Bride by Stella Cameron

farcical marriage for the sake of propriety. But she will not listen to me.”
    “I've sent a letter to Grace,” Arran said. “She cannot travel just now, but she will advise me on matters regarding the marriage. It is unfortunate that we cannot wait until she is no longer indisposed.”
    “Indisposed?” Calum turned to look over his shoulder at Arran. “Grace is ill? Why didn't you say so? How could you leave her at such a time?”
    “What's wrong with Grace?” Struan felt sweat break on his brow. “You should have told us at once. We must go to her. What can you be thinking of?”
    “Under the circumstances Grace is remarkably well.” Arran raised his dark brows. “One does not speak of these things, but Grace and I anticipate the birth of our second child. As you know, she is a little thing, and I do not want her to take any risks. The doctor agreed that she should not travel for some weeks.” His handsome face bore the stamp of proud pleasure.
    “Congratulations!” Struan leaped to thump Arran on the back. “Another child! You and Grace make me very happy.
Another
child.”
    “Congratulations,” Calum said. “Please tell Grace how delighted Philipa and I are for both of you—for all three of you. But first, please tell my sister she may not remain here.”
    Struan looked from Arran to Calum and felt an unaccustomed burst of the purest frustration and rage.
“Silence,”
he roared suddenly. “Not another word from either of you. What does or does not happen in the matter of Justine's presence as part of my life—”
    “She is not part of your life.”
    “I warn you, Calum,” Struan told him. “My patience wears thin.”
    “A book,” Calum sputtered. “A book for
brides,
no less. A book detailing the intricacies of courtship and marriage! Written with the aid of your instruction. Saints preserve me. That notion paints some pretty pictures, don't y'know?”
    “Justine is most sincere about her book,” Struan said, despite his own misgivings on the subject.
    “You,” Calum said, leveling a finger, “will have no part in instructing my sister. Is that understood?”
    “No.”
    “Then I will explain. Give Justine any demonstrations supposedly designed to enlighten her for literary reasons and you shall answer to me.”
    Arran resumed playing. “Once they're married, it will be up to Struan to decide what demonstrations he gives his bride.” He chuckled. “All kinds of possibilities there, old chap.”
    “Name your seconds,” Calum demanded of Arran.
    “God help us all,” Struan pleaded on his way toward the stairs leading down from the gallery. “We clearly are beyond helping ourselves.”

Chapter Seven
    The Fiddler's Rest, an inn in Dunkeld Village near Castle Kirkcaldy
    I f hate had a smell, the air would reek of that odor. Hate, disgust, and the driving need for revenge. A deadly mixture.
    Seated alone in a corner, all but hidden by shadow, he breathed in the fetid aroma of old ale, rancid food, and unwashed bodies—and waited for one whose appetite for vindication might even exceed his own.
    A shadow passed across the table. “If we meet again, you will not know me,” said the second man to arrive as he slid onto a bench. “Away with you,” he snarled at a serving girl who approached.
    The other rocked forward over his ale, one of too many he'd swallowed that evening. Rather than lift the measure, he clutched the edge of the table and sucked noisily at the rim of his pewter tankard. Less spilled that way. He wiped his mouth on the back of a sleeve and muttered, “I've not seen you, friend.” Honest enough. The agreement had been that they would come and go to the appointed table, neither man looking upon the other. Not that his vision was what it had been when he'd entered this devil's hole.
    Acrid smoke from the tavern fire curled about the drunken company. The hour was not late, yet raucous shouts and screams erupted in bursts. Disheveled wenches rolled from one pair of