To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  “The wound is deep. It isn’t going to heal without some help.”

  “I can’t sew a person,” she said.

  “I’d much prefer you than Connor. His sewing skills are negligible.”

  He seemed to take her silence for assent, because he removed his shirt, turning so that his wounded arm was close to her.

  She’d never before seen a half-naked man, let alone one with such a distinctive-looking chest. He had muscles everywhere. She wanted to sit and look at him for a moment, to fix him in her memory. A water droplet rolled down the middle of his chest and she wanted to pat him dry.

  Seanmhair would be horrified. Her grandmother would begin to lecture her about all sorts of rules Mercy was having trouble remembering right now.

  He grabbed one of the cloth squares and began to blot at his wound. When he poured a little whiskey down his arm, the only sign that it was painful was a tightening of his mouth.

  The cut was beginning to bleed more. She grabbed a cloth, batted his hand away, and pressed gently on the wound.

  “It really doesn’t look that bad,” she said. “Not something that needs to be stitched.”

  “Mercy.”

  She liked the way he said her name, even if it was an admonition.

  “The faster I get sewn up, the better. Delaying it will only cause me more pain.”

  With his good hand he pushed the sewing kit over to her.

  “Very well,” she said crossly. “It serves you right if I make a mess of everything. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  He only smiled.

  She frowned at him again and reluctantly threaded the needle, even though her hands were shaking. She was still cold and now she was terrified.

  Before she began he doused his wound again with whiskey.

  “Do you just want to cause yourself more pain?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ve found that wounds treated with whiskey first tend to heal faster.”

  “I’m certainly not going to argue with you. After all, you’re the one who studied medicine. But it seems to me that there should be a better way. One that doesn’t sting as much.”

  He took another cloth, doused it with whiskey, and began to blot at the cuts on his face.

  “You’re missing a few spots,” she said. “Your face is a mess.”

  “And you’re delaying.”

  She was, and it annoyed her even more that he’d called her on it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Do you realize that the only time we’ve seen each other is when one of us is hurt?” she said.

  He didn’t respond.

  Taking the whiskey-soaked cloth, she placed it at the widest part of his wound, hoping that it deadened the skin a little. Unfortunately, she had some experience with being stitched up and she could attest that it was not a painless process.

  “Either you’re sewing me or I’m sewing you,” she said. “I would much rather have met you at a dinner party or luncheon.”

  She made the first poke into his skin with the needle, feeling nauseated when he flinched. The best thing to do in this situation was to simply finish this task as quickly as possible.

  She made two stitches, blotting with the cloth as she went. She felt each stitch as if it were her own flesh she was sewing.

  “Or a ball,” he said, surprising her. “I used to attend quite a few of those in Edinburgh.”

  “Did you?” she asked. “Were you a man-about-town?”

  He smiled. “Hardly. Normally I was always the one to even out a dinner party. Or I followed along with a bunch of friends. However, if I’d had my way I would’ve spent my time studying.”

  “Who pushed you to be more social?”

  “Friends,” he said. “One in particular, the mother of a fellow student. She’s a lovely woman but I’ve never met a more interfering female.”

  She’d made a total of six stitches, each one making her tremble more.

  “How many more should I do?”

  He studied his arm. “About six more, I think.”

  For the next few minutes she didn’t speak. She bit her lips, focused on pulling his skin closed, trying to pretend that it was cloth she was stitching, or leather, not Lennox’s arm.

  “You’re doing well. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  She’d never thought to be praised for performing such a terrible task, but then she’d never been in this situation before. Her life had been carefully prescribed and she’d never ventured beyond its boundaries. Her journey to Scotland had been the first time and stitching up Lennox’s arm the second.

  “How are you going to explain why you’re drenched?” he asked, the white line around his mouth the only sign of his discomfort.

  An idea had occurred to her, one that was slightly shocking but less so than appearing at Macrory House in her current condition.

  “Could I prevail upon your kindness, Lennox? And Connor’s as well? Would it be possible for him to go to Macrory House and ask Mrs. West to fetch one of my dresses? I can’t imagine going back there looking as I do. I think Mrs. West would keep the matter private. Only Flora is up and about until late afternoon, but she’s excessively curious and wouldn’t hesitate to tell everyone.”

  If her grandmother learned about Mercy’s actions this morning, Ailsa would dedicate hours to telling her how disgraceful she was and how much shame she’d brought to the family. She’d probably be restricted to her room until such time as she and Ruthie left Scotland.

  “You dispensed with the bandage, I noticed,” he said.

  “Someone recommended that I do so.” She gathered up the squares of cloth then began to put the other items inside the leather bag. “There was my vanity to consider, after all.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said. “I apologize.”

  She glanced at him. If anyone should be vain it was him with his impressive chest and striking face. And those eyes. She felt like he could peer inside her with that direct blue gaze.

  “I appreciated the advice. Besides, it was a relief to get rid of all that wrapping around my head.”

  “Bend down,” he said.

  “What?”

  He reached out, grabbed her arm, and gently pulled her to stand in front of him. “Bend down so I can see your head.”

  She felt exceedingly strange doing so, but his touch was gentle around her wound.

  “You can hardly see it,” he said. “But you should bathe it with whiskey after being in the loch. Would you like me to do it or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

  She opted to do it herself, sitting and blotting sparingly. It didn’t matter, the whiskey still stung.

  “In a few days, you can have McNaughton remove your stitches.”

  She’d attempted to avoid the crusty butler for the past week. However, McNaughton was everywhere. When he looked at her it was always with disapproval, especially the morning after she’d removed her turban-like bandage. She’d ducked into Aunt Elizabeth’s room rather than endure a lecture from the man.

  “I’d much rather come to you,” she said. “That way I don’t have to endure McNaughton’s sniffing.”

  “He doesn’t approve of you?” he asked, smiling.

  “I don’t know if it’s because I’m an American. Or a woman. Or the fact that I was foolish enough to get myself injured. Or that I arrived at Macrory House in your carriage.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think McNaughton approves of anyone. He’s been a crusty old codger since he was young, or so I’ve been told. He and Irene once stepped out together.”

  She put down the whiskey-soaked cloth and stared at him. “Surely you’re jesting.”

  He raised his right hand, palm toward her. “On this I don’t jest. Evidently, it was quite a serious romance.”

  “What happened?” A moment later she waved her hand in the air as if to erase the words. “Never mind. It’s none of my concern. I shouldn’t engage in gossip.”


  “Then you’re doomed to boredom in the Highlands,” he said. “There aren’t that many of us still here. We have a tendency to talk about each other. You should hear what they say in the village.”

  “What do they say about you?”

  Taking another cloth square, she dampened it with the whiskey and began blotting at the cuts on his face.

  He looked at her, his blue eyes intense. Her stomach felt hollow. He really should look away. Or she should, but the sensation was so unique that she kept her gaze on him.

  It felt as if they spoke in that moment. Words weren’t necessary or would have been superfluous. Their initial antipathy was gone as if it had never been. Lennox was, in some strange way, a friend. Or perhaps more. She felt as if he were someone she could trust with her secrets, her worries, and perhaps even her fears.

  How very odd to have that thought.

  “Much the same as what you’ve said, that I’m insane.”

  “It’s my turn to apologize,” she said. “I think you’re foolishly brave, but I don’t think you’re mad.”

  “That’s progress,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “I’d be happy to remove your stitches.”

  It was a perfect moment of accord with another human being. One of a different country, culture, background, family, and future—yet she couldn’t help but feel that they were linked somehow, despite all those things that separated them.

  If so, what connected them? She didn’t know, but she realized in those silent moments that she very much wanted to figure it out.

  “I’m sorry about your machine,” she said, pulling her hand away.

  “So am I. I’ve never crashed before. Not and lost an entire aircraft.” Lennox stared into the fire as if he could see the ruin of his dream in the flames.

  His voice was very calm and matter-of-fact, almost as if he were discussing something of no importance to him at all. Yet there was an undercurrent if you listened hard enough. Not sadness as much as a touch of anger.

  “It was an accident,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “Do you think someone sabotaged your airship?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that. It was incompetence, pure and simple. I did something wrong. My calculations were wrong. Without the lift from the sails, I was doomed. The aircraft didn’t have the shape to glide.” He glanced over at her. “Actually, I was lucky I made it as far as the loch.”

  “Surely you’re being too hard on yourself,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t anything you did. Maybe it was just that there wasn’t enough wind.”

  “Or the day was too humid or the wood was bad.” He smiled. “Even if all of that had been true, it would still be my fault. It was up to me to check all of those things.”

  She was left without anything to say. Perhaps he assumed too much responsibility and blame, but she knew people who were the opposite and refused to accept any accountability for their actions. Or, even worse, blamed others for their misfortune.

  Lennox wasn’t like that. He was honorable, a word she’d thought she knew the meaning of, at least before the war. All the men who’d marched off in proud splendor had been honorable, heeding the call to protect the Union. Yet she knew now that honor was more than patriotism, more than loyalty or beliefs. It was standing for what was right, even when it was difficult to do so.

  Lennox had come home, abandoning his calling as a doctor, recognizing a greater responsibility to his clan and his family. That, to her mind, was honorable. The highest form of honor because it also demanded sacrifice.

  He was an admirable man. It wouldn’t do to let him know that she felt that way about him. Or maybe something even more. That was such a troubling thought that she pushed it away and concentrated on her task.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mercy began to bandage Lennox’s arm, following his instructions. First she applied a noxious thick yellow mixture over the cut. It smelled of onions and other spices and was so thick she had to dab it on with another cotton square.

  “What is this?”

  “A concoction I devised,” he said. “It aids in healing.”

  “You didn’t use it on me. Did you?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t dare. You were already furious with me. I didn’t want to send you on your way smelling of onions and painted yellow.”

  She smiled. “That was probably wise.”

  Connor returned to the kitchen, only his damp hair a sign that he’d been swimming in the loch.

  Lennox explained Mercy’s idea about going to Macrory House and asking for Mrs. West’s help. Connor agreed that it would be wise to speak only to the housekeeper about his errand.

  After Connor left them, Lennox stood, going to the fireplace and stirring the blaze with the poker. She could feel the warmth of the fire from here and was grateful for it.

  “You’re very good at building fires,” she said.

  “Needs must,” he said. “My lodgings in Edinburgh were almost always cold. There I only had coal. I missed a wood fire. I like the smell of them.” He turned to look at her. “Irene says that they’re the best way to cook, better than our stove.”

  “Where is she now? At Macrory House?”

  He shook his head. “At the market. She goes there every week around this time.”

  “Is there any coincidence between her being gone and your flying?”

  His grin was boyish and utterly charming. “Perhaps.”

  “Has she been with you long?”

  “With the family, yes. Fifteen years, now, ever since our parents died. She was very fond of Robert.”

  Irene was also very fond of him, but surely he knew that.

  Her curiosity about this man didn’t surprise her in the least. Lennox was unlike anyone she’d ever met. He was fearless, iconoclastic, and so much his own man that he was almost a king in his castle.

  “Who taught you to swim?” he asked.

  “Fred Brown,” she said. “One of my guards. I always loved the water and swimming brought me some freedom. Fred was always nearby, but sometimes I forgot about him.”

  “Why a guard?”

  She debated how to answer him. She could always just smile or change the subject. How odd that she wanted to tell him the truth.

  “Two reasons. My father is very wealthy. He worried that I might be stolen away and held for ransom.”

  “And the other reason?”

  “My parents had five children. Three of them died in infancy. I even carry their names. Other than me, there’s only my brother, Jimmy, and he . . .” Her words trailed off. She’d never spoken to anyone outside the family about Jimmy.

  Lennox studied her. She wondered what he saw.

  “Are you spoiled as well?” he asked, surprising her.

  “What a very strange question,” she said, grateful that he hadn’t asked anything about Jimmy. “If I say no, will I be forced to prove it in some way? If I say yes, what does that say about me?”

  “That perhaps you’re honest. Are you?”

  “Honest? Or spoiled?”

  “One doesn’t presuppose the other,” he said.

  “Are you as direct with everyone, or only females who save you from drowning?”

  “I would’ve extricated myself,” he said.

  She smiled at him, recognizing bravado when she saw it.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  His smile startled her.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’m in your debt, Mercy. Connor does not swim as well as you.”

  “That’s something that should be rectified, especially since you live on the edge of a lake.”

  “Yet he’s in no danger of falling in.”

  “Unless you take another tumble. Is there somewhere else you could fly your machines?”

  “Nowhere where the wind is as strong,” he said.

  When she didn’t respond he continued. “I’m not taking that many chances, Mercy. I calculate
everything, from the angle of the wings to the rotation of the upper sails. I know exactly where I’m going to land with relative assuredness of my velocity.”

  “Yet something went terribly wrong today.”

  He nodded. “Which is why it’s a shame that I won’t be able to recover all of the pieces. Without them, I can only guess at the problem.”

  “I would think that a man skilled in trying to save the lives of other people would have more care about his own.”

  “You’ve been talking to Irene, haven’t you?”

  “She’s at Macrory House quite often,” she said.

  “Sometimes I think she would be happier working there than here.”

  “You’re wrong about that. She talks about you a great deal. How smart you are. How clever. About all of your inventions.”

  He looked away.

  “Have I embarrassed you?”

  “It’s my turn to ask. Are you as direct with everyone?”

  She took a moment to honestly consider his question. “I don’t think so. You’re very easy to talk to, which is surprising given our first meeting.”

  “I was exceedingly cordial, as I recall.”

  “Until you learned about my mother’s family,” she countered. “Then you couldn’t get me out of your castle fast enough. Have you changed your mind about me?”

  He turned his head slowly, regarding her like he must stare at his airship, with an eye to changing it or improving it in some way.

  “I owe you thanks for saving my life.”

  “I believe you were right in that you would have extricated yourself soon enough.”

  “Hopefully before I drowned.”

  He stood and walked to the cupboard, pulled out another bottle before retrieving two glasses and returning to her side.

  “That one is for medicine,” he said, nodding at the bottle of whiskey on the table. “This one is for drinking.”

  He poured a few inches into each glass and handed her one.

  She debated drinking it or choosing the more prudent course, refusing with a smile.

  When she hesitated, he dragged two chairs in front of the fire and invited her to sit next to him.

  “I was wrong to ask if you were spoiled.”