A Scottish Love

by Karen Ranney

  The fact that she’d been without a man’s touch for five years was the only reason she was remembering what had happened in the cottage now.

  “Why did they give you a baronetcy?” she asked.

  He turned, his look of surprise making her smile.

  “Did no one ever ask you before?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a boring reason,” he said. “Not nearly as heroic as showing valor and courage.”

  When had he learned that kind of self-deprecating humor?

  She didn’t speak, curious as to his answer. Just when she thought he wouldn’t continue, he spoke again.

  “I tinkered with artillery,” he said. “I thought it important to increase firing accuracy. Why shoot a musket unless you’re certain of hitting the target? I experimented with various barrel sizes and loading techniques, and passed on what I’d learned to my company.”

  She remained silent, suspecting there was more to the story than he was telling. But, then, perhaps he’d acquired modesty over the years as well. No, the boy he’d been would have been just as reticent in bragging about his exploits. In that, he hadn’t changed.

  Once, he’d broken his arm, then stubbornly remounted the horse that had thrown him before allowing it to be set. Fergus had told her the story, not Gordon.

  “And the army learned what you’d done, of course,” she said.

  His smile altered character, became wry. “Of course.”

  And his father? Had he been surprised, as well? That question she wouldn’t ask.

  “So, you were awarded a baronetcy for your ability to kill.”

  His smile dissipated faster than the words did.

  When had she learned to be so cruel?

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  She wanted to call the words back, undo the last moments, ease the look on his face. He wore an expression of nothingness, as if he were only an effigy of himself.

  Shame flushed her skin, made her wish, in that second, to be anyone other than who she was.

  “Gordon,” she said, stretching out her hand to him.

  He turned back and looked at her, his eyes flat and unreadable.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “If it’s what you thought, then you should have,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

  Suddenly, she hated all the pretense she’d built up all these years, all the hardened thoughts laid over the hurt and pain.

  This man was a stranger, but he’d once been the boy she’d adored. No, he hadn’t been a boy when she loved him, but a man on the cusp of becoming who he was now. She’d shared her secrets and her body with him, longed for him, and adored him.

  Before she could say anything else, however, he walked away, leaving her no choice but to drop her hand.

  Chapter 17

  Turning, he walked into the cottage. Seven years ago, they’d congratulated themselves on making this place theirs. Shona had brought flowers from time to time, placing them in an earthen jar, arranging them on the table as if they’d taken up living there.

  He’d loved her on that cot, the first time feeling so inept he thought he’d done it all wrong. Her sighs and smile had eased his mind then.

  Shona had felt like his mate, his mirror half, her responses the equal of his. He’d never thought she would go away, ever leave him.

  He turned to her now. Her face was still stricken.

  He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter; that she didn’t have the power to wound him. The words, however, wouldn’t pass the gate of truth in his mind. She did have the power to hurt him; she always had.

  She looked around the interior of the cottage. “We were such fools,” she said.

  “We were improvident,” he agreed. “And definitely unwise.”

  He wouldn’t have traded those memories for his baronetcy or his wealth, but he was damned if he was going to be dragged around by his cock. Whatever fascination she had for him should remain in the past, as dead as her husband.

  But, and this admission troubled him more than a little, there was something about her that made him want to watch her when she wasn’t aware. She had a habit of tapping her fingers against her skirt, just before she said something she considered important. Otherwise, her features were still, arranged in a pleasant fashion, but attempting to reveal nothing of her emotions. Except for one eyebrow, her right, that arched in a way she probably didn’t realize.

  He found himself watching for that subtle movement, an indication of her disdain or annoyance.

  Her eyebrow arched a great deal in his presence.

  Her wardrobe had not improved significantly with her marriage. Today, she was attired in the same dress, black and white, as if to emphasize her mourning. Or was she attempting, in her fashion, to remind him that she’d married and left him?

  As if he could ever forget.

  Seven years ago, he’d wished she’d been with child. He’d have married her then, before she left him. Or perhaps he himself should have married in the intervening years.

  Should he tell her that she’d ruined him for other women? Hardly exactly true, but at this particular moment, it felt genuine.

  He turned, staring at the ruined shutter. Suddenly, he pushed it back with both hands as if he couldn’t stand the confines of the cottage anymore. The slap of the wood against the wall sounded as loud as a rifle shot.

  The sunny morning had given way to encroaching clouds, the weather as unstable as his mood.

  “Are you really going to Gairloch to show off your pretty legs?” she asked.

  “Do you think they are? As admirable as my arse?”

  She ignored the questions, her frown impressive and intimidating to anyone else.

  He walked to where she stood in the doorway of the cottage, reached out and drew her closer. He inhaled slowly, the perfume of her summoning memories.

  “You’ll look like a prune-faced old maid if you keep that expression, Shona,” he said, tracing the outline of her lips.

  “I can’t be an old maid,” she said, stepping back. “I’ve been married.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said. How could he forget?

  She looked like she would have spoken, then silenced herself. He watched her do that twice before she looked away.

  “You’re always watching me,” she said finally. “As if you expect me to fall on my face. Or stumble. Or make an idiot of myself.” She threw her hands up in the air. “God knows I’ve been doing that often enough, lately. No doubt I’ve given you a great deal of amusement.”

  She’d not thank him for his smile, so he kept his face carefully expressionless.

  “You think that’s why I watch you?”

  She turned her head and looked at him.

  “The least you could do is deny it.”

  He shrugged. “Why deny it? I do watch you.”

  She nodded. “As if I’m a leg of lamb and you’re a hungry wolf.”

  “The analogy is not far off the mark, Shona. I am hungry, but not for food.”

  “Revenge?”

  He laughed. “Revenge? Perhaps.”

  Her face was flushed, tendrils of hair sticking to her cheeks. The dress she wore concealed her shape from inquisitive eyes, but he remembered her well enough.

  A frown settled on her face, like a thundercloud on a sunny day. Now her eyes flashed at him, daring him in the way she always had.

  Shona Imrie, proud and arrogant.

  A bolt of lust hit him then, along with a certainty so strong it felt true. It wasn’t anger he felt or betrayal. No, this feeling was need, pure and desperate.

  He wanted her. He wanted her with seven years of wanting. He wanted her to sob beneath him, arch under him, admit she needed him more than anyone else. He had loved the girl, but the woman fascinated him.

  Perhaps he simply needed female companionship. And her? Did she hunger for a man?

  He’d tried to forget what she’d said, but despite his best intentions, hi
s imagination had conjured up more than one scene of her and the Earl of Morton.

  He reached out and slowly pulled her toward him. She pursed her lips together again, frowning at him. But he noted that she didn’t jerk her arm away, and his grip wasn’t that tight.

  “I’d not thought to see you jealous, Shona Imrie.”

  “I’m not,” she said, her face averted. “And it’s no longer Imrie.”

  “You’ll always be Shona Imrie to me, dear one.”

  She looked at him then, her eyes wide. “Don’t call me that, Gordon. You’ve no right.”

  “Who else has a better right? You gave your innocence to me, and your heart, at one time.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers. She was, he realized in a flash of wonder and surprise, not pulling away.

  The press of his lips against hers seemed to be a portal to a different time, when he was young and unschooled and she’d taught him with her soft gasps and moans of wonder.

  He felt something open up inside him and cautioned himself against it. He might lust after Shona Imrie, but he couldn’t love her again. The pain of that first betrayal was still there, for all that it was seven years old.

  His hands slipped behind her back, drew her forward until his arms could lock around her.

  She made a sound in the back of her throat as she angled her head, and allowed him to deepen the kiss.

  He wanted to touch her everywhere, strip her bare in the sunlight, cover her with kisses until she shivered and cried aloud. Even after all these years, he knew the texture of her skin. She’d always sighed when he’d kissed the underside of her breasts, or the curve of her waist. He’d run his fingers over her ankles to her toes, tickling her, giving her laughter in the middle of their loving.

  She was his first lover, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget anything about her.

  When he released her, she didn’t draw back, only laid her forehead against his jacket. The brush of her hair against one of his medals reminded him of the last time he’d seen her.

  She’d come to see Fergus off to war and when her eyes had met his, there was a jolt of surprise in them. They’d not spoken, only nodded to each other as cordial as almost-strangers. Her husband had been with her, and he’d been shocked at the age of the man. In that moment, he’d known she’d chosen a title over a mere soldier.

  A pity she hadn’t waited a few years; he could have offered her a baronetcy. But he’d never be an earl.

  He bent his head to brush a kiss on the top of her head, wondering why he didn’t release her, push her away. He’d kissed her. He wouldn’t have to wonder if she’d changed; she hadn’t.

  She still had the power to enthrall him.

  Dangerous woman.

  His cheek rested against her hair; he wished she would pull away. He wouldn’t be the first. Courage in the face of every battle, even this one.

  “Fergus told me about your father,” she softly said. “I didn’t know.”

  He should thank her for giving him a reason to drop his arms and step back.

  “Most people end that sentence with an expression of sorrow. How dreadful that he’s passed. How very sad that he died. You must be devastated.”

  She remained silent.

  “But you aren’t sorry he’s dead, are you?”

  A moment passed before she shook her head.

  “What did he say to you that day? What did he say to make you run off to Inverness and marry your earl?”

  The look of surprise on her face might have been amusing. He found, however, that he was devoid of humor at this particular moment.

  She stared down at the floor.

  “He said that you felt sorry for me,” she said softly. “That if you offered for me, it would be out of pity. Or because Fergus was your best friend and you were aware of our plight.”

  “He played to your pride, Shona, and you let him win without a fight.”

  Before she could offer up a false defense, he held up his hand to halt her words.

  “He bet that your pride was stronger than your love and he was right.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He smiled. “It is, regrettably. I knew the moment he told me.” At her look of surprise, he continued, “Did you think I didn’t know?” he asked. “That he didn’t use it as a weapon? Brag about your choice?”

  She looked stunned at his words.

  “He knew exactly what he was doing, Shona. He was brilliant at ferreting out an enemy’s weakness.”

  “Was I the enemy?” she asked.

  He nodded. “From the moment I fell in love with you.” No doubt he’d smiled all the time. Or found a reason to laugh. He had probably been so filled with good cheer that anyone looking at him would know he was in love.

  General MacDermond had wanted three things for his son, and none of them was love. Instead, he was to first acquit himself in battle. Gordon had done that, but more to save his men than to please his father. Second, to achieve a rank commensurate with his heritage. As Colonel of the Regiment, he was well on his way to making general. Third, to acquire an honor that would segregate him from others. He hadn’t won the Victoria Cross, but he’d been made a baronet, an honor that had annoyed his father more than pleased him, since the general had no hope of obtaining it for himself.

  Too bad the old bastard died before understanding that whatever accomplishments, whatever successes Gordon achieved from this moment on were his and not his father’s.

  “My father believed in the rightness of his cause. He believed he was at war and you were the enemy. If one tactic hadn’t worked, he would have used another.”

  She stepped away from him, went to stand in the doorway.

  “It would be easier if you weren’t here,” she said, her voice sounding tired.

  “Must everything be easier for you?” He welcomed the sudden annoyance he felt.

  “Must everything be so difficult?” Before he could answer, she turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Because he waited until you left for Inverness to tell me that you’d chosen your pride over me.” He turned, looking through the window as if the view of the forest was captivating. “What was I supposed to do? Beg you to return?”

  “You think it was pride that made me leave?”

  “What else? I think it’s the core of you. You’re not simply a woman. You’re Shona Imrie, the last female of the Clan Imrie. You have a position to maintain, an image to uphold.”

  He faced her. “It wasn’t just your pride at work, Shona, but his. You wouldn’t have liked the military. You would have chafed to return to Gairloch. So the two of you, filled with pride, warred with each other.”

  “And you were the one caught in the middle, is that it?”

  He only smiled at that thought.

  She held herself very still, her hands clasped in front of her. Her lips were still reddened from their kiss.

  “You must hate me,” she said.

  “I hated you for a very long time,” he heard himself saying. Words that bobbed up from the depths of his heart. A sentiment he wasn’t even conscious of having, let alone expressing.

  Surprise replaced the misery in her eyes. “Do you still?”

  “It was Fergus who told me you were to be married,” he said. “You lost no time encouraging the earl.”

  “I’d met Bruce before,” she said.

  “Evidently, he was quite the eager suitor.”

  Her face was oddly pale, as if the truth was a deathblow. He wanted, in that moment, to go to her and hold her, an idiotic impulse he didn’t fulfill. He might lust after her, but he didn’t trust her.

  “You’ve no pride at all, is that it?”

  “I loved you, but what I felt for you was purely love. It wasn’t confused with status or title or pride.” He hesitated a moment. Should he tell her the whole truth? “Loving you,” he said, deciding that all of it must be aired, or none of it, “added to my life. When I decided that I needed to stop lovi
ng you, it made my life duller, but it didn’t change me.”

  When she didn’t respond, he smiled again. “Love isn’t simple for you, Shona. It’s twisted up in other emotions.”

  She turned, but before she could leave, he spoke to her back.

  “You can live without love. But it’s like color or flavor or music. It makes life something better, something worth experiencing.”

  She glanced back at him. “And that’s what I was? Color or flavor or music?”

  He thought of those years, his smile fading. “You were a rainbow,” he said. “A feast. A symphony.”

  Then, she was gone, and he was done with confession, and freed of the truth, as well as the pain he’d held inside for years.

  Chapter 18

  Shona felt drained, as if she’d indulged in a fit of weeping. She had too many things to do to take time out to feel sorry for herself. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to think about what Gordon had said.

  He’d known.

  He’d known what his father had done and had seen it as a test, one she’d failed miserably.

  Anger was a better emotion than despair.

  She’d been his rainbow.

  Had she failed him in some way? Was he right?

  What did it matter, now?

  Dear one—how long had it been since she’d heard those words, said in just that tone? Seven years.

  Was he right? Had it been her pride? It hadn’t felt like pride at the time. Hurt, that’s what it had been. Pain and shame, that she couldn’t be more than she was. Shona Imrie, once of the proud Imries, now destitute.

  At the secret door, she grabbed the lamp, retrieved the box of matches tucked in the drawer in the base, and lit it again. She felt as if she’d aged forty years as she retraced her steps through the passages. In the library, she replaced the lamp on the table and stood staring at the wall, replaying the scene in the cottage.