A Scottish Love

by Karen Ranney

  Or was it seeing the nurse he dreaded?

  “What is she to you, Fergus?”

  He waved her question away, and she huffed out a breath, annoyed beyond measure.

  What a bother men were.

  He turned and entered the dining room, and she followed a moment later, saying a little prayer that the meal wouldn’t be as dreadful as she feared.

  The dining room had been carved from the Clan Hall, partitioned off a few decades ago to allow for dining in a more sophisticated manner than trenchers and rough-hewn tables. This table was mahogany and had been imported from Edinburgh two dozen years ago. The chairs were carved in the same pattern and upholstered in a deep red fabric. Fergus had heard it called something else, once, but he couldn’t remember the name.

  He was damn lucky to remember who he was at the moment.

  Elizabeth was there, attending to Thomas Loftus as if he were a wounded soldier and not a hale and hearty-looking wealthy American. He was seated at the head of the table in his chair, an odd thronelike chair that had been passed down from laird to laird.

  In the American’s case, the word should be lard.

  None of them noticed him until he was almost at the table, and then Miriam smiled at him, a lovely and gracious mistress-of-the-manor smile that Shona should have worn. Instead, his sister was a few steps behind him and he could almost hear the grinding of her teeth.

  Loftus merely nodded at him, intent upon his tumbler of whiskey. Perhaps he should have invited Old Ned to the dinner as well. The two men could have discussed the relative merits of different casks in the cellar.

  At least Gairloch had plenty of wine and whiskey on hand.

  Miriam turned to him, extending a delicate hand, an encouragement for him to sit beside her. He’d gladly take that particular chair, since it would be as far from Elizabeth as possible. She still had not looked in his direction.

  Shona sat to the left of Mr. Loftus, while Helmut sat to his right. He couldn’t help but wonder if the bodyguard also chewed the man’s food for him first.

  Was the American so loathsome a creature that he was in danger of being killed? Or did he simply put too great a price on his own existence?

  The soldier who did that endangered others, a fact he knew only too well.

  Elizabeth was thinner than he remembered. The look in her eyes was more cautious. Only the smile was the same.

  Was she as solicitous with Thomas Loftus as she’d been with the men of the Ninety-third? Did she fluff his pillow, leaning over to brush back his hair? Did she come so close that her patient smiled, thinking himself in heaven and this glorious woman an angel?

  Every day, for weeks, he’d gone to check on his men. Miss Nightingale’s contingent of nurses had helped to save countless wounded. Elizabeth, working in the ward where most of his men had been taken, gave them the first ray of hope and beauty in a very long time.

  Did she remember those days? How could she forget them? He remembered every moment of battle, every second of every war. He’d been desperate to survive. And afterward, those little bits of respite he’d been given were even more precious.

  Did she recall how he’d told her, when the Ninety-third was being sent home to Aldershot, that he loved her? Would she wait for him? Or had she forgotten that, too?

  Evidently, she had, or she wouldn’t be ignoring him so pointedly now.

  He directed his attention to Miriam Loftus. The American woman was quite lovely and very much impressed by his title of Laird of Gairloch, if he wasn’t mistaken. Twice, she’d asked him to describe the duties of his rank. Did she think him a duke? Or an earl, like Shona’s husband?

  He didn’t know what Bruce had done during his life. When he was younger, of course, he’d attended Parliament. He’d proposed a number of good works in his time. When Shona had married him, however, the man had been older, a little worn, and tired. A man who was damn lucky to get Shona Imrie, even if he was an earl.

  For all the love he had for his sister, he wasn’t blind to her faults. Too impetuous, rash, and emotional for her own good. Lately, however, she seemed to have developed a wide practical streak. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be talking now to an American woman with an atrocious accent, and a way of treating others as if they were beneath her notice.

  Unless they had a title.

  As for being the Laird of Gairloch, his main duty was ceremonial. Once, the Imrie lairds had been responsible for the welfare of the clan. If any of his ancestors had been faced with the bleak circumstances he now found himself in, they’d probably have resorted to stealing cattle again.

  The idea of being a reiver struck him as a damn sight more agreeable than selling Gairloch.

  Someone with skill had produced this wonderful dinner, a feast he had every intention of enjoying despite the company or the fact that Elizabeth, the woman he’d once loved, was pretending she didn’t know him, hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t looked at him with love in her eyes.

  “New cook, Shona?” he asked, between listening to Miriam’s endless tale of the voyage to London, the carriage trip to Gairloch, and being aware of the awkward silence at the other end of the table.

  She nodded, her firm look warning him to be more politic around the Americans. Who cared? He didn’t. He wasn’t for selling his birthright anyway. With a little economy, they would manage. His sister, however, was notoriously stubborn. Once Shona was set on something, God Himself couldn’t dislodge the thought.

  She hadn’t entertained much as Bruce’s wife, but Shona knew a disaster when she saw one. Mr. Loftus refused to be engaged in conversation, and when she’d attempted to say something to the giant, the American had interrupted her.

  “Helmut doesn’t speak very much English, Countess. He’s German.”

  She didn’t speak a word of German.

  Miriam had changed for dinner. No doubt most of those trunks the giant had hauled up the stairs were hers. Just how long did they plan on staying? Was Mr. Loftus going to make an offer, then remain at Gairloch? Or was he going to return to New York? Or, an even more hideous thought, was he going to spend a few weeks here in order to “experience” Scotland?

  She’d much rather concentrate on Miriam’s dress, a peacock blue silk adorned with bangles. The garment bared her shoulders and too much of her bosom, especially for a dinner in a remote Scottish castle.

  Miriam was directing all her attention to Fergus, who was looking pained from time to time. Not that anyone would know. He was the epitome of decorum, answering questions, passing a platter, and pouring the wine.

  Thank God the Americans didn’t object to the dinner being served a la Russe, which eliminated the necessity of footmen or maids.

  What was Mr. Loftus’s ailment that he required a constant nurse? She and the woman had exchanged a look, curiosity meeting curiosity. Here was someone with whom she might have been able to converse, if the nurse hadn’t been sitting on the other side of Mr. Loftus. Helen, however, was engaging the woman in conversation when Elizabeth wasn’t directing her attention to her patient.

  Mr. Loftus was concentrating, rather fiercely, on his dinner, and when he wasn’t eating, he was drinking. Helmut had poured him three glasses of whiskey so far, and the meal was only half done.

  But everything tasted wonderful. Was it because she was so hungry or was the woman in the kitchen just such a wondrous cook? She suspected both were true.

  “When did you lose your husband, Countess?” Mr. Loftus abruptly asked.

  She kept her voice low, but it vibrated with emotion. “A little over two years ago, sir.”

  “Sudden, was it?”

  Of all the subjects in the world, the last one she wanted to discuss was Bruce, but she forced a smile to her face and answered him. Perhaps a bit of truth would dissuade him from continuing the subject any further.

  “My husband had been ill for some time,” she said, staring down at her plate.

  “You’re not a bad-looking woman,” he said, a comment that ha
d her gaze jerking up to meet his. He was regarding her over the top of his glass.

  St. Gertrude and all the saints. Was he interested in her?

  Fergus began to cough, but she didn’t dare look over at him. Her brother was trying not to laugh. And Helen? Helen was looking as shocked as she felt.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Have you no plans to marry again?”

  She shook her head, desperately focusing on her glass of wine. If she drank all of it right down, would she become tipsy immediately? She didn’t dislike the feeling, and it might fog the evening substantially so that she could deal with Mr. Loftus.

  “Are you married, Mr. Loftus?” Helen asked, smiling brightly as if she didn’t know the question was almost vulgar and, at any other gathering, unpardonably rude.

  However, the Americans seemed very direct people and this dinner had been different from the beginning.

  Mr. Loftus merely glanced at Helen. “I’ve been a widower for many years, ma’am.”

  “Please call me Helen,” she said. Another gaffe, one that the American didn’t seem to note.

  Was all propriety to be set aside for the duration of their visit? If so, she might as well stand, throw her napkin down on her chair, and stomp off, intent on her room. Except, of course, that she was desperate to sell Gairloch, which meant she had to remain in place, like the queen on a chessboard.

  Thank God for Helen.

  At the moment, she was smiling toothily at Mr. Loftus, such a blinding gesture of goodwill that the man put his glass of whiskey down and stared at her in return. The look wasn’t entirely complimentary, more in the lines of someone who’d spotted an oddity in his environment.

  “My mother was an absolutely beautiful woman,” Miriam announced, looking directly at Helen.

  Even the most charitable person couldn’t label Helen beautiful, but she was kind, and that virtue meant more than looks.

  “What was her name?” Shona asked. Another insipid question, one more designed to deflect Miriam’s wrath than any curiosity on her part.

  Miriam turned to her and gave her a look of such incredulity that she might as well have been one of the stable cats given the power of speech.

  Without answering, Miriam turned back to her father. “Must we speak of dead people?” she asked.

  Shona had the most incredible wish to slap the young woman silly.

  Fergus took the opportunity to interject a comment, no doubt because he’d seen the look in her eyes.

  “Do you find Scotland interesting, Miss Loftus?”

  “It’s a very odd place,” Miriam said. “Quite empty. And you all speak strangely.”

  Fergus smiled, but the expression was a little thin.

  “Were you a nurse in the Crimea?” Shona asked, turning toward Elizabeth.

  “I understand you have no boiler at Gairloch,” the nurse replied. “What is the most convenient method to obtain hot water here?”

  “Merely use the bellpull,” she said, fervently hoping mice hadn’t eaten through the wires. “Someone will bring you what you need.”

  The nurse nodded. “As for the Crimea,” she said, abruptly standing, “I was with Miss Nightingale’s nurses.” For the first time, she looked directly at Fergus. “I don’t remember you,” she added before turning to her employer. “I’ll go and ready your room for the night, sir.”

  With that, Elizabeth left.

  The entire dinner party had taken on the aspects of a nightmare. Perhaps she was truly asleep, having fallen, exhausted, onto a newly freshened mattress. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, then opened them again to find that nothing had changed.

  Fergus was smiling at Miriam, the expression curiously unsettling. She knew the effort her brother was making, just as she’d known the nurse had been lying.

  Elizabeth Jamison escaped upstairs, running as if a monster were chasing her. Of all the places in the world to come but to his home. To have to sit across the table from him and wonder about the signs of pain at the corners of his mouth, to see the blankness of his eyes when he looked at her.

  She’d been counseled, too many times, that men form an attachment for a nurse in the field. A nurse takes the place of mother, sister, lover, friend, she’d been told. Much care should be given not to reciprocate affection in any way, so as not to form a bond based on illness and recovery.

  He’d been the talk of the ward, the officer in charge, the one who’d kept everyone’s spirits up, even in the worst of times. When another brave soldier had died, he was the one to speak to his men. He was the one who’d refused to allow them to sink into despair, joking with some, listening to others. He’d been there every day he could, their leader, brother, and comrade in arms.

  Who wouldn’t love him?

  She wasn’t the only nurse to have fallen under his spell and now, here he was, and here she was, at his home.

  She opened the door to Mr. Loftus’s room and closed it behind her, leaning her head against the wood. She needed to be calm, to show nothing of what she felt.

  Otherwise, she was very much afraid she might begin to cry.

  Chapter 10

  Gordon headed toward the Invergaire Works. Instead of the carriage this morning, he’d chosen one of the horses he’d purchased in Inverness and sent on to Rathmhor. The mare was young, restless, and the perfect mount, untrained enough to keep his attention and possessing a gait that made the journey enjoyable.

  The clouds skimmed over the sky as if blown by God in a fit of temper. The heather shivered in a cascade of purple against green. The grasses stood proudly, almost in regimental order, saluting the wind as it passed.

  Both Gairloch and Rathmhor were nestled in a glen framed by Ben Lymond on the northern side, and Loch Mor on the southern. To the east was Invergaire Village, where clan members too numerous to live in Gairloch proper went to live in times of peace. To the west, the Invergaire Works formed the fourth side of the square.

  Invergaire Village had been a cooperative venture. When the time came for a member of the Imrie Clan to turn away from his warlike ways, he was given a small parcel of land by the laird. He could use it to his own benefit by farming it or raising cattle.

  A hundred years ago, several of the old ones banded together, each surrendering a portion of his land to create a common area for all of them. Thus was Invergaire Village formed, on the north edge of Loch Mor. The villagers, none of whom was bound by allegiance to the Imries after the Forty-five, nevertheless treated the laird and his family with fondness and respect.

  Around the same time, his ancestor Brian MacDermond had uprooted his clan and come to the Highlands. He’d disappeared a few years later, never to be seen again. A feud had begun when his family demanded that the Imries explain Brian’s absence. The discord had lasted for years, until memories faded. Somehow, the fate of Brian MacDermond hadn’t seemed cause enough to continue the feud with the powerful Imrie Clan.

  For decades, the Imries and MacDermonds had been friends, the echoes of that long ago dispute being revived only on ceremonial days. The Laird’s Day, for one, when the Laird of Gairloch paid tribute to the elders of Invergaire Village and to the MacDermonds. A way of accepting blame for Brian’s disappearance while never admitting to causing it.

  What would Fergus offer this year? Would his tribute have to be larger because he’d missed the ceremony for a number of years? He’d been off fighting for the Empire, giving his talents to the army.

  One of a countless number of men ready to die for his country.

  As a colonel of the Ninety-third, Gordon’s movements and behavior had been controlled by his orders and his superiors. As a Scot, the MacDermond of Rathmhor, his life was constrained by tradition and expectations.

  His father had expected a great many things from him, and for the most part, Gordon had delivered. He’d followed his father’s way for the majority of his life, his path veering from the general’s only in the last months.

  Sometimes, he wondered if
the old man had died when he had to spite him, a last act of repudiation. Two nights before the general’s death, he’d informed his father of his plans, as well as the fact that he’d surrendered his commission. The resultant attack of temper had been enough to stop anyone’s heart. His father had made his displeasure known as loudly as possible, then proceeded to renounce his son.

  Part of the general’s annoyance might have been the fact that Gordon was the legal owner of the Works, the companies he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather when he was still a boy. Or the fact that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop Gordon.

  As a child he’d feared the general. As a man, he’d loathed him.

  White clouds boiled on the horizon, prefaced by an advancing army of white streaks. A perfect September day in the Highlands, the breeze carrying a hint of chill.

  The Invergaire Works, some seventy-five years old now, had once provided employment to the inhabitants of Invergaire Village, those who didn’t have a yen for sheep, farming, or kelp drying and harvesting.

  They’d produced gunpowder in the building for decades. But the Works had shut down while he was in India. Too many problems, not enough employees, and poor management had rendered it a liability.

  However, the Glasgow factories were still producing black powder, shipping it worldwide. Some of the bullets that had grazed him in the two wars he’d fought might well have come from his own factory.

  A bit of irony that he’d shared only with Fergus.

  He was damn tired of war. But countless graveyards were filled with men who hated war. If a man wanted to survive, he killed. If he wanted to win, he destroyed. The only thing good about war was its end. The best commanders understood that.

  If he could accomplish what he wanted, the Works would be greatly changed in purpose and expanded in people.

  The red brick building was three stories tall, with two enormous smokestacks sticking out of the roof. The windows were black with dust and powder, the weeds nearly overgrowing the walk and the steps up to the door.