A Scottish Love

by Karen Ranney

  The other person was his opposite in all ways.

  If the giant was the beast, the woman was beauty.

  She was exquisite, and Fergus was not given to exaggeration. Her black hair was as dark as a Highland midnight. Her eyes were a piercing blue like the water at the edge of Loch Mor. She had a little heart-shaped face, a straight short nose, and a chin that ended in a sharp point. Later, he would think that her pink mouth was a little too large for perfection, but now it was arranged in a smile so blinding, revealing even, white teeth, that he could be excused for being momentarily dazzled.

  “I know, for a fact,” she said, in an unexpectedly jarring accent, “that you aren’t the Countess of Morton.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m her brother.” He introduced himself in a singular and previously never used manner. “I’m the Laird of Gairloch.”

  Her swooping black eyebrows rose in a perfect arch. She raised her left hand and waved it in the direction of the giant. “This is Helmut,” she said. “My father’s bodyguard.”

  “And you are?” he asked, bemusedly thinking that she withheld her own identity as if it were a treasure to be sought.

  In truth, he knew before she spoke, knew as he spotted the grand traveling carriage beyond the gate. The coachman had evidently thought he’d be wedged in the archway.

  A feeling like doom settled over him then, as deep as the fog that hung over the loch in midsummer.

  “I’m Miriam Loftus,” she said, twinkling up at him. “Thomas Loftus is my father.”

  “The Americans,” he said. A recognition, more than an announcement.

  “You’re early,” Shona said from behind him.

  He glanced back at his sister, sighing inwardly. Shona hadn’t had time to clean up, and next to the American woman, she looked the worse for wear. Of course, Miriam Loftus hadn’t been scrubbing all morning.

  “I didn’t expect you for five days.”

  “You’re the Countess of Morton?” the American asked, her tone rising at the end of the question as if unable to believe that the unkempt woman at his left was actually titled.

  He almost winced, awaiting Shona’s rebuff. But his sister surprised him by stepping back, out of the doorway.

  “Give them directions to the Lower Courtyard,” she said, and was gone.

  “Bloody hell! Why in the name of God are they here now?”

  “Shona!”

  She looked up to find Helen on the stairs, her mouth agape in shock. Behind her was Gordon, his face carefully expressionless.

  “Put me in chains,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Pillory me. Pour boiling oil on my head and rend my clothing. I restrained myself. You should have heard what I was thinking.”

  She stalked to the rear of Gairloch, wishing that God was, indeed, a Scot. Let Him deal with this situation because she most certainly couldn’t.

  Yes, she could. She must.

  Fergus had gone to war; she could greet the Americans.

  Why had they arrived five days early? Why had they arrived before she had time to put herself in order?

  She’d disliked the American woman on sight, and wasn’t that a terrible thing to admit? Would she have liked her under any conditions? After all, if everything went right, they were going to buy her heritage from her.

  Miriam Loftus could have at least seemed out of sorts or fatigued by travel. No, she’d been radiant, evidently captivating Fergus enough that he’d stood there agog.

  She didn’t enter the Lower Courtyard right away. Instead, she went into the stillroom, whisked off the rag binding her hair, gathered it up, and tried to make it appear less nestlike in the snood at the base of her neck. She washed her face and hands and, after glancing down at her dress, realized that nothing could salvage it.

  At least the floor in the Clan Hall was clean.

  She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked to the door to greet the Americans.

  “I do apologize, Colonel Sir Gordon,” Helen said. “Shona’s been under a great deal of strain lately.”

  He smiled down into Helen Paterson’s earnest face. “Gordon is fine, Miss Paterson,” he said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  Helen Paterson was a stickler for propriety, then. He tucked the information away for later. Did she find being a companion to Shona an onerous duty?

  “You needn’t explain Shona to me,” he said. “She’s always had a fiery temperament.” And he was oddly pleased to have been witness to it. The proper—almost brittle—countess was only a façade.

  “You’ve known each other since you were children,” she said. Another glance back at him, this one filled with curiosity.

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Shall we go and welcome them officially?” Fergus asked from the bottom of the stairs.

  He surveyed his friend. Fergus’s face was flushed, but he didn’t look otherwise exhausted.

  “Are you up to it?” he asked, knowing the minute he said the words that Fergus wouldn’t appreciate them.

  To his surprise, the other man only nodded.

  The corridors of Gairloch were wide enough to accommodate the three of them walking abreast, Helen between them, as silent as Fergus.

  He’d stroked a finger down the side of Shona’s face and she’d flinched.

  Her gray eyes had been ice cool, direct and revealing nothing of her thoughts. The Countess of Morton in all her frosty demeanor. At least, until the scene at the door. What would it take to make her disappear again? Now, that was a foolish thought. Even more disturbing was the surge of anticipation he felt.

  Someone tapped on her shoulder and, without turning, Shona knew who it was.

  Gordon had bedeviled her all during her childhood, until she was seventeen. She could still remember the exact moment he’d begun to see her differently—not as Fergus’s bothersome younger sister, but as a young woman. She’d been experimenting with her maid, trying to decide on just the right way to wear her hair. Finally, they’d threaded ribbons through her curls, the same shade of ribbon that matched the decorative hem and sleeves of her dress.

  The dress hadn’t been special; the occasion had been a simple day at Gairloch, but when she’d come down the steps, he’d been there, waiting for Fergus. He’d turned and looked up at her, and in the silence, she’d somehow known it would be different between them from that moment onward.

  Now she took a few steps to the right, away from him, unwilling to remember any more scenes between them.

  The coach that entered the courtyard a minute later was magnificent, certainly the equal of any she’d seen at a royal residence. Since it was wider than the narrow roads of the Highlands, she doubted if the owner had considered his destination when purchasing it. At least it looked well sprung and more than capable of carrying six or more people.

  The coachman, dressed in the same livery as the giant beside him, was an older man, seemingly expert at handling the team of six matched chestnut horses. The leather hardware was adorned with silver that gleamed in the early afternoon sunlight. Shona wouldn’t have been surprised to see gold trim on the doors.

  Two wagons entered the courtyard after the coach, the first loaded with a mountain of trunks. The second wagon held barrels and crates and boxes piled on top of each other.

  “The stables are going to be crowded,” Fergus was saying.

  Her brother was right. She counted fourteen horses so far, and more if the Americans had outriders or another wagon following. With any luck, there was some feed in those barrels.

  Sitting in Inverness, she’d thought the wealthy American would come, she would impart the history of Gairloch, he would be charmed and make an offer on the castle. She’d thought her biggest obstacle might be Fergus’s recalcitrance.

  Not once had she considered that he might have such an entourage accompanying him. Or thought about the logistics of having to house all of them.

  Or feeding all of them.

  The foo
d Gordon had brought and unloaded only a little while ago now seemed paltry in view of the fact she had Thomas Loftus and his daughter, their three drivers, and who knew how many other people to feed. Not to mention the giant. How much did he eat?

  She couldn’t very well advance on Mr. Loftus, demand to know if he wanted to buy the castle, then finalize the sale tonight. Some charm was necessary, even though she felt charmless. Some tact and diplomacy was called for, just at a time she was certain she had none.

  A tap on her shoulder again. She turned, annoyed, but instead of Gordon, Helen stood there. A call to good manners. Helen was more than her companion. Recently, she’d acted as her conscience, too.

  An inclination of Helen’s head was enough of a reminder that Shona nodded, curved her lips into a welcoming smile, moved down the steps, grateful that the wagon from Rathmhor had been moved to the side of the courtyard.

  Gairloch looked its best in the brightness, its pale yellow stone appearing almost white in the afternoon sun, the gravel of the courtyard sparkling. Behind her, arranged on the steps, were Fergus, Gordon, and Helen.

  The men were quite properly attired, and handsome specimens, even if she grudgingly allowed that label for Gordon. She and Helen, however, were disreputable sights.

  The carriage slowed to a stop in front of the steps.

  She folded her hands in front of her, her posture and poise mimicking her mother’s when she’d greeted important guests. Of course, her mother had been attired in the finest French fashions, her hair arranged by a personal maid devoted to her mistress, and even the air around her perfumed by scents Shona could never afford.

  Very well, she’d have to do the best she could.

  The giant reminded her of the Russian soldiers Fergus had described to her when he could be persuaded to talk about his wartime experiences. Tall, broad-shouldered, his bearing erect, everything seemed overly large about him, from his hands to his feet. His head was perfectly bald, and his beard groomed to a point.

  Why did Mr. Loftus feel the need for a bodyguard?

  The giant jumped down from his perch, opened the door, and bowed low, as if before royalty. A delicate foot appeared. A moment later, the giant extended his hand, rolled down the carriage steps, and offered his arm for the American heiress.

  “Well, at least they look wealthy enough to afford Gairloch,” Fergus said from behind her.

  Miriam Loftus emerged from the carriage slowly, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Like wings being unfurled, her smile spread across her face; her eyes, blue and clear, seemed to summon their gazes.

  She was attired in an emerald green coat over a long skirt, both the tight-fitting coat and the matching hat improbably edged in fur. If she thought Scotland was cold in September, she wouldn’t like January very much.

  Tiptoeing across the gravel, as if it were dangerous waters she crossed, Miriam Loftus gave the impression of being almost too delicate, too feminine to manage the distance.

  Shona’s shoes were not so delicately made. When she wasn’t conscious of it, she stomped across the floor.

  Perhaps Gairloch deserved a princess and not an irritated countess in residence.

  Miriam’s glance encompassed them in a measured way, as if the American woman was gauging the reaction of her audience to her arrival. Helen was obviously beneath her notice because her glance barely hesitated there. Fergus received a sweet and tender smile. Gordon, however, was the recipient of a coy sideways look.

  Shona could feel her own expression freeze.

  The giant did not accompany her across the gravel. Instead, he turned toward the carriage again, this time to assist a man in dismounting. A rather corpulent individual, bearded and mustached, and dressed in a suit of midnight blue, emerged from the vehicle. His black hair was dusted with gray at the temples. His face was round, almost porcine in appearance, with a small flattened nose and eyes as blue as his daughter’s, only a more piercing shade. His smile, however, possessed a surprising warmth. The amiable expression firmed up his face and gave a hint of how handsome he’d been as a younger man.

  She felt the shock of his gaze immediately, as if he were measuring her not as the potential seller of Gairloch but as an adversary. The daughter had evidently learned that trick from her father.

  She didn’t have to like the Americans. All she had to do was welcome them to Gairloch.

  Yet another person exited the carriage, a woman this time. The giant turned away as if uninterested in her descent, giving Shona a clue that she was a servant. Added to that impression was the fact that the woman was wearing a uniform, of sorts. A large blue apron covered the whole of her bodice and skirt.

  Her hair was blond, but pulled back into a bun covered by blue net. Her eyes, a soft brown, were flat and expressionless. Neither her attire nor her expression could diminish her beauty.

  Shona heard an indrawn breath and turned to look behind her. Fergus’s face had drained to white. He was staring at the woman who’d emerged from the carriage. In the next moment, she caught sight of him, and the two of them might as well have been alone in the courtyard.

  Slowly, he descended one step, the effort obviously costing him. When Gordon grabbed his arm to help, Fergus shook it off.

  Time was acting very strange, as if the minutes slowed to view this tableau with more detail. She wasn’t conscious of the American and his daughter, only of Fergus, and that look of pain on his face. She’d seen that look only a few times, when the discomfort reached a level he could no longer hide it.

  The woman and Fergus were the center of attention, but if either of them cared, they didn’t show it. He halted, some ten feet away, taking in her appearance slowly. She returned his look for a very long moment, then very deliberately looked away before reaching inside the carriage.

  Without a word, Fergus turned and retraced his steps, this time taking advantage of Gordon’s assistance.

  Chapter 8

  Before Shona could ask what had just happened, Fergus and Gordon disappeared into Gairloch.

  Thomas Loftus advanced on Shona as if she were a wall he intended to breach. Before she could welcome him to Gairloch, apologize for her brother’s behavior, or say a dozen or so other acceptable remarks that might have eased the tension of the moment, he stuck out his hand.

  Bemused, she put her hand in his, and found it being enveloped by large, fleshy fingers.

  “You’re very young to be a widow,” he said, his look taking in the whole of her appearance. He finally released her hand, and she grabbed her skirt with it.

  She couldn’t think of a rejoinder, so she remained mute, her smile firmly fixed in place.

  “I’ve caught you at an importune time,” he said.

  Yes, he had, but she only demurred, remembering her mother’s lessons. “We’re happy to welcome you to Gairloch at any time,” she said.

  “That was your brother?” he asked, staring up at the door. “The Laird of Gairloch?”

  Her embarrassment over Fergus’s actions was suddenly tinged by a surge of protectiveness. She found herself curiously unwilling to apologize for him.

  “He stared at you as if you were a ghost, Elizabeth,” he said, turning to the young woman who’d mesmerized Fergus. “Do you know him?”

  “We might have met in the Crimea, Mr. Loftus,” she said softly, her accent that of London.

  “Elizabeth is a nurse,” Miriam said, taking her father’s arm. “Father’s regular nurse didn’t make the voyage well,” she added, flipping her hand in the air as if to dismiss the woman’s illness and the woman herself.

  “I’m sorry you’re ill,” Shona heard herself say in a direct disregard of proper manners. She knew better than to comment on the state of someone’s health, especially a stranger’s health. Especially the health of a man who was offering her the first sign of hope in a very long time.

  “It’s of no account, Countess,” he said, his tone indicating that the topic was not one for discussion.

  She bit the in
side of her lip, reminding herself that she didn’t have to like the Americans, only be cordial to them.

  “As you can see,” she said, drawing on her mother’s example, “this is the main courtyard for the castle. The builders of Gairloch devised a way to fool their enemies with the Upper Courtyard.”

  “We’ll get a tour later, if you don’t mind, Countess,” Mr. Loftus said, interrupting. “We’re tired and would like to be shown to our rooms.”

  Their rooms. Dear God, their rooms.

  She turned and sent a panicked glance to Helen, one that was intercepted by Gordon returning from assisting Fergus up the stairs.

  “We’re in the process of readying your rooms, Mr. Loftus,” he said, coming down the steps. “In the meantime, can I interest you in some fine Scottish whiskey?”

  When Gordon smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, the effect utterly charming. His delaying tactic might give her enough time to slip up the stairs and ready the Laird’s Chamber for Mr. Loftus, and another room for his daughter. And another one for the giant? What about the nurse? Surely, she should be close to her patient?

  “Who are you?” Miriam asked, smiling sweetly up at Gordon.

  Helen spoke up from behind her.

  “This is Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond, Baronet of Invergaire,” Helen said, for all the world like a chirpy little sparrow given the ability to speak.

  The Americans appeared to be impressed. Gordon was, perhaps, a striking figure, a handsome man in the prime of his life. He gripped the American’s hand, and they shook as if they were adversaries testing each other’s mettle.

  “If you’ll give us a few moments,” she said, wishing for hours, instead, “we’ll have everything prepared for you.”

  “In the meantime,” Gordon said, extending his arm for Miriam, “shall we go into the Clan Hall?”

  Fergus had disappeared, and Gordon stepped into the breach. From his quick glance, he seemed to know that Shona was balancing on a fulcrum of irritation and gratitude.