Dismounting from her horse, Lady Mary Eloise Masterson handed the reins to the stable master. “Thank you, Mac.”
Nothing cleared her mind and invigorated her spirit like a good long early-morning ride. With a bounce in her step, Mary began to walk back to the castle.
Mac called out, “Yer aunt be lookin’ fer ye.”
She halted midstride and pivoted. “Aunt Agnes is awake?”
It was a bad omen if her aunt rose with the sun.
Mac’s only response was to nod in the direction of the holding as he led her mare back to the stables. Mary’s tummy rumbled. Better to deal with her empty stomach than hunt down her aunt. Headed for the kitchens, she paused as voices wafted around the corner. Altering her destination, Mary strode toward the castle’s entrance. Her steps faltered at the sight of Aunt Agnes, who stood calmly in the middle of the crushed pebbled path. Footmen bustled about, loading what looked to be her traveling trunks onto a coach.
What the blazes was going on?
With each step toward her aunt, Mary’s heart thumped harder. She faced the woman who had been her sole companion for the past six months. “Why is Greene outside on the steps, directing those footmen?”
Aunt Agnes glanced at Mary’s maid and smiled. “She’s ensuring you have everything necessary for your voyage. I’m shipping you off to France.”
Wide-eyed, Mary stared at her aunt. “Beg pardon—did you say I’m to travel to the Continent?”
A chill ran down her spine. To be surrounded by all those poor lost souls—young men taken during the awful war. Aunt Agnes had lost her mind! It was bad enough she’d been banished to reside with her in this remote Scottish castle, dealing daily with century-old lairds who wandered around, protecting the grounds. Mary’s stomach cramped at the thought of being on foreign soil, surrounded by strangers and tortured souls.
She shook her head. “Papa said I was to stay here. With you.”
“Well, my dear. I will not stand by any longer and let him banish you to rot alongside me.”
“But, Aunt, the Continent! With all those—”
Her aunt reached out and patted her arm. “It very well may be a challenge given the recent bloodshed, but I believe you will manage.”
“I’ll be surrounded by strangers. They will think I’m odd or even maybe—”
Aunt Agnes linked their arms, and they began to walk toward the fully laden coach. “Despite what our dear family may whisper, our ability to see and talk to the dead is not a sign of madness. It is a gift that has flowed through our bloodlines for generations.”
A curse, more like it.
She wanted to give in to the temptation to stomp her foot and drag her feet, but she was six and twenty—no longer a child. Peering into the coach, she spied her sleepy-eyed maid, Greene.
The footman gave her a weak smile and held out his hand. As he assisted her into the coach, her brain screamed, Turn! Run and hide in the woods!
But Mary was no coward. Squaring her shoulders, she entered the coach. There was naught to do but to embrace her fate as she was raised to.
She leaned out the coach window. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Months, my girl. Months.” Aunt Agnes cupped her cheek. “Be brave. Embrace what you know in your heart is to be.” With a gentle pat, the dear old lady withdrew her hand. Before Mary could respond, a white parchment was waved before her nose.
She snatched it from her aunt’s fingers. “Please tell me this is not one of your sp—”
“It’s not a poem. This, my girl, is your future.”
Mary warily unfolded the note. She gasped, recognizing the man in the drawing. He stood behind a woman whose head was bent, his lips upon the lady’s neck, slightly below her ear. Mary inhaled sharply. It was as if she were peering into a looking glass.
“This cannot be!”
Her aunt grinned and stepped back. “I’m counting on you to make it so.”
Mary glanced at the picture once more. The final frame showed her gazing at Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Waterford.
There had to be a mistake.
The woman in the picture appeared infatuated with Gilbert, and Mary was long past any feelings at all for the man she had once believed herself utterly in love with. No. She was no longer the naive thirteen-year-old, influenced by her brother’s tall tales of a gallant young man by the name of Lord Waterford.
The coach lurched forward. Kind eyes twinkled at her as the heavy weight of a gray-haired visitor’s transparent hand fell upon her shoulders. Thankful he had prevented her from falling to her knees; Mary smiled and settled back onto the coach seat.
Greene secured the covers of the coach window to the side. “My lady, the light will allow you to read better.”
Mary’s attention fell back to the parchment still held tightly in her hand. “No need.” She folded the note and placed it between the pages of the book that Greene had stealthily placed upon her lap. “Tell me, Greene, how long have you known of our travel plans?”
Her maid squirmed in her seat. “Awhile, my lady.”
“I see.” Mary winked at her maid. “Well, it is good to know you are capable of keeping secrets.”
Greene grinned and raised her own book to hide behind.
The impropriety of it all! Aunt Agnes had lost her wits—packing Mary’s trunks, sending her off on a journey unchaperoned, and thrusting her in the direction of the man she’d happily avoided all these years.
Fustian! If France was her destination, then she would make it known she was not one who could be managed so easily unless it was in line with her own wishes. Her aunt’s predictions might be correct, and Gilbert Talbot could well be in her future—but Mary was determined to set the terms.
She stared out of the window, oblivious to the rocky countryside that whizzed by.
How she wished she could change the past. But she of all people knew that was not a feat that could be accomplished. No one could stop their fate from occurring, even if they tried. The images her aunt had sketched floated before her as she closed her eyes to rest. Waterford tenderly kissing her was, definitely, a figment of her aunt’s overactive imagination. Mary might have been a naive thirteen-year-old, but there was no mistaking Gilbert’s declaration that he would never consider her for marriage.
Mary vividly remembered the afternoon in the glen. She had been picking flowers when the vibrations of the ground alerted her that she was no longer alone. She’d raised her head to see who was casting a shadow over her.
A young man with near-black hair, a tad longer than convention would deem appropriate, and warm brown eyes stared down at her. She shook her head to clear both her vision and hearing.
She would never forget Gilbert’s first words. “What the devil is the matter with your sister, Masterson?”
Phillip, her brother closest to her in every way, including age, jumped down from his horse. “Waterford! There is nothing the matter with Mary.”
Thomas, Lord Roxbury, her eldest brother and heir to the Seaburn dukedom, glared at Gilbert while Phillip knelt next to her. As soon as she met Phillip’s gaze, he smiled and assisted her to her feet. “I’m sorry if we startled you.” Phillip’s fingers dug into her. “Let me introduce to you my best friend from school— Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Waterford.”
From the corner of her eye, she had seen the perplexed, confused look on the man she had hoped to be her knight in shining armor. Focusing on her brother’s features, Mary whispered, “When did you arrive home?”
“Not long ago. Tell me, how is my favorite sister?”
“Dorie is well.”
“Not Dorie. You know very well whom I was inquiring about.”
It had been no secret that Mary was Phillip’s favorite sibling. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe he pitied her for her condition, what their aunt called the family gift. Or maybe—as she very much suspected—Phillip too was burdened by what Mary would always call the family curse.
Gilbert’s gravelly voice interrupted their tête-à-tête. “She’s obviously not well. The lass is white as a ghost and clearly not in her right mind.”
“Waterford, are you blind?” Phillip turned and guided her to stand before Gilbert.
Mary raised her chin in defiance.
“My sight is perfect. Look at her!” Chocolate-brown eyes scanned over her. “Her hair is in disarray— her frock, rumpled and stained. Explain why she had that odd blankness in her eyes.” His jaw dropped, then he added, “Oh my. Is your sister mad? Is that why Mary never travels with your family when they come to visit at Oxford?”
Mary ignored the deep growl Thomas emitted. “My papa graciously allows me to remain in the country.”
Swiveling his attention back to Mary, Gilbert asked, “Who were you talking to?”
She debated whether to tell him the truth. Her family had warned her never to admit to being able to see the dead.
With a smirk, Mary answered, “I was speaking to Lady Frances.”
His frown deepened. “Who?” Gilbert looked about the field.
“Lady Frances.” Mary pointed her thumb to her left. “The poor woman took her life after her beloved viscount disclosed that he had a wife and three children waiting for him in London. A fact he failed to share when he was naked and in Lady Frances’s bed just the day before. The woman is now warning me against men such as yourself.”
“Mary!” Phillip turned her to face him again.
At the fury in her brother’s eyes, she bowed her head.
“Masterson, you fooled me into coming. You touted your sister as a great beauty. You claimed she was of extreme intellect and held high morals.” Waterford snickered. “She is no diamond of the first water. She’s a witch!”
Waterford turned his mount and headed back in the direction of the house.
Thomas gave Mary the Seaburn ducal glare he had recently mastered. “I’ll go after him.”
“Sister, mine. You have no idea what chaos you have just created. What the devil has got into you? You know better.”
Mary teared at the disappointment in Phillip’s voice. “I’m sorry. That man, he evokes strange reactions, and the others kept telling me to test him.”
Phillip released a long sigh. “I guess in time, all will be, as it should.”
With all the innocence of a girl, Mary asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Waterford. He is the one you will marry. One day.”
Thump. Mary’s book landed next to her booted foot and jerked her back to the present moment. She bent to retrieve the novel, and her aunt’s note peeked out, taunting her.
Mary released a sigh and stared out the coach window. The scraggly hills of Scotland were no longer in view. Having been ignored by the man for over a decade, she could safely say her aunt and Phillip’s predictions were wrong—Gilbert Elliot Talbot was not the man for her.
Even if he were, she would never agree to marry a man who thought her mad or a witch.