by Karen Ranney
“I’ll make you a promise,” he said. “I will only cut what absolutely must go. You won’t be bald, I can assure you.”
She nodded, which he evidently took as agreement. The next thing she knew he was standing even closer.
He really should have warned her about what he did next. He took the whiskey bottle and poured it on the wound. Despite herself, she let out a yelp.
“It’s just a little whiskey. Do you want something to chew on while I do the rest?”
“Is it going to be worse than that?” she asked.
“It’s entirely possible. How brave are you?”
Up until this moment, she’d honestly thought she’d demonstrated a fair amount of courage. After all, she and Ruthie had crossed the Atlantic Ocean by themselves. They had traveled from Inverness. This had been a grand adventure and it had taken some amount of bravery to attempt it, but he was challenging her ideas about herself.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
“Well, then, I guess we’ll have to see.”
He shouldn’t have teased her, but he found it almost irresistible to do so.
He’d been wrong. She wasn’t simply beautiful; there was something different about her. Her face was an oval, her lips a perfect size. Her eyebrows seemed to be designed to call attention to her wide-set brown eyes and their long lashes. As he watched, her camellia-like complexion turned rosy, and her lips firmed in irritation.
He liked the way she spoke, her accent one of sharp corners and crisp consonants.
If he could have avoided it, he would have, but he was going to have to hurt her. His question about her bravery had been sincere. Her answer had startled him because she’d considered the matter for several seconds.
She was a stranger to his country, to his home. Once this act of charity, and expiation of guilt, was done, he would never see her again. He found himself strangely remorseful about that fact and gave a fleeting thought to asking for her address. Perhaps he could write her.
About what? His desperation to keep a roof over his head? His need to find the answer to flight? His loneliness? What in hell could he tell her, that he was worried about paying Connor’s and Irene’s wages next quarter? Could they discuss his lack of a vegetable garden? His vigil on sleepless nights as he walked from one room to another in his castle?
He was feeling out of sorts. The carriage accident had reminded him of another, that’s all.
The sooner he was done here, the sooner she would be gone, and he would banish her memory as quickly as he could.
Chapter Five
Lennox parted her hair with his fingers, pressing down on what felt like the edges of the wound.
Mercy kept silent only through force of will. The very last person she wanted to whine in front of was this man. He would label her weak. Or something even worse.
He reached into the bag again, withdrawing something that looked like a sewing kit. She closed her eyes and vowed not to open them again until he finished.
She heard something liquid being poured into a bowl and couldn’t help but open her eyes again.
“What’s that?”
“Whiskey. I’m soaking the thread in it.”
She closed her eyes again.
“Do you sing?”
“Do I sing?” she asked.
“If you do, I certainly don’t mind if you occupy yourself by singing.”
“While you stitch my wound closed?” she asked. “I have quite a good voice.” She slitted open one eye to find him glancing down at her. “You’re going to say that you do, too, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “No. I can’t carry a tune. Now close your eyes again.”
She took a deep breath and did exactly as he asked.
She heard him cutting her hair, each snip sounding as loud as a thunderclap. True to his word, however, it didn’t feel as if he was cutting very much. At least she hoped he wasn’t.
She was going to have to come up with some kind of explanation for her grandmother, something that didn’t include having an accident. She could just imagine the lectures she was going to receive.
You were foolish to leave New York.
You’ve been impulsive and stupid and you’re lucky you weren’t killed.
Thoughts of that nature kept her occupied while Lennox drenched her scalp with more whiskey. She clutched her hands together and hoped she was brave.
The first stitch, even dulled somewhat by the whiskey, felt like a spear going into her head. She made a sound, but Lennox merely kept working.
She was bleeding again, if the warmth on her forehead was blood. Or it could be whiskey. Heaven knew he had poured enough. She would appear before her grandmother not only nearly bald but smelling of spirits. Poor Ruthie was sporting a sling and a bandaged arm.
How could she possibly explain the situation without admitting to the accident?
He stepped back. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Are you finished?”
“Almost.”
She took another deep breath and forced herself to relax.
“You’ve been exceedingly brave,” he said, blotting at her face with the white cloth again.
“Thank you, but I don’t think I have been. Not truly.”
“You didn’t scream.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever screamed,” she said. “Screaming doesn’t come naturally to me.”
He took another step back and studied her.
She wanted to ask him if he disagreed with her assessment. Instead, she remained silent, a difficult feat since he hadn’t stopped staring at her.
“I’d thought you were an imperious sort of woman,” he said. “But I don’t think you are. I think, perhaps, that you get angry when you’re frightened. People probably interpret that as being arrogant.”
She didn’t know what to comment on first, the fact that he had called her imperious or that he’d realized she had been frightened.
“Of course I was frightened,” she said. “Your dragon was heading right for us.”
“It’s not a dragon.”
She sighed. “Very well, your airship. Still, it was very scary seeing it nearly on top of us. I thought that I acted quite well in view of everything that happened. I certainly haven’t been arrogant.”
Yet she had called him insane. Perhaps that’s what he was referring to.
“I apologize for calling you names,” she said. “I never thought to see an airship in Scotland.”
“We are not the backwater of the world, Mercy. Scotland abounds with men of vision and enterprise.”
Here she was trying to make amends for her earlier comments and all she’d accomplished was to annoy him further. She’d been schooled in tact from her earliest memories. Why, then, was it so difficult to talk to this Scotsman?
“You are not hearing me,” she said, deciding that their problem with communication was because of him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was attempting to be conciliatory and you inferred that I was insulting you. You couldn’t be further from the truth.”
He was gathering up his materials on the table, but he took the time to glance at her and smile. She hadn’t seen that smile before and if she had, she might have been a great deal more polite.
He wasn’t just handsome. Women no doubt threw themselves at him. Or pined after him. Or made up stories about how much he would adore them if only he gave them a second look.
“Then I should be the one to apologize,” he said.
“In all honesty, your airship does look something like a dragon.”
“Perhaps it does,” he said. “It’s designed along the lines of a governable parachute.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s very dangerous, isn’t it?”
“It has an element of danger, yes. But doesn’t everything? Your traveling from America, for example. Wasn’t that dangerous as well?”
“Not until you crashed into our carriage.”
He only smi
led at her again.
She studied him for a moment before speaking. “Thank you for your ministrations on my behalf.”
“You’re welcome. Be careful when you wash your hair and have the stitches removed in a few weeks.”
“Did you cut very much?”
“You probably won’t even notice that it’s missing.”
She honestly doubted that, but he was trying to be nice. She could at least be the same.
“I’m sorry if I appeared arrogant or imperious. I didn’t mean to be.”
“It was my fault for thinking of you that way. I have a tendency to view beautiful women with a somewhat jaundiced eye.”
Talking with him was not very easy. He threw her into constant confusion. First, he was rude and boorish. Then he’d called her arrogant and now he labeled her beautiful. If his aim was to keep her off-kilter, he was certainly accomplishing that.
No one had ever called her beautiful before. Oh, her parents, yes. And Gregory, of course, but he was trying to marry her. As James Rutherford’s daughter she could have been as plain as a rock and he would have called her magnificent.
She could feel her cheeks warm and it wasn’t the stitches, the whiskey, or the accident. Embarrassment and determination kept her silent. She wanted to ask him why, exactly, he thought she was beautiful. What was it about her appearance that made him think such a thing? Such questions would be unwise and immodest.
Now was the time for her to gather up Ruthie and be about their journey again.
This morning Mr. McAdams had said it wouldn’t take very long to reach her mother’s family home. Before the accident they had been on the road a good three hours. Perhaps she needed to speak with the coachman and find out what he considered “very long.” She had no idea where they were or how much longer it would take to reach Macrory land.
Strangely enough, she wanted to tell Lennox that she would never forget him, that this interlude at his fascinating castle would be a tale she would tell everyone when she returned to America. Depending on her audience, she might confess to how handsome he was. She certainly wouldn’t tell people that they had grated on each other at first.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “I misjudged you as well. Perhaps I tend to look at handsome men with a jaundiced eye.”
“Then it’s good that we won’t see each other again,” he said.
She was foolish to feel disappointed at his comment. Of course they weren’t going to see each other once she left his castle, but he didn’t have to seem so pleased about the fact.
“You’re right,” she said. “We must be gone. Thank you for the loan of your carriage. I’m sure it won’t be long to our destination. This morning Mr. McAdams said we should reach Aultbean in a matter of hours.”
“Aultbean?” he asked, walking to the sink once more.
She nodded. “It’s the closest village to my mother’s family. The Macrorys.”
He turned and faced her. His smile was gone and in its place was the same intense look he’d given her earlier.
“Your mother’s family? You’re a Macrory?”
“In a way, I guess. I’m a Rutherford, but my grandmother was a Macrory. Before she married, of course.”
“Then you’ll need to leave here as soon as possible,” he said.
Without another word he strode from the kitchen, leaving her staring after him.
Chapter Six
Mercy sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out what had just happened. Evidently, Lennox knew of her mother’s family and didn’t approve of them.
Very well, the faster she left the castle and was about her journey, the better. She stood, a little too quickly because she was suddenly dizzy. Grabbing on to the table she waited until the room steadied.
The door opened and she turned, prepared to question Lennox about his aversion to the Macrorys. Instead, Connor stood there with Ruthie.
“If you’re looking for Lennox,” Mercy said, “I’ve no idea where he’s gone. He seemed to take affront when he realized our destination.”
“Macrory House,” he said, glancing at Ruthie then back at her. “I knew the minute I heard that he wouldn’t be pleased.”
“What on earth have the Macrorys ever done to him?”
“His older brother fell in love with one of the Macrory women. They eloped and were killed in a carriage accident.”
“Both of them?”
He nodded. “Either way, the families haven’t spoken to each other since then.”
What a sad tale.
“By being related to the Macrorys, even distantly, I guess I’m unwelcome at Duddingston Castle.”
“He doesn’t mean to be that way, miss. It’s just that Robert was his older brother and he raised Lennox after their parents died.”
She didn’t answer Connor. There was nothing she could say, after all.
The sun had done Ruthie some good, because she didn’t look as pale as she had earlier.
“Are you going to be all right?” Mercy asked. “Do you feel up to a carriage ride?”
“You haven’t far to go,” Connor said. “You’re almost on Macrory land.”
“Truly?”
“You could easily walk it on another day,” he said, glancing at Ruthie again. “Not today, of course, not with you injured.”
Ruthie didn’t say anything, merely gazed up at Connor with worship in her eyes, her cheeks pink with emotion.
At another time Mercy would have cautioned Ruthie about revealing her emotions so readily. It was never a good idea to be vulnerable, especially in such a strange place. Besides, nothing could come of any relationship with Connor. He was a Scot. Ruthie was an American.
Yet who was she to give advice about love to anyone?
She had gotten carried away by the madness surrounding the start of the Civil War. She’d watched as Gregory went off with his regiment, his blue uniform pristine, his vow to protect the Union still ringing in her ears. She’d been determined to wait for Gregory, to be one of innumerable women who monitored the newspapers for information about a loved one’s regiment, made bandages, knitted socks, and prayed for their soldier to come home safely. After a while, however, the heady excitement of the potential for war had faded to the reality and horror of it. Then, as it had continued to drag on for four long years, she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.
She didn’t love Gregory. She wasn’t even certain she liked him. Yet she couldn’t reject a suitor who was fighting for the Union. Nor would it have pleased her father if she’d done so.
Once the war was over, however, all their differences came to the forefront. He’d come home, expecting that they would wed shortly without any type of courtship. She was a fait accompli, a mission he’d already accomplished. Why should he continue to pay her any attention when it was certain she was going to be his wife?
He hated the South, yet her mother had been born and reared in North Carolina. He was obsequious to her father, which made her wonder if he was marrying her for her or because of who she was, the only daughter of James Gramercy Rutherford. He was not affectionate with his own family, claiming that his mother was too interested in his life and that his sisters were occupied with foolish pursuits. Having met them, Mercy found Gregory’s family—including his father whom he rarely mentioned—to be lovely people. The fact that Gregory didn’t feel the same was concerning.
Gregory was ambitious, witness all the times he met with her father to discuss plans for one or another of her father’s companies. He knew there wasn’t an heir who could step into her father’s shoes and he’d already decided that he would be that person by virtue of marrying Rutherford’s daughter.
She might have gone along with the marriage had it not been for something Gregory had said, a simple statement that was an indication of her future and made her reconsider everything.
She’d come down to greet him one evening and he’d frowned at her.
“I prefer the blue dress, Mercy. I don’t
like the one you’re wearing. Have you changed your hairstyle? It isn’t flattering.”
His comment had been an indication of things to come. She wouldn’t have a choice about anything in the marriage. The way she wore her hair, the color of her dress, the people with whom she’d associate, or how she spent her days would be subject to the whims of her husband. Where once she’d followed the dictates of her parents, now Gregory would be in charge.
The war had changed a great many things. She’d read that women were expected to take on duties they’d never before assumed. They kept businesses running while their husbands went off to war. They planted crops, went to market, and formed associations of women helping women. Gone were the days of women having to remain subservient or without a voice.
Yet change, progress, and growth had skipped Gregory somehow. All he wanted in a wife was an obedient female.
Her parents had never seen her as grown and Gregory would always view her as his puppet.
The seeds of her rebellion had been planted that night.
When she’d told him that she no longer wanted to marry him, Gregory had lost his temper. No doubt because he envisioned all his ambitious plans being destroyed. He wasn’t mollified by her reassurances that her father wouldn’t dismiss him from his position just because they were no longer engaged.
She’d never anticipated that he would refuse to accept her decision.
Badgering her hadn’t worked. Neither had his incessant calling on her or bringing her gifts. Unfortunately, her parents saw his new attentiveness as proof of his affection.
She’d talked to her mother one morning, bringing up the subject of her engagement.
“I don’t want to marry Gregory,” she’d said, the words difficult to say.
She’d never disobeyed her parents and rarely challenged them. She didn’t want to hurt her mother or cause her any pain. Life had not been easy for Fenella Rutherford, despite the fact that she was married to a wealthy man.
Her mother had looked surprised, but hadn’t said anything right away. The unexpected silence had been a void Mercy felt compelled to fill.
