To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  She didn’t say anything further and neither did he. When he took a few steps toward her, she didn’t move back. She only continued to smile, her eyes widening a little.

  He reached out one hand, curved it around her waist and drew her forward. The other he placed flat on her back, feeling the fabric of her dress where the sun had warmed it.

  He bent his head, even as he told himself that what he was doing was unwise, and slowly placed his mouth on hers.

  She sighed against his lips and it wasn’t an expression of surrender as much as it was satisfaction. As if she felt what he did at this moment, a curious sense of homecoming, of welcoming. This was what he’d wanted to do for a very long time.

  It didn’t matter that she was an American, that her home was thousands of miles from here. It didn’t matter that she’d soon be gone and he’d never see her again.

  Nothing mattered but these seconds when he held her in his arms and she melted against him like pliant wax.

  She smelled of sunlight and the formula he’d made to coat the struts.

  He smoothed his hands up and down her back, pulling her even closer. One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, his fingers trailing through the tendrils of hair that had come loose from the bun she wore.

  He wanted to see her hair down, spread across her shoulders. He wanted her in his bed, naked, so that he could kiss her everywhere. His lips would memorize the texture of her skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulders, smooth over her breasts, dance across her nipples.

  None of his thoughts were sensible or proper. He’d lived alone for so many years that he’d grown accustomed to his solitary state. He told himself that companionship didn’t matter and, for the most part, he’d been correct.

  Until Mercy came. Until she pointed her finger at him and demanded that he apologize.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back.

  “Sorry?”

  She blinked up at him and he knew that he would always remember the sight of Mercy at that moment, a becoming flush on her cheeks, her eyes soft and lambent.

  “For nearly landing on you that first day,” he said.

  “But you’re not apologizing for the kiss?”

  “I’m not a fool, Mercy.”

  She smiled at him and that feeling was there again. He’d never expected that being around her could make him feel like he was flying.

  She placed both hands on his shirted chest.

  “Lennox . . .”

  He had no idea what she was going to say, because the door to the Clan Hall abruptly opened. Ruthie and Irene stood there.

  “Oh, Miss Mercy! You’ll never believe it,” Ruthie said, the look on her face one of barely contained terror. “He’s just arrived at Macrory House. Him, Miss Mercy. Mr. Hamilton.”

  Mercy dropped her hands and turned.

  “Gregory?” she asked.

  Ruthie nodded.

  “Who is Gregory?” Lennox asked, concerned that Mercy’s face had lost all of its color.

  She looked up at him. “The man who thinks he’s my fiancé.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mercy said her farewells in seconds. She didn’t want to recall the look of incredulity on Lennox’s face as she left the courtyard. They’d been kissing only minutes earlier and suddenly a fiancé appeared.

  No, just Gregory, who refused to accept her decision.

  She and Ruthie began following the trail back across the glen. Ruthie asked only one question and it revealed the heart of her concern.

  “Why do you think Mr. Hamilton came to Scotland, Miss Mercy?”

  Although she’d communicated with her parents, she hadn’t written to Gregory. Evidently, her parents had sought his help in retrieving her.

  “He’s come to get me,” she said. “As if I’m a parcel that’s been sent to the wrong destination.”

  The two of them shared a glance.

  Gregory had no qualms ordering Ruthie about or even being critical of her. More than once she’d heard him being cutting in his remarks to the maid—behavior that was unnecessary.

  It was as if Gregory put everyone around him on a ladder and ranked them depending on their status in life. Those people who weren’t his equal he felt comfortable in ridiculing while those like Mercy’s parents he treated like gods.

  Ruthie never allowed her gaze to alight on anything but the floor when she was in Gregory’s company. When he gave her a command—which he did often—Ruthie only nodded and carried it out swiftly. It hadn’t been difficult to determine that her maid disliked Gregory, even though Ruthie had never said as much.

  Mercy’s thoughts should have been on her coming reunion with Gregory, but as they followed the drover’s path, she was thinking less of him and more about Lennox. And their kiss. He’d kissed her. Lennox had kissed her.

  Her heart had been in her throat. Fire had raced through her at Lennox’s touch. She’d wound her arms around his neck, not conscious of anything but him.

  She’d never felt that way before. When Gregory had kissed her—or tried to—she hadn’t liked the experience. His lips had been too wet and he’d pressed too hard. But kissing Lennox had been a gateway to another world, one in which pleasure speared through her.

  She hadn’t retreated or rebuffed Lennox. Nor had she slapped him. She certainly hadn’t lectured him on his effrontery. Instead, she wanted him to kiss her again. Time had meant nothing in his arms. Until Ruthie had spoken, she hadn’t even realized that the two women had entered the courtyard.

  Now they made it through the door in the garden wall and only then did Mercy think about the coming confrontation.

  At least Flora and Uncle Douglas weren’t here. But her grandmother was and so was Aunt Elizabeth. McNaughton probably hadn’t waited to inform them of Gregory’s arrival. Perhaps all of them were comparing notes about what she’d done wrong now.

  “Did he seem angry?”

  “He seemed the same as he always is, Miss Mercy.”

  A polite answer that revealed nothing of Gregory’s mood.

  “Thank you for coming and getting me, Ruthie.”

  “Only Mrs. West knows where you were.”

  “I don’t think it matters now,” Mercy said.

  Ruthie said nothing about finding her in Lennox’s arms. Nor did Mercy offer any excuses. If this had been New York and something similar had happened, she might have been embarrassed. Or she could possibly have begged Ruthie to keep silent. Now? She didn’t care if everyone knew.

  At the kitchen door, Mercy turned and faced her maid. “Well, it’s time, I guess.”

  “Your cheeks are flushed, Miss Mercy.”

  No doubt Gregory would comment on it. He rarely gave her a compliment unless her parents were in attendance. When they were alone he lost no time in critiquing her appearance. Too bad he hadn’t seen her in the turban bandage she’d worn. He missed the opportunity to tell her how hideous she looked.

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  Mercy shook her head. “No, that’s not necessary.” She gave Ruthie a quick hug and entered the house.

  McNaughton was in the hallway outside the kitchen. No doubt he’d been waiting for her to appear.

  “Mr. Hamilton is in the Green Parlor,” he said, all stiff and frosty.

  He probably approved of Gregory because he never noticed servants. McNaughton wouldn’t have intimidated him. On the contrary, Gregory could freeze anyone to the spot with a simple look.

  How odd that she’d never realized that McNaughton and Gregory had some traits in common.

  By the time she made it to the parlor, her heart had started beating thunderously. She stopped more than once and placed both hands against her midriff, trying to quell the fluttering sensation inside her stomach.

  She hadn’t expected Gregory to come to Scotland, but perhaps she should have. He was a determined person, the reason her father was so impressed with him. Gregory had started as a junior executive in one of her father’s comp
anies and had advanced at a startling pace to upper management. His meteoric rise was duplicated in the army. He had left for war as a lieutenant and returned a colonel.

  Gregory never saw obstacles. Nor did he ever change his mind. She knew that firsthand from his refusal to accept her decision about breaking their engagement.

  She entered the room to find him sitting in a chair beside the fireplace. Aunt Elizabeth was sitting opposite him on the settee. Neither of them was talking. Each was studiously avoiding looking at the other.

  It couldn’t be easy for her aunt to greet a man who’d been a colonel in the Union army. The minute Gregory heard her speak he would know that Elizabeth was from the South. Two adversaries from a war that was just barely over.

  At her entrance, Gregory stood, advancing on her as if he were a hunter and she the prey he’d been stalking.

  He was a foot taller than she, but so was Lennox. Gregory, however, had a habit of looming over her as if to take advantage of his height, with his broad chest and shoulders. He was a handsome man with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that he used when he got his way. Otherwise, he rarely appeared genial. Instead, he was a watchful man, studying people as if to learn their weaknesses.

  He was doing that now, looking for changes that might have occurred in the past few weeks. Could he tell that she’d been kissed? Or that she had participated wholeheartedly?

  “Mercy,” he said, stretching out both hands toward her.

  Reluctantly, she put her hands in his, allowing him to pull her forward.

  When he hugged her, she kept her hands at her sides, her chin hitting his chest.

  He pulled back, his hands still on her upper arms, and examined her. She probably failed his inspection. Her shoes were scuffed and she hadn’t asked that they be polished. The hem of her skirt was damp. She’d spilled a few droplets of Lennox’s formula on her left sleeve and it had hardened into dark yellow spots. Her hair was mussed from the wind.

  If she were the person she’d been only short weeks ago, she might’ve apologized for her appearance and made a self-deprecating remark.

  Instead, she raised her head and returned Gregory’s look steadily.

  He dropped his hands, glanced at Elizabeth, and said, “Is there somewhere we can talk, Mercy?”

  Aunt Elizabeth startled her by standing. “You can talk here.” Without another word, she left the room.

  “She’s an odd woman,” Gregory said.

  Although Mercy hadn’t felt all that amenable toward her aunt recently, Gregory’s comment rankled.

  “She’s not odd at all, Gregory.”

  The antipathy Elizabeth felt was easy to understand. Elizabeth’s fiancé had fought and died for the South. Mercy chose not to explain that to Gregory, hoping to avoid yet another lecture on how the South had been shortsighted and idiotic to secede.

  She’d felt torn from the first. Her mother had been born and raised in North Carolina. Mercy had visited the state often enough to love the beauty of it. She had friends there and that hadn’t changed due to the war.

  Because of her reading and the conversations around the dinner table, she understood the complexities that had led to war, hating that the impasse meant men would be killed and life would change. It was more complicated than Gregory made it sound. Yet because he’d fought, because he’d been a soldier, his opinion was given greater weight than anything she might say.

  She moved to sit on the end of the settee, hoping that Gregory wouldn’t join her. A moment later he sat on the adjoining cushion.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Is this rudeness a Scottish trait, Mercy? One you’ve recently acquired?”

  He was right. She hadn’t asked about his health or his journey. An oversight that she wouldn’t have made a month ago. The truth was that she didn’t care. If he wished to label her rude, she didn’t care about that, either.

  “Why did you do such a foolish thing as come here, Mercy?”

  Her trip to Scotland hadn’t been foolish. She would remember it for the rest of her life. Yet she’d never be able to tell anyone why. Perhaps she should start a journal. Within the pages she could write about Lennox, reveal things that she’d never felt before, thoughts that surprised or shocked her.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does,” he said. “Was it because of our wedding? I hear brides sometimes get nervous before the nuptials.”

  She looked away, focusing on a painting on the opposite wall. The man standing there was portly, bald, and smiling brightly. She thought it was one of the first Macrorys, perhaps even the one who’d begun building this house. She kept her attention on the painting rather than look at Gregory.

  “My father might respect you. My mother may be fond of you, but I’m still not going to marry you, Gregory. How many times have I told you that? Twenty? Thirty? I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Mercy.”

  She glanced at him and then away, trying not to be affected by the odd smile he was giving her, almost as if he knew something she didn’t.

  “I don’t want to marry you. I won’t marry you.”

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Mercy. Your life isn’t going to change.”

  If he knew anything about her, Gregory would know how that comment made her feel. She loved her parents, but she wanted her own life, not one shared with them. Her parents had already committed to redoing half the second floor of their New York home for her and Gregory so that they would have the illusion of their own apartment, their own space. Except, of course, that it would be just an illusion. They would be expected to take each meal with her parents, spend time each evening with them, even entertain with them. Her life would be indistinguishable from what it was now. The only addition would be Gregory as her husband and that was most definitely not what she wanted.

  He reached over and covered her hand with his.

  “Were you safe, Mercy?”

  She turned to look at him. “Safe?”

  He nodded. “You weren’t waylaid on your journey, then? Nothing untoward happened?”

  Waylaid? She knew quite well what waylaid meant. In other words, was she still pure and inviolate?

  “It’s none of your concern whether I was safe, Gregory. I’m not your fiancée.”

  He ignored her comment. “You did something foolish, Mercy, traveling by yourself. You don’t realize how dangerous your journey was.”

  “Again, it’s none of your concern.”

  He examined her hand. “You aren’t wearing your ring.”

  “No. I removed it because I knew I wasn’t going to marry you. I’ll return it.”

  He smiled. “Don’t be foolish, Mercy. Of course we’re going to be wed. The invitations have already gone out.”

  Did no one ever hear her? Was every word she’d spoken ignored? Had she no ability to control her own life? Evidently not, according to her parents and Gregory. Even after she’d left they’d continued to make plans. She didn’t even need to be there for her life to be arranged.

  She pulled her hand free, not wanting to touch him. “Then we’ll have to rescind each and every one. I’m not going to marry you, Gregory.”

  He reached over and pulled her close to him. Before she could move away, he placed his hand on her cheek and turned her head, leaning close until they were only inches apart.

  “You will marry me, Mercy,” he said softly. “It’s been decided. You can try to escape, but it won’t matter. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. You’re mine.”

  The smile he wore didn’t find its way to his blue eyes. She wanted to move away except that his grip was too tight.

  “Do you understand?” he asked softly. “We will be married, exactly when and where it’s been planned. I promise you that, Mercy, and I never break my word.”

  Her hands were damp. Her heart was racing and there was an odd feeling in her stomach, almost as if she were going to be ill.

/>   “We’ll return to New York as soon as possible,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Ruthie can’t travel yet. Her arm is broken.”

  “Then she can stay here.”

  “She can’t stay here,” Mercy said.

  “That’s the last time you’ll correct me, Mercy.” Gregory’s smile thinned but didn’t completely disappear. “Do you understand?”

  She managed to pull away a little. He grabbed her arm and jerked her back, placing his hand on her face again. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t matter. He was still there, still smiling that odd smile at her, his eyes holding a gleam she’d never seen until now.

  “Do you understand, Mercy?”

  She managed to nod.

  Although there had been times when she found Gregory overbearing, he’d never before frightened her.

  Until now.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  What the hell did that mean, The man who thinks he’s my fiancé?

  Lennox didn’t know why he was angry. Maybe the ache in his arm was bothering him. Another week or so and he’d take out the stitches himself.

  There wasn’t one damn reason why he should care that Mercy had a fiancé or that she hadn’t told him. The subject had never been broached.

  It should have. When he’d bent his head to kiss her, she should’ve pushed him away, told him that she was engaged to be married. She hadn’t demonstrated any loyalty toward the man who’d asked her to be his wife.

  Instead, she’d not only allowed him to kiss her, but she’d cooperated fully.

  What a kiss it had been.

  He’d lost track of where he was, who he was, and anything other than her. The top of his head had floated off into the clouds and all he’d been conscious of was deep, unrelenting pleasure.

  He’d wanted to take her to his bed, keep her there for a week or until they’d worn each other out.

  One kiss and he’d nearly lost his mind.

  Turning, he stared at the place where she’d worked for nearly an hour. He’d expected her to complain, but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been intent upon her task. More than once he’d glanced over at her, admiring the picture she presented, the sun bringing out the gold and red in her brown hair. Her lips had been pursed in concentration, the movement of her hand holding the brush capturing his attention.