Page 4 of His Duchess to Remember

Hesitantly, she peered out of the carriage window to discover a misty glen, crooked oaks lurching out of the fog like monsters. She withdrew back into the safety of ignorance and squeezed her eyes shut until the carriage came to a standstill, and a footman came to help her out, leaving her with no choice but to exit.

The estate of Highcastle was well-named. Spires protruded from the dense fog, the shadow of a castle glimpsed here and there as the wind temporarily thinned the mist, but there was no sign of her husband.

Instead, she walked alone across white gravel to an arched porch, heavy doors creaking as she stepped into what would be her new home.

Antlers hung on the walls alongside gloomy landscapes, a chandelier of dripping candles illuminating the entrance hall. Ahead, a curving stairwell tongued upward, a wooden-railed landing leading to gaping hallways.

Just then, Malcolm appeared, striding across the landing to stand at the top of the staircase. He cut a formidable figure, the very presence of him causing the temperature to drop, setting Octavia’s nerves on edge.

“Welcome,” he said gruffly in his mild Scottish brogue.

Octavia swallowed. “You have… a lovely home.”

He sniffed, dismissive. “Make yerself comfortable. The servants are at yer disposal.” He paused, those green eyes seeming to burn. “I will come to ye tonight.”

With that, he turned and walked back the way he had come, vanishing into the darkness of one of those hallways.

Octavia trembled there in the entrance hall, her legs weak, her heart thundering in her chest. After so many days upon the road, spending her nights alone in her own chambers at the various inns, she had almost forgotten about the wedding night that they had not yet had.

This was the deal, she told herself, taking a deep breath. This was what you wanted.

She could not lose her nerve now, even if every instinct within her was telling her to turn around and run.

“Yer Grace?” a kindly, Scottish voice snapped her out of her fearful reverie.

Glancing toward an archway on the left, she discovered an elderly woman, neat as a pin, standing with her hands folded. An encouraging smile graced the old woman’s face; the first sight of benevolence that Octavia had seen in days.

“Y-Yes,” Octavia said. “That is me.”

The woman approached and bowed her head. “Ye are welcome here at Highcastle, Yer Grace. Please, let me show ye to yer rooms. I expect ye’ll be hungry and ye’ll be wantin’ a bath to soothe yer stiff bones. Some tea too, perhaps, to warm ye?”

“I feel as if I was travelling for so long that the seasons changed,” Octavia replied with a tight laugh.

When she had departed Ravenvale, it had been summer, the skies blue and beautiful. Here at Highcastle, it was as cold as autumn, the fog chilling her bones, the stone interior of the castle offering no warmth at all.

The old woman chuckled. “Believe it or nae, it is summer still.” She moved toward the stairs and beckoned for Octavia to follow. “Come, let’s get ye settled.”

Glancing back over her shoulder to the open door, where a fine drizzle seemed to be joining the fog, trying to creep into the castle, Octavia knew it was more than too late to undo this now. She was the Duchess of Highcastle, the wife of Malcolm Gale. All she could do now was hope that he held up his end of the bargain, granting her the children and the separate lives that had been promised.

Despite a hearty dinner of venison stew, endless cups of rosehip tea to soothe her, and a long, steaming bath that had unraveled all of the knots in her muscles, Octavia had not been able to rest. She had not even managed to take a nap, fretting about the evening to come… and the visitor who would appear at her chamber door.

If he had sent word about what time he might come to call upon her, perhaps it would have been better, but the expansive castle seemed to have swallowed him up. A vanishing act, and she did not know when he might suddenly pop up again.

All will be well. He is indifferent to you. This is just part of the deal.

She perched on the edge of the bed and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece for the hundredth time. It was almost midnight.

Outside the windows of her large, finely decorated room, the world was unnervingly silent. The fog had not lifted all day, and it continued to shroud the landscape, dulling every sound, making her feel as if she were entirely alone in that place. As if she had not merely crossed borders between England and Scotland, but borders between realms, into some sort of otherworldly domain.

“I hope he will not be cruel,” she said, hands clasped in prayer. “I hope he will not… hurt me.”

She gulped, remembering the size of him, the power in his body, the immense muscles that could surely crush her if he wanted to.

What have I done?

She could not shake the sudden fear that this might all be a ruse, a trick to lure her to a faraway castle where no one would hear of her torment and no one would come to save her. She would be his prisoner, and he could do whatever he liked to her, being as cruel as he pleased.

Nonsense. That is nonsense. You must not think that way!