Chapter Four

"H e mustha been steamin' wi' drink when he offered Da the money for me," Harmony told Effie as she dressed in the fine cornflower-blue muslin the duke had paid extra for the seamstress to finish before they departed Scotland. "Then, once he sobered, he was too proud to go back on his word. He doesna want me as a wife, Effie. What am I to do?"

"He still didna come to ye?" Effie stared at her. "I canna believe that. Not with the way the man looks at ye. Ye can see the longing in his face."

Harmony spun around on the fancy dressing table stool and pointed at the mantel across the room. "I am as untouched as that candelabrum wearing that healthy coat of dust."

Effie glanced at all the doors, then leaned in close. "Maybe he canna," she whispered with an exaggerated waggle of her brows. "Old Mr. Crawley had a bull like that once. Slaughtered it and salted it down. Him and his kin ate good all winter." She tipped a quick shrug. "That would explain why a handsome duke such as His Grace bought himself a commoner wife from Scotland rather than took his pick from London Society. Reckon?"

Harmony's heart fell. If her husband couldn't be a husband , she'd never know the joy of cradling her own sweet bairn in her arms. She allowed herself a heavy sigh. "That would explain a great deal." But if that were so, why hadn't the ghostly woman warned her? Was that what the spirit lady meant by give him a chance ? She clenched her hands in her lap so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

Effie swatted her fingers. "None of that, now. Ye are headed to breakfast and willna be wearing yer gloves. Do ye wish to be bleeding as if ye escaped crucifixion?"

"Effie!" Harmony crossed herself. That was all she needed—the wrath of Almighty God coming down on them for such talk. "I want children. If he canna—I shall never have them. Not even one."

"Mayhap the trip wearied him overmuch. Or he was concerned ye were too tired." Effie squeezed her shoulder. "Give it some time, hen. 'Tis all still so new to the both of ye."

Harmony sat taller, squared her shoulders, and gave Effie's reflection in the mirror a stern nod. "I shall speak with him about it. Today."

Effie's hands stilled halfway through the braiding of Harmony's hair. "And what will ye say to him?"

"I dinna ken." Harmony scowled at her in the mirror. "But it will come to me." She rose, patted Effie's hands away, and shook her tresses out. "I shall wear it down today."

"A duchess wearing her hair down?"

"Hush it and send up a prayer for me, aye?"

Effie crossed herself and nodded.

Harmony charged out the door, swept downstairs, then halted and eyed the opulent hallways with their highly polished floors and statuary standing guard at the multiple doorways. "Dining room," she said to herself. "Which way was the dining room?" The housekeeper had given her a grand tour yesterday evening, but the sprawling manor house would take some time to commit to memory.

A loud, indignant meow drew her attention downward. She blinked slowly, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut and opened them again. Interesting. It was still there. "A wee ghost moggy. Imagine that."

The large cat was a misty fog of fluffiness. Not quite solid, yet not quite transparent, either. During one of its nine lives, it had either been a light gray or a dingy white. It sat at her feet, staring up at her while slowly flipping its long, fluffy tail.

"A pleasure to meet ye, moggy. Ye will be proud to know ye are the first ghostie cat I have ever seen."

It flipped an ear, then rumbled with a loud purr. She took that as a good omen. "Could ye be so kind as to lead me to the dining room? I am sure a fine beastie such as yerself knows the verra best way to get there."

With another loud meow , the feline rose from its haunches and trotted down the hall to the left. Harmony followed, hoping the ghostly cat was not leading her to her doom. But then the apparition disappeared, leaving her standing at a crossroads of more hallways.

"Your Grace, may I help you?" asked the butler whose name she could not recall.

"Forgive me, sir," she said. "Yer name again, please?"

The staid, slightly balding man bowed. "Briggs, Your Grace. How may I be of service?"

"The dining room, please? I was hoping to enjoy breakfast with His Grace."

"This way. His Grace just sent me to inquire if you would join him."

If she would join him? Why would she not? A ghostly old woman, a spirit cat, and a husband who behaved as though he considered her a priceless treasure to be left untouched on a shelf—what a strange household, of which she was now the mistress. She held her chin higher and followed the man.

When she entered the dining room, she halted just inside the double doors. Ross was breathtaking in a shirt of the finest lawn, open at the throat, the material taut across the broad expanse of his chest. When he rose from his seat at the head of the table and pulled out her chair, she couldn't find the moral strength to pull her gaze from his muscular legs perfectly displayed in a pair of buff breeches and black Hessians.

"Harmony?" he said with a hesitant smile as he waited at her chair.

"Yer Grace," she said in a breathy whisper, then shook herself. "Ross," she said louder, and hurried to be seated.

He beamed at her and helped her scoot closer to the table. "I am so glad you joined me. I did not send Briggs to hurry you—I feared you might not remember the way to the dining room."

"The cat led me," she said, then bit her bottom lip. She should not have said that. Did he even know about the ghosts?

He went still in his seat as though frozen in place, staring at her with a wariness that made her inwardly cringe. "The cat?"

Heaven help her. Mam had always said she never knew when to keep her gob shut and her ears open. After a deep breath, she hiked her chin higher and decided to stay the course with the truth. After all, she had said she was going to speak with him—and speak with him she would. "Aye, Ross. The wee moggy led me here. Was he gray or white when he lived?"

Ross narrowed his eyes at the servants beside the breakfast buffet, then ever so slightly jerked his head toward the door. They exited, both of them almost breaking into a run. He laced his fingers together and folded his hands on the table in front of him. "It is my understanding he was white when he was corporeal." He cleared his throat. "His name is Leopold. Watch him on the stairs. He tripped my Aunt Clara and caused her to fall to her death. That is also how he met his demise."

"I see." Harmony rose from her seat, went to the buffet, and poured herself a cup of hot chocolate, wondering if whisky would be more appropriate for the conversation they were about to have. "I have a confession to make, I fear."

"A confession?" He seemed strangely relieved.

"Aye, husband." She returned to the table and smiled her thanks at him when he helped her with her chair again. "I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of a long line of seers. Ghosties often reveal themselves to me."

"I see."

"Are ye unwell?" Without thinking, she leaned over and covered his hand with hers. "Ye have gone a bit pale, I fear. Dinna fash yerself. I promise I dinna speak of my gift to anyone outside of those I trust."

"And you trust me?"

His tone broke her heart, made her ache to jump up, hug him close, and heal all his hurts. "Aye, Ross." She offered him a smile. "If I didna trust ye, I wouldna have left Scotland with ye."

He smiled, and the hopefulness in his emerald eyes brightened. "I trust you too, Harmony," he said ever so quietly.

"Then why do ye never come to my bed?" she whispered.

He stared at her, his gaze piercing, as if searching for any ill will. "You must know some things first." He looked down at their hands on the table, clearly troubled. "And I had hoped for us to develop a fondness for one another before…"

She kept her hand on his. "If I must know some things—then tell me." She prayed he didn't find her boldness off-putting, but she couldn't bear them to stay their current course of mysterious silence. "What is it I must know, Ross? Does it have something to do with the old woman?"

He narrowed his eyes again, appearing noticeably perturbed as he slid his hand out from under hers. "Miss Nettie appeared to you too?"

"I dinna ken what her name was." Harmony frowned, trying to remember if the spirit lady had told her. She slowly shook her head. "No, she didna share her name."

"What did she share?"

Ross's tone told Harmony a great deal more than his words. After a long sip of the delectable chocolate, she tried to put him at ease with a smile. "My, that is lovely."

"I am glad," he said, but didn't sound glad at all. "Pray, tell me what Miss Nettie said."

"That ye are a good and kind man who deserves happiness." Harmony took another sip of the fine, warm drink. "And she begged me to give ye a chance."

His dark brows drew closer into a confused frown that made him even more handsome. "Give me a chance?"

"Aye." Harmony caught her bottom lip between her teeth, stoking her determination to find out if there was any hope of her ever becoming a mother. "Did she mean ye couldna be a husband, and I should try to understand?"

"What?"

She stared down at her lap, wishing she had some water to cool her burning cheeks. "Are ye unable to…" She shrugged and kept her chin tucked. "In the marriage bed…" She squinted her eyes as tightly shut as she could. "Can ye not consummate our union?" she asked as fast as the words could tumble out.

When he remained silent so long that she feared he had left the room, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. He was still there. At the head of the table. One brow hiked higher than the other. Staring at her. His jaw rippled as though he clenched his teeth to keep from roaring.

"I assure you, dear Harmony, that I am quite able to perform my husbandly duties in our marriage bed—once we have an understanding between us."

An understanding? That sounded ominous. She took another sip of her chocolate, then rose to refill the cup. This conversation warranted the indulgence. While standing beside the lavish buffet, she turned. "Can I bring ye more tea, Ross? Or a scone, perhaps?"

"You are not to serve me, Harmony! We have servants for that. You are my equal! Why can you not remember that?"

The harshness of the reprimand shocked her, and her mouth dropped open before she could stop it. Where was the kind, quiet man of the past few days? Without a word, she poured her chocolate and returned to her seat, clenching her teeth as, once again, he rose and helped her with the chair.

"It will not happen again, Yer Grace," she said, purposely using his title because she knew it irritated him. "Please do continue in explaining this understanding we must come to." If he thought to bully her, he better think again. She had managed six older brothers and a drunken father and was not about to cower before him.

Ross bowed his head, then scrubbed his face with both hands. "I beg your forgiveness, Harmony, for speaking so sharply. My tone was inexcusable, but please understand it is because I fear you will loathe me when I tell you everything I have to say."

"I shall be the judge of who and what I loathe." She gave him a regal nod, not quite willing to let him off so easily. "Speak on, husband. Our breakfast grows cold."

He kept his head bowed, clearly willing to accept her terse judgment. "The Ramthwaite line, the land, this manor house"—he lifted his head, sucked in a deep breath, and fixed a worried scowl upon her—"they are all cursed. Supposedly. And the older I become, the more I believe it is so. According to the stories, my grandfather called the curse down upon the Ramthwaites the night my father was born, when my grandmother died giving birth to him."

"A curse upon ye," Harmony repeated, bracing herself for the rest of his tale. She had never come across a curse firsthand before, but she had heard enough stories to possess a healthy respect for them. Insatiable curiosity spurred her on. "How did he call it down?"

"When my grandmother died, he went mad with rage. Refused to believe it. He charged out into the night, ranting at God, and fell into an old, abandoned well. After the butler and housekeeper saved him, the well caved in, sucking them down into the muddy pit and burying them alive. My grandfather cursed God and ordered the village church demolished before sunrise the next day."

Harmony pressed a hand to her chest, willing her hot chocolate not to churn back out. "What a horrible way to die," she whispered, not even attempting to comment on the foolhardiness of cursing the Almighty or destroying one of His churches.

Ross nodded. "The housekeeper, Nettie Bannerly, is the woman who visited you, even though she promised to behave and remain unseen."

"Sometimes they canna help themselves."

"Do not make excuses for her," he said. "In her ghostly form, Miss Nettie startled the horses pulling my mother's coach. They stampeded into the creek, overturned the carriage, and my mother drowned when I was six years old."

"How do ye know it was her?"

He gave a sad laugh. "When I was older, she confessed and apologized profusely for accidentally causing my mother's death." He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes as though weary to the bone. "Her husband, Mr. Edgar, inadvertently appeared to the gamekeeper, shocking him into accidentally shooting and killing Uncle Arthur—my unstable grandfather's firstborn son whom he loved so much that he took his own life when he was told of the death—making my father, the youngest son, the fifth Duke of Ramthwaite."

Harmony stared at Ross, trying to keep all the accidents straight in her mind. "How did your father die?"

"A fever was upon him when Miss Nettie unintentionally scared the physician caring for him out of the room, and a maid erred and gave my father too much laudanum."

Harmony crossed herself. "Holy Mother of God. Are Miss Nettie and Mr. Edgar evil, then? Should we not call in a priest to be rid of them?"

"I could never do that. When I was a child, they watched over me. Kept me entertained. I would even go so far as to say that they loved me as if I were their own." Ross shook his head. "They are not evil, my dear. Just a bit overzealous and clumsy at times, and they often end up causing more harm than good. That is why I asked them to stay away from you."

"Are ye certain they didna accidentally kill yer wife?"

"No, that was Lotilda's reaction to the spider—I was there."

"But the cat caused yer auntie's death—aye?"

He nodded. "Leopold always loved rubbing around people's ankles—much to poor Aunt Clara's surprise on the stairway. But mind you, Leopold was alive when he and Aunt Clara took their fatal tumble down the main stairs. As a spirit, I cannot recall a single incident he might have caused." He lifted his teacup, frowned at its emptiness, then set it back down and stared at it a long while before lifting his gaze and locking eyes with her. "And now you know all about the Ramthwaite Curse."

"Is that why ye bought me?" Perhaps she shouldn't have phrased it so bluntly, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them. The rush of color creeping up his neck made her wonder if he had inherited his grandfather's temper, but then the pain in his eyes, the lost little boy needing to be loved, made his temper the least of her worries. "Forgive me—I meant no harm in the asking."

"I did not buy you , dearest Harmony. I felt it only fair to pay your father for the loss that your absence from the inn would surely cost him." He gave her a faint smile that only made him appear sadder. "Your smile, your laughter, the undertone of happiness that is always in your voice—your vibrancy is why I asked him for your hand in marriage. No amount of money would ever be enough for that, because you, my lovely Scottish lass, are a priceless treasure."

Tears stung her eyes, making her blink fast to hold them at bay. "No one has ever treated me to such lovely words before."

He took her hand in his. "They are not just words, my dear—they are the truth from my heart." The way he tenderly grazed his thumb back and forth across her fingers sent a surge of aching warmth through her. "And I have not come to your bed or invited you to mine because I did not wish you to believe you were no more than a mare bought for breeding stock." He ducked his head, then lifted it again. "I pray you forgive me for the coarseness of my words, but I felt it warranted saying."

"Ye are a good man, Ross." She squeezed his hand. "I am glad ye happened into my father's inn and found me."

"Even with the curse?"

She tipped her chin to a proud angle. "I am a Scot. That wee curse canna last against the likes of me. But I would ask ye—if ye knew this place to be cursed, why do ye return here to live? Why not stay somewhere else?"

"It is not the place that is cursed, but my bloodline." His jaw tightened as though he'd just tasted something very unsavory. "I have witnessed many an unfortunate incident in my travels and cannot help but think they only happened because of my presence. I even had a dream once where a dark specter came to me and said I could never escape the curse, no matter where I fled to, until I laid the unholy doom to rest."

"And how would that be done?"

He shrugged. "I have no clue, my dear." A nervous broodiness settled across him. "If you wish to leave, we can, Harmony, but I fear the curse will follow. It always seems to."

"As I said, I am a proud Scot, and we dinna run from anything." She nodded at their empty plates. "Call yer footmen back in so we might eat a bite before ye show me the grounds of this lovely place, aye?"

The tension appeared to leave his broad shoulders, and he visibly brightened. "Aye," he repeated, trying to imitate her brogue.

"Needs work, English." Then she laughed, her heart lighter and filled with hope. Tonight, either he would come to her bed or she would go to his. Of that, she was certain.