by Karen Ranney
She murmured something, futile words to explain her additional rudeness. The Americans didn’t seem to notice, even though the giant never let her out of his sight. She didn’t have time to worry about him now, or the nurse, or Fergus, or the extent of the gratitude she would owe Colonel Sir Gordon after this.
She raced Helen up the back stairs, stripped the bed in the Laird’s Chamber, wishing that the smell of whiskey didn’t permeate it still. Had Old Ned spilled it on the mattress? With any luck, Mr. Loftus would think it an affectation of Scottish castles, that they all smelled of spirits.
“Where is Old Ned?” she asked, as Helen returned from the linen press, her arms filled with sheets.
“I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s in the kitchen, eating.”
“Kitchen.” She straightened. “Someone needs to cook,” she said, panic gripping her. “I didn’t know there’d be so many people. He never indicated he’d have this many people with him.” She began to count them off on her fingers. “His daughter, his bodyguard.” She stared at Helen. “Why does he need a bodyguard? Never mind,” she added, shaking her head. “The nurse.” She took one of the sheets from Helen. “I need to talk to Fergus about that. That’s four people. Counting the drivers, that’s three more. That’s seven. Plus us. That’s ten. Plus Ned. Eleven people! And I can make tea and toast. And scones. Oh, and stew, but anyone can make stew, can’t they?”
She was beginning to babble.
Other than a little too much hero worship of Colonel Sir Gordon, Helen was an excellent companion and wouldn’t divulge her lack of control. Even if she gave in to hysterics, which Shona was only too afraid she would in the next few moments, Helen wouldn’t tell anyone.
“I’m quite good at cream soups,” Helen said.
“Yes, but do you know what to do with a side of beef? Or venison?”
The two women looked at each other.
“Not to mention preparing rooms for all of them.”
“I’m exhausted already,” Helen said, “and we’ve barely finished with this room. Where are you putting Miriam?”
Only one room would do for the wealthy industrialist’s daughter: her own. Thankfully, it didn’t need more than a cursory airing out, a quick dust, and a change of sheets.
An hour later, they’d managed to prepare four rooms, all of them in the family wing. She moved Fergus’s belongings to the guest wing while she and Helen selected adjoining rooms, moving their own trunks by sliding them down the hall runner.
When they were done, they surveyed the bedrooms for the Americans one last time. Everything had been done in a slipshod, hurried manner that embarrassed her, but at least they had a chamber for each of Loftus’s entourage. The drivers would have to bunk in the stable, unless the American preferred all his staff to be housed in Gairloch proper. If that was the case, she needed more time to prepare more rooms.
“Vases of heather,” she said.
Helen nodded and no doubt put it on a list in her mind. A cook, Shona added silently. Good humor when dealing with Fergus. She needed to be valiant in the coming days, and not so prickly. She could not be upset by the Americans’ manner, or Fergus’s actions.
And Gordon?
Gordon was a separate matter entirely. Gordon was a pebble in her shoe, a wisp of hair brushing against her face, a shutter that slapped against the wall. He was a constant, unremitting irritant.
They retreated to the Clan Hall, but not before they each took a little time to change and freshen themselves. Helen had a lovely blue wool to wear, while the majority of Shona’s wardrobe was composed of half mourning, dresses with white collars and cuffs.
She was flushed, her hair was a disaster, but she was clean, an improvement over an hour earlier. When they entered the Clan Hall, the Americans—and Gordon—were nowhere to be found. Instead, they were ensconced in the more comfortable Family Parlor. Gordon was standing by the fireplace, the very picture of a Scottish baronet posing in his castle. All he needed was a pair of hounds at his feet, a few dirks and shields mounted behind him, and to be attired in a kilt, and the picture would be perfect.
He had the legs for a kilt.
The last time she’d seen him in a kilt was when she’d said farewell to Fergus at the ship that would take him off to war. Both men had been dressed in the traditional Ninety-third Highlanders: the red coat and kilt with sporran and bandolier. Gordon’s jacket had held only two medals. How many more had he acquired since then?
She hadn’t spoken to him then, nor told him how handsome he looked. Bruce had been with her, and her husband deserved a wife who clung to her vows, even mentally.
Dreams were something else.
Gordon was acting the part of host even though Gairloch didn’t belong to him, in the face of Fergus’s absence. She would owe him for that, too.
“Your rooms are ready,” she said as she and Helen swept into the room. “Would you like something to eat first? Or to begin our tour of Gairloch?”
“Later,” Mr. Loftus said, standing. He was flanked by his giant and his nurse. Which did he fear more, disease or an enemy? “We’ll get settled first, Countess, then eat, and tomorrow we’ll look over the place.”
She folded her hands in front of her and nodded, emulating her mother once more. Had her mother ever felt this churning of emotions and thoughts? In all her memories, she’d seemed almost divinely guided by tact and composure.
“Will the laird be joining us?” Miriam asked, rising from a chair with a studied grace.
Shona nodded again, wondering at her own composure when lying. She didn’t even know where Fergus was at the moment, let alone if he’d consent to join them.
“Sir Gordon says he won the Victoria Cross. How utterly wonderful.”
Was the woman daft? The price for that honor had been steep indeed. Fergus would probably always be in pain, always walk with a limp, and always have difficulty raising his left hand above his shoulder.
She knew, suddenly, how her mother had done it. She’d simply numbed herself to her surroundings, pretending as if the absolute inanity spoken by her guests was so much noise, like the screech of eagles, or the sough of the wind.
All Shona had to do was ignore the American woman.
Miriam made a point of stretching with a little shiver at the end of it, as if she were a kitten who’d just felt a chill. The gesture called attention to her petite body, snug in her coat, and especially to her plenteous bosom.
Did Americans stuff their corsets?
“Have you a maid, Miss Loftus?” she asked. “Will she be arriving later?”
“Good heavens, no,” Miriam said with a little laugh. “We Americans are used to doing for ourselves.”
The expression on the nurse’s face lasted only a second before it was smoothed away.
“I can certainly dress myself, and Elizabeth helps with my hair.” Miriam studied her for a moment. “I can lend her to you, if you think she might be able to help.”
Surprise at the insult kept her mute, even after Miriam went to her father’s side, grabbing his arm as if needing his protection. “Will you be escorting us to our rooms, Gordy?” she asked, her mouth curved in a perfectly acceptable social smile.
Gordy? Gordy?
Perhaps that was better than Colonel Sir Gordon, but not by much.
Gordon only smiled back at her, while Helen, bless her, stepped forward. “I will do so, if you don’t mind, Miss Loftus.” She turned to the American industrialist. “I’m afraid the stairs are rather steep, Mr. Loftus. Will that be a problem?”
His look was as direct as Helen’s words. “Not as long as I’ve my man here,” he said, motioning to the giant. “I find myself in any rough patches, Helmut will get me out.”
Helen nodded, then turned and glanced at Shona. She raised an eyebrow, evidently a signal of some kind. Shona didn’t have any idea what she wanted until Helen approached her and whispered one word.
“Cook,” she said, then inclined her head toward Gordon.
This day was a day of firsts, wasn’t it? She’d scrubbed a floor on her hands and knees, fluffed mattresses, in addition to performing all the duties of an upstairs maid. She’d welcomed a group of people into her home—people she wasn’t certain she could come to like.
Now she was to go to Gordon MacDermond, and beggar herself?
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and afternoon was rapidly advancing. If Fergus was about, she would have appealed to him to solicit Gordon’s help, but her brother had disappeared.
She smiled as the Americans left the room, feeling as if her face might split in two as she did so. Hypocrites were the worst kind of people and she was acting the part at the moment. She not only disliked herself for doing so; she despised the circumstances that made it necessary.
Perhaps she should place the blame on her grandsire, who’d spent a great deal of money at the gaming tables. Or on her mother, who saw nothing wrong in flitting off to Paris to buy gowns that were rarely seen, except for her parents’ infrequent visits to Edinburgh. Or on both parents equally, when they had the unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, both succumbing within days of each other to a virulent influenza. Only hours after they’d been interred in the chapel at Gairloch, the creditors had come calling.
Very well, she’d do what she must, just to keep up appearances for a little while longer.
Her hands trembled; it was fatigue. Her stomach was suddenly nauseous; she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A piercing pain sat in the middle of her forehead; she hadn’t slept well the night before.
She made her way across the room, wishing Gordon didn’t appear quite so large and imposing in his stance. He folded his arms and watched her, remaining silent. He must know she wanted something, because a glint appeared in his eye, a mote of humor.
Halting several feet away, she took a deep breath, her gaze never leaving his.
“We need a cook,” she said. Perhaps she should have phrased the request a little less baldly. “Gordon, we need a cook.” That wasn’t much better, was it? “Colonel Sir Gordon,” she said, moderating her voice so that not one scintilla of sarcasm appeared in it, “we need a cook.”
“Do you, Countess?”
Did he maintain that even tone while commanding his men? Did he keep that same expression on his face so his troops couldn’t figure out exactly what he was thinking? Once, she’d known. Once, she’d been able to discern each one of his emotions.
But, then, they’d been lovers.
Seven years ago, when the world was a kinder place, they’d loved each other. A time when she’d been ignorant of the pitfalls that lay ahead, before war or penury. Years before she realized the sheer determination she’d need to get through each day.
Dear God, had she ever been that innocent, that naïve?
“Is there anyone at Rathmhor who would like to apply for the position?”
By the time quarterly wages were due, Gairloch would have been sold, and she could afford to pay a cook. If, for some reason, the American changed his mind, it wouldn’t matter about wages. They’d starve to death because she wouldn’t be able afford to buy food.
She clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, firmed her lips into the semblance of a smile, pushed the pain of her headache away, and looked up at him.
Had he grown taller over the years? He’d certainly become a more commanding presence. She’d read of the horrors of the war in India. What had he seen? Surely. enough horrible deeds that there wasn’t a trace of the young lover she’d known in his face. Only the shadow of the Gordon MacDermond she’d known and adored.
But, then, she wasn’t the girl she’d been, either.
His silence didn’t bode well. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were restive, playing over her features, studying her hair, her face, her dress.
She knew she didn’t look the part of countess, and felt even less so. She hadn’t become used to her title, especially since she and Bruce were not often in society. Her servants addressed her as Your Ladyship and even that had taken some acclimation. She and Helen had agreed that they would not have formality between them. Only today, with the Americans, had she reverted to being the Countess of Morton.
If a title helped sell Gairloch, then so be it.
She whirled to leave the room, his words slowing, but not stopping, her.
“I’ll send over a likely candidate tomorrow.”
She hesitated at the door, turning to look back at him. “I’d prefer this afternoon,” she said, wondering why he smiled.
The Americans must be fed dinner, and Thomas Loftus didn’t look as if he’d be satisfied with a bit of cream soup and toast. And that giant of his, what would he eat? A side of beef at each sitting?
“This afternoon it is,” Gordon said.
His blue eyes twinkled at her.
Don’t do that. Do not attempt to charm me. I can’t be charmed by you. I mustn’t be.
She nodded, intending to leave before she could put breath behind the words.
His question stopped her.
“Why are you so intent on selling Gairloch?”
At that moment, she wished she had more experience in society. More than the occasional dinner or rare ball that Bruce agreed to attend. Her husband was older, and in the last few years, hadn’t been a well man. With a bit more sangfroid, achieved through countless societal obligations, she might have been able to answer that question with a haughtiness that would discourage further interest.
Instead, all she could do was stare at him.
“I would have thought that coming home would be a blessing, of sorts,” he said. “Unless you don’t consider Gairloch home anymore.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because it’s home,” he said, a smile still in evidence.
“It never has been before,” she said. “You were always off soldiering.”
“I’ve come home.”
“For how long?”
“For good.” Finally, the smile was gone, but in its place a regard that was proving to be a bit too intense. “I’m opening the Works,” he said.
Now that was a surprise.
“Why?”
“If I tell you, will you tell me why you’re set to sell Gairloch? I’ve some interest in the people who’ll become my only neighbors, you know.”
“I would think Miriam would be just the sort for you,” she said.
She’d never before been petty for the sake of it, but his resurgent smile irritated her. “Perhaps you can convince her that the crofter’s cottage is the perfect trysting place.”
His smile vanished.
“Or perhaps she’ll marry an old earl, to better herself. I hear some women do that.”
She didn’t have a rejoinder for that.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said easily. “Perhaps Miriam is just the sort for me.”
This time, she did leave, and not one word or question he asked could have made her stay.
To blazes with a cook. She’d find something for the Americans to eat even if she had to prepare it herself.
Chapter 9
A hundred years ago, a man came to Gairloch, a man made friend by the laird. A man with experience in war, Brian MacDermond nevertheless possessed a gentle manner. None suffered from his temper. Not one person felt his rage. That was given for his enemy in battle, and for the person gone from friend to foe.
His birthplace was far away, in the border lands, the disputed lands that faced and defied England. In his early years, he’d spent too many nights reiving against the English, punishing them for the fact of their presence, if nothing else.
Brian MacDermond and Magnus Imrie had fought together in the last rebellion, had healed together, each congratulating the other on the fierceness of his wounds and the scars they would make. Each man had eaten roasted hare over an open fire, talked of shelter with longing in his voice when the pitiless rains fell. When failure found them both accep
ting and unsurprised, they planned for what future the English would allow them. One coaxed the other to put aside his petty border wars for another life, one dedicated to raising sons amid the peace of Clan Imrie.
And, so, to the Highlands Brian MacDermond went, accompanied by his earthly possessions, a wagon filled with what he’d inherited or won in reiving. With him were seventeen people, members of his clan who, if they doubted the wisdom of this northward migration, kept it secret.
By urging the Lowlander north, Magnus accomplished two tasks—brought into Invergaire Glen a man of great strength and bravery, a man who would play the pipes no matter that they were now banned. He also, by his actions, put into motion a love so strong that the echoes of it would be felt a hundred years in the future.
“Where have you been?” Shona whispered, catching sight of Fergus before he entered the dining room.
He stopped and stared at her. He looked tired, which had the effect of mitigating her irritation more than his careless shrug.
She’d spent the last three hours fulfilling the Americans’ wishes. Hot water? Yes, of course, it would only be a moment. More Scottish whiskey? That would be no problem at all, Mr. Loftus.
Gordon hadn’t just sent an applicant for the position of cook, but the undercook from Rathmhor, in addition to a young girl who was serving as maid and general helper.
Shona really wished she had the option of sending them back to Rathmhor with a curt instruction to tell their employer to kiss his own well-formed arse, but she didn’t. Besides, the younger girl—Jennie—was obviously excited to be there, smiling throughout her introduction.
“We’re to tell you that it’s a bit of vacation for us,” the younger girl said, bobbing a curtsy. “It’s Gairloch, after all, Your Ladyship.”
In other words, she didn’t have to pay them.
“Where were you?” she asked Fergus now.
“I needed some time alone,” he said, and from the look on his face that was all he was going to say.
“Are you going to have dinner with us, then?” she asked.
He nodded again, staring at the entrance to the dining room with reluctance. She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t want to spend the next hour in the company of Miriam Loftus and her father, either.
