by Karen Ranney
“Is Elizabeth the nurse you told me about?” Gordon asked now.
He saw the look in Gordon’s eyes, that implacable “I’ll wait forever” expression. As a commanding officer, it had been intimidating. As a friend, it was just annoying.
“Yes,” he said.
Gordon didn’t answer, merely waited.
He turned and stared out at the view again. Would he ever tire of looking at Loch Mor?
“What happened between you?”
“What do you think happened?”
“I’ve just met with your sister. I’m not in the mood for another taste of Imrie pride.”
Fergus smiled. “Is that what it is? I thought it was a taste of Imrie reticence.”
Gordon’s laughter exploded in small tower. He couldn’t help but smile despite his mood.
“When the hell have the Imries ever been reticent?” Gordon finally said.
He shrugged.
“What happened?” Gordon asked, relentless in his curiosity.
“I fell in love. She didn’t.”
He discovered that he loved her smile, the sound of her voice, even her laughter.
“She kept telling me that she’d been directed never to socialize with patients. I told her I wasn’t her patient, and we weren’t socializing, merely sitting in the garden. She said she couldn’t accept flowers from me when I picked a few and presented them to her.”
His gaze shifted to the cupola above them. The ceiling had been carved into patterns of the night sky: stars and a quarter moon.
Gordon didn’t speak. When the hell had he learned that endless patience? The rest of the story was even more pitiable, and Fergus spoke it quickly before he lost his nerve.
“All of my letters were returned,” he said. “Then, I’d heard that a ship had gone down and several nurses had been aboard. I thought she was one of them.”
“You never discovered differently?” Gordon asked, his voice holding the same measure of incredulity he’d felt.
“Not until she walked into Gairloch yesterday,” he said.
“Have you talked to her?” Gordon asked.
He shook his head.
“What the hell are you going to do about it?”
He hadn’t the slightest idea.
Thankfully, Gordon didn’t press him for an answer.
“I came here today for a different reason entirely,” Gordon said. “I need a manager for the Works, and I thought of you.”
“Good God, why?”
“You’ve got to do something, you know.”
“Do I?” he asked, turning his attention back to the view beyond the window. “What do I know about managing an ammunition factory?”
“About as much as you did manning an artillery emplacement,” Gordon said. “Or being a hero.”
That coaxed a laugh free. “I didn’t mean to be a hero, Gordon. The lads were just in trouble, that’s all.”
“You single-handedly saved twelve men, as I recall.”
He folded his arms, leaned against the window. “I remember being scared out of my wits. All I was thinking was how damn loud the cannon were, and wishing I could run a little faster.”
“I need someone I can trust at the Works, Fergus. Why not you?”
Fergus turned and smiled at him. “Haven’t you noticed?” He held up his cane. “I’m lame.”
“You’re not a damn horse. You walk with a limp. At least you’re alive.”
Fergus felt his anger flare then fizzle, as if he didn’t have the energy to keep it burning.
“Is that why you’re not going to confront your nurse?” Gordon asked. “Because you see yourself as a cripple?”
“Yes,” he said, turning away. “And it’s no good trying to reason me out of it, Gordon. You can’t talk my wound away.”
Without another word, Gordon turned and left the tower.
A good thing, really. The problem with old friends was that they saw too clearly and too much.
No doubt Gordon had returned to Miriam’s side to apologize for her poor behavior.
“You’ll have to excuse the Countess of Morton. She’s being an ass today.” Would that be a good enough explanation? Better than the truth, surely. “The Countess of Morton is being flayed alive by the past. She’s in pain at the moment and wants to cause the same pain in everyone else.”
Gordon had hurt her and he could hurt her again. Could she wound him as easily? If so, she’d never know it. Perhaps he was more courageous than she, but then he’d gone to war.
So had she—against herself.
Shona grabbed her shawl and left the parlor, intent on finding Miriam to apologize. She’d been unpardonably rude, or perhaps just a few steps beyond that. She would make amends, not because it was the right thing to do. Not because her mother had taught her to always be a kind and gracious hostess. No, she would go and grovel to Miriam Loftus because she needed Mr. Loftus to purchase Gairloch.
Gordon would be pleased, but she wasn’t concerned about pleasing Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond at the moment. The sale of Gairloch and moving from Invergaire Glen would be easier if Gordon continued to view her with barely veiled contempt.
How could she bear it if he began to court Miriam?
She pushed that thought away.
No one was in the Clan Hall. She really should go check on everyone, see what needed to be done, what tasks were next. She should do another inventory of the pantry and larder. Perhaps worry some more. About the only thing she could afford to do lately was worry.
What would she do if she saw Gordon and Miriam together again?
She would smile and pretend that it didn’t affect her in the least. She would simply clamp a lid down on that part of her that was determined to remember another time, even though it was the very same place.
“He’s a very attractive man,” Miriam said, startling her.
The room was empty, but she looked toward the door to the Family Parlor. Because of the height of the ceilings, sound traveled well between the two rooms.
She looked toward the corridor, then back at the doorway. She really should leave. Now, before she heard anything else.
“He’s almost worth being in this godforsaken country, Elizabeth.”
“I thought you were engaged, Miss Loftus,” Elizabeth said.
“Do you know why we’re in Scotland, Elizabeth?”
“I believe your father’s grandparents were from Scotland.”
“We’re in Scotland, Elizabeth, because I’ve agreed to marry Robert Simmons, a protégé of my father’s. In exchange, I am to have Gairloch as a wedding present. I’d much rather have a few dresses and an emerald or two. What on earth will I do with a moldering old castle? In the meantime, why shouldn’t I find something of interest in this awful country?”
“Yes, Miss Loftus. Shall I tell your father you’ll be along?”
“Poor thing, is he feeling unwell?”
“He is resting, but requested your presence,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m the only one in this entire moldering place who’s attractive and personable,” Miriam said.
“Yes, Miss Loftus,” Elizabeth said.
Did she imagine it, or was there an edge to the nurse’s voice?
“The countess could be very pretty, but she doesn’t seem to care, does she? All those very boring dresses. Black and white, as if she’s afraid of the tiniest bit of color.”
“She’s just come out of mourning, I understand.”
“That’s another thing, she’s exceedingly gloomy to be around. All she talks about is Scotland and Gairloch. I quite want to yawn around her.”
“I believe she just wishes to tell you about Gairloch, Miss Loftus.”
“And ghosts?” Miriam laughed. “How can she expect us to believe in ghosts? Does the woman have any sense at all?”
“It is Scotland, after all, Miss Loftus.”
The voices were growing stronger.
Shona went to the fireplace and pushed the brick ju
st below the end of the mantel on the right side. A section of wall opened soundlessly. She slipped inside and pulled down the iron torch holder to close the door.
Three hundred years ago, several defenses had been built into the castle. One was the Upper Courtyard, one was a well in the larder, and another a series of secret passages connecting the Laird’s Chamber with important rooms throughout the castle such as the library and the Clan Hall. The labyrinth of passages connected at one point toward the west, then began to slope downward in a steady descent, the angle of the passage mirroring the ground above it.
She’d used the passage dozens of times, as familiar with its contours as she was her own bedchamber. At the end of the tunnel Gordon would sometimes be waiting, reaching out one hand for her. Her hand in his, they’d laugh together, then race to their meeting place.
She’d never been afraid of the dark, never considered that there might be things in the darkness that could harm her. A good thing, since there was only a small slit of light around the opening of the passage door.
The sound of scrabbling paws reminded her that she’d not been a good chatelaine of the castle. In her mother’s day, vermin were effectively eradicated, a process that involved a dozen maids, a fair share of poison, and constant efforts at cleanliness.
She hadn’t given orders for boiling water to be used to scrub the kitchen floor. Nor had she placed small tubs of water beneath the bedposts. The smell of dust was another reminder of what she hadn’t yet accomplished. Every room needed to be swept, the tapestries on several of the walls carefully shaken, the paintings with their ornate gilt frames treated with a bit more care. And here, in the passages, normally kept as clean as possible, she’d done nothing at all.
The Americans had the money to hire enough staff to care for each and every item at Gairloch, each precious reminder of her heritage. Was it possible to be grateful to her saviors at the same time she loathed them?
A breath of air swept across her cheek. A reminder that the passage connected with other secret corridors in the castle.
She stood on tiptoe, peering through the opening into the Clan Hall. Miriam stood in the doorway, laughing. Amusement no doubt at Shona’s expense. What was she ridiculing now? Her hair? Her manner of speech? Her nose?
No, she really didn’t like the woman.
She could tolerate remarks about herself, but it seemed pointless to ridicule a place and rude to denigrate an entire country.
Miriam Loftus was simply young and spoiled. The girl was in a foreign country, among strangers.
Had she acted the same once? Had she believed that anything she did or said would be forgiven?
“Can you imagine anything so backward,” Miriam was saying. “Ghosts? Poor thing if she really believes in such things.”
What did Miriam believe in? Only money? Or perhaps adulation?
“I can’t begin to tell you what she said to me. I would have thought a countess would have more breeding.” Miriam laughed, a tinkling little laugh that went straight to Shona’s spine. “But I do admit that the thought of Gordy naked is a tantalizing one.”
Oh, that was just too much.
Throwing her shawl over her head, Shona reached up with her right hand and pulled down on the bottom of the torch holder. When the wall slid open, she raced out of the opening, arms outstretched, hands curved into claws, yelling Gaelic at the top of her voice.
Miriam took one look at her and screamed.
For that perfect second in time, it was worth being foolish and childish and silly.
Miriam, however, clutched her bodice with both hands, and sank to her knees, her mouth still open. For a moment, Shona could only stare at her as tiny little shrieks emerged from Miriam’s open mouth.
Elizabeth knelt at her side, patting her back gently.
At least the floor was clean.
Shona pulled the shawl off her head and stood staring down at the woman in amazement. Now Miriam was rocking back and forth, hugging herself, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh bother,” she said. “There’s no reason for hysterics.”
She doubted anyone could hear her over Miriam’s loud sobbing. Certainly not Elizabeth, who was murmuring something soothing. Not Helen, who’d come racing in from somewhere. Or Gordon, who stood in the doorway with the oddest expression on his face.
Heat traveled up her spine as ice pooled at the base of it.
“What were you screaming at her?” Elizabeth asked. She was now fanning Miriam’s face, which had paled to an alarming shade, something resembling plaster.
“Is there something wrong with her?”
Elizabeth met her gaze. “She’s excitable.”
Too excitable—a comment she was not about to make, especially since everyone was looking at her as if she’d done something horrible. Very well, it wasn’t very mature, granted, but it hardly merited this act of Miriam’s.
“It was a scone recipe,” Gordon said from the doorway.
Elizabeth blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Shona was yelling a recipe for scones,” Gordon said dryly, his gaze flicking over her as he entered the room.
“It was the first thing I could think of,” she said in her own defense. “It’s not as if I speak Gaelic every day.”
Fergus arrived to make her humiliation complete. He said something to Gordon, and Gordon relayed the events of the last few minutes. Gordon looked as if he was holding back his amusement.
Fergus, however, wasn’t.
Embarrassment had her taking a few backward steps out of the room. Fergus’s gaze would have pinned her there, but she had no intention of remaining in the Clan Hall. Miriam was being coaxed to one of the benches, and now Gordon—Gordon!—was comforting her.
He might have been rude to her earlier, but he was exceedingly solicitous of dear Miriam now. Would she like something to drink? A restorative? Would she like him to fetch her smelling salts? Would she like his escort to her chamber?
“She doesn’t believe in the ghosts of Gairloch,” she said, hearing her own voice and wincing at both the whiny tone and the idiotic explanation.
What had come over her?
Helen was coming to her side, her eyes filled with confusion. What could she say to her companion? That she’d suddenly become twelve again? That hearing Miriam disparage Gairloch was like inflicting a wound? Worse, she’d admitted that Gordy fascinated her.
She really had no idea the woman was so easily frightened.
“It was just a jest,” she said, looking at the circle of stony faces.
No one said a word.
When she slipped from the room, not one person was paying any attention to her. Instead, they clustered around Miriam, Gordon the closest of all.
Chapter 14
Gordon laughed all the way home.
His conscience chastised him for making fun of an incident that had caused Miss Loftus a great deal of distress. But the look on Shona’s face when she’d been caught reminded him of too many other episodes in their shared past.
She’d been fifteen the last time he’d seen that wide-eyed acknowledgment of her own stupidity.
The younger Shona had had a habit of tossing her head, as if in defiance of his words, her parents’ dictates, or society at large. She’d learned, over the years, to deliver a look of such penetrating disdain that the object of it immediately understood Miss Imrie’s thoughts. Nor had she measured her words to determine which ones were appropriate for the circumstances.
He’d thought the younger Shona gone, but she’d been hiding. Today, he’d seen her again. In addition, she hadn’t lost that ability to skewer him with words.
Yes, I pleased him in bed. You were a good teacher.
Words that irritated like a burr in his boot.
A carriage was in his drive. He wasn’t expecting company, unless Rani had changed his mind about staying at Rathmhor. As he dismounted, one of the stable boys came up to attend to his horse.
“You�
��ve a visitor,” Mrs. MacKenzie said at the front door, her round face flushed. “A very important man from the looks of it,” she said, following him into the house. “Very important entirely, Sir Gordon. I’ve put him in the front sitting room.”
“He’ll have to wait until I’m settled,” he said, looking down the hall as if he could see the visitor through the walls. “Did he state his business?”
She shook her head.
“Give you his card?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Why, then, do you think he’s important, Mrs. MacKenzie?”
He stripped off his hat, gloves, and coat, leaving them on the chair in the front hall.
“He’s a military man, Sir Gordon, with more medals than the general.”
An important man, indeed, and an emissary from the army was the last person he wanted to see.
He considered telling Mrs. MacKenzie that he’d been unavoidably detained—for a year or two. But if he refused to see the man, they’d just send someone else.
“Have you offered our guest refreshments, Mrs. MacKenzie?” A testament to his distraction that he didn’t realize the question was offensive to a woman of his housekeeper’s dedication until she replied.
“A bit of tea and some pastries,” she said, her voice curt.
He nodded, knowing he’d have to make amends for implying she’d been negligent.
The front sitting room was exactly twenty-three paces from the front door. He made the journey counting each of his steps, concentrating on the slats of the well-polished floor beneath his boots.
He stood on the threshold, meeting the other man’s gaze. The man seated in the overstuffed chair and finishing up the last of Mrs. MacKenzie’s pastries was possessed of a bearing the equal to his father’s. If it could be said that General MacDermond had a mentor—or even an idol, if he were to ascribe such an emotion to his father—it would be General Horace Abbott. Tall, lanky, with graying hair, an angular face, and a gravelly voice accustomed to giving orders, Abbott was of sufficient rank that Gordon hesitated at the doorway.
The War Office must be worried.
Mrs. MacKenzie had been right. General Abbott was in full military regalia, complete with an impressive array of medals.
