A Scottish Love Read online

  “Colonel Sir Gordon,” she corrected.

  Helen glanced at her, but Miriam only smiled.

  In the middle of the Clan Hall, surrounded by weapons wielded by her ancestors over three hundred years, Shona had the distinct impression that the American woman had just drawn first blood.

  “The willing horse is always worked to death.”

  “What’s that, Shona?” Helen asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, embarrassed to have been caught grumbling. “Just something my father always said.”

  He’d also said: He that talks to himself speaks to a fool, but she didn’t bother repeating that comment.

  After Mr. Loftus awoke from his nap, he’d finally agreed to a tour of Gairloch. Not before, however, he’d requested a bit of “something” to eat between lunch and dinner. Oh, and some more hot water. Oh, and a jot of whiskey. Oh, and some extra blankets since he was cold. Jennie, Helen, and Shona had been ferrying trays up and down the stairs ever since.

  He couldn’t install an elevator too soon to suit her.

  The giant, ever present at the American’s side, hadn’t offered to help. Evidently, his duties involved carrying the older man’s bags or shaving Mr. Loftus. Otherwise, he stood around looking fierce, a role he fulfilled very well.

  Fergus had finally appeared for the tour, leaning a bit too heavily on his cane. However, he was soon looking amused at her annoyance. Let him be amused. Let him be outright joyful. Anything but stand in the way of this sale.

  Marching into the small sitting room attached to the Laird’s Chamber, she faced Mr. Loftus sitting on the settee, his daughter beside him. Before she could open her mouth to speak, however, he said, “I’ve been waiting for your tour, Countess. Is there something you wish to hide?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

  “Doesn’t she know that you’ve already looked over the castle, Father?”

  She looked at Miriam, then at Mr. Loftus, and finally at the giant who stood beside the fireplace straight and tall as if he were a pine transplanted to the Laird’s Chamber.

  “What do you mean?”

  A flush appeared on the American’s cheekbones. How much of that was due to whiskey and how much to embarrassment? Did Mr. Loftus even feel embarrassment?

  “I never buy something without inspecting it first, Countess.”

  “You’ve inspected Gairloch?” Her muscles tensed as her smile froze in place.

  “I sent someone to do it for me a month ago,” he said. “I’m a businessman, Countess, not a sentimental fool. Shall we begin?”

  Wordlessly, she turned and led the way to the corridor.

  A month ago? Whom had he sent? How long had he been here? Why hadn’t Old Ned reported the presence of a stranger? For that matter, had Old Ned even noticed someone climbing over Gairloch, investigating the walls, or looking over the roof?

  She turned and faced Mr. Loftus. “Where would you like to begin?” she asked.

  “The oldest part of the castle.”

  “You’ve already seen it,” she said. “That’s the Clan Hall and the Family Parlor.”

  He nodded as if he knew. “Then we’ll begin there.”

  He’d sat there the night before, and had drunk whiskey there with Gordon upon arriving, but if he wanted to see the room again, she’d show him. She’d give him the speech she’d practiced in the last few days.

  If she could think past his surprising revelation.

  “Did your inspector find anything wrong with Gairloch?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “A little water seepage in the south wing and there’s a patch of roof that needs mending. Other than that, it seems in good enough repair.”

  Relief surged through her tempered by annoyance.

  He’d sent an inspector here, had he? Had he discovered everything? If he hadn’t, then perhaps the Americans weren’t destined to know all Gairloch’s secrets.

  Chapter 12

  They slowly descended the curving steps, Fergus’s lips compressed until they were little more than a white line. Elizabeth glanced at him from time to time, until Shona wanted to warn her that he was more stubborn than ill. The pain in his leg would remain with him all his life, she’d been told. A reminder that he should have agreed to the amputation in India.

  She couldn’t say that she agreed with the physician’s assessment. After all, it was Fergus’s leg. But sometimes, as now, she wondered if the price he paid to keep it was too dear.

  Mr. Loftus was grumbling during the descent, his bodyguard at his right while he clung to the banister with his left hand.

  Not one person in the whole party had a joyful air about them, or even an eagerness to be about the tour of Gairloch. Even Helen, who had become the peacemaker for the group, was unsmiling as they entered the corridor. Before they could enter the Clan Hall, an echoing boom sounded at the rear door.

  Like a trail of ducklings, Helmut, Mr. Loftus, Miriam, Elizabeth, Helen, and Fergus followed her to the door.

  Gordon stood there, his hair askew from the afternoon breeze, his blue eyes hinting at humor. Dressed in a black suit, the white shirt beneath his jacket was the only spot of brightness in his somber attire.

  For a second, just a second, she felt her heart lurch. If it had been seven years ago, she would have looked around, first, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him quickly before anyone could see. He would have smiled as he had so often, and placed his palm against her cheek.

  Now, she steadied her heart, forced a smile to her face and said, “What are you doing here?”

  His mouth twitched as if she amused him.

  “Forgive me if my arrival is inopportune,” he said, glancing behind her.

  She remembered her manners, but only barely.

  “Of course it isn’t,” she said. “It’s just that I’m about to give our guests a tour of Gairloch.”

  He suddenly smiled, the expression sending a tremor of memory through her. How often had he smiled just like that, an expression of such delight that it had lightened her heart? This time, however, he wasn’t smiling at her, but at someone else.

  “Ah, Sir Colonel Gordon,” Miriam said, coming to stand beside Shona.

  “Colonel Sir Gordon,” she corrected.

  “Gordon,” he said, moving to enter Gairloch even though she stood in the middle of the doorway.

  She finally moved aside so he could enter.

  Miriam smiled, the same expression the barn cat wore when smelling cream and wanting a taste. A sidle here, a quick purr, a head butt against a calf, and the cat would be rewarded its sweet disposition with a fingertip of cream. But the cat’s amiability would last until it wanted away, and it’d fly out of sheltering arms in a fit of fur and claws.

  How long would Miriam’s amiability last?

  Her feelings for Miriam Loftus had blossomed into an active dislike. Every coy comment, every sidelong look Miriam gave Gordon—accompanied by a flutter of lashes—irritated her.

  She would have thought Gordon immune to such nonsense, but he evidently wasn’t. Instead, his head was bent as he listened to Miriam’s soft-voiced conversation, pitched so low that no one else could hear. One would think the other woman did it purposely, as if to give others the impression that their conversation was intimate and secret.

  “You didn’t say why you’re here,” she said, interrupting their conversation.

  “I came to speak to Fergus,” he said, glancing at her, then at her brother. “But it can wait.”

  She took a deep, relaxing breath, wished away her incipient headache, and turned, making her way back to the Clan Hall. She didn’t care if Gordon and his new ladylove followed or if they were engaged in a torrid embrace in the stillroom.

  Surely Mr. Loftus cared about his daughter’s reputation?

  She caught Elizabeth’s glance, wondering at the look of commiseration. If the nurse could tell she was annoyed, then she was not hiding her emotions well enough.

  “You’ll note the
shields affixed to the wall there and there,” she said, pointing above their heads as they entered the Clan Hall. “The first known appearance of the Clan Imrie in war was when we fought for King Robert the Bruce against the English at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314 and at the Battle of Halidon Hill in 1333.”

  As a girl, she’d counted all the various remnants and souvenirs of war mounted on the walls, asking her father if it was true they’d fought more than a hundred times in the last three hundred years. He’d only laughed and said that it was probably twice that, what with the feud with the MacDermonds lasting nearly seventy years.

  “The clan fought against the English in the Battle of Sheriffmuir in 1715, and again in 1745, when we were arrayed against the Hanoverians at the Battle of Prestonpans, Falkirk, and Culloden.” Their chief had been exiled in France, where he’d died, the first and last time, an Imrie laird had perished on foreign soil.

  Fergus had come too close to seconding that feat.

  “Our grandfather,” she said, “was a member of the Grenadier Guards in 1815, fighting at the Battle of Waterloo.”

  Fergus had kept up the warlike tradition when he’d gone off to the Crimea and then India.

  Somehow, Miriam managed to have Gordon on one side of her and Fergus on the other, and was now giving both of them a fatuous smile.

  Shona bit back her annoyance, and continued. “The early part of Gairloch was actually a square keep,” she said. “The walls are six feet thick and a gallery wrapped around the outside of the keep allowed a view of the loch and the road to the west. A hundred years after Gairloch was originally built, a high house, and the north wing, along with the staircase, were added.”

  Mr. Loftus looked incredibly bored. So did Miriam, who was paying more attention to Fergus and Gordon than to the history of Gairloch.

  “In 1787, the largest extension was created. The south wing was added, along with the third floor. There are thirty-five rooms for servants, twenty-seven guest bedrooms, twenty rooms for family, as well as three suites. We’ve five parlors, a music room, a contingent of rooms for preparing and storing food as well as a number of outbuildings.”

  “One hundred fifteen rooms in all, less the outbuildings,” Mr. Loftus said.

  “We count those as rooms,” she said.

  “Why? They aren’t part of Gairloch.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “they’re counted.”

  She realized that everything she was parroting now had already been sent to Mr. Loftus. He knew Gairloch history, and, if he’d sent someone to survey the castle, he probably knew more about the structure than she did.

  “Gairloch is one of the oldest inhabited houses in Scotland,” she said.

  “I thought Dunrobin was,” Mr. Loftus said, surprising her.

  “You know a great deal about Scottish houses, Mr. Loftus,” she said.

  “The more I know, the better deal I make, Countess.”

  “Dunrobin is the only structure larger than Gairloch,” she said. “It has one hundred eighty-nine rooms.”

  “Were your ancestors trying to best them?”

  “Or they were trying to best Gairloch,” she said with a smile.

  Miriam barely glanced up. Helmut, the giant, was surprisingly looking rapt, as was Elizabeth. Fergus wasn’t paying any attention to anyone, including Miriam. He was acting so aloof that she knew he was angry with her.

  She had to do this—there was no other choice.

  “Sir Charles Barry, the architect of the House of Commons, was retained to remodel Gairloch in 1845,” she said. “There are numerous plans still in the library of his recommendations. He would have added ornamentation to the five towers and—”

  Mr. Loftus interrupted. “But you ran out of money.”

  “Yes, we ran out of money,” she said, deciding that she would match the American’s bluntness. Frankly, it was a relief to finally admit the truth. Why else did he think she was intent on selling Gairloch? Because she wanted the adventure of a life in London? Because she wanted to travel the world?

  “The castle is very old,” Gordon said, addressing his remarks to a rapturous Miriam. “You’ll find that the Gairloch has a bit of history everywhere,” he added. “There, for example.” He pointed to a gash on the wooden floor just beyond the fireplace.

  “That’s where Fergus coshed himself. We were playing soldier.”

  “You were English, I believe,” Fergus said, smiling. “I was Robert the Bruce.”

  Was he going to point out other places at Gairloch? Memories seemed to swell in the air, mocking her. Over there was an alcove formed by a window seat. One day, Gordon had drawn one of the drapes and kissed her when Fergus had been in the room. In that doorway, she’d stood and watched him walk toward her the year he’d returned from school, his eyes somber, his face even then bearing the look of maturity. He’d been sent away to the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich, and she’d missed him with an ache she still felt.

  He’d been special and hers.

  Miriam’s laughter dissolved the past, brought her back to the present with a jolt.

  He wasn’t hers and she wasn’t his, and it wasn’t the past. The time was now, her situation was perilous, and if she wanted to do anything about it, she had to stop being foolish and concentrate on the task at hand.

  Miriam glanced at her. “Did you tell the countess about the new name for the castle, Father?”

  “New name?” she asked.

  Fergus came to stand at her side. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, hoping he wouldn’t speak. She knew exactly what he’d say. Gairloch was an old and venerated name throughout the Highlands. Calling it something else would be a sacrilege.

  “Lochside,” Mr. Loftus said.

  She only smiled, clamped her hand on Fergus’s wrist, and gave him a look. He returned it, eyes bright with anger.

  “A pity,” Gordon said. “I would have kept the name Gairloch. It’s very distinctive, whereas I know at least three other homes with the name of Lochside.”

  Mr. Loftus only nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  She was torn between being thankful to Gordon for his efforts and being annoyed he was there at all. She settled for something in the middle, a simmering kind of resentment kept in check by her determined smile.

  Elizabeth seemed to be feeling the same emotion. Her smile was tight, her expression bland. Were nurses trained to reveal nothing of their true thoughts? They must be, or else Elizabeth had a natural affinity for burying herself behind a very pleasant, if innocuous, smile.

  “Are you planning on living here year round?” Gordon asked.

  “Are you?” Miriam asked.

  What an annoying woman.

  Gordon, thankfully, didn’t answer the question, only smiled. Miriam smiled back. How very amiable everyone was suddenly.

  Her stomach was churning and it wasn’t hunger. Nothing had gone right, from the Americans’ arrival days early to Fergus’s silent and disapproving presence, to this moment.

  “And you?” Miriam asked, turning to Fergus. “Are you planning on remaining in Invergaire as well?”

  She sent a cautionary look to her brother, but Fergus was ignoring her. Instead, he was looking toward the nurse. “I don’t know, Miss Loftus. Once, I could have told you my plans. Things have changed since then.”

  Without another word, he left them, walking with stiff and halting steps to the doorway. He never turned, or glanced back, and so didn’t see Elizabeth watching him leave.

  “Can we continue?” Mr. Loftus asked, annoyed.

  Shona turned to find Gordon watching her, his look unreadable.

  He’d always had that gift of silence, his eyes steady, as if he absorbed everything to study it later. Part of his demeanor was, no doubt, a result of being the general’s only child. One did not speak unless the general commanded it. Part of it was due to Gordon’s own nature. He seemed to analyze a situation carefully, pull it apart, and put it back together.


  Why did you come? Are you here to witness my humiliation? My hawking of Gairloch to the highest bidder?

  Shona Imrie Donegal, the Countess of Morton, brought low. Would that please him?

  She watched as Gordon offered his arm to Miriam once again, and the two of them preceded everyone out the door, as if Gordon were leading the expedition and not her.

  Gordon was torn between following Fergus—after all, his errand today had been for that purpose—or remaining where he was and watching Shona. As the drama unfolded, he found himself fascinated by her behavior. Even as a girl, she’d had a touch of arrogance about her. The Imrie pride, he’d called it. But now, she was almost brittle with it, her chin at an angle that dared the world to see anything but the Countess of Morton. A variety of expressions crossed her face: annoyance, sadness, and then a tightly controlled expression he’d come to expect from her.

  But her hands were trembling.

  She was not as composed as she wanted the others to think. Why? Did the idea of selling Gairloch not appeal to her as he’d thought? Or did she simply dislike his presence?

  With his free hand, he reached out and gave Shona’s arm a brief, supportive squeeze. He heard her draw in a sharp breath. For a moment, she looked as if she might turn to him, but then she pulled away.

  He smiled at the sight of the pulse thudding rapidly at the base of her throat.

  In that instant, he decided he wasn’t leaving, even if it meant he had to be attentive to Miss Loftus. Clinging women annoyed him, and Miss Loftus clung like a barnacle. She hadn’t released his arm once since they’d left the Clan Hall, an action Shona noted more than once.

  Good, another reason to stay right where he was.

  “Do you ever wear a kilt, Gordon?” Miriam was asking.

  Shona frowned, caught Elizabeth’s glance, and smoothed her face of any expression. A moment later, the frown was back.

  “My uniform is a kilt and a jacket, Miss Loftus,” he said. “So, yes, I’ve worn it quite often.”

  “Please call me Miriam,” she said, looking up at him with a rapturous smile.

  Shona had been wrong to liken Miriam to a cat. She was a pigeon, instead. A very pretty little gray and white pigeon with a very plump chest, beady little eyes, and an inquisitive look, its little head twisting back and forth on its sturdy little neck. Pigeons pranced, they didn’t quite walk. Miriam didn’t quite walk, either. Since she was so close to Gordon, she didn’t have that opportunity to sway quite as much, thereby causing her skirts to rise above her ankles. But she did lean a great deal. Now, she was pressed against him, her breasts against his arm.