A Scottish Love (27 page)

Fergus turned and stared at her, but Elizabeth’s reaction was far more interesting. She looked decidedly guilty.

“Earlier, Mr. Loftus was looking for the entrance to the secret passage,” Elizabeth admitted. “I’m not certain if he found it. I was sent to find Miriam.”

Fergus smiled. “A thoroughly charming young woman.”

That comment was so odd that Shona frowned at him.

“You think she’s an idiot,” she said, ignoring Elizabeth’s presence.

Fergus shrugged. “She’s a wealthy idiot.”

A horrible idea was taking root. “You aren’t thinking of making a match with Miriam Loftus.”

“Why is having a wealthy wife any different than a wealthy husband?”

They stared at each other.

“Did you resent my marrying Bruce?”

“To save me?” His lips twisted. “You could have married Gordon and saved yourself.”

Surprise kept her speechless. Had he thought that all along? Bruce had been generous to her brother. Had Fergus resented that, too?

“Perhaps it’s my turn to marry for money,” Fergus said.

She stood, wobbling a little.

Something had to be done. Something now, before he gave any more credence to such an impossible notion.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go and flirt with Mr. Loftus.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“We’ll have a test of it,” Shona said. “Which Imrie can marry for money first.”

Fergus frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Shona made her way from the room, an exit that might have been dramatic except for the fact that she needed Elizabeth’s assistance. They left Fergus in the Family Parlor, no doubt planning his strategy for the hand of Miriam Loftus.

She really did feel horrible, and not all of it was because of the pain in her head.

Chapter 22

S
hona stood on the bluff overlooking Loch Mor.

Busy white waves raced like children for the shoreline. A wintering wind tugged at her cloak, blew off her hood, and whipped her hair loose. Frantically, Shona grabbed at the mass of it, trying to stuff it back into some kind of order. Instead, it curled around her head, marking her as a plaything of the weather.

Twice now, she’d come to this exact spot and twice she’d turned away, the courage to walk down to Rathmhor slipping from her grasp like water.

Two days had passed since the accident in the Family Parlor. Accident—the word everyone called it. She knew it hadn’t been an accident, and Elizabeth knew as well. The nurse had checked on her constantly the next day when Shona had taken advantage of the situation and simply remained in bed.

She would have still been there, with the sheets drawn over her head, if she hadn’t been consulted on every single domestic crisis occurring at Gairloch. When Cook had appeared, nearly in tears, that had been the last straw. She’d had to get up, dress, and visit with Mr. Loftus, explaining that Cook didn’t know how to cook eggs the way he liked them. This was Scotland, not New York, and surely he would like a nice bit of salmon for lunch?

As she left the Laird’s Chamber, she realized that Fergus had more chance wooing Miriam than she had of tamping down her distaste for the very wealthy, overindulged American.

Now, Mr. Loftus, Helmut, and Elizabeth were all in the library, Helen holding forth on the history of Scotland while Mr. Loftus pontificated about American history as counterpoint. Fergus was probably in the tower and Cook and Jennie were in the kitchen, which left her free to solve one of the problems confronting her.

She’d always had the ability to face the truth, even if it was unpleasant. Never before, however, had it tasted so bitter. She couldn’t turn away today. No other option lay before her.

Her hand fisted, the jewelry in her palm biting into her skin. She only had one thing of value, and it was this, a brooch of diamonds and emeralds denoting the Imrie Clan crest, bequeathed to her on her mother’s death.

Her stomach rolled at the idea of selling it, but now was not the time for sentimentality.

Wrapping her cloak more closely around her, she began walking toward Rathmhor when the ground rumbled with a dragon’s roar. A plume of white smoke a thousand feet high shot up into the heavens, lighting the gray sky. Her feet trembled as the earth shook and, for an instant, she thought the world was ending.

Her ears rang with the explosion long after the sound ended. Wraithlike fingers of smoke swirled over her, the acrid smell becoming a taste. She coughed, waved a hand in front of her face and realized that Rathmhor was still obscured by a cloud of smoke.

Gordon was down there.

She began to run, her shoes easily finding the well worn path through the woods. Beneath the heavy boughs, the air smelled of winter. Past the cottage, to the other side of the trees, her heartbeats matching the rhythm of her running feet.

She halted on the road leading to the Works, on the other side of Rathmhor, her eyes wide, her face stiff with fear.

The smoke was being chased away by an impatient wind, but the smell lingered, a sharp odor that inflamed her nostrils, and coated the back of her throat.

Gordon was standing there, laughing.

Wrapping her cloak more closely around her, she slowed her pace to a walk, the fear transforming itself to calm, the calm changing to irritation, and irritation mounting to anger.

With Gordon was another man, one darker in countenance and shorter, whose laughter was as open and free. The two of them were attired in similar garb, white shirts and dark trousers, equally dirty.

They were staring at a deep pit in front of them, a hole so large it looked as if God had simply reached down and scooped out a handful of dirt.

She knew the minute they saw her because their laughter abruptly ceased.

He said something to the other man that she couldn’t hear before turning toward her. Pasting a determined smile on her face, she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away.

“Did you do that?” she asked, gesturing to the hole in the ground. Her heart was still pounding, and she wondered if he could tell how afraid she’d been.

“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding as carefree as a boy. “Or rather, Rani and I did.” He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “This is Rani Kumar, an expert at munitions. Rani, the Countess of Morton.”

“Your Ladyship,” Rani said, pressing his hands together prayerfully in front of him, and bowing from the waist.

She nodded, hoping to hide her confusion. She’d known that some of the East Indians had been friendly to Commonwealth troops, but to the extent that he would make his home in Scotland? What exactly were the two of them doing?

“I’m sorry if the explosion scared you,” Gordon said.

“It startled us a bit, too,” Rani added. “We weren’t quite sure how large an explosion it would be.”

She looked at both of them, not quite understanding. “But you set off the explosion even so?”

They both looked at each other, then at her before Gordon gave her a wicked, boyish, grin.

“We had to find out if we were right,” he said.

“Did you not think you could be injured?”

His smile was slow, utterly charming, and equally maddening. “Were you worried about me?”

“Of course not,” she lied, smiled in farewell to Rani, and turned on her heel, intent on leaving him.

She didn’t hear his footsteps before he grabbed her elbow, and whirled her around to face him, forcibly reminding her of both his height and strength. She had to tilt her head back to look up to him and when she attempted to pull free of his grasp, he didn’t release her.

“Were you worried about me?” he asked, his tone dropping, becoming low, almost seductive. If she were given to being seduced, she might have been charmed by his smile, but she wasn’t.

However, she wanted, absurdly, to wipe his face free of dirt, especially a smudge on his upper cheek.

“No. I came to talk with you. Can you spare some time to speak with me?” she asked.

On her race to Rathmhor, she’d placed the clan broach in her pocket. She felt for it now, reassured it was still there.

“Not at the moment, no,” he said.

“It’s important,” she said. Honesty compelled her to add, “Perhaps not to anyone but me, but it is important.”

The flicker in his eyes might have been surprise or something else. It was gone before she could tell.

He turned, leaving her to rejoin Rani. For a moment, she thought he’d simply dismissed her, but then they both glanced at her. An interruption, that’s what she was, and if she wasn’t devoid of ideas or time, she’d have turned and walked away.

How’s that for pride, Gordon MacDermond?

Won’t you be pleased to note how far I’ve fallen?

She wrapped her arms around herself, biting her lip to keep herself from saying something foolish.
Never mind, I’ll find someone else. I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your explosions.
Words that resounded in her mind, but never found a voice.

A person could suffer only so much shame until it became second nature. She was growing accustomed to humiliation. Besides, there was a certain freedom to being honest. Why should she try to portray herself as anyone other than who she was? The effort of doing so had been absolutely exhausting all these years.

He turned, finally, striding toward her, his face somber beneath the streaks of dirt. Rani was packing up the assorted items on the ground: rolls of paper, three small flasks, and a box whose contents were a mystery.

She suspected it would be better to leave it that way.

“Why are you exploding your land?” she asked when he reached her.

Gently, he turned her in the direction of Rathmhor rather than answer her. She gave a mental shrug, resigned to his silence. Evidently, she wasn’t to ask him questions.

“It’s a new invention, if you will,” he said, almost to the door. “A new explosive. Too volatile in its current form, but when we have it perfected, it could be a revolutionary blasting powder.”

“Why?”

He stopped, turned, and looked at her. “Why?”

She nodded.

“Why not?”

Hardly an answer, but he didn’t apologize for it.

Opening the door, he stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

“I’ll be with you in a few moments,” he said, escorting her into the formal front parlor.

She nodded, turning to watch him. He hesitated at the door.

“I’m tired of war, Shona. If we can produce something other than black powder at the Works, I’d be pleased. I don’t like feeling responsible for death. The new explosive can be used as a blasting powder. Not for killing.”

She nodded again, stripped of speech by the passion in his voice.

Alone, she turned to survey the room.

All four walls were paneled in wood and polished to a gleam while the cove ceiling was oval in shape and painted brown. A cinnabar Chinese vase sat on a table beside an overstuffed chair upholstered in beige. A fireplace occupied the far wall, with two tall fireside chairs arranged on either side of it. A large portrait of Lieutenant General MacDermond hung over the mantel, dominating the room. Even in the likeness he looked stern and forbidding.

He knew exactly what he was doing, Shona. He was brilliant at ferreting out an enemy’s weakness.

Had the general considered Gordon an enemy as well?

“Your Ladyship, how lovely you’ve come for a visit.”

She turned to find herself facing a diminutive woman with a crown of white hair, her round face brightened by a welcoming smile.

“I’m Mrs. MacKenzie,” the woman said, “the housekeeper. Sir Gordon asked that you be served refreshments. I’ve come to ask if you’d like scones or biscuits.”

“That’s not necessary, Mrs. MacKenzie,” she said. “Truly.”

She was here to beg, not be treated as a guest.

Mrs. MacKenzie, however, had the same look in her eyes as Helen when she was set on a point.

“It’ll be no trouble, now, will it? Scones or biscuits?”

“Whatever is easier for you, Mrs. MacKenzie,” she said, capitulating.

The housekeeper nodded, the smile once more in place.

When the housekeeper left, she walked to the window. From here, the tip of Loch Mor was visible, but not Gairloch, as if Rathmhor had turned its back on its nearest neighbor. The day was hinting at rain, and she wondered if the weather would interfere with Gordon’s explosions.

Had he hated war so much?

She’d never talked to him about it. But then, she’d never told him how happy she was that he’d survived when so many others hadn’t. Nor had she ever told him how much she’d prayed for him.

She glanced over at the portrait, making a face at it. The general would probably have been as happy with Gordon being martyred, as long as his sacrifice had been well publicized and posthumously awarded.

Three times she’d come to Rathmhor, each occasion remembered vividly. The first time, she’d come with her parents to celebrate the general’s promotion. The second time, the Imrie family had arrived to mourn Gordon’s mother’s death. The third, she’d come alone in search of Fergus. Their aunt had arrived at Gairloch with news of their parents’ death.

“You said you wanted to speak with me.”

She turned to see him standing in the doorway.

“You’ve changed,” she said, taking in his appearance. Another snowy white shirt, and pressed trousers. She missed his kilt. Was that something she should mention?

Not at the moment, perhaps.

“I didn’t mean to disturb your explosion,” she said.

“What is it, Shona?” he asked. “Fergus?”

She shook her head.

He entered the room but didn’t sit. Instead, he stood with his back to one of the wood panels, his arms folded across his chest.

“Will you buy the clan brooch?”

“What?”

She pulled it out of her pocket. “The Imrie Clan brooch,” she said. “The one from my mother. I need to sell it quickly, and I thought you might wish to buy it.” She had to get the words out quickly before her courage left her. “I could sell it in Inverness, but the price might not be fair. Besides, I’d feel better if you had it, rather than sell it to a stranger.”