The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [118]
Colin couldn’t make out anything unusual at St. Monance Castle. MacPherson folk were going about their tasks. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary, no massing of men, no shouting, nothing at all unusual.
What had Joan and the wives planned to do? That stymied him. What was she plotting? Had she indeed come here?
He realized after another ten minutes of quite boring observations that he was wasting his time. Unless he intended to ride up to the big iron-studded doors of St. Monance and demand to know where his wife was, then sitting here like a blind fool would gain him naught. His fear and fury at his wife had made him act without thinking.
Where the devil was Joan? Where were the wives?
He drew a deep breath, turned Gulliver, and stared at his son, who was sitting there astride his pony, quiet as could be. Colin said nothing. He hadn’t even heard Philip ride up. He was in bad shape. He shook his head. Together, father and son rode thoughtfully back to Vere Castle.
He supposed he wasn’t overly surprised to see all three horses returned to the stables, in their stalls, eating their heads off. It was obvious to the meanest eye that they’d been ridden hard. Damn her eyes. Argyll looked up at him and stared, as if to say, “She really did it this time, my good man.”
Colin grinned, but it wasn’t an amused grin. He was ready to kill. What the devil had she done? And she’d ridden that damned horse, curse her eyes.
He strode to the house, his riding crop slashing against his thigh in rhythm to his walk.
He didn’t say anything to anyone. He shook his head at Philip when he would say something, and took the stairs two and three at a time.
“Remember, Papa,” Philip shouted after him. “Remember she’s been ill!”
“She’ll pray for a fever before I’m through with her,” Colin shouted back over his shoulder.
He saw Aunt Arleth. She, in turn, saw his rage and smiled. It was obvious to Colin that she was devoutly praying that he would murder his wife. It was a thought, but he preferred torture and slow strangulation. Emma was coming out of one of the wives’ bedchambers. She saw the earl and quickly dashed back inside.
“Smart of you,” he said under his breath. He wanted to crash into the laird’s bedchamber and start yelling. At the last minute he forced himself to calm. These ladies had to be handled carefully. They were used to men who yelled; yelling wouldn’t yield the desired effect of making them fall in a faint and stutter and plead and stammer out the truth.
Very gently, his fingers nearly cramping with the effort to contain his ire, Colin opened the bedchamber door. Odd, but he wasn’t at all surprised to see the two wives gowned as gloriously as society ladies all set for tea. They looked elegant, fresh, and beautiful; his wife was lying in bed, her hair soft and curling around her face, wearing a lovely lace-covered peignoir. She looked very young and elegant and innocent as a lamb. She was holding a book in her hand. All looked tranquil. It could have been an English drawing room in Putnam Square. There wasn’t a hair out of place on any of their heads. There wasn’t a wrinkle in any of their gowns. They were giving him inquiring looks, as if to say, “Goodness, a gentleman is here. How very strange. He came without an invitation. What should we do with him?”
Sinjun called out, her voice as sweet and innocent as her damned face, “Oh, Colin. I’m delighted you’re back. Do forgive me for