The Devil Wears Tartan Read Online Free PDF Page B

bed.”
    “Haven’t we progressed beyond this, Aunt?” Davina asked, watching as a group of strangers prepared her chamber for the night ahead. The fact that one of them was heavily with child was supposed to bring fecundity. “It’s a Scottish version of Lupercalia.”
    Her aunt eyed her, and Davina knew she was weighing whether to ask the question.
    “Lupercalia was an ancient Roman ritual of fertility and purification,” Davina said. “It involved the sacrifice of a goat and scourging.”
    As she’d anticipated, Theresa held up her hand to prevent any more revelations.
    “The women are just making your bed, my dear. Not slinging entrails all over the room.”
    The chamber might benefit from a few entrails, but that was not a comment she’d make to her aunt. But it had been difficult to enter the countess’s suite without gasping aloud.
    The bed was high and wide, graced with four massive mahogany posts heavily carved with flowers, thistles, and leaves, and a headboard that was nearly as tall as the posts. The other furniture was mahogany as well, and polished so well that she could see the gleam of the lamps on the surfaces of the bureau, vanity, and bedside table. What distinguished the room from any other room she’d ever seen was the crimson Chinese silk on the walls. Not only was it a vibrant shade of red, but it was heavily embroidered with green vines and startlingly white chrysanthemums.
    How was anyone expected to sleep in such a room?
    “I shall never be able to close my eyes,” she said in a whispered aside to her aunt. “It’s so very, well, garish.”
    Theresa looked around the room with the practiced gaze of someone looking for the best in every situation.
    “You know Marshall is a diplomat. A very learned man. I’ve heard that he can speak six languages with some fluidity.” She took a deep breath. “It’s to be expected that he has tastes that are somewhat different from most Scots. It’d up to you, Davina, to accept those differences. Indeed, to make the most of them.”
    She slapped her hands together as if finished witha particularly troubling task, and turned with a determined smile toward the other five women.
    “Are we nearly done? We must prepare the bride and then give her a few moments to compose herself, don’t you think, ladies?”
    With a minimum of fuss, the bedclothes were turned down, her dress was removed, and Davina was attired in a froth of white lace not unlike her wedding dress. The difference being, of course, that she had no stays, no undergarments at all. Even her garters were gone, as were the delicate stockings knitted for her by nuns in the south of France. Beneath the layers of lace Davina was quite naked, feeling vulnerable and not unlike a sacrifice.
    Had women ever been sacrificed in Scotland? Davina realized she didn’t know, at the same time she realized something else. She couldn’t remember anything. Not one Latin declination occurred to her. Nor was she able to envision a map of the Empire in her mind. What was her middle name? She shared it with her aunt. Aunt…?
    Dear God, she couldn’t remember her aunt’s name.
    Why, exactly, was it so cold in here? Ambrose was supposedly known for its comforts, but this room was freezing. Was this a taste of what she was to endure in winter?
    Endurance. She’d been remarkably blessed in her life. Granted, she’d lost her mother when she was four, but the loss had faded. She’d always had her father’s love and affection, and Aunt Theresa’s as well. Theresa, that was her aunt’s name. Theresa Rowle. And her own? Davina McLaren. Ross.
    She arranged herself on the edge of the bed, fisted her hands on either side of her, and closed her eyes to spare them the sight of the Chinese red silk on the walls.
    She’d simply have to endure this wedding night, that’s all.
     
    Garrow Ross surveyed himself in the mirror, pleased with his appearance. Growing older held no terrors for him. He’d disliked his