by Karen Ranney
Dedication
To Vicki Branson
For her friendship and courage
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
An Excerpt from To Love a Duchess Chapter One
About the Author
By Karen Ranney
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
“It’s a monster!” Ruthie screamed. “One of those Scottish monsters, Miss Mercy, just like the stories we heard.”
“It’s nothing of the sort, Ruthie,” Mercy Rutherford said, trying to calm herself and, by extension, her maid.
Ruthie, however, was having none of it. She grabbed Mercy’s right arm with both hands and was practically atop her, straining to see out the window on the left side of the carriage.
It might not be a monster, but it was one of the oddest things she’d ever seen. A boat with wheels and a tail hanging from a massive sail. The most surprising and alarming thing was that the contraption was aloft like a giant misshapen bird and was now headed straight for them.
“I knew it, Miss Mercy. I knew it. Didn’t I tell you when I saw those three magpies that something terrible would happen?”
Ruthie saw omens in everything.
“If it isn’t a monster, Miss Mercy, then what is it?”
Mercy didn’t know. She’d never seen anything like it.
“Is it a dragon?”
That was as good a name as any.
“It’s going to hit us, Miss Mercy.”
It certainly appeared that way. Ruthie wasn’t the only one becoming agitated. The horses were screaming and the coachman Mercy had hired in Inverness was shouting, trying to control them.
She wanted to close her eyes and pretend to be asleep. In a moment she would awaken because the maid was at her bedside with the morning tray, complete with coffee, toast, and a rosebud from their greenhouse in a vase.
Her day would be like a thousand other days. “The jeweler is here with some new designs for you to see, Miss Mercy.” Or: “There’s a final fitting for your ball gown, Miss Mercy.” Or: “The cook has prepared some sweets for you. Shall I fetch them?”
Inconsequential details marking her life, one crafted to be without a care. One from which she’d escaped weeks ago.
Was she going to die because she wanted her freedom?
The carriage stopped, then lurched forward as the horses panicked. She truly couldn’t blame them, especially after she looked out the window again. The dragon was getting closer. At another time she might’ve marveled that something that looked nothing like a balloon was somehow managing to stay up in the air. Not right now, however, when it was a very real danger.
If the horses continued to be uncontrollable they could end up off the road entirely and over one of those cliffs they’d passed earlier. Below them was a lake, or what the Scots called a loch. She didn’t think Ruthie could swim and she didn’t know about Mr. McAdams.
If screaming would do any good, she would join her voice to the horses and now Ruthie. It wouldn’t do for everyone to lose their minds. Someone had to remain calm.
The dragon was lower and closer now, directed by a man seated in the boat-like part of the craft.
“Turn,” she said. Of course he couldn’t hear her, but perhaps God could. “Make him turn.”
The man was still headed directly toward them.
Would anyone be able to convey the information that she’d perished to her parents? She’d written them a letter explaining this forbidden journey, but if she failed to return home would they be able to find out what had happened to her?
How odd that she’d never thought to die in Scotland.
Lennox Caitheart swore as he pulled one of the ropes controlling the tail of his airship. There wasn’t supposed to be a carriage in the road. There was never a carriage on this road.
The road was the unofficial boundary between his land and the Macrorys’, and he was careful never to venture on the other side of it.
Ben Uaine didn’t count. The mountain belonged to Scotland, not the Macrorys, although they’d claimed dominion over everything they saw.
No, the carriage shouldn’t have been there and now he was heading directly for it. The wind gusts had been exactly what he planned. He’d kept the air sock and pennant in place for weeks now, measuring the difference in the wind between the morning, afternoon, and evening.
One simple errant carriage might be the difference between his first true success and utter disaster.
If he tried to avoid them, he would head straight for the loch, which wouldn’t be bad from a landing point of view, but he wouldn’t be able to retrieve his Cayley replica if he landed in the water. He aimed for the glen, just as he’d planned, and it would’ve been almost successful if the blasted carriage hadn’t been between him and his landing site.
Mercy began to pray. That’s what people did in the midst of a crisis, wasn’t it?
She wasn’t Roman Catholic like Ruthie. Nor did she have a rosary, but she no doubt sounded as panicked to the Almighty.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have embarked on such a foolish errand, God. But it was born out of compassion. Does that excuse me?
Probably not. Doing the right thing for the wrong reason was almost as bad as doing the wrong thing for the right reason. Either way, she didn’t doubt that God preferred two positives to a positive paired with a negative.
It truly had been an errand of compassion for her aunt and grandmother. They’d lived in North Carolina during the Civil War. Granted, she and her family had experienced war as well, but not as personally since they lived in New York. Their home hadn’t been razed. Their crops hadn’t been burned. They hadn’t been nearly starved for the past year.
When her father’s messenger returned from North Carolina with news that her grandmother and aunt were no longer there, Mercy tho
ught her mother’s heart would break. The valise, filled with greenbacks, hadn’t been a lifeline after all. The messenger had reached North Carolina after her grandmother and aunt had left. They’d gone to Scotland where her grandmother had been born.
Mercy had decided to bring the money to Scotland, to ensure that her mother’s family was provided for just as her mother had intended. In all honesty, she would have found any reason to escape, but she never thought to be sitting in a carriage waiting for a man-made dragon to land on her.
He was almost atop them now, his descent muted beneath the sound of the screaming horses and Ruthie praying in her ear.
Suddenly, the roof of the carriage sounded as if it was being torn off. This time she did close her eyes, pulling her arm free of Ruthie’s grip to embrace the other woman. The maid had been with her since Mercy was seventeen, nearly eleven years now. If she must die in a strange land, then at least Ruthie was with her.
Scant comfort for both their families.
She hoped her mother would forgive her and that her father would understand.
The carriage lurched to the side as Ruthie prayed in her ear. She didn’t understand half of what the maid was saying because it seemed to be in Latin, but Ruthie never missed Mass. Perhaps God would look upon both of them favorably because of that. Mercy went to church every Sunday as well, but Presbyterians didn’t seem nearly as fervent.
With her left hand she reached up and grabbed the strap over the window, her right arm still around Ruthie. A horrible groaning noise was the last thing she heard before the carriage overturned.
Chapter Two
Something was wet on her face. Mercy tried to move her head, but it seemed like it weighed twenty times more than it had just a few minutes earlier. She pushed something off her head, finally realizing that it was the seat cushion.
The carriage had overturned. They were on their side and everything that had been on the floor was now tossed willy-nilly, including the hamper that had been prepared for them this morning. A large chunk of pungent-smelling cheese was only inches from her nose. She suspected that one of the bottles of wine had broken open and that’s what she felt on her face.
Ruthie was crumpled on the other side of the carriage. One of her arms was outstretched and her head was pillowed on it, almost as if she were asleep. But she was entirely too pale and when Mercy called her name she didn’t respond.
Mercy managed to inch to the other woman’s side.
The roof of the carriage abruptly opened, almost as if it had been peeled back by a gigantic hand. No, not a giant. Only a man.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“You’re an American,” he said.
She squinted at him. “Was it you flying the dragon?”
“The what?”
“Dragon. Monster. Whatever it was.”
“It’s an airship.”
“Whatever it was, you’re insane.”
He didn’t respond to her comment. Instead, he frowned. “You’re bleeding.”
She raised her hand and placed it on her cheek. When her fingers came away, they were bloodied. Not wine after all.
“Are you going to faint?”
“If I do it’s what you deserve,” she said. She was intensely furious at him, but the effort of saying so seemed suddenly too much.
“You’ve killed Ruthie,” she said. “You’re not only insane, you’re a murderer.”
“Hardly that,” he said. “She’s still breathing, but we do need to get her out of there.”
He pulled off the remainder of the roof easily, dragging it away from the rest of the carriage.
Ruthie, thankfully, surfaced from her faint as he and the coachman were pulling her free of the wreckage.
Mercy had decided to refuse his help, idiot that he was, and make her own way out of the vehicle. She was reminded of her mother’s words a few minutes later when she realized that she couldn’t pull her foot free.
Your father’s pride gets him in trouble, sometimes, Mercy. It’s a good thing to be proud. But it is not a good thing to be excessively prideful.
The stranger returned for her a moment later.
“I can’t move my foot,” she said, annoyed at having to ask for his help.
He didn’t say anything, just crawled into the carriage, removed part of the frame, then grabbed her under her arms, dragging her unceremoniously out of the carriage onto a grassy area not far from the road.
She lay looking up at the clear Scottish sky. At least it wasn’t raining.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“How is Ruthie?”
“I think her arm is broken.”
She closed her eyes.
“I must get her help,” she said.
“I have some experience in setting bones.”
She opened her eyes and moved her head slowly until he was within sight.
“You broke her arm and now you want to fix it?”
“I don’t see any alternative.”
“I really don’t want you to treat her,” she said.
“I don’t care what you want.”
“Are you always so boorish?”
“Yes.”
“You should apologize,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “For both your attitude and crashing into us.”
He didn’t pay her any attention. Instead, he turned to the coachman and was indicating something at the bottom of the hill.
“I’m going to take your friend to my home,” he said, glancing once more at her. “I can treat her there. You’ll be safe here with the coachman until I return.”
Of course she would be safe. Mr. McAdams was a very nice man, one she’d interviewed in Inverness. He had been exceedingly polite and willing to take them this far. Of course, she’d paid him a small fortune so the decision had been an easy one.
Ruthie was lying on the grass with her eyes closed as if she’d fallen into a faint again. Without another word, the man scooped Ruthie up from the grass and cradled her in his arms. Then he was gone, walking down the hill toward the loch.
She watched them until they were out of sight, then lay back down on the ground. Her head was pounding and must be bleeding again.
A few minutes later Mr. McAdams came to stand at her side.
“The carriage is done for, I’m afraid, Miss Rutherford. Mr. Caitheart said he has a carriage we could borrow, miss.”
“Is that his name?”
Mr. McAdams nodded. The coachman was a large man, but then she had never seen a coachman who didn’t have a burly shape. They needed muscles to control the strong-willed horses that pulled carriages. If Mr. McAdams was fond of his dinner, that seemed a small sin when compared to the ones he could have possessed.
The sin of pride, for example.
She turned her head slightly. To her left was the monster Mr. Caitheart had been riding. It didn’t look remotely like a dragon now, only a crumpled bit of wood with fluttery fabric in two places. A dragonfly, that’s what it reminded her of—a wounded dragonfly resting on the ground before it healed itself. Or perished.
She’d been a fool to come to Scotland, even if it had been a compassionate errand. She’d made the whole situation worse by bringing Ruthie with her. Not that she would’ve left New York without the other woman. First of all, she had her reputation to consider. Secondly, Ruthie was her only true friend. Yet now she had something else on her conscience, Ruthie’s well-being.
Mr. McAdams had already unfastened the horses from the ruined carriage. He went to them now, sliding his hands over their flanks, examining each leg with care. Mercy did the same for herself as discreetly as she could. She was wearing a dark blue traveling dress and the crinolines beneath her skirt were a great deal more comfortable than trying to wear a hoop inside the carriage.
She sat up after having determined that there was nothing wrong with her arms—unlike poor Ruthie. Nor did she seem to have any injury of her legs or
feet. Her head still ached, however, but that was all.
A half hour passed and it didn’t seem as if Mr. Caitheart was going to come back anytime soon. Nor was Mr. McAdams interested in anything but his horses.
Very well, it was up to her to find out how Ruthie was faring. Mercy had come to Scotland to demonstrate her independence and she would begin right now.
She stood, feeling a little bit wobbly. After a minute or two the scenery didn’t tilt. Grabbing her skirts, she made her way over the grass, taking care to avoid the tall purple flowers that looked spiky and almost dangerous. She had never seen a thistle up close before, but she knew what they were. There were carvings of thistles and other Scottish plants on the mantelpieces in their summer home. A way of her father honoring her mother’s heritage, though her mother had never visited Scotland.
Her grandmother was a different story. She might have lived in North Carolina for forty years, but you wouldn’t know it to hear her speak. Nor, from the stories she told, had she ever lost her longing for Scotland.
Mercy went first to the carriage where Mr. McAdams had retrieved all their belongings and placed them to the side of the road. After finding her reticule and the valise she’d guarded ever since New York, she made her way to the coachman’s side.
“Are your horses all right, Mr. McAdams?”
“They seem to be, miss. Scared more than anything.”
She reached out and rubbed a nose close to her. She’d never excelled at riding, although they had horses at their summer home, but she’d always liked being around them.
“I’m going to go check on Ruthie,” she said. “Mr. Caitheart doesn’t seem to be returning anytime soon. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”
He nodded.
She hesitated before leaving. Whether it made any sense or not she felt responsible for Mr. McAdams’s carriage. If he hadn’t been taking them to her grandmother, he would never have encountered an idiot like Mr. Caitheart.
The crumpled vehicle looked as if it had been squashed like a bug, with only the wheels intact.
Mr. Caitheart had not offered an apology for his actions. Nor had he seemed to possess the least concern that he’d disrupted their lives.
