by Karen Ranney
“Ned?”
She stood in the doorway of the Clan Hall. Shadows fled before the oil lamp like frightened mice, but there was something wrong about the silence.
She heard the wail of a high note, sounding almost like the beginning of a piper’s dirge. Stiffening her shoulders, she called out again.
“Ned?”
No one answered her, but something moved: a current of air, a drifting shadow.
The flame in the lamp flickered and she stopped, pressing her back against the wall. The feeling of something being wrong was even stronger now.
She wanted to pull her wrapper tighter around her body, scamper down the hallway, and race up the stairs to her bedroom. Instead, she stood there until she was certain nothing was moving in the darkness.
Her calm lasted until she heard another sound directly in front of her.
Someone was in the Family Parlor.
If Fergus’s leg hadn’t been bothering him, she would have summoned him. Or Helen. But Helen would have been too frightened, even with both of them investigating.
Perhaps it was only her imagination, coupled with a few fitful nights. Add Gairloch’s atmosphere, and no doubt she’d conjured up something that wasn’t there.
Be brave, Shona.
Talking to herself was hardly helpful. Did men do the same before going into battle? Had Gordon or Fergus? Had Gordon ever said to himself: Don’t scream. Don’t make a fool of yourself, man.
Somehow, she couldn’t picture it.
She was Shona Imrie, the last daughter of the Imrie Clan. She had to do something. Racing to her bed would be the act of a coward.
Holding the lamp aloft in her left hand, she grabbed her wrapper with her right and headed for the Family Parlor.
A shadow knocked the lamp from her hand, and as she was suddenly enveloped by it, her last thought was a curious one. Had she finally seen the ghost of Gairloch, or was she about to become one?
Someone was screaming. The sound speared through Shona’s head, pinning her in place. She wished the woman would cease.
Was it raining?
She blinked open her eyes to find Helen kneeling over her, weeping.
“Oh, don’t move, Shona,” she said, pressing both hands against her shoulders.
She wanted to tell Helen that there was no need to hold her down; she couldn’t move if she tried.
“Helmut’s gone for Elizabeth,” Helen said, another tear dropping onto her face. “Oh, dear Shona. Did you faint? Helmut said you fainted.”
How ridiculous. She’d never fainted in her life. She would have told Helen so, but the effort to speak was suddenly too much. Instead, she had to make do with a slight wave of her hand.
Helen caught her fingers in a punishing grip as she rocked back and forth on her knees.
She was on the floor, evidently, since she could see the chandeliers of the Family Parlor above her. Turning her head slightly resulted in a lightning bolt of pain in the back of her head, as well as the sight of Fergus entering the room, followed by Elizabeth and Helmut. Another quarter turn in the opposite direction resulted in the vision of Mr. Loftus dressed in a garish plaid robe that had never been loomed in Scotland.
Only Miriam and Old Ned were missing from the tableau.
“What happened, Shona?” Fergus asked.
He lowered himself as far as he could without kneeling. His leg didn’t bend well, and she knew if he got down on the floor next to her, he might very well need help to stand.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said, which was the utter truth. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs. I was going to get something to eat. I heard something in here and that’s the last I remember.”
Miriam entered the room then, standing in the doorway, and looking around her in bemused fascination. She rubbed at her eyes with one demure little fist, the gesture a child might make when first waking. But her hair was perfect, not netted or braided for bed. And the wrapper she wore was tied in an exact bow that spoke of deliberation and not haste.
Shona slowly looked around her, hoping to see something out of place. The only thing wrong in the Family Parlor was she, stretched out on the floor like a dead deer. She tried to sit up, but a wave a dizziness made her close her eyes and reassess the situation.
She opened her eyes when a cool hand was placed on her brow, to find Elizabeth looking at her intently. Her soft smile had vanished, the warm glance supplanted by a look of worry.
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked.
“She fainted,” Helen said.
“I’ve never fainted a day in my life,” she said.
Fergus had dragged a straight-back chair next to her, sat, and dropped his hand to hold hers. He glanced toward Elizabeth, but away when the nurse looked up. Elizabeth peeked in Fergus’s direction, but he studiously avoided her gaze.
She’d never seen two people try so hard to ignore each other and fail so abysmally.
“Someone struck me,” she said to Elizabeth, and turned her head gently.
Elizabeth carefully examined her, the nurse’s indrawn breath a worry.
“Am I all right?”
“A cold compress, a little rest, and you shall be,” Elizabeth said.
Gently, she pulled her hand free, testing a smile for Helen. It must have looked terrible, because Helen immediately began sobbing again.
“Really, I’m fine,” she said, raising up on her arms. The distance from a supine position to a sitting one seemed too far to manage, especially since her head was aching abominably.
She looked toward Mr. Loftus, who was talking to Miriam too softly to be overheard. Evidently, he was giving her instructions to return to her room, because she abruptly turned and left the library.
So much for any concern Miriam felt. Oh, did you fall, Countess? Are you feeling ill, Shona? Is there anything I can do?
She shook her head, changed her mind about that decision, and bit back a moan with difficulty.
“Help me up, please,” she said to Elizabeth, who was feeling the knot on the back of her head again.
The nurse grabbed an arm, supporting her back as she rose to a sitting position. Once she was upright, it took a few moments for her to acclimate herself to the sudden dizziness, and a few moments to realize that the oil lamp was sitting on a small table beside the door.
She hadn’t put it there.
“I’m sorry you had an episode of dizziness, Countess,” Mr. Loftus said. “It’s a good thing I was around.”
Slowly, her gaze traveled to Mr. Loftus.
Her stomach knotted.
“I didn’t see you, Mr. Loftus.”
“I came to get something to read, Countess and saw you there on the floor. Naturally, I fetched Helen.”
The man could barely make it up the stairs on his own, and he expected her to believe he’d raced up them to summon her companion?
“It was indeed fortunate, Mr. Loftus,” Fergus said, tapping her shoulder as if to recall her back to good manners.
“Are you absolutely certain someone struck you, Shona? Couldn’t you have just fallen?”
She glanced at Fergus. What was the alternative? To pretend she’d fainted? Perhaps she should scream and wail like Miriam. Would that garner her any sympathy?
“Thank you,” she said, looking over at Mr. Loftus. Her smile felt brittle, but evidently satisfied Mr. Loftus, because he nodded back at her.
She turned to Fergus. “I’m not certain what happened,” she said, hoping that would be enough. She was not going to pretend to faint, even to appear proper and ladylike.
Helen stood, in earnest conversation with the American. Elizabeth and Fergus were still ignoring each other, and Helmut was at the door, staring down at her as if he’d discovered an incapacitated mouse on the floor. She wasn’t entirely certain if he wanted to step on her or haul her up by her wrapper belt and dispose of her.
“Could you help me up?” she asked, and was assisted by Fergus, who grabbed one arm ineffectua
lly, and Elizabeth, who was much stronger than anyone would suppose from her angelic appearance.
The two evidently brushed hands, because both of them jumped apart, causing her to bite her lip in impatience.
Once standing, she leaned against a chair, not feeling the least bit steady.
“I’m going to get Mr. Loftus a tray,” Helen said. “Why don’t you sit and rest here, Shona? I’ll bring you some tea.”
She slowly nodded, nearly falling into the nearest chair. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t going to move from the spot until she felt better.
“Do you always sleep fully clothed?” Fergus asked Elizabeth.
A sharp, indrawn breath was Elizabeth’s only response.
Really, how much more of this was she to endure? Two obstinate people, each pretending the other didn’t exist.
“You look as if you feel ill,” Elizabeth said. “Shall we help you to bed?”
“No,” she said. “A bit of tea and I’ll be fine.”
Or even some whiskey, if she could find a bottle Old Ned hadn’t purloined, something to deaden this sudden, sharp pain in her head.
Helen disappeared into the labyrinth of the kitchen. Mr. Loftus took himself off to be waited upon, and even Helmut dissolved from his position by the door, leaving her alone with Fergus and Elizabeth.
“Someone struck me,” she said.
Fergus turned and stared at her, but Elizabeth’s reaction was far more interesting. She looked decidedly guilty.
“Earlier, Mr. Loftus was looking for the entrance to the secret passage,” Elizabeth admitted. “I’m not certain if he found it. I was sent to find Miriam.”
Fergus smiled. “A thoroughly charming young woman.”
That comment was so odd that Shona frowned at him.
“You think she’s an idiot,” she said, ignoring Elizabeth’s presence.
Fergus shrugged. “She’s a wealthy idiot.”
A horrible idea was taking root. “You aren’t thinking of making a match with Miriam Loftus.”
“Why is having a wealthy wife any different than a wealthy husband?”
They stared at each other.
“Did you resent my marrying Bruce?”
“To save me?” His lips twisted. “You could have married Gordon and saved yourself.”
Surprise kept her speechless. Had he thought that all along? Bruce had been generous to her brother. Had Fergus resented that, too?
“Perhaps it’s my turn to marry for money,” Fergus said.
She stood, wobbling a little.
Something had to be done. Something now, before he gave any more credence to such an impossible notion.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go and flirt with Mr. Loftus.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
“We’ll have a test of it,” Shona said. “Which Imrie can marry for money first.”
Fergus frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Shona made her way from the room, an exit that might have been dramatic except for the fact that she needed Elizabeth’s assistance. They left Fergus in the Family Parlor, no doubt planning his strategy for the hand of Miriam Loftus.
She really did feel horrible, and not all of it was because of the pain in her head.
Chapter 22
Shona stood on the bluff overlooking Loch Mor.
Busy white waves raced like children for the shoreline. A wintering wind tugged at her cloak, blew off her hood, and whipped her hair loose. Frantically, Shona grabbed at the mass of it, trying to stuff it back into some kind of order. Instead, it curled around her head, marking her as a plaything of the weather.
Twice now, she’d come to this exact spot and twice she’d turned away, the courage to walk down to Rathmhor slipping from her grasp like water.
Two days had passed since the accident in the Family Parlor. Accident—the word everyone called it. She knew it hadn’t been an accident, and Elizabeth knew as well. The nurse had checked on her constantly the next day when Shona had taken advantage of the situation and simply remained in bed.
She would have still been there, with the sheets drawn over her head, if she hadn’t been consulted on every single domestic crisis occurring at Gairloch. When Cook had appeared, nearly in tears, that had been the last straw. She’d had to get up, dress, and visit with Mr. Loftus, explaining that Cook didn’t know how to cook eggs the way he liked them. This was Scotland, not New York, and surely he would like a nice bit of salmon for lunch?
As she left the Laird’s Chamber, she realized that Fergus had more chance wooing Miriam than she had of tamping down her distaste for the very wealthy, overindulged American.
Now, Mr. Loftus, Helmut, and Elizabeth were all in the library, Helen holding forth on the history of Scotland while Mr. Loftus pontificated about American history as counterpoint. Fergus was probably in the tower and Cook and Jennie were in the kitchen, which left her free to solve one of the problems confronting her.
She’d always had the ability to face the truth, even if it was unpleasant. Never before, however, had it tasted so bitter. She couldn’t turn away today. No other option lay before her.
Her hand fisted, the jewelry in her palm biting into her skin. She only had one thing of value, and it was this, a brooch of diamonds and emeralds denoting the Imrie Clan crest, bequeathed to her on her mother’s death.
Her stomach rolled at the idea of selling it, but now was not the time for sentimentality.
Wrapping her cloak more closely around her, she began walking toward Rathmhor when the ground rumbled with a dragon’s roar. A plume of white smoke a thousand feet high shot up into the heavens, lighting the gray sky. Her feet trembled as the earth shook and, for an instant, she thought the world was ending.
Her ears rang with the explosion long after the sound ended. Wraithlike fingers of smoke swirled over her, the acrid smell becoming a taste. She coughed, waved a hand in front of her face and realized that Rathmhor was still obscured by a cloud of smoke.
Gordon was down there.
She began to run, her shoes easily finding the well worn path through the woods. Beneath the heavy boughs, the air smelled of winter. Past the cottage, to the other side of the trees, her heartbeats matching the rhythm of her running feet.
She halted on the road leading to the Works, on the other side of Rathmhor, her eyes wide, her face stiff with fear.
The smoke was being chased away by an impatient wind, but the smell lingered, a sharp odor that inflamed her nostrils, and coated the back of her throat.
Gordon was standing there, laughing.
Wrapping her cloak more closely around her, she slowed her pace to a walk, the fear transforming itself to calm, the calm changing to irritation, and irritation mounting to anger.
With Gordon was another man, one darker in countenance and shorter, whose laughter was as open and free. The two of them were attired in similar garb, white shirts and dark trousers, equally dirty.
They were staring at a deep pit in front of them, a hole so large it looked as if God had simply reached down and scooped out a handful of dirt.
She knew the minute they saw her because their laughter abruptly ceased.
He said something to the other man that she couldn’t hear before turning toward her. Pasting a determined smile on her face, she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away.
“Did you do that?” she asked, gesturing to the hole in the ground. Her heart was still pounding, and she wondered if he could tell how afraid she’d been.
“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding as carefree as a boy. “Or rather, Rani and I did.” He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “This is Rani Kumar, an expert at munitions. Rani, the Countess of Morton.”
“Your Ladyship,” Rani said, pressing his hands together prayerfully in front of him, and bowing from the waist.
She nodded, hoping to hide her confusion. She’d known that some of the East Indians had been friendly to Commonwealth troops, but to the extent that he w
ould make his home in Scotland? What exactly were the two of them doing?
“I’m sorry if the explosion scared you,” Gordon said.
“It startled us a bit, too,” Rani added. “We weren’t quite sure how large an explosion it would be.”
She looked at both of them, not quite understanding. “But you set off the explosion even so?”
They both looked at each other, then at her before Gordon gave her a wicked, boyish, grin.
“We had to find out if we were right,” he said.
“Did you not think you could be injured?”
His smile was slow, utterly charming, and equally maddening. “Were you worried about me?”
“Of course not,” she lied, smiled in farewell to Rani, and turned on her heel, intent on leaving him.
She didn’t hear his footsteps before he grabbed her elbow, and whirled her around to face him, forcibly reminding her of both his height and strength. She had to tilt her head back to look up to him and when she attempted to pull free of his grasp, he didn’t release her.
“Were you worried about me?” he asked, his tone dropping, becoming low, almost seductive. If she were given to being seduced, she might have been charmed by his smile, but she wasn’t.
However, she wanted, absurdly, to wipe his face free of dirt, especially a smudge on his upper cheek.
“No. I came to talk with you. Can you spare some time to speak with me?” she asked.
On her race to Rathmhor, she’d placed the clan broach in her pocket. She felt for it now, reassured it was still there.
“Not at the moment, no,” he said.
“It’s important,” she said. Honesty compelled her to add, “Perhaps not to anyone but me, but it is important.”
The flicker in his eyes might have been surprise or something else. It was gone before she could tell.
He turned, leaving her to rejoin Rani. For a moment, she thought he’d simply dismissed her, but then they both glanced at her. An interruption, that’s what she was, and if she wasn’t devoid of ideas or time, she’d have turned and walked away.
