An American in Scotland Read online

  Dedication

  To looking up and looking beyond. To always keeping your sense of humor, no matter what. To believing in the rainbow even in the midst of rain.

  Contents

  Dedication

  My darling sons

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author's Notes

  Welcome to the World of Karen Ranney

  About the Author

  Romances by Karen Ranney

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  My darling sons,

  When you each came into the world, I marveled at the miracle that created you. I held you in my arms and knew I would cherish you until the breath left my body.

  Now I must bid farewell to all three of you at once.

  The Almighty has indeed challenged me this day.

  I know you go on a great adventure and do so with eagerness and enthusiasm. The Highlands offer less opportunity to you of late. I know this and mourn the circumstances of your leaving even as I know you will do honor to the MacIain name.

  When someone asks me about my sons, I’ll speak proudly of you. My eldest son, I’ll say, remained in Scotland, a few days’ journey away. But one of my sons traveled to England to make peace with the conqueror, while the other set sail for America.

  You will have children of your own, each of them carrying the MacIain blood and name. Tell them about our history, how we dreamed of an empire. Tell them about the place from which we came, a corner of Scotland known for its men of greatness and nobility.

  Mention your mother, if you will, who bravely relinquished her sons to the future.

  The Almighty has not given us the power of foresight, but I cannot help but think years from now, your children and your children’s children will be proud MacIains, as formidable as their ancestors.

  Love sometimes means sacrifice, and I feel that truly on this day. I sacrifice you to honor, to your heritage, and to a future only you can create.

  Go with God, my darling sons. May your dreams be realized and may He always protect you.

  Anne Summers MacIain

  Scotland

  June, 1746

  Chapter 1

  Glasgow, Scotland

  May, 1863

  Rose thanked the driver as she exited the carriage and made her way down the path to the door. She didn’t know what she expected, but the three-­story structure with its curved front surprised her. The bay windows, one on each side of the house, were curved as well. She had the thought that it was a friendly place, that the windows were almost like eyes. The two columns on either side of the front steps created an open mouth, almost as if the house were saying: Who are you? A stranger? Welcome anyway.

  What if he refused to see her? What if he sent her away?

  That couldn’t happen. She couldn’t allow it to happen.

  She’d come so far.

  Scotland surprised her, almost as much as its ­people. Everyone, from the porter to her fellow travelers on the train, had been a delight, genial and exceedingly helpful. While it was true they were curious, almost intrusively so, she didn’t mind repeating that, yes, she was an American. Yes, the war was a terrible thing. Thankfully, most of the discussions of her country ended there. She didn’t have to explain where she came from, what she truly thought about the war, and why she wore mourning. Because she was unaccompanied, no doubt most assumed she was a widow.

  Assumptions were wonderful things. They kept her from lying.

  Rose had expected a country filled with unique vistas: tall, craggy mountains and heather bedecked glens. She saw those and more, heart-­stopping bridges that arched over gorges and rivers crashing over rocks to settle in placid pools. Sections of Scotland were green and verdant. Other places were brown, gray, and black.

  When they arrived in Glasgow, her opinion of Scotland underwent a transformation.

  Here was a place as bustling as New York. Cranes and spires filled the horizon. The sound of hammering and shouting obscured the call of the seabirds overhead. Docks and ships, long buildings and bustling ­people, wagons and carriages, all gave the appearance of frenetic activity.

  She had no idea Glasgow was so large, so hilly, or so crowded.

  After carefully consulting the letter in her reticule, she gave the hired driver the address to the MacIain house.

  How odd that after all these weeks, all she felt was an incredible urge to sleep.

  The voyage from Nassau to England had been relatively swift, and a great deal less stressful than running the blockade from Charleston outward to the Bahamas.

  The train from London had been a marvel of speed and efficiency. Had she been on a different errand, she would’ve enjoyed herself immensely. As it was, each day sounded like a gong in the back of her mind, a deep-­throated noise to alert her to how long she’d been gone.

  Time was not on her side.

  She had debated finding lodgings before calling on the MacIains. But the carriage driver said he might be able to help her in that regard, so she needn’t worry. The only thing that concerned her was her dwindling resources.

  He must agree. He simply must. If he didn’t, she was faced with having expended the funds on the voyage with no results to show for it. Even worse, she would have wasted the time it took to come to Scotland.

  No, that wasn’t the way to think about the situation. Surely Mr. MacIain would see her since she was related by marriage. After all, the three branches of the MacIains had originated from the same family. She knew that because Bruce was forever repeating the MacIain family tree. He was absurdly proud of the fact that he had been descended from Highland warriors.

  Her own family history was not so illustrious. Her great-­grandfather had nearly starved in Ireland and found passage to the New World and a new life. Evidently, being an Irish laborer held no esteem. But her great-­grandfather worked hard, put away his money so that his son had a small inheritance when he died, a habit that set his descendants on the road to prosperity.

  Good fortune, however, had a way of turning on its head. She knew that only too well. She also remembered her great-­grandfather’s words, repeated by her father often enough: “Opportunity must be met with effort.” That’s exactly what she was doing in Scotland. She had made the effort, because Mr. MacIain had provided the opportunity.

  She steadied herself before the door, adjusted the string of her reticule, fiddled with the bow of her bonnet. She fluffed out her skirts and peered down to check if there was dust on her shoes.

  Perhaps she should have found accommodations first and prepared herself better for this meeting. She should have washed her face, at the very least, put on a little pomade because her lips felt chapped. But she was very much afraid that if she had seen a bed, she would’ve fallen atop it and not awakened for a few days, at least.

  Before she rested, however, she had to meet with Duncan MacIain.
/>   He must agree. He simply must.

  She dared herself to grab the knocker and let it fall, hearing the echo of the sound inside the house.

  She had envisioned the man she was about to meet so often, especially after having read his letters to Bruce. He would be a distinguished individual, perhaps the age of her father if he’d lived. He’d be a sober and responsible person who would immediately feel the bonds of family. He would agree to her terms not only because they were fair, but because she represented the American MacIains.

  She didn’t mind if he was avuncular with her, if he lectured her as to the dangers of her trip here. He would, perhaps, put her in the care of his wife, who would cluck over her like a mother hen, ask all sorts of questions about her journey and issue her own share of warnings.

  How long had it been since she’d been cosseted? Never by her mother since she’d died at her birth. Her father had done so, but he’d died years before.

  She shook her head at herself, let the knocker fall again, and arranged her face into an amenable expression. She had quite a bit of experience at that. She could smile through almost anything, and had.

  “Yes?”

  The woman who opened the door was a matronly sort, dressed in a somber blue that nevertheless was a pleasant color for her complexion. Her smile was an easy one, as if she had long practice at being pleasant.

  “May I help you?” she asked. “If you’re a friend of the missus, she’s dining with her family now. Like as not it’ll go on for a few hours. Do you need to see her?”

  The smell of food wafted out of the house. Rose was so hungry she could define each separate scent: fish stew, freshly baked rolls, roast beef, and something that smelled like fruit cake.

  Her stomach growled, as if she needed reminding she hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days.

  “Mr. MacIain,” she said, pushing aside both her hunger and her fatigue. “Is he here? I need to see him.”

  “You’ve business with Mr. Duncan? Well, he mostly transacts his business at the mill, miss. Wouldn’t it be better to call on him there?”

  She didn’t know where the MacIain Mill was. She’d taken his home address from the letters he’d written Bruce.

  “I’ve come from America,” she began, and had no more said those words than she was dragged into the house by her sleeve.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so from the very first? From America? All that way? And here I let you stand on the doorstep. Is that your valise? And your carriage? We’ll take care of both right away.”

  The woman, matronly only a moment ago, had turned into a whirlwind.

  Rose found herself being led through the house, following the scent of food until she thought her stomach would cramp. In moments she found herself standing in the doorway of a small dining room.

  Dozens of ­people, it seemed from her first glance, were seated at the table, all of them attractive and well dressed. Some of them were smiling as they looked up.

  “Duncan? This lady came all the way from America to see you.”

  She couldn’t think for the hunger. She couldn’t even speak.

  A man stood, and she thought that hunger must surely have made her hallucinate. Tall, brown-­haired, with the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen. He smiled so sweetly at her, so perfectly handsome and kind, that she wondered if he was real.

  He was broad-­shouldered, with a face that no doubt captured the attention of women on the street. They’d stop to marvel at that strong jaw, that mouth that looked as if it could be curved into a smile or just as easily thinned in derision.

  She hadn’t expected him to be so arresting a figure. No doubt that’s why she wavered a little on her feet.

  “Yes?” he said, coming around the table toward her.

  “Mr. MacIain? Duncan MacIain?”

  He regarded her with a direct stare so forceful she felt as if her will were being drawn out of her with that glance.

  She reached out one gloved hand toward him. Suddenly everything changed. The air around her grayed. The floor rushed up to greet her instead of him. Yet he somehow caught her when she fell. As he did so, she had the strangest thought, one that troubled her even as darkness enveloped her.

  This was why she’d come all this way.

  DUNCAN CARRIED the woman to their spare room, his mother and Mabel following close behind.

  His mother had already removed the bonnet that nearly obscured the woman’s features, revealing hair that was as red as the sunset over Glasgow. Although swathed in black, she was young, with precise features and the porcelain complexion English beauties have.

  She was pretty, but he thought she might be beautiful when she was happy and smiling.

  The mourning didn’t suit her. She should be attired in bright colors, something in emerald or ruby or peacock blue, a shade that wouldn’t clash with her hair. He’d only gotten a quick look at her eyes before she fainted, but they’d looked as green as the pines surrounding Hillshead.

  “Put her on the bed, Duncan,” his mother said. “We’ll unlace her. The poor thing might have fainted because of her corset.”

  “Or hunger,” he said, examining her features.

  Her nose was delicate but well defined. Her mouth was full, but her jawline was too sharp, as was her chin.

  She nodded and turned to Mabel. “Perhaps we should prepare a tray for her.”

  Mabel nodded and left the room.

  “Who do you think she is?” Eleanor asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said.

  “Under the circumstances, would it be acceptable to look?” she asked, glancing down at the woman’s reticule in her hands.

  He stared down at their unexpected guest. Her cheeks were white, but her red hair escaped like fire, tumbling over the pillowcase. A woman of mystery had suddenly appeared at their doorstep wanting to speak to him, but she’d collapsed before she could say a word.

  He understood his mother’s curiosity. He felt the same.

  “I know it’s utterly rude, but wouldn’t she want us to know? The poor dear didn’t even get a chance to say a word before she toppled over. Do you think she’s sick?”

  “I hope not,” Duncan said. “She isn’t running a fever.” He placed the back of his hand against her cheek. “She’s almost too cold. I would be willing to bet she’s exhausted.”

  “Well, whether it’s rude or not, I’m looking.” With that, his mother pulled the drawstring open on the reticule and peered inside.

  “There isn’t a very great amount of money, especially not for one traveling so far. There’s only a small jar of lip salve, one of pomade, a tiny flacon of perfume—­almost empty—­and a letter.”

  She pulled out the letter, unfolded it, then stared at him. “It’s one you wrote, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Me?”

  Eleanor nodded as she handed it to him.

  He read it, then gave it back to her. “It’s one I wrote to Bruce MacIain about buying his cotton.”

  “Then she’s a MacIain,” she said. “That’s a relief. But the poor thing is wearing mourning. Do you think she’s his widow?”

  “A reasonable assumption,” he said. “But I think it would be better to ask her before we jump to any conclusions.”

  “Then Mabel and I will care for her.”

  Duncan smiled. His mother was one of the most generous and giving ­people he knew. Of course the stranger would be welcomed as a long-­lost relative and given the status of family.

  The woman was probably a widow, not surprising since America was still immersed in their civil war. But he’d never expected to meet one of his American cousins, let alone be fascinated by her appearance.

  He would leave her to his mother’s care. For now, the woman would have a place to rest and recuperate before they questioned her further.
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  “THERE YOU are,” a voice said. “A bit of potato soup, that’s what I thought I’d give you. I asked myself, ‘Mabel, what would you want to eat coming out of a long sleep?’ ‘Why, potato soup,’ I said, ‘with cream and onions and a bit of cheese sprinkled on top with a wedge of just baked bread.’ ”

  She had died and gone to heaven, and the woman who’d been at the door—­Mabel—­was an angel.

  “I imagine you’ll want to use the necessary, having been asleep for nearly a day and a half.”

  Rose sat up, brushed her hair back and stared at Mabel.

  “A day and a half?” she asked. “I’ve been asleep that long?”

  Mabel nodded and pointed to a screen behind which was a door leading to a modern lavatory. After washing her hands and face, Rose returned to the bed and climbed back onto the mattress, realizing she was still tired. She could easily have slept another day.

  “Aye,” Mabel said. “My gran always said a safe conscience makes a sound sleep.”

  “Is that a Scottish saying?”

  “It is, at that.”

  She tried to smile. Her conscience was anything but clear.

  “My father always said that a good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor’s book.”

  “Did he now?” Mabel asked, smiling. “Would that be an Irish saying?”

  Rose nodded.

  “A strange thing to go from being an Irish girl to Mrs. MacIain,” Mabel said. “But for the best, I’m thinking. You tuck yourself into bed again and I’ll arrange the tray.”

  “It isn’t Mrs. MacIain,” Rose said.

  “Aye? No it isn’t, is it? Not with your husband’s death. A sorrow for you, poor dear. It brings it back, doesn’t it, calling you Missus? Then I’ll call you by your given name if that’s all right with you. And what would it be, you poor dear?”