To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  A few large rocks were arranged together on the side of the road. She wasn’t sure if it was natural or something built by man, but she went and sat on the largest rock, dug into her reticule, and pulled out one of her calling cards. She wrote instructions on the back, then returned to the coachman.

  “Take that to this company in Inverness,” she said. “It’s one of my father’s shipping companies. They’ll see to it that your carriage is replaced.”

  She would pay her father back for the carriage out of her own money.

  Mr. McAdams took the card, looked at her, then the card, then her again.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  “I am sorry about all this, Mr. McAdams.”

  “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye,” he said.

  Fortunately, she’d heard that expression before and knew it meant something along the lines of whatever happens will happen.

  She grabbed the valise and her reticule, left the coachman, and started walking across the grass. Once she rounded a small hill she stopped, staring. She’d thought that Mr. Caitheart lived in one of those cottages they’d passed ever since leaving Inverness. The white walls and the thatched roofs were exceedingly picturesque, but the homes weren’t very large.

  Mr. Caitheart, however, lived in a castle. They’d seen one or two of those, as well, but they’d been ruins, stark against the horizon.

  This castle stretched out before her, an immense fortress of salmon-colored brick built on a promontory jutting into the loch.

  Surrounded on three sides by water and a narrow bit of land, the castle featured a tower at least four stories high. The curtain wall at the farthest point of the castle, close to the knoll that began to taper up toward the glen, was damaged in places but mainly intact.

  The castle stretched between the tower and the wall. Part of the original roof looked to have fallen in because it was now clad in unfinished timber. Something so obviously old that was still in use seemed almost magical, but then the land on which she walked was settled long before her own country was discovered.

  The road down to the castle led to a bridge over a gushing river. She crossed it, grateful for the iron railings on both sides.

  The castle had a second tower, but the structure had collapsed, leaving only waist-high rounded walls. The road curved in a circle in front of it, no doubt for carriages to turn around.

  The closest she’d ever come to being in a castle was a house in upstate New York owned by a friend of her father. He’d claimed that most of the bricks had been taken from an ancient fortress in Ireland and that the house had been built to replicate that castle. There was no resemblance between that luxurious home and this place.

  There was no door inside the ruined tower. Instead, it led to a space that looked to have once been an anteroom. It was dark, the sunlight only penetrating a few feet. The smell of damp brick mixed with dust assaulted her nose. That could have come from the stone floor that looked as if it had never been swept. A few more feet in was a bronze-colored metal door with a tarnished brass ring hanging by a rope down the middle of it.

  She pulled on it and heard the distant peal of a bell.

  Chapter Three

  Lennox frowned at the sound of the bell and dismissed it a second later. He knew who it was, the arrogant American who’d called him insane. She wasn’t the first. Nor would she be the last.

  People didn’t understand what he was trying to do. Nor did he waste any time attempting to explain it to them. He corresponded with a few men on the matter, but otherwise it was simply easier to keep his experiments to himself.

  He focused his attention on the young woman in front of him, grateful that his housekeeper was at the market. Otherwise, Irene would have been fussing at him for placing Miss Gallagher on her kitchen table.

  The woman’s hair was the sort of red that reminded him of autumn leaves just before they fell to the ground. Her bright green eyes were the shade of the grass in the glen and her pink cheeks brought to mind a child’s delight in winter snow.

  She’d been silent during his palpitation of her arm. The only sign that she was in pain was when she bit her lip. Otherwise, she occupied herself by staring at Connor.

  Connor was tall, towering over Lennox by a head. But, then, Connor towered over most people. He was known for two things: his height and being a peacemaker. Connor disliked conflict of any sort.

  He’d been with Lennox for four years, ever since being hired from the nearby village. Some of Lennox’s inventions had sold, which meant that he’d been able to cobble together enough money to purchase the supplies he needed, do a few repairs to the castle, buy some creature comforts, and pay a salary of sorts to Connor and Irene.

  Connor reminded him, strangely enough, of a swan. Despite his height he moved gracefully, his hands performing a ballet as he reached for the exact part he needed or tightened a screw. He glided through his tasks with a tranquility despite any obstacles he faced. Except that he had acted differently ever since seeing Miss Gallagher, witnessed by the fact that he refused to leave her side.

  Connor had steadfastly stood beside the table, holding Miss Gallagher’s free hand. To offer support, he had said. From the moment they’d seen each other, it was as if they were meeting once again after having been apart.

  Lennox had never seen anything like it, but he knew, from the expression on Connor’s face, that there was no way the other man would leave the kitchen.

  The bell rang again. Lennox ignored it and finished tying off the bandage that would keep Miss Gallagher’s arm straight until it healed.

  “Would you like some tea?” Connor asked as Lennox helped her sit up. “Lennox has a tincture that can help with the pain,” he added. “It tastes bad, but you might not be able to tell in a strong cup of tea.”

  Connor had never been so solicitous, but then they didn’t often have female visitors. Other than Irene’s sister, of course, but both women were in their fifties.

  Lennox hoped Miss Gallagher declined. Now that he’d splinted her arm, the faster she left, the better. She was a stranger on her way somewhere, not someone Connor would ever see again.

  “I’ve offered our carriage to their coachman,” he said to Connor. “Would you mind going along and bringing it back after they’ve gotten to their destination?”

  He had a few Clydesdales, working horses that he’d purchased from a friend. They weren’t as well matched as Mr. McAdams’s pair, but they would do the job.

  Lennox didn’t know if he was doing a favor for Connor or making the situation worse. Despite the fact that Connor and the maid had an instant rapport, he doubted anything could come of it. She was a visitor to Scotland with nothing to root her here.

  He put up his supplies, turning his back on the couple deliberately. If they wanted to gaze soulfully into each other’s eyes, he didn’t have to see it.

  Love made a man lose his mind. Even instant attraction dulled his wits somewhat.

  As he opened the cupboard, the bell rang again. He had to answer the door. No doubt the American woman would call him insane again. Or call him names because he’d almost killed Miss Gallagher. He hadn’t, but he did bear a sizable measure of guilt. He should have asked Connor to stand watch and ensure that no one was traveling on the road from Inverness.

  A carriage accident had killed his brother. Lennox had nearly caused the same catastrophe, albeit because of an oversight.

  He doubted if it would be wise to apologize, however. The American woman—and she was only the third American he’d met, not counting Miss Gallagher—didn’t look the type to appreciate an apology. Instead, she would probably consider it an admission of his insanity.

  She was attractive, but a fair face didn’t necessarily accompany good character. Beautiful women were difficult, mainly because they knew they were beautiful. Instead of viewing their looks as an accident of birth, they seemed to think that it was a boon bestowed by God. As if it made them somehow different, better, and special among othe
r women.

  He would much rather prefer a plain woman with a kind heart than someone like the American who was evidently well versed in sounding arrogant and behaving the same.

  This was Scotland and he was a Scot. She evidently didn’t realize what that meant. He didn’t obey orders well. Nor did he appreciate someone calling him names.

  The bell rang again, and this time he closed the cupboard with a bang and left the kitchen.

  Mercy rang the bell four times and wondered, despite the fact that she could hear it, if it was audible to anyone in the castle. She could always walk around and head for the curtain wall and see if there was a door there.

  The door finally opened and he stood there. She hadn’t truly noted his appearance earlier. No doubt that was due to the accident and her shock at what had happened.

  Mr. Caitheart was extraordinarily attractive. His face was square, his chin well defined, and more than a little stubborn. His nose reminded her of a Roman general’s bust she’d once seen in a museum. His cheekbones were prominent, but again the impression she got was of obstinacy, even in his features. His black hair was still mussed as if he hadn’t taken the opportunity to put himself to rights after the accident.

  He had the most direct and intense blue eyes she’d ever seen, and as he wordlessly stared at her, she had the absurd desire to explain herself and apologize for disturbing him.

  Instead, she asked, “How is Ruthie?”

  “She’s fine,” he said stepping back as if he expected her to enter his home without an invitation.

  She remained where she was.

  “And her arm?”

  “I’ve set it,” he said. “I’ve used a splint and bandages. When you get to where you’re going you should have it examined again.”

  His voice was interesting, deep and compelling, especially with his accent. She almost wanted to ask him to keep speaking, if he could do so without being boorish.

  “You’re still bleeding,” he said, frowning at her.

  “It’s only an annoyance,” she said. “The cut isn’t that large.”

  “Head wounds bleed.” He reached out and grabbed her arm, surprising her.

  “You sound as if you are a physician yourself, Mr. Caitheart.”

  “We live in the Highlands, miss. You need to be a master of many trades here. There aren’t doctors around every corner. You need to be treated.”

  With that, he pulled her into his castle. Hardly a gracious invitation, but she had no choice but to go with him.

  Chapter Four

  The anteroom—she hesitated calling it a foyer—had been dark. The room she entered was lit by the sun and much larger than she expected.

  She pulled her arm free of Mr. Caitheart’s grip, allowing her gaze to travel up the various arches and to the stained-glass windows high up on one wall. For a moment she thought this space might have once been a chapel, but then she realized that the windows didn’t depict any kind of religious images. Instead, they showed scenes of battle and all the red in the windows must represent blood.

  On the walls were various pendants and flags along with cudgels, swords, and instruments of war that looked as if they could deliver a painful death.

  She doubted if either of the fireplaces on opposite sides of the room would warm the area much. Summer in the Highlands was like autumn in New York. Even now, in the middle of July, the space was chilly. She could only imagine what it would be like in the depths of winter.

  The sun streaming in through various spots in the roof created patches of bright white light on the stone floor. Other than a few benches along the wall and two throne-like chairs in front of one fireplace, the cavernous space was unfurnished.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “It’s the Clan Hall,” he said, striding away from her.

  She had no recourse but to follow him. He led her down a covered corridor with windows open to a pleasant summer breeze before entering a large kitchen smelling faintly of fish.

  The room was dominated by an enormous fireplace on one wall. A wrought-iron frame held cauldrons, a tea kettle, and various pots, all waiting for the fire to be lit. The logs were at least six feet long and looked as if they would burn for a week. This was probably the warmest spot in the castle during the winter months.

  Two windows lit the space, each on opposite walls. The east-facing window held a dozen or more clay pots bearing a selection of plants. The west-facing window was bare and faced the loch. The sight of the sunset over the water must be magnificent.

  A rectangular table sat in front of the fire along with an assortment of chairs and stools. Ruthie was sitting at the table, her right arm bandaged and held close to her body in a sling made from a piece of leather.

  As they entered, the man who’d been sitting beside Ruthie stood and smiled at Mercy. He was very tall, with dark brown hair, and warm brown eyes.

  She couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Connor Ross,” Mr. Caitheart said in a begrudging tone.

  Did he never cease being rude?

  “Welcome to Duddingston Castle,” Connor said.

  At least now she had a name for the place. She smiled in response and walked toward Ruthie.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said. “Connor has given me the most bracing cup of tea.”

  “And a tincture,” Connor added. “Something to dull the pain.”

  “Oh, Ruthie, I am sorry,” she said.

  Glancing over at Mr. Caitheart, she willed him to add his apologies to hers. After all, they were here because of him and his outlandish dragon of a machine.

  He remained silent, but not immobile. Before she could ask what he was doing, he grabbed her arm again and forced her onto a chair at the end of the table.

  She was about to tell him that he didn’t have the right to manhandle her, thank you very much, when he bent low and peered at her head. She had no choice but to put both her valise and reticule on the floor beside her.

  “It’s only a small cut,” she said.

  “It’s larger than you think.”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You’re not.”

  He went to a cupboard, gathered up a few items, then returned to her side where he laid a bag and a bottle of whiskey on top of the table.

  “It’s not necessary, really,” she began, only for him to cut her off.

  “You have a gash on your head, Miss Mercy,” he said.

  She really should have told him that her name wasn’t Miss Mercy, at least not to him. The proper way to address her was Miss Rutherford. Yet the sound of her first name uttered in a Scottish accent was so intriguing that she kept silent.

  “Lennox, I’ll take Ruthie out to the garden for a little while. The sun will be good for her.”

  Lennox only nodded, being involved in pulling Mercy’s hair out by the roots.

  “Could you be a little more gentle?” she said.

  “Could you be a little less critical?”

  She really did like the way he spoke even if she disliked what he said. If he tried, just a little bit, to be agreeable, he might be excessively charming.

  However, his demeanor was none of her concern. In a short while, as soon as Mr. McAdams borrowed his carriage, they would be gone from here. She would never see him again.

  For that reason and because she was determined not to say a word no matter what he did, she remained silent when he brought a basin of water back to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat entirely too close to her before taking a few squares of white cloth, wetting them, then blotting her head.

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have a mirror,” he said. “You’re bloody.”

  “I do have a pocket mirror,” she said, “and I have examined myself, which is why I know it’s only a scratch.”

  He didn’t say anything in response, only shook his head.

  Lennox Caitheart was an entirely disagreeable man. What a pity he w
as so handsome.

  “I’m truly all right,” she said.

  He wasn’t content to simply bathe her forehead. Now he was examining her scalp, a good two inches from where she’d been wounded. When he touched one spot, she let out a gasp.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Miss Mercy. You have another cut here.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, either call me Miss Rutherford or Mercy. You’re not my maid.”

  “Indeed I’m not,” he said. “I’m not your servant at all. You might take note of that fact.”

  She had closed her eyes in the past minute and now she opened them again. He was still entirely too close. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

  “This is really not necessary. As soon as we get to our destination, I’ll have my wound taken care of.”

  “That might be too late,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He meant to disturb her, she was certain.

  “You need to get the wound stitched,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s going to continue to bleed.”

  Without waiting for a response, he stood, went to the other side of the room, and grabbed the handle of the pump. After he washed his hands and dried them, he returned to stand in front of her.

  “I’m going to have to cut a little of your hair,” he said.

  She would have clamped her hand over the area, but it was hurting now. Just as he’d said, she could feel the wound bleeding more profusely, thanks to his ministrations.

  “Well?”

  She was proud of her hair. It was dark brown with hints of auburn, thick and easy to manage. Yet here he was, claiming that he needed to cut it. Not just anywhere, but at the crown. She was going to look absolutely ridiculous with a bald spot at the top of her head.

  “Must you? Cut my hair, I mean.”

  He stared directly into her eyes, his blue gaze giving her the impression that he could see right through her, viewed her vanity, and found her wanting.

  “It’s not that I’m vain, Mr. Caitheart. It’s just that I’m on the way to visit my family. My mother’s family. I’ve never met them, except my grandmother and my aunt and it’s been years since I’ve seen them. I’d much rather not be bald.”