In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams Read online

  But she wasn’t a Highlander. Instead, she was a woman newly returned to a bustling, industrious city, stuffed into a corset and protected from touch by a swinging hoop and layers of clothing, most of it silk and none of it tartan. She was a civilized creature, for all she sometimes wished she weren’t.

  Lennox was as much a product of the nineteenth century as she was, but in this moment they allowed themselves to be wild and untamed.

  His lips were hard yet soft. Her tongue stroked his bottom lip, coaxing a response. His arms pulled her closer, pressing her breasts against his chest. His mouth turned hot, his tongue brushing hers. Stars sparkled behind her eyelids.

  Her body was turning molten, the sensation so indescribably delicious she wanted it to last.

  She pressed both hands on his cheeks, his skin warm to her touch, the bristles of his almost-beard abrading her palms. It had been a lifetime since she kissed him, but that kiss had been a pale imitation to this one.

  His fingers trailed along the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss. She angled her head, widened her mouth, tasting him. She inhaled his breath as his tongue darted with hers, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip.

  Long moments later they separated.

  She blinked open her eyes, startled to realize her hands were linked behind his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. He was breathing as hard as she was.

  What had she done?

  She’d revealed too much without a word spoken.

  Dropping her hands, she stepped back.

  A great deal had changed in the last seven years. She could mask her emotions quite well. She knew how to leave a charged situation with aplomb. She had practice in mustering her momentary devastation and fusing it into a smile.

  She’d been married to a man with perverted tastes, placed in a city thrumming with intrigue and expected to fail. Instead, she’d succeeded. She’d charmed, pleased, and cajoled men and women of staggering power and influence.

  Who was Lennox Cameron in comparison?

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she said, grateful for the calm of her voice. She shouldn’t have kissed him. She shouldn’t have given in to the temptation.

  Without a backward glance she turned and walked away.

  “I’M SURE I shall dislike Nassau intensely,” Lucy said. “Is it absolutely necessary for me to travel with you? After all, you’re going to be busy doing what you want. Why can’t I do what I want, stay home in London surrounded by my family and those things I hold dear?”

  Gavin Whittaker turned from the armoire and faced his bride.

  He had to find another way to try to explain that the future of his home was in jeopardy and that’s why he was so set on running the blockade. If the Confederacy lost the war, the Union wouldn’t hesitate in decimating the South. There wouldn’t be anything left to the way of life he and his fellow southerners had always known.

  Lucy’s life had been spent in a stable monarchy. She had no concept of a country struggling to identify itself. Nor could she grasp why being the captain of the Raven was so important to him.

  So far he’d failed in explaining his mission, but he wasn’t giving up.

  He approached her where she sat in the chair beside the window. If he was too bold, she would hold up both hands, give a little shudder, and plead with him. No, Gavin, please. Must you always be touching me?

  But she was acting as a lady would, and he couldn’t fault her. Men, he’d always been told, enjoyed passion, while their women folk merely endured it.

  “You’ll be safe enough in Nassau, honey,” he said. “There are a lot of English people there. You’ll make friends, and I’ll visit you when I can. I couldn’t do that if you were in London.”

  “You could come and get me when this awful war is over,” she said.

  He stopped a few feet from the chair. This time after dinner and before bed was always an awkward one. For the last week, Lucy had used these hours to argue with him.

  “I could stay here in Scotland,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t like Scotland,” he said, taking a few steps closer.

  She was a lush little thing, with surprising curves underneath all her clothes. He liked cuddling with her and loving her. He only wished she liked it as much.

  He took another step, only to be met with a frown.

  “Leave me alone, Gavin,” she said, turning and looking out the window. “Do what you men do when you’re not playing at war or being ravening beasts.”

  He took a step back, staring down at his wife. He should go down to Cameron’s library, find a book on ship design and avail himself of some of his host’s excellent whiskey. After a few hours had passed he’d return to their suite to see if his wife was any more receptive to his touch.

  If he took her to the Raven, maybe she’d understand. Once she saw the vessel and he explained how, exactly, he was going to outrun the Union ships, she’d understand that running the blockade wasn’t for glory but for survival. The fate of women like his mother and sisters might depend on the supplies he got through to the South.

  Lucy needed to comprehend the rightness of his cause. If she did, she wouldn’t be so hesitant about sailing to Nassau. She might even be more welcoming to him. She’d send him off to war the way women had done since the beginning of time, with a kiss and memories to keep him warm.

  Until then he’d leave her alone, intent on her view from the window.

  SHE’D DONE it again, managed to confound him with a kiss. No, more than a kiss. By her words, by the soft, resigned tone in which she’d spoken of Washington.

  He stood where he was for several minutes, then followed Glynis’s path through the darkness.

  Glasgow had changed in the last seven years. He wanted to make sure she was safe walking home. He stood on the hill watching, seeing the flash of her cuffs occasionally. When the door opened, he let out the breath he was holding.

  Yet he didn’t move.

  A dozen minutes later the light went on in the room he knew was hers.

  He still didn’t move.

  She’d kissed him again. Unlike seven years ago, he didn’t have any trouble thinking of Glynis as a woman. He might have forgotten his honor, but he could still feel her in his arms.

  She’d felt right being there.

  Glynis was in his bones, like Scotland. She was a part of him. A laughing companion, a patient listener, a girl who’d become a woman without him noticing. Then, she blindsided him by leaving Glasgow before he had a chance to act on that knowledge.

  He’d been damn lonely the past seven years, something he hadn’t told anyone. The only person who might have guessed was Eleanor, who insisted on reading Glynis’s letters to him. She was a compassionate woman, one who’d taken the place of his own mother. He might have confided in her if the situation had been different, if she hadn’t been missing Glynis herself.

  The light was abruptly extinguished. Was she standing there in the darkness watching him? Did she wonder why he hadn’t moved, why his gaze was still fixed on her window?

  He wanted an explanation, an answer to his confusion.

  Why had she been so curious about Rose?

  Rose was a lovely girl with a lilting laugh and a sweetness in her demeanor. Yet he’d realized he couldn’t marry her a month before the wedding.

  She listened to him talk about his ships, but she never once challenged his thoughts or asked about his designs. He’d kissed her twice but he never felt the top of his head lift off like he had a few minutes ago.

  Rose wasn’t Glynis.

  She didn’t dare him. She didn’t intrigue him. Not once had she done anything to startle him. She’d never caused him any sleepless nights. Nor had she brought any tumult or confusion to his life.

  He didn’t love Rose.

  It struck him with the force of a blow.

  He’d been waiting for Glynis.

  All this time, he’d been waiting for her.

  Chapter 14

 
“That’s it, sir. The ship’s empty, ready for your walk.”

  Lennox nodded and thanked his foreman.

  This last inspection of the Raven was a solitary one. The day before, he’d taken the foremen of the crews with him, the boilermakers, carpenters, ship fitters, and joiners, listening to their comments and concerns.

  This was his time alone, a farewell to the vessel born in his consciousness, brought to life on paper, and created in wood and iron. For now, this space of an hour or so, he, the designer, the builder, and in a way that always amused him—the mother—would say good-bye to his creation.

  He breathed deeply, inhaling the sharp scent of newly sawn wood, varnish, turpentine, and paint, all odors reminding him of his daily work, of Cameron and Company, and the magic of creating ships to cross the oceans of the world.

  If he hadn’t built ships for a living, he would’ve sailed them. But it was enough for him to envision the voyages of Cameron ships and, recently, to imagine the newest iron-clad ships as spirits on the ocean, blockade runners too fast to be captured.

  He’d never see or sail the Raven again. Nor would he stand on her bow and greet the dawn. He’d never have the thrill of riding out a storm, knowing she was solidly built and more than a match for Mother Nature.

  He’d spent hours poring over the plans, making changes, engineering details for this ship, as he’d done for no other. The cladding had proved difficult only because of the shape of her hull. The Raven was designed to fly over the waves, and when she’d finally taken shape, he realized he’d achieved his dream.

  His emotions were tied up in this ship, foolishly so. He wanted the Raven to succeed for a variety of reasons. He wanted the world to know how fast and well built a Cameron and Company ship was. He wanted her to succeed in bringing cotton back to Glasgow so half the city wouldn’t be hurting because of the Americans’ war, and he wanted, too, for his father to be proud.

  His father had an affinity for ships, the same love Lennox had always felt. Although William Cameron couldn’t see the Raven, he’d felt her. He’d stroked his weathered and callused hands across the planed and sanded wood. He’d felt the archboard where the Raven’s name had been painted. Then, in a moment as breathless as the seconds before a gale, he smiled, turned in Lennox’s direction and said simply, “You’ve done us proud.”

  Now all he had to do was turn over his ship to Gavin.

  The man was like most of the blockade-running captains he’d met, filled with confidence and an almost idiotic bravado. Whittaker had already lost one ship, ground it rather than surrender to a Union vessel sliding out of the fog.

  The man’s rendition of the tale was meant for female ears or those without any experience aboard ship. Lennox interpreted what Whittaker didn’t say, knew the man had been nearly suicidal, deliberating steering his ship onto the sandbar rather than allow the Union forces to capture her and use her against the Confederate navy.

  He hoped Whittaker would treat the Raven better.

  Lennox stood at the stern, watching the dismantling of the bridge connecting the two docks on either side of the ship. They’d constructed a new berth for the Raven because of her size. Now smaller ships—average ships—would take her place.

  His joy in this accomplishment was tempered by the realization that he had no one to share it with. Duncan was a close friend, yet the occasion would be tantamount to boasting if he called for Duncan to join him, especially in light of the mill’s troubles.

  What would Glynis think? He could imagine her grabbing her skirts and racing up to the forecastle, or staring at the massive midship paddle wheel in wonder.

  Would her face have turned to his, her eyes sparkling? “It’s the most wonderful ship you’ve ever built,” she might have exclaimed.

  He wanted to show it to her. He wanted to prove he was so much more than he’d once been, that his experience had grown and his talent had developed.

  He wanted her to be proud of him.

  Smiling at himself, he finished his inspection. Already the Raven was part of his past.

  Did Glynis realize she was part of his future?

  CHAOS MARKED their morning, the normal pattern of their quiet days disrupted by weeping coming from the parlor, along with her mother’s gentle voice.

  Eleanor never allowed a person’s status or job to interfere with her interest. If something changed in the cook’s life or for one of the maids, her mother knew of it first. Glynis overheard enough tearful confessions and explanations to know people saw her mother as a gentle soul, someone who would understand more than condemn.

  Once the tearful scene with the maid was over, she entered the parlor and hugged her mother. Eleanor looked surprised, then pleased, glancing up at her with wise blue eyes.

  “She’s finding herself in the family way, poor dear. And there’s no one to help her out. Her young man has gone off to sea.”

  “And we’ll have a pregnant maid until she gives birth,” Glynis said. “And after that, will you set up a nursery in the attic?”

  Her mother smiled. “I might consider it. Thank heavens I never had such a problem with you.”

  Not for lack of wanting. What would her mother say to the truth?

  Her smile fixed, she glanced toward the window. The day promised to be a sunny and bright one, the hills of Glasgow visible with no fog or mist. If she looked left, she could see Hillshead standing like an eagle in its aerie.

  Cook peered around the door. A strange sight to see Mabel’s round and normally beaming face wrinkled in worry.

  “It’s all right, Mabel. We’ll handle things as they come.”

  Cook nodded. “Right you are, missus. It’s God’s gift you are, Mrs. MacIain.”

  Eleanor smiled. “The girl just needs a kind word and a helping hand.”

  How had she done without her mother all these years?

  Since returning from America, she discovered that she and her mother had a great deal in common. They had similar taste in books, sweets, and a matching sense of humor. Her mother loved tea, and half-empty cups could be found scattered around the house, as if she’d been distracted in the act of drinking them. Glynis had done it often enough herself that whenever she found a cup, she smiled and returned it to the kitchen.

  “I truly missed you,” she said now, smiling at her mother as she sat beside her.

  “And I truly missed you,” her mother said. “To have you home is one of the great joys of my life.”

  She should have found the money somehow, disobeyed Richard, and come home for a visit. She hadn’t, though, and she’d always regret not seeing her father before he died.

  “You look tired, Glynis. Did you not sleep well?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really,” she said.

  Eleanor reached out and patted her hand. “We will manage somehow, my dear. We MacIains are a strong bunch.”

  She glanced at her mother and forced a smile to her face. She wasn’t thinking of the mill. She hadn’t been able to sleep well last night because of what she’d done.

  She remembered her abandon with twin emotions of shock and despair. She certainly hadn’t acted like a proper widow, had she? She felt like she was repeating the past, becoming the nineteen-year-old girl who’d fled Glasgow for London. Except in the intervening years she’d learned she couldn’t escape from herself.

  She had custody of her thoughts and guardianship over her mouth. She was no longer the hoyden, the girl-child with the adventurous spirit, the female who said what she thought, however inappropriate and ill-timed.

  She’d entertained personages at her Washington home. She’d been renowned for her dinners. She’d discussed events of the day, ideas of the times. Not once did she ever utter a shocking or scandalous word. Nor did she humiliate herself.

  What had happened to her?

  After all, she was a sophisticated woman of the world. She had decorum and possessed a certain poise. Rarely was she incensed or pushed beyond the boundaries of proper behavior
. She held what she felt inside. Otherwise people might use her thoughts and emotions as weapons against her.

  Why, then, had she forgotten all those cautions around Lennox?

  She’d been coached by Richard for years. Everything she did had to be perfect. If it wasn’t, he made her rehearse it endlessly until he was certain she’d learned her lesson.

  “You weren’t attentive when the French ambassador was telling his story,” he said on the night he died.

  “Which story was this?” she’d asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Your eyes must never roam. You must never look bored, Glynis. It doesn’t reflect well on me. You must be perfect.”

  How many times had she heard that comment? You must be perfect. Often enough she should have embroidered it on a pillowcase or two. Perhaps a footstool on which she could kneel, asking for forgiveness.

  She did three things perfectly, according to Richard. She dressed well and frugally, because she found a young seamstress with talent, someone who had dreams of being solicited by the women of Washington. For a minimum sum the woman copied the gowns of the day, and in return Glynis did everything she could to promote the woman’s business.

  Richard also approved of her table manners. All of the various bowls, plates, goblets, and silverware at state dinners or diplomatic functions never posed a problem for her.

  In their bed she pleased him because she didn’t move. Nor did she speak during the act. She managed to endure the experience simply by pretending to be a doll whose limbs he arranged to suit him.

  Blessedly, they didn’t have relations after the year in Cairo. Once in Washington, he stopped coming to her bed altogether.

  “Do you not want to have children?” she asked him once.

  He frowned, his mouth thinning with disapproval at her question.

  “Children would be a detriment to my career, Glynis.”

  Everything Richard did was seen through the viewpoint of his career. His wardrobe, his reading material, his acquaintances, must at all times be aligned with the diplomatic service.