Return to Love Read online

  Return to Love

  Return to Love

  © Vivian Stuart, 1957

  © eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

  ISBN: 978-9979-64-475-0

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN, IN CORONATION YEAR, the United States Navy reported the loss of one of its polar survey vessels in the Arctic Ocean, news of the tragedy struck a solemn, discordant note in the pages of British newspapers given over to rejoicing and plans for the national celebrations.

  There had been, it was stated, an officer of the Royal Navy on board the survey ship, but his name was withheld from the first reports, so that the next of kin might be informed.

  Later the admiralty announced, with regret, that Lieutenant Commander Ninian James Moray, R.N., serving as an observer with the United States Navy in Arctic waters, was missing and had, it was feared, lost his life.

  Obituary notices appeared in the Scotsman and in the Lorne Courier, and the coronation festivities, planned for that week at Castle Guise and in Lorne itself, were postponed, for the young Master of Guise—which had been Ninian Moray’s proud title in the Scottish Highlands—had been a popular figure in the district and heir to the ancient barony of Guise. His family and friends mourned him, and his grandfather, the thirteenth Baron Guise, then aged eighty, took to his bed and did not leave it again.

  And then, out of the blue, two years afterward came a radio announcement to the effect that a Russian helicopter, based on Franz Josef Land, seeing signs of life on pack ice where none had been expected, had landed to investigate and had found three survivors of the ill-fated U.S.S. Manfred, among them Ninian Moray.

  A cable from Ninian himself, dispatched ten days later from Archangel, confirmed the incredible news.

  After a brief spell in a Soviet hospital, the Russians flew him back to London, by which time his fantastic story had preceded him, and he found himself hailed as a hero, feted, besieged by newspaper reporters, filmed and photographed, his survival headlined as an epic of courage and endurance.

  It was useless for Ninian to protest, to explain that survival had been possible because he and his two American companions had been an advance party, landed with adequate stores and a good deal of equipment, prior to the loss of the parent ship. Of still less use to add that the worst hardships had been neither cold nor lack of food but boredom and the frustrating lack of batteries for their radio transmitter.

  He returned to learn that he had been given up for dead by both his family and their lordships of the admiralty and to hear, for the first time, the facts concerning the loss of the U.S.S. Manfred, to which, hitherto, only her failure to deliver the radio batteries had pointed.

  This, added to the strain of his own unwelcome notoriety, proved too much for his bewildered mind to take in, and a sympathetic medical board gave him six weeks’ sick leave and advised him to go home.

  “Off you go and enjoy yourself,” the surgeon general had suggested cheerfully. “In your own surroundings, with your own people about you, you’ll soon get back to normal. Far better for you, in the circumstances, than carting you off to hospital. Much simpler to pick up the threads again if you go home right away. Eh? Don’t you agree?”

  Ninian had replied with a dutiful, “Yes, sir,” but he knew that, with his return to Guise, the complications would really begin. It is impossible for a man to come home, after more than two years of being officially dead, to find everything the same as when he left it.

  Ninian had been warned about some of the complications. His brother Andrew had met him on his arrival in London and spend a week with him, doing his best to apologize; the family solicitor had come down quickly from Glasgow to add his quota to the explanations and apologies, and he had received six long-letters in as many days from his grandmother.

  His grandmother was the only one who did not apologize—but Andrew had always been her favorite, Ninian recalled, without bitterness. And his return from the dead put Andrew, to say the least of it, in an awkward spot—Andrew, who was his twin and the younger by a matter of some thirty minutes, had, of course, been his heir.

  For nearly two years Andrew had been Baron Guise, fourteenth of his line, after the death of their grandfather, which had taken place soon after the coronation. Andrew had administered the estate, had sold off much of it in order to pay death duties and—if old Mr. Donaldson of Donaldson, Brown and Donaldson was to be believed—in order to live in the manner to which, it seemed, he had now become accustomed.

  And Andrew had also, Ninian learned, become engaged to Catherine Laidlaw who, when he had sailed for the Arctic, had been his own affianced wife. They had been married now for a little more than a year, and Catherine was chatelaine of Castle Guise—the home to which Ninian’s well-meaning medical board had so enthusiastically bidden him to return.

  Ninian was still in uniform when he went to board the Night Highlander at Euston, for his session with the board had been a long one, and following it, he had had to make various official calls on senior officers.

  He had a change of clothes in his one small suitcase and he wished, as he strode along the platform, past the shuttered sleeping car, that he had been able to book a sleeping berth on this train.

  His uniform made him conspicuous and his photograph had appeared in too many newspapers recently for him to hope to escape recognition.

  Besides, he was still far from fit, and his weary body cried out for sleep.

  Yet, transcending both his weariness and his apprehension concerning his return, he was aware of a fierce, exultant longing for the sight, which tomorrow would bring, of his own bleak, familiar Highland hills. And of Guise, that quiet, beloved place where, as a boy he had been happy . . . where he would be happy again, he felt sure, once the complications had been brought into the open, discussed and dealt with.

  He could not bear, tired though he was, to put off his return, wait for a later train. There was always the chance that he would be able to obtain a canceled berth.

  But the sleeping-car attendant shook his head in reply to Ninian’s inquiry.

  “Sorry, sir, all booked up tonight. But I’ll let you know if there are any cancellations. Your name sir? ”

  “Moray.” He spelled it, remembering with a wry twisting of the lips, that he would soon have to accustom himself to his new title.

  The man scribbled in his little book. He looked up from it to stare at Ninian with suddenly kindled interest. With recognition came sympathy and he promised, closing his notebook. “I’ll do my best for you, commander. There’s usually one or two that don’t turn up to claim their sleepers.”

  “Thanks.” Ninian went down the long train. He found himself a corner seat, placed his suitcase—which was all the luggage he possessed—on the rack and settled down with the evening paper. But he couldn’t concentrate on it. The print blurred in front of his eyes, and he found himself thinking, against his will, of Catherine. She had always been part of Guise, to him, and he had dreamed of Catherine often during his exile. But now she was his brother’s wife and it would be safer if he did not think of her.

  A few seconds later, a porter, loaded with luggage, thrust his way awkwardly into the compartment and Ninian welcomed the interruption. He indicated that all the o
ther seats were free.

  The porter thanked him and asked, over his shoulder, “This one, miss? Corner seat, back to the engine?”

  A feminine voice answered him from the corridor. “Oh, yes—this’ll be fine.”

  It was an attractive voice, in spite of the faintly nasal, unmistakably Australian accent, and Ninian glanced up from his paper, his curiosity aroused both by the voice and by the luxurious quality of the luggage, which the porter was now distributing, as best he could, around the available space in the racks. Her luggage even overflowed into where Ninian had placed his suitcase.

  He got up and removed it, catching a brief glimpse of a tall, slim girl of about twenty-three or four who was standing outside in the corridor. She came in as he returned to his seat and flashed him a warm, friendly smile.

  “Well, hello!” she greeted, holding out her hand. Ninian stared at her. She was an extremely attractive girl, but to the best of his recollection, he had never set eyes on her before in his life. He took the extended hand. “Er, I’m afraid I—”

  “I thought I recognized you,” the girl went on, “only—” her eyes were puzzled as they met his “—you look different in uniform somehow.”

  The electric lights had not yet been switched on, and Ninian studied her in the dimness, convinced that, if they had met before, no matter in what circumstances, he would not have forgotten her. She was not a girl any man would have forgotten. Her eyes were gray, her hair that rare shade that he believed was known as ash-blonde, and her smile, without being coquettish, was merry and altogether charming. She was beautifully dressed in a well-cut tweed suit, whose sophistication suggested Paris rather than the Highlands, and her accessories—from the diamond clip in her lapel to the neat brown brogues on her feet—matched suit and luggage in both the quality and perfection of their design.

  Clearly, Ninian decided, a very wealthy and much traveled young woman, but rack his brain as he might, he could not recall having met her before. And yet it would be ungallant in the extreme to confess it. He reddened. He hadn’t spoken to a woman like this since his return, and he felt suddenly gauche and ill at ease, unable to find any words with which to bridge the silence that had fallen between them.

  But she was tipping her porter and seemed not to notice Ninian’s confusion. He took courage and, casting about him for some means of identifying her, noticed a label attached to one of the pigskin suitcases in the rack. It was upside down but he managed to decipher the name on it as Arden and her destination, to his amazement, as Lorne, which was his own. Arden . . . ? The name meant nothing, though perhaps—he turned to look at her again, and at that moment, the lights in the carriage went on and he saw that she, too, was looking at him, still with a faintly puzzled expression in her gray eyes.

  “I—” She hesitated. “You are Commander Moray, aren’t you? Ninian Moray of Guise?’’

  “Yes,’’ he admitted, “I am. But—”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Her tone was accusing, but her smile didn’t reproach him. “It’s not surprising, after what you went through. I hadn’t realized, of course, who you were and what an ordeal it must have been, until I read about it in the papers the next day. But I did hope you’d remember me. I mean—” color crept into her cheeks “—we did dance together rather a lot and you . . . well, you—” She broke off, embarrassed.

  Of what, Ninian wondered desperately, was she accusing him? Where on earth could they possibly have met and danced? He hadn’t danced since his return. Of course, they might have met at a party before he’d gone to the Arctic; he’d been to a number of farewell parties. But that was a long time ago and this girl was talking as if—dash it, as if they’d met during the past few days! Which was quite impossible. He’d been nowhere where he could have danced with her.

  He hadn’t but . . . Andrew had. Of course, that was it! Andrew had gone to a party in Chelsea, given by some artist who was a friend of a friend of his— someone who’d known Jocelyn Farquhar. He had tried to persuade Ninian to go with him, only he hadn’t felt like it, Ninian recalled, so his brother had gone alone.

  Obviously, it was Andrew whom Miss Arden had met, not himself. They were identical twins, he and Andrew; as boys, they had often played tricks, pretending to be each other. It had been one of their chief forms of amusement. Nowadays, though, the resemblance between them wasn’t so striking—he was taller and thinner than Andrew, more robust, and his hair was graying at the temples, which Andrew’s wasn’t. He looked older than Andrew now, and no one seeing them together could possibly mistake one for the other—save, perhaps, a casual acquaintance, as this girl was. Although, she’d got his name right, Ninian thought, and that was odd. Very odd indeed. Unless, of course, her acquaintance with Andrew had been so casual that he hadn’t told her his name: and then, seeing the papers next day, with his own not very recognizable photographs in them, she’s jumped to the conclusion that he was Andrew. Or rather, that Andrew was he.

  That must have been what happened. Because there was no earthly reason why Andrew should have given this girl any name but his own. Except that Andrew was married . . . .

  He was married to Catherine. But—

  Miss Arden touched his arm. “I don’t know why we’re standing up,” she said.

  “No,” said Ninian, “I don’t either. Er, facing or back to the engine? Which do you prefer?”

  “I don’t mind a bit,” she assured him. They sat down facing each other.

  “You know, this is all rather odd, isn’t it?” Ninian said, trying to sound casual. “Our meeting, I mean. He had to get to the bottom of this business somehow, for the sake of his own peace of mind. “I suppose you were at that studio party the other night? The—the—” He couldn’t remember the host’s name and hesitated uncertainly. He was sure that Andrew had mentioned it and that the name had been a foreign one. French. Yes, Duclos. Or Dupont. Paul Dupont. Paul Somebody, anyway. “Paul’s party,’’ he added, watching his companion’s face. It was a very attractive face.

  “Pauline Delage,’’ Miss Arden supplied. She was frowning. “I was staying with her—I’d just arrived from Paris. I told you that. But you . . . you didn’t seem tight, at the party. I mean, if you were, you didn’t show it. I must say, I don’t feel very flattered that you should have forgotten all about me. But perhaps you wanted to. Or were you tight?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Lord, this was awkward! What the devil had Andrew been up to?

  “I spotted you on the platform just now.” She flushed, avoiding his gaze. “If I . . . if I made a mistake by coming into this compartment—if you’d rather be alone—you’ve only to say so, you know.”

  “Oh, but I’d hate you to go.” Ninian spoke decisively. “Please don’t go, Miss Arden.”

  Her brows went up, and her flush deepened. “You do remember my name then? ’’

  “I—yes. I saw it on—” his eyes went guiltily to the labeled luggage on the racks “—that is, yes, I do,” he corrected hastily.

  “Is this some sort of joke? Because if it is, I don’t find it awfully funny, Ninian. I mean, if you were tight, if you’ve forgotten because of that or—or as a result of the ghastly time you’ve had, I’d try to understand. But if you did remember my name—”

  “I—look, I didn’t. I saw it on your luggage.” He pointed to the luggage labels, dangling above their heads. “My brain’s a blank. I do forget things. Please bear with me, if it’s not asking too much—” He was leaning toward her and the train started, with a jerk that almost precipitated him into her arms. She put out a hand to steady him.

  “Careful! Or you’ll repeat what happened in the taxi the other night.’’ Her voice shook a little, and Ninian saw the glint of tears in her eyes. He drew back, startled.

  She bit her lip, and her eyes searched his face. “You kissed me. Don’t you . . . don’t you honestly remember?’’


  Anger rose in Ninian’s throat, threatening to choke him. Andrew had always been a bit of a ladies’ man, but now Catherine was his wife and—oh, damn Andrew! Obviously he’d had a few drinks, and then he’d flirted with this charming girl, kissed her, amused himself, with no thought in his head of seeing her again. Only, somehow or other, he’d discovered that she was coming to Lorne, so he’d used the old alias, given Ninian’s name, instead of his own, so that Catherine shouldn’t find out.

  Probably he’d intended to warn Ninian, but it had slipped his mind. Or he’d put off telling him, in the hope that he wouldn’t have to. It had been the blindest chance that Ninian had met the girl on this train; until an hour ago, he hadn’t thought he would be able to catch it. It would never have occurred to Andrew that his sins would find him out so swiftly. Though how he hoped to continue to get away with it, once the Arden girl saw them both together, Ninian didn’t know and was too angry to consider.

  “Miss Arden, were we introduced at the party?’’ he asked abruptly.

  She shrugged helplessly. “I asked you. In the taxi. We—we talked and I said I was going to Lorne to stay with Jocelyn Farquhar. She’s my cousin and I’m spending the summer there, before going home to Australia. Then you told me who you were. ’ ’

  “I see.’’ His guess had been right, Ninian thought bitterly. It was one of those unlikely coincidences that no one could have foreseen—least of all Andrew. He would have to explain, of course, eventually. Or would he? It would add horribly to the complications and there was Catherine to think of . . . . Catherine whom he had loved and for whom his feelings were still protective, at any rate. Catherine mustn’t be hurt.

  He found himself wondering for perhaps the hundredth time whether Catherine was in love with his brother and, again for the hundredth time, thrust the question from his mind. Catherine had married Andrew and that, as far as he was concerned, must be his answer.