by Karen Ranney
He was glancing down at her as if every single word out of her mouth was something to be cherished and remembered.
She caught Elizabeth’s smile, and felt a flush race through her body.
She was Shona Imrie Donegal, Countess of Morton. She did not have to endure such behavior.
Yes, she did.
Suddenly, she was so sad that she couldn’t bear it. She wanted to find a refuge, some place at Gairloch that didn’t hold the remnants of memory. She wanted to slip out of her skin, somehow, and be someone other than who she was. The weight of the past was nearly bringing her to her knees.
But she had no choice but to lead Mr. Loftus and the others through a tour of the kitchen, larder, and pantry, the stillroom, the armory, the conservatory, and the pharmacopeia. He’d already discovered the study, so that was spared an inspection. But she did open the library with the key she’d placed in her pocket that morning. Gairloch’s library was the last of its treasures.
The first volume had been added when the castle was barely twenty years old. A studious son of the laird had wanted to study for the priesthood. When that had not been possible, he’d educated himself, intent on spreading knowledge throughout the clan. He’d procured a Bible richly adorned by monastic scribes and it sat in pride of place on a brass stand on a small table.
This room alone was worth the price she was asking for Gairloch.
The library now boasted over a thousand volumes. She knew the exact number—one thousand, one hundred sixty-three—because it had been her task to catalogue each and every one of the books. From the time she was thirteen until the summer before her parents died, she was expected to use any of her free time to complete the task. Fergus had been given the duty of inventorying all the stored armament, not only those items displayed in the Clan Hall, but the attic filled with weapons collected by the Imries over the centuries.
Some of the books were priceless and had been old when they’d been acquired by members of the clan. They’d been lovingly placed here because they represented knowledge, not because of any thoughts of their intrinsic worth. At the same time, no one had given any concern as to their protection. Because Gairloch sat on a bluff, there was little danger of flooding, but still, she worried about damage.
Mr. Barry’s plans had incorporated expanding the library upward so that it would take up two floors, instead of simply being housed on the first floor. Since there’d been no money to expand the room, four rows of bookcases were separated from each other by a passageway three feet wide between them, creating a shadowed labyrinth.
“Then, he had the audacity to insist that we sleep in the smallest rooms imaginable. Father almost purchased the inn right there and then.”
Evidently, Miriam was expounding on her journey again. Shona thought she’d heard every excruciating detail, every item that had amused, annoyed, or stood between Miriam and her comfort. Thankfully, she was not included in this conversation.
Poor Gordon, having to listen to all that whining.
She stifled her smile.
Mr. Loftus didn’t look impressed about the library. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, and she wanted to tell him that was the scent of knowledge, at least that’s what her father had always told her. No doubt it was a combination of leather and old paper, as well as bookworms.
“Gairloch is a huge, drafty old place, isn’t it?” Miriam asked.
Shona could feel herself tensing. Helen glanced at her, a message in her eyes. Helen, more than anyone else, knew the state of her finances.
She nodded, forced a smile to her face, but before she could speak, Gordon said, “It is quite large. But it has a wonderful history.”
Miriam looked up at him adoringly, as if she were a baby bird and he had just brought her a nice juicy worm.
“You should tell the story of Gairloch,” Miriam said. “I love the way you speak.”
The woman had the most annoying accent, one that flattened her voice, and made it almost nasally. Most of the time, she barely spoke above a breath. She shouldn’t be likened to a pigeon at all, or a baby bird, but an emaciated bird on the brink of dying, so frail it could barely flap her little wings.
Gordon, however, seemed to be fascinated with the sound of her voice, and with Miriam herself, because his attention had barely faltered during this whole, horrible tour.
“Your grandmother lived around here, didn’t she, Father?” Miriam asked, turning her attention momentarily to her father.
He nodded. “She was an Imrie,” he announced, fixing a stern look on Shona.
Oh dear God in heaven.
Miriam looked at her. “Are we cousins of a sort, Countess?”
“There are a great many people named Imrie in Scotland,” she said, as calmly as possible.
Please, do not let them be family.
“She taught me that a Highlander believed in family first, then clan, then everyone else.”
He was going to teach her about Highland traditions? Her smile thinned and she kept silent with some difficulty.
“I’ve heard that there is never a sight more stirring than a man in a kilt,” Miriam said in her little bird voice.
Shona prayed for patience, and perhaps a little Gairloch whiskey while she was at it.
“I should very much like to see you in a kilt, Gordon.”
Her face must have become flushed, because Mr. Loftus looked at her strangely, as did the giant. Helen elected to study the wainscoting while Elizabeth was examining the carpet.
Were they all pretending not to hear?
Very well, she’d do the same.
Let him dress in his kilt and show his fine legs to Miriam Loftus. Let him strut about like a rooster. She didn’t even care if Miriam slid her hands all the way up those lovely thighs to cup one perfectly rounded buttock. Let the woman salivate with lust. Let her eyes glaze over with desire. Let them couple on the dining table, the courtyard, on the banks of the loch, anywhere they wished.
It was none of her concern.
He might have been a fixture of her past, and an important figure in it, but she’d grown beyond him. She was no longer the girl she’d been.
“Are you up to the third floor, sir?” she asked Mr. Loftus. “We can access the attics from there.”
“We don’t have to see the whole of the place today,” he said. “We’re planning on being here a few weeks, Countess.”
A few weeks? A few weeks? Panic rendered her speechless. How was she to feed them all for a few weeks?
“We’ll save the third floor for another day. Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “And the attics. And the dungeon. I should like to see that.”
“We don’t have a dungeon,” she said, forgetting to smile. “Just an area where the whiskey is kept.”
He nodded. “For now, I’d like to rest awhile.”
“Of course,” she said as Elizabeth went to his side.
“Shall I come with you, Father?” Miriam said, momentarily diverted from salivating at Gordon.
He smiled fondly at her. “On no account. I’ll just rest before dinner.” He glanced at Shona. “A small repast to tide me over might not be amiss.”
Again?
“Some tea?” Helen suggested, once again coming to her rescue.
“A bit of whiskey, instead, I think,” Mr. Loftus said. “With some venison from dinner last night.”
Mr. Loftus left the room, escorted by Elizabeth and the giant. Helen followed soon after, heading toward the kitchen, leaving her alone with Miriam and Gordon.
At the moment, she didn’t like either one of them very much. When Miriam smiled up at Gordon and cooed something at him, she felt some internal control shatter.
“He looks quite lovely in his kilt,” she said, smiling at Miriam. “You could tell all your friends about a Highlander who posed for you.” She turned her smile on Gordon, increased the brightness of it, and said, “Maybe he’ll bend over and show you his arse. And a very fine arse it is.”
With that, s
he turned and left the room to the sound of Miriam’s gasp.
This time, her smile was real.
Gordon found her in one of the southern parlors on the second floor. Shona was standing, facing a section of tartan that had been draped over a patched bit of wall. The hole had been caused by one of the previous laird’s fists, he’d been told, and the wall never painted, no doubt to forever enshrine the laird’s temper.
The Imrie pride went back several generations.
“Did you accomplish what you wanted?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“By being rude?” she asked, not turning to look at him. “No,” she said.
“I would suggest that it was a little beyond rudeness. Do you really think I have a very fine arse?”
She clasped her hands together, bent her head to stare at them. “Consider your lecture delivered. I’ll go and apologize.”
They were in the same room, but she might as well have been in London. She was back to form, the arrogant Imrie.
He moved from the doorway, walking toward her. What did he want? To see if her hands still trembled? To smell her perfume?
“Do you know Elizabeth?” she asked, surprising him.
“No.”
He stopped behind her, close enough that he could reach out and touch her. Right there on the nape of her neck where she was sensitive. How many times had he placed a necklace of kisses on her skin? How many times had she shivered in delight?
“Did you please your husband in bed?”
Her shoulders tensed.
“Not even in Sebastopol?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard his question. Ah, but he was made of stronger stuff than that. He knew how to flank the enemy, use his artillery to confuse them.
He took one step closer, leaned down until he was only inches from her neck, and softly blew on her skin.
She flinched.
“I knew some of the nurses in the Sebastopol and India,” he said calmly, “but I never met her.” He wouldn’t tell her that Fergus had confided in him. If Fergus had wanted her to know, he would have told her.
Slowly, carefully, as if it were something she’d thought of doing before he began teasing her, she took a step forward. Too many more steps and she’d have her nose to the wall.
“Why does Fergus act the idiot around her?” she said, turning.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her.
He smiled. “You’ll have to ask Fergus.”
“He won’t answer.” She took a deep breath, exhaled it. “He’s changed since the war, Gordon.” She turned to face him.
“Men do.”
“Then why are you so eager to go away to war?”
“To protect what’s ours,” he added. “Perhaps to prove ourselves.”
“Why, when you come back damaged and broken?”
“I didn’t make the war, Shona. In the end, the generals do.”
She shook her head. “No, but you were eager for it.”
“And you sleep safely in your bed because men like me stand ready to defend those who would harm you.”
“You couldn’t wait to go, I understand.”
“Why should I stay?”
He didn’t move his gaze from her face, not even when she paled. This, too, he’d learned as a soldier. To always face the enemy, to never allow his own fears or inadequacies to surface.
“There wasn’t much here,” he said. The woman he’d loved had married someone else, an act of betrayal he’d come to accept. But never understand.
“Did you love him?” he asked, feeling his temper rise. He forced himself to calm. “You never said.”
“Why are you here?”
Her attention drifted away from him, to a spot on the floor.
“To talk to Fergus, but he’s taken himself off again.”
“It’s Elizabeth,” she said. “He won’t remain in the same room with her for long.”
“Women have that power over men. They either make our lives better or miserable. Did you make your husband’s life miserable, Shona?”
She took a step to the side, as if to avoid him. He found himself mirroring her move, the sudden flash of panic in her eyes interesting him.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I want you gone,” she said, pointing up her chin.
He took another step toward her.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you think I’d punish you for what you did? How could I do that? What punishment would be fitting, Shona?”
“It was a very long time ago,” she said, taking a step away until her back hit the wall.
“An infinity,” he agreed. “And yet, I can remember every single word Fergus said. ‘She’s to marry the Earl of Morton.’ ”
She didn’t respond, but he didn’t expect a response.
He smiled. “I wondered, for a time, if you were with child. Would it be mine? Or his? Then, when there was no announcement of the blessed event, I wondered if you’d simply lusted after the earl. Did you play me false there, too, Shona? Did you keep his bed warm, at the same time you met me?” He took another step toward her. “Or was it just his money?”
He reached out and touched the very tip of her nose, but she jerked her face away.
“I had money, Shona. Oh, we wouldn’t have lived in a castle like Gairloch, but our home would have been large enough. I’d inherited the Works then, and could have provided for a wife well enough. Why not my money?”
Her eyes flashed. “It was seven years ago, Gordon. Seven years.”
“An infinity,” he said again. “Would you go back?” he asked, a question that evidently surprised her from her startled expression. “Would you go back seven years ago, Shona? Would you do things differently?”
She looked down at her clasped hands. Her voice, when she finally answered, was faint. “Please go away, Gordon. Leave me alone.”
Oh, if he only could. If he could banish her from his mind, he would have, seven years ago.
Could a man lust after a woman he didn’t trust? Evidently, he could.
“Did you please him in bed?”
She closed her eyes.
“Didn’t he ever want to know why you weren’t a virgin?”
She sighed, opened her eyes, and regarded him somberly. “If he was curious, he never once mentioned it.”
He turned, walked toward the doorway, something else he’d learned from war. When to stay and fight to the last man, and when to retreat.
“Yes,” she said to his back.
He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Yes, I pleased him in bed,” she said, her gaze direct. Her smile, light and fleeting, was more a goad than a genuine expression. “You were a good teacher.”
He silently contemplated her a moment longer before turning and leaving the room.
Damn her.
Chapter 13
Fergus stood at the window of the west tower, a place of refuge for him. From here he could see the whole of Imrie land, imagine the clan going forth on raids or to war, coming home in wagons, or buried in far-off places, only their shields returned to represent a life lost.
From here, he could see the forest around Gairloch spread out like a flattened hand over the glen, fingers of green stretching toward Loch Mor. The trees were already hinting at winter, turning gold and rust. Here and there, clumps of gorse sheltered quail, offered flowers for the deer to nibble on during their scamper up the hills. From the other side of Gairloch, the view was of the rugged yellowish gray and black base of Ben Lymond.
Nature had blessed the day with color. The sky was a blistering blue, with not a cloud to mar the perfection of it. The loch glinted silver in the afternoon sun. There, on the horizon, the sky darkened. Not an approaching storm but night come to soothe this part of the world.
In both Russia and India, this view had been a lodestone for him. After he’d been wounded, it had been a place to imagine when pain stripped every other
thought from his mind. He’d lain aboard the ship bearing him home with his eyes closed, a determined smile on his lips, wishing himself here.
Shona didn’t understand that. She didn’t understand that all he had left was Gairloch. Take that away, and who was he? No longer the laird of the Imrie Clan. No longer the steward of this land. He had no money to support anyone, even himself. He had a Victoria Cross for “most conspicuous bravery and extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy” and an annual pension of ten pounds. Hardly enough to maintain Gairloch. Nor was it enough to support a family.
He knew nothing about farming, but it was just as well. The land might appear lush and green, but it was an inch of soil atop rock. He might do as other lairds were doing, raise sheep. How did he get the money to buy sheep?
“I thought you’d be here.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Gordon.
“I should have remembered you knew about this place.”
“Your hidey-hole, then? Have you gone to ground like a fox?”
“What better time? Gairloch is filled with Americans and Shona walks around just waiting to snarl at someone.”
Slowly, he turned and faced his friend.
Gordon didn’t respond, but then he rarely did when Shona’s name was mentioned.
With Gordon, he’d climbed Ben Lymond or reenacted famous battles in which the Imries had played a significant part. He’d imagined himself a laird of old, holding a wooden sword aloft and shouting the clan motto, “Be afraid of nothing,” in Gaelic. Gordon had no choice but to play a minor role as transplanted border reiver or one of the English.
That had all changed when Gordon returned from school. Then, he and Shona were rarely apart. A blind man could have seen what they’d felt for each other.
