by Karen Ranney
Seven years ago she’d been an arrogant child.
In Washington she’d been a minor celebrity. Mrs. Richard Smythe, the wife of the British attaché. My dear, you must simply attend one of her dinners. I don’t know where she got her chef but the food and the discussions are unforgettable. Convince her, if you can, to invite you to one of her salons. They’re the talk of Washington. Even Mr. Lincoln attends periodically.
She’d overheard those remarks and more. For a time the approval from people she admired had been enough. A funny thing, however, about admiration, praise, or notoriety. It had no value without someone with whom to share it.
Richard expected her to be a great hostess. That’s why he’d married her at nineteen and spent so much effort and money to train her in the role he wished her to assume. If he’d heard those comments, he never told her. He wouldn’t have said something like, Well done, darling. You’re just what they need. Instead, he would have congratulated himself on his ability to train a Glasgow girl.
She didn’t expect behavior from Richard that he’d never promised. Theirs wasn’t a love match but a business arrangement. He desired a conformable wife who would do him honor. She desperately wanted away from Scotland and the man who sat in front of her now.
What an utter fool she’d been.
Being around Lennox made her feel awkward. She felt nineteen again, desperately in love and foolish with it.
“I shouldn’t have followed you to the Necropolis,” he said. “It was wrong of me.”
She glanced at him, trying to discern the motive behind his apology. One thing Washington had taught her: people almost always had a hidden reason for doing or saying something.
“Thank you,” she said.
“But I meant what I said about Baumann.”
She was willing to accept his apology, but his warning grated on her. She was no longer nineteen and naive.
“Baumann isn’t a man to underestimate,” she said. “Have you posted guards on your ships?”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze never left her.
“If you haven’t, I suggest you put them in place. Don’t assume that Baumann is the only Union spy in Glasgow.”
When he smiled, she frowned at him.
“I don’t mean me,” she said, shaking her head. “I heard you were building blockade runners in Washington. Baumann knows that as well. I wouldn’t be surprised what he’s discovered since coming to Scotland.”
“You seem familiar with the war.”
“You can’t help knowing something, living in Washington.”
“So they’re talking about my ships there?”
Once more she nodded.
“What else have you heard?”
She smiled. “That you pose a danger to the Union. That you’re single-handedly trying to outfit the Confederate navy. Are your blockade runners that good?”
“Better,” he said. “The Raven is the fastest ship I’ve ever built.”
“Something else Baumann probably knows.”
“Which side are you on, Glynis?”
“I’m not on one side or another. It no longer matters. Too many good men have died on both sides. What does it matter to win a war when you’ve lost all your young men?”
She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. Clasping her hands together tightly, she took a deep breath and pretended a calm she didn’t feel.
He was too close in the confines of the carriage. She could reach out and touch his trouser-covered knee. She could stroke his leg, shocking him. She might even launch herself at him and kiss him again.
That would take his mind off Baumann and the war.
The image was so real that she could almost feel his mouth beneath hers, his arms tightening around her waist. But in the next instant it was gone, the impulsive girl she’d been buried beneath the proper and demure Mrs. Smythe.
She cleared her throat. “You need to be concerned about Mrs. Whittaker,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You should caution her not to go around telling everyone her husband is a Confederate. Knowing how well gossip travels in Glasgow, Baumann is probably aware of that, too.”
“She said that?”
She nodded.
“The woman’s a scunner,” he said.
Lennox pronounced some words with an English inflection. Some sounded French, while others had a Russian flavor. Now he sounded definitely like a Scot.
“A nuisance?” she asked, biting back her smile. “Why are she and her husband staying with you?” Her question was intrusive and none of her concern so she half expected him not to answer.
“Three men were murdered in Glasgow recently,” he said. “All Americans.”
“So you’re protecting them at your own peril? And your family’s?”
He stared right through her. Did no one ever question Lennox? Had he grown so autocratic since she’d last seen him?
“They won’t be staying much longer,” he finally said.
“Is it safe? Are you in any danger?”
Was she revealing too much by asking that question? He studied her in those moments, the silence stretching between them like a web, binding them to this place and time.
She could feel the tension rise in her body the longer he regarded her. Her shoulders ached; her stomach clenched and her fingers trembled. What did he see in her? What was he looking for?
Unable to bear his scrutiny one more second, she turned and looked out the window, willing her mother to hurry or Lennox to leave. When she heard the carriage door open and close a moment later, she blew out a breath.
From now on she would be better off avoiding Lennox. Being around him was dangerous. She’d never lied to him, even when the truth pained her. Lying to Lennox would be like violating an oath.
But half-truths? Yes, she was guilty of those.
Chapter 9
“Thank you for a lovely day,” Lucy said to Eleanor in the foyer of Hillshead. Her voice was dull and lacking any sincerity.
Eleanor pretended the girl’s words were from the heart rather than simple good manners and reciprocated.
“An enjoyable experience,” she said, lying. “We must do it again.” Dear heavens, she hoped not.
“My love,” Gavin said, entering the foyer. “Did you enjoy your day?”
Lucy nodded, giving her husband a thin smile. “Glasgow is nothing like London, however.”
Eleanor said a quick prayer to be forgiven for wanting to strangle the woman and smiled at Gavin.
“Mr. Whittaker, I’m afraid we may have exhausted your wife. We’ve explored the whole of the city.”
His smile was more genuine, but then, she’d found the man to be thoroughly charming. He had a delightful accent, one making it sound like each of his words was resting on a plump pillow. Not only was he courtly in his mannerisms, but he was solicitous of his wife.
The foolish woman didn’t seem to notice, however. Mr. Whittaker asked if she wanted to retire straightaway. Could he bring dinner on a tray for her? What was her preference as to refreshments? Lucy brushed aside his words as if the man were an annoying insect.
Their marriage was none of her concern, but it was difficult witnessing Lucy’s stupidity and unconscious cruelty. Mr. Whittaker deserved better from his wife, especially since he was going to war in a matter of days.
They chatted for a moment, the topics innocuous and acceptable: Scotland’s weather, the ceremony for William, the size of the Cameron and Company shipyard. When enough time had passed and she couldn’t be accused of rudeness, Eleanor said her farewells.
“If you would like to see the nearby castles,” she said to Lucy before leaving, “we can certainly arrange that.”
“I do not wish to see any more of Scotland,” Lucy said. “I doubt I shall recover after seeing as much as I did.”
She watched as Lucy excused herself and mounted the grand stairs. She could hear every one of the woman’s footsteps in the soaring foyer of Hillshead.
The stained-glass cupola was three floors above her and the entire space was perfect for echoes.
“I apologize,” Gavin said when the footsteps were no longer audible. “Lucy hasn’t settled into Scotland yet.”
Her smile wasn’t forced. She genuinely liked Mr. Whittaker and pitied him his wife.
“From what I understand,” she said, “you won’t be remaining here long.”
“No,” he said. “Not long.” He gave her a charming bow and they parted.
She wouldn’t have minded seeing more of Mr. Whittaker, but hoped Lennox wouldn’t ask her to have anything more to do with Lucy.
What a tiresome woman.
LENNOX STOOD in his library, staring after the departing carriage.
The girl he’d known was there below the surface. He saw flashes of the old Glynis in her gamin smile and quick glance. The woman, however, was different. Not only was she beautiful, but she was alluring, daring him to ferret out her secrets, compare who she was now to the girl she’d once been.
Glynis had always been part of his life, but he only realized it when seeing her again. Her coming home was like the final placement of a piece of iron cladding on a hull. It fit, finished the hull, rendering it whole. He felt whole, as if he’d been only partially himself until she smiled up at him.
Yesterday he’d been discussing the seaworthy trials for the Raven and he remembered the last time he and Glynis had rowed down the river. When he was eating breakfast, the smell of apples had brought her face to mind. As a girl she had a fondness for one of the mares in the stable and took her an apple each morning. He could almost tell the time by the sight of her traipsing up the hill and down the path to the stable.
He remembered once when he’d gone to get Duncan so they could watch the trial launch of a new Cameron ship.
She’d grinned at him, precocious at ten years old, her eyes shining with daring. She’d sat primly between the columns at the entrance to her house and announced that Duncan couldn’t go with him.
“I’m to tell you Duncan is indisposed,” she said, sounding out the word with great care. “But it’s really because he’s got the trots. Mother made him use the outdoor privy, he was smelling up the house so bad.”
He hadn’t known what to say then and he hadn’t known what to say when he was a sophisticated twenty-four, newly returned from Russia and already the designer of two new ships in his father’s fleet.
She’d come into the MacIain parlor where he was waiting for Duncan.
“You’re back,” she said. “I’ve waited a very long time.”
“Have you?”
She nodded. “You went to school, then you went to Russia, then you went to France. Have you finished your travels, Lennox Cameron? Come home to Scotland finally?”
He felt a surge of humor at her chastisement. “I’m back for a while.”
She startled him, then, by reaching out and patting his jacket with a personal, almost proprietary, touch.
He’d thought himself worldly and sophisticated, but standing there with Glynis smiling at him, he felt as callow as a boy.
“It’s time,” she said, “for you to settle down. No more exploring the world.”
“Is it? And who would you be, Glynis MacIain, to tell me what I should or should not do?”
She only smiled at him and he’d been startled into silence by her beauty. He had the curious notion she was somehow older and wiser.
Now she was home, a widow.
Had she loved her husband? He hadn’t asked her. Perhaps he should, but was he prepared to hear her answer? What if she’d adored the man? Hardly likely since she married Smythe only a month after meeting him. Maybe the years had added a fondness to the relationship that hadn’t been there at the beginning. Had Richard Smythe been the epitome of a good and decent husband? Did she mourn him still?
He couldn’t think of her in the man’s bed or allow himself to visualize her passion. Some things were beyond him.
The Glynis of his past was a source of amusement and fondness. He smiled when he recalled her.
He was far from amusement when he thought of Glynis now.
Did she know how beautiful she was? Did she realize how much he wanted to kiss her?
He’d come damn close in the carriage. He wanted to pull her across the seat, settle her on his lap, and kiss her until the urge left him. He had the feeling, however, that it would only make the situation worse.
He didn’t want to be a source of ridicule. He didn’t want to amuse her by an inappropriate display of affection. Affection? Hell, he wasn’t just feeling affection, he was fascinated with her, confused by her, and lusting after her.
No, the best thing would be to avoid Glynis when he could and keep those necessary and unavoidable encounters as short as possible.
Chapter 10
“Thank you for letting me do this,” she said to Duncan, settling in at the bookkeeper’s desk across the room.
Duncan had taken over her father’s office, a spacious room large enough for both him and the bookkeeper to work as well.
“The mill is as much yours as it is mine, Glynis,” he said, settling in behind the large desk their father had once occupied.
How right he looked there.
She smiled, but didn’t comment.
Duncan, as the head of MacIain Mills, was the one who had the responsibility and worry.
The windows overlooking the mill buildings were dusty, as they’d never been in her father’s time. Water damage stained the wooden sills, trailing down the plaster wall to the floor where the planks were discolored.
Wasn’t there a custodian still on staff? Someone really needed to trim the wicks of the lamps and clean the globes. Plus, the floor needed to be swept and damp-mopped.
An indication, then, of how distracted Duncan was by other things, like penury.
He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. His trousers were wrinkled, his jacket hung off the back of his chair, and his shirt had ink spots on it.
Charlotte once told her she thought Duncan was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His eyes were a brilliant blue, darker than hers, and they tilted down at the outside corners, making him look self-deprecating, amused at the plight of the world and everyone within it.
His mouth was full, his face lean. His brown hair was often mussed because he had a habit of raking his fingers through it when he was agitated.
Duncan had their mother’s kindness. She had their father’s nose and his fascination with numbers. She wished, however, one of them had inherited Hamish MacIain’s optimism and his way of looking forward to each day.
Every Saturday she’d come to the mill with her father and sit here like now. Hamish MacIain thought practice in business would be advantageous for his only daughter.
“You’ll find Mr. Smithson’s work is not as neat as it should be,” Duncan said, speaking now of the bookkeeper. “The man is getting up in years and has a tendency to lose a thought and sit there with his pen dripping with ink. In the last few months I’ve convinced him to use a pencil.”
The entries were hideously difficult to read. The expenses were nearly obliterated by dark blue blotches, some of which hadn’t dried when Mr. Smithson closed the book, resulting in a mirror stain.
If the man hadn’t been a loyal employee of their father’s, Duncan would probably have pensioned him off years ago. But Mr. Smithson had been among the first of the employees their father had hired at MacIain Mill, and might well prove to be its last.
By the time she finished studying the ledger, she knew they were in desperate straits. Soon there wouldn’t be any money to pay anyone, even her brother.
The war in America had nearly decimated their fortunes, but she hadn’t understood to what degree until now. Most of their best cotton fiber was imported from the southern states of America. Although some cotton made it through the blockade, it wasn’t enough to keep the mill going full-time.
A third of their employees had been let go.
While Duncan had tried to help where he could by decimating his savings, her brother couldn’t manufacture money.
If they didn’t get an infusion of cash, Duncan would have to make further cuts, resulting in more people losing their jobs.
“How was it?”
She blinked, pulled out of her dread by Duncan’s question.
“How was what?”
“America. You’ve never said.”
She wished he’d asked about Cairo instead.
“I quite liked America. The people were all different. Maybe because it’s such a large country. People in New York aren’t like people in Washington, for example.”
“How was it being married?”
She turned in the chair and regarded her brother.
“It wasn’t bad, Duncan. It wasn’t good. It simply was. I have ten fingers and toes. I had a husband.”
He smiled, and it was one of Duncan’s wry smiles, as if he wanted to come out and say something but was prevented from doing so by good manners.
“Evidently, he wasn’t an appendage or you’d miss him more.”
Plainly, he didn’t care about good manners around her, but she was his sister, and Duncan had always said what he thought to her. How very like him to pin her ears to the wall. Everyone else was so careful of her widowhood. They treated her as if she were a fragile vase capable of shattering if anyone looked at her wrong.
She sat back in her chair and spoke without looking at him, her attention on the columns of numbers in front of her.
“I should say I was sorry he died, shouldn’t I? I should sound devastated by his loss.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I can’t lie to you, Duncan. I think I was relieved, most of all. My first thought was: he’s dead. I won’t have to put up with him any longer. I won’t have to put up with his petty tyrannies. I won’t have to be the focus of his anger when someone at the legation was rude or dismissive of him. I won’t have to be afraid for the servants. Most of all, I won’t have to worry about Richard’s hobbies.”
“You need to explain most of that.”
She looked up to find Duncan approaching the bookkeeper’s desk. He sat on the corner, one leg drawn up, his arms folded. Anyone else might have thought he was relaxed, but she knew her brother. He was poised to attack.
