A Scottish Love (28 page)

“Why sell it at all?” He frowned at her. “Are you set on ridding yourself of everything that reminds you of your heritage, Shona?”

“Is that what you think?”

“What else is there? Fergus doesn’t want to sell the castle, but you do. Does Fergus even know you’re planning on selling the Imrie brooch?”

“It’s mine,” she said. “From my mother. I’m free to do with it what I will.”

His mouth twisted. “You’re still a Scot. Or are you trying to forget that, too?”

The truth was more difficult than she imagined.

She could leave now, walk out the door, and return to Gairloch. No one would know what she’d done. No one would ever know that she’d stood here, on the verge of tears, not angered as much as saddened.

Every word he said was true, but it was his version of the truth. What he saw, what he interpreted, what he believed. The reality of the situation was vastly different.

The knock on the open door was a welcome respite.

Mrs. MacKenzie stood there, directing a maid to place a heavily laden tray on the table between the two chairs.

“Mr. Kumar asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you back at the Works, sir.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving Shona.

“That will be all, Mrs. MacKenzie. We don’t wish to be disturbed.”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened, Gordon’s face took on the appearance of stone, and Shona could feel the heat rise up her neck to her cheeks.

Chapter 23

“W
hy did you say that?” she asked after he’d closed the door behind the woman.

“Are you going to take the money and go live in London?”

“London isn’t one of my favorite places.”

“Then Inverness or Edinburgh?”

She stopped, folded her arms, and glared at him.

“I can’t be intimidated, you know.”

“Can’t you?”

“No,” she lied. “Certainly not by you.” A second lie added to the first.

“Why are you selling Gairloch? Why the clan brooch?”

He’d accused her of having too much pride. She had none now. She straightened, dropped her arms, and faced him. Very well, if the price for survival was shame, then so be it.

“I haven’t any money,” she said.

Still, he didn’t say a word, only continued to stare at her.

“If I can sell Gairloch, then at least I’ll have enough money to get a little house for the three of us.”

She felt her lips tremble, and bit them to steady them.

“Your husband left you nothing?” he asked, his tone curiously dispassionate.

“No. Nothing.”

“You didn’t make a wise choice seven years ago, did you? At least I still have money.”

She turned and stared out the window again. She wanted to escape this room, him, and maybe even herself.

He came to stand behind her, so close that she could feel the warmth of him. She lowered her head, staring at her clasped hands.

“I’ll buy your brooch, Shona,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and drawing her back against his chest.

For a moment, she allowed herself that weakness, laying her head back against him, saying nothing when his hands stroked down her arms. When he embraced her, she closed her eyes, holding the moment aloft, special and rare.

She’d always remembered him, each moment shared with him, times of laughter and passion. At first, the memories had been weighted with joy. At the end, they’d carried only sorrow.

Rain, only hinted at earlier, wept against the panes. Long droplets lingered for a moment before slowly streaking the glass. The journey home would be a miserable one.

“I’ll send you home in a carriage,” he said, as if hearing her thoughts.

He’d always done that, anticipating her cares, understanding her unspoken concerns. Leaving him, leaving Gairloch would be so much easier if he’d behaved as he had in Inverness, haughty, annoyed, his anger all too easily discernible.

But in the factory, only days ago, each had forgotten anger. Only need had remained. And now? A certain bittersweet sadness that ached in her bones like the cold of the oncoming winter.

In a moment, she’d forget why she was here.

She took a cautionary step away before turning and facing him.

Before she could speak, to thank him, he asked, “How much do you owe?”

That was none of his concern, but she’d already descended into the ditch, she might as well tell him the whole truth. When she mentioned the amount, however, he didn’t comment. Nor did he flinch, which she expected.

“I was running a household in Inverness for two years on air,” she said. “Being the Countess of Morton gave me a certain cachet, but after a while even the butcher wanted payment.”

“So, you couldn’t have employed any of the footmen I saw,” he said, startling a laugh from her.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t. Now, Fergus has this idea of introducing the Americans to Invergaire. I don’t know how I’m going to feed them for the next week, let alone find the money to entertain people.”

His face changed, his eyes flattening to opaque discs she couldn’t read. Suddenly, she knew he was going to say something that would hurt her.

“Did you ever love me?” he asked.

She turned to the window again, wishing the rain would come down harder and the thunder roar. She was in the mood for a brutish Highland storm.

Did you ever love me?
How painful a question that was, merely because he shouldn’t have asked it. He shouldn’t have had to ask it. Didn’t he know?

“The past is gone,” she said dully, “and wishing it back won’t make it happen. We’re seven years older and wiser.”

“Are we?”

She glanced at him to find him unbuttoning one cuff.

“What are you doing?”

“The purchase of your brooch has a condition.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not for sale.”

One of his eyebrows arched up. “Really? Did your husband know that?”

Anger was a better emotion than tears.

She wanted to slap him. Or throw the odd little porcelain figurine on the table beside her at him. Or maybe even kick him in the shin, hard, with her stiff, heavy shoes. She wanted to do a great many things to Gordon MacDermond right at this moment, but loving him was not one of them.

He unbuttoned the other cuff with the same unhurried movement.

“I’m not going to bed you,” she said.

He looked around the room. “I don’t see a bed here, do you?”

She frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I do.”

He began to roll up one sleeve. She took a step sideways toward the door, narrowing her eyes at him.

“One last fuck as a gesture of goodwill.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes, Shona Imrie,” he said, coming to her. His fingers danced along her jaw, raised her face. “Of your own accord, with passion in your eyes. Not reluctant. Not annoyed. Not grudgingly. I want a reminder of the girl I adored.”

“I’m not your rainbow, Gordon MacDermond.”

He smiled, the expression oddly sad. “Not at the moment,” he agreed. “Maybe never again. But can we pretend, for a little while? I find I don’t want to be seven years older and wiser.”

The young man she’d known had been eager and enthusiastic about life. This man, hardened by war, both fascinated and frightened her.

He’d demand everything from her, including truth. No sophistry or pretense would be allowed. He’d love her until she shuddered in his arms, then love her again. He’d weaken her with passion until she was limp and sated.

A woman needed courage for that kind of liaison.

A woman would need to guard her heart so that she didn’t tenderly stroke his back, or kiss his shoulder in the blissful aftermath of loving. A woman would have to protect her mind, so that his logic and his persuasiveness wouldn’t overpower her will.

A woman of courage, strong heart, and sound mind might be equal to the task. She wasn’t at all sure that described her.

But one thing stopped her from running from the room, or calling out to Mrs. MacKenzie and the maid. One thing only, the memory of seven years without him. His birthday passed, and she’d noted it, as well as other anniversaries kept secret between them, such as the first time they’d loved or when he’d returned from school and recognition sparked between them like fire.

She’d read Fergus’s letters, hoping he would mention Gordon, terrified that he might and her voice would tremble when she read each letter aloud to her husband. She’d lain awake in her solitary bed, praying for her husband’s health, her brother’s safety, and the courage to forget Gordon MacDermond.

He walked to the door and held out his hand to her.

“I can’t fight you,” she said now. “I can’t fight the world, the Americans, Helen, Fergus, and you. It’s too much.”

“I don’t want you to fight me, Shona. I want you to come with me.”

She’d arrived with her pride in tatters, yet this moment had nothing to do with pride, submission, or dominance.

Come and love me
.

She’d never been confused about his feelings for her. He’d loved her, and with such single-minded grace that she’d often felt unworthy. How could he have asked her that question?
Did you ever love me?

Was love enough?

She hadn’t thought so at one time. She’d turned her back on it even though it was the only gift she could bring to him, the only offering she could make that was truly hers. The only thing she’d owned.

She’d not valued her love enough, and now?

Perhaps that wasn’t a question she could answer. Or perhaps it simply didn’t matter.

If she were wise, she’d leave now. But when had she ever been wise around him? Even as a girl, knowing that her virtue should be prized above all things, she had no hesitation in giving herself to Gordon. Not once, but many, many times in the years before she married. Unwise, feckless, rash—all words she’d labeled herself. Looking back, she hadn’t understood how she could have been so foolish.

Now, watching his lips curve in a smile, she knew she could never have refused him.

She took a deep breath, released it slowly, trying in a vain attempt to calm herself. He didn’t move, patient in a daunting way. Slowly, she began to walk toward him, her eyes never leaving his face. If she succumbed, it would be on her terms. Pride, rearing its head again, perhaps. But he wouldn’t be the master. Instead, they would come together as equals, as they always had.

Placing her hand in his, she wondered at the heat of his palm. His fingers curled around hers, sharing his warmth. He pulled her from the room, gently but inexorably, intent on a destination he didn’t divulge. This part of Rathmhor she’d never seen: a sturdy set of stairs, lacking both the difficulty and the protectiveness of Gairloch. He hesitated at the landing, glancing back at her, his face somber once more. He didn’t speak, either to coax or to question.

The house, sturdy and square and resolute on the landscape, seemed to draw in around them creating a bubble silent and still. Mrs. MacKenzie and the rest of the staff weren’t in sight. If they went about their daily duties, if they laughed and joked or even spoke, they heard none of it.

He turned once more, advancing up the steps, her hand clasped in his.

She didn’t ask where they were going, didn’t pierce the silence with questions. To perdition perhaps, that’s where they were going. Never to heaven. Not with so many rules broken and dictates ignored. They would be the subject of a sermon from the pulpit at kirk. The minister would abjure them; the congregation would look askance at them if they were courageous enough to attend. They would be an object lesson to all lust-filled, improvident men and women.

But they might well be envied.

For now, her heart was pounding and her breath was tight. Lightning laced her blood and sent it tingling throughout her body. She grabbed her skirt with her right hand, her left firmly holding his, and followed him up the steps, intent on each tread as if it were a marker.

As she ascended the staircase, she descended into depravity.

She could almost envision being interrogated by a barrister of behavior:

On step three, Shona Imrie Donegal, did you not consider that while you had been fortunate in the past, you might become with child from this encounter?

No, Your Lordship. It did not enter my mind but a fleeting second.

On step six, Shona Imrie Donegal, could you not have pulled away?

With all ease, Your Lordship. I could have fled the house, run into the storm, and known myself safe.

Then why did you not?

Oh, Your Lordship, if I could explain that, I would not be here at all, standing before an imaginary justice, while a court of righteousness decreed my fate.

At the head of the stairs, he turned left, then left again. At the end of the hall, he opened the door to a room, so small that she turned and looked at him in surprise.

“The bedroom I had as a boy,” he said.

Only a narrow bed, a ladder-back chair, and a bureau could fit in it. The curtains, deeply emerald, were castoffs from another room, since the hems obviously had been refaced.

The rooms for Gairloch’s staff were more luxurious than this monastic-like cell.

She disliked the pinch of her heart, the sudden wish to comfort him. He regarded her with a piercing stare, but the shadow of the boy was there, the son of Lieutenant General MacDermond, the father always to be addressed with military precision and bearing.

Yes sir, no sir, perhaps sir. Never Father. Never Da.

“I have a larger chamber now,” he said. He came to stand in front of her, leaned down, the words bathing her cheek. “This is the only bedroom with a view of Gairloch. I want to take you here, where I imagined you so many times.”

She could barely breathe.

“Give me the brooch,” he said.

With trembling fingers, she reached into her pocket, withdrew the brooch, barely noting when the clasp scratched her skin. She placed it on his palm, her head bent and looking at their two hands.

“Now give me your body.”

Her head jerked up.

He reached for her collar, beginning her unveiling with practiced fingers. This was not the fevered coupling in the factory. This was slow and sure. An inch of skin, then more, a steady revelation that she wasn’t quite the girl she’d been. Her body was riper, fuller, hungrier for love. She knew, now, what she’d missed.