To Love a Scottish Lord

by Karen Ranney

  She nodded. “Do you know of him?”

  “Mary is very much taken with his teachings,” Hamish said, remembering the dogeared book in her medicine chest.

  “But of course she is. That’s why we were so disappointed when she could not meet with him.” Mrs. Grant stood and walked to the parlor door. “Do you think she returned to Inverness to see Mr. Marshall?” “I don’t know,” Hamish said honestly. He was running out of places to look for Mary and ideas where next to go.

  Mrs. Grant opened the door, greeting her visitor as he entered the room. Taking his hat and cloak, she waved him to the settee.

  “Luncheon will be served in less than an hour, sir,” she said, looking as anxious to please as Betty, the young maid, had been.

  Mr. Marshall, a tall man dressed in severe black, nodded absently. “I hope that you’ve not gone to any trouble on my behalf, madam. I have simple needs.”

  She bustled around him, as Mr. Grant leaned across to Hamish. “He’s been our guest for nearly a month now, and he says the same thing before every meal. It doesn’t stop my wife from feeding him royally, or Mr. Marshall from partaking of our food as if he’s starved himself for a fortnight.”

  The minister allowed Mrs. Grant to remove his coat and hang it on the coat rack beside the door. A moment later, he sat on the settee beside Brendan.

  “I didn’t know that you’d be staying in Inverness for so long,” Hamish said, remembering the meeting Mary had given up in order to remain with him.

  “Indeed, I did not plan to,” Marshall said, smiling in an absentminded way. “But I’ve had the most wonderful luck with a Scottish inventor who’s been working on advancements to my electrical machine.”

  Mr. Grant made a face and stood, murmuring some excuse. Mrs. Grant made to leave the room as well, giving Hamish the impression that the subject had been well discussed in the Grant household.

  Just then the door opened once more, and a lovely young woman with large blue eyes and silvery blond hair entered.

  “My daughter Elspeth,” Mr. Grant said.

  Brendan stood, the expectant expression on his face giving Hamish a hint as to why his brother was delaying his return to Gilmuir.

  She halted at the sight of him. Hamish stood, bowed slightly.

  “I’d like you to meet my brother, Elspeth,” Brendan said. “Hamish is the patient Mary was treating.”

  She came forward to stand directly in front of Hamish.

  “Have you seen Mary, Elspeth?” Brendan asked. “She seems to be missing.”

  “I know exactly where she is,” she said, removing her bonnet. It was only then that Hamish realized Elspeth had been crying. As he watched, her eyes puddled with tears.

  “She’s in the jail, Mr. MacRae. She’s been arrested. They say she murdered her husband.”

  Chapter 19

  T he door opened so suddenly that it startled Mary. She turned to see Charles standing there, illuminated in the light from the guard’s lantern. He was attired in his usual dark blue trousers and coat. The white stock at his neck was immaculate as usual, and the gold buttons on his cuffs were of his design.

  He entered the cell and gestured behind him with one hand. Instead of closing the door, the guard simply walked away.

  “Have you bribed him?” she asked.

  “Sir John sent word that I was to be allowed to speak with you. The guard only realizes that I’m to be given my way.”

  She didn’t feel a sense of camaraderie with her husband’s apprentice. It had been a month since she’d seen him, and prior to that they had lived in the same house for eleven years. But the young man who faced her might as well be a stranger, his lean face set in solemn lines, his eyes narrowed as he looked at her.

  “What have you come to say, Charles?”

  “I’m to convince you to confess, no doubt.” He came closer, near enough that if he reached out his hand, he would touch her. As a precaution, she took a step backward, and that gesture made a frozen mask of his face.

  “Why would he think I’d do such a foolish thing?”

  He shrugged. “I, for one, do not believe you could.”

  “You know as well as I that I did nothing to harm Gordon. I certainly didn’t murder him.”

  He smiled, but the expression wasn’t amused. “Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I have evidence that you are guilty of Gordon’s death.”

  She placed her hand flat against her chest as if to calm her rapidly beating heart. “What do you mean?”

  “I am prepared to testify against you, Mary. A sad duty, but one that I will force myself to perform. Or…”

  She waited impatiently for him to complete his sentence.

  “Or what?” she asked when it was obvious he wished to be coaxed.

  “You’ll marry me.”

  She had a sudden wish to laugh, but tamped it down. No man liked his declaration to be ridiculed. But how inappropriate of him to declare his intentions while she was standing shivering in a cell. And how wrong that he should even consider her.

  “You were my husband’s apprentice, Charles. He saw you as his son, and I came to view you as the same. What you’re suggesting is wrong.”

  “There are no bonds of family between us, Mary, and only two years.”

  “But I never thought of you that way.”

  “You can come to accept me.”

  Now she did smile. “Is it me you want, Charles, or the fact that Gordon left me all his gold and silver? A rich widow is a better prize for a wife than a young dowered girl.”

  His eyes narrowed still further.

  “You would rather go to the gallows than marry me?”

  Aghast, she stared at him. “Are those my only choices?”

  He tucked his hands into the greatcoat he wore and smiled thinly at her.

  Before Castle Gloom, she might have been intimidated by how tall he suddenly seemed or the sudden unfriendly look on his face. But she had spent a month in the company of a man who had taught her the true meaning of courage.

  Charles took one step closer until the toes of their shoes touched. His breath smelled of mint; he had recently shaved. A bridegroom come courting. Hadn’t Hamish predicted this? His words came back to her now. Perhaps he thinks of you differently. How foolish she was not to have seen it earlier.

  She tilted up her head and met his eyes unflinchingly. “Now is not the time for such a declaration,” she said softly. “Nor are you the man.”

  “Then prepare to die, Mary,” he said, his lips twisted in an oddly malevolent smile. “Because I, and I alone, can prove that you murdered Gordon.”

  “You know I didn’t. Are you willing to lie to the magistrate?”

  “It will not be a lie, Mary. I wouldn’t be so foolish. I would only tell the truth, one that I might be convinced to forget if you gave me the right inducement.”

  “So my choice is to be you, Charles, or some evidence you think you have?”

  Mary turned and walked to the window, staring out at the night.

  She didn’t like Charles, and it was a sudden and surprising revelation. She had tolerated him because of Gordon and Gordon’s memory, feeling as if she’d owed her elderly husband a debt of gratitude. But she’d paid it back in full, had she not? The last few years had been nearly unbearable, but she had never uttered a word of complaint.

  She was suddenly heartily tired of being a martyr.

  Turning, she faced him. “Do what you will, Charles. I have nothing to fear from you. I did nothing wrong. I cared for Gordon as well as anyone could.”

  “Perhaps too much,” he said cryptically.

  She didn’t ask him to explain his words. The silence stretched between them, awkward and uncomfortable.

  “I came here to give you a choice, Mary. And you’ve made it. You’ll soon learn what a disastrous mistake you’ve made. You would have been happy with me, happier than you ever were with Gordon.”

  She didn’t tell him that she had had a month of happiness. Perhaps not en
ough to last her for the rest of her life, but enough to measure against his almost obscene proposition. She’d rather be Hamish MacRae’s mistress than Charles’s wife.

  “Take your threats and leave, Charles,” she told him, her voice as gentle as she could make it.

  “They’ll send you to Edinburgh,” he said. “You’ll die on the gallows, a murderess.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and watched as he left the cell. The door clanked shut after him, leaving her in silence, alone except for the memory of that one word.

  Murderess.

  “The Scots are a fractious lot, Mr. MacRae. I discovered that in the past twenty years I’ve been coming here,” Matthew Marshall said. “They’ll believe what they want to believe when they wish to and not before. Nothing I or any other man can do can make them alter their minds. I doubt if Sir John is any different in that regard.”

  “I think,” Hamish said tightly, “that you underestimate yourself.”

  He was pacing in the Grants’ parlor, unable to sit still. Marshall had to agree to his request; otherwise, he’d no other way to get word to Mary.

  At first, he hadn’t believed Elspeth when she’d entered the parlor several days ago with word of Mary’s arrest. However, her explanation had made a hideous situation real. She’d told of her own confrontation with Charles Talbot, and the feeling she’d had that something was desperately wrong.

  “I left Mary’s house determined to find out what I could. At the market, I stopped and asked someone, and they told me to read the notice myself.”

  “Notice?”

  “On the door of the Sheriff’s Court.”

  It wasn’t until he’d read it himself that he’d begun to believe that Mary had actually been arrested. On a wall beside the entrance to the court was pinned a series of bulletins, all listing names and infractions ranging from vandalism to theft. At the bottom was a single notation. “Mary Gilly—Murder.”

  He was unable to get past the guard at the jail to see her. The one person who had the literal power of life and death over Mary was Sir John Pettigrew, and he wasn’t disposed to grant any visitations.

  It wasn’t the first time that the MacRae name and fortune had been unsuccessful in solving a dilemma. In India, he’d initially hoped that the Atavasi were holding him for ransom. When it was evident that they cared nothing for his money, he’d been left with no hope for a quick solution to his capture, relying only on his wits to extricate him from the situation.

  However, even his cunning couldn’t get him past Sir John’s door. He’d tried again today, just as he had the day before, and the day before that. Once again, he’d been denied a visit with Mary, and when he’d demanded to meet with the sheriff, the guard only shrugged and refused that as well.

  “What do you mean, he won’t see me?” Hamish said, staring at the man.

  “If he doesn’t wish to give you an audience, he’s under no obligation to do so. Mrs. Gilly’s hearing is scheduled and he’ll be adjudicating it then, not before.”

  “When?” Hamish asked impatiently.

  “I’ve no inkling of the magistrate’s wishes, man. You’ll know when the rest of us know, by a notice on the wall.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “That’s not possible,” the man said, smiling perfunctorily at Hamish. “The accused has no rights until the hearing. You can see her when she’s sitting in the defendant’s box.” Without giving Hamish time to respond, he slammed the door in his face.

  “I believe that Sir John would allow you to see her,” Hamish said now to Matthew Marshall. “As a spiritual adviser, if nothing else.”

  “The Scottish church is a vibrant part of everyday life, Mr. MacRae. But it does not dictate the actions of its public officials. In fact, sometimes I am surprised that the Scots are not barbarians all, even now. Besides, what could I possibly tell her?”

  Marshall eyed at him blandly, but Hamish didn’t miss the intelligence in the other man’s eyes.

  “You can tell her that she has friends who are concerned about her, that she shouldn’t worry.”

  “I can, but I’m not entirely certain of the advisability of doing so. I believe that she has ample reason for worry, don’t you?”

  Unfortunately, Hamish did. He’d heard his own innkeeper discuss Mary as he’d passed through the taproom to his chamber.

  “She was a pretty girl, and she’s grown into a lovely woman,” he’d said. “It made her marriage to Gordon all the more strange. Why would she have such an old man for a husband?”

  “His money, of course,” someone else had then said, laughing.

  “Don’t forget Charles,” another voice offered. “She had the old man’s money and the young man’s affection.”

  Everywhere he went, Hamish heard the case being discussed. On his way to the Grants’ home this afternoon, he’d passed a group of matrons excitedly talking about Mary.

  “A wife should stay close to her husband’s side, especially when he’s ill.”

  “Well, she didn’t, not even when he was wasting away. Gordon was always such a vital man.”

  “Do you think she killed him?” one woman said, her voice dropping to a whisper that still managed to be audible in the narrow streets.

  “She’s rich now, isn’t she?”

  “You have a great deal of fondness for her, do you not?” Mr. Marshall asked, summoning Hamish back to the present.

  He turned on his heel and looked at the man.

  “Some might find it odd that a patient would be so devoted to a practitioner of the healing arts. You were her patient, were you not?”

  “Is that important?”

  “It may prove to be,” Marshall said calmly. “Especially since the two of you were alone for some time.”

  How had the man discovered that? Had Brendan said something?

  “You might consider whether your concern for Mrs. Gilly would be seen as wise at this moment. The very last thing she needs is to have more speculation attached to her name.”

  And the very last thing Hamish wanted was advice from Matthew Marshall, but he stifled that comment.

  “Will you try to see her?” Hamish asked.

  The other man stood finally. He regarded Hamish with an intense stare, and then nodded once. “I will, more for her sake than yours. But I would think about your intentions. What is it you want for Mrs. Gilly? Notoriety or safety?”

  “Freedom,” Hamish said curtly.

  “Very well,” Marshall responded. “I’ll call upon Sir John in the morning. But do not expect him to agree.”

  Hamish thanked the other man and took his leave of the Grant home, bidding the family farewell. At the door, Brendan joined him. His brother had moved from his accommodations to the Rose and Crown a few days earlier. Together they walked back to the inn.

  “What did you tell Marshall?” Hamish asked, willing himself to speak in a restrained tone of voice.

  Brendan looked surprised. “About what?”

  “About Mary being at Castle Gloom.”

  “Nothing.” But he noted that Brendan didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I might have said something to Elspeth,” he admitted. “But to no one else.”

  Then she must have confided in the minister. It didn’t seem to matter, despite Marshall’s words. Being accused of murder was worse than being labeled a loose woman.

  “Has Marshall agreed to call on Sir John?”

  Hamish nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  Brendan glanced at him from time to time as they walked, as if he were garnering his courage for the question he finally asked. “You’re acting as if she’s more important to you than a simple companion, Hamish.”

  Hamish halted at the corner of the street, turned, and looked at Brendan. The lantern hanging outside the inn cast shadows around them, enough that he couldn’t see his brother’s expression.

  When had his feelings turned from lust to something more? On the morning when he’d awakened and studied her in the faint light? S
he’d curled toward him for warmth, and he’d smiled at the effort she’d made to burrow beneath the covers. One moment she was a siren, the next an elf. She’d blinked open her eyes, and they’d looked at each other for a stretch of minutes, each moment softly punctuated by the pulse beat of his heart and his suddenly constricted breathing.

  He’d known on that morning that he should send her away, but he hadn’t banished her from his hermitage. Instead, he’d turned to her, and they’d spent hours loving each other. He’d pretended it was lust, but need had never before felt as tender.

  Until he’d met Mary, he’d never truly wanted to know a woman’s mind, the strength of her character, the tone of her spirit.

  “She is,” he said, answering Brendan’s question. “Much more important.”

  “Do you think she murdered her husband? Or would it even matter to you if she did?” Brendan asked.

  They crossed the street together, Hamish’s mind circling around Brendan’s questions. He recalled another time with Mary. They’d spent the night in abandon, and before he slept he reached to snuff out the flame, but she restrained his hand.

  “Could you leave the candle burning?”

  “Are you afraid of the dark?” he’d teased, never thinking that she might answer in the affirmative.

  “A little.”

  “Some people never outgrow their childish fears.”

  “I was never afraid of the dark as a child.” She sat on the edge of the bed, faintly lit by the lone candle. He’d never noticed how beautiful the shape of a woman’s back could be until that moment. “It’s only been since Gordon died. Sometimes, I think if I turn quickly, I’ll see him standing there.”

  He’d placed his hand on her shoulder, a wordless gesture of comfort.

  “Do you think that’s the reason ghosts are rarely seen?” she asked. “Because they know that the living would be terrified? I wonder if they whisper among themselves about rules against visitation. Such vigilance would explain why ministers speak of heaven with such fervor, and yet there’s little evidence of the soul’s permanence.”

  “I’ve never lost anyone close to me,” he said. “Other than a great uncle as a child. But if I had, I would probably want to see them, even in my mind’s eye.”