but I am very far beyond upset. I am...’
‘Furious,’ Innes finished for her with a wry smile. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘I doubt it.’
Her eyes were hazel, wide-spaced and fringed with very long lashes. She was not pretty, definitely not one of those soft, pliant females with rosebud mouths and doe-like gazes, but he was nonetheless drawn to her. She eyed him sceptically, a frown pulling her rather fierce brows together. She was not young either, perhaps in her late twenties, and there was intelligence as well as cynicism in her face. Then there was her mouth. No, not a rosebud, but soft all the same when it ought to be austere, with a hint of humour and more than a hint of sensuality. He noticed that, and with some surprise, noticed that he’d noticed, that his eyes had wandered down, over the slim figure in the drab grey coat, taking a rapid inventory of the limited view and wanting to see more, and that surprised him, too.
‘Innes Drummond.’ He introduced himself because he could think of nothing else to say, and because he didn’t want her to go. Her brows lifted haughtily in response. For some reason, it made her look younger. ‘A fellow victim of the law, of his father and of a trust,’ he added. ‘Though I’m not encumbered with a wife, spendthrift or otherwise.’
‘You were listening in to a private conversation between myself and Mr Thomson.’
‘Ought I to have pretended not to hear? The tone of your voice made that rather difficult.’
She gave a dry little laugh. ‘A tone I feel sure Mr Thomson found most objectionable. Bloody lawyers. Damned law. You see, I can swear as well as shout, though I assure you, I am not usually the type who does either.’
Innes laughed. ‘I really do know how you feel, you know.’
She smiled tightly. ‘You are a man, Mr Drummond. It is simply not possible. Now, if you will excuse me?’
‘Where are you going?’ Once again, he had spoken without thinking, wanting only to detain her. Once again her brows rose, more sharply this time. ‘I only meant that if you had no urgent business— But I spoke out of turn. Perhaps your husband is expecting you?’
‘My husband is dead, Mr Drummond, and though his dying has left me quite without resources, still I cannot be sorry for it.’
‘You don’t mince your words, do you, Mrs McBrayne?’
Though he was rather shocked at this callous remark, Innes spoke flippantly. She did not smile, however, nor take umbrage, but instead paled slightly. ‘I speak my mind. My opinions may be unpalatable, but at least in expressing them, there can be no pretending that I have none.’
Nor, Innes thought, could there be any denying that a wealth of bitter experience lay behind her words. He was intrigued. ‘If you are in no rush, I’d very much like it if you would take a glass of something with me. I promise I don’t mean anything in the least improper,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I merely thought it would be pleasant—cathartic, I don’t know—to let off steam with a kindred spirit—’ Her astonished expression forced him to break off. ‘Forget it. It’s been an awful day, an awful few weeks, but I shouldn’t have asked.’
He made to tip his hat, but once again she surprised him, this time with a faint smile. ‘Never mind weeks, I’ve had an awful few months. No, make that years. The only reason I’ve not taken to drink already is that I suspect I’d take to it rather too well.’
‘I suspect that you do anything well that you set your mind to, Mrs McBrayne. You strike me as a most determined female.’
‘Do I? I am now, though it is by far too late, for no matter how determined I am to get myself out of this mess, in truth I can see no solution.’
‘Save to sell yourself down the Cowgate? I hope it doesn’t come to that.’
She gave him what could only be described as a challenging look. ‘Why, are you afraid I will not make sufficient to earn my keep?’
‘What on earth do you know of such things?’ Innes asked, torn between shock and laughter.
‘Oh, I have my sources. And I have an umbrella,’ she added confusingly.
She spoke primly, but there was devilment in her eyes, and the smile she was biting back was doing strange things to his guts. ‘You are outrageous, Mrs McBrayne,’ Innes said.
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘I have no idea what to make of you, and right at this moment, I don’t really care. You made me laugh, and honestly, after what that lawyer told me, I didn’t think that was possible.’
Her smile softened sympathetically. ‘It sounds like I am not the only one in need of a dram,’ she said. ‘Why not! I’ve nothing at home waiting for me except final demands and most likely a few bailiffs. Buy me a drink, Mr Drummond, and we can compare our woes, though I warn you now that mine will far outweigh yours.’
* * *
Ainsley McBrayne wondered what on earth had come over her. There had been ample time in the short walk from Parliament Square over the North Bridge for her to change her mind, but she had not. Now here she was, in a secluded corner of the coffee room at the Waterloo Hotel, waiting while a complete stranger bribed one of the waiting staff to bring the pair of them something stronger than tea.
She had surrendered her coat at the door, and her bonnet, too, for they were both wet with that soft, mist-like mizzle that was not quite rain, in which Edinburgh specialised. Her hair, which even on the best of days was reluctant to succumb to the curling iron, was today bundled up into a careless chignon at her nape, and no doubt by now straggling equally carelessly out of it. On a good day, she would tell herself it was chestnut in colour, for it was not red enough to rate auburn, and she was fairly certain there was no such thing as mahogany hair. Today, it was brown, plain and simple and the colour of her mood. At least her gown was one of her better ones. Navy blue worked with silver-grey stylised flowers formed into a linking pattern, the full skirts contrasted with the tightly fitted bodice, with its long narrow sleeves and shawl neck. The narrow belt showed off her slender waist; the crossover pleating at the neck was cut just low enough to allow a daring glimpse of bosom. It had been designed to be worn with a demure white blouse, but this morning Ainsley hadn’t been interested in looking demure. This morning she had not, however, intended to take off her coat. Now, she tugged self-consciously at the pleated shawl collar in an effort to pull it a little closer.
She had been angry when she left the lawyer’s office, though she should not have been, but it seemed, despite all, that she’d not managed to lower her expectations quite enough. There had been a tiny modicum of hope left in her heart, and she’d been furious at herself for that. Hence the tears. Stupid tears. If Mr Innes Drummond had not seen those stupid tears, he’d more than likely have gone on his way and she wouldn’t be here. Instead, she’d be at home. Alone. Or in the company of yet another bailiff. And it wasn’t going to be her home for much longer. So she might as well be here. With a complete stranger. About to imbibe strong liquor, just like one of the loose women she’d claimed she would become.
Not that that was so far-fetched either, given the state of things, except one thing she was absolutely sure about was that she had no talents whatsoever for that sort of thing. In fact, she had not even the skill to interest a man if he didn’t have to pay, if her husband was anything to go by.
Ainsley sighed. Second to tears, she hated self-pity. Giving her collar a final twitch, she forced herself to relax. Mr Drummond was still conferring with the waiter, so she took the chance to study him. His hair, which was cut unfashionably short, was glossily black. He was a good-looking man; there was no doubt about it, with a clean-shaven jaw, and none of the side whiskers gentlemen preferred these days. A high forehead spoke of intelligence, and lines fanning out from his eyes and forming a deep groove from nose to mouth spoke of experience. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps five years older than herself. A confident man, and well dressed in his dark coat and trousers, his linen impeccably white. Judging by appearances, money was not one of his worries. But then, if one could have judged John by appearances, money had not been one of his worries either. Not that her husband had ever been at all worried by money—or the lack of. No, that was not true. Those sullen silences of his spoke volumes. And latterly, so, too, did his habit of simply disappearing when she challenged him.
Ainsley sighed again, irked with herself. She was absolutely sick and tired of thinking about John. Across the room, Mr Drummond, having concluded his business with the waiter, glanced up and smiled at her. His eyes, under heavy dark brows, were a deep, vivid blue. She felt it then, what she had ignored before, a tug of something quite basic. Attraction. It made her stomach do a silly little flutter. It made her pulses skitter and it made her mouth dry, that smile of his, and the complicit look that accompanied it, as if the pair of them were in cahoots. It made her forget her anger at the injustice of her situation, and it reminded her that though she might well be a penniless widow with debts so terrifying they could not be counted, she was also a woman who had not known the touch of a man for a long time. And this man, this Mr Innes Drummond, who was seating himself opposite her, this man, she was pretty certain, would know exactly how to touch her.
‘So, ladies first.’
Colour flooded her face. She stared at him blankly, horrified at the turn her mind had taken, praying that none of those shocking thoughts were visible on her countenance ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your tale of woe, Mrs McBrayne. You tell me yours, and then I’ll tell you mine, and we can decide which of us is worst off.’
