A Scottish Love

by Karen Ranney

  “If I said no, then that would mean she thought it would be a disaster. I choose to pretend that she was gracious and accept her generosity.”

  Helen smiled in approval.

  The dress really was beautiful. In addition to being snug at the waist and a bit deep in the bodice, it was adorned with sparkly bits on the straps that fit over her arms, and draped to her elbows. She hadn’t the slightest idea of fashions in America, but she knew Invergaire Glen had never seen a dress like this.

  “You’ve been a proper widow all these years, Shona. Perhaps it’s time for you to be a little shocking.”

  Had Helen forgotten her confession a few days earlier? Did Helen want her to show up in Gairloch’s Clan Hall half undressed?

  From the glint in her eyes, yes.

  “You might as well catch a certain Scotsman’s attention,” Helen said.

  “Better me than Miriam.” She turned toward Helen. “Isn’t she supposed to be engaged? Why isn’t she pining for her intended?”

  Helen looked amused, which was equal parts vexing and embarrassing.

  “I don’t think she cares for her intended. It’s a match Mr. Loftus arranged. This trip is a bit of a consolation for her, I think. As is Gairloch. He means it as a wedding present.”

  That idea was simply annoying.

  “That isn’t to say,” Helen added, “that she couldn’t convince him that another suitor was more suitable.”

  “Someone with a title,” she said dully. “First Baronet of Invergaire.”

  “Or Laird of Gairloch,” Helen said.

  Twice in the space of a few minutes, she’d been struck dumb. Was there no end to Helen’s confounding comments?

  “Fergus? Could she be interested in him?” Perhaps Fergus hadn’t been jesting that night in the Clan Hall. She couldn’t imagine ever being related to Miriam Loftus.

  Finally, she found her voice. “I really do look different, don’t I?”

  “No, you look like Shona, only dressed up for a party.” Helen smiled and touched her arm. “Let me help you with your hair,” she said, leading her to the vanity.

  All conversation about Miriam Loftus blessedly ceased.

  Gordon knew his own failings all too well, one of them being feeling a sense of anticipation as he walked toward Gairloch.

  Shona had sent him an invitation to the party. If he had any kind of sense, he’d decline. But she’s also written a note on the back: Thank you, Gordon, for your generosity. She’d invited Rani to the party as well, a gesture that pleased him, even though Rani had declined. Not a surprise, since his friend wasn’t comfortable in social situations.

  Shona had always been a master of the verbal thrust and parry, capable of delivering the perfect quip at the perfect moment. In that one sentence of thanks, however, she’d revealed a vulnerability, and in her invitation a generosity of spirit.

  Perhaps he was a fool to come to Gairloch again, especially for an occasion such as this. Was he supposed to celebrate the arrival of the Americans to a place that had proudly belonged to an ancient clan? Were the Imries simply to go off meekly, counting their coins? The idea of either Shona or Fergus doing so was a little difficult to accept.

  No, Shona would go shouting and yelling defiance. She’d have that look in her eyes that said her pride was up.

  I haven’t any money.

  Her eyes had been clear when she’d said those words, her face set in an expression of stoic endurance. What had she suffered in the last seven years?

  Perhaps the Imrie pride wasn’t as stiff and unrelenting as he’d thought.

  He could always offer marriage to Shona Imrie Donegal, a thought that had him stopping in his tracks. Would she accept his suit? No, he wasn’t going to put himself in that position again. He’d learned, the last time, that it stung to be rejected. No, more than that. She’d wounded him, damn it, and he’d taken years to heal.

  He had enough to do rather than appear at Gairloch like some idiotic suitor. He wasn’t. She’d made it all too clear that she didn’t want him except in bed or to act as her banker.

  Shona Imrie wasn’t going to call the tune. No one was, a comment he’d made this very afternoon when the three men—bankers, as he’d originally thought—appeared at the Works again.

  “We represent a consortium of interested buyers, Sir Gordon,” the spokesman said, “who are very interested in your discovery.”

  They didn’t want the Works. They wanted the blasting powder he and Rani had developed. They evidently wanted it badly enough to offer a fortune for it, the amount they’d offered today staggering him, once more, into speechlessness.

  He’d be wealthier than he ever dreamed. So would Rani.

  “But if we take our invention to the market ourselves,” Rani had argued, “we will be as rich.”

  What concerned him most wasn’t the fact that the men they represented wanted to purchase their discovery, but the single-minded intensity with which they pursued the point.

  “Is the army involved?” he’d asked. The surprise on their faces was indication of their answer even before their spokesman denied the War Office’s involvement.

  “Do you want the blasting powder enough to steal it?” Rani asked.

  This time, all three men looked insulted. Rani only shrugged.

  Even though Gordon had given them no encouragement—the opposite, in fact—they’d visited the Works three times. Once, when he met with them initially. The second time, when they had badgered Rani, and the third, this afternoon, when they’d arrived unexpectedly, insisting on meeting with both of them.

  After their departure, Rani said, “The English see something, my friend, and they do not walk away. They want it. They take it.”

  He wondered if Rani was talking about his own country and the Empire’s blunderings there. In that, they had some common ground. He might be a former officer of the Crown, and a baronet for his troubles, but in his heart, he was all Scot.

  The line of carriages and wagons circling around to the Lower Courtyard attested to the success of this gathering. Torches lined the road for nearly a mile, ready to be lit when the Highland night finally darkened.

  Even in the darkness, Gairloch would lord it over the countryside.

  Shona Imrie did the same.

  But she’d changed, hadn’t she? Become more reticent, less vocal, her thoughts hidden by a calm and placid expression.

  If he only had a bit of magic in his hand, he’d wish for the years to roll back. He’d be simply Gordon, striding across the glen between the houses, visible for all to see. He’d call on her with his pride stuffed in his pocket, and his heart in his eyes, and beg her to be his bride.

  Come with me, he would have said, the accent of their homeland in his voice. And if she’d refused, instead of accepting her rebuff as an answer, he would have spirited her away like his border reiver ancestor.

  They’d have made their home in their own place, a spot not far from here that they could build themselves. This is the house we made, they might have said to a passerby, or a relative come calling.

  Instead, they served the past, both of them, a true son and daughter of Scotland.

  A quarter hour later, Shona’s hair was done, done up with so many pins that Helen had to go and fetch more from her bedroom. Helen had also, surprisingly, insisted on dusting her face with powder, and applying a salve to her lips.

  “Just so it reminds you to smile,” Helen admonished. “And no, don’t go chewing it off.”

  “I know how to behave in public,” she said, feeling like a child.

  Finally, she was ready, and she walked to the other side of the room to look at herself again. The woman in the mirror had color on her cheeks. Was there something in the powder Helen had used? Her hair was pinned above her ears, falling in curls to her shoulders.

  She wanted to cry.

  “You’ve made me beautiful,” she said, the sound of tears in her voice.

  “You’ve always been beautiful,” Hele
n said. “You’ve just been too miserable to notice it.”

  “You’ve made me noticeable, too,” she said.

  Helen nodded. “Not one person will fail to recall the exact moment you arrive, Shona Imrie Donegal. You look the proper Countess of Morton.”

  “I do, don’t I?”

  If she’d had any of the jewelry Bruce had given her, she would have worn it tonight. But those items had served a better purpose than simple decoration by supporting them in the last two years.

  Would Gordon think her beautiful? Was she foolish even to wonder?

  She turned to Helen. “Now, shall I help you?”

  Helen shook her head. “I’m not one for parties,” she said.

  She sat on the bed, throwing the shawl and fan to the side. “Then, I’m not going, either.”

  “You don’t need me to give you moral courage, Shona.”

  “No, but I need you to enjoy yourself. Ever since we’ve come to Gairloch, you’ve been at everyone’s beck and call. I think you need to dance a little, weep at the pipers, and maybe even drink a wee dram of whiskey.”

  “Really, I’d be much happier reading a book in my room.”

  “Then so shall I.”

  Helen frowned. “Really, Shona.”

  She only smiled. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

  “You won’t go without me?”

  She shook her head.

  At the door, Helen looked back. “You really are very obstinate, you know.”

  Her smile grew wider. “Yes, I know.”

  When Helen was gone, she stood, brushing the wrinkles from her lovely borrowed dress. Rather than go and look at herself again, she walked toward the windows, staring out at the Highland night, the light gradually fading. In a few hours, the sky would blacken, but for now, she could see the approach to Gairloch and the procession of vehicles carrying the guests to the castle.

  When darkness fell, the flames in the lanterns would toss shadows against the leaves of the overhanging trees. The stars would shine so brightly that it would seem heaven had been brought closer for this event.

  Tonight, the pipes would play, welcoming the world to Gairloch. Tonight, the skirling sound would speak to another time, but one just as fraught with confusion and despair. Peace covered the Highlands like a warm blanket, but the world away from here was not so serene, and Scotland’s sons had gone to war again.

  Many of their guests tonight had done the same, some of them returning, like Fergus, with scars visible to all. Some of them were perhaps like Gordon, outwardly perfect, but affected just the same.

  How could she bear it if anything happened to him?

  What if one of his stupid explosions went wrong? Would anyone even let her know?

  She pressed her fingertips against the cool glass, closing her eyes as she did so. On this night of celebration, when it seemed the past was hand in hand with the present, she whispered a prayer of protection for both men she loved.

  And there she was, like a gift from God, a test for his patience and his pride.

  The light was behind her, and she was a red-hued shadow, but he’d know Shona Imrie anywhere. Even in his coffin with her a weeping visitor. The last shreds of his soul would reach out to her, and thank her for the comfort of her tears.

  Tonight, he had to either leave her or love her for the sake of his mind and his heart. He couldn’t wonder what might have been or what could be.

  He had to know.

  Chapter 27

  As the hostess, an Imrie of Gairloch, she should have been the first to greet each visitor at the door. She would have been, too, if Helen had not insisted on two things: that Fergus serve in that role, and that she should take care with her own appearance.

  Very well, both had been accomplished, and she was on her way down the stairs, carefully lifting up her skirts and hoping her bodice stayed up as well. Her face warmed when she realized that the crowd of people were beginning to look up. Not only that, but they weren’t talking, as if a wave of silence was moving slowly through Gairloch.

  She halted, halfway down the steps, clenching the wooden banister so tightly she wondered if she’d crush it.

  “Smile,” Helen said from behind her.

  She’d been in social positions before. Bruce hadn’t entertained much, but when he had, she’d certainly comported herself well. He’d often complimented her afterward. When they’d attended various functions in Edinburgh and even London, she hadn’t been a wayward chit, but a gracious guest.

  But here, and now, she suddenly forgot everything she’d ever learned from her mother and in the intervening years. Every person she’d ever known in her childhood looked up at her, a mass of people spilling out of the Clan Hall, silent and . . . what? What were they thinking? What did they want of her?

  The minister she’d known since she was a child looked a little surprised. So, too, his birdlike wife. Sarah Imrie McNair, a cousin, who was holding a cup and staring up at her wide-eyed. Her brother, Magnus, was actually leering at Shona.

  Had they all forgotten what she looked like?

  Helen whispered something else to her, some instruction, and she nodded, descending another step, glancing down at herself to ensure her bodice was in place.

  Gordon stood talking with Fergus, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d dressed for the occasion in his formal uniform with kilt and black jacket. His black hair had been brushed until it shone. He laughed at something Fergus said, and the sound traveled up her spine.

  He was the most beautiful creature in the world.

  At that moment, he glanced in her direction, his smile fading. A room separated them, dozens and dozens of suddenly silent people. Because he was looking up at her, she managed the last few steps. Keeping her eyes on him, and only him, she ignored the silence. She reached the bottom of the steps, uncertain what to do. Gordon rescued her by pushing through the throng and offering his arm.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said softly.

  “I thought the same of you,” she said, to his obvious surprise.

  Her hand felt cold on his arm, or was that only because he was so warm? His gaze heated her from the inside out.

  “I’m so glad the dress was able to fit you,” Miriam said, her voice carrying across the room.

  The spell was broken, the noise level increasing. She might have been a fairy princess, but her reign had lasted only minutes.

  The American girl was suddenly there, only feet away.

  “It’s a lovely dress,” Shona said, forcing a polite smile to her flaming face.

  “It looks lovely on you,” Miriam said. “How fortunate that it didn’t fit me.”

  Must everyone know she wore a borrowed dress? Or was that the reason behind Miriam’s sudden, and unexpected, generosity?

  At the moment, she would have been just as happy if the stone floor opened up and swallowed her. Better yet, perhaps she could escape through one of the secret passages and just disappear.

  She removed her hand from Gordon’s arm.

  “Shona.”

  She glanced up at Gordon. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. Please don’t let him say something kind at the moment. She really couldn’t bear if he was kind.

  Moving away, she met with the musicians, giving them instructions on when to begin playing, and then gave the signal to the piper.

  At first, the sound was muted, so that only a few of the guests glanced around, confused. Then, as he came down the corridor leading to the Clan Hall, all the guests pressed into the doorway to see him.

  The procession was a simple one—the piper playing the Imrie Clan tune, a haunting melody heard at momentous events. As Laird of Gairloch, Fergus was next, his advance a little slow because of his limp. Next, she followed, secondary to her brother, only because he was laird.

  In other times, the rest of the family would follow, but she and Fergus were the only Imries left. Their guests parted to allow them to enter the Clan Hall unobstructed, a sign
of fealty and respect.

  When the procession was over, she moved through the crowd, greeting people she hadn’t seen for years, accepting their compliments about the castle, the night, and her own appearance with more equanimity than she’d thought possible only minutes earlier. She smiled until her face ached, allowed herself to be hugged, her cheek patted, her arm stroked, and recalled the past with every other person.

  Yes, her parents would be happy to see her and Fergus looking so well. Yes, Gairloch looked lovely at night. Yes, it will be sad to leave the castle. Yes, the food is wonderful, is it not?

  Colonel Sir Gordon, First Baronet of Invergaire? Yes, it was a great honor he’d been given, secondary to Fergus’s own award of the new Victoria Cross. They should have had a celebration simply for that. Yes, what a pity Fergus had been wounded, but he looked so much better now. Yes, it was impossible to know if he would always limp.

  As to the Americans, Mr. Loftus seemed amenable, and that daughter of his was quite a lovely girl. Will they be living here? Yes, it will be strange not to have any Imries living at Gairloch. Who is that giant following him around, and that beautiful blond girl who never smiles?

  She supervised the refilling of all the platters of food on the table, gave instructions to fetch another barrel of whiskey, and took a small sip of her own glass when she had a moment. Gairloch whiskey went straight to her stomach, warming the cold places she’d pretended weren’t there for the last hour.

  Every time she turned around, Gordon was within sight. Every time she spoke to one of the older villagers, and he brought up her childhood, she felt him close. Twice, she turned to find him watching her, a curious, almost speculative look on his face.

  Granted, she was wearing a dress that was more revealing than any she’d ever worn, but surely that wasn’t why he was looking at her in that fashion. Besides, Gordon knew quite well what she looked like without any clothes at all. For that matter, he knew what made her moan and what pleasured her.

  Not thoughts she should be having in the midst of two hundred people.