A Scottish Love

  A Scottish Love

  Karen Ranney

  Dedication

  To Irene Mercatante.

  Some people are friends.

  Some are examples.

  Some are blessings.

  Irene is all three.

  Uploaded for www.dpgroup.org/forum/

  Chapter 1

  Autumn 1859

  Inverness, Scotland

  Gordon MacDermond was standing at the door of her parlor. Standing there staring at her, as if she’d invited him into her home. As if she should smile and welcome him.

  She’d sooner greet the devil.

  For a moment, Shona just sat there and watched him. Sounds faded away, even the air stilled, leaving Gordon standing there alone, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the open door.

  He took a few steps into the room, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Her heart beat so fiercely she could feel the tremors in her throat. And why were her palms so damp?

  It was only Gordon.

  A stranger would look at him and see a tall man with symmetrical features, a straight nose, and a square jaw. A woman might note that his chin looked stubborn, a correct assumption about his character. His mouth turned up on one corner. As a boy, it had given him an amused air. As a man, it made him appear cynical. His brows were gently curved, his blue eyes intent, almost piercing. His hair was cut shorter than was fashionable, but Gordon had never cared for fashion. A man as handsome as he could do anything he wished, including refuse to grow a beard.

  The expression in his eyes was decidedly different, however, from the young man she’d known. The youthful enthusiasm, the smile, the eagerness in his gaze had been replaced by caution.

  He’d seen too much. But then, hadn’t they all?

  Seven years ago, they’d been so foolish, so naïve, and unaware of the world. Now, all of them were a little too knowledgeable about what could happen when they ventured far from home.

  Her brother said that Gordon had emerged unscathed from the wars in the Crimea and India, and seeing him here was proof that he’d been luckier than Fergus.

  She slowly stood, but didn’t speak. What could she say?

  Get the blazes out of my house, Gordon MacDermond.

  For however long it was her house.

  “Countess,” he said, inclining his head. His attention, however, was drawn to the four stalwart lads at the other end of the room. A frown replaced the look of caution on his face.

  Suddenly amused and intensely grateful for it, she sat once again, watching him take in the scene.

  The drawing room was shrouded since the only window was heavily curtained. The lumpy horsehair sofa on which she sat was at right angles to the small fireplace. A straight-back chair sat nearby, atop a faded Brussels carpet. Over the mantel was an engraving of the Morton coat of arms, a bit of conceit that her husband had commissioned a year before his death.

  How often had she wished for the money that garish bit of nonsense had cost? She couldn’t even sell it.

  At the far end of the drawing room stood four men, each of them standing silent and respectful.

  “Those men are naked,” he said.

  Her gaze, insultingly slow, took in Gordon’s well-polished shoes, up past the trousers of blue serge to the matching coat and vest. When she met his eyes, she smiled again, immeasurably pleased at his frown.

  “Not quite naked,” she said. “They’ve merely removed their shirts.”

  “Why?”

  Was it any of his concern? Still she answered him, not because he deserved a response, but because the answer would annoy him.

  “They’ve applied for the position of footman,” she said.

  “Should you be interviewing them without their shirts?” he asked.

  If it disturbed him that she did so, he didn’t allow it to show in his voice. Now a small smile curved his lips, but she knew him better than that. He was not amused. His eyes were flat and expressionless.

  “Undoubtedly not,” she conceded.

  Helen came to stand beside her. Helen’s cheeks had been scarlet for more than an hour. Her companion was filled with all sorts of maidenly virtues, whereas she hadn’t been a maiden for almost a decade now.

  “You’re measuring their attributes, is that it?”

  She smiled again. Very well, she could match him in sangfroid.

  “Perhaps I’m ensuring that the candidate doesn’t have a wasting disease,” she said. “Or merely establishing that he has the strength to assume his duties.”

  All four of the men were absolutely perfect. The man second to the end was thinner than the rest, but his stomach muscles were better developed. The man closest to her had the most impressive shoulders, and as she watched, flexed them in greeting. The candidate to his right could roll his chest, as if he were purring. The last man had a habit of standing with his legs farther apart, evidently needing the distance to accommodate his, well, attributes.

  For five years she’d been married to a man forty years her senior. Gazing at four half-naked young men didn’t seem that much a crime. She would hire each one if she had the funds. Unfortunately, she didn’t even have enough money to hire a parlor maid, the reason Helen had answered the door and escorted Gordon into her home.

  She almost turned and asked Helen to see Gordon to the door again. Give him back his hat and his gloves and send him on his way.

  We don’t need Gordon MacDermond here.

  But because she knew why he’d come, she didn’t give voice to his banishment.

  “You may dress now,” she said, sending the four candidates a smile. “Please leave your name with Miss Paterson,” she added, nodding toward Helen.

  The cheeky one winked at her as he dressed. For a moment, she was tempted to wink back.

  Gordon didn’t look pleased.

  What a pity.

  They didn’t speak as the men dressed, the strained silence punctuated only as each man gave his name to Helen. One by one, they filed out of the parlor, following Helen to the front door.

  When they were gone, she glanced over at Gordon, who returned her look steadily.

  Go away, Gordon.

  “Congratulations, Sir Gordon, on your baronetcy,” Helen said, returning from the door.

  “Oh, yes, you won something, didn’t you?” she said.

  “No,” he said, tight-lipped. “It was awarded me.”

  “Pity they didn’t award Fergus,” she said, forcing a smile back into place.

  “You think receiving a Victoria Cross is nothing, Countess?”

  “A baronetcy can be inherited, Sir Gordon,” she said. “You can do absolutely nothing with a Victoria Cross except brag of it. A baronetcy would have made up for a lot.”

  He looked at her as if she were a stranger. Never a stranger, Gordon. Never a friend, either.

  “Fergus is a fine man. Any woman would recognize that.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’re right,” she said, sending him a look sharp enough to sever his ears from his head. “If she can overlook his limp and the fact he’s in constant pain.”

  He didn’t respond, ratcheting up her anger even higher. She took a deep breath and composed herself before continuing.

  “You were his commanding officer. You should have kept him free from harm.”

  “It was war, Countess.”

  “He went to war because of you,” she said, with enough equanimity that she impressed herself. “He didn’t attend Military College. You did. He wasn’t versed in artillery. You were. He didn’t know anything about war. I daresay you studied it.”

  She smiled, tamping down the anger once more. “He went to war because you were going, and as his best friend, you should have protected him.”

  �
�Your husband bought Fergus’s commission. If you were so against him going, you could have prevented it.”

  “If you wish to see Fergus, he’s in the garden,” she said, waving her hand toward the other woman. “Helen will show you the way.”

  Helen leaned close.

  “Are you all right, Shona?” Helen asked.

  No, dear God, she was far from all right. She bled from so many internal wounds she was surprised there wasn’t a pool of blood at her feet.

  “Yes,” she answered calmly, forcing a smile to her face. “I’m fine, Helen, thank you.”

  She waited until they were out of the room before closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair.

  Was Gordon’s arrival the answer to a prayer? She couldn’t leave Fergus here to be tossed out into the street. She had to make arrangements for him. The letter, delivered by messenger yesterday, had stepped up her timetable and also made her situation even more dire.

  If she asked him for help, would he agree? Or would he refuse just to punish her?

  She was just as beautiful as she’d always been. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been in the first flush of youth, testing her newly discovered feminine power and at the same time, relishing it.

  He’d fallen at her feet and nearly begged her to walk on him. He would have done anything for Shona Imrie. He’d extended his heart, his fortune, and his future. Instead, she’d married the Earl of Morton, a man who could give her a title and a large estate. At the time, Gordon hadn’t had a title and his home was modest. The only thing he possessed that the Earl of Morton didn’t have was youth.

  Evidently, that hadn’t counted for much.

  The years had polished the beauty of the young woman, made her even more alluring. The black of her mourning emphasized her ivory complexion, made her pink mouth look lush and inviting.

  Her eyes were a startling gray, the thick black ring around the iris accentuating their smoky color. He’d once told her that she had eyes that beckoned a lover to become lost in them. She’d only laughed and held out her arms.

  He’d entwined that long brunette hair around his wrists, pulled her closer for another kiss. Her lips were cloud soft, and he could still taste her on his mouth. Her nose had a slight upturn at the end. A very patrician nose, he’d laughingly announced one rainy afternoon.

  “To match the rest of you.”

  “And what part of me is patrician?” she’d asked.

  He’d spread the blanket wide, stared down at her plump breasts, still rosy from their lovemaking. “You’ve very noble breasts,” he said. “Very aristocratic. Look how your nipples harden even now, as if demanding the attentions of my tongue.”

  Did she remember?

  How could she forget?

  Helen said something to him, glancing over her shoulder. Instead of admitting that he hadn’t been paying attention, had been years and miles away, he smiled, and asked, “Have you been with the countess long?”

  “The earl was my second cousin,” she said. “After my father died, he took me in and I became the countess’s companion.”

  He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d known needing a companion, but then he couldn’t envision Shona being married to the Earl of Morton. He’d practiced pushing that image away for years. Improvidently, he wanted to ask her what Shona had become. A shocking woman, one who routinely engaged in the kind of behavior he’d just witnessed? He restrained himself and asked, instead, about Fergus.

  “Is he not well?”

  She nodded. “He’s still quite thin,” Helen said. “He’s not yet recuperated from his injuries.”

  The fact that Fergus’s left leg hadn’t been amputated after Lucknow was a miracle. Guilt spiked through him. He’d not seen Fergus for six months, ever since they’d returned from India.

  He followed Helen down a small set of steps and into the garden, feeling the grass sag beneath his feet. Shadows stretched from the tall hedges on either side of the narrow rectangular yard, creating a cool and lush sanctuary. In the middle of the lawn was a bright patch of sunlight. A chair had been placed there, and a man sat with his head tilted back, eyes closed, allowing the sun to bathe his face.

  Gordon wasn’t a coward. Yet in that moment, he almost turned and walked in the other direction. The man who sat in the chair, bathing in the sun, was too thin to be his boyhood friend, his best friend.

  They’d grown up together, sharing secrets and dreams, playing among the crags and boulders of Ben Lymond. As men, they’d suffered the privations of soldiers in battle. They’d depended upon each other and supported each other even as they’d stared death in the face.

  “There you are, lazing in the sun, just like a cat,” he said, before Helen could speak.

  Fergus turned his head, and Gordon almost winced. The narrow face was gaunt; the mischievous grin present during most of their adventures was gone. Instead, his friend’s face was sallow and marked with lines of pain and suffering.

  “Is this what happens once you get the Victoria Cross? You think you never have to work another day of your life?”

  Fergus made as if to stand, but Gordon had already seen the cane propped on the other side of the chair. He reached Fergus’s side and placed his hand on his friend’s arm.

  “It’s not necessary to get up,” he said.

  “Good God, you’re still trying to be my commanding officer,” Fergus said, smiling with what looked to be some effort.

  He squatted beside the chair. “You’ve had a bad time of it,” he said.

  Fergus smiled with more enthusiasm. “You’ve been listening to Shona.”

  He shook his head.

  Fergus chuckled. “Is she not talking to you, then? Or is she still interviewing her footmen?”

  “Do you realize she had them take off their shirts?”

  “I’m the one who put the notice in the paper,” Fergus said, the grin reminiscent of their boyhood. “She deserves a bit of fun.” His grin faded. “She’s the one who’s had a bad time of it, Gordon.”

  He tucked that information away to think about later. Right at the moment, he was more concerned with Fergus than his sister.

  Liar.

  “I came to see how you were doing. I’ve just gotten back.”

  “You left the London lassies expiring in grief, then.”

  “Only a few.”

  “You’ve become a damn national treasure.”

  He felt himself warm. “Hardly that.”

  “A baronetcy,” Fergus said, his smile broader.

  “The others?” he asked, changing the subject, and named names, men who had been under his command at Sebastopol and then at Lucknow and for whom he still felt responsible. Men of the Ninety-third Sutherland Highlanders, no better group of men.

  “Macpherson died of his wounds. So did Dubonner. Marshall isn’t doing well, I hear. But the others are all hale and hearty.”

  “I should have come back earlier,” he said.

  “When the War Office summons you, Gordon, even you can’t refuse them. Especially when the general adds his persuasion. The months in London couldn’t have been enjoyable. Unless,” Fergus added, “there really were lassies vying for your attention.”

  “Only a few,” he repeated.

  From somewhere, Helen had found a chair, and began to drag it across the lawn. He stood, went to her side, and took it from her, thanking her with a smile.

  “He’s dead,” he said, placing the chair opposite Fergus and sitting.

  The two words were remarkably free of emotion. No anger, grief, or even relief tinged them.

  “Dead? I thought the old man would live forever,” Fergus said, staring off into the distance.

  “I’m sure he planned it,” he said dryly.

  “How did it happen?”

  “In his sleep. He would have hated it. He wasn’t commanding anyone, and wasn’t in the middle of one of his towering rages. He simply didn’t wake up.”

  They exchanged a look, one that bo
th commiserated and remembered. How many times had he come to Gairloch to escape his father? How many times had he and Fergus engaged in boyhood pursuits, neither talking about the man who would punish him when he returned home? Lieutenant General Ian MacDermond made his displeasure known in whatever way was most convenient—shouting, switch, or cane.

  “Should I bother to express my condolences?” Fergus asked.

  “To the devil, perhaps,” he said, smiling. “Can you imagine the general ordering Beelzebub around? Hell wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  They sat in silence for several moments.

  “Is that why you’ve come home?” Fergus asked after a moment.

  “Because the general can’t command my life anymore? No, I’d already begun the process to leave before he died. Who knows? Maybe his dying was the final repudiation. I’ve decided to take over the Works.”

  Fergus’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’ve left the army entirely, then?”

  He nodded.

  “To do what? Make gunpowder?”

  “For now. I’ve an idea, however, something that I’ve been working on for a while now.”

  Helen was suddenly there, a tray in her hands.

  “I’ve brought a wee dram of whiskey for you, Sir Gordon, and tea for you, Fergus.”

  “Why does he get whiskey?” Fergus complained.

  Helen just clucked her tongue, but didn’t answer.

  He took both the cup and glass from her, thanked her, and the minute she went back inside, handed the glass to Fergus.

  Fergus downed the whiskey in one swallow, leaving Gordon to stare at the tea. The brew smelled of flowers—or stinkweed—and was weak enough he could see the bottom of the cup.

  “What is this?” he asked, taking a tentative sip.

  “Something to build up my blood, I think. I never know what god-awful concoction Shona or Helen has dreamed up now. They’re bustling around me all hours of the day and night.” He glanced toward the house. “In fact, I’m surprised one of them hasn’t come out and rescued me and put me down for my nap. I should probably thank you for that.”