by Karen Ranney
KAREN RANNEY
The Scottish Companion
Contents
Chapter 1
A funeral was the culmination of a contest—sickness, accident, age,…
Chapter 2
The study was so quiet that Gillian Cameron could hear…
Chapter 3
Gillian sat back against the cushions of the carriage, wishing…
Chapter 4
Dinner that night was a tray in Arabella’s sitting room,…
Chapter 5
Gillian awoke the next morning feeling pampered and blessed. For…
Chapter 6
Arabella was claiming a headache, and said she’d taken one…
Chapter 7
He was damned if he knew what he was doing.
Chapter 8
His mother frowned at him. The countess was quite the…
Chapter 9
The sitting room attached to Arabella’s bedchamber had been turned…
Chapter 10
Each day of the next two weeks was marked by…
Chapter 11
Rosemoor was lit up like a fairy castle for the…
Chapter 12
Grant walked down to the lake, stood on the other…
Chapter 13
The countess was escorting Arabella from room to room, explaining…
Chapter 14
Attending dinner that night was mandatory. Not only were Grant,…
Chapter 15
Gillian was awakened two hours before dawn by a sleepy…
Chapter 16
Of course she was foolish to accompany him. Yet her…
Chapter 17
Grant bent and lifted Gillian into his arms, taking her…
Chapter 18
Grant looked around his laboratory and realized that there was…
Chapter 19
For the second time in the same day Grant carried…
Chapter 20
Grant moved backward a few steps, wrapping his arms around…
Chapter 21
If death were a color, it would be grayish brown.
Chapter 22
When Gillian woke again, her first thought was that she…
Chapter 23
Gillian had marshaled all her defenses to keep Grant away,…
Chapter 24
Grant lay beside Gillian in the darkness, thinking that what…
Chapter 25
How was he going to explain this to Elise? Or…
Chapter 26
Even thought it was the middle of the night, Gillian…
Chapter 27
Grant heard someone come into the library, but he didn’t…
About the Author
Other Books by Karen Ranney
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Rosemoor
Scotland, 1850
A funeral was the culmination of a contest—sickness, accident, age, it mattered not—in which Death was the victor. The deceased was the vanquished, and Death’s prize was a black-draped catafalque.
In this case, the coffin of James Roberson.
Grant Roberson, the 10th Earl of Straithern, stood beside a marble-encased pillar, unwilling to join his mother in the family pew. He would be trapped there while the rest of the congregation stared at the back of his head, no doubt hoping for a reaction. They would be doomed to disappointment. He had no intention of expressing his grief for his brother in public.
The chapel was a sea of black: hats, veils, mourning suits, and dresses. The hundreds of candles could do nothing to illuminate the shadows since even the day was leaning toward darkness. The fog outside seemed to permeate the very brick, pool at the feet of the congregation, and hover below the casket as if impatient for the moment of his interment.
“My condolences, Your Lordship.”
Grant turned his head slightly, glanced at the man who’d been the Roberson family physician for two decades, and nodded.
Dr. Fenton’s appearance was such that people tended to overlook him. He was short and bewhiskered, with a bulbous nose and a rounded chin. His brown eyes were often filled with kindness, but their expression was hidden behind thick spectacles. When he was distressed or anxious, or most insistent upon a point, he removed them and polished them with his handkerchief or his cuff, or whatever piece of clothing presented itself.
Now he was diligently rubbing at the frames with the hem of his waistcoat.
“I did all that I could to save him, Your Lordship.”
It hadn’t been enough. But now was not the time to condemn the man’s methods or the fact that he’d also been unable to save Grant’s other brother six months earlier. The physician would be the first to explain that medicine was an imperfect science.
Perhaps Grant should have enlisted the aid of the nearest wise woman instead.
“We need to examine you at your earliest convenience, Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said in a low voice.
Grant took advantage of the choir’s interruption. A dozen angelic boyish voices spiraled toward the vaulted ceiling, marking the beginning of the ser vice.
Dr. Fenton, however, was not daunted. “The sooner, Your Lordship, the better.”
Grant folded his arms and stared down at the stone floor. “I hardly think this is the proper time to discuss my health, Dr. Fenton.”
“I can think of no better place, Your Lordship.”
Was the man joking? A swift glance assured Grant that he was not. There was nothing remotely amused about Dr. Fenton’s sober expression. Instead, the man’s gaze met his directly, forcing Grant to think about something he didn’t particularly care to consider at the moment.
In a month, a week, a few days, he might well be the one resting on the catafalque before the altar. Who would mourn him? His overburdened mother? By rights, no woman should have had to endure the death of a husband and two of her sons. Would his death be the final blow? Or would she simply endure as she was now, stiff and silent, unbending in her grief?
“Tomorrow,” Grant said. “That’s time enough. Surely I’ll survive until tomorrow. You can examine me then.”
The physician nodded, and had the tact to move away, leaving Grant to his contemplation of mortality.
A blood disease. In the midst of attending James, Dr. Fenton had hinted as much. A hereditary anomaly. Grant was, like his two brothers before him, doomed.
James had died five days ago, just as Andrew had six months earlier. Their symptoms had been eerily similar: lethargy, followed by an unearthly paleness as if the body were being readied for the state of being an angel. During the last week, James had been unable to keep anything on his stomach. When he’d died, he’d looked like a skeleton.
He could not be dead. James was annoying and boisterous, forever ridiculing those things Grant held so dear. His laughter and wit were sometimes too cutting, his appreciation of women and drink too encompassing. There was too great a silence in the world now and there was a yawning hole in Grant’s life.
He could almost imagine his brother’s comments at this moment, as if James stood beside him watching his own funeral.
Older brother, must you look so dour? I know we Scots are supposed to be a somber race, but you can crack a smile for me at least. If for no other reason than in memory. Surely there are some good times you can recall.
Grant felt tears pepper his eyes and stared resolutely ahead, refusing to give in to a public demonstration of grief. Whatever he felt was private, not to be shared. The 10th Earl of Straithern must, at all times, remember his position in life.
Not one whisper must carry about his behavior. Not one rumor be repeated, or one story told.
Chilled
air wafted along the floor, crept up his trouser legs. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that James’s spirit was trying to get his attention.
Come, Grant, how difficult is it to get a smile out of you? I swear, you’ve got the fiercest look on your face.
He couldn’t smile. He’d somehow lost the ability in the past few weeks, ever since he’d sat at James’s bedside and watched him slip away.
He’d been his brothers’ protector ever since he’d returned to Rosemoor on holiday from school at sixteen. The second night home he’d been awakened with the news that the 9th Earl of Straithern had taken his own life. A few days later, he’d stood at the grave site with his brothers, still children, and counseled them in a low voice.
“It looks dark now,” he’d said. “But we’re together. We’ll overcome this, and soon there will be brighter days ahead.”
How many times was he to bid a member of his family farewell?
His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Let him concentrate on physical discomfort rather than grief. Let him think of the future, of the design for the electric magnet he was perfecting, anything. Perhaps, then, he could endure the pain of this moment.
James’s spirit was finally mercifully silent.
“As you can see, Dr. Fenton, I’m in the peak of health.” Grant fastened his shirt, taking some time with his cuffs.
“Your brothers no doubt felt the same, Your Lordship,” said Dr. Fenton. He moved to the other side of the room, standing in front of the fire.
After a moment, Grant finished dressing and joined him.
“Well, is there anything wrong with me?”
“Not that I can see, Your Lordship. But I would have given the same answer after examining James and Andrew.” He studied the fire as if the solution for this particular dilemma were there in the orange and blue-tipped flames. “One moment they were well, and the next they were sickening.”
“So, you think this blood disease, or whatever it is, will afflict me in the same manner? Why visit Andrew first? And then James? I’m oldest, why didn’t it begin with me?”
“Your Lordship, I have no idea. I hesitate to be so honest with you, but I doubt any other medical practitioner in the whole of Scotland could give you a more truthful answer. We do not know so much about the human body. Perhaps one day we will be able to predict, at a child’s birth, exactly what maladies will plague him. But at this moment, we do not know.”
“Either a disease is killing us, or it isn’t. Either I have it, or do not. Either I will die, or survive.”
Grant turned away, moved to his desk.
“Your Lordship, so it is with all of us. None of us is more knowledgeable about our ultimate fate.”
“Have you any idea how this mythical blood disease will affect my heirs, should I decide to have any?”
“That I cannot say, Your Lordship.” Dr. Fenton shook his head as he spoke.
“So what do I do?”
The doctor turned to face him. “Your Lordship, I don’t know the answer to that, either. But I would suggest that you go about your life. But do not leave important decisions to the future.”
“In other words, act as if I’m dying?” Grant said.
“Aren’t we all, Your Lordship?”
“Then I should prepare to be wed, Fenton.”
The doctor smiled. “Marriage is not the fate some men think it is, Your Lordship. I was married to my dear Catherine for twenty-five years.”
“You have a daughter, do you not?”
“I believe I’ve spoken of her to Your Lordship on numerous occasions,” Fenton said. “I’m very proud of her. If she were a boy, she’d be a fine physician. As it is, however, she has a talent that can never be utilized, regrettably.”
“If she were the Countess of Straithern, she could,” Grant said.
He was accustomed to rendering people speechless. Simply being the Earl of Straithern had that effect on quite a few people. Altogether, it wasn’t a bad experience, and he’d grown accustomed to some deference. Now, however, Dr. Fenton’s fish-eyed stare and stark silence were tiresome.
“I’m sorry, Your Lordship,” the man finally said. “I do not understand.”
“I would think it would be eminently understandable, Doctor. I must marry. You have a daughter of marriageable age.”
“You want to marry my daughter?”
Grant settled in behind his desk. He pointed to the chair opposite, and Dr. Fenton sat without comment. He took off his spectacles and polished them on the edge of his coat before carefully replacing them.
For a long moment he regarded Grant before finally speaking. “I don’t believe you’ve ever met my daughter, Your Lordship.”
“She’s healthy, is she not?”
“Very healthy, Your Lordship. And a beautiful girl, if I may say so. But you, sir, could have your pick of any woman in Scotland as well as England. Why would you choose my daughter?”
“Am I that diseased that you would refuse the match?”
“You misunderstand me, Your Lordship. You do not seem to be suffering from the affliction that took your brothers. But I cannot be certain. That is not why I’m surprised, however.”
“Your reaction is a great deal more than surprised, sir.”
“You are the Earl of Straithern, Your Lordship. You hold a long and venerated title. My daughter is not of the peerage.”
“I frankly don’t care, Dr. Fenton. I’ve neither the inclination nor the time, evidently, to search out a bride on my own.”
“I doubt the countess will feel the same, Your Lordship.”
The man had the sense to look away just then. If he’d not, Grant would have skewered him with a glance. His wife was no one’s concern but his own. His mother’s wishes did not enter into his decision. He doubted his mother would care if he married for property or wealth—the Roberson fortune was legendary in Scotland. Perhaps she’d have him marry for love as she was so fond of saying about her own union.
Look what happened when emotion was allowed to triumph over reason.
“I’ve been in Italy for the past five years, Doctor. Prior to that, I was not inclined to socialize. Nor has my mother left Rosemoor since my father died. We do not have social contacts and I’ve neither the time nor the willingness to court a bride. I simply want to wed. As a physician, you should understand the bluntness of my request. I need heirs. For that, I require a wife. Are you telling me that you do not wish your daughter to marry me?”
Dr. Fenton continued to stare at him, his wide brown eyes reminding Grant of one of the Rubenesque murals in the chapel. The physician was evidently at a loss for words, a rarity in the time since Grant had known him. Dr. Fenton was never without a comment or opinion.
“The match would be a good one for your daughter.”
Dr. Fenton put the tips of his fingers together and studied them.
“Not to mention your charities,” Grant added.
“Are you thinking to buy my cooperation, Your Lordship? I would not trade it for my daughter’s happiness.”
“Did you have your mind set for a love match for her, then? Tell me, is there anyone she would prefer to marry?”
“She doesn’t have her mind on things that women commonly think of, Your Lordship. She’d much rather be involved in medicine. Ever since she was a little girl, she has studied my books and my journals.”
“As the Countess of Straithern she would have the entire staff of my five homes to practice on. In fact, their health would be her concern. Her duty. Nor would it be amiss to have a wife with medical training as far as my own health is concerned, Doctor.”
“I don’t understand.” Fenton waved his hand in the air. “I would be a fool to decline, Your Lordship.”
“But you still think I’m a fool for proposing it,” Grant said.
The doctor didn’t answer.
“Let me be frank with you, if I may, Dr. Fenton. I want my countess to be of similar disposition as myself. That is to say, someo
ne who is not ruled by emotion. I am a man of science. If my wife is of a similar nature, all the better. I want a wife who will have her own life, separate from mine, who will have her own interests, apart from me. Being the Countess of Straithern will give her sufficient income to do whatever she wishes to do. My requirements for her are very simple. She will not shame me or my family. She will not bring a hint of scandal to Rosemoor, and she will bear me a suitable number of children so that I can be assured my heritage will continue. That is all I ask of her.
“From what you’ve said about your daughter over the years, she will suit as well as anyone.”
“She will not know what is expected of her, Your Lordship. We do not travel in exalted circles.”
“Neither do I, Dr. Fenton. But if you’re concerned about her role as my wife, bring her to Rosemoor. We will become acquainted in the month before our marriage.”
“A month, Your Lordship?”
“Is there a reason for delay?”
Dr. Fenton shook his head. “I cannot think of one.”
“Good,” Grant said, standing. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can concentrate on other matters.”
“Other matters, Your Lordship?”
Grant studied him for a moment. “I have done as you suggested, Dr. Fenton, and not delayed my future. But perhaps it’s time for even more honesty between us. I don’t believe I’m dying. I don’t believe there’s a malady that has afflicted my family. I think James and Andrew were murdered, and I intend to find out who poisoned them, and why.”
Chapter 2
The study was so quiet that Gillian Cameron could hear the squirrels chittering to one another outside the window. The day was a brilliantly beautiful one. A chilled breeze brought the hint of spring; the sky was blue and cloudless. Everything about the day had been pleasant, until this particular moment when shock rendered Gillian speechless.
