by Karen Ranney
Raising the chandelier took more time and effort, but once again, she refused to assist Fergus. Nor did he call for help. Instead, she and Helen made quick work of dusting the rest of the furniture, and what weapons they could reach.
Please, God, let the Americans purchase Gairloch.
The last task remaining in the Clan Hall was to sweep and mop the floor. Helen swept while she went into the kitchen. The well was located in the corner of the kitchen, topped by a surround of bricks a foot high. She knelt, filled the buckets, and heated some water in one of the large pots hanging over the table. After the buckets were filled with hot water, she carried them one by one into the Clan Hall.
The stone floor was sufficiently hard—and dirty—that she had little to think about other than her chore. Helen worked beside her, with Fergus periodically replacing their dirty water with clean.
When she reached the wall, she moved to the side to help Helen.
“Now that’s a sight. The Countess of Morton scrubbing.”
She stopped, frozen to the spot, on her hands and knees with a scrub brush in her hand.
Of course, it was Gordon. Colonel Sir Gordon. What a ridiculous title. Of course, he’d arrived now, when perspiration was rolling off her forehead and her dress was uncomfortably damp under her arms.
Of course, she was filthy.
She didn’t look up and she didn’t comment. Let him say what he would, a response wouldn’t get the floor clean. He said something to Fergus that she couldn’t hear, but when both men laughed, she gritted her teeth.
Miserable man.
She glanced at Helen. If she looked as bad as Helen, she was in a deplorable state indeed. Since she didn’t hear anything further, she risked a glance behind her. Both men had disappeared from the doorway.
“Do you think he’s brought food?” Helen whispered, looking as hopeful as Shona suddenly felt.
“If he has, then he can say anything he wishes about me,” she said, rising to her feet.
She glanced down at her dress. In addition to water spots, it looked as if she’d scrubbed the floor with the skirt. Her fingernails were brown, her face warm and no doubt flushed. She probably had streaks of dirt on her face as well, and she knew her hair was a mess because some tendrils had escaped the rag she’d used.
Stiffening her back, she looked around the room.
“We’ve done as much as we can do here,” she said, as Helen finished up her section of the floor and stood.
“Perhaps we’ll have a small tea?” Helen asked.
Shona’s stomach rumbled at the thought.
She nodded, leading the way to the Lower Courtyard, praying that Gordon had indeed brought provisions.
Provisions?
He’d brought the whole of northeast Scotland with him.
The wagon he, Fergus, and Old Ned were offloading looked to be filled with enough baskets, jars, and canisters to feed them all for a month. In addition, there were two sides of beef.
Did he think they were starving?
Her initial relief was tempered by a dawning awareness that he’d known, exactly, what sort of difficulty they were facing. Embarrassment began a march from her toes, warming her skin as it traveled upward to blossom in her cheeks.
She should have refused his largesse and sped him from the courtyard with a word or two to let him know that she wasn’t to be pitied.
There were others to consider, however. Fergus, who’d not yet fully recovered from his wounds. Helen, who’d been rescued from poverty and hopelessness only to be thrust back into it again as her companion. She’d not been able to pay Helen for months now, and the other woman’s only comment was that she was happy to have a roof over her head and sustenance.
Sustenance she hadn’t even been able to provide.
When he mounted the steps, a side of beef slung over one shoulder, she moved aside. Any comment she wanted to make, was desperate to make, was silenced by his generosity.
She would have to thank him, and not only did that thought rankle, but it was something she’d have to practice.
Would her lips even form the words in his presence?
Seven years earlier, she’d been dependent upon his charity. She hadn’t liked it then any more than she did at this moment.
She closed her eyes and prayed for patience and restraint, neither easily accomplished since Helen moved to stand beside her, relaying the inventory in an awe-filled whisper.
“It looks like a canister of chocolate, Shona. Chocolate! Do you know how long it’s been since we had chocolate?”
“At least two years,” she said, opening her eyes. It did, indeed, look like a canister of chocolate sitting atop a barrel of something that Old Ned was pulling down from the wagon bed.
Evidently, Old Ned had slept the night before and abjured the use of the bottle to scare off the ghosts. Was he more reassured since the three of them had arrived? Or had Fergus simply taken his whiskey away?
Life was so much easier in Inverness. It wasn’t better; it was just easier.
She left the courtyard in favor of the Family Parlor, Helen ghosting her.
“We need to work in here,” she said, hoping that Helen wouldn’t ask about food for the moment.
Evidently, the other woman heard the resolve in her voice—it wasn’t the hint of unshed tears—because Helen didn’t say a word, merely stepped over the wet spots on the floor, grabbed her bucket, and followed.
The Family Parlor was a little more comfortable, although it couldn’t be said to be a welcoming room. Two settees, recent additions commissioned by her mother, sat in front of one of the massive fireplaces. A few small chairs were scattered here and there, each with a table nearby. The oil lamps hadn’t been tended to in at least seven years, and she wondered if they had any spare wicks.
A carpet, another of her mother’s acquisitions, covered most of the dark floorboards with an intricately loomed pattern of wild laurel, a plant associated with the Imrie Clan, on a crimson background.
This room held more memories, but even those she resolutely pushed away. She could not be catapulted into the past for fear that Gordon would be there.
“Shall we begin with the chandeliers?” Helen asked.
She glanced up at the ceiling. Four brass chandeliers, each hanging beneath a discolored plaster rose, illuminated a section of the room. The brass was dull, but they didn’t have time to polish it completely. Nor was there time to clean the ceiling of its soot.
Neither the Clan Hall nor the Family Parlor boasted windows, since they had been built first, in a time when the clan required defense more than aesthetics. Now she was grateful not to have to contend with dusty curtains such as those in the bedrooms.
Even thinking about everything to do was disheartening.
Her stomach rumbled again. Helen glanced at her, but said nothing.
She tossed the rag she was holding into an empty bucket and sighed.
“Shall we go eat?” she said, trying and failing to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.
Helen nodded.
The three men were still unloading the wagon.
She really must thank him. She’d remember her manners, a little rusty where Colonel Sir Gordon was concerned, and be sweetly appreciative.
He’d be so surprised, he’d no doubt be struck dumb.
Old Ned entered the kitchen, staggering under the weight of a barrel.
“We’ve got two pails of butter, Shona,” he said. “And that’s all that’s left.”
What on earth would they do with two pails of butter?
As she stared at the magically filled pantry shelves, another hideous thought occurred to her. Who was going to cook?
The maid in Inverness had lent a hand, but their menu had been relatively easy. They’d had no haunches of beef to roast, or a crate filled with live chickens.
Yes, living in Inverness had most assuredly been easier.
“I don’t suppose you have any cooking ability,” she asked, glancing
at Helen.
Please, God, let her be uniquely talented in the kitchen. Let her have endless enthusiasm for baking or roasting, or whatever was required with the bounty that lay before them here and in the larder.
Instead, Helen only shook her head.
“We need Mag,” Fergus said, entering the room with one pail of butter. He surrendered it to Gordon, who continued on to the larder and a cooler temperature.
She glanced at her brother, smiling at the memories his words invoked.
“Mag was our cook,” she told Helen. “But she also had all sorts of stories about Gairloch.” A quick glance at Fergus assured her that he wouldn’t mention the ghosts quite yet.
Let a few days pass first, before the family histories were completely revealed.
“And she was a fine cook,” Gordon said, reentering the room. “I remember her Scottish tablets.”
Her smile became a little less genuine and a little more fixed.
How many times had she taken a plateful to Gordon, when they were due to meet one afternoon? How many times had they fed them to each other, the chocolate or orange sweetness a perfect accompaniment to their loving?
“I can make stew,” she said, turning to stare at the pantry shelves again. “And scones. I make delicious scones.” She’d taken him scones on numerous occasions as well.
Her stomach had stopped rumbling and in its place was a pain so fierce she thought she might be sick.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
“But for now, you’ll have what Mrs. MacKenzie sent over,” Gordon said, holding a large ceramic container aloft. “A rice and fish dish that’s her specialty.”
She stared at him. Was there no end to his kindness? Damn him.
Helen reached for the container, smiling. Shona didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because she simply escaped the kitchen. Instead of taking the servants’ stairs, she went around to the front, concentrating on each one of the curving steps, the better to focus on something else—anything else—than Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond.
A man she’d loved once. A man she’d adored with her body, her mind, her heart, and her very soul. A man who’d been her companion in spirit and laughter, who’d held her when she wept. A man with whom she’d felt neither shame nor restraint.
A man who’d died in her memory not once but a thousand times. He could not be resurrected now. She would not allow it.
“Are you all right, Shona?”
Helen was at the base of the steps, her face anxious.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said carefully. I want to be alone for a while. No, that was too rude, wasn’t it? “I need to wash up a little,” she said. Never mind that she hadn’t a fresh pitcher of water. In Inverness, they’d had a boiler to produce hot water. At Gairloch, everything was done just as it had been done a hundred years ago.
“Oh, what a good idea,” Helen said, putting ruin to the thought of being blessedly alone. “Shall I bring up some hot water?”
She smiled. Would Helen see how much her lips trembled from there? She hoped not. If her companion knew how tenuous her composure, she’d have to spend the next hour explaining that she was truly all right. It was just the press of memory.
“Thank you, that would be nice.”
Helen disappeared, and she completed her ascent. Instead of entering the room they’d shared last night, she walked down the hall, to the third door. For a moment, she simply leaned against it, the wood cool against her forehead. She shut her eyes, and pretended that it was ten years ago, before her parents’ death, before things changed at Gairloch. She was seventeen, and laughter was her constant companion.
She entered the room and immediately crossed to the window. Most of Gairloch’s glass was so thick and wavy that it was impossible to see through. In the bedrooms, however, the glass had been replaced fifty years ago and the view was clear and without distortion. There, directly below her, was the edge of the lawn at Gairloch, an area created only after the clan ceased going off and returning from war. A formal garden had been planned for years now, and the beds just recently marked out. Beyond the lawn was the forest, stretching northward toward the loch.
To her right was a clearing, this one carefully delineated and marked by a rigid boundary of brick and stone. Rathmhor.
Its silly little tower stood as it had ten years ago. If she was still seventeen, she’d be looking for a signal, a flash of mirror, a wave of cloth. She’d smile, then laugh, then leave Gairloch to be with Gordon.
Summer or winter, spring or autumn, she’d found a way to be with him. It was Mag who’d told her of the way to prevent a child. Mag, who’d showed her where the plants grew and how to brew the mixture. When the old woman died, she felt as if she’d lost her mother again.
She pressed her fingers against the glass, blocking out the sight of Rathmhor.
She bent her head, listening to the wind. During autumn, the wind was like a blustery giant blowing chilled air around Gairloch. But in winter, the giant lost his breath, subsiding beneath the flinty cold.
Now, she felt the cold so intently she couldn’t tell if it was from inside or out.
“Aren’t you carrying your aversion to me a little far?” Gordon asked from behind her.
She closed her eyes, wondering if she had the strength for this confrontation. Folding her arms in front of her, she resolutely turned to face him.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think so.”
“Your meal will get cold, and from what Helen said, you didn’t eat well yesterday.”
What business of it was his? Next, he’d appoint himself her guardian, pretend to care.
Only a few feet separated them, but it might as well be the distance between Gairloch and Rathmhor.
“I’ll eat when I’m ready,” she said, well aware that she sounded like a petulant child.
“When I’m gone.”
She inclined her head, turning away from him to stare out the window again.
He would not see her cry. No one would see her cry.
“Thank you,” she said, unwilling to turn to see if he was still regarding her with that impassive gaze. “Thank you for your generosity.” There, she’d gotten the words out.
A moment passed silently until she was certain he’d left.
She turned to find him standing there, back braced against the doorframe, arms crossed, a look on his face she couldn’t decipher.
Her chin came up, her shoulders straightened and they regarded each other in silence.
“Shona? I’ve brought the water.”
Helen. Dear, virtuous Helen, saving her.
“I must leave,” she said, walking toward the door.
He didn’t move.
Why was she always at disadvantage around him? In Inverness, she hadn’t expected him. Nor had she yesterday. Today, it was almost amusing that he saw her at her worst. Now, she faced him attired in a filthy dress, her face grimy, her hair still covered in a rag.
Yet he was, despite his earlier effort, untouched, unsoiled, and perfect. His white shirt had been recently ironed. His black trousers were pressed as well. His boots had been polished by some adoring servant. He’d recently shaved, and he smelled of sandalwood while she carried the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and dirt.
The male of the species always bore more plumage.
As she stepped to the side, her gaze never leaving his face, he reached out one finger and trailed it over her cheek.
His blue eyes were alive with mischief as she stepped out of his reach.
The texture of his skin would be as soft as she recalled, especially that spot right at the corner of his mouth. Or his temple, where she’d feel the beat of his blood beneath her lips.
She wouldn’t remember.
She couldn’t.
“You’re welcome, Shona,” he said finally.
Then she was free, walking swiftly toward the room she and Helen had shared, all too conscious of his gaze on her.
Chapter 7
He was damned if he was going to live the rest of his life as a cripple. Even though it was all too obvious he didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Fergus looked down at the cane in his left hand, loathing it. Hating, too, the fact that he needed the damn thing to walk or he was apt to end arse up, flat on the floor.
He made it to the Clan Hall, collapsing on one of the benches, happy that Shona, Gordon, and Helen had momentarily disappeared. He wanted a few moments alone, without solicitous comments, without Shona looking at him as if he were a bairn in nappies.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the wall, allowing the silence of Gairloch to enfold him. Here, he was an Imrie, a man preceded by a hundred other such men, made more by the heritage he shared. At Gairloch, he could almost feel the whispers of advice, encouragement, and support, and it wasn’t wishful thinking or the presence of the ghosts. Here, he felt as if he was a better man, simply because he was the Laird of Gairloch.
How could Shona think of selling his birthright? She’d never answered when he questioned her, only said it would be better for both of them to be away from Gairloch. Better for whom? Not for him. As for her, it was time she and Gordon made their peace with each other.
His eyes flew open when thunder sounded at the door.
When no one appeared, he stood with some difficulty and left the Clan Hall, moving down the corridor to the front door, an entrance rarely used since most people were aware that the Upper Courtyard had been designed to trap Clan Imrie’s enemies.
The wooden door was as old as Gairloch, the foot-thick timbers fastened with iron. A sturdy log, supported on brackets across the door, ensured that no one could enter without a battering ram.
The latch was cumbersome, and once that was dispensed with, he removed the log. As he worked, the thundering knock sounded again. He knew better than to call out that he was working as quickly as he could. The wood was so thick no one would hear him.
Finally, he opened the door, the log falling and ringing against the stone floor.
Two people stood on the other side. A man tall and broad enough to be considered a giant, dressed in dark green livery and with a head as bald as a newborn babe’s. He, evidently, had been the one impatiently pounding on the door and, from his expression, he wasn’t happy about it.
